The Spies of Shilling Lane, page 25
She’d always firmly believed that the way she’d lived her life was correct. Aunt Augusta had told her to conduct herself “as if a lady were watching.” It wasn’t so much living a life as passing a test. In any case, who was this “lady” looking over her shoulder? Was it Lady Worthing, whose visits to the Ashcombe WVS were so important that she’d berate the other ladies? Was it Aunt Augusta herself, following her around like a ghost, ensuring that her loyalty was never lost? Or was it society, the small-minded culture of one-upmanship that taught her that the Mrs. Metcalfs of this world would get the better of her if she let her guard slip?
She thought of the other Mrs. Braithwaite, Blanche’s mother, the kind, loving mother whom she’d never met. When she died, was she content with the way she’d lived her life? Did she have any regrets? Did she care that her nasty neighbor loathed her?
Mrs. Braithwaite felt sure of only one thing. Anyone with love in her heart didn’t spend her life looking over her shoulder.
46.
The train pulled into Sevenoaks Station. After a quick inquiry at the ticket desk as to the whereabouts of the hospital, they marched down the road in its direction, Mrs. Braithwaite leading the way at a brisk trot.
“Not a moment to lose!”
The hospital was a ramshackle collection of buildings, all constructed in different eras; the main building was Victorian with a large Edwardian wing, some ugly outbuildings added since the last war connected by brick corridors.
“We need to speak to one of your nurses,” Mrs. Braithwaite told a weary receptionist at the front desk. “Her name is Mary Montgomery. It’s terrifically urgent!”
The woman looked them over. “You’ve just missed her, I’m afraid. Her shift ended at three.”
Mr. Norris stepped forward, knowing that he was the best person to handle this particular situation. “I don’t suppose you know where she lives, do you? We have a message for her, you see. It’s of the utmost importance.”
“I can’t give you her address,” the woman snapped. “Unless you’re family.”
“Well, we’re her aunt and uncle, actually,” Mr. Norris said quickly, turning to Mrs. Braithwaite with a sad smile. “We’ve come with news about her parents.”
“I’m not sure—”
Mr. Norris took out his handkerchief and, although he loathed to do it, allowed the very corner of his mouth to wobble.
“Oh well,” the woman said, looking positively petrified that the man in front of her might begin to weep in public. “In that case, she lives in Hartley Street, number four. It’s up the road and second on the left.”
“Thank you for your kindness,” Mr. Norris stammered, before grabbing Mrs. Braithwaite’s arm and tugging her toward the door.
They managed to find the right road, despite the lack of signage.
“It might be good for national security to take away all the street names,” said Mrs. Braithwaite, “but it’s not especially helpful for people on an important mission.”
Mrs. Braithwaite gave the door one of her bracing knocks.
Relief spread through them as it was opened by Mary herself, looking tired but pretty in her nurse’s uniform. She’d been unpinning her nurse’s cap, and a large curl of beautiful brown hair cascaded down the side of her face.
“Oh, hello,” she said prettily. “What can I do for you?” Then she saw Mr. Norris, whom she evidently remembered from the Chiltern Church meeting, and she sucked in her cheeks and scowled. The memory of how he’d flirted with her to get information filled him with revulsion. Of all the unpleasant things he’d had to do, that surely was the absolute worst.
“Hallo there,” Mrs. Braithwaite began. “We were just in the neighborhood and heard that Mr. Fox had moved down here, and we have a few items that belong to him, so we thought we’d return them.” She was using her polite WVS voice, the same one she’d use if she were asking Mary to come for Sunday lunch.
Mary blushed. “I’m afraid he’s not here at all,” she said. “I don’t know where you heard that. He’s still in London, although he did move house. Why don’t you give the things to me? I can pass them on.”
“No, I’m afraid I have to give them to him in person.” Mrs. Braithwaite gave her a no-nonsense smile. “Do you happen to know his new address? I think he may need his things.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. er—”
“Mrs. Br—” Mr. Norris nudged her. If Mary had Betty’s passport, then she knew Betty’s last name. Mrs. Braithwaite eyed him, and then smiled, saying, “Mrs. Brail.”
“Well, Mrs. Brail,” Mary said, covering a yawn. “I don’t know his new address, but you could take it to the curiosity shop up by Clapham Common.” She smiled, polite yet trying to get rid of them. “He’s there quite often these days, and—”
“What’s going on?” A woman with short brown hair came up behind Mary, a hand on her shoulder protectively. When she turned to the side, Mr. Norris saw a long scar down the left side of her face.
It’s the woman who spoke at the church meeting, Mr. Norris thought to himself. What had she been talking about again? Oh yes, her joy at the bombing in…Sevenoaks.
Mr. Norris’s heart shuddered.
“Have you met my sister, Kathleen?” Mary said innocently, looking around to her with a smile.
But the woman didn’t look back at her sister. She was looking at the newcomers, her eyes engaging for a moment too long with Mr. Norris’s, and then, horrifically, she smiled. “Won’t you come in?”
“I’m afraid we’re in a bit of a hurry,” Mr. Norris said nervously, shuffling back.
“We can stop for a while, can’t we?” Mrs. Braithwaite said sternly, grabbing his arm and trying to drag him over the threshold. She obviously hadn’t recognized the woman and was desperate to get more information out of Mary.
“Come in for tea,” the ghastly woman said, grinning as if her life depended on it. “We have toasted tea cakes today.”
“No, we can’t, my dear.” Mr. Norris gave Mrs. Braithwaite a very wide-eyed look. “I have to get back to work.”
“Oh, come on! You’re always working too hard.” She yanked him back, smiling at the women. “A cup of tea would be lovely, thank you!”
Short of any other solution, Mr. Norris took a firm hold of Mrs. Braithwaite’s wrist and began striding quickly down the road, calling, “Not today. Thank you, though. Such a lovely offer.”
“What’s going on?” yelled Mrs. Braithwaite, as she plunged down the road behind him. “What in heaven’s name has got into you?”
“Didn’t you realize? Mary’s sister is the vile woman from the Chiltern Church meeting,” he whispered hoarsely through the side of his mouth as he dragged her up the main road back to the station. “If they weren’t onto us already, they certainly will be now. That’s why she was trying to get us to go in, so that they could trap us.”
“Good gracious!” Mrs. Braithwaite declared, gathering her handbag and upping her speed toward the station. “We have to get to that curiosity shop.”
“My thoughts precisely,” Mr. Norris said. “It must be the one beside the Pendulum—we sat on its step to watch the telephone box. It was under our noses all this time.”
They trotted at pace into the station, only to find that the next train to London wasn’t for another twenty minutes.
“We’ll just have to stay hidden until it leaves,” Mrs. Braithwaite said, as they dashed out onto the forecourt.
Heading into a newsagent’s, they took cover behind two early editions of the Evening Mail, peering around every few minutes to check that they hadn’t been followed.
But they had.
They watched with dread as Mary and her sister ran into the station, along with the blackshirted thug from the meeting.
“What are we going to do?” Mr. Norris gasped. “They’ll see us getting onto the train.”
Mrs. Braithwaite gave him a furtive smile. “We’ll simply have to find another way to get back to London.”
47.
In the dark, windowless room, Betty couldn’t tell how much time had passed. Anthony and the men were still there. She could hear their voices in the next room, arguing about what to do with her.
Briggs wanted to resume the questioning that had been suspended after Mrs. Braithwaite had barged in to rescue her. Marty, who suddenly seemed like the brains of the bunch, leaned toward contacting Mr. Fox to find someone more competent to carry out the interrogation. Anthony was adamant that he should interrogate her, alone.
Betty lay on the floor, tied to the chair, assessing her options. If Briggs left, there was a chance that she could talk Marty into loosening her ropes, which could give her leeway to use her combat training against the remaining two. Anthony was hopeless at fighting—when they were younger, he’d relied on height and strength to overpower her, but she knew that now, with her training, she could floor him easily. Marty was short but had the potential to be a vicious, street-fighting type, and he almost definitely would have at least one knife about his person, if not a gun.
Her thoughts kept turning to the possibility of rescue. She had been trained not to expect anyone to come for her; it might be dangerous and could uncover another agent. But she kept thinking of Baxter’s last words as she left, that he’d come to find her if she wasn’t back by midnight.
But how would he know where they’d taken her?
She sighed. It seemed so unfair, so unreasonable, that his old house was so close, yet she felt a million miles away.
Suddenly there was a kerfuffle coming from the other room. New people had entered, the gruff voices of more men. It sounded as if they had another prisoner.
She strained her ears to hear.
“Are you sure?” Marty was saying nervously.
“I always knew he was a traitor,” Anthony said savagely.
“What shall we do with him?” one of the heavies grumbled.
“I’m not a mole, you idiots. You need to let me go.” A familiar voice cut through the others.
A hard lump formed in her throat.
It was Baxter.
“Kathleen Montgomery told us to get him, said she’d suspected Fox was a traitor for a while—and now she has proof.” The man spat loudly, probably at Baxter.
“Don’t be a fool, Briggs.” Baxter’s voice was calm, dignified. “Do you have any idea how much trouble this will cause in Berlin? Göring will be furious! We’ll all be in for it.” Baxter was still in character, using all his skill and experience to convince them that he wasn’t the mole.
“What are we going to do with him?” Marty said, obviously worried in case they had the wrong man. “We’ll have to question him. Find out the truth.”
“What? As if he’ll just blurt out that he’s a blooming mole, you dunce?” Briggs said.
“This is nonsense, I tell you!” Baxter exclaimed. “Kathleen Montgomery is lying to score points in Berlin.”
“Let’s tie him up in there with the girl and then decide what to do,” Anthony said confidently. “I’m the most senior member here now that Mr. Fox has been demoted”—he let out a small laugh—“so I will take charge.”
Typical! Betty thought. Their leader is accused of being a mole, and Anthony’s trying to use it to better himself.
The door opened, and the two thugs who had brought Baxter in pushed him into the room, holding on to him from behind. Grabbing the other chair, they tied him down in the same way they had her, this time gagging his mouth with a strip of cloth.
Baxter glanced at her, their eyes meeting for a glimmer of a second, before he looked away. The men, instead of leaving, had pulled up chairs and had settled into watching them. They couldn’t give away a thing.
Betty felt her heart implode. He had come to find her after all, true to his word. He must have gone to see Mary Montgomery to find out where they might have imprisoned her, and that obnoxious sister of hers suspected something and brought the heavies around.
Suddenly a pang of horror struck her. She, Betty, was the orchestrator of Baxter’s imprisonment—maybe death—as well as her own and possibly her mother’s, too. Her reckless determination to continue on the mission—instead of taking Cummerbatch’s ticket to Devon—would be the downfall of them all.
It was one thing to put oneself in danger, but to put another agent at risk was bad espionage at its worst.
She made a small cough, and he looked up, and for the briefest moment their eyes met. A look of intense love told her that all he had wanted was for her to be free. And now he had failed.
They had both failed.
48.
“Excuse me, please,” Mrs. Braithwaite said to the station newsagent, who was starting to get annoyed at their taking up residence behind newspapers in his shop.
“What is it?”
“Is there another entrance to the station? We’re trying to avoid someone.”
“I would never have guessed,” he muttered sarcastically. “Take a sharp right outside. There’s a side door at the back of the station.”
“Thank you,” she said, glaring at Mr. Norris and indicating that they should slowly walk out of the shop with their newspapers in front of their faces.
Taking side steps, like a crab, she headed out, then right, and once she was behind one of the broad iron pillars, she took the newspaper down and darted for the side entrance, which brought them out onto a side street.
Mr. Norris appeared beside her, and they both looked around.
“We need to find someone driving to London.” She glanced around and spotted a van on the other side of the road. “Let’s start with that deliveryman over there.”
She stalked across the road to a fellow in overalls unloading groceries.
“I say, would you happen to be driving to London this afternoon? We’ve missed our train back and need a lift.”
“ ’Fraid not,” he said, turning to her. He seemed a friendly sort of chap. “We’re off to Westerham after this.” He scooped off his cloth cap and scratched his head. “But I think Bill might be going that way. He’ll be at the canteen by the station, if he is.”
Thanking him, the duo turned back to the station and cautiously headed for the canteen. It was a makeshift affair, a small hut with a lady making tea and handing out biscuits and scones.
“We’re looking for someone called Bill,” Mrs. Braithwaite announced to the few men standing around. They were varying degrees of dirty, and when the dirtiest of them stepped forward and told her that he was Bill, she resisted the urge to hold her nose.
“Would you be able to give us a lift to London?” she asked in as cheerful a way as she could while breathing through her mouth.
Bill looked them up and down and grinned.
“If you make it worth my while. Ten shillings?”
Mr. Norris stepped forward politely. “That’s fine, but we need to get there fast. When are you leaving?”
The man chuckled chaotically. “Right now, if you make it twenty.”
“Oh, all right then,” Mrs. Braithwaite said less politely. “Where’s the van then?”
“I need the money up front,” he said, grinning again. Mrs. Braithwaite wished he would stop doing that. Someone should give him the much-needed advice that his yellowing teeth were not his strong point.
Neither was his breath, she discovered as they settled snugly into the cab of the battered old delivery van. Mrs. Braithwaite was sandwiched between him and Mr. Norris, and she pushed up to Mr. Norris, who was already squashed against the door.
“Just have to make a quick pickup,” Bill said, throwing the steering wheel around and flinging them into the door on Mr. Norris’s side.
“Not too far, I hope,” she said. Her voice wobbled as she took in the style of his driving: fast and furious, taking corners tightly, precariously on two wheels, occasionally accompanied by a loud screech.
The van careered down to a row of shops in the town.
“Wait here,” Bill instructed, nipping out and into a shop, coming out with a stack of large boxes and putting them into the back of the van. As he went back for more, Mrs. Braithwaite glanced at Mr. Norris. “I do hope this isn’t black market or anything. What do you suppose it is?”
“Well, it could be—” Mr. Norris began, and then the smell issuing from the back of the van snaked its way into the cab.
It was unmistakable.
“Fish.”
They both looked at each other in horror.
“How long will it take to get to London?”
“An hour.”
She looked at Mr. Norris and heaved a great sigh.
“Let’s get going, shall we?” Bill stepped back into the driver’s seat and revved up the engine.
The journey went in stops and starts, the van shuddering to a halt every time they saw a canteen so that Bill could get a strong cup of tea to “improve the concentration.”
Mr. Norris talked to him most of the way, about the war and how Bill was doing rather well with a side business of his, which Mrs. Braithwaite felt must refer to something both illegal and smelly.
There was an awkward moment when Bill asked Mr. Norris, “Do you live in London, you and the wife?” and Mr. Norris flushed, replying, “Well, actually we’re not married.”
“Oh, it’s like that, is it?” Bill chortled salaciously with a wink.
“I’ll have you know that we’re friends traveling together,” Mrs. Braithwaite snapped. “There’s nothing untoward about us at all.”
And just at that moment, Bill threw the van into a large swerve, throwing her against Mr. Norris.
“Oh, do excuse me,” Bill said with a smirk.
“He did that on purpose,” Mrs. Braithwaite muttered to Mr. Norris.
