In Farleigh Field: A Novel of World War II

by Rhys Bowen

  “Jeremy, not here! Anyone can see us.” She laughed nervously. “I’m as anxious as you are to pick up where we left off, but . . .”

  He was still looking at her hungrily. “The only people who might see are working for my father, and they are paid well to keep their mouths shut.”

  She sat up. “I’m sorry. It’s a bit too much too soon, Jeremy. I’m so thrilled to see you again, but we had never gone this far before, had we? And it’s been so long . . .”

  “Dammit, Pamma,” he said. “I’m only human, you know. Do you know how many times I’ve dreamed of doing this, while I was in that wretched hellhole?”

  “I’m sorry. You caught me by surprise, that’s all.”

  “Have to learn to control myself, won’t I? Behave like the good chap again.” He gave her a wicked grin. “As soon as I’m not confined to this chair, I’m going to whisk you away. We’ll run off together.”

  “Elope, you mean? To Gretna Green?” Pamela asked, not quite sure whether to be excited or scared.

  Jeremy looked amused. “My dear sweet girl, you really still are a romantic innocent, aren’t you? Who can think of getting married with a war on? I want to whisk you up to a discreet hotel in London. I want to go to bed with you.”

  “Oh.” Pamela felt her cheeks burning.

  “As you just said, my darling. You are now an adult.” His eyes were teasing hers. “Or is there someone else I don’t know about? I’d understand if there was. I’ve been gone a long time, and I don’t suppose you even knew whether I was alive or dead.”

  “There’s nobody else, Jeremy,” she said. “There’s only you. There has only ever been you.”

  He looked pleased. “Well, that’s all right, then.”

  She took a deep breath before asking, “I gather my little sister has been coming to visit.”

  “She has. Entertaining little kid, isn’t she? Quite amusing.”

  Pamela felt a wave of relief.

  As Ben came out of the front door, a Rolls-Royce was pulling up. The driver’s door opened, and Sir William Prescott himself climbed out, brushing down his suit jacket in case it had picked up any creases during the drive. He always looked immaculate. Perfectly groomed, hair with the requisite amount of grey in it, Savile Row tailored suit. There had been a rumour at one time before the war started that he was considering running for Parliament. But the war had put a stop to such aspirations, if indeed they were any more than a rumour. He walked around the car and opened the passenger-side door.

  While Ben was considering that in the days before the war a footman would have come running out to do this, Lady Prescott emerged. She was always elegant, too, but in a country sort of way. Where Sir William’s image said clearly, city, high finance, banking, his wife’s spoke more of growing prize roses for the flower show, of church bazaars and charity events. It was she who noticed Ben first. Her face broke into a beautiful smile. “Ben, how absolutely lovely to see you. We didn’t know you were coming down. You’ve heard about Jeremy, then. Isn’t it splendid? There were times when I never thought I’d see him again. And then we got the telegram. Like a miracle.”

  Sir William extended his hand. “Good to see you, young Cresswell. How are you? Are they keeping you busy?”

  “Busy enough, sir. How are you?”

  “Up to our eyes, old boy,” he said. “Trying to put a deal with the Yanks in place. They might want to stay out of the war this time, but we need their help financially. Churchill’s the only one who can persuade them. If we don’t get their money, we’re sunk.”

  “The Americans are going to give us money?”

  Sir William gave a short, brittle laugh. “Lend, my boy. Lend. And at a pretty favourable rate to them, too. But we desperately need help. Money and equipment, all to be repaid if we ever win this damned war.”

  Lady Prescott was less interested in the American lease-lend deal. “You’ve been to see Jeremy, have you? He’s so painfully thin. I can’t imagine how he survived all those weeks, making his way through hostile territory. Sometimes not eating for days, he said. And with that horrible infected wound. How does he seem to you?”

  “Clearly on the mend,” Ben said, remembering the smouldering look he was giving Pamela. He was tempted not to mention her presence and thus let them be caught, but instead he cleared his throat. “Pamela is in with him now.”

  “Pamela? How lovely.” Lady Prescott beamed. “I expect her mother telephoned her with the news, and she came straight down. How is she doing? We’ve certainly missed her.”

  “Doing well,” Ben said. “Looks a little tired, but we’re all working too many hours with night shifts and fire-watching duty.”

  “Doing your bit. That’s what matters,” Sir William said heartily.

  “Are you here for long, Ben?” Lady Prescott asked.

  “Not sure. A week maybe?”

  “We must have you to dinner before you go back. It’s been too long since we’ve had a dinner party. I promised Lord Westerham’s lot, too. And your father, of course.”

  “You’re very kind.” Ben nodded solemnly. “I should be getting back.”

  “Good to see you, my boy,” Sir William reiterated and took his wife’s arm as they went into the house.

  Ben stomped home to the vicarage, fighting back his growing anger. He should never have gone in the first place. Jeremy and Pamela obviously hadn’t wanted him there, couldn’t wait to get rid of him. And to see the way they looked at each other. Ben blinked to shut out the memory.

  You’re a fool, he said to himself. If you’d wanted her, you should have made your move while he was missing and presumed dead. You could have comforted and reassured her, and she might have come to rely on you, and then maybe . . .

  He shut off this thought because he knew he would never have betrayed Jeremy. Pamela might have been the one he yearned for, but Jeremy was his friend. And now he supposed they’d marry and live happily ever after. He made the decision to put Pamela from his thoughts once and for all and to get on with his life.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  All Saints vicarage, Elmsleigh

  May 1941

  The Reverend Cresswell was sitting in his study, staring blankly out of the window where a blackbird was singing on the wicker fence. He was roused from his trance when Ben knocked politely and came into the room.

  “Sorry to disturb you, Father,” he said.

  “What’s that, my boy? Oh, not at all. Not at all. Trying to come up with a theme for Sunday’s sermon.” He sighed. “So difficult these days. You can’t preach hellfire anymore. They all know about hell only too well. So it has to be encouraging and uplifting. But how can you tell them that God is on our side when the Germans are told the same thing? I’m thinking Daniel in the lion’s den. Trusting God against all odds. What do you think?”

  Ben nodded. Since he’d gone off to Oxford, he had found it harder and harder to believe in his father’s version of God. Of course, he never told the old man, but since the accident and then the outbreak of war, he had begun to wonder whether God existed at all.

  “Do you still have an ordnance survey map of the area?”

  “Should have, somewhere. Try the second drawer in that bureau.” He watched as Ben opened the drawer and found it crammed full of papers. “Planning to do some walking along the footpaths while you’re here?”

  “I may.” Ben dumped the tangled mess of papers on the table. “Really, Father, these need sorting out. Do you want me to do it for you while I’m home?”

  “Thank you. I’d appreciate it,” Reverend Cresswell said. “I never seem to have the time to get around to it. Of course, Mrs. Finch would love to get her hands on my study, but it’s strictly out of bounds, except that I allow her to run the carpet sweeper over the floor. If I let her have her way, she’d have everything in the room stacked neatly and alphabetically, and I wouldn’t be able to find a thing.”

  Ben smiled. He put aside a pamphlet on preparing for confirmation, one for last y
ear’s church fete, a programme for Gilbert and Sullivan at the D’Oyly Carte, and sundry letters, before he unearthed a map of France, one of Switzerland, and then the one he wanted. “Ah, good. Here it is,” he said. “I’ll start sorting this stuff for you later, but I need to borrow this now, if you don’t mind.”

  “If you’re thinking of walking, check with me first. You may find some changes. New people have bought the old oast house beyond Broadbent’s farm. Arty types from London, one gathers. Needless to say, they haven’t been near the church.” He smiled. “But I hear that they’ve tried to block the footpath from going through their grounds. People have told them they can’t do it. Old right-of-way from the village to Hildenborough. But I don’t think it’s had much effect. And in wartime, nobody is going to bother with a court case.”

  “I’m not worried, Father,” Ben said. “Plenty of other places to walk. So have you met the new people yet?”

  “Can’t say I have. I gather they frequent the pub occasionally. Two men from London. One of them a well-known artist. Dr. Sinclair said he’d been for sherry with them, and the paintings were frightful. All red-and-black daubs, he said. One of them is Danish. Hansen. But he’s not the famous one. Some sort of Russian name. Stravinsky? Something like that.”

  While his father spoke, Ben spread out the map on a table. He took a ruler and rotated it in a five-mile radius. There was a broad area of flat land toward Tonbridge. Lots of fields to land in. So if the parachutist had really chosen Lord Westerham’s field, then, realistically, his contact had to be within walking distance. That meant the Farleigh estate, the village cottages, the bigger houses on the green: his father’s vicarage, Dr. Sinclair, Miss Hamilton’s, Colonel Huntley’s. A couple of farms came within this radius: Highcroft’s and Broadbent’s. And then Nethercote, the Prescotts’ estate, a half mile from the village. That was it.

  Ben sighed. He’d known the people in the village all his life, unless there were any recent arrivals apart from the oast-house men. And the colonel and Nethercote and Farleigh. They were all as true blue and English as you come. Nobody who would want to aid the Germans. He came to the conclusion that they had got it wrong. The man who fell was not a spy trying to pass a message to a contact. He had to be an accident: a man who fell from a plane by mistake, in the wrong place.

  But he’d been commissioned to investigate by a powerful and senior man. So he had to carry out the assignment and do it well. He folded up the map again. “I’ll keep this for the moment, if you don’t mind.”

  Reverend Cresswell looked up and nodded. “What? Oh no. By all means, keep it.” He looked at his son. “So why are you home?”

  “Why? Aren’t you glad to see me?”

  “Of course. But I just wondered whether that leg of yours was proving too much of a hindrance, and you weren’t really able to . . .”

  “You’re asking whether they kicked me out? From a desk job? In wartime?” Ben’s voice was sharp. “Really, Father. In spite of what anyone may think, I am not a poor cripple. I can walk perfectly well. Pamela and I walked from the station with suitcases. I just have a blasted knee that won’t bend, that’s all. So don’t sign me up as wicketkeeper if we have a village cricket match.”

  His father looked shocked at the outburst. “I’m sorry, Benjamin. I really didn’t mean to upset you. I just wondered when you arrived home out of the blue and one hears that nobody is getting any sort of leave these days.”

  Ben took a deep breath, his distaste of what he had to say already showing on his face. “As a matter of fact, I was told I had been overdoing it and needed a few days off. All those night shifts can take a toll, you know. And fire-watching duty when one isn’t working.”

  “You’re still in central London? Seen a lot of bombing?”

  “Quite a bit.”

  “You’re in one of the ministries, aren’t you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Interesting work?”

  Ben smiled now. “Father, there’s a war on. Even if I’m doing the most boring job in the world, I’m not allowed to tell you about it.”

  “I understand,” his father said. “Well, it’s good to have you home, my boy. Make the most of your time here. Enjoy Mrs. Finch’s cooking. Get some fresh air.”

  “I intend to. Thanks.”

  As he was about to walk from the room, his father said, “And Lady Pamela, what’s she doing home?”

  “Same as me, I should think,” he said. “Working too many long night shifts.”

  “They don’t expect girls to work all night, do they?”

  “Everybody has to work, all the time,” Ben said.

  “But, surely, they don’t need things like filing done at night? Where did you say she works?”

  “I didn’t. But it’s a government department, and they’ve been moved out of London.”

  “Bright girl, Lady Pamela. First-class brain,” Reverend Cresswell said. “She’d have done well at Oxford. I tried to tell her father, but he wouldn’t hear of it. In his mind, one marries off a daughter at the first opportunity and then is free of all obligations toward her. Positively medieval.”

  The word reminded Ben of his other sphere of inquiry. “That reminds me, Father. You’re a history buff. Fourteen sixty-one. What happened that year? Anything significant?”

  Reverend Cresswell stared past Ben out the window, where a large draught horse was pulling a cart full of manure. “Fourteen sixty-one, you say? Wars of the Roses, wasn’t it?”

  “Wars of the Roses?” Ben tried to remember the history lessons at Tonbridge School.

  There had been endless repetitions of dates and battles that he retained in his head until the exam was passed, then he happily forgot. “The House of Lancaster versus the House of York. And York won, eventually?”

  “Henry VI with his bouts of insanity was deposed by Edward IV in 1461, if I remember correctly. That’s right. There were two bloody battles, one on the Welsh border at Mortimer’s Cross and the other up in Yorkshire. Battle of Towton. One of the bloodiest battles ever. Scores of men killed, and Edward emerged victorious.”

  Ben was taking this information one step further. “And would you happen to know whether either was fought on terrain with a steep hillside behind it?”

  “I have no idea.” Reverend Cresswell sounded surprised. “I didn’t know you were interested in battles, at least not ancient ones.”

  “A question I was asked at work,” he said. “I get a lot of strange questions in the reference department.”

  “Well, the Welsh Marches are quite hilly, aren’t they? And Yorkshire? You have the Dales and the Moors, but both are more gentle slopes if I recall correctly from rambling up there in my student days.”

  “Thank you.” Ben smiled at his father. “You’ve been very helpful. It’s good to have a father who is a fount of knowledge.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” The vicar coughed in an embarrassed sort of way. “I’ve always enjoyed history, as you know. And I like to read. Not much for the wireless, and the winter evenings can seem very long and lonely. So one reads.”

  Ben looked at his father with compassion. All those years alone since his mother died, and yet he had happily sent his son off to boarding school, knowing it would be the right thing to do if his son wanted to get ahead.

  “You don’t happen to have an ordnance survey map of the whole of Britain, do you?” he asked.

  “I’m afraid not. I expect they have one in the library in Sevenoaks or Tonbridge.” He looked at Ben with interest. “I’m glad you’re keen on taking exercise. Build up the muscles. That’s the ticket.”

  “Actually, I was thinking more of those battles. Mortimer’s Cross. Towton.”

  “I’m surprised that ancient battles are of interest in the middle of a modern war,” Reverend Cresswell said, “but I expect you have your reasons. Good to have something to work on and keep the mind busy. And I should be getting back to my sermon.”

  He turned back to his open B
ible.

  Ben took the map and went through to the drawing room. He spread the map on a low table and looked at it again. Then he opened the little notebook he carried in his breast pocket and took out his fountain pen. Oast-house people? He wrote. Check village for newcomers. Then map for Mortimer’s Cross and Towton. Although how two ancient battles could possibly be connected to a modern war, he found hard to imagine. Maybe something else happened in 1461—a smaller battle, a critical turning of the tide in the Wars of the Roses. He’d need to go to the library or to his old school in Tonbridge and see if they had any books on the subject. He realised he was rather looking forward to the research aspect. Rather like a puzzle.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Farleigh Place, Kent

  May 1941

  The Rolls-Royce crunched over the gravel drive as it approached Farleigh Place. Pamela was glad she had accepted Sir William’s offer to run her home. She realised she was out of practice for the long walks that country living entailed. Also, she had to admit that she was glad when Jeremy’s parents came in to interrupt them. His sudden fierce passion had alarmed her. She certainly could understand it, after being locked up all that time, but she had found his advances overwhelming. She was not completely naïve. She had repelled young men’s advances at debutante balls. She’d had to fight off a couple in taxis. But she had always been conscious that she was waiting for Jeremy—saving herself for him. Now his frank admission that he wanted to take her to bed had unsettled her. Of course, she wanted him to make love to her. But her fantasy had always pictured the long white dress, the flowing veil, and then the honeymoon at a lovely villa in Italy, where he’d take her into his arms and whisper, “Alone at last, my darling.”