by Rhys Bowen
“How did you get here?” Sir William had asked when they pulled out of Nethercote’s driveway onto the country lane.
“I walked with Ben,” she said. “Can you believe it? We came down from London on the same train. Pure coincidence.”
“Good chap, young Cresswell,” Sir William said. “I can’t help feeling a bit sorry for him. Stuck being a pen-pusher and missing all the fun.”
“Do you really think it is fun?” Pamela asked. “For those who are actually fighting?”
“At least they know they are doing something worthwhile. Defending their country. What could be more valuable than that? A chance to prove you’ve got what it takes. And my son robbed him of that chance. Showing off as usual. Taking risks. It’s in his nature, I’m afraid. Let’s hope this latest escapade has knocked some sense into him.”
They had reached the tall brick wall that enclosed the Farleigh estate; they turned in at the gateway between the stone pillars topped with lions. Pamela looked out the window at the dear, familiar surroundings. The chestnuts were in full flower with their white candles. The flower beds had been allowed to run wild, however. The lawns were certainly not as well manicured as at Nethercote. She leaned forward in her seat, anxious to get her first glimpse of the house. But as they approached, they were met by a procession of army lorries driving toward them, the convoy cutting off her view of Farleigh and reminding her abruptly that it didn’t really belong to the Sutton family at the moment.
“I hope these blighters aren’t messing up the place too badly,” Sir William said, as the first of the lorries passed them.
“Pah hasn’t complained, so I suppose it must be all right so far.”
“One hears horror stories,” Sir William said. “Using the ancestors’ portraits for target practice, peeing on the tapestries—wanton vandalism, you know.”
“Golly, I hope not,” Pamma said. “Pah would kill anyone with his bare hands who damaged anything at Farleigh. But, luckily, all the good stuff was packed away when we heard that the West Kents were coming.”
The forecourt was filled with lines of army vehicles, and Sir William had to manoeuvre around them. “I can’t get close to the front door, I’m afraid,” he said.
“Oh, please, just drop me off here. I can walk,” she said.
Sir William stopped the car beside the lake. “You’ll be all right, then?”
“Absolutely. Thank you for the ride. I really appreciate it. I’ll have to dig out my old bicycle if I want to get around. I’m sure there’s no petrol for the motorcar.”
“Only for people like myself.” Sir William gave a self-satisfied smile.
He got out and came around to open Pamela’s door for her. “I’m glad you’re here, my dear,” he said. “If anyone can speed up Jeremy’s road to recovery, it’s you. He carried a picture of you all the time in that prison camp, you know. He was so upset when he lost it somewhere in that river during the escape.”
Pamela nodded, not knowing what to say.
“Between you and me,” he said in a low voice, “his mother is rather hoping that they won’t let him fly again. Of course, he’s dying to get back to it, but you know Jeremy. He’ll be chasing Messerschmitts and Junkers into Germany the moment he’s back in that bally plane.”
Pamela had to smile. “I expect so. He does love it.”
“He likes living on the edge. Always has.” He took Pamela’s hand. “Come and see us often while you’re home, won’t you?”
“Of course. Thank you again for the ride.”
He released her hand, and she hurried up the front steps and into the house.
She heard voices from what had been the morning room but had now become the drawing room. It faced the front of the house and had a good view over the lake and the drive. She entered to find the whole family at tea. They were seated in a semicircle, and the low table now held a tea tray with a silver service on it, a plate of small sandwiches, a plate of biscuits, a hunk of fruitcake, and some other type of food hidden under a silver dome. Livvy held her baby, bouncing him on her knee while the nanny hovered nervously in the doorway. The two dogs lay sprawled at Lord Westerham’s feet. Missie, always alert, pricked up her ears when she heard Pamela’s footsteps, then stood up, her tail wagging.
“Pamma’s here!” Phoebe noticed her first and gave her sister a beaming smile that warmed Pamela’s heart.
“Hello, my dear. Welcome home.” Lord Westerham also beamed at the sight of his daughter, holding out his hands to her.
Pamela went over and kissed his cheek. “Hello, Pah.” She looked around the assembly. “Hello, Feebs. Mah. Livvy. I’ve already said hello to you, Dido.”
“And greeted me so warmly, if I remember correctly,” Diana said. She was wearing trousers again, royal blue this time, and a white cotton blouse knotted at the waist, looking like a rather sophisticated land girl.
“I’m sorry. It’s just that I was surprised to see you at Jeremy’s house. I didn’t realise you even knew Jeremy.”
“I was doing the charitable thing and visiting a neighbour in distress,” Diana said with a smirk.
“He’s very grateful. He said what a nice kid you were,” Pamela said sweetly.
She went over to the low table and poured herself a cup of tea.
“Pamma, guess what, there are crumpets,” Phoebe said. “Mrs. Mortlock is an absolute angel.”
Pamela smiled at her sister. Phoebe had grown a lot since she’d seen her last. She was clearly at that awkward stage, poised between childhood and womanhood, but Pamela could see that she might well turn out to be a beauty. And her face was alight with refreshing enthusiasm. Pamela turned her gaze to the plate on which now only one crumpet reposed.
“It’s not exactly the same with margarine on it,” Lady Esme said, “but luckily, Mrs. Mortlock had the pantry stocked with a good supply of jam before sugar was rationed. If we use it sparingly, it may last us for another year, and by then let us hope that the war is over.”
“Gumbie says she hopes the war won’t be over soon,” Phoebe chimed in.
“What?” Lord Westerham sat up in his armchair. “Don’t tell me you hired a governess who is a Nazi, Esme.”
“A Nazi?” Lady Westerham looked puzzled. “Oh no, dear. I’m sure she’s not. She comes from Cheltenham.”
“No, Pah,” Phoebe said. “What she meant was that if the war ended soon, it would mean Germany had won. She said it would take a long time if we were going to beat Germany and drive them out of Europe.”
“That’s so true,” Pamela said. “This crumpet is marvellous, isn’t it? You should see the great doorstops of bread and margarine I have to face at my digs. My landlady really is the most awful cook.”
“I must say our cook is managing pretty well, considering,” Lord Westerham commented, helping himself to a biscuit. “Haven’t had a decent joint of beef for ages, of course. But one can’t expect prewar meals. So how are you, Pamela? How’s the job going?”
“I’m well, thank you, Pah. The job is tiring. Long hours. Night shifts. But at least I feel that I’m doing something. And it’s quite jolly on our days off—sports and concerts and various clubs.”
“So what exactly are you doing, Pamma?” Diana asked. “Can’t you get me a job there?”
“Just secretarial work—filing, that kind of thing. And no, I’m sure Pah wouldn’t want you living in digs so far from home.”
“Quite right,” Lord Westerham said. “I’ve made it quite clear to you, Dido, that you’re not old enough to move away from home.”
“There are plenty of boys who join the army at eighteen,” Diana said. “And plenty of eighteen-year-olds who were killed in the Great War.”
“Which I think proves my point,” Lord Westerham said, wagging a finger at her. “Do you think I want my young daughter going into danger? I want to protect you. I want to protect my family.”
“You haven’t said hello to little Charles yet,” Livvy said in a peeved voice. “He can pull hi
mself up to standing now, and I’m sure he actually said ‘DaDa’ the other day. You heard him, didn’t you, Mah?”
“He certainly made some kind of sound,” Lady Esme said. Pamela was amused to notice that she still wore what would have been a tea dress before the war, pastel chiffon with a handkerchief hemline. “Whether he knew what he was saying is another matter.”
“I’m sure he did. He misses Teddy terribly. So do I. I haven’t heard a thing for weeks. I do hope he’s all right.”
“But isn’t he in the Bahamas with the Duke of Windsor?” Pamela asked.
“Yes, but there are German submarines. And plots, you know. Spies and assassins.”
“Speaking of which, we had a bit of excitement here the other day,” Lord Westerham said. “Damned chap fell into one of our fields.”
“Fell?” Pamela asked.
“Parachute didn’t open. Must have fallen from a plane.”
“Golly,” Pamela said. “How awful.”
“And you’ll never guess, Pamma,” Phoebe said proudly. “I found him. Or at least the evacuated boy who lives with the gamekeeper and I found him. He was all smashed up and bloody. Quite revolting.”
“How horrid, Feebs.” Pamela turned back to her father. “Did you find out who he was?”
“No, but there was definitely something fishy about the chap. We thought he was one of the local West Kents, but the colonel says he wasn’t. Which makes one wonder who the hell he was. Some bloody German spy, I shouldn’t wonder. Still, nobody has bothered to come down here to find out.”
“Don’t swear in front of the children, Roddy,” Lady Esme said.
“They are no longer children, and if hearing the word ‘bloody’ is the worst thing that happens to them, then they can bloody well consider themselves lucky.”
Phoebe giggled. Pamela exchanged a grin with Livvy. But secretly she was already thinking about the German spy. She knew from conversations in her hut that Germans were sending out coded messages to Britain, presumably to sympathisers or to spies who had been planted in the communities. But it seemed almost impossible to believe that any spy would find it worthwhile to be operating in this bucolic area of north Kent, far from towns and factories and anything worth bombing.
Phoebe watched Pamela with interest. Her brain was racing, and excitement was brimming up inside her. She wriggled on her seat. She couldn’t wait for tea to be over.
Lord Westerham noticed. “What’s the matter with you, child?” he demanded. “Got ants in your pants?”
“No, Pah. But I’ve finished, and I have things I need to do.”
“You don’t want any cake? That’s not like you,” Lord Westerham said.
“I’m full of crumpet,” Phoebe said, making Diana snicker. “So may I please be excused?”
“I don’t see why not,” Lord Westerham said. “As long as what you have planned isn’t illegal, immoral, or just bloody stupid.”
“Oh no, Pah,” Phoebe said innocently. “I’m going out into the fresh air. It’s such a lovely day, isn’t it? I’ll take the dogs if you like.”
“Good idea, but don’t let them annoy those army chappies,” Lord Westerham said. “I had a complaint last week that the dogs had messed up one of their drills by running in and out when they were marching.”
“I’ll not go near any drills,” Phoebe said.
“But no riding on your own, understand!” He wagged a finger at her. “I’ve heard about you sneaking Snowball out without telling anyone.”
“I’m not riding, Pah.” She opened the door. “Come on, dogs. Let’s go. Walkies.”
Both dogs needed no urging and rushed after her, their long, silky tails streaming out behind them.
Phoebe took them out through the French doors in the new dining room, rather than risk upsetting the soldiers in the main entrance hall. The dogs rushed ahead of her across the gravel, barking at a pair of ducks that had just waddled out of the lake. The ducks took off with a great flapping of wings, and the dogs waited, tongues lolling, for Phoebe to catch up with them. They skirted the lake, crossed the lawn, and entered the first stand of trees. Beyond was the far field where the body had lain. Phoebe glanced nervously, wondering if she could still see the blood on the grass. It had rained once at night, and that should have washed it nicely away.
On the other side of the trees, she picked up the bridle path that wound through the woodland. Among the trees she caught a glimpse of the fallow deer. The dogs pricked up their ears again, looking at her expectantly.
“No,” she said firmly. “Your master wouldn’t want you to go chasing deer.”
Beyond the wood rose the wall that circled the estate, and nestled against it was a small brick cottage. Phoebe knocked at the door, and it was opened by a woman in a flowery apron. She reacted in surprise when she saw Lady Phoebe.
“Hello, Mrs. Robbins,” Phoebe said brightly.
“Why, your ladyship. What a surprise. I’m afraid Mr. Robbins isn’t here at the moment.”
“It’s not Mr. Robbins I want to see. It’s your boy, Alfie. Is he at home?”
“He is, your ladyship. He’s just home from school, and I’ve just given him his tea, as a matter of fact. If you’d care to come inside . . .” She opened the door wider.
“Sit,” Phoebe said, pointing sternly at the dogs. “Stay.”
She stepped into the cottage. The kitchen was off a tiny front hall. It faced the estate wall and was quite dark, but copper pots gleamed over an old-fashioned stove, and it smelled of newly baked bread. Phoebe could see the loaf in the middle of the table. Alfie was sitting there, a slice of bread, laden with jam, up at his mouth. When he saw Phoebe, he lowered the bread but traces of the jam painted a smile across his cheeks. He wiped at the jam with his finger.
“Hello, Alfie,” Phoebe said.
“Hello.” He looked uncomfortable.
“I came to see you,” Phoebe said. “I’ve something I wanted to tell you.”
“Would your ladyship like a cup of tea, too?” Mrs. Robbins asked. “And maybe a slice of bread? It’s fresh from the oven.”
In spite of the two crumpets, several sandwiches, and a cookie, Phoebe couldn’t resist. “That would be lovely, thank you,” she said and pulled out a chair beside Alfie.
Mrs. Robbins cut a slice, holding up the loaf and cutting toward her stomach. Phoebe half expected her to slice into her ample body, but she put an evenly cut slice on a plate and handed it to Phoebe. Then she handed Phoebe a butter dish. Phoebe tasted it and exclaimed, “This is butter.”
“Well, of course it is.” Mrs. Robbins laughed. “Mr. Robbins can’t abide that margarine stuff, so I do a little deal with the farmer’s wife at Highcroft. Only don’t you go mentioning it to anyone, will you?”
“Of course not.” Phoebe spread butter on the bread, then strawberry jam.
“You’re very lucky to be getting such good food,” she said to Alfie.
“I know. It’s smashing, isn’t it?” he agreed. “What did you want to see me for?”
“I’ll tell you in a minute,” she said, looking up as Mrs. Robbins put a big ceramic teacup beside her. She had already added the milk and sugar, and the tea looked incredibly strong.
“I’ll leave you two young people to get on with it, then, shall I?” Mrs. Robbins said. “Just holler if you need anything. I’ll be out back, stringing up the runner beans.”
Alfie looked at Phoebe expectantly.
“I’ve just learned something interesting,” she said, her voice just louder than a whisper, in case Mrs. Robbins was still listening.
“About our body?”
“That’s right. My father says there was something wrong with his uniform. He thinks he might be a spy.”
“That’s what they’re saying in the village,” Alfie said, pleased that he had heard the information first. “Everyone’s been talking about it at school. Even the big boys are jealous that I found the bloke.”
“Do they have any ideas in the village what this
spy might have been doing? Presumably, he was sent to make contact with someone around here, don’t you think?”
Alfie shook his head. “They say Jerry is dropping parachutists all over the place.”
“Well, I think he was supposed to meet somebody,” Phoebe said. “So I think it’s up to us. We have to find out what he was doing here.”
“Blimey!” Alfie said. “You and me? Looking for possible spies?”
“Why not? Nobody would ever suspect two children, would they? What time do you get out of school?”
“Four o’clock,” he said.
“Then let’s meet tomorrow, and we’ll make a list of possible suspects,” she said.
“I’m not coming up to the big house.”
“Of course not. I wouldn’t want my family snooping into what I’m doing. I’ll meet you in the village. By the war memorial on the green.” She grinned at him. “This is going to be fun. We’ll actually be doing something useful.”
They both looked up as the dogs started barking, and then they heard the pop-popping sound of an approaching motorbike.
“I wonder who that could be?” Phoebe said. She went to the window and saw a young man in uniform get off a bike and approach Mrs. Robbins while the dogs jumped up, half greeting, half warning. Phoebe went out and called them to her, reprimanding them. The motorcyclist handed Mrs. Robbins something, then rode away. Phoebe waited a long while as Mrs. Robbins stood still, staring down at the piece of paper in her hands. At last, Phoebe could stand it no longer.
“Is something wrong, Mrs. Robbins?” she asked.
The woman looked up with a stricken expression on her face. “It’s our George. The telegram says his ship was torpedoed, and he’s missing, presumed dead.” She looked around her, bewildered. “I’ve got to find my husband. He’ll need to know.”
“I’ll go and find him, Mrs. Robbins,” Alfie said. “Don’t you worry.” And he ran off, leaving Phoebe standing beside the gamekeeper’s wife.
She turned to Phoebe. “I shouldn’t be surprised if this news doesn’t kill him. Thought the world of that boy, he did. Thought the sun shone out of his head. Nothing was too good for our George. And he didn’t want him to go and volunteer. He didn’t have to. He was in a reserved occupation. But the stupid boy wanted to do his bit, said he wanted to join the navy and see something of the world.” She was crying now, fat tears trickling down her cheeks. “And he were only eighteen.” Then she seemed to realise she was speaking to Lady Phoebe. “I’m sorry, your ladyship. I’d no right to . . .”