by Rhys Bowen
Table of Contents
PRAISE FOR RHYS BOWEN’S IN FARLEIGH FIELD “Well-crafted, thoroughly entertaining.” —Publishers Weekly “The skills Bowen brings . . . inform the plotting in this character-rich tale, which will be welcomed by her fans as well as by readers who enjoy fiction about the British home front.” —Booklist “In what could easily become a PBS show of its own, Bowen’s novel winningly details a World War II spy game.” —Library Journal “This novel will keep readers deeply involved until the end.” —Portland Book Review “In Farleigh Field delivers the same entertainment mixed with intellectual intrigue and realistic setting for which Bowen has earned awards and loyal fans.” —New York Journal of Books “Well-plotted and thoroughly entertaining . . . With characters who are so fully fleshed out, you can imagine meeting them on the street.” —Historical Novel Society “Through the character’s eyes, readers will be drawn into the era and begin to understand the sacrifices and hardships placed on English socie
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ALSO BY RHYS BOWEN In Farleigh Field CONSTABLE EVANS MYSTERIES Evans Above Evan Help Us Evanly Choirs Evan and Elle Evan Can Wait Evans to Betsy Evan Only Knows Evan’s Gate Evan Blessed Evanly Bodies MOLLY MURPHY MYSTERIES Murphy’s Law Death of Riley For the Love of Mike In Like Flynn Oh Danny Boy In Dublin’s Fair City Tell Me, Pretty Maiden In a Gilded Cage The Last Illusion Bless the Bride Hush Now, Don’t You Cry The Family Way City of Darkness and Light The Edge of Dreams Away in a Manger Time of Fog and Fire ROYAL SPYNESS MYSTERIES Her Royal Spyness A Royal Pain Royal Flush Royal Blood Naughty in Nice The Twelve Clues of Christmas Heirs and Graces Queen of Hearts Malice at the Palace Crowned and Dangerous On Her Majesty’s Frightfully Secret Service
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Text copyright © 2018 by Janet Quin-Harkin, writing as Rhys Bowen All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher. Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle www.apub.com Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates. ISBN-13: 9781503951822 (hardcover) ISBN-10: 1503951820 (hardcover) ISBN-13: 9781503951815 (paperback) ISBN-10: 1503951812 (paperback) Cover design by Shasti O’Leary Soudant First edition
This book is dedicated to Piero and Cajsa Baldini, who made my recent Tuscan experience so wonderful and provided insights for this book that only natives of the area could give me. My thanks as always to my brilliant agents, Meg Ruley and Christina Hogrebe; the whole team at Jane Rotrosen; and most especially to Danielle and the whole team at Lake Union, who gave me the chance to write the book I had always dreamed of writing! And finally, as always, to John for his love and support.
CONTENTS CHAPTER ONE HUGO CHAPTER TWO JOANNA CHAPTER THREE JOANNA CHAPTER FOUR HUGO CHAPTER FIVE JOANNA CHAPTER SIX HUGO CHAPTER SEVEN JOANNA CHAPTER EIGHT JOANNA CHAPTER NINE JOANNA CHAPTER TEN HUGO CHAPTER ELEVEN JOANNA CHAPTER TWELVE JOANNA CHAPTER THIRTEEN HUGO CHAPTER FOURTEEN JOANNA CHAPTER FIFTEEN JOANNA CHAPTER SIXTEEN HUGO CHAPTER SEVENTEEN JOANNA CHAPTER EIGHTEEN HUGO CHAPTER NINETEEN JOANNA CHAPTER TWENTY JOANNA CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE HUGO CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO JOANNA CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE JOANNA CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR JOANNA CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE HUGO CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX JOANNA CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN HUGO CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT JOANNA CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE JOANNA CHAPTER THIRTY HUGO CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE JOANNA CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO JOANNA CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE HUGO CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR HUGO CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE JOANNA CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX JOANNA CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN HUGO CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT JOANNA CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE JOANNA CHAPTER FORTY HUGO CHAPTER FORTY-ONE HUGO CHAPTER FORTY-TWO JOANNA AUTHOR’S NOT
CHAPTER ONE HUGO December 1944 He was going to die, that was quite obvious. Hugo Langley tried to examine this fact dispassionately. The left wing of the Blenheim bomber was on fire and flames licked at the cabin. Behind him, his navigator, Flight Lieutenant Phipps, lay slumped forward over his instruments. A trickle of blood ran down one side of his face, seeping from under his flight helmet. And Gunner Blackburn was already dead, shot in the rear gun bay by the first wave of Messerschmitts. Hugo wasn’t sure whether he himself had been hit. Adrenaline was still pumping so violently through his system that it was hard to tell. He stared down at his blood-spattered trousers, wondering if the blood was his own or came from Phipps. “Bugger,” he muttered. He hadn’t wanted it to end this way, this soon. He had looked forward to inheriting Langley Hall and the title someday, enjoying the status in the neighbourhood as the squire, Sir Hugo Langley. He thought briefly of his wife and son and f
CHAPTER TWO JOANNA Surrey, England, April 1973 I had never thought of my father as anything but old—old and bitter, remote and resigned, one who had long ago given up on the world. In my memory, his hair had always been grey. His face was deeply etched with lines that gave him a perpetual scowl, even when he was thinking happy thoughts, which certainly wasn’t often, and he walked with a bit of a limp. So it was not a complete shock to me when I received the telegram notifying me of his death. What did shock me was to learn that he was only sixty-four. I fought with conflicting emotions as I walked along the lane leading to Langley Hall. The countryside was bursting with spring glory. The banks were dotted with primroses. The first bluebells were appearing in the woodland beyond. The horse chestnuts that bordered the lane were sprouting their first bright green leaves. I found myself glancing up instinctively and thinking about conkers—the shiny brown horse chestnut seeds that would com
CHAPTER THREE JOANNA April 1973 I heard the bell echoing through the foyer, and then, after a long interval, the door opened, revealing Miss Honeywell herself. I had been expecting a porter or a maid and took an involuntary step backward when I saw that face. As always, her face was a perfect mask of makeup, her eyebrows plucked and drawn in as thin brown lines, and her hair, now greyer than I remembered, had been permed into perfect layers. What I had not been expecting was for her to be wearing slacks and an open-necked shirt. During the school year, I remembered her as wearing a tailored suit in winter with a gold pin on her lapel, and in summer a crisp linen dress and pearls. She, too, looked startled for a second, then her face broke into a smile. “Joanna, my dear. I hadn’t expected you so soon.” “I came as soon as I received the telegram.” “I wasn’t sure we were sending it to the right place. Your father had several addresses for you, but we thought the firm of solicitors would f
CHAPTER FOUR HUGO December 1944 He came to with a start as something tickled his cheek. He brushed at it in alarm and saw it was only a stalk of grass bent over by the wind. He propped himself up, taking in the cold, damp soil around him, the rows of neat olive trees stretching up the hillside. It was still not quite light, but from what he could make out, the sky above him was leaden grey, heavy with the promise of rain. There was already a fine, misty drizzle coating him with a layer of moisture. He felt a tug jerk him over backward and almost cried out in alarm until he realised he was still attached to his parachute that now lay flapping on the ground like some kind of wounded bird. He fumbled at the catch, the gloves on his hands making his fingers clumsy, and eventually felt it release. He pulled away the harness and tried to sit up. His head swam with nausea as he looked around, trying to make his brain obey him and decide what course of action he should take. The parachute bill
CHAPTER FIVE JOANNA April 1973 Miss Honeywell and I parted company amicably. She even invited me to come and have a glass of sherry with her that evening if I was going to be alone in the lodge. I thanked her courteously but part of me was dying to shout out, “You old h
ypocrite. Do you not remember how foul you were to me?” I had always suspected she resented the fact that my father had a title and so no matter what else was taken from him she still had to call him Sir Hugo. I’m sure it rankled. I walked slowly back up the drive, conscious of the sweet scent of the hyacinth and narcissus blooming on either side and the smell of newly cut grass that wafted from where the mower had been working. I hesitated outside the front door of the lodge, suddenly not wanting to go in and see what had become of my father’s life. I had not come home frequently after I’d left school. Father and I found conversation awkward, and things sometimes devolved into arguments or even shouting matches, so we t
CHAPTER SIX HUGO December 1944 They came out of the trees to find the ground rising steeply before them through the mist—first a grassy knoll and then a rocky crag topped with what looked like an old, ruined building. A flight of ancient, worn stone steps had been cut through the grass, then a steeper flight ascended the rock to the remains of some buildings. At least that clearly used to be the case, but part of the rock had been destroyed, and the steps now clung precariously to the side of a sheer drop. At the foot of the flight was a post with the words “Pericolo. Ingresso Vietato.” Danger. Entrance Forbidden. “It doesn’t look as if the monks have been here for a long time,” Hugo said. “Two years now.” Hugo had been thinking it was an old ruin. “Two years?” “It was bombed by the Allies.” He reacted in horror. “We bombed a monastery?” She nodded. “It was necessary. The Germans had taken it over and were using it as a lookout point. They brought big guns up here to shoot at passing a
CHAPTER SEVEN JOANNA April 1973 The funeral was held on a rainy Tuesday. The weather had looked promising over the weekend, but on Monday afternoon it clouded over again, and by nightfall the rain had begun. At the time of the funeral it was a bleak and blustery day. I hadn’t expected anybody to come but was surprised by the number of local people who filled the pews and later stood around the grave with me while the rain dripped from our umbrellas and on to the coffin. It seemed a fitting send-off for my father that the heavens were weeping for him. Afterward, the vicar’s wife and Billy Overton’s bakery had prepared a fine spread in the church hall. One person after another came up to me to express condolences. Some of them I knew, others were complete strangers, but they all had some association to Langley Hall and my family. “And my mother was in service at the Hall when she was a girl, and she always said how kind the old squire was to her when she got scarlet fever.” Similar stori
CHAPTER EIGHT JOANNA April 1973 The next day, I was about to leave to catch the train to Godalming when there was a tap at the door. Two burly men stood there carrying a trunk between them. “Where do you want it, miss?” one of them asked. Seeing my surprise, the other added, “It’s from the attic. Miss Honeywell told us to bring down your things.” “Oh, I see. Thank you. This way, please,” I stammered. I led them through to the sitting room. “There’s some pictures, too. We’ll be back,” the one who spoke first said. “I have to leave now to catch a train,” I said. “Just put them in the sitting room with the trunk, would you?” And I left. Barton and Holcroft’s offices were in an elegant Georgian building at one end of Godalming High Street. Nigel Barton appeared from an inner office before I could announce myself. “We’ll be back in an hour, Sandra,” he said to the receptionist. He ushered me out of the door, down the street, and into The Boar’s Head. It was one of those quaint old pubs with
CHAPTER NINE JOANNA April 1973 I don’t know how long I sat there staring at the flimsy sheet of airmail paper. Having grown up as an only child, I was shocked to discover in one day that I might have two brothers in other parts of the world. If this one had survived, I thought. Perhaps he had been hidden with a kind family in the hills, to be reunited with his mother when hostilities ceased. That is what I tried to believe. But now I was dying to know more. My father never spoke of his wartime experiences, but I knew from my mother that he had been a pilot with the RAF and terribly brave, flying missions over occupied Europe until he was shot down and nearly died. I hadn’t even known this happened over Italy. One didn’t tend to think of Italy as a scene of bombing missions. I turned away in frustration. If only I had known about this before he had died, I could have asked him. I could have found out the truth. Now I’d have to fish it out for myself. I finished going through the two tru
CHAPTER TEN HUGO December 1944 After Sofia had gone, Hugo sat holding the bandage over his wound for a long while until gradually he felt the morphine starting to work. There was still some water left in the battered tin mug, and he drank it gratefully, then remembered the chestnuts she had left for him. He peeled off the prickly casings and ate their contents. They weren’t as satisfying as the roasted chestnuts at home, but they were edible. The rain was starting to drip on to him, and Hugo realised he would need to concoct some kind of shelter for himself before the rain got any worse. He used the last of the bandages to hold a pad around his wound and pulled his trousers back up, in spite of Sofia’s admonition. He wasn’t about to be caught by Germans with his trousers down! Then he stood up, reaching for the stick that acted as his crutch. The morphine was working well and he felt only faint stabs of pain as he moved forward cautiously. The first thing he did was relieve himself. Af
CHAPTER ELEVEN JOANNA June 1973 It was the beginning of June when I got out of the train in Florence. Back home in England it had been dull and drizzling for days. People had muttered about how late summer was this year, and there had been news reports of early crops being flattened by hail. Here the sky was a brilliant blue—the blue that my father had painted all those years ago. The ochres and terra cottas of the buildings with their bright red tiles glowed in the rich light. I stood looking around me, taking in the people, their faces alive and animated, not trudging with heads down against the wind as they did in London. There was the dome of the cathedral, taller than every other building. And beyond it the hills rose, clothed in forest. It was so lovely it almost took my breath away. I felt incredibly free, as if I was a butterfly just released from my cocoon. To her credit Scarlet had not thought I was completely mad when I announced that I was going to Italy to find out what ha
CHAPTER TWELVE JOANNA June 1973 On the side of the piazza, a narrow alley dipped down between a greengrocer’s with a wonderful display of fruit and vegetables outside and what looked like a wine shop on the other side. Then it entered a tunnel. I hesitated, wondering if this was some kind of local joke and God knows what I’d find at the other end of that tunnel, or even if it actually led anywhere. Was it a route to a dungeon? A cellar? But I could still feel their eyes on me, and I was not going to give them the satisfaction of seeing my fear. I stepped forward bravely. The floor was made of large cobblestones, the walls hewn out of the stone of the hillside. And after the tunnel turned a corner, I saw that one side had openings to the view while the other had what looked like wine cellars. I came through the tunnel without incident and followed the path that dipped steeply into the valley. The village came to an abrupt halt after only a couple of rows of houses, and I took the track
CHAPTER THIRTEEN HUGO December 1944 Hugo had a cold and uncomfortable night. His leg throbbed and sent pain shooting through him every time he tried to move, and the blanket did little to shield him from the damp cold that rose up from the stone floor. He took a small sip of the grappa, and it spread like fire through his veins for a while. He felt in his breast pocket and retrieved his cigarettes and lighter, then lay back smoking one, conscious that the tiny circle of glowing tobacco did nothing to dispel the darkness around him. But at least the inhaled smoke calmed his nerves. He was glad to see the first streaks of daylight and to hear that distant rooster welcoming the dawn. He nibbled a little of the polenta and cheese, leaving the onion for later, then forced himself to go outside and find a place to heed the call of nature. It was a clear, crisp day with occasional white clouds racing across the sky from the west. He managed to hobble out to the rain barrel, wincing with every
CHAPTER FOURTEEN JOANNA June 1973 My heart beat faster. She’d left a baby son behind. The beautiful boy. He might still be here. I took a deep breath and formed the sentence in my head before I asked, “So this son of Sofia, is he still in the village?” Paola nodded, smiling. “Yes, of course. He was taken in by Cosimo and raised as his own son.” “Cosimo?” The smile faded from her face. “Cosimo di Georgio, the richest man in our community. He owns much land around here. He would like to buy my olive grove. His aim is to control all the olive trees, but I do not wish to sell. But here he is respected as well as feared. In the war he was a hero, a partisan fighter—the only one to survive a massacre by the Germans. He had to lie there among the bodies, pretending to be dead, while the soldiers went around with bayonets. Can you imagine that?” “So he adopted Sofia’s child?” I asked. She nodded. “Yes, and lucky for the boy that was. Guido and Sofia, they were poor like the rest of us, but now
CHAPTER FIFTEEN JOANNA June 1973 Two men were walking together into the piazza. One was a big bull of a middle-aged man, powerfully built with the grey curly hair and profile of the Roman Caesars. Yet in spite of his powerful appearance, he walked with a stick. The other was tall, muscular, and remarkably good-looking. He had the same strong chin, dark eyes, and mass of unruly, dark curls. He was wearing a white shirt, opened several buttons down to reveal a tanned chest, and dark, form-fitting trousers. The effect was of a Romantic poet, although rather more healthy-looking. A fleeting thought crossed my mind that it would be highly unfair if the most attractive man I had ever seen turned out to be my brother—until I reminded myself that I had sworn off men. I kept staring at him, trying to see any hint of my father in him. But he was nothing like my slim and fair-haired father. I was wondering what to say to them when one of the men called out, “This young English lady is asking abou
CHAPTER SIXTEEN HUGO December 1944 In the middle of the night Hugo awoke with teeth chattering. His whole body was shivering and shaking. He sat up and felt around for Guido’s shirt that he had stuffed into the parachute bag under his head. It took him a while to extricate it, take off his bomber jacket, then put the shirt on. It smelled of damp sheep but was actually nicely dry. By the time he got the jacket on again he could not control the shaking. He tried to huddle himself into a ball, but it was impossible with his splinted leg. The shaking finally ceased, leaving him exhausted and drenched with sweat. It was all he could do to stop himself from tearing off his leather jacket. He passed into black dreams. He was flying and was surrounded by mosquitoes trying to bite him. Then the mosquitoes turned into German planes, tiny vicious planes zooming around his head as he batted at them ineffectively. “Go away!” he shouted into the darkness. “Leave me alone.” Then the planes turned int