by Sally Wragg
‘I see,’ said Hettie, who suddenly did.
Like a dam burst, now he’d started, Roland de Loxley was only too eager to continue. ‘I often travel on business to England and the Nazis knew it. They asked me only little things at first, to note the layout of places, factories, military establishments, that kind of thing. . . .’
‘And you told them, of course!’ Bill snapped.
‘But what else could I do?’ the Frenchman implored. ‘What would you do if you loved someone and you knew they’d be for it if you didn’t do what you were told?’
‘I wouldn’t betray my country. . . .’
‘England isn’t my country!’
‘It isn’t,’ Hettie murmured, conceding this too.
His eyes glittered, like cat’s eyes burning through the darkness. ‘It was my rotten luck there was all that business in the papers about Alexander Hyssop’s tomb. It must have jogged someone’s mind high up in the Nazi hierarchy.’
‘Dresler,’ Bill growled.
‘I swear I never knew he was my contact. I was as shocked as you. I followed him tonight to help you, remember?’
Did that excuse the rest of his behaviour? Hettie thought not. Her temper, always simmering, rose up in protest. ‘You came here professing kinship when, all along, you were only interested in getting your hands on papers for your Nazi spymasters. You found out about the safe and then discovered the second secret tunnel into the room where it was kept!’
‘I didn’t, actually,’ Roland interrupted, so vehemently, Hettie could have no doubt but that he spoke the truth. ‘I found out about the safe from your grandmother. The first time I stayed, I had a snoop round and discovered the key in her bureau. It was easy enough to take an impression. The discovery of the tunnel at a later date was just an odd coincidence. The Nazis already knew about the war committee’s meetings, that’s why they wanted me here, I suspect. It hardly took a genius to know I’d find out something of importance, enough to keep them quiet and bring my Lilli back to me.’
‘But how did you get into the safe when Grandmother changes the combination so often?’ Hettie demanded indignantly. Roland laughed bitterly.
‘I worked in espionage in the war – who better after all? Spending so much time in Germany with Lilli, in my youth, I speak the language fluently. A safe like your grandmother’s is nothing to me.’
‘A double agent!’ Despite Hettie’s revulsion, it was hard not to be impressed how easily his object had been achieved and how little they’d been aware of it. ‘But how come you turned up here tonight just when Dresler had us at his mercy?’
Irony tinged his voice. ‘Simple good fortune – or bad, as it turned out for me. I let the Nazis know about the possibility of the sword being here. Acting on that knowledge, I suspect that was why Dresler appeared. With his love of antiquity, how could he keep away! He heard you go out tonight and simply followed you. I just happened to hear him leave his room. I was curious what he was up to, that was all. I’m here to spy. I’m meant to take note and report back and the more I tell them, the more chance I’ll have of getting my Lilli back. But there was something about Dresler I didn’t trust. Intuition, I suppose, but doing what I do, I’ve developed a nose for it. I simply followed him.’
‘He was following us and you followed him. . . ?’
For a moment, Hettie was lost for words. Abruptly, her anger disappeared. If she was pushed, she’d even have to admit to a surprising sympathy for this man who, after all, had only been acting in a misguided attempt to help the woman he loved. Pushed into a corner, he’d seen no other way out. She was upset, distraught even but at least now, she understood.
The problem was how long it would be before they could get out of here. She sighed heavily, stretching out her legs and settling herself back more comfortably, longing now for the morning to arrive and for Lawrence Payne to open up the church.
Katherine was sitting at her dressing table, brushing hair which, despite her age, was still luxuriant, roused from her reverie by an urgent knocking on her bedroom door. Always an early riser, she was already dressed. She got up to discover an anxious-looking Bronwyn outside in the corridor.
‘Hettie’s bed’s not been slept in. . . .’ she burst out.
‘Whatever’s the girl up to now?’
They were about to find out. Urgent voices from the ground floor, one distinctly Hettie’s, brought both women hurrying downstairs to the hall to discover a bewildered Soames doing his best to pacify a little knot of folk comprising Lawrence Payne, Hettie and Bill. Both young people were clearly distraught.
‘Whatever now?’ Katherine demanded, gliding towards them.
Hettie swung towards her grandmother, eagerly. ‘We’ve found Aelric, Grandmamma, it really does exist! We’ve been locked up in the church all night. . . . Count Dresler and Roland are spies and the Count’s run off with Aelric. The Reverend’s let us out and he’s called the police and they’ve taken Roland into custody!’
It was too much and she wasn’t making the slightest sense. Ordering her, sharply, to calm down, Katherine ushered them all into the morning room, where one of the maids had already lit the fire. Over the tea Soames had brought, in growing astonishment, the two women began to make sense of the garbled tale; it appeared to be a story lifted from a book. Hearing of Roland’s involvement, Bronwyn was aware of a sharp stab of pain.
‘I can’t believe Roland’s a traitor!’ she implored, looking round in desperation for someone to disabuse her of the notion.
‘I’m afraid, it’s true, every word,’ Lawrence Payne murmured. ‘You can imagine my shock to discover Bill and Hettie locked up in my sacristy. To do de Loxley credit, he never tried to run away whilst I called the police. No point, I suppose, now his cover’s blown.’
‘The Nazis have the woman he loves.’ Hettie threw her mother an uneasy glance. ‘But he’s still been spying, Mother. And it’s terrible that he’s the one who stole those papers and allowed Lewis to take the blame. Whatever will General Hawker say?’
The sick feeling of dread, stirring in the pit of Bronwyn’s stomach, rose up, threatening to engulf her. Miserably, she acknowledged the truth. The man with whom she’d nearly fallen in love, perhaps had fallen in love, was a traitor, a man who’d taken advantage of her generosity. Suddenly, inactivity was a painful thing. She sprang up, looking towards Bill and Hettie. ‘Go and have some breakfast and Hettie, after it, you’re to have a lie-down. No arguments, darling. You must be in shock.’
‘So must you, Bronwyn,’ Katherine interjected, perceptively. Her grip tightened around the handle of her walking stick. ‘Dresler is one thing but to think Roland took us all in. . . .’ Her gaze narrowed. ‘Blast Dresler for taking our property!’
‘Do you mean Aelric, Grandmamma?’ Hettie interjected, her face alive with excitement. ‘Theoretically, it was King Charles’ property so, really, it doesn’t belong to us. Oh, but if only you could have seen it! It’s wonderful beyond words and to think it’s been hidden away here all these years! And now it’s lost and we’ll probably never, ever see it again. . . .’
Dumbfounded, as he usually was in the presence of Katherine Loxley, Bill spoke up.
‘The police will find Dresler, Het. He won’t get out of the country.’
They all prayed he was right. ‘I’ll ring Digby,’ Bronwyn said, her mind, meantime, working furiously. ‘I’ll have to let Reuben know what’s happened. He’s been so worried about Lewis. The poor boy’s innocent, after all.’
Lawrence Payne stood up. ‘And I must go. After they’d taken de Loxley into custody, the police left a constable guarding the church. I’d better see if he wants a cup of tea. You’ll let me know if there’s news?’
‘Of course, Reverend!’
They left the room, Bronwyn to spend the next half-hour engaged on the telephone, first to the Chief Inspector to furnish him with the little she knew of Dresler and then to Reuben, discovering an odd comfort to hear his voice. She was surprised to learn ho
w much he already knew.
‘I’ve had a call from the police to pick up Lewis,’ he said, his voice ringing with relief.
Feeling anew the enormity of everything that had happened, as much as she was able, she filled in the gaps, sensing his shock even over the airwaves. ‘Would you mind if I came with you?’ she asked. ‘They won’t let you see him, Bron,’ he murmured, intuiting it was Roland she wanted to see.
She flushed. Did everyone know of their relationship? Miserably, she stared at a portrait of the eighth Duke, hanging over the telephone table, which had miraculously survived that terrible fire all those years before. ‘I have to talk to him, Reuben,’ she muttered, already dreading it.
Reuben’s next words brought a rush of relief. ‘I’ll call and pick you up,’ he said, at once.
‘Eat up, Bill, we’ve things to do,’ Hettie said, having left the biggest part of her breakfast uneaten. Her appetite had deserted her, her thoughts were chaotic, each thread of the tangle that had been her life of late vying for attention so she didn’t know what to think first. The shock of finding Aelric, the Count’s wickedness and Roland’s duplicity and now the overwhelming disappointment of Aelric’s disappearance, the Count with it, so there was little chance of the police finding either again. She was alone with Bill; after consuming a hearty breakfast, her grandmother had disappeared upstairs whilst her mother had gone with Reuben to pick up Lewis. Hettie had wanted to go too but hadn’t been allowed and she’d been too tired to argue.
‘I thought your mother told you to have a lie-down?’ Bill frowned, biting with relish into a slice of toast thickly smeared with marmalade.
‘Are you joking? This situation is all my fault, Bill,’ she said fervently. ‘I have to do something. I was the one who invited Dresler here.’
‘No one blames you, Het, he and de Loxley took everyone in. . . .’ Bill paused, his gaze holding hers and emotion shadowing across his face so, with a heavy heart, Hettie guessed what might be coming next. ‘Hettie, I know this isn’t the right time to talk about this, exactly,’ he began. ‘But last night, holed up in the church, got me to thinking . . . where you and I are going, exactly.’ This last came out in a rush. He stopped, looking wretched.
‘Where we usually go, I expect?’ she answered, callously flippant, trying to head him off and yet despising herself for it. It was no good. He’d embarked upon this conversation and was determined to continue it, no matter what she wanted.
‘You do know . . . I love you, Het?’
Three little words, hanging in the air between them. With a quick frown, Hettie got up, crossing the room to the window to stand, arms folded, staring out into the garden. She’d put off this conversation too long and it wasn’t fair. ‘I love you too,’ she said as he joined her, hating then that what she said next, was bound to hurt him. She turned towards him.
‘Of course we love each other, Bill. We’ve known each other for ever but don’t you see. . . ? That’s the problem.’
‘But why should it be a problem? I’ll never love anyone but you, Het. You know that’s true.’
‘That’s what you think now,’ she answered, patiently.
‘You’ve been listening to your grandmother again!’
She shook her head, determined, for both their sakes, he had to hear this out. ‘I’ve been thinking too, Bill, a lot, if you must know. Oh, but so much of what Grandmamma says is right! We are too young. We need to live a little, first. . . .’
Would he understand? But he must feel it too! She was talking about life and that they had to live it to the full, seizing it by the throat if necessary. Relationships now, at their young age, would only complicate matters. He started to protest but she reached up, laying a finger to his lips. She was right; he knew it and she saw that he did. Suddenly, inaction was anathema.
‘We ought to tell Leon about Aelric,’ she murmured, changing subject quickly.
Bill’s face worked. ‘You’re right, I expect. You usually are,’ he admitted.
The thorny subject between them settled, for now, at least, they fetched their coats and went outside, heading off quickly towards the gypsies’ encampment, it seeming to Hettie that the Romani people had a right to know what had happened to the sword that once, centuries ago, they had delivered here, in all good faith, to Loxley. They were lucky. Leon was in his caravan, sitting with his bony fingers resting on his knees, to listen gravely to all they had to say.
‘Wait here,’ he commanded when finally, Hettie ran out of steam. He rose quickly, leaving them alone but returning shortly, his lean features swirling with an emotion at which Hettie could only guess. For a moment, it crossed her mind she wouldn’t care to get the wrong side of this man.
‘I’ve put the word out amongst our people. Let’s pray we’re not too late,’ he said.
‘About Dresler?’ she demanded.
The gypsy’s eyes flashed. ‘We Romanies hear things others might not. Our people will get to know . . . wherever Dresler is. Don’t worry; there’s a chance we’ll apprehend him yet.’
‘Are you alright?’ Reuben demanded roughly, of the woman sitting so self-contained in the passenger seat beside him. His grip on the steering wheel tightened, a searing pain, almost physical, assailing him, long suppressed, threatening to overwhelm him, so it was all he could do not to slam on the brakes and tell her how he felt. How much he loved her. How he’d always love her. How she could count on him at any time and no matter what.
He’d willingly give his life for her.
With effort, he dragged his mind back to the road and the task ahead. Now wasn’t the time to lay his undying devotion before Bronwyn Loxley and he was beginning to doubt if that particular situation would ever present itself.
‘I’m afraid I’m not alright,’ Bronwyn answered. She shot him a wary glance, one acknowledging how far back they went and how, in a way she was yet to understand, he was wrapped up in her deep and sincerely held belief in Loxley. She frowned. ‘It’s not been much of a homecoming for you, Reuben.’
‘Ah . . . home,’ he muttered but in such a tone, her frown deepened.
‘Are you planning on staying?’ she asked.
‘Would you like me to?’ he fired back, waiting for the answer with bated breath and yet all the while aware she couldn’t have the slightest idea of how important her answer was.
‘You’re family,’ she said, simply. ‘Of course I want you to stay.’
‘I’ll stay then,’ he said. It was enough, more than he’d hoped, no matter what his familial connection; he’d once been the gamekeeper here. It was food for thought, most of it indigestible. He was glad when they’d reached the bleak, slate-roofed building, centred in the middle of the thriving industrial town of Cossethay and serving as its police station. They discovered Lewis inside it, sitting in the main foyer, slouched in a chair across from the desk sergeant and unable to disguise his relief when they walked through the door.
‘I thought you’d never get here,’ he muttered, ungraciously.
Beneath the surface bravado he’d been badly frightened and Bronwyn’s heart went out to him. Already she was having second thoughts. Could she really bear seeing Roland again? How could she forgive him after everything he’d done! Despite all her misgivings, instinct drove her on, making her only too aware that if she didn’t come to terms with everything that had happened, it would eventually drive her mad.
‘We’ll soon have you home, lad. Any news on Dresler, yet?’ Reuben asked, addressing this last to the desk sergeant, a grizzled, middle-aged man watching on with interest.
He shook his head. ‘I don’t believe there is, sir. But we’ll catch him, you mark my words.’
Bronwyn frowned. ‘Would it be possible to see Mr de Loxley?’ she demanded quickly.
‘I’m sorry, Your Grace. I’m not exactly sure it would,’ the policeman returned, awkwardly. And then, seemingly from nowhere and to their immense relief, Digby appeared.
‘I’ll take over, Carter,’ he said, cri
sply, his gaze settling on Bronwyn. ‘This is highly irregular, Your Grace. Mr de Loxley’s still under interrogation. Hawker’s on his way over. It’s a serious business, I’m afraid.’
‘She only wants five minutes, man,’ Reuben intervened.
There was a pause whilst the police inspector considered but to their relief, he gave in graciously.
‘Five minutes, then!’
‘I’ll wait outside with Lewis,’ Reuben murmured and, in a gesture of support of which Bronwyn was only dimly aware, his hand brushed her arm. Throwing him a grateful smile, she followed the Chief Inspector, alarmed to discover, when he’d ushered her through to the rear of the building, how much she wanted to turn back, to Reuben and to safety. And then, suddenly, as was so often the case when she thought of Reuben, she was thinking of Harry, so fiercely this time, his presence was almost tangible, as if he was beside her, giving her strength, allowing her to walk steadily down numerous steps and along twisting corridors and finally through a door, deep within the bowels of the building, which Digby carefully unlocked with keys he took from his pocket.
‘There you go, Your Grace,’ he muttered, throwing the door wide and waiting for her to pass through before closing it, softly, behind her. His footsteps receded.
Bronwyn braced herself. Roland was sitting with his head buried in his hands, an empty coffee cup and a packet of cigarettes, unopened, on the table in front of him. He looked up eagerly as she came in so, for a moment, Bronwyn saw, with a twist of her heart, a glimpse of the man with whom she’d so very nearly fallen in love. Perhaps she had loved him. How could she ever know now! This man had turned her thoughts from Harry and given her the belief she could be happy again. Wearily, she sank into the vacant chair. All she’d rehearsed saying the way over here, spilling out her anger and her pain, flew from her head.
‘I thought I’d never see you again,’ he said, breaking the silence if only because one of them must.
‘How could you, Roland? I . . . we . . . trusted you,’ she said, brokenly.