In Farleigh Field: A Novel of World War II

by Rhys Bowen

“I escaped from a stalag in Germany recently and managed to make my way back home. I was shot and in rather bad shape. I’m still supposed to be recovering, but I didn’t want to sit at home doing nothing, so they’re letting me work at the ministry.”

  “I thought your face was familiar,” she said, her eyes glowing now. “I saw your picture in the papers. The girls here were talking about your escape.” She looked at Ben. “Were you also a flyer once?”

  “He was in a plane crash caused by my bad piloting,” Jeremy said quickly. “I feel guilty about it every day of my life.” He paused, then added, “And the offer still stands to get you a job at the Air Ministry, old chap. You’d have legitimate cause to visit Mavis often.”

  “As tempting as that sounds, I don’t think you’ll find it’s that easy to switch around in wartime,” Ben said. “And I am playing my part where I’m working right now.”

  “Well, I’d best be getting back to town,” Jeremy said. “I’ll see you two at my party, then?”

  He picked up the package, gave Mavis a wink, and strode out of the room.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Bletchley Park

  Pamela and Froggy Bracewaite were back at the big house, studying transcripts.

  “It’s interesting that they don’t always use the same pieces of music, don’t you think?” Froggy said. “I mean they always sign on with Beethoven, but then they have a selection of German composers between news and commentaries.”

  “Probably only reminding the world how superior German culture is,” Pamela said.

  “But I think we should identify and study each of the pieces chosen. Maybe the notes spell something out. Maybe it’s the fourth movement of the third symphony or something, and those numbers signify dates?”

  “I think you’re chasing at straws,” Pamela said. “If they want to send messages to German sympathisers or agents in Britain, they would have to be brilliant to work out things like that.”

  “Unless they have codebooks. Maybe Bach means one thing. Handel another.”

  “But we don’t have their codebooks,” Pamela said. “I wonder if MI5 knows more about this. We’re shut out here, sworn to secrecy, and we have no idea what other ministries or departments know or don’t know. I think we should ask Commander Travis about this.”

  “Maybe,” Froggy said doubtfully.

  When Pamela went back to her room that night, she opened a drawer to put away the items she had taken with her while camping out, and she paused, frowning. Someone had been through her things. She distinctly remembered leaving her one good pair of nylon stockings wrapped in a handkerchief so that there was no chance they would catch on something and get a run in them. And her diary—she was sure that had been under her spare nightdress.

  Trixie arrived while Pamela was sitting on her bed, considering this. “Oh, you’re back in the land of the living,” she said. “Are you finished with night shifts?”

  “For the moment, I think,” Pamela said. “I say, Trixie, you didn’t borrow my stockings, did you? I wouldn’t be angry if you did, but it’s just that they aren’t where I put them.”

  “I jolly well did not,” Trixie said. “You know me better than that, Pamma. If I want to borrow something of yours, I ask.”

  “Then someone has been snooping in my drawer,” Pamma said.

  “Mrs. Entwhistle, obviously,” Trixie said. “I always thought she looked like the type who was a snoop.”

  “I don’t know what she hoped to find, unless she gets a thrill from reading other people’s diaries,” Pamma said.

  “Why, is your diary full of juicy details?” Trixie grinned.

  “Absolutely not. It’s about as boring as you can get. Yesterday we had cottage pie, and it was raining. That kind of thing. I never was the type to spill my innermost thoughts on paper.”

  “Neither was I,” Trixie said. “Too many prying eyes in my house when I was growing up. With two younger sisters one had to be very careful.”

  “The same with me,” Pamela said. “Well, I don’t suppose it mattered that Mrs. Entwhistle looked through my things. I have nothing worth stealing. But it does feel a little creepy, doesn’t it?”

  “Maybe we could set a trap for her and catch her out,” Trixie suggested. “You know, a letter in German, or a photo of Adolf Hitler with the message ‘Meet me at midnight, mein Liebling.’”

  Pamela laughed. “You are awful, Trixie.”

  “Well, she’s a horrid cow. She steals our ration coupons and keeps the good food for herself. She deserves what she gets.”

  Next morning, Pamela and Froggy discussed whether it made sense to repeat their actual listening out at the wireless receiving station. Neither wanted to admit defeat. “We could take it in turns,” Froggy said. “I could go out there for one day, and then you could. I don’t see any reason to stay overnight. I think I could bicycle six miles, and you could get one of the RAF guards to run you over there and back.”

  “I suppose so,” Pamela agreed. “Anything’s worth a try at this stage, isn’t it?”

  After Froggy had gone, she paced around the table, staring down at the transcripts and their notes. Music. And now messages home from our boys in Germany. Names. Addresses. Should she try to check that these were real prisoners of war with real addresses? She went to ask Commander Travis how they could look into this.

  “That would be a job for MI5,” he said. “I’ll get on the telephone to them and have them send someone over. Worth following up on, I agree.”

  Pamela went back to work, and that afternoon was informed that someone from MI5 was on his way up. Pamela smoothed back her hair and hastily applied some lipstick. There were rumours about the dashing chaps in the secret service. She knew that MI5 dealt with counterespionage, while MI6 sent out the spies abroad, but all the same, it must be dangerous dabbling in the grey world of spying. There was a tap on her door. In what she hoped was an efficient voice, she called, “Come in.” The door opened, and the last person she expected to see came into the room.

  She said, “Ben,” at the same time as he said, “Pamma?”

  Then they both laughed and said, “I had no idea,” at the same time.

  “You’re really working for MI5?” she asked.

  “I’m not allowed to tell you that, but since I’m here, I suppose you can deduce that the answer is yes,” he said. “And you are not allowed to tell anybody. You do know that. Especially not anybody at home.”

  “Of course. And you’re not to tell anybody I’m working here at Bletchley.”

  “We’ve only heard whispers and rumours about what goes on at Bletchley,” he said. “Station X. That’s how the rest of the world knows you. But it’s something to do with codes, isn’t it? Are you really a code breaker?”

  She nodded. “Not a very good one, it would seem. We’ve been listening in on German propaganda broadcasts.”

  “The New British Broadcasting Station, you mean?”

  “Yes. That’s it. My boss seems to think there might be coded messages to fifth columnists within the broadcasts.”

  “Yes, we’ve considered that, too,” Ben said.

  “You haven’t come across a codebook from a captured fifth columnist, have you?”

  Ben smiled. “I don’t think they make it as easy as that for us.”

  Pamela sighed. “Our problem is that we don’t know where to start. If the coded messages are going to ordinary people—German sympathisers—then the codes would have to be quite simple. Nothing like the clever stuff the Germans use to send messages to their aircraft and ships.”

  “You’ve been working on those, have you?” he asked.

  “A little. Not the decoding as much as translating. But there are some brilliantly clever chaps here. And I probably shouldn’t be talking about this, even to you.”

  “Are you working on this alone?” Ben asked.

  “No, there are two of us. But my colleague is off, listening in at the wireless station today. At first, they sent us tra
nscripts, and then I wondered whether we were missing anything by not hearing the actual spoken words—possible inflections, clearing of the throat, or even the music they use between news and commentary.”

  Ben nodded. “Interesting. And what have you found so far?”

  “These are the latest transcripts and our notes,” she said. “They always end their broadcasts with messages purporting to be from servicemen in German prison camps. You know, all jolly stuff about how well they are being treated. So I wondered if they were real people and addresses and not somehow in code.”

  Ben peered over her shoulder at the papers on the table. He was horribly aware of her presence, of the faint fresh smell of her hair. “You want us to check that the names, serial numbers, and addresses are genuine?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Should be simple enough.” He read down the page. “What a lot of rubbish they talk. I wonder if anyone believes it?”

  “My boss says that people do. The news and commentaries play on their deepest fears—for the safety of their children and whether we are about to starve.”

  “And what’s this music noted here?”

  “That was another thought we had—that the piece of music was somehow significant. The chap I’m working with knows his music quite well. He’s the one who identified the pieces we’ve mentioned. The only one that we could see might be important was the Royal Fireworks music.”

  “Golly, yes. Someone planning to blow up the king?”

  “Exactly. Have your lot heard any rumours like that?”

  “Plenty of them. Nothing definite, but . . . What words followed that particular piece?”

  Pamela leafed through the transcripts. “Here,” she said.

  “‘Our great German composer Handel wrote this for your English king, showing what a deep and abiding friendship there has been between our two countries and what a rich heritage we create when we are not on opposite sides.’” Ben paused. “Nothing obvious that one could read into that. No dates or places. Factual.”

  “I know,” Pamela agreed. “We’ve been over it again and again, substituting letters, selecting words. Nothing.”

  “So apart from this, it’s been mainly Beethoven and Bach?” Ben’s finger was scanning down the pages.

  “Apart from a couple of snippets of Wagner. Very loud and depressing.” Pamela pointed them out. “My pal Froggy, who knows these things, says that they are from various operas, all part of the Ring cycle.”

  “What did you say?” Ben’s voice was unexpectedly loud and sharp.

  “The operas are all part of the Ring cycle.”

  “My God. That’s it,” Ben said. “Look, Pamma. I’m not sure how much I’m allowed to tell you, but we’ve been zeroing in on a secret group of fifth columnists, working actively with Germany. They are mainly aristocrats, and they call themselves the Ring.”

  “Crikey,” Pamela said. “So this is their signature piece. They are saying ‘Take note of what comes after this.’”

  “It would seem so.” Ben’s finger was shaking as it ran down the page. “Sergeant Jim Winchester, serial number 248403. To Mrs. Joan Winchester. 1 Milton Court, Sheffield. That must be it, Pamma. What’s the betting this is a message for their operative in Winchester, or a meeting in Winchester, and those numbers are a date, or a telephone, or a street number.”

  Pamela’s eyes were shining. “Oh yes. Brilliant.”

  “I should copy them all down and take them back with me. Some of the names and addresses will be genuine, to put us off the scent. But every one that follows the Wagner will contain information. Someone higher up than me will be able to figure out what and whom they might refer to. Have the Wagner passages become more frequent lately?”

  “We’ve only been listening recently rather than reading transcripts, so they could have been going on for some time.”

  “And do you happen to know if the number 1461 has shown up anywhere?”

  “Not that I can remember . . .” She frowned. “It could have been in the middle of a longer serial number.”

  “Don’t worry. I can check,” Ben said.

  “Take a seat.” She went across to a desk and brought out a pad and fountain pen. “I’ll help you copy them.”

  They sat side by side in companionable silence.

  “Are you going to Jeremy’s party?” she asked at last.

  “Yes, I said I’d go.”

  “Should be fun.”

  “I hope so. I’m bringing a girl.”

  “A girl?” She looked up abruptly.

  Ben nodded. “I’m not sure that was wise, but Jeremy sort of invited her himself, and she was so keen that I couldn’t back out.”

  “Is she nice?”

  “I hardly know her. She may turn out to be a little too . . . enthusiastic . . . for me.”

  Pamela laughed. “Meaning that she’s too keen on the physical contact?”

  Ben blushed. “I actually meant that she may gush. She’s terribly impressed that some of the guests come from titled families. And she was obviously impressed by Jeremy.”

  “Well, who wouldn’t be?” Pamela laughed. Then she grew quiet again. “Do you find him changed, Ben? Since he came back?”

  “I’ve hardly spoken to him enough to know, but he seems, how shall I put it—harder, more seasoned. I wonder if the fun has gone.”

  Pamela nodded. “I suppose he’s grown up a lot, gone from boy to man in the time he was away. And all the horrid things he went through in the prison camp, and then to escape. It’s no wonder he’s not as fun-loving as he once was.”

  They finished copying the names and addresses that followed the Wagner interludes. Ben stood up. “I should be getting back,” he said. “I want to be home before it’s dark. It’s not easy getting around in London once the blackout takes effect.”

  “The very least I can do is treat you to an early dinner in the dining hall,” Pamela replied. “The food isn’t bad. In contrast to my landlady’s cooking. Trixie and I think that she’s the enemy’s secret weapon, put here to poison Britain.”

  They laughed as they went down the stairs. Outside, the sun was shining on the lake. People were sitting on the grass, others strolling under the trees. From the meadow beyond came the shouts of a game being played. Ben shook his head in amazement. “This place is unreal,” he said. “You certainly landed on your feet, being sent here, didn’t you? It’s like a country club.”

  “Actually, we all work so jolly hard that we make the most of time off,” Pamela said. “Until recently, I was on a twelve-hour night shift. And most of us work in those huts that are draughty and freezing in winter. And the pressure is enormous. Knowing that if you don’t break a code, men on a ship are going to die. People crack all the time and get sent away for rest cures.”

  “That wasn’t why you came home a couple of weeks ago, was it?” He looked at her with concern.

  Pamela didn’t want to admit to him that she had fainted. “I had some leave owing to me, and when I heard that Jeremy had come back safely . . .”

  “Of course.” Ben cleared his throat.

  “Hey, Pamma, wait for me,” a voice shouted behind them, and Trixie came running across the gravel forecourt. “Are you going to the dining room?”

  “Yes, we were.”

  “Me too. I’ve decided I can’t face another of Mrs. Entwhistle’s suet puddings.” She looked up at Ben. “Hello. Are you a new arrival?”

  “No, he’s from another department in London,” Pamela said quickly. “He just came to drop off some papers, and we bumped into each other. We’re old friends from home.”

  “How jolly,” Trixie said. She held out her hand to Ben. “Hello. I’m Trixie. Pamela’s roommate.”

  “I’m Ben. Good to meet you.”

  She squeezed his hand, an inquisitive smile on her face.

  “Do you work at another hush-hush establishment?” she asked.

  Ben chuckled. “I couldn’t tell you if I did, could I?”

>   “It’s just that they don’t let just anybody come here, for any reason. So someone must have had a jolly good reason for sending you here.” Trixie turned to Pamela. “I shall worm it out of you when we get home,” she said. “Or I shall make a date with Ben and worm it out of him. You’re not going to Jeremy Prescott’s party, by any chance, are you?”

  “As a matter of fact I am,” Ben said.

  “And he’s taking a girl, Trixie. So hands off.”

  “Spoilsport.” Trixie gave a mock pout. “I might turn on the full force of my feminine charms and lure him away from her.” She gave Ben a flirtatious smile. “Come on, before there’s a line at the cafeteria. I hear there might be cauliflower cheese tonight.” She took Ben’s hand again and dragged him forward.

  On the train back to London, Ben sat staring at the names and addresses he had copied out. Some of the names were definitely also places. Some could be places. Mrs. North at 4 Hampton Street could well mean Northampton. Max Knight should be able to find out if they coincided with known meetings of the Ring. But did any of this have relevance to the photograph? If it was so important that a man’s life had been risked to deliver it, then surely the message could not have been for general consumption but for one person’s ears only. And they were no closer to finding out who that one person was. He tried to quell the sense of urgency he felt. The Royal Fireworks music and the date 1461 when battles were fought to depose a king made him believe that a plot to kill the royal family might well be imminent. But he reminded himself that he was on the lowest rung. If he was not given the full information, how could he be expected to interpret it properly? Still, he knew that the king and queen often walked through bombed areas of London, showing sympathy and support. How easy for a lone gunman, waiting for them in the shadows. He shivered and stared out the train window.

  His thoughts turned to Mavis. If she could only find the site in the snapshot, then all would be explained. He tried to picture it now—the hill with the pine trees—but couldn’t imagine any relevance, unless there was a stately home on the hill behind those trees where an aristocrat lived who was an important part of the Ring. Or that this might be a place the royal family had planned to visit.