by Bowen, Rhys
PRAISE FOR RHYS BOWEN’S IN FARLEIGH FIELD
Winner of the Left Coast Crime Award for Best Historical Mystery Novel and the Agatha and Macavity Awards for Best Historical Novel
“Well-crafted, thoroughly entertaining . . .”
—Publishers Weekly
“The skills Bowen brings . . . inform the plotting in this character-rich tale, which will be welcomed by her fans as well as by readers who enjoy fiction about the British home front.”
—Booklist
“In what could easily become a PBS show of its own, Bowen’s novel winningly details a World War II spy game.”
—Library Journal
“This novel will keep readers deeply involved until the end.”
—Portland Book Review
“In Farleigh Field delivers the same entertainment mixed with intellectual intrigue and realistic setting for which Bowen has earned awards and loyal fans.”
—New York Journal of Books
“Well-plotted and thoroughly entertaining . . . With characters who are so fully fleshed out, you can imagine meeting them on the street . . .”
—Historical Novel Society
“Through the character’s eyes, readers will be drawn into the era and begin to understand the sacrifices and hardships placed on English society.”
—Crimespree Magazine
“Instantly absorbing, suspenseful, romantic and stylish—like binge-watching a great British drama on Masterpiece Theatre.”
—Lee Child, New York Times bestselling author
“In Farleigh Field is brilliant. This is magnificently written and a must read.”
—Louise Penny, New York Times bestselling author
PRAISE FOR RHYS BOWEN’S THE TUSCAN CHILD
A New York Post Must-Read Selection
“Pass the bread, the olives, and the wine. Oh, and a copy of The Tuscan Child to savor with them.”
—NPR
“Readers who enjoy World War II historical fiction and rural Italian culture will appreciate this story by a master of her genre.”
—Library Journal
“The alternating narratives keep the story moving along, and the pastoral setting is transporting.”
—Booklist
“Besides being an action-packed story that is intense and haunting, Bowen also brings to life the setting where the reader can smell the cooking scents, see the brilliant olive groves, and hear the Italian chatter.”
—Crimespree Magazine
“This novel is well plotted with characters that are so compelling, with their attributes and flaws, that the reader can almost feel as if they had sat down and shared a glass of vin santo with them.”
—Historical Novel Society
“The interwoven mystery is expertly crafted and unravels at a pace that will keep readers guessing until the end. This is an overall enjoyable trip to the Tuscan countryside and readers will be reluctant to leave this charming and intriguing place.”
—RT Book Reviews
“The Tuscan Child presented me with a conundrum—didn’t want the book to end, yet I couldn’t put it down. Best read with a glass of Chianti beside a roaring fire. Brava Rhys Bowen—brava!”
—Jacqueline Winspear, New York Times bestselling author of the Maisie Dobbs historical mystery novels
ALSO BY RHYS BOWEN
In Farleigh Field
The Tuscan Child
CONSTABLE EVANS MYSTERIES
Evans Above
Evan Help Us
Evanly Choirs
Evan and Elle
Evan Can Wait
Evans to Betsy
Evan Only Knows
Evan’s Gate
Evan Blessed
Evanly Bodies
MOLLY MURPHY MYSTERIES
Murphy’s Law
Death of Riley
For the Love of Mike
In Like Flynn
Oh Danny Boy
In Dublin’s Fair City
Tell Me, Pretty Maiden
In a Gilded Cage
The Last Illusion
Bless the Bride
Hush Now, Don’t You Cry
The Family Way
City of Darkness and Light
The Edge of Dreams
Away in a Manger
Time of Fog and Fire
The Ghost of Christmas Past
ROYAL SPYNESS MYSTERIES
Her Royal Spyness
A Royal Pain
Royal Flush
Royal Blood
Naughty in Nice
The Twelve Clues of Christmas
Heirs and Graces
Queen of Hearts
Malice at the Palace
Crowned and Dangerous
On Her Majesty’s Frightfully Secret Service
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2019 by Janet Quin-Harkin, writing as Rhys Bowen
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542040129 (hardcover)
ISBN-10: 1542040124 (hardcover)
ISBN-13: 9781542040112 (paperback)
ISBN-10: 1542040116 (paperback)
Cover design by Shasti O’Leary Soudant
First edition
This book is dedicated to Linda Myers in celebration of our 35 years of friendship. Linda was my choir director at St Isabella’s Church, and we shared some great choral moments together. She has also been one of the biggest fans of my books. She is now moving away. I will miss her.
Also a special dedication to Susan Charlton, who lends her name to a principal character in this book. I should point out that Susan is neither old nor haughty! She is a wonderful person and does a great deal of good.
And, as always, my grateful thanks to Danielle Marshall and the whole team at Lake Union, who make working with them such a joy.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHAPTER ONE
The Larches, Near Shiphay, Torquay
Devonshire
May 14, 1918
To Miss Clarissa Hamilton, Field Hospital 17, British Forces, France
My dear Clarissa,
Thank you very much for your long letter. I am in awe of the matter-of-fact way you recount such dangers and horrors. Who would have thought that you, who shrieked at seeing a mouse in our dormitory, would have turned out to be so fearless?
And you have every right to scold me. I know I promised to write to you regularly, and I have failed miserably in that task. It is not that I am lazy—nor have I forgotten you, you can be sure of that. You are never out of my thoughts and prayers. It’s just that I find my own life here in the countryside so sadly lacking compared to the excitement and danger that you face daily. In truth, I have nothing to write about, and I am ashamed to admit it. While you are there amongst the trenches in France, tending to the wounded, being shelled by the enemy, here I am, safe and secure in my English country village, doing nothing more for the war effort than taking some of Mummy’s scones and rock cakes to the wounded soldiers in the convalescent home and trying to convince myself that the presence of a young lady will cheer them up.
The rhythmic clickety-clack of a lawnmower made Emily Bryce cease her writing and glance out of her window. Old Josh was pushing the mower over a lawn that already appeared to be immaculate. Her gaze swept the full length of the garden to the rhododendrons and azalea bushes, now in full springtime bloom, surrounding the bottom of the lawn with brilliant pinks and oranges. The apple trees in the kitchen garden were also white with blossom. Her parents seemed to take it for granted that their grounds would look perfect, not appreciating how lucky they were to have a gardener who was well beyond the age to be called up to fight. Their smooth and comfortable life had not changed one bit, apart from . . . She sighed and turned her attention back to the letter.
How I wish that I were with you, in spite of the awful conditions and danger that you write about. I even think I could face a few rats and bad rations to escape from the tedium of my daily life. My parents still keep a tight rein on me, and in spite of my constant entreaties will not let me do anything more useful than those convalescent home visits (well chaperoned by my mother!). Remember that song about ‘only a bird in a gilded cage’? That is me. As you well remember, Mummy had made it her sole purpose in life to make a good match for me (preferably with a title!). If there had been no horrid war, she would have moved mountains to have had me presented at court. Now there are no balls, no hunts—in truth, no eligible young men to be found any longer—she has become bitter and resigned. She wants me out of her sight and yet will not let me escape.
I realize that this desire to keep me cocooned has something to do with Freddie’s death. They have taken it awfully hard. He was Father’s pride and joy, you know. A first at Oxford and destined to become a barrister and then a judge, like Father. Yet he survived for less than a week at the front in Ypres.
She paused again, staring out across the garden, breathing in the scent of newly mown grass mingled with the bonfire Josh had started behind the sweet peas. Safe, familiar scents. Scents of home. How stupid it is that we are raised to keep our feelings to ourselves, she thought. How ridiculous that I can’t even tell my best friend the truth, that Freddie’s death has shattered our family. She remembered her father as quite jovial before the war, and her mother, while a born snob, had occasionally shown a softer side. Now it was as if they had both locked themselves away, her father silent and remote, prone to outbursts of anger, and her mother critical of everything. Sometimes she could sense them looking at her, and she was sure they were wishing it was she who had died and not Freddie. Oh Freddie, she thought. How could she write that she had taken it awfully hard, too? That after three years his death was still a raw wound. He was her big brother. Her protector. She still remembered it as if it were yesterday: her last term at school, right before the house tennis matches. Being summoned to the headmistress’s office, standing there in her tennis skirt, clutching her racquet and wondering what she had done wrong. The headmistress instead taking her hand and sitting her down before she gave the bad news. To have her headmistress, normally so terrifying, being kind and gentle with her was too much. It was the only time she had allowed herself to cry.
Emily glanced down at the paper. The pen had dripped a blob of ink, and she blotted it hastily before dipping into the inkwell again.
So I can understand why they were so adamant about my not joining you in the volunteer nurse brigade, but not why they won’t let me seek any kind of useful employment. Bad things are hardly likely to happen to me in a volunteer centre, sorting old clothes or rolling bandages in Torquay, are they? I wouldn’t even mind working as a volunteer nurse at the convalescent home. At least I’d be doing something useful. I am dying of frustration and loneliness here, Clarissa. I want to be useful. I want to do my bit, so that Freddie’s death was somehow not in vain. I know I shouldn’t be complaining when I have such an easy life, but
“Emily?” Her mother’s strident voice echoed up the staircase. “Where are you, child? I told you we would be leaving at ten thirty on the dot. Come along. We can’t keep the young men waiting. Best foot forward.”
Emily put down the pen. The dreaded visit to the convalescent home. The letter would have to wait. It was not that she disliked visiting the wounded officers. Actually, she would have quite enjoyed it if she had been alone. It was following her mother through the wards, watching her playing at Lady Bountiful and not being allowed to interact with the young men herself that she found so frustrating. She stood in front of the mirror, twisting her ash-brown hair up into a hasty bun, jabbing in hairpins in the hopes of holding it in place before cramming her blue straw hat over it. Critical grey eyes stared back at her. Too thin. Too tall. Too angular. Then she grimaced at her reflection, grabbed her gloves and hurried down the stairs. Her mother was standing by the front door, looking resplendent in lavender silk with a matching dyed ostrich feather in her hat. Far more suitable for a garden party than a convalescent home visit, Emily thought. Florrie, the maid, stood beside her, her arms piled high with cake tins.
“Where have you been?” Mrs Bryce demanded. “I haven’t seen you since breakfast.”
“I was writing to Clarissa,” Emily said. “I received a letter from her in the morning post, and she chided me for not writing back.”
“She is still in France?”
“Yes.”
“Working in a hospital there?”
“Not exactly. A makeshift tent near the front. It sounds rather awful.”
Mrs Bryce shook her head. “I still can’t understand why her parents let her go. A girl from a good family like that. What were they thinking to have her exposed to those conditions? It’s a wonder her mind doesn’t snap.”
Emily shot her mother a glance, went to say something, then thought better of it. “She wanted to go, Mummy,” she said instead. “She was determined to go. You know Clarissa—she likes to get her own way, and she can be quite forceful when she puts her mind to it.”
“Well, you can thank your lucky stars that we were more sensible than her parents and kept you from such horrors.”
Emily saw her mother looking her up and down. “Is that what you plan to wear?” she said.
“Is there something wrong with it?” Emily retorted. “It doesn’t reveal too much flesh, does it?”
“On the contrary. It’s just rather plain, that’s all. We should remember that we are going with the purpose of cheering up these young men—making them remember that there is a better world waiting for them after the war.”
“If they are still here after the war,” Emily said, then instantly regretted it.
Her mother frowned. “No time to go and change now. Here, pick up that platter from the table, and then we must be on our way. I told Matron I’d be there at eleven, and you know I am a woman of my word.”
Emily followed her m
other out of the front door. Florrie brought up the rear of the procession. Emily thought privately that it was a bit excessive serving wounded servicemen with silver tongs from crystal dishes, but her mother had maintained that there were standards to be upheld, even in wartime. “It is a home for officers, after all,” she had said. “It is good to remind them that the old standards of civilization still exist.”
They walked down the raked gravel drive, out of the main gate and down the lane, between high banks on which a few late bluebells were still blooming. It was a perfect spring day. A pigeon was cooing in an oak tree above them, and somewhere in the woods a cuckoo was calling loudly. The adjoining property had belonged to an elderly colonel and his wife. They had moved to a hotel in Torquay and turned over their house to the government to be used as a convalescent hospital for wounded officers.
It is indeed a lovely setting, Emily thought. Surrounded by fields and copses, the upper floors giving a glimpse of the distant sea—exactly the right environment to heal the mind as well as the body. Most of the men she had seen there had physical wounds, some rather terrible—blinded and burned by mustard gas, missing limbs—but others had minds that had broken with what they had seen and endured. She had overheard a nurse complaining about how noisy it was at night when so many men shouted out in terror from nightmares or sobbed like babies.
A maid opened the front door, and they were admitted to the cool marble entrance hall.
“Matron is expecting you, ma’am,” the maid said, bobbing a curtsy. “She invites you to take a cup of coffee with her in her study.”
“How kind.” Mrs Bryce nodded graciously. “I look forward to joining her after we have done our first round of visits.” A selection of cakes was arranged on the platters, and her mother went off like a ship in full sail, with Emily trailing behind.
“Good morning, gentlemen. A selection of my home-made baked goods to cheer you up and remind you of your own homes,” Mrs Bryce said as they entered the first ward. “Oh yes, do try the iced bun. An old family recipe, you know.”
Since her mother had never baked anything in her life, Emily tried not to smile. This was a room of those further along in their rehabilitation. They sat in armchairs or on chaises with rugs over their knees and regarded Emily with interest.