In Farleigh Field: A Novel of World War II

by Rhys Bowen

  “I wonder what we’d achieve with that?” Ben said, looking around at the dark woods. “The vicar would have mentioned anyone strange or suspicious, wouldn’t he? He said his parish was only neighbouring farms and cottages. Presumably country people who have farmed here for generations. We could examine the ruins of the old monastery in daylight, but again, wouldn’t the vicar have noticed anything suspicious going on? Frankly, I’m not hopeful myself. I think you were right in what you said before. That it’s a hidden message, not an actual place.”

  “I suppose.” Pamela nodded. “So we’ll go back to London, and you can report what you’ve found. And my mother will kill me if we don’t get back for her party.”

  “We should stop for something to eat first,” Ben said. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”

  “Good luck at this time of night.” Pamela chuckled. “I bet they all go to bed by eight in the country, especially now that the blackout makes travel so hard. And I think you’ll find it really difficult to drive home in the dark, Ben. Maybe it would be more sensible to find somewhere for the night and leave at first light tomorrow.”

  “Did you bring overnight clothes?”

  She laughed. “A toothbrush. But I’ll survive.”

  It had been raining as they wound their way down the hill, but the overhead canopy of trees protected them. As they came out onto the flatlands, the heavens opened into a downpour. “We can’t go on in this, Ben,” Pamela shouted over the drumming of the rain. Thunder grumbled in the distance.

  “There was a pub in that first village,” Ben shouted back. They crept along at a snail’s pace, conscious of the water-filled ditches, now overflowing on either side of the road. Then the first houses appeared, and they could make out a pub sign. It was called the Fox and Hounds, and had a thatched roof and a nice Old World feel to it.

  Ben parked the bike under an overhang in the courtyard, and they sprinted to the front door. When they came in, they were greeted by a low murmur of voices and saw several older men standing around the bar. A couple of dogs lay at their heels. The room had a beamed ceiling and an enormous fireplace. All eyes were on them as they approached the bar.

  “Been for a swim, have you, then,” the landlord asked in a strong Somerset accent. “My word, but you look like a couple of drowned rats.” He chuckled.

  “We were on a motorbike,” Ben said. “Would you possibly have rooms for the night?”

  “I’ve got just the one room,” the landlord said. “I don’t suppose you’ll mind that, will you?”

  Ben looked at Pamela. Before he could say anything, she gave a bright smile. “Of course not. That would be lovely.”

  “I’ll see if the missus can send up an airing rack to dry your clothes,” the landlord went on. “Should I bring up a couple of pints of beer or cider?”

  Ben looked at Pamela, and she said, “Cider for me, please. And something to eat?”

  The landlord frowned. “We don’t serve food anymore, not since rationing. But the wife has baked pasties, and I dare say we can spare a couple.”

  He led them up a creaky staircase to the room. It had an enormous double bed, piled high with quilts. As soon as the landlord closed the door, Pamela looked at it and laughed. “Talk about the Princess and the Pea.”

  “And you, being of noble birth, will undoubtedly be too uncomfortable to sleep.” Ben tried to sound lighthearted.

  “On the contrary, after all that fresh air, I shall sleep perfectly,” she said.

  “We should take off our wet clothes,” Ben said. “Do you want me to wait outside while you change?” His face was red with embarrassment.

  “I’m not too badly soaked,” Pamela said. “My legs were under the canopy of the sidecar. And my blouse was only wet around the collar. My jacket, however, is a disaster.” She took it off and draped it over the back of a chair. “You, on the other hand . . .” She looked at him and laughed.

  “Quite damp, I’d say.” He laughed, too.

  “Go on. Take them off. I won’t look,” she said.

  Ben stripped to his underwear and wrapped himself in a towel that was hanging on the rack.

  “You take the bed. I’ll curl up in that chair,” he said, not looking at her.

  “You certainly won’t. There is room for both of us,” she said. “You need a good night’s sleep as much as I do.”

  There was a tap at the door, and a landlady appeared with glasses of cider and two pasties.

  “Give me the wet things, and I’ll put them in the airing cupboard,” she said, then gave them a bright smile and left.

  The cider and pasties went down remarkably quickly, then Pamela climbed up into the bed, and Ben turned the light out before sliding in beside her. “Are you sure this is all right?” he asked.

  Pamela put a hand on his arm. “Oh, Ben. You are so sweet. I feel perfectly safe with you. You’re like the brother I never had.”

  “Good,” Ben said. He didn’t mean it.

  They lay there in darkness, listening to the drumming of rain and the distant growl of thunder.

  “I never felt safe with Jeremy,” Pamela said suddenly. “I suppose that was part of the attraction—that he was not quite safe. Flirting with danger, you know. He wanted to make love to me, but I wouldn’t let him.” There was silence again, then she blurted out, “I was wondering. Do you think I might be frigid?”

  “I hope you’re not suggesting that I prove otherwise right now,” Ben said, with an uneasy laugh.

  She laughed, too. “Oh no, of course not. It’s just that I’ve been wondering ever since. And feeling guilty. If I’d given Jeremy what he wanted, he’d never have seduced Dido.”

  “I don’t think Dido needed much seducing,” Ben said. “You, on the other hand, would want everything to be right before you committed yourself. That’s the way you are.”

  “You understand me so well,” she said. And she laid her head on his shoulder. He could hear his heart beating, horribly conscious of her nearness, the cool touch of her skin. The brother she never had, he muttered to himself. She fell asleep quickly, and he lay listening to her breathing.

  They woke to a deafening chorus of birds and sounds of activity outside. A farmer was driving cows past the window. A tractor was heading for the field. They looked at each other and smiled. “A little rumpled but hardly the worse for wear,” Pamela said.

  “You look splendid,” Ben said. “Would you go down and find my clothes, then we’ll get some breakfast and be off, shall we?”

  Down in the private bar, the landlady cooked them bacon, eggs, fried bread.

  “That was wonderful,” Pamela said. “After what we’ve been living on. My landlady is a horrible cook.”

  “You’re out on a little holiday then, are you? Before your young man goes back into uniform?”

  “That’s right,” Pamela said. “And we were interested in that hill over there. Does it have any sort of special history?”

  “What, Church Hill, you mean?” The landlady asked.

  “Is that its name?” Ben asked sharply.

  “That’s how it’s always been known around here.”

  “What is it, Ben?” Pamela asked while the landlady cleared away their plates. “You’ve gone quite white.”

  “I was just looking at the calendar on the wall,” he said. “It’s the fourteenth of June. That makes the date 14, 6, 1941. Look at the numbers on the photograph. 1461. Today’s date. I think I know what it must mean now. This was an order from Germany to kill Churchill today.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  In Somerset

  “We must let somebody know right away.” Ben jumped up and headed for the door. “But who? My boss is away. Ten Downing Street. They’ll know where Mr. Churchill is. They can take precautions.” His heart was hammering, and he could hear himself babbling as he ran to catch up with the landlady. “Do you have a telephone?”

  “There’s a telephone box in the middle of the village outside the post offic
e,” she said.

  “I’ll collect our things. You go,” Pamela called.

  He ran down the street and stood in the telephone box, fumbling for coins. Did he have the right change? Surely the operator would connect him in a national emergency.

  “Number, please,” came the operator’s voice.

  “I need you to connect me with Ten Downing Street,” Ben said, trying to sound calm. “This is an emergency.”

  “Are you being funny?” she asked.

  “No, of course I am not being funny,” he snapped. “I am with MI5 and I’m stuck in the depths of Somerset, and it is imperative that I speak with someone immediately.” He was surprised at his own forcefulness.

  “Very good, sir. I’ll do what I can.” The woman sounded shaken.

  Ben waited impatiently, then a male voice came on the line. “Prime minister’s residence. How can I help you?”

  “Is the prime minister there?” Ben asked.

  “No, sir. I believe he spent the night in the war rooms,” the calm voice said.

  “Then please listen carefully,” Ben said. “My name is Benjamin Cresswell. I am an agent of MI5. My superiors will vouch for that, if necessary. But I have reason to believe there is a plot to assassinate the prime minister today.”

  “Sir, we get threats against the prime minister all the time,” said the patient voice. “Can you substantiate this? And why has this information not gone through the proper channels?”

  “Because my boss is away this weekend, and I can’t reach him. I have been following a lead that started with a dead German, and I’m standing in the middle of the bloody Somerset countryside. And I thought you might like to know.” Ben heard himself shouting.

  “Can you give me details?”

  “Obviously not over a public phone line where any number of people may be listening in,” Ben said. “But I suggest he stays put in the war rooms today.”

  “The prime minister is scheduled to attend a ceremony at Biggin Hill Aerodrome,” the voice said. “I’m sure he will not change his plans because of an unsubstantiated threat. And he will be at an aerodrome. Where could he be better protected?”

  “I’ve done my part,” Ben said as frustration boiled over. “I have warned you. If you choose to disregard my warning, upon your head be it.”

  “Look, I’ll advise the prime minister’s security detail to be armed and extra vigilant,” the voice said. “But if you think the PM would ever stay home like a frightened rabbit because of a threat against his life, then you don’t know Churchill.”

  Ben put the receiver down and walked back to Pamela.

  “Have they told the prime minister? Will they take steps?” she asked him.

  “I’m not sure.” Ben sighed. “I don’t know what else to do.”

  She touched his arm. “You’ve done your part. You were the one who worked out the plot against him.”

  “But all of that is no use if he gets shot anyway, is it? Bloody fools. So damned complacent. What else can I do? Telephone Biggin Hill, I suppose, and go there ourselves as quickly as possible. With any luck we’ll get there before it’s too late.”

  Phoebe awoke early, feeling excited and restless. It wasn’t just the garden party and her mother’s anxiety that all would go smoothly. Something else was going on. Why had Ben and Pamela left in a hurry on a motorbike right when Margot came home? She felt sorry for Pamela’s friend, brought here and then abandoned while they went off without her. And then there was the telephone call she had overheard the night before. Someone in Pah’s study making a phone call late at night. A woman’s voice, but Phoebe couldn’t hear what was being said through the thick wood of the door. Then Soames had come past, and she’d had to go up to bed. A morning ride, that’s what she needed.

  She put on her jodhpurs and riding boots, grabbed her crash cap, and went down to the stables. Old Jackson was already up and about. Phoebe paused and stared up at Miss Gumble’s window. Was she already awake? Would she report that Phoebe had gone out riding without permission?

  “Saddle up Snowball, please, Jackson,” Phoebe said.

  “Is the master all right with you taking her out alone?” he asked.

  “I’ll be good and not gallop and not jump over logs,” she said. “But she hasn’t been exercised enough lately, and she’s getting fat.”

  “That’s true enough,” he agreed. “Do you want me to come with you?”

  “No, you’ll make me walk too slowly,” she said.

  He grinned. “Well, I don’t suppose any harm will come to you. You’re a grand little rider, I’ll say that for you. A credit to your family.”

  Phoebe beamed and glanced up at Miss Gumble’s window again.

  “You don’t need to worry about her,” Jackson said. “She went out hours ago. Off on one of them bird-watching expeditions with her binoculars round her neck.”

  Phoebe mounted her pony, and they set off. Once out of sight of the house, she urged Snowball into a canter, enjoying the feel of the early-morning breeze in her face. She hoped she might meet Alfie in the fields, but there was no sign of him. She directed Snowball closer to the woods and the gamekeeper’s lodge, but again saw nothing. She was on a bridle path through a stand of trees when she heard the sound of a motor vehicle driving up the track beyond a thick stand of rhododendron bushes. It didn’t sound like a big army lorry, and she tried to get a glimpse of it, but the shrubbery was too thick. She heard the motor stop. Then she heard a voice.

  “You got my message, then?”

  It was low, hardly more than a whisper, but clearly a woman’s.

  “What’s wrong?” This time a man’s voice.

  “I can’t go through with it.”

  “You have to. It’s all planned. You can’t back out now.”

  “But I can’t do it.”

  “You have to. Obviously, I can’t do it now, so it’s up to you. You agreed.”

  “Please don’t ask me to do this.”

  “You know the consequences if you don’t see it through.”

  Phoebe thought she heard a sob. The voice dropped to a mutter. Phoebe wanted to urge the horse forward but was scared that the chinking of the bit would give her away.

  Then she heard clearly. “Here’s the gun. Already loaded. Take it. Don’t let us down.”

  Then a car door shut, and she heard the sound of an engine reversing. She looked for a way through the bushes, but the undergrowth was too thick to take a pony through. By the time she had found a way around, the track was deserted and only tyre marks indicated that the scene had just happened.

  Phoebe’s heart was racing. She had enjoyed her sleuthing and spycatching with Alfie, but that had been more of a game than anything. Now a loaded gun had been passed from one person to another. And that person was frightened. Who were they, and what were they doing meeting at Farleigh? She needed to tell somebody. If she went to Pah, he probably wouldn’t believe her. Mah wouldn’t be interested. She could have told Pamma, but she was away. And Miss Gumble was out bird-watching for the day. What did it say on that poster with the seven rules on it? Report anything suspicious to the authorities. That, likely, meant the village constable. She didn’t think he was very bright, but he could at least pass the information along to the right people.

  She had to find Alfie and tell him. He’d believe her. She rode back to the gamekeeper’s lodge, dismounted, and tied Snowball’s bridle to a tree branch. Mrs. Robbins looked uneasy and embarrassed as she opened the door.

  “Oh, your ladyship, is something the matter? Mr. Robbins was having a bit of a lie-in this morning. He’s still in his nightclothes, and we’re not really ready to receive visitors.”

  “I’m sorry, but is Alfie awake? I’d like a word with him,” Phoebe said.

  “He’s in the kitchen, having his breakfast. I’ll go and get him for you,” she said.

  Phoebe waited, and soon Alfie appeared, wiping his mouth. “Smashing porridge she makes. She’s a good cook all right.” He grinned.
“What’s up? You look worried.”

  “I am worried,” Phoebe said. “I don’t quite know what to do. I was out riding, and I heard a car driving up that old track behind the rhododendrons, and then I heard voices. One was a woman and she was frightened, and the man said she had to do something and gave her a loaded gun.”

  “Blimey,” Alfie said. “Who was it?”

  “That’s the problem. I was on Snowball, and the bushes are so thick there. By the time I found a way around, they’d both gone. So what do you think we should do?”

  “Tell your dad, of course.”

  “I suppose so. But he’d think I misheard or was making it up. I was wondering whether we should go to Constable Jarvis.”

  “Him? He’s as thick as a plank.” Alfie looked scornful.

  “But he is the authorities, isn’t he? My father probably wouldn’t believe me, and my mother wouldn’t listen, and Pamma’s away.”

  Alfie nodded. “All right. We’ll go and see Constable Jarvis. But let me finish my breakfast first.”

  “Alfie, this is urgent,” Phoebe said. “Get dressed. I’ll take Snowball back to the stables and meet you down here in half an hour.”

  She urged Snowball into a reluctant canter all the way back, swung herself down, and handed over the pony to the groom.

  “Is Miss Gumble back yet?” she asked.

  “Ain’t seen hide nor hair of her, your ladyship,” the groom said.

  “Oh.” The thought had just come to Phoebe that Miss Gumble would be the right person to tell. She would take Phoebe seriously and know the right thing to do. But as she walked up the steps into the house, another horrifying thought struck her. Ben Cresswell had been suspicious about Miss Gumble, hadn’t he? He’d asked about her telescope and her papers. And Ben was a level-headed sort of chap, and he and Pamela had gone off somewhere in a hurry. That meant something was going on. Phoebe revised her plan. Perhaps she should go down to the vicarage and see if he had come back. If not, she’d write a note for him. He and Pamma would have to be back before the garden party at the very least. If anyone knew what to do, it would be Ben.