The Spies of Shilling Lane, page 26
It was gone seven o’clock before they reached the outskirts of London. Daylight was dimming to a navy-blue dusk as Bill dropped them at a corner of Clapham Common. They exited hastily, glad to be breathing fresh air once again.
With a wave and a cheeky laugh, Bill was gone and Mrs. Braithwaite and Mr. Norris strode quickly down the road, past the crowd of criminals standing outside the Pendulum.
“All set for another good night?” Bobby Mack called over, recognizing them.
“No time to talk,” Mrs. Braithwaite said, hurrying past. “We have a daughter to rescue.”
“Good luck with that!” he called after her as she trotted across the road.
The curiosity shop looked as old and unkempt as it had a few nights earlier. They drew to a halt outside, and then Mr. Norris beckoned her to hide with him behind a bush on the opposite pavement.
“Are you sure Baxter will be in there?” Mr. Norris said nervously.
“We’ll find out soon enough,” she said, as she started creeping toward the building. “I’ll go in. You stay there,” she whispered to Mr. Norris. “You never know, Mary Montgomery might have already warned them. We might walk straight into a trap.”
Edging up to the door, she began peering in through the dusty front window. Inside, there were all kinds of oddments. An old globe, a broken gilded picture frame, a battered copper birdcage housing a stuffed parakeet, green and gold beneath the dust.
It looks like the kind of place where someone would hide a dead body, she thought with a shiver.
She tried the door.
The handle turned easily.
“Why wouldn’t they lock it?” she muttered to herself.
Unless they were already inside.
Shuddering at the thought, she took a deep breath and pushed the door open. A little bell jangled annoyingly as she poked her head inside.
Although she expected the air to be musty, it was surprisingly fresh.
Someone must have been here recently.
Making haste to the back, careful not to upset the shelves lined with an array of antiques, she began to search for a door. Mary Montgomery seemed sure that Fox—or Baxter—spent a lot of time here. There must be a back room.
She began pushing things aside, a full-size broken mirror that was leaning against the wall, a small bookcase packed with dusty clothbound books that had long since lost their jackets, a deep green curtain full of cobwebs. And it was behind this last item that she found a small, narrow door.
It creaked as she opened it.
There were voices.
“The girl’s not talking,” a man said gruffly. “Don’t know what to try next.”
“We need to get her mother back.”
Was that the voice of the thug who’d held her captive? Briggs?
“Then we could make her talk.”
Suddenly Mrs. Braithwaite felt a movement behind her and turned quickly to see the curtain swish to the side.
And there, out of the shadows, a man folded his arms and chuckled as he registered precisely who was in front of him.
It was Anthony Metcalf.
“Look who it is! Did you come to save the day?”
He grabbed her arm.
She snatched it away.
“How dare you, Anthony! Just you wait until I tell your mother!”
He laughed, the kind of slow, rhythmic laugh of someone who knows he’s in charge.
“Come on, Mrs. Braithwaite. You may think you’re still queen of the village, but right here you have no power at all.” He put a condescending hand on her shoulder. “Come with me. I’ve got some people in here who are longing to meet you.”
Inside the long, darkened room, Briggs and Marty sat around a small, old dining table, quickly standing to take charge of Mrs. Braithwaite.
“Well, well, ask and you shall receive!” Briggs laughed, taking her wrists. “There’s no getting away from us this time.”
She kicked him hard in the shin, and he worked hard at not showing any pain.
“I’ll never tell you anything,” she spat.
“But, Mrs. Braithwaite, you don’t have to,” Anthony brayed, walking across the room to another door on the opposite side. “All we want from you is a few screams of pain.”
He opened the door. Inside was another room in darkness. Although she couldn’t see inside, she knew that Betty was in there.
They were going to use her to make Betty talk.
“Don’t tell them a thing, Betty!” she called over vehemently.
“Shut it!” Briggs slapped her hard around the face.
After rummaging around in a bag on the floor, Briggs stood up and came toward her. In his hand, he brandished a small pocketknife, the blade glinting in the dim light of a bare lightbulb.
He was going to cut her.
And she had to do her utmost not to make a sound.
Self-control was something Mrs. Braithwaite prided herself on. She believed emotions of all types could be reined in if one had the will. But it wasn’t until that blade flashed in the light that she was forced to concede that perhaps the control of physical pain had never been a strong point.
“Let’s have a little go, shall we!” Briggs snarled.
A whimper broke out of her.
How had things become so shockingly out of control? All the terrible pieces of this adventure so far—Betty in danger, the flood in the crypt, the horrific sadness of Cassandra, Mr. Norris’s wound—withered in the face of this actual torture.
She winced, gritting her teeth and clenching her mouth closed.
Briggs laughed, a cackle usually reserved for having a go at someone in a pub, not slicing into a respectable housewife.
“You won’t get anything out of me,” she said determinedly, in the most upright voice she could muster. Then she called out, “Don’t worry, Betty dear. They can’t hurt me!”
This seemed to enrage Briggs. “Shall we try then?” And he lunged forward with the knife, pulling the soft fabric of her blouse sleeve up, turning her wrist to expose her veins. The blade came down, the cold of the metal touching her skin, and Mrs. Braithwaite closed her eyes with trepidation.
A million thoughts surged through her head: Betty as a little girl, her long hair swinging around as she danced; then herself as a child, skipping, her parents beside her, the warmth of her mother’s hand, her father’s. Like a flurry of soft white snow descending onto her, around her, beaming with brightness, she felt almost heady with the sure knowledge that the true value of life was not how you lived, but how you loved. Giving love—and receiving it, if one was lucky enough—was the very best legacy that she could leave.
“I love you, Betty,” she called into the darkness.
Suddenly there was a massive crash, and a man was shouting from across the room, “Stop! Leave her alone!”
Her heart stopped. She looked over, recognizing the voice.
Mr. Norris stood at the door.
His feet were apart, and he held up one hand. “Stop!” he ordered in an uncharacteristically stern shout.
He had come to save her!
Briggs growled. “Not you again.”
“Release her immediately,” Mr. Norris bellowed, ignoring him.
“Or what?” Marty had started to laugh, the others joining in. “What are you going to do about it?”
Briggs pulled the knife back from Mrs. Braithwaite and went toward Mr. Norris, brandishing it.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Mr. Norris said forthrightly.
“Why not? You got a bigger knife?” They began laughing.
But then, Mr. Norris, as calm as a parson, took down his hand and said, “Because you might upset my friends.”
Behind him at the door, one by one, a horde of ruffians started entering the room. They were shoving each other to get in, some wearing misshapen suits, others grubby shirts, all looking as if they’d been dragged through a hedge backward. At the head of the group was a large man with a bald head, a thick blade in one hand.
He grinned at Mrs. Braithwaite and gave her a wink.
“Bobby Mack,” she gasped.
Briggs and Marty started to back away.
But Bobby Mack yelled, “Charge!,” and the motley gang of criminals stormed forward, jumping on Briggs and taking him down with a mighty thud.
A particularly rough-looking man took Marty from behind in a viselike grip, strangling him.
Marty kicked him hard in the shins, sending him reeling backward, and made a dash for the door, but was stopped by another ruffian, who scooped up a large Chinese vase and smashed it onto his head, bringing him down in a heap.
Mr. Norris spotted Anthony Metcalf creeping around the edge of the room toward the door and leaped over to stop him in his tracks.
“Where do you think you’re going, Metcalf?”
“Get out of my way,” Anthony growled, pointing a pistol at him.
Mr. Norris put his hands up and tried to back off, but Anthony pulled Mr. Norris in front of him, put the gun against his head, and shouted to the marauding crowd, “Let me go, or this buffoon gets it!”
The men all turned.
“I’m warning you,” Anthony yelled, his voice wavering with fear that he was losing control of the situation. “I’ll shoot him!”
“And you think we’ll let you get away with that?” Bobby Mack said, walking forward.
Anthony was panicking, the pistol in his hand shaking.
“You’re not up to this, are you, you sad little fascist?” Bobby Mack said, taking another step forward.
One of the other criminals gave a laugh. “I don’t think we should kill him straightaway, Bobby. You’ve got to let us have some fun and games with him first.”
“Help me, Briggs!” Anthony hollered, fear gripping him.
But Briggs was watching him sternly. “A minute ago, you were going to leave without me, and now you’re begging for my help?”
“Help me, or else!” Anthony demanded.
Briggs strode forward, but as he did so, Bobby Mack tripped him from behind, sending him flying across the room.
Anthony dropped the gun in panic and ran for the door.
But they were on him, pushing him to the ground, pinning him down, and tying him up.
Two of them grabbed Briggs, who was still on the floor, tying him up, too.
“You lot ain’t going nowhere!” Bobby Mack said, a grin on his face. “We’ve been trying to get you traitors for a long time. Looks like we found you right under our noses.”
A rowdy cheer went up as they pushed the men outside.
Mr. Norris untied Mrs. Braithwaite, and she clung to him, tears in her eyes, muttering, “I knew you would come.”
She hurried into the back room, where they found Betty.
“Betty! Are you all right?” Mrs. Braithwaite cried, untying her. “Talk to me!”
“I’m fine, Mum,” Betty said, crying as she hugged her mother. “I really am incredibly, surprisingly, and wonderfully fine.”
In the same room, a man was also tied to a chair.
Baxter.
“And he’s here, too?”
“It’s a long story, Mum.” Betty raced over to untie him and take off the gag they’d put over his mouth.
“Oh, darling, thank goodness,” he breathed, stroking her face once his hands were free. Then he looked over at Mrs. Braithwaite and smiled. “And thank you, too. I’m very much obliged.” With a few large strides, he hurried out to help Bobby Mack and the others with the new prisoners.
“So, is he your young man?” Mrs. Braithwaite asked, trying not to show skepticism.
“As a matter of fact, he is, Mum,” Betty laughed. “I know he might seem like the villain in all this, but he really is the best kind of man. Truly.”
“But what about his affair with Mary Montgomery?”
She laughed. “He was courting her to infiltrate the fifth columnists. Her sister, Kathleen, is a prominent member, and we used Mary so that we could keep tabs on her.”
“So he was pretending with her, not with you?”
“Well, he had to do what was necessary. But you have to believe that he really is devoted to me.”
Outside, activity on the pavement was lively. The police were packing the suspects into the back of a police van, and the criminals from the pub were milling about congratulating themselves.
“You’ll remember this in the future, won’t you, gov?” Bobby Mack was saying to the chief inspector. “How we helped and all. You know, give the lads here a bit of a break?”
The chief inspector seemed much more serious about his law enforcement responsibilities than P.C. Watts. He gave Bobby Mack a pat on the shoulder. “Let’s just wait and see, shall we? In the meantime, contact us if you come across any more of these groups.” He handed Bobby Mack a small, folded slip of paper, giving another, with the same information, to Betty, who was standing aside as Anthony was being hauled toward a police van.
“I can’t believe you’d have let them torture me,” she said to him. “What cause could have been so big that you’d stoop to that?”
Anthony’s eyes were teary with pure anger as he shot her a look of disgust. “We’re on the winning side, Betty. You just can’t see that, can you? Just you wait and see.” A policeman shoved him forward, and he turned ferociously toward Betty. “You ruined everything.”
“No, not just me,” she retorted, taking Mrs. Braithwaite’s arm in hers. “My mother and my landlord helped, too!” She laughed and threw a grateful glance toward Mr. Norris, who was looking rather pleased with himself.
The door of the police van slammed shut behind Anthony and the others, and Betty watched with revulsion as the van drew away to the shouts and cheers of the men.
Mrs. Braithwaite found Bobby Mack, who was gleefully cheering with the others.
“I’d like to thank you for coming to my rescue,” she said, beaming a jolly smile at him. “I thought I was ‘a goner,’ as you would put it!”
“Lucky we were there to help out. Your friend here begged us to come, duchess. Said he’d hand us in for looting if we didn’t, so we thought we might as well.” He grinned, giving Mr. Norris a hearty slap on the back. “Seeing it was you and all.”
“And in the light of a few pound notes I passed around,” Mr. Norris added with a knowing smile.
Mrs. Braithwaite beamed at him. “So I have you to thank.”
Mr. Norris smiled back at her and said modestly, “Well, what’s a man to do when a friend’s in trouble?”
She took his hand in both of hers and squeezed it. “Thank you from the very bottom of my very alive heart.”
And they stood there, together, with Betty and Baxter, for many minutes while the crowd of criminals dispersed.
Baxter had to hurry to HQ to send out some alerts. “I need to ensure that everyone knows what happened.” He turned to Mrs. Braithwaite and Mr. Norris. “Thank you again, Mr. Norris. I don’t know how we’d have got out so quickly if it hadn’t been for you. And Mrs. Braithwaite, it was nice to meet you, as my own self this time. I hope Betty and I will see more of you soon.” He kissed Betty and hurried away.
“Well, Mr. Norris,” Mrs. Braithwaite said, “you deserve a good cup of tea after saving the day.”
Mr. Norris blushed. “I’m not sure I should take all the credit. But let’s just say that when I saw Anthony Metcalf let himself into the shop, I knew that I was going to have to do something.”
“But how did you two know Anthony was involved with the fascists?” Betty stammered.
Mrs. Braithwaite tucked a hand through Betty’s arm. “Ah, that’s rather a long story, my dear.”
And as they slowly made their way back to Shilling Lane, they explained the series of long, complicated, and often daring events that had led them to her.
49.
As soon as they got back to the house, Mrs. Braithwaite helped Betty to bed for a much-needed rest while Mr. Norris did the sensible thing and put the kettle on.
“It’s hard to take it all in.” Mrs. Braithwaite settled herself into her usual kitchen chair. She’d had time to chat with Betty and could hardly wait to discuss it all with Mr. Norris. “Betty doesn’t seem at all surprised that Anthony Metcalf was at the center of it. She said he’s always been repugnant, even when they were young. When it started looking like Britain would be invaded, Anthony decided it might be better to be on the other side.”
“How disturbing.” Mr. Norris sat down beside her. “But on the good side, it looks like we had it right about Baxter being the elusive Mr. Fox.”
“Betty said that at the beginning of the war Baxter cemented himself as the main Nazi contact for the fifth columnists in Britain. Quite an impressive job he did, too. He’s been pretending to be in direct contact with Göring, and even had some replica Iron Crosses made to ceremonially hand out at meetings. He was the linchpin of the entire thing, collecting information to pass to Berlin—which of course didn’t get there—and organizing secret meetings in cellars and disused buildings. Apparently, clandestine meetings in strange places gratifies the fascists’ notions of top-secret espionage. But although he keeps instructing the members not to carry out sabotage, kidnappings, or assassinations, they still do.”
“Probably eager to get an Iron Cross,” Mr. Norris said. “Perhaps his medals are too enticing.”
“Anthony was especially keen to get recognition. He wanted to ensure his position at the top of the new order in Britain, which was why he wanted to hear all about Taplin’s plans for the rail bridge.”
“What about Betty’s kidnapping?”
“Anthony must have heard through the grapevine that Betty was a possible mole. He made it his very own mission to capture her, although I can’t think how he knew she would be at the garage. Perhaps it was a lucky guess: he knew she’d go to check it sooner or later.”
With a wave and a cheeky laugh, Bill was gone and Mrs. Braithwaite and Mr. Norris strode quickly down the road, past the crowd of criminals standing outside the Pendulum.
“All set for another good night?” Bobby Mack called over, recognizing them.
“No time to talk,” Mrs. Braithwaite said, hurrying past. “We have a daughter to rescue.”
“Good luck with that!” he called after her as she trotted across the road.
The curiosity shop looked as old and unkempt as it had a few nights earlier. They drew to a halt outside, and then Mr. Norris beckoned her to hide with him behind a bush on the opposite pavement.
“Are you sure Baxter will be in there?” Mr. Norris said nervously.
“We’ll find out soon enough,” she said, as she started creeping toward the building. “I’ll go in. You stay there,” she whispered to Mr. Norris. “You never know, Mary Montgomery might have already warned them. We might walk straight into a trap.”
Edging up to the door, she began peering in through the dusty front window. Inside, there were all kinds of oddments. An old globe, a broken gilded picture frame, a battered copper birdcage housing a stuffed parakeet, green and gold beneath the dust.
It looks like the kind of place where someone would hide a dead body, she thought with a shiver.
She tried the door.
The handle turned easily.
“Why wouldn’t they lock it?” she muttered to herself.
Unless they were already inside.
Shuddering at the thought, she took a deep breath and pushed the door open. A little bell jangled annoyingly as she poked her head inside.
Although she expected the air to be musty, it was surprisingly fresh.
Someone must have been here recently.
Making haste to the back, careful not to upset the shelves lined with an array of antiques, she began to search for a door. Mary Montgomery seemed sure that Fox—or Baxter—spent a lot of time here. There must be a back room.
She began pushing things aside, a full-size broken mirror that was leaning against the wall, a small bookcase packed with dusty clothbound books that had long since lost their jackets, a deep green curtain full of cobwebs. And it was behind this last item that she found a small, narrow door.
It creaked as she opened it.
There were voices.
“The girl’s not talking,” a man said gruffly. “Don’t know what to try next.”
“We need to get her mother back.”
Was that the voice of the thug who’d held her captive? Briggs?
“Then we could make her talk.”
Suddenly Mrs. Braithwaite felt a movement behind her and turned quickly to see the curtain swish to the side.
And there, out of the shadows, a man folded his arms and chuckled as he registered precisely who was in front of him.
It was Anthony Metcalf.
“Look who it is! Did you come to save the day?”
He grabbed her arm.
She snatched it away.
“How dare you, Anthony! Just you wait until I tell your mother!”
He laughed, the kind of slow, rhythmic laugh of someone who knows he’s in charge.
“Come on, Mrs. Braithwaite. You may think you’re still queen of the village, but right here you have no power at all.” He put a condescending hand on her shoulder. “Come with me. I’ve got some people in here who are longing to meet you.”
Inside the long, darkened room, Briggs and Marty sat around a small, old dining table, quickly standing to take charge of Mrs. Braithwaite.
“Well, well, ask and you shall receive!” Briggs laughed, taking her wrists. “There’s no getting away from us this time.”
She kicked him hard in the shin, and he worked hard at not showing any pain.
“I’ll never tell you anything,” she spat.
“But, Mrs. Braithwaite, you don’t have to,” Anthony brayed, walking across the room to another door on the opposite side. “All we want from you is a few screams of pain.”
He opened the door. Inside was another room in darkness. Although she couldn’t see inside, she knew that Betty was in there.
They were going to use her to make Betty talk.
“Don’t tell them a thing, Betty!” she called over vehemently.
“Shut it!” Briggs slapped her hard around the face.
After rummaging around in a bag on the floor, Briggs stood up and came toward her. In his hand, he brandished a small pocketknife, the blade glinting in the dim light of a bare lightbulb.
He was going to cut her.
And she had to do her utmost not to make a sound.
Self-control was something Mrs. Braithwaite prided herself on. She believed emotions of all types could be reined in if one had the will. But it wasn’t until that blade flashed in the light that she was forced to concede that perhaps the control of physical pain had never been a strong point.
“Let’s have a little go, shall we!” Briggs snarled.
A whimper broke out of her.
How had things become so shockingly out of control? All the terrible pieces of this adventure so far—Betty in danger, the flood in the crypt, the horrific sadness of Cassandra, Mr. Norris’s wound—withered in the face of this actual torture.
She winced, gritting her teeth and clenching her mouth closed.
Briggs laughed, a cackle usually reserved for having a go at someone in a pub, not slicing into a respectable housewife.
“You won’t get anything out of me,” she said determinedly, in the most upright voice she could muster. Then she called out, “Don’t worry, Betty dear. They can’t hurt me!”
This seemed to enrage Briggs. “Shall we try then?” And he lunged forward with the knife, pulling the soft fabric of her blouse sleeve up, turning her wrist to expose her veins. The blade came down, the cold of the metal touching her skin, and Mrs. Braithwaite closed her eyes with trepidation.
A million thoughts surged through her head: Betty as a little girl, her long hair swinging around as she danced; then herself as a child, skipping, her parents beside her, the warmth of her mother’s hand, her father’s. Like a flurry of soft white snow descending onto her, around her, beaming with brightness, she felt almost heady with the sure knowledge that the true value of life was not how you lived, but how you loved. Giving love—and receiving it, if one was lucky enough—was the very best legacy that she could leave.
“I love you, Betty,” she called into the darkness.
Suddenly there was a massive crash, and a man was shouting from across the room, “Stop! Leave her alone!”
Her heart stopped. She looked over, recognizing the voice.
Mr. Norris stood at the door.
His feet were apart, and he held up one hand. “Stop!” he ordered in an uncharacteristically stern shout.
He had come to save her!
Briggs growled. “Not you again.”
“Release her immediately,” Mr. Norris bellowed, ignoring him.
“Or what?” Marty had started to laugh, the others joining in. “What are you going to do about it?”
Briggs pulled the knife back from Mrs. Braithwaite and went toward Mr. Norris, brandishing it.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Mr. Norris said forthrightly.
“Why not? You got a bigger knife?” They began laughing.
But then, Mr. Norris, as calm as a parson, took down his hand and said, “Because you might upset my friends.”
Behind him at the door, one by one, a horde of ruffians started entering the room. They were shoving each other to get in, some wearing misshapen suits, others grubby shirts, all looking as if they’d been dragged through a hedge backward. At the head of the group was a large man with a bald head, a thick blade in one hand.
He grinned at Mrs. Braithwaite and gave her a wink.
“Bobby Mack,” she gasped.
Briggs and Marty started to back away.
But Bobby Mack yelled, “Charge!,” and the motley gang of criminals stormed forward, jumping on Briggs and taking him down with a mighty thud.
A particularly rough-looking man took Marty from behind in a viselike grip, strangling him.
Marty kicked him hard in the shins, sending him reeling backward, and made a dash for the door, but was stopped by another ruffian, who scooped up a large Chinese vase and smashed it onto his head, bringing him down in a heap.
Mr. Norris spotted Anthony Metcalf creeping around the edge of the room toward the door and leaped over to stop him in his tracks.
“Where do you think you’re going, Metcalf?”
“Get out of my way,” Anthony growled, pointing a pistol at him.
Mr. Norris put his hands up and tried to back off, but Anthony pulled Mr. Norris in front of him, put the gun against his head, and shouted to the marauding crowd, “Let me go, or this buffoon gets it!”
The men all turned.
“I’m warning you,” Anthony yelled, his voice wavering with fear that he was losing control of the situation. “I’ll shoot him!”
“And you think we’ll let you get away with that?” Bobby Mack said, walking forward.
Anthony was panicking, the pistol in his hand shaking.
“You’re not up to this, are you, you sad little fascist?” Bobby Mack said, taking another step forward.
One of the other criminals gave a laugh. “I don’t think we should kill him straightaway, Bobby. You’ve got to let us have some fun and games with him first.”
“Help me, Briggs!” Anthony hollered, fear gripping him.
But Briggs was watching him sternly. “A minute ago, you were going to leave without me, and now you’re begging for my help?”
“Help me, or else!” Anthony demanded.
Briggs strode forward, but as he did so, Bobby Mack tripped him from behind, sending him flying across the room.
Anthony dropped the gun in panic and ran for the door.
But they were on him, pushing him to the ground, pinning him down, and tying him up.
Two of them grabbed Briggs, who was still on the floor, tying him up, too.
“You lot ain’t going nowhere!” Bobby Mack said, a grin on his face. “We’ve been trying to get you traitors for a long time. Looks like we found you right under our noses.”
A rowdy cheer went up as they pushed the men outside.
Mr. Norris untied Mrs. Braithwaite, and she clung to him, tears in her eyes, muttering, “I knew you would come.”
She hurried into the back room, where they found Betty.
“Betty! Are you all right?” Mrs. Braithwaite cried, untying her. “Talk to me!”
“I’m fine, Mum,” Betty said, crying as she hugged her mother. “I really am incredibly, surprisingly, and wonderfully fine.”
In the same room, a man was also tied to a chair.
Baxter.
“And he’s here, too?”
“It’s a long story, Mum.” Betty raced over to untie him and take off the gag they’d put over his mouth.
“Oh, darling, thank goodness,” he breathed, stroking her face once his hands were free. Then he looked over at Mrs. Braithwaite and smiled. “And thank you, too. I’m very much obliged.” With a few large strides, he hurried out to help Bobby Mack and the others with the new prisoners.
“So, is he your young man?” Mrs. Braithwaite asked, trying not to show skepticism.
“As a matter of fact, he is, Mum,” Betty laughed. “I know he might seem like the villain in all this, but he really is the best kind of man. Truly.”
“But what about his affair with Mary Montgomery?”
She laughed. “He was courting her to infiltrate the fifth columnists. Her sister, Kathleen, is a prominent member, and we used Mary so that we could keep tabs on her.”
“So he was pretending with her, not with you?”
“Well, he had to do what was necessary. But you have to believe that he really is devoted to me.”
Outside, activity on the pavement was lively. The police were packing the suspects into the back of a police van, and the criminals from the pub were milling about congratulating themselves.
“You’ll remember this in the future, won’t you, gov?” Bobby Mack was saying to the chief inspector. “How we helped and all. You know, give the lads here a bit of a break?”
The chief inspector seemed much more serious about his law enforcement responsibilities than P.C. Watts. He gave Bobby Mack a pat on the shoulder. “Let’s just wait and see, shall we? In the meantime, contact us if you come across any more of these groups.” He handed Bobby Mack a small, folded slip of paper, giving another, with the same information, to Betty, who was standing aside as Anthony was being hauled toward a police van.
“I can’t believe you’d have let them torture me,” she said to him. “What cause could have been so big that you’d stoop to that?”
Anthony’s eyes were teary with pure anger as he shot her a look of disgust. “We’re on the winning side, Betty. You just can’t see that, can you? Just you wait and see.” A policeman shoved him forward, and he turned ferociously toward Betty. “You ruined everything.”
“No, not just me,” she retorted, taking Mrs. Braithwaite’s arm in hers. “My mother and my landlord helped, too!” She laughed and threw a grateful glance toward Mr. Norris, who was looking rather pleased with himself.
The door of the police van slammed shut behind Anthony and the others, and Betty watched with revulsion as the van drew away to the shouts and cheers of the men.
Mrs. Braithwaite found Bobby Mack, who was gleefully cheering with the others.
“I’d like to thank you for coming to my rescue,” she said, beaming a jolly smile at him. “I thought I was ‘a goner,’ as you would put it!”
“Lucky we were there to help out. Your friend here begged us to come, duchess. Said he’d hand us in for looting if we didn’t, so we thought we might as well.” He grinned, giving Mr. Norris a hearty slap on the back. “Seeing it was you and all.”
“And in the light of a few pound notes I passed around,” Mr. Norris added with a knowing smile.
Mrs. Braithwaite beamed at him. “So I have you to thank.”
Mr. Norris smiled back at her and said modestly, “Well, what’s a man to do when a friend’s in trouble?”
She took his hand in both of hers and squeezed it. “Thank you from the very bottom of my very alive heart.”
And they stood there, together, with Betty and Baxter, for many minutes while the crowd of criminals dispersed.
Baxter had to hurry to HQ to send out some alerts. “I need to ensure that everyone knows what happened.” He turned to Mrs. Braithwaite and Mr. Norris. “Thank you again, Mr. Norris. I don’t know how we’d have got out so quickly if it hadn’t been for you. And Mrs. Braithwaite, it was nice to meet you, as my own self this time. I hope Betty and I will see more of you soon.” He kissed Betty and hurried away.
“Well, Mr. Norris,” Mrs. Braithwaite said, “you deserve a good cup of tea after saving the day.”
Mr. Norris blushed. “I’m not sure I should take all the credit. But let’s just say that when I saw Anthony Metcalf let himself into the shop, I knew that I was going to have to do something.”
“But how did you two know Anthony was involved with the fascists?” Betty stammered.
Mrs. Braithwaite tucked a hand through Betty’s arm. “Ah, that’s rather a long story, my dear.”
And as they slowly made their way back to Shilling Lane, they explained the series of long, complicated, and often daring events that had led them to her.
49.
As soon as they got back to the house, Mrs. Braithwaite helped Betty to bed for a much-needed rest while Mr. Norris did the sensible thing and put the kettle on.
“It’s hard to take it all in.” Mrs. Braithwaite settled herself into her usual kitchen chair. She’d had time to chat with Betty and could hardly wait to discuss it all with Mr. Norris. “Betty doesn’t seem at all surprised that Anthony Metcalf was at the center of it. She said he’s always been repugnant, even when they were young. When it started looking like Britain would be invaded, Anthony decided it might be better to be on the other side.”
“How disturbing.” Mr. Norris sat down beside her. “But on the good side, it looks like we had it right about Baxter being the elusive Mr. Fox.”
“Betty said that at the beginning of the war Baxter cemented himself as the main Nazi contact for the fifth columnists in Britain. Quite an impressive job he did, too. He’s been pretending to be in direct contact with Göring, and even had some replica Iron Crosses made to ceremonially hand out at meetings. He was the linchpin of the entire thing, collecting information to pass to Berlin—which of course didn’t get there—and organizing secret meetings in cellars and disused buildings. Apparently, clandestine meetings in strange places gratifies the fascists’ notions of top-secret espionage. But although he keeps instructing the members not to carry out sabotage, kidnappings, or assassinations, they still do.”
“Probably eager to get an Iron Cross,” Mr. Norris said. “Perhaps his medals are too enticing.”
“Anthony was especially keen to get recognition. He wanted to ensure his position at the top of the new order in Britain, which was why he wanted to hear all about Taplin’s plans for the rail bridge.”
“What about Betty’s kidnapping?”
“Anthony must have heard through the grapevine that Betty was a possible mole. He made it his very own mission to capture her, although I can’t think how he knew she would be at the garage. Perhaps it was a lucky guess: he knew she’d go to check it sooner or later.”
