In Farleigh Field: A Novel of World War II

by Rhys Bowen

  She jumped as a door opened, letting in a beam of light. A man came in—a tall man wearing a German officer’s uniform. He turned on a switch with a click, and Margot blinked in the sudden light. For the first time, she saw she was in a featureless room, about ten-by-eight feet. In the corner was a bucket she could have used, had she known it was there. The officer pulled up a second chair and sat facing her.

  “Lady Margaret, I must apologise for the rough and impolite way you were brought here. I’m afraid my order to bring in someone for questioning is sometimes misinterpreted. Would you like some coffee?”

  Coffee was something rarely seen now in Paris. She heard herself saying “Yes, please, that would be very nice” before she had time to consider whether she should remain aloof and defiant. Maybe I’m reading too much into this, she thought. Maybe they just want to ask me some small question about why I’m still here. Coffee was brought, with cream and sugar. It seemed she had never tasted anything so delicious. “Thank you,” she said. “You’re very kind.”

  The officer nodded. “My name is Dinkslager. Baron von Dinkslager. So you see we are social equals. We just need to ask you a few questions, then you can return home.” His English was excellent, with only the slightest trace of accent. And he was extremely handsome, having an almost-matinee-idol bone structure and the arrogance of a German officer. “You are Lady Margaret Sutton, daughter of Lord Westerham, is that correct?”

  “That is correct.”

  “And would you tell us why you are still in Paris? Why did you not go home before the occupation, when you could?”

  “I was studying fashion design with Madame Armande,” she said. “I suppose I was naïve, but I thought that life in Paris would be allowed to go on as usual.”

  “But it is,” he said.

  “Hardly. Nobody has enough to eat. We haven’t seen coffee like this in months.”

  “Blame your English bombers for that. And the Resistance. If they destroy supply lines, then it is not our fault the Parisians don’t have enough to eat.”

  He crossed his legs. He was wearing high black boots, perfectly polished. “So fashion design was the only reason you decided to stay.”

  “No,” she admitted, seeing no reason to lie. “I fell in love with a Frenchman.”

  “The Count de Varennes. A fellow aristocrat,” he said.

  She nodded. “That’s right.”

  “And where is the Count de Varennes now?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him for months.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “Just after Christmas. He told me he had to leave Paris.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “I understood he had properties in the South of France that needed attending to. Also, his grandmother at the château was growing increasingly frail, and he wanted to see if he could do anything to help her.”

  “His grandmother.” A smile crossed his lips. “You are either very naïve or a very good liar, Lady Margaret. His grandmother has been dead for five years.”

  “Then I’m obviously very naïve,” she replied. “Our nanny washed out our mouths with soap if we ever told a lie. The threat of the soap has stuck.”

  “Did it not cross your mind that your lover might be working for the Resistance?”

  “Yes, it did cross my mind,” she said defiantly, “but Gaston would tell me nothing. He said it was better that way. Then, if I was ever questioned, I could truthfully say that I knew nothing.”

  “And you have not seen him since Christmas?”

  “No.”

  “Would it surprise you then to know that he has been in Paris several times since then?”

  Margot fought to keep her expression neutral. “Yes, it would surprise me. Perhaps he did not wish to put me at risk. He is a very considerate man.”

  “Or perhaps he had found a new love?” The slightest of smirks crossed Dinkslager’s lips.

  “Perhaps he has. He is also a very attractive man.”

  “And if he has found a new love?”

  “Then I suppose I’d have to get on with my life, go back to my fashion design, and learn to live without him.”

  He chuckled now. “I admire the British, Lady Margaret. A French girl who loses her lover would weep and beat her breast.”

  “Then we should be glad I’m not French. So much easier to deal with.”

  He was still smiling. “I like you, Lady Margaret. I like your spirit. I am also from a noble family. We understand each other well.”

  “Then you will understand that I’m speaking the truth when I say I have nothing to tell you. I lead a simple life in Paris. I go to the workshop. I do what Madame Armande tells me. I go back to my small apartment in the Ninth. I eat a simple supper and go to bed.”

  “You would no doubt like to go home to England now, given the chance.”

  She hesitated. Of course I’d like to go home, you idiot, she wanted to shout. But instead she said, “I understand life in England is no more pleasant than life in Paris at present, what with constant bombings and the threat of an imminent invasion.”

  He uncrossed his legs, tilting the wooden chair backward as he looked at her. “You have not heard from Gaston de Varennes for months. That is correct?”

  “It is.”

  “So it would surprise you to learn that we have him in our custody at this moment?”

  This really did jar her composure. He saw it in her eyes, the sudden flicker of apprehension before she said, “Yes. It does surprise me.”

  “And alarm you?”

  “Of course it alarms me.” Her voice took on a sudden sharp edge. “Herr Baron, I love Gaston de Varennes, whether he still loves me or not.”

  “And you approve of his work with the Resistance?”

  “As I told you, I had no idea he was with the Resistance until now. But he is a Frenchman. I can understand his desire to drive out invaders of his country. If the Germans invaded Britain, I’d expect my family to do the same.”

  He let the chair legs fall with a sudden clatter as he leaned closer to her. “Gaston de Varennes is proving to be very stubborn, Lady Margaret. You can understand that his life is not worth that”—he snapped his fingers, and the sound echoed, surprisingly loud in the confined space—“unless he tells us what he knows.”

  “You want me to persuade him to talk? That is ridiculous, Baron. I am flattered that you think I have that great a hold over him, but I can assure you I don’t.”

  “You do realise, my lady, that if I snap my fingers right now, you will be dragged down the stairs to a room much less pleasant than this one, and down there you would be made to tell us every single little detail of your life.”

  Again, she forced her face to remain composed. “I have heard about such things, but I really do assure you, Baron von Dinkslager, that I have nothing to tell that you would find remotely interesting.”

  “Trust me, Lady Margaret, if you are taken to such a room, you would wish you had something to tell. You would invent things to tell us. You would betray your lover, your mother, anything to get out of there alive.”

  Margot stared at him coldly. “If you are going to kill me, then please, do it now and get it over with. I see you wear a revolver. Shoot me now.”

  “I have no wish to shoot you. You are much more valuable to me alive than dead. But I am surprised. Would you let your lover go to his death without fighting for him? Truly the British are so cold.”

  “I assure you I am not cold, and I don’t want Gaston to die. But I rather suspect that nothing I can say will make you change your minds.” Then suddenly it dawned on her. “I understand now. You don’t think I can tell you anything important. I’m the bait, aren’t I? You are going to use me to make him talk.”

  “I suppose it depends on how precious you are to him, and whether he puts you before his country. We shall have to wait and see, shan’t we?” He broke off and looked up in surprise. Outside the door came raised voices, one of them
female. Dinkslager had just stood up when the door burst open and Gigi Armande stormed in. She wore a black fur draped carelessly around her shoulders, and her face was perfectly made up. Even if Margot hadn’t known her, there would be no mistaking who she was.

  “What is this?” the German officer demanded in French. “Who let you in here?”

  “My poor petite,” she said, completely ignoring him and going over to give Margot a kiss on both cheeks. “What were they thinking, bringing you to a place like this? You should be ashamed of yourself, Baron, for intimidating an innocent child like this. A young British aristocrat, no less, who leads a perfectly blameless life, slaving away for me making dresses. I am Madame Armande, in case you are the one person in Paris who does not recognise me. I assure you that the highest-ranking officers in your German army know me well and allow me to live at the Ritz.”

  “Madame Armande,” he said, “I am well aware who you are. This innocent young lady is the mistress of a leader in the Resistance. We have taken him prisoner, but he refuses to cooperate. We are hoping this young lady can make him see sense.”

  “I can see her point of view,” Armande said, putting a protective arm around Margot’s shoulder. “If he talks, you’ll kill him anyway, will you not? And if he talks and you don’t kill him, his fellows in the Resistance will kill him for you.”

  “We could come to some sort of agreement, Madame. You see, this young lady might prove more valuable to us than a captured Resistance fighter.”

  “In what way?”

  He turned back to Margot. “She moves in the highest circles in England. Your family knows the Churchills, I think? And the Duke of Westminster? And any number of members of the House of Lords.”

  “Yes, my family does. But I don’t see . . .”

  “I’m going to make you a proposition. I’ll free the Count de Varennes if you agree to do us a small favour.”

  She stared at him suspiciously. “What kind of favour? And what guarantee do I have that he’ll be released? That he’s not already dead?”

  “You have no guarantee”—he paused, spreading his hands in a gesture of futility, then added—“but you have a chance to save him. Better than knowing one hundred percent that he will die a painful death and that you might follow suit.”

  “Don’t speak to her in that way,” Madame Armande said. “I am taking her with me right now. She shall stay at the Ritz with me, under my protection, and I will go straight to your top-ranking generals to protest the way she has been treated.”

  Dinkslager shrugged. “You are a pragmatist, Madame. Of this we have heard. Take her with you, then. I hold you responsible for her. But make her see sense. If she agrees to do a small favour for us, I will personally guarantee that she gets home to England.” He turned to Margot. “You may go, for the moment, but we will have another little chat in a day or so. Think about what I have proposed. But don’t think for too long. I cannot keep Varennes alive indefinitely. Nor can I keep you at liberty. Please do not think of doing anything foolish like trying to leave Paris. You will be watched. And thank Madame for intervening on your behalf.”

  Stiff from sitting for so long, Margot stood up and was ushered by her employer from the room. As she reached the door, Madame Armande turned to look back at the German officer and they exchanged a smile.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Nethercote, Elmsleigh, Kent

  May 1941

  Jeremy was sitting on a chaise in the conservatory, propped up on pillows, a white chenille rug over his knees. The conservatory was at the back of the house, a glass-domed addition to the morning room with white wicker furniture and tropical plants. There were orchids everywhere, and the sweet scent of jasmine hung in the air. The windows looked out on the lawn with the tennis court beyond it. White clouds moved across the sky, sending shadows over the manicured grass. An arched arbour was covered in early roses, and roses also climbed the brick wall that hid the kitchen garden. Jeremy turned at the sound of footsteps. His face lit up as they came toward him.

  “My God. My two favourite people. How splendid.”

  “You’re looking wonderful, Jeremy,” Pamela said. In truth he looked pale and awfully thin. He was wearing an open-necked white shirt or pyjama jacket. With his hollow cheeks and dark curls on that sea of whiteness, he looked as if he ought to be a Romantic poet—Lord Byron on his deathbed, perhaps. Pamela crossed the tiled floor to him.

  “I couldn’t believe it when they told me you’d come home. It’s like a miracle.”

  “Don’t go all dramatic on me, Pamma,” he said. “Come and give me kiss.”

  Ben hung back while she leaned over Jeremy and kissed his forehead.

  “I’d expect something less chaste than that,” Jeremy said, laughing. “But not with Ben watching. How are you, old man? It’s good to see you.”

  He held out his hand, and Ben shook it. Jeremy’s eyes shone with genuine warmth as he grasped his friend’s hand.

  “Welcome home, old chap,” Ben said. “And I must agree with Pamma. It’s a miracle that you’re here.”

  “Actually, it was quite miraculous, when you think of it,” Jeremy said. “I certainly beat all the odds.”

  “Do tell us all the details,” Pamma said. “I only know what I read in the newspaper.”

  “Not much more to tell, really.” Jeremy looked a trifle embarrassed. “We planned a breakout from the damned stalag. Someone must have ratted on us because they were waiting for us in the woods at the end of the tunnel. They opened fire and mowed us all down.”

  “Golly!” Pamela exchanged a look with Ben. “Were you shot, too?”

  “I was lucky. The shot went through my shoulder. I flung myself into the river and lay there as if I was dead. I let the current take me, then I hid under some rushes on the bank. I heard them go away, laughing. Then I swam and drifted for as long as I could. I found a piece of driftwood and let that carry me along for a while. Then my stream joined a river in an area where boats were moored. I managed to haul myself on board a low barge—one of a string of barges going upstream—in the dead of night. And can you believe my luck? It was carrying vegetables. I hid myself among the cabbages. It would have been brilliant, but the wound in my shoulder had become infected. I think I was half-delirious most of the time.”

  “You poor thing.” Pamela touched his shoulder gently.

  “It wasn’t too much fun, I can tell you. We went upstream for a couple of days, then I heard someone speaking French. I decided we were either in France or Belgium. Either way, it was better than Germany. So I made my exit in the middle of the night and struck out westward. Couple of narrow escapes, but eventually my luck held. I bumped into a chap who was with the Resistance. He sent out messages, and they got me across France to a waiting boat.”

  Jeremy looked from Pamela’s face to Ben’s.

  “Quite an adventure,” Ben said.

  “Not one I’d care to repeat,” Jeremy said. “But fear is a great motivator. I knew if they caught me, they’d shoot me.”

  “So what will you do now? Will you go back to flying?” Ben asked.

  “I’m being given a desk job until I’m deemed fit to fly again,” Jeremy said. “The bullet damaged the muscles in my right arm, and I’m a bag of skin and bones. I need building up first, but that will happen rapidly here. Mother is spoiling me, as you can imagine, and Mrs. Treadwell is a wonderful cook. My God. How I dreamed of meals like this when we got our slice of black bread and watery soup.”

  He stared past them, out of the windows. “I suppose I can’t be too impatient to get back to work. It will take a while. I can’t help thinking about those other fellows. The ones who broke out of the stalag with me. All mown down in a hail of bullets. And their families, wondering how they are doing. Not knowing they are dead.”

  He turned back with an attempt at a bright smile. “But here I am. Exactly where I dreamed of being. And look at you, Pamma. God, you’re lovelier than I remembered. More grown up.”

&nb
sp; “I am two years older,” Pamma said. “And I’ve had my twenty-first, so I am officially an adult now.”

  Ben shifted uneasily at the long glance that passed between them. “I should go and leave you two in peace,” he said.

  “Would you, old chap?” Jeremy said. “I’m dying to kiss her, you know.”

  “Of course,” Ben answered, trying to keep his voice light. “I’ll come and visit you again soon.”

  “Do. That would be splendid. I’m anxious to hear what you’ve been doing. Anxious to get back to normality. The last year has been like a bad dream, and now I’ve woken up.”

  “I’ve been doing nothing thrilling, I’m afraid,” Ben said. “Good to have you home again.”

  “Ben, you don’t have to . . .” Pamela called after him, but he was already heading back into the darkness of the room beyond. He let himself out.

  Jeremy looked at Pamma and eased over to make room next to himself on the chaise longue. “Come here, you delectable creature,” he said.

  “Which is your bad shoulder?” Pamela asked as she sat beside him. “I don’t want to risk hurting you.”

  “All patched up and healing nicely, thank you,” he said. “Here.” He slipped his arm around her neck and pulled her toward him. “God, I’ve dreamed of this moment,” he said. His kiss was hard and demanding, his lips crushing against hers so fiercely that she almost cried out in pain. His tongue thrust into her mouth, and his hand fumbled with the buttons of her blouse. One of them broke off with his persistent tugging and went bouncing across the tiled floor. His hand forced its way inside her blouse, his fingers worming inside her brassiere to cup her breast. As she felt his fingers on her warm flesh, seeking her nipple, she pulled her face away from him.