Chapter Thirty

“You damned idiot! Do you have any idea how close that copper came to seeing him? I thought I’d told you to keep him locked up!”

Croft stood half to attention as Verdon berated him. His short time in the army had been good for one thing. Before, if his supposed superior had launched a verbal tirade at him, he’d have felt his knees quaking. Now, as he’d done before, he could let the words flow over him as water does over a rock, and they had no effect.

“If this happens again, we’ll have to look at getting rid of him!”

Mentally shrugging, Croft thought that if he wanted to get rid of the chip shop owner, he could do it himself. If the police got hold of him, he didn’t want to go down for murder. Tuning out, he went through an internal list of his options. Taking to his heels was the obvious one, only, like Verdon, he had little money, and without more, he’d have to rely on luck to find safety. Judging by how things had gone lately, the chances of that were slim. He’d checked if anything in the flat could bring in anything worthwhile and came up empty-handed. Any of his old friends from the Moseley days were either still in prison or on the run, so there could be no help there.

He’d toyed with the idea of taking over this venture for himself, only to come to the conclusion that it would be pointless. From his observations, this Betty woman didn’t have any cash available worth the trouble of taking, plus he’d come to admire the work they did. He may have spent the vast majority of his life on the wrong side of the law, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t patriotic! The more he thought about it, the more he’d been coming to the conclusion that he only had one option left. The thought brought a scowl to his face, which Verdon misinterpreted.

“Don’t you pull a face at me! You should know your place by now!”

Verdon, not being the smartest person to walk the earth, hadn’t read his lackey’s mood lately at all and then made the mistake of raising his arm to strike him around the head. Croft’s hand shot up, grabbing his forearm before he could connect. “What the…”

“Don’t,” was all Croft muttered, not troubling to raise his voice. Without looking at his supposed employer, he started toward the door. “I’ll go and have a word with him. Tell him to behave.”

As he left the kitchen and made his way to the basement, Croft had the satisfaction of seeing Verdon’s mouth hanging open like a wet fish. One thing he’d always known, yet never acted upon himself before, was that the criminal upper class didn’t know how to react when their servants stood up to them. Taking the key down from the hook where it hung, he unlocked the cellar door, knocked, and announced, “I’m coming in. Sit on the bed, hands under your bum!”

When the door swung open, Croft was pleased to see that their captive had obeyed him. He also noticed the same belligerence in his eyes. He was silently pleased to see this still present after the near month he’d been held. Quite a few of the people he’d looked after had either never had this strength of character or had quickly lost it as the days crawled past. Glancing at the man’s bed, he saw the book he’d given him a few days ago was open.

“How many times you read that, then, Fred?” Croft asked.

“Second time since you gave it to me,” Fred replied. “Spoils the whodunit a bit when you already know the ending.”

“I’ll bring you a couple of replacements next time I’m down,” Croft told him, leaning up against the open door. Though Fred’s hands were where he’d been instructed, it didn’t stop his eyes roaming toward the open door. “Don’t even think of it,” Croft told him with a smile. “I’ve no desire to hurt you, but I’ve a good ten years on you, and I’ve taken down much bigger men than you, and most have never got up again. Do I make myself clear?”

Reluctantly, whilst treating his captor to a master of a glower, Fred nodded. “How much longer are you going to keep me prisoner in my own house?”

Croft glanced upward but didn’t answer.

Fred waited a few beats before asking, “And are you going to kill me? I’ve seen your face.”

Though he already knew what his answer was, Croft made him wait a little while before replying. There was nothing wrong in keeping the man on edge; it made him less likely to try anything foolish. “So long as you don’t make any more trouble, I don’t think you should let that worry you.”

“What do you mean, any more?” Fred asked. “And why should I believe you?”

Before answering, Croft took out a packet of Woodbines and offered Fred one.

“I don’t normally,” Fred replied. “Haven’t smoked since the trenches, but why not,” he finished, taking one and accepting the lit match he was offered. Though he hadn’t been told he could, by taking the smoke, Fred took his other hand out and leant back against the wall to await the answers to his questions.

After he’d lit his own, Croft pulled up an old wooden chair, the only seat in the room which also doubled as a storeroom, and placed it in the still open doorway. He took a couple of long drags. “Firstly, the boss knows about your pulling the curtain aside in the toilet earlier. He could see you in the mirror from the bedroom. That’s why the door’s always open when you have to go. Don’t do it again.”

“Why isn’t he giving me a rollicking? Or slapping me around?”

Croft let out a low laugh. “Not the type. Thinks that kind of thing is beneath him, and that’s why he’s got me.”

“So why aren’t you giving me a good slapping?” Fred asked before he could stop himself.

“You want me to hit you?” Croft couldn’t help but ask.

Fred vigorously shook his head. “Don’t trouble yourself on my behalf,” he hastily said, hoping levity would defuse any tension.

“I won’t,” Croft replied, waving his free hand. “And because you haven’t seen his face, there’s your other reason why I don’t see a good reason for knocking you off. I’m not bothered you’ve seen mine, as I’ve already told you.”

Both men sat back and smoked in companionable silence, the peaceful scene only spoiled by the new lock on the cellar door and Croft blocking the exit.

“I have no choice but to accept your word on that,” Fred said, “though I’ve received no such assurance,” he hastened to add, to which Croft looked him in the eye and gave him a sharp nod. “Thank you,” he added, unable to stop a sigh of relief from escaping. “If I may, how much longer am I to be kept here?”

Croft got to his feet, put the chair back, and then took hold of the door handle. He looked back. “One way or the other, not for much longer.”

****

“Sergeant Banks, Terry, ma’am, at your service.”

“Excellent timing, Sergeant, we were about to leave for work,” Betty informed him, stepping aside so the policeman could enter the cottage. “Go and tell Lawrence his relief’s here, please, Mary.”

Nodding, Mary turned and hurried up the stairs toward the loft. “Hey, you,” she said into the semi-darkness at the shadowy form sitting a short way back from the window, “your sergeant’s here.”

Getting up from his seat, the shadow yawned and stretched before reaching up and taking the blanket off his shoulders and laying it upon the vacated chair. “I won’t say I’m not sorry,” he muttered, before walking over to Mary and taking her in his arms. Leaning down, he whispered into her ear, “Knowing you were sleeping only next door was pure torture!”

Glad of the dark, as Lawrence couldn’t see how red her cheeks were, nevertheless she reached up, dragged his face down to her level, and kissed him hard on the lips. In fact, if Betty hadn’t shouted up the stairs, “Mary! We’re going to be late!” she could have stayed like that all day long.

“Come on,” she reluctantly said, taking him by the hand and leading him downstairs to the kitchen, where Betty was showing Terry how to make a cup of tea.

“He’s a working copper,” Lawrence informed Betty. “Believe me, he knows how to make a cup of tea. I can vouch for that.”

Betty turned from the burners and noticed the amused expression upon Terry’s face.

“I’m a modern married man, First Officer Palmer, and the detective is right. I make an excellent cup of tea,” he confirmed.

“Perhaps you can teach our Doris sometime?” Betty said.

This got an immediate, “I heard that!” from the hall.

“You were meant to!” Betty retorted, before turning back to Terry. “Loft room’s at the top of the stairs. We’ll be back later.”

“So did you tell your wife you’d be staying with five women, Terry?” Doris asked as he stepped back into the hall.

Terry shook his head. “No fear! She trusts me implicitly, but to tell her that…well, that may be pushing my luck a little.”

“You don’t talk in your sleep, do you?” Doris teased.

****

“Did anyone ever tell you, Doris, you’ve got an evil sense of humor?” Penny asked, as the two walked behind the others on the way to the station.

“Only pretty much everyone I’ve ever known,” Doris admitted with a shrug, though she had a smile on her face as she spoke the words. “It was funny, though, wasn’t it?”

Penny leaned in close so the others couldn’t hear. “Very.”

“No need to whisper,” Jane said over her shoulder. “We all agree.”

To change the subject, Penny asked, “So does a downgrade in rank mean the risk to us has lessened, Lawrence?”

The policeman turned around, and everyone stopped with him. Conveniently, they were still a hundred yards or so from the station guardroom, all quiet and secluded. “Possibly.”

“Possibly?” Jane echoed. “I’m not sure if I like the sound of that. These are not only my staff, Detective,” she told him, using his rank so he would know how serious her words were, “but my best friends. I don’t like to think of them being in danger.”

Lawrence fixed Jane with his full attention, so she’d know how serious he was. “Believe me, I know that,” he said, briefly looking into Mary’s eyes. “I would never put anyone here in danger knowingly.”

Jane studied his face for a short while before nodding her head in satisfaction, “And the sergeant?”

“Terry has taken over because I believe it’s prudent to keep a watch, though I don’t believe there will be any more attacks. It’s not this Verdon who’s been making the direct attacks, so I don’t think we should worry too much about him.”

“Which begs the question,” Betty said. “Who should we worry about?”

Instead of answering, Lawrence, perhaps a little unnecessarily, looked around to make sure no one was listening and then took a photograph out of his pocket and passed it to Jane, as the one most in need of reassurance, in his judgment. “This is Percival Croft. It took poor Terry a long time, but he finally tracked him down. This is the man who bolted as soon as I talked to him. Doris,” he said as the American now had the photo in her hands, “is this the same chap you saw at the chippie?”

Doris handed the photo back to him, suppressing a shudder. “You don’t forget a scar like that in a hurry. Yes.”

“What’s he to this Verdon chap?” Jane asked.

“He’s what would have been called, a while ago, a vassal servant.”

“A what?” Doris interrupted.

“Basically, his family has been serving Verdons for years and years. He’s merely the latest in a long line of indentured muscle. If Verdon wants a dirty job done, then this bloke would be whom he’d call on to do it.”

“Do you think this is the one who shot at Walter and me, then?” Doris asked.

Lawrence simply nodded. “Undoubtedly. Verdon typically wouldn’t get his hands dirty, and I doubt if he knows how to handle a rifle. A shotgun, perhaps. A rifle, no. I checked up—he was declared unfit for military service in the Great War.” He snorted. “Probably paid some friendly doctor to get him off.”

“Do you think this Croft chap’s the one who wrote on the back of the last envelope?” Mary enquired.

Shrugging his shoulders, Lawrence answered as best he could. “We tried to get a sample of his handwriting, but my Met contacts haven’t been able to pull anything together yet.”

“Best guess?” Betty said.

“If I were a gambling man, which I’m not,” he added for Mary’s benefit, “I’d say so.”

“I suppose the question is, then, if it is his writing, do we believe him? Do we, essentially, have someone on the inside?” Jane posed.

“Obviously I can’t say yes,” Lawrence replied, after thinking it over for a few seconds. “However, if I read him right, I’d say that at the very least he’s having second thoughts.”

“So he’s not violent?” Penny asked.

“Oh, he’s violent, all right,” Lawrence told them without hesitation. “Believe me, you don’t want to know what he’s done.”

“What could be different this time?” Jane wanted to know.

“This is educated deductions, you understand?” Lawrence began. “From what I can see, he’s never hurt women, at least not seriously. Plus, for someone of his background, he’s surprisingly patriotic. Fought in the last year of the last war, won a military medal for bravery.”

“Let me get this right. You think we’ve a patriotic thug who’s developing a conscience, possibly looking over us?”

“It’d match the words,” Lawrence said.

When no one else could think of anything to say, Jane decided, “Come on, you lot, let’s get to work before the guardroom chaps come over to find out what’s wrong.”