In Farleigh Field: A Novel of World War II

by Rhys Bowen

  “I’m not sure,” Ben said. “I, too, run errands.” He grinned and stepped into the open lift.

  He took a deep breath and walked down the hallway to the office. Maxwell Knight was dressed, this time, in a smart army uniform. Ben was ushered into the inner sanctum.

  “Come in, Cresswell.” Knight looked up from his paperwork. “Take a seat.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t realise you were an army officer,” he said. “I should have been addressing you by your correct rank.”

  Knight returned his gaze. “I’m not, if you really want to know. But I felt I was doing as much as any member of the armed forces to end this war, so I decided I had as much right as any man to wear a uniform.” Then he grinned, looking suddenly boyish. “I even awarded myself a couple of medals.” He pointed to the strip of ribbon on his chest. “This one for rescuing badgers. This one for making a frightfully good martini.” Then Knight’s face became solemn again. “You have something to report, already?”

  “I’m not sure, sir. Farleigh was hit by a bomb last night.”

  “Was it now? Much damage?”

  “Luckily, not too bad. The attic caught on fire, and some of the top-floor rooms are not habitable at the moment, but no casualties, thank God. The army chaps helped put it out quickly, and, of course, the building is mainly built of stone.”

  “That’s it?” Knight asked, his lip curling in what Ben took to be a sarcastic smile.

  “I’ve done a recce of the neighbourhood and have a list here of possible persons of interest. Nothing too promising, I’m afraid.” He handed Knight a sheet of paper. Knight studied it.

  “Lord Westerham’s oldest daughter, Olivia, is married to Viscount Carrington, who is chummy with the Duke of Windsor and with him in the Bahamas. She thinks the duke has been unfairly treated. But I get no hint from her that she might actively want to aid the Germans. In fact, between you and me, she has always struck me as the least bright of the girls. And easily panicked. I can’t see her having the nerves to be a spy.”

  Knight grinned again. “Women make the best actors, you know,” he said. “But you’ve known her all your life, so I’ll take your word for it.” He paused. “Who else?”

  “I’ve put Lady Phoebe’s governess on the list. She’s an educated woman, good family, supposedly writing her thesis. But she did have a telescope in her window in the turret room. And she was very possessive about her papers. I wondered if perhaps she might be studying aircraft and flight paths from Biggin Hill Aerodrome and then somehow signalling them to Germany.”

  Knight nodded. “Interesting. Yes, she’s just the sort of person they might use. Disgruntled, feels that life has cheated her. Maybe wants to get back at the British establishment.”

  “She seems nice and genuine enough,” Ben said. “She claims to use her telescope for bird-watching.”

  “Does she?” Maxwell Knight smiled. “Maybe you should follow up on her. Get a look at her papers. Search her room to see if there is a hidden radio.”

  “I’ve been through her papers that were damaged in the bombing, and they all seemed to relate to a historical thesis she is writing, except for one interesting fact. They are about the Wars of the Roses. And two of the biggest battles of that war were in 1461. So I wondered if that might be a coincidence.”

  “Interesting.” Knight nodded. “I’m not a great believer in coincidence myself. I’d follow up on her, search her room more thoroughly if I were you.”

  “Yes, sir.” Ben thought of this assignment with distaste.

  “And anyone else raised a red flag?”

  Ben took a deep breath. “There are some people in the area who seem to be doing remarkably well in spite of war, but then I don’t think they’d want to bring it to a speedy close. Oh, and I met a couple last night who seem to have pro-German tendencies and are also supporters of the Duke of Windsor, Lord and Lady Musgrove. They’re on the list. He has just inherited a property and come from Canada. They seem to have plenty of money and enough petrol coupons to drive around. Nobody in the neighbourhood knew anything of them until recently, which made me wonder if they are who they claim to be. But they live at least five or six miles away, so why not parachute into their field?”

  “Why not indeed,” Knight echoed.

  “Apart from those, there are two foreign artists who have recently come to live in a converted oast house. One claims to be Danish, the other Russian. They seemed to be a little too self-absorbed to be spies, but there was one thing—there was a piece of artwork on the wall that the Russian claimed as his own, but it was actually from another well-known artist.”

  “We’ll do some checking,” Knight said. “Foreigners have to register, so it should be simple to find out. Is that it?”

  “Only a Jewish surgeon from Vienna, who is staying with our local GP. There are naturally rumours about him because he speaks with a German accent. But he was telling me about being persecuted in Austria. Again, he came to this country recently so should be easy to verify. Oh, and an Austrian land girl who is going out with one of the soldiers. That could be an easy way of getting information.”

  Knight looked up from the paper. “And what about local gossip? Anything juicy there?”

  “People seem to think that the parachutist was a German spy, probably come to spy on Biggin Hill Aerodrome.”

  “Good work.” Knight folded the sheet of paper. “So what next?”

  “I take it that the place in the photograph hasn’t been identified yet?” Ben asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “Then I have a couple of suggestions,” Ben said. “I mentioned that the numbers on the photograph could refer to a date in history and the Wars of the Roses. There were two major battles, one on the Welsh border and one in Yorkshire. I wondered if I should take a look at the battle sites and see if they resembled the terrain in the picture.”

  “By all means,” Knight said. “No stone left unturned, eh?”

  Ben hesitated. “Would I be entitled to travel vouchers, official reason for travel, that sort of thing?”

  “Absolutely not,” Knight said. “This office does not exist, Cresswell. Nothing leaves this office that can be traced back to us. Keep track of your expenses, and we’ll reimburse you.”

  Ben stood up. Clearly, he was being dismissed. He wanted to ask about Guy Harcourt—to drop a hint that he knew Guy was also some part of Knight’s stable, but he thought that protocol probably required that nobody claimed to know anyone else.

  “Oh, and Cresswell,” Knight said. “You don’t have to stint. Stay somewhere decent. Treat yourself to a good meal for once.”

  Ben paused at the doorway, turning back to Knight who had swivelled his chair to face the vista along the Thames.

  “Excuse me, sir,” he said, “but I couldn’t help wondering if the bomb had anything to do with the other incident.”

  Knight swivelled back. “The parachutist, you mean? What are your thoughts on that?”

  “I’m not sure what to think, but when two separate enemy actions take place within a few yards of each other, one has to wonder if they have something in common. So it did occur to me to wonder if the parachutist had been sent to assassinate somebody, and having failed, the house was bombed.” He paused as Knight said nothing. “I know it sounds absurdly outlandish, but . . .”

  “Not at all,” Knight said. “Do you think Lord Westerham or any of his daughters would be worth the risk of sending down a parachutist to kill them?”

  “Frankly, no, sir.”

  Knight took a deep breath. “I think it’s most likely that they now have the house pinpointed as an army base. Not too hard to spot the army vehicles in the front garden, even though they do have camouflage over them. So maybe this was a warning bomb that they know the West Kents are headquartered there, and they will be back.”

  “Yes, sir. That’s the conclusion I came to.”

  He turned to go again.

  “On the other hand,” Maxwell Knight sa
id. “There is something you should know about Lord Westerham’s family. I don’t think it could have any connection to our parachutist or the bomb. However . . . Lady Margot Sutton has been taken by the Gestapo in Paris.”

  “Crikey!” Ben blurted out before he realised how juvenile that sounded. He felt the colour drain from his face. “They’ve taken Margot? Because of her French lover?”

  “Possibly,” Maxwell Knight said. “Also, possibly because she was one of ours.”

  “A spy? Margot was a spy?”

  “In a very minor sort of way. She went to the embassy, while it was still in operation, and asked that since she was stuck in Paris, could she be of any assistance. She was given a secret radio and passed messages along the chain. If they have found the radio, they will probably torture her and then shoot her.”

  “Is there to be no attempt to try and get her out?” Ben asked.

  “Being arranged as we speak,” Knight said.

  “Sir, I’d like to volunteer to be part of that mission,” Ben said.

  Knight actually grinned. “I admire your pluck and your loyalty, but I suspect that if your leg was working properly, you’d be up flying a Spitfire by now. Can you really see yourself clambering over Paris rooftops, shinning down drainpipes and running from German soldiers, firing over your shoulder as you go?”

  Ben opened his mouth to speak, but Knight went on, “And for that matter, can you see yourself calmly slitting the throat of a sentry on guard? It takes a particular type of chap to be able to carry out assignments like that. That’s why we leave it to the commandos. They are trained.”

  “Does her family know any of this?”

  “No, and you are not to tell them until the mission is conducted satisfactorily. If it is not, we will decide on the right time and place to inform them.”

  Ben nodded. “Might I ask that you let me know how the mission went?”

  “Possibly. We’ll have to see.” He waved at Ben. “Go on. Off you go on your quest, then.” As Ben left the office, he noticed that Maxwell Knight’s secretary, Joan Miller, was as smartly dressed as if she were going for a meal at the Savoy. Grey silk and pearls, and a touch of makeup.

  “You look very nice today, Miss Miller,” he said.

  She smiled. “Why, thank you, Mr. Cresswell. I have a date with some important gentlemen. One has to look one’s best on such occasions.”

  As Ben came out into the fresh air, he shook his head. There was always an Alice in Wonderland–like quality about visiting Dolphin Square. He found himself wondering if either of the people there were real. He also found himself wondering if his assignment was of any value.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  At Bletchley Park

  On Sunday evening, Pamela caught the train back to Bletchley. Jeremy had offered to drive her.

  He had just driven her home after an evening at a pub on the banks of the Medway. It was a romantic setting, but the food left much to be desired. The cod was like leather, and the cabbage boiled to a grey mass. They had laughed about it and compared it to the food at Nethercote.

  “Must you go back to work?” he asked.

  “Of course. It was quite out of order to allow me a week when we are so shorthanded, but I was suffering from the effects of too many night shifts and didn’t really get a proper break last Christmas.”

  “Then we’ll go together. I’ve got to go up to town, anyway. I have to see the quacks at Barts to make sure my gunshot wound has healed nicely and that I’m fit to report back for duty.” He must have noticed the look of alarm on Pamela’s face. “Oh, not back to flying, old thing. Much as I wish, I don’t think I’ll be allowed in an aeroplane for a few more months. But they say they’ll find something for me at the air ministry. I can’t say I’m looking forward to it. From what you and Ben say, they only allow you to do the routine stuff. I want to be able to plot the courses for bombing raids or interpret aerial photographs.”

  “You would!” Pamela laughed. “But the boring stuff has to be done, too, Jeremy. If files were not in apple-pie order, and a piece of information couldn’t be found the moment it’s wanted, the delay could cost lives.”

  “You’re right.” He grinned back at her. “I never was much good at doing the ordinary things, was I? I got beaten enough times at school for failing to buckle down and study. But then I aced the exams, and they had to eat their words. Most satisfying.”

  “You shouldn’t waste petrol driving up to town when there is a perfectly good train,” Pamela said.

  “Oh, don’t worry. My father can virtually write himself petrol coupons, you know. He has to go up to town all the time.”

  Pamela had a worrying vision of Jeremy insisting on driving her all the way to Bletchley. That would never do. “I’d appreciate a ride to the station,” she said, “but I think I’d rather go back by train after that. I have the voucher to travel.”

  “Anyone would think that you were trying to avoid me.”

  “Not at all, Jeremy. I love being with you. You know that. We’ve had a splendid time today, haven’t we? It’s just that . . . well, I want to get my head in order before I check back to work. For all I know, I might have to go directly to another night shift.”

  “They’ve no right making women do night shifts,” Jeremy said. “I think I’ll come with you and tell them.”

  “No, you won’t!” She slapped his hand.

  He grabbed her hand, pulled her toward him, and kissed her with passion, gradually forcing her back onto the seat of the Rolls. She was horribly conscious of his weight on top of her, his tongue in her mouth, his knee forcing her legs apart, his hand straying downward. She sat up abruptly, pushing his hand away. “Jeremy, not here, outside my parents’ house. Anyone might see.”

  He was looking at her, long and hard. “Pamma, I’m beginning to wonder whether you still feel anything for me. You used to love me; I know you did. My feelings for you haven’t changed, you know. I can’t help admitting that I want you. I want you desperately. And yet every time I get near you, you push me away.”

  “I don’t mean to,” she said. “And I do still love you. I dreamed about you every day you were away. I went to sleep with your picture under my pillow. And I do want you to make love to me. It’s just . . .” She gave an embarrassed little laugh. “I’m a twenty-one-year-old virgin, and I’m hesitant to take that next step, I suppose.”

  He laughed now. “Then we’ll have to do something about that, won’t we? I won’t rush you. I’ll make sure the time and place are right. Our London flat is very comfortable and very private. Mayfair and all that. No family to spy on us. I’ll be moving in at the end of the week. You will come and visit me, won’t you?”

  “I don’t know when I’ll get more time off,” she said. “But I will come.”

  “We can start with my moving-in party. I thought I might hold it next Wednesday. That will give me time to get settled in. Do you have your evenings free?”

  “It depends what shift I am on.”

  He frowned. “Surely you can swap shifts for one evening. You don’t have to work seven days a week, do you?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “And you can get into town by train?”

  “Yes, easily.”

  He took her hand in his, playing with her fingers. “Then let’s say next Wednesday. I haven’t had a decent party for years. Invite your friends if you like. I bet the old man has some good booze stashed away at the flat. We’ll help him drink it in case the Germans invade and confiscate it.”

  Pamela was sitting up very straight in the car, wanting to smooth down her skirt. “Do you think they will invade?”

  “I think it’s inevitable,” he said. “Look how easily they walked into France and Belgium and Denmark and Norway. What have we got that those countries don’t have?”

  “We haven’t been invaded since 1066,” she said. “Napoleon walked into all those countries, but he couldn’t take Britain.”

  He patted her knee. “
That’s the spirit. We’ll fight them on the beaches, we’ll fight them in the pubs and public loos . . .”

  “Jeremy, don’t make fun. It was a brilliant speech. Mr. Churchill is a brilliant orator.”

  “Sorry. Yes, I know he is. But with all the fighting spirit and pride in the world, we don’t have the weapons to take on the Wehrmacht. If America decides to lend us some, then that may be different. But they may sit on the fence for years.”

  Pamela shuddered. “Let’s not talk about it. You’re home safe, and that’s what matters.”

  “And you’ll come to my party?”

  “I’ll try my best to, I promise.”

  Pamela went over this conversation in her head as the train bore her out from London to Bletchley. A party. That would be safe enough. Safety in numbers. Then she realised that at some time she’d have to come to terms with her relationship with Jeremy. He wanted to make love to her. She had always thought that she wanted it, too. But her vision included marriage. His didn’t seem to. She’d heard too many rumours of girls who ended up in the family way. Girls who were shipped off to the country and nobody ever spoke about the baby again.

  But Jeremy would marry me if that happened, she thought. Of course he would. Besides, she added to herself, I have a feeling that Jeremy knows about such things.

  She was feeling better by the time she returned to Bletchley and found she was anxious to get back to work. Trixie was sitting on her bed when Pamela arrived back at their digs. She was carefully easing one leg into a silk stocking. She looked up and smiled.

  “Oh, you’re back. Just a minute while I try to do this without laddering my one good pair. God knows what I’ll do after this. Resort to drawing a line up the back of my leg with a pencil, like everyone else, I suppose.” She eased the stocking up and secured it with a suspender. “Did you have a good time?”

  “Yes, thank you. Apart from our house being bombed.”

  “Bombed? Golly, how awful. Was it destroyed?”

  “No, thank goodness. Only very minor damage. The West Kent Regiment is billeted with us, and it was a case of all hands to the rescue. They put out the fire before it could spread.”