by Rhys Bowen
After breakfast he took out the bicycle. It was a brisk, windy day with the promise of rain. He went back inside again to look for his windcheater.
“I’m going for a bike ride,” he said to his father.
The vicar looked at him critically. “Don’t take this fitness thing too far, Benjamin. You’ve nothing to prove. You’ve made a remarkable recovery from your accident.”
Ben swallowed back annoyance. “I’d hardly call pedalling around the village taking fitness too far. I thought I’d go by the old oast house and see if the artists who live there now will let me see their work.”
“Good luck.” The vicar smiled. “From what I’ve heard, I wouldn’t say putting out the welcome mat was one of their virtues. In fact, they threatened to shoot someone who was using the public footpath. We had to get the local bobby to talk to them and explain about rights-of-way.”
“Then it might prove to be an interesting encounter,” Ben said and headed for the front door.
Half a mile out of the village, he rather regretted his bravado. The wind was coming up from the Thames Estuary, hitting him full in the side and threatening to topple him around each bend. It was fine when the lane dipped between high hedges, but when it skirted the open barley field, it was brutal. Still he was not about to get off and walk. He went first to Broadbent’s farm. Old Mr. Broadbent was mucking out a pigsty when Ben cycled up, with a yapping dog on either side of him.
“Well, if it isn’t young Ben,” he said, wiping down his hands as he came toward the bike. He invited Ben in for a cup of tea, and they talked about the shortage of farmworkers and how the land girls had taken over from the young men.
“Good hard workers, some of them,” Mr. Broadbent said. “Others are hopeless. Worry more about their hair and makeup than getting the job done. I’ve caught a couple going behind the haystack for a smoke. The haystack, mind you! I told them if that went up, my beasts would have no fodder for the winter, and we’d all starve.” He shook his head. “Don’t have much of a clue. City girls.”
Ben hadn’t considered that the contact for the fallen parachutist might be a woman.
“Any of them foreign?” he asked.
“There’s Trudi from Austria. She’s one of my good hard workers. Comes from a farm at home. I put her in charge of the hopeless ones, and she keeps ’em on their toes.”
Ben brought the fallen man into the conversation, but the farmer had only vaguely heard of him and didn’t seem interested. “I suppose you’re bound to get some accidents in wars, aren’t you?” he said and offered Ben a slice of pork pie.
On his way out, Ben stopped to chat with some of the girls and learned that Trudi was not well liked. She made the girls work too hard, and what’s more, she was dating one of the soldiers stationed at Farleigh. A good-looking bloke, too. She slipped out at night to see him. They seemed delighted to tattle on her. Ben rode off again, his stomach full, and only an Austrian named Trudi to add to his list. Trudi, who was conveniently dating one of the soldiers. He went on to the infamous oast house, wondering how he could approach the two hostile owners who had shot at trespassers. They were both artists, he knew that much. It would be time to channel Guy Harcourt, who roomed next door to him. Guy was very keen on modern art and design and had tried, unsuccessfully, to convert Ben to his tastes. But today his small amount of knowledge might come in useful.
The oast house still lay between tall rows of hops, but there was now a picket fence and a gate separating the hop fields from a front garden full of roses. A rose bower curved over the front door. Ben had to admit that it created a lovely picture of rural serenity, except for the sign on the gate saying “Keep Out: No Soliciting.”
Ben opened the gate cautiously and wheeled his bike up to the front door. There was a brass knocker with what looked like a demon’s face on it; Ben hesitated before he knocked. The door was opened by a chubby man dressed all in black—a black fisherman’s jersey, in spite of the warm weather, and baggy black trousers. He had a podgy face, a stack of straw-coloured hair, and a black cigarette hanging from one corner of his mouth. Ben took in the smell of foreign tobacco.
“Well, what do want? If you think we’re donating to any metal or paper drive, you can think again.” He had a slight foreign accent that Ben could not identify.
“Actually, I’m the vicar’s son—” Ben said, but the man cut him off.
“And you’re not getting us to church, either. We don’t believe in that nonsense.”
“I’m not here to convert, either,” Ben said. “Someone said you were artists, and I’m an admirer of modern art myself, so I wondered . . .”
“You’re an aficionado yourself? Whose work do you admire?”
Ben racked his brains for artists that Guy had talked about. He had dragged him to galleries when there were still such things. “Well, I admire Karl Schmidt-Rottluff and, of course, Paul Klee, although it’s probably not permitted to admire a German artist anymore.”
“Then you’d better come in,” the man said. “Serge’s work has been compared to Schmidt-Rottluff’s.” He went ahead of Ben. “Oh, Serge. Come out, wherever you are. We have a civilised visitor at last,” he called in fluted tones.
Another man came out of a back room. He was tall, dark, and lean, with sharp features, and was wearing a paint-spattered smock.
“Serge, this young man is an admirer of Schmidt-Rottluff’s. I told him your work has been compared to his.”
“Really?” He was looking at Ben sceptically. “You admire the German expressionists?”
“Oh, definitely,” Ben said, hoping the discussion did not get too deep. He looked around the room. On the walls were several awful paintings—bright daubs of primary colours and distorted figures. Ben thought that Guy might actually like them. Ben said, “Your work, Serge?”
The dark man nodded. “You approve?”
“Powerful.”
The man nodded again. “You are most kind.”
Ben’s gaze lingered on an elongated purple woman. He was sure that he’d seen the picture before—hadn’t Guy pinned up a postcard of it?
“Have you exhibited much in galleries?” he asked.
“A little.” Serge shrugged.
“You are from Russia?” Ben asked. The accent was still strong.
“I am. I came here when I was no longer allowed to paint anything other than healthy peasant women operating harvesting machines. There is no art in Russia anymore.”
“Did you also come here when you could no longer practise your art?” Ben asked the other man.
He smiled. “I am from Denmark, my dear, where usually anything goes. But I got out in a hurry when the Germans were about to invade. And thank my lucky stars that I did so. I would not have made a good Nazi. I don’t salute well, for one thing. And I’m hopeless at taking orders.” He grinned. “You are the first halfway civilised person we’ve met since we moved here. Most of them are philistines, aren’t they, Serge?”
Serge nodded. “Philistines.” He frowned at Ben. “So what are you doing in these parts?”
“My father is the local vicar. I’m here on a few days’ leave.”
“A soldier? A sailor?”
“Civilian, I’m afraid. I was in a plane crash.”
“Don’t apologise. Be grateful that you’re not part of the carnage. We’re certainly grateful that they are not yet calling up men over forty, aren’t we, Hansi?”
The chubby man nodded. “Would you like to try our homemade parsnip wine? It packs quite a kick, I’ll warn you.”
Ben nodded and was handed a glass. Ben took a sip, gasped as the liquid burned his throat, then asked, “So did you come here from London?”
They both nodded. “We lived in Chelsea, naturally,” the chubby Hansi said. “Then a house three doors away was bombed, and we said that’s too close for comfort and fled here. We were taken with the building immediately. It has character, don’t you think?”
“Definitely,” Ben said, “although I
still remember when the hops were hung to dry in the tower. Are you also a painter?”
“Sculptor,” Hansi said. “I work with metal. Or rather I worked with metal when there was any. I used to make great outdoor pieces. Now, of course, every piece of scrap metal goes toward building another bomb or plane. So I am reluctantly switching to clay, of which there is no shortage.”
Ben looked from one to the other. The saturnine Serge from Russia—Ben could picture him working with the Nazis. But the affable Hansi? And yet he worked with metal. He would have any tools that a visiting German paratrooper would need.
When he left them, half an hour later, they parted on the friendliest of terms with an open invitation for Ben to visit them whenever he was back in the area. He rode away, wobbling a little along the path, as the wind had become even stronger, and he was feeling the effects of the potent parsnip wine.
As he bicycled wearily home, he realised that he was none the wiser. The two artists seemed to have fled to England to escape from tyranny and only wanted peace and quiet to create their art. And yet, they had chosen a remote location, and Hansi wouldn’t be the first German to claim he was Danish. The local farmers were solid local men he had known all his life. Their land girls beyond reproach, except for an Austrian called Trudi who was dating a soldier. But the dead man had landed in Lord Westerham’s field, presumably for a good reason. Ben hoped the dinner party might give him some sort of clue.
CHAPTER TWENTY
At Nethercote
The dinner party
Ben was glad for long summer evenings as he and his father walked up the drive to Nethercote, the Prescotts’ residence. He was also glad the driveway was straight. It wouldn’t be so easy to walk back in the dark with just a flashlight covered in black cloth to guide their steps. No light was permitted to shine out from the windows of any house, and the whole way home would be in total darkness. Ben tried to remember if there would be a moon. He turned to ask his father.
“In its third quarter, so it won’t be any use to us, unless we stay very late, which we won’t,” Reverend Cresswell said. “I have to admit I am looking forward to the food, but I’m beginning to find the prospect of the evening a little daunting. Still, if it’s just us and the Sutton family, then it won’t be too bad, will it? Just like old times.”
Ben nodded. Just like old times, he thought. They pushed open the tall wrought-iron gates that hadn’t yet been commandeered for scrap metal, and their feet crunched over the raked gravel as they walked up the path. He was marvelling at the beautifully kept state of the grounds when his father said, “I see they haven’t tried to convert their lawns to potato patches. The place looks positively sinful. They must still have gardeners.”
“They do,” Ben said. “I saw them working when I came here with Pamela the other day.”
“You came here with Pamela?”
Ben nodded. “She was worried about seeing Jeremy by herself. I think she was frightened he’d be disfigured or something. But he seemed his old self, apart from having lost a lot of weight and being rather pale.”
“That young man must have been a cat in a previous existence,” his father said. “He’s certainly used most of nine lives.”
Ben nodded again.
“And no doubt he’ll be back tempting fate in a fighter plane again as soon as they’ll let him.”
“No doubt.” Ben agreed.
They had just reached the front door when there was the sound of a motor engine behind them, and Lord Westerham’s ancient Rolls came up the driveway. Lord Westerham himself, not a chauffeur, got out of the driver’s seat and went around to open the passenger doors. His wife and daughters emerged one by one, smoothing out crumpled evening dresses. Ben watched Pamela step down daintily. She was wearing a pale-blue Grecian gown, the perfect shade for her ash-blonde hair and English complexion.
“Good evening, Vicar. How very nice to see you, Ben,” Lady Esme called. “Lovely evening, isn’t it? The weather has been so perfect lately, almost as if it’s mocking us, don’t you think?”
Ben’s father gave a nodding bow. “Good evening, Lady Westerham. Yes, we are having a spell of glorious weather. So essential for the crops.”
“Too bad we had a full motorcar, or we could have given you a lift,” Lord Westerham said.
“At the speed you drive, they could have walked here faster, Pah,” Dido retorted, as she emerged last from the Rolls in pale pink, making her look young and vulnerable. Ben realised that none of the girls would have had new dresses since the war started and clothing was rationed. Diana’s was probably a hand-me-down from Pamela’s season.
Pamela gave Ben a big smile as the girls followed their parents up the front steps. Ben and his father fell into line behind them after the door was opened by a maid, then they were ushered through to an elegant drawing room. Ben noticed that there were already several people in the room at the same time as Lord Westerham muttered to his wife, “I thought you said it was a small dinner party. This is a bloody great bean feast. I wish we’d never come.”
Lady Westerham took his arm and dragged him firmly forward so that he had no chance to escape before Sir William and Lady Prescott came forward to greet them. Lady Prescott was in gold lamé, Sir William immaculate in tails.
“How good of you to come.” She held out her hands to Lady Esme.
“It was good of you to invite us.” Lady Esme allowed the other to hold her hands. “I can’t tell you how long it’s been since we’ve been invited out for a meal. I feel as if I’m escaping from the cage.”
“We simply had to celebrate Jeremy’s escape and safe arrival, didn’t we? I still think it’s an absolute miracle.” She extended an arm to the other occupants of the room. “I’m not sure if you’ve met everybody,” she said. “Obviously, you know Colonel and Mrs. Huntley. And Miss Hamilton. And I’m sure you must be well acquainted with Colonel Pritchard, since he now lives under your roof.”
“Of course.” There were polite noddings and how-do-you-dos from the newcomers to those mentioned. “But are you already acquainted with Lord and Lady Musgrove? Lord Musgrove has just inherited Highcroft Hall.”
Ben took in the young, stylishly dressed couple. He tried to place Highcroft Hall.
“Is that so?” Lord Westerham, turned to his wife for confirmation. “We heard old Lord Musgrove had died some time ago, didn’t we, Esme?”
“We did. We’re so glad the place is to be occupied again.”
The young man gave a glance at his wife before he smiled and held out his hand to Lord Westerham. “How do you do? Frederick Musgrove and my wife, Cecile. We were living in Canada, so it took some time to track us down. I can tell you it was quite a shock when a solicitor’s letter arrived telling me I’d inherited Highcroft and the title. Absolutely knocked me off my feet. As a son of a younger son, I never expected to inherit anything, which is why I went to Canada. But the Great War killed off the other heirs, so here I am.” He gave a boyish grin. “I’ve been earning my living by the sweat of my brow like everyone else.”
“Hardly the sweat of your brow, Freddie,” his wife said. She grinned and looked across at the company. “He’s been working in a bank in Toronto.”
“A bank? Really? How fascinating,” Lord Westerham said and received a dig in the side from his wife.
“So let me complete the introductions,” Lady Prescott went on. “These are our neighbours Lord and Lady Westerham and their daughters Olivia, Pamela, and Diana, and this is our beloved local rector, Reverend Cresswell, and his son, Ben. Ben has been our son’s dearest friend since they could toddle. And speaking of our son, where can he have got to?” She looked up and a beaming smile spread across her face. “Ah, here he is, the miracle man himself.”
There was a round of applause. Jeremy, looking even thinner and paler against the black of a dinner jacket, stood in the doorway and gave a sheepish grin as his mother rushed over to grab his arm and drag him toward the assembled guests. “Isn’t he wonderful?”
Lady Prescott said. “I can’t tell you what it means to have him back with us. Against all odds.”
“Mother, please.” Jeremy gave an embarrassed smile.
“Dashed brave of you, young fellow,” Colonel Huntley said. “Took a lot of guts to do what you did. Just shows that we British have stronger fibre than the Hun. You can’t see a German doing what you did. They’d be waiting to obey orders.”
“Not quite true, Colonel,” Jeremy said. “There are some really terrific German fighter pilots. It’s a privilege to engage in combat with them.”
“Enough talk of war,” Sir William interrupted. “Let’s get down to more practical matters. What are we all drinking? Scotch for you, old chap?” he asked Lord Westerham. “Do you care for a single malt?”
“I wouldn’t say no,” Lord Westerham said. “Damned good of you, Prescott. I haven’t had a decent whisky in ages.”
Sir William snapped a finger to a footman standing at a drinks’ table. “And you lovely ladies? A cocktail maybe? Or would you prefer a sherry?”
“Oh, I don’t think I know much about cocktails,” Lady Esme said, looking rather pink. “Perhaps I’d better stick to a sherry.”
“Well, I’d like a sidecar, if you’re offering,” Dido said. “Wouldn’t you, Pamma?”
Pamela hesitated, feeling Jeremy’s eyes on her, and then she said, “Why not? That would be lovely.”
As the footman served drinks, Jeremy came over to Pamela who was now standing with Ben.
“I see you’re up and walking,” she said.
“Yes, doing rather well, actually,” he said. “I’m hoping the quack will certify me ready to go back to work.”
“Surely not?” Pamela shot Ben an alarmed look.
“Well, they won’t let me fly for a while, but at least I can be useful in a desk job like old Ben here. They’ve told me they can use me at the air ministry, and father says I can stay at the London flat.”
“You still have a flat in London?” Ben asked.
“Yes, my father keeps a place just off Curzon Street. He used to stay up there during the week when he was working in the city more than he does now. Jolly convenient. You must all come and visit me.” He looked from Ben to Dido, but his gaze lingered with Pamela. “I know. When I’m settled in, we’ll have a party. How about it?”