by Rhys Bowen
“A party, in London?” Dido’s face was alight with excitement.
“Don’t get your hopes up,” Pamela said in a low voice. “I’m sure Pah wouldn’t let you go.”
“But if I say that you and Ben will chaperone me, then Pah can’t object, can he?”
“There won’t be any trains back home late at night,” Pamela said.
“You can all stay the night at my place. We’ll make an all-nighter of it and finish up with bacon and eggs. Just like the parties in the old days during the season,” Jeremy said. “Everyone’s invited. You too, Livvy.”
Livvy had been standing silently at the back of the group. She shook her head. “Oh, thank you, but no. It wouldn’t be right with my husband away serving his country.”
Jeremy laughed. “Didn’t I hear that he landed a plum assignment guarding the Duke of Windsor in the Bahamas?”
“Jolly dangerous job protecting a member of the royal family,” Livvy said hotly. “You know very well that the Germans would love to kidnap him and put him in the place of the king.”
“Your husband is with the Duke of Windsor?” Lord Musgrove asked, coming over to join the group.
Livvy nodded. “Actually, Teddy was upset when he was removed from his regiment before they went off to Africa, but the Duke asked for him particularly. They were old polo teammates, you know.”
“I must say I feel that the poor old Duke of Windsor has been rather shabbily treated.” Lord Musgrove took a swig of his whisky. “Packed off into exile like Napoleon.”
“For his own safety,” Livvy said.
“To keep him well away from interfering in what’s going on in Europe,” Sir William said. “His wife has shown a great fondness for Hitler, after all.”
“I still think it’s a shame,” Lord Musgrove said. “I’ve always thought he was a decent fellow. He might well have proved a useful intermediary if we ever needed to negotiate a settlement with Germany.”
“Settle with Germany?” Lord Westerham turned to glare at Musgrove. “Over my dead body.”
“Quite possibly.” Lord Musgrove smiled.
The strong liquor stung as Pamela swallowed it. She wasn’t used to drinking anything stronger than beer and cider, and before the war, the odd glass of wine. But she wasn’t going to be outshone by Dido, who seemed quite at ease with cocktails. As Pamela’s mother hastily led the discussion to safer waters, Jeremy moved closer to her.
“You will come to my party, won’t you?” he whispered.
“I don’t know if I’ll be able to get time off,” she said warily.
“You don’t have to work in the evenings, do you?”
“I’m on night shifts at the moment, actually.”
“Night shifts? What on earth are you doing, fire watching?”
“No.” Pamela gave a nervous little chuckle. “But they need support staff around the clock.”
“Which ministry did you say it was?”
“I didn’t,” she said, “but we do a bit of work for each of the services, fact-checking, looking up things.”
“Jolly good for you.” He rested his hand on her arm. Then he said in a quiet voice, “This party’s all for you, you know. I want you to come and see the flat.” His grip on her tightened, and he led her off to one side. “Look, I’m sorry we started off on the wrong foot. That was thoughtless and crass of me. I suppose I was so eager—well, you can understand, can’t you? All those months of dreaming about you. Fantasising. I got a little carried away, I’m afraid. So can we pretend that never happened and start over? Take it slowly? Get to know each other again?”
He was looking earnestly into her eyes. “All right,” she said.
“Jolly good.” His eyes still held hers.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Still at Nethercote
The gong sounded, and they lined up to go into dinner. Ben was assigned to escort Dido at the back of the line. His father was asked to escort the elderly spinster Miss Hamilton. Naturally, Jeremy and Pamela were paired together. Ben watched the back of her head and saw her laugh as Jeremy whispered something funny to her.
“We’re clearly the runts of the litter back here,” Dido muttered to Ben as they started to process into the dining room. Inside, chandeliers sparkled over a long polished table. A maid and footman stood in attendance, ready to pull out chairs. Ben found himself between Colonel Huntley’s wife and the commander of the Royal West Kents, whom he hadn’t met before. Jeremy and Pamela sat across from him. Lady Prescott was at the foot of the table with the two lords, Westerham and Musgrove, on either side of her. Her gown and the diamonds at her throat sparkled in the light of the chandeliers, and she looked around the gathering with satisfaction.
“We should have a toast before we start eating, William,” she said. “Celebrating our son’s return, when we thought we’d lost him, and he made it home . . .” Her voice wavered suddenly, and she put her napkin up to her mouth to stifle the sob.
“Steady on, old thing,” Sir William said. “Jeremy’s home, and that’s certainly worth celebrating. We’ll drink a toast to him and our good friends and the fact that even in the bleakest of times, we can get together and still enjoy ourselves.”
“Hear, hear.” The murmur echoed around the table. Champagne corks were popped and glasses were poured.
“Where on earth did you manage to find champagne?” Lady Esme asked.
“Ah, well, that was a stroke of luck.” Sir William laughed. “Little wineshop I know near Covent Garden. A bomb fell next door, and the owner panicked. I told him I’d buy the place from him, including all his stock. He was only too glad to accept my offer and flee. And I ended up with some damned fine wines—enough to last me through the war.”
“If it’s over in the foreseeable future,” Miss Hamilton said in her clipped tones.
“It has to be,” Sir William said. “We can’t go on like this. If America doesn’t come in, we’re done for. We can’t hold off the invasion forever by ourselves.”
“America shows no sign of hearing the call.” Colonel Huntley sniffed derisively. “Only interested in lending us some equipment at exorbitant rates. Making a profit out of our misery.”
“Well, we definitely need the equipment. It has to come from somewhere,” the colonel of the West Kents said. “We can’t fight without it. Do you know when my men were first called up, they had to drill with sticks of wood instead of rifles? That’s how bad things have been. And we’re losing Spitfires at an alarming rate . . .”
“Sometimes I think it would be more sensible to make a pact with Mr. Hitler,” Lady Musgrove said. “I fear it will go on and on until we’re on our knees and starving, and then Hitler will walk in anyway, and what will we have achieved?”
“It’s that warmonger Churchill,” her husband agreed. “The power has gone to his head. I think he’s actually enjoying this.”
“Absolutely bloody poppycock,” Lord Westerham thundered. “If it weren’t for Churchill, we’d all be slaves of Germany.”
“Not slaves, surely. One Aryan race to another. Equals,” Lord Musgrove said.
“Ask the Danes and Norwegians how well that is working,” Colonel Pritchard said.
There was an uncomfortable silence.
“Let’s not talk of such gloomy things tonight,” Lady Prescott begged. “We’re celebrating, remember? And if our son managed to escape from their beastly prison camp and came all the way across Europe to be with us, then surely that’s a sign that they are not invincible. If we are brave and stand up to them, then they can’t win.”
“Well said, Lady Prescott,” Colonel Huntley nodded approvingly. “That’s the ticket. A fighting spirit. Britons never, never, never shall be slaves.”
“Is that a cue for someone to break into song?” Jeremy asked with an amused look on his face. “‘There’ll Always Be an England’? ‘Rule, Britannia’?” He winked at Pamela.
“It’s a sign that we get down to some serious eating,” his father said. He nodded
at the servants, and soup tureens were carried around.
“Is this oyster stew?” Lord Westerham asked in amazement. “Where the devil did you manage to get oysters?”
Sir William smiled. “Usually they are found in the sea. Actually, I have a little man in Whitstable. He couldn’t get me enough for a dozen each, but there was enough to make a good oyster stew.”
“But the coastline is off-limits to civilians.”
Sir William was still smiling. “Who said anything about being a civilian? Sorry, Colonel, or rather Colonels, but rules are made to be bent in times of need. And those oysters would die without being harvested. Such a shame.”
He tucked into his bowl with relish. The others followed. Bowls were whisked away to be replaced with grilled trout. Again, Sir William smiled. “And before you ask, I stocked the lake. They are all homegrown.”
After the trout there came roast pork, thin pink slices topped with crackling and a mound of sage-and-onion stuffing.
“Don’t tell me you have your own pigs, too?” Colonel Huntley said.
“Actually, no. This leg of pork came from a chap who knows a chap. You can pretty much get anything, if you know where to look and are prepared to pay.”
“Black market, you mean?” Lord Westerham looked as if he were about to explode again.
“You don’t have to eat it, old chap,” Sir William said. “In fact, it was quite legitimate. A bomb fell on a pigsty. The pigs were either killed or wounded and had to be put down anyway.”
“At least that’s his story and he’s sticking to it,” Lord Musgrove said and got a general laugh. The pork was accompanied by crispy roast potatoes and asparagus. “From our vegetable garden,” Lady Prescott said proudly. “We’ve had a good crop this year.”
Glasses of claret were poured. Ben ate as if in a dream. After the austerity of the digs he shared with Guy and the bleakness of life in London, it was almost too much for the senses to bear: to be sitting at a glittering table, eating course after course of delicious food, drinking fine wine, looking at Pamela sitting across the table from him. He expected an air-raid siren to wake him up.
“So do you have Highcroft Hall to yourselves, Lord Musgrove, or has someone been billeted on you?” Lady Esme asked.
“So far it’s just us, but then the place is in bad shape and needs lots of work done. We only have a few rooms that are fit to live in. But the fearsome old biddy in charge of requisitions did hint that we’d have to take our share of evacuees if and when they were sent from London.”
“We have one at Farleigh,” Lady Westerham said.
“Be honest, Mah, you palmed him off to the gamekeeper,” Livvy said.
“Much kinder,” Lady Esme said. “One could tell the poor little chap was terrified in a place the size of Farleigh. And I know he’s well fed with the gamekeeper.”
“Wasn’t he the one who found that body in your field?” Ben asked innocently, seizing the chance to bring up the subject and to observe their reactions.
“Body?” Lady Prescott asked.
“That’s right,” Lord Westerham said. “Some poor blighter whose parachute didn’t open. The gamekeeper’s boy and our youngest daughter found him. Dashed brave about it, both of them, because the chap was in a nasty mess, as you can imagine.”
“Were they doing training exercises?” Lady Musgrove asked.
“No idea. The body was whisked away in a hurry. He was wearing the uniform of the West Kents, but the colonel here swears he wasn’t one of theirs.”
“Something funny about him,” the colonel said. “Not quite right, you know. His cap badge for one thing. His was the older version of Kentish horse.”
“A spy! I knew it!” Miss Hamilton said with great animation. “I’ll wager he was a German, dropped in to spy or to aid the invasion.”
“Quite possibly,” Colonel Pritchard agreed. “Much good will it do them. I don’t suppose we’ll ever find out now.”
The roast pork was cleared away, and in its place came a dessert of chocolate profiteroles in a chocolate sauce.
“Chocolate!” Lady Musgrove exclaimed, giving a sigh of contentment. “Where did you find chocolate?”
“No doubt a bomb fell on a cocoa grove, and my father had to rescue the trees,” Jeremy said, making them all laugh. The wine was having its effect. Ben looked around the table at the smiling faces, all of them relaxed and contented. How could any of them possibly be connected to an enemy agent?
They were still all in a convivial mood when the party broke up later.
“How did you get here?” Jeremy asked Ben.
“We walked.”
“I’ll run you home.”
“Not necessary,” Ben said. “It’s a nice night, and it’s not far.”
“It’s no problem. Just hang on while we get rid of the rest of them, and I’ll go and get the motor.” He didn’t wait for an answer but went over to join his parents, saying good-bye to the other guests. Colonel and Mrs. Huntley joined Miss Hamilton in a very ancient Bentley with an equally ancient chauffeur. Lord Westerham’s Rolls was not much younger. Jeremy went over to help Lady Westerham into the passenger seat, then Livvy into the back. When he came to Pamela, he put a hand under her chin, drew her to him, and kissed her. Then he smiled and Ben heard him say, “I’ll come over tomorrow if my father lets me have the motor. We could go for a picnic.”
Ben didn’t hear Pamela’s answer, but she smiled back at him. Jeremy had a rather satisfied grin on his face as he walked back over to Ben. Somewhere in the distance came the drone of approaching aircraft.
“German bombers,” Jeremy said, listening intently. “God, I hope they let me fly again soon. I really miss it.”
Then he turned to Ben, clearly realising that what he said was tactless. “Look, old chap,” he said in a low voice. “When I start at the air ministry, I’ll see whether I can find something for you.”
“What do you mean?” Ben asked. “I already have a job.”
“I meant something more challenging. Exciting. If you’re stuck in a boring desk job . . .”
Ben was so tempted to tell him that he wasn’t in a boring desk job. What he was doing was vital to national security, but of course he wasn’t allowed to. “I’m being useful,” he said. “I don’t need excitement.”
“But I’d really like to help, you know,” Jeremy said. “I mean, I can’t stand the thought of you stuck at some boring desk.”
“Look Jeremy, I know you feel guilty about what happened, but it was an accident. I know you didn’t intend to kill us both. And we both survived. Let’s be glad for that. And as for my own job, I really am . . .” He broke off as the aircraft drone became a roar that drowned out his words.
“They’re flying really low,” Jeremy shouted. “What’s the betting they are aiming for Biggin Hill Aerodrome? The Spitfires will have been given the order to scramble. God, I wish I was one of them.”
The night wasn’t completely dark, and Ben could make out the shapes of planes passing over, wave after wave of them. Then suddenly there were flashes and bangs. The sky lit up. The Spitfires had met the foe. There was a large explosion, and a plane went down in a spiral of fire.
“One of ours,” Jeremy shouted over the roar of the planes. “Poor bugger.”
The planes had passed. The noise subsided. “I’ll go and get the old banger,” Jeremy said.
“It really isn’t necessary,” Reverend Cresswell said. “We’re quite capable of walking, Jeremy. We mustn’t waste petrol.”
“Rubbish.” Jeremy laughed. “You’re just an excuse, you know. I’ve been dying to drive a car again. It’s been so long. I hope I haven’t forgotten.”
But as he headed toward the rear of the house, his mother called after him, “Jeremy, where are you going? You haven’t said good-bye to the Musgroves.” She waved to the young couple who were pulling away in a sleek and sporty new Lagonda. They seemed to have no problem with petrol rationing, Ben thought, while Jeremy answered, “Going t
o get the car to drive Ben and his father home.”
Jeremy’s mother grabbed his arm. “Don’t be silly. You’re not up to driving yet. You’ve already overdone it by staying up so late this evening. Don’t forget you’re just out of hospital. You nearly died. Daddy can drive Ben home, can’t you, William?”
“Can’t I what?” Sir William asked jovially. He was clearly enjoying having played host at a successful party.
“Drive the Cresswells home. I don’t think Jeremy should be driving around at night yet. He’s only been out of hospital for a few days and is supposed to be resting.”
“Oh, but Mother . . .” Jeremy began, but his father held up a hand.
“Your mother is right, old boy. If you want to get back to flying, you need to do everything within your power to regain your old strength. You’ve been up later than was probably wise. We don’t want a relapse, do we?”
“Really, Father, you make me sound like a bloody invalid,” Jeremy said.
“Do what your mother says,” Sir William said firmly, and Jeremy turned away in disgust.
“We really are quite capable of walking, Sir William,” Ben said. “There is no need to drive us.”
“Do you want a lift home?” Colonel Pritchard of the West Kents asked. They hadn’t noticed that he was still there. “I’m afraid I can’t offer a Rolls, but I can fit the two of you into the back of my humble Humber staff car.”
“That would be splendid,” Reverend Cresswell said, beaming. “We accept with gratitude, don’t we, Ben?”
“Yes, thank you,” Ben said. “We’ll go driving together soon, Jeremy. I don’t doubt for a moment.” He smiled at his friend but was met by a surly frown. Jeremy hated not to get his own way, Ben realised. He always had as a child and apparently still did.
They clambered into the backseat of the Humber and waved as they drove away. Cool night air blew into their faces through the open driver’s side window. As they reached the bottom of the drive and headed toward the village, they were aware of another smell. Acrid, burning.