shook his head just a bit as he unfolded a newspaper.
“Baker Street! Sherlock Holmes!”
“I thought you might fancy that, being a detective yourself,” Daphne said. “There, up ahead on the left, is 221B. Or where it would be, if it were real.”
I shifted over toward Harding to get a good look out his window. There it was, a sign above a shop that said 221 B BAKER STREET . My mouth hung open. I looked around at the ordinary street and the white-painted buildings, looking clean in the morning rain. Where were the fog, the streetlights, the gray atmosphere? The horses pulling carriages, bringing troubled clients to Watson and Holmes? I had to admit I had been impressed with Big Ben and all, but for a kid who had devoured all the adventures of Sherlock Holmes, this was really something. I was on Baker Street, driving by the rooms of Holmes and Watson! I sort of wished it were all in black and white and gray, like in the movies.
“You a fan of Doyle?” asked Harding.
“Sure,” I said, then struggled to keep the gee-whiz quality out of my voice. “Sure, him and a lot of others, too.” I didn’t want to admit that the only book I had ever read cover to cover was a collection of Sherlock Holmes stories. I turned around and watched Baker Street fade away as we turned the corner and drove around a park, heading out of the city. Gee whiz, I’m in the land of Sherlock Holmes .
We left Regent’s Park behind us and the buildings started to thin out. Traffic was heavy coming in to the city, but in our lane, out going was light. Daphne was actually a very good driver, and she seemed to know her way around. Without any signposts identifying towns, direction, or roads, it seemed impossible to navigate, but she managed it. Kaz sat up front with her, an open map on his lap, which he occasionally consulted as he pointed out an upcoming turn. He turned in his seat and held up the map for me to see.
“We’re going to a little town called Wickham Market, on the Suffolk coast,” he said, pointing out the bulge of land that curved out into the North Sea. “About one hundred miles or so from here. Beardsley Hall is an estate on the Suffolk Heath where the Norwegians are headquartered. Ironic, since the hall is built around an old castle fortification, which used to guard that part of the coast against Viking raids. I’m sure some old English bones in the ground protest the current occupants of the hall!”
“Better Norwegian Vikings than Germans,” Daphne added.
“Well, yes, if we can be sure of that.”
I could see Daphne look in the rearview mirror and cock an eyebrow at Harding, who was silent, reading the London Times . He gave her the slightest nod, which she passed on to Kaz. These three seemed to have their own language.
“OK, Kaz, what’s going on?” The great American detective at work.
“We have indications that one of the Norwegians may be a spy.”
“A traitor?”
“We really don’t know,” Kaz said, shrugging his shoulders as he turned to half face me. “It could be a traitor, or a German agent planted among the Norwegian troops who made it to England in 1940. It would have been easy for someone with false papers to mix in with retreating British, French, Polish, and Norwegian troops.”
“That would have taken some planning. The Norwegian campaign was over pretty quickly.”
“Exactly. Which supports the theory that it is a traitor within the Norwegian ranks. All we know from our sources is that such an agent exists. But there are thousands of Norwegians in uniform in England now. The Norwegian Brigade, merchant marine, naval, and RAF units, King Haakon’s court… a spy could be anywhere. He could be very highly placed or situated where he can do no harm.”
“How do you guys know about this?” There was a silence. Harding put down his paper and spoke.
“The British secret service picked up a number of German agents who were positioned in this country before the war. They were
“Baker Street! Sherlock Holmes!”
“I thought you might fancy that, being a detective yourself,” Daphne said. “There, up ahead on the left, is 221B. Or where it would be, if it were real.”
I shifted over toward Harding to get a good look out his window. There it was, a sign above a shop that said 221 B BAKER STREET . My mouth hung open. I looked around at the ordinary street and the white-painted buildings, looking clean in the morning rain. Where were the fog, the streetlights, the gray atmosphere? The horses pulling carriages, bringing troubled clients to Watson and Holmes? I had to admit I had been impressed with Big Ben and all, but for a kid who had devoured all the adventures of Sherlock Holmes, this was really something. I was on Baker Street, driving by the rooms of Holmes and Watson! I sort of wished it were all in black and white and gray, like in the movies.
“You a fan of Doyle?” asked Harding.
“Sure,” I said, then struggled to keep the gee-whiz quality out of my voice. “Sure, him and a lot of others, too.” I didn’t want to admit that the only book I had ever read cover to cover was a collection of Sherlock Holmes stories. I turned around and watched Baker Street fade away as we turned the corner and drove around a park, heading out of the city. Gee whiz, I’m in the land of Sherlock Holmes .
We left Regent’s Park behind us and the buildings started to thin out. Traffic was heavy coming in to the city, but in our lane, out going was light. Daphne was actually a very good driver, and she seemed to know her way around. Without any signposts identifying towns, direction, or roads, it seemed impossible to navigate, but she managed it. Kaz sat up front with her, an open map on his lap, which he occasionally consulted as he pointed out an upcoming turn. He turned in his seat and held up the map for me to see.
“We’re going to a little town called Wickham Market, on the Suffolk coast,” he said, pointing out the bulge of land that curved out into the North Sea. “About one hundred miles or so from here. Beardsley Hall is an estate on the Suffolk Heath where the Norwegians are headquartered. Ironic, since the hall is built around an old castle fortification, which used to guard that part of the coast against Viking raids. I’m sure some old English bones in the ground protest the current occupants of the hall!”
“Better Norwegian Vikings than Germans,” Daphne added.
“Well, yes, if we can be sure of that.”
I could see Daphne look in the rearview mirror and cock an eyebrow at Harding, who was silent, reading the London Times . He gave her the slightest nod, which she passed on to Kaz. These three seemed to have their own language.
“OK, Kaz, what’s going on?” The great American detective at work.
“We have indications that one of the Norwegians may be a spy.”
“A traitor?”
“We really don’t know,” Kaz said, shrugging his shoulders as he turned to half face me. “It could be a traitor, or a German agent planted among the Norwegian troops who made it to England in 1940. It would have been easy for someone with false papers to mix in with retreating British, French, Polish, and Norwegian troops.”
“That would have taken some planning. The Norwegian campaign was over pretty quickly.”
“Exactly. Which supports the theory that it is a traitor within the Norwegian ranks. All we know from our sources is that such an agent exists. But there are thousands of Norwegians in uniform in England now. The Norwegian Brigade, merchant marine, naval, and RAF units, King Haakon’s court… a spy could be anywhere. He could be very highly placed or situated where he can do no harm.”
“How do you guys know about this?” There was a silence. Harding put down his paper and spoke.
“The British secret service picked up a number of German agents who were positioned in this country before the war. They were
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