Tom Savage - Mrs. John Doe

Nora studied his face in the light of the candle between them. “We’ve just come over from Deal?” she said. “Was that some kind of password?”

Craig nodded. “The barman’s name is Palmer. He owns this place. He should have news for us.”

“What sort of news?”

“Wheels,” Craig said. “I hope.”

Nora shook her head in wonder. “Did Bill Howard arrange all this?”

“Yeah. Well, Louis Reynard was my idea-he’s helped us out before, you know, transporting people. Louis told Mr. Howard about Palmer over there, who’s a business associate of his. So, Mr. Howard called Palmer and told him to expect us.”

“And the password was Deal, ” Nora said, glancing over her shoulder at the bar. “Louis Reynard and Mr. Palmer are obviously smugglers. Does the British government work with people like them on a regular basis?”

Craig laughed. “We use all sorts of people in our work, when and if we need them. So do the Americans and every other country. Your husband will tell you the same thing; just ask him sometime. Saving the world can make strange bedfellows. Think of all this as an acting lesson, Mother.”

“I don’t want to be in that play,” Nora said. “And stop calling me Mother!”

They were still laughing when Mr. Palmer brought over their drinks, but their smiles faded when he leaned down and spoke in a low voice.

“Have a care,” he said. “Our local constable, Sam Dawson, is all round this e’en, askin’ questions. Wants to know if anyone’s seen any strangers about. I got him in here and poured a couple o’ pints down him while ye landed. Very suspicious, our Sammy, but he dear loves his Watneys, so he didn’t see ye come ashore, and he went back to his station t’other end o’ the high street just afore ye came in here. He’s there now, and I’ve spread the word in case he comes round again-there’s none here’ll tip the Bill on ye.”

“Thank you,” Craig said. “Why is Constable Dawson asking questions? Who alerted him?”

Mr. Palmer grunted. “I asked him that very thing. He says he got an email from London-the Yard, no less. All puffed up about it, he is. Never gets word from them, not all the way out here, but they’re alerting all the coastal stations. Lookin’ for a woman from France, they are.” He glanced at Nora and winked. “A much younger woman than thee, beggin’ yer pardon.”

“Oh aye, an’ ye may say it,” Nora drawled in a perfect imitation of his accent. She scrunched up her wrinkled face and nodded her gray head. The two men laughed.

“My Betty’s young man, Adam, is waitin’ in the garage across the high street,” Palmer continued. He nodded toward an archway beside the bar. “He has a car for ye, an old Focus of his pa’s. Nothin’ like new, but it’ll get ye where ye’re goin’. I’d offer ye lodgin’ for the night, but our Sammy’s put the stopper in that. Ye’d best be off as soon as ye’ve et.”

Craig nodded and pulled out his wallet. Nora stared as he placed several large British notes on the table. Palmer’s meaty hand came down and swept them away in one swift, practiced move. With a nod and a muttered “Ta,” he went back behind the bar.

Nora was actually beginning to relax when two things happened simultaneously. Betty arrived from the kitchen and placed sandwiches and soup in front of them just as a big man in a blue jacket with brass buttons arrived in the room through the archway, from the direction of the high street. Betty gave Nora and Craig a brief, warning glance before turning around to face him.

“Evenin’, Constable,” she said.

Nora froze, staring at the young man across the table from her.

“What do we do now?” she whispered.

Craig grinned and reached for his plate. “We eat, of course. Have a sandwich, Mother .”

Nora nodded and made herself busy with the food, watching the activity across the room out of the corner of her eye. The smiling Betty sashayed over to the bar and patted a stool. Now Nora had to turn her head to follow the action behind her.

“Sit yerself down here, Sammy,” Betty cooed, “and I’ll fetch ye a lovely ham-and-Stilton, just the way ye like it.” Her father was already setting a full mug down there. With a grunt, the big policeman ambled over and took the stool she indicated. When he turned to her, her bosom was practically in his face. He stared.

“Not tonight, love, thanks all the same,” he said to her cleavage. “I’m full on Margie’s chicken and chips.” He nodded toward the party beyond the window. “I’ll just have a sip, then another look round the beach. Can’t be too careful tonight. Ye heard about my email from the Yard?”

“Aye, ye told us before. They’re lookin’ out for some French woman. Well, good luck findin’ her. There’s quite a few strange people in town tonight-and of course we have these three!” She waved an arm at the regulars on the barstools beside him, and everyone laughed.

Nora ate her sandwich, fully aware that the constable at the bar behind her was now looking over at their booth. She could feel the eyes on her, a welcome sensation in a theater but unsettling in this beachfront pub. Across from her, Craig was spooning up soup with enviable nonchalance, paying no apparent attention to anything else, but she knew he was listening. The band outside launched into an old Beatles song, and the music made it difficult to follow the conversation on the other side of the room, but she heard enough.

Constable Dawson must have pointed to their booth, because Betty laughed and said, “Them? Hardly! How old is this French escaped convict or whatever she is?”

“The Yard said forties, with light brown hair.”

Nora didn’t risk turning to look, but she imagined the remarkable Betty once more thrusting her breasts in the man’s face. In a stage whisper that Nora could have taught her, she said, “Well, that let’s her out, don’t it? She’s off by thirty years! No, Sammy, I don’t think this is yer night for catchin’ wanted criminals-not here anyway.” Everyone laughed again.

“Try the Dover ferries,” one of the regulars said. “Check the boots of all the cars comin’ over from Calais. That’s how I’d do it.” More laughter.

Craig leaned across the table and whispered, “I actually considered that.” There was a twinkle in his eye. Nora stared at him, trying to imagine herself folded into the trunk of a car, in a boat, on open water. She shuddered.

“Well, I’d best be sure,” the constable said. He drained his mug and stood up, none too steadily. “I’ll have another look at the docks. Betty, have ye any o’ that apple tart left over from yesterday?”

“Aye,” she said, “and I’ve just made a fresh pot o’ tea. Go see if the French lady’s washed ashore out there and wants to surrender to ye. I’ll have it all here for ye when ye return from yer rounds.”

“Good girl,” he said, and he clomped across the room to the door, nodding over at their booth as he passed. “Evenin’.”

“Good evening,” Craig said, and Nora smiled her best old-lady smile. As soon as the door closed behind the constable, Craig leaned forward. “Okay, we should go soon. If the A2 is clear, I can have us in London before midnight.”

Nora nodded and picked up her soup spoon, looking out at the dock. Two small boats had just arrived, and people were climbing up to the dock and arriving on the beach to join the party, which was now in full swing. She wondered how Louis Reynard had known about the beach party, then-with a swift glance at the bartender behind her-she decided she’d rather not know. Louis Reynard and Mr. Palmer were in some dark business together, and it was probably very lucrative. So, Louis had told Bill Howard about this place, and Bill had told him to sail right in and drop his passengers at the dock. Small craft were constantly coming and going tonight, the perfect cover for their own arrival. Very clever.