by Rhys Bowen
“I’m sure she could find a job less dramatic than one in a factory,” Ben said. “Couldn’t you find someone to take her on where you work? They always seem to need extra girls for office work, don’t they? She could billet with you.”
“Unfortunately, I’m already sharing a room with a pal,” she said. “What about your ministry? Could you do something for her? She could probably take the train up to London every day if she had a job. Pah might not object to that.”
“We work shifts, that’s the problem. She wouldn’t be able to find a train up to London in the middle of the night, and I’m sure your father wouldn’t want her walking around in the blackout. It’s hard enough for me, and I simply have to get to the nearest Underground station.”
Pamela made a face. “I know. I work shifts, too. It’s beastly, isn’t it? My body never gets used to night shifts, and I feel awful with no sleep.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Ben said. “Actually, that’s why I was lucky enough to get some leave. They said I’d been overdoing it.”
There was a snort from one of the elderly women by the window. “Overdoing it,” she said, turning to glare at Ben. “You want to try being out in the desert like my grandson. Fighting Rommel, that’s what he’s doing. Not sitting comfortably in an office in London.”
“That’s enough, Tessie.” The other woman reached across to rest a hand on her friend’s. She looked across at Ben and Pamela. “She’s had a shock. Her son’s just been called up—at thirty-nine years old. She’s only got the one son.”
“I’m sorry,” Ben said, “but . . .”
“Mr. Cresswell survived a very bad aeroplane crash,” Pamela said angrily. “Show them your leg, Ben.”
The first woman went bright red. “Oh, I’m sorry. I spoke out of turn. I’m upset, you see. This war’s making all of us on edge, all of the time.”
There was an embarrassed silence in the compartment.
“The boys where I work get the same thing,” Pamela muttered to Ben. “It’s so unfair. Not everybody needs to carry a gun. Wars can’t be won without the right kind of support.”
“Sometimes I’m tempted to go out and buy a uniform,” he said. “It would certainly make things easier.”
“Until they asked to see your identity discs and you weren’t wearing any.”
Identity discs, Ben thought. That parachutist would have been found out as soon as any military police stopped him and asked for his number. So he definitely wasn’t planning to go far. Max Knight was right. His contact had to be in the immediate neighbourhood.
They changed trains in Sevenoaks and waited for the local train to go one stop to Hildenborough.
“It’s a long walk from the station these days,” Ben said. “It’s too bad trains stopped calling at Farleigh Halt.”
Pamela laughed. “We can’t expect trains to stop just for us during wartime, Ben. At this moment being an aristocrat means nothing, and quite right, too. Suddenly, we’re all equal.”
“Is someone coming to pick you up?” Ben looked around for a waiting car.
Pamela shook her head. “I didn’t tell them I was coming. I thought I’d surprise them. Everyone needs the occasional nice surprise these days, don’t they?”
“I didn’t tell my father I was coming, either. Are you up to a couple of miles with a suitcase? I can carry it for you if you like.”
“You have your own bag,” she said. “And I’m fit enough to do it. We do a lot of bike riding to get around where I work. It’s a glorious day, isn’t it? A walk through the countryside is just what the doctor ordered.”
“It’s certainly nice to breathe good fresh air again,” Ben said as they set off down a lane. “The air in London is perpetually full of smoke and dust from bombs.”
“I’m lucky. I’m out in the country, and I have fields and trees around me.”
“Where exactly did you say you are?” he asked.
“About an hour north of London. We’ve taken over a big house. Definitely not as pretty as Farleigh.”
“Some of our boys are being sent out to Blenheim Palace.”
“Golly. That’s quite a step up for most people, isn’t it?”
Ben laughed. “I gather from reports that it isn’t particularly comfortable. They’ve partitioned it into horrible plywood cubicles, and there is no heat, and bats inhabit the top floor.”
“Sounds lovely.” She looked up at him, and his eyes held hers for a moment. He had awfully nice eyes, she thought suddenly. That deep greeny blue, like looking into the ocean. Strange that she’d never noticed before. “I’m so glad to see you again,” she said at last. “You never change. I feel as if you’re dear Ben, steady as a rock. Always there for me.”
“That’s me. Good old Ben,” he said, then regretted his sarcasm. “But yes, I am always there whenever you need me.”
She reached across and slipped her hand into his. They walked side by side in silence while larks rose from new hayfields, singing overhead, and the scent of apple blossom was sweet in the air.
“Will you come and see Jeremy with me this afternoon?” she asked eventually, breaking the spell.
“I said I would. Why don’t we both stop off at my father’s place and have something to drink, then I’ll carry your case the rest of the way to Farleigh with you.”
“Lovely.” She gave him that dazzling smile again.
CHAPTER TEN
All Saints vicarage, Elmsleigh, Kent
May 1941
The vicarage was a big redbrick Victorian building at the edge of the churchyard. They passed the weatherworn gravestones, and Ben let himself in at the front door. It was never locked.
“Well, I never. Mr. Ben!” Mrs. Finch threw up her hands in surprise, coming out of the kitchen at the sound of the door closing. Then the look of surprise turned to astonishment. “And Lady Pamela, too. It’s good to see you, your ladyship.”
“How are you, Mrs. Finch?” Pamela asked.
“Can’t complain, your ladyship. We’re getting along as well as can be expected. A lot better than the poor blighters in London, getting bombed every night. And we don’t do too badly for food, either. I’ve got a good little kitchen garden going out back, and the two hens provide us with eggs when the rats or foxes don’t get at them first. Added to that, everyone’s fond of the vicar around here, and we often find the odd bit of meat or fish on the doorstep. I shouldn’t be surprised if they are not illegal or even black market, but of course I don’t tell the vicar. What he don’t know can’t hurt him.”
And then she chuckled. “You’re in luck today, as it happens. We were given a brace of pigeons yesterday, and I’ve made pigeon pie. I’m just about to get the vicar’s dinner for him, so why don’t you stay to join us, your ladyship?”
She still called it dinner, although the vicar had tried to educate her for years that the working classes had their dinner at midday, but the upper classes had luncheon.
“I really should be getting home. The family will be waiting to see me,” Pamela said.
Without thinking, Ben covered her hand with his own. “Do stay,” he said. “If the stuff you’ve been eating is anything like the stodge from our cafeteria, then I can assure you that Mrs. Finch’s pigeon pie will seem like manna from heaven.”
Pamela did not withdraw her hand. Instead, she smiled. “After a buildup like that, how could I resist? Thank you, Mrs. Finch.” She looked around at the well-worn oak furniture, highly polished for years by Mrs. Finch and by the housekeepers who came before her. Then her gaze moved from the view out of the window across the fields to where she glimpsed the shape of Farleigh rising above the trees. And she thought, This is where I feel safe.
Reverend Cresswell came up the path from the church just as Mrs. Finch was laying the table. A smile crossed his tired face. “Well, this is a nice surprise, my boy. We had no idea you were coming.”
“It was all very last minute,” Ben said, going over to shake hands with his father. “Someone decid
ed I was due for a few days’ leave, so here I am.”
“And Pamela, too.” He turned to smile at her, then examined her critically. “Looking a bit peaky, my dear.”
“It’s night shifts. I can’t seem to sleep during the daytime.”
“Of course you can’t. But a few days here will have you right as rain. Good food. Country air. You can put the war aside for a few days. It’s just as it always was out here.”
“Apart from an army regiment living in my house,” Pamela reminded him.
“And that body in your field,” Mrs. Finch said as she put the pie on a trivet on the dining table.
“Body? In a field?” Pamela asked.
“A parachutist whose chute didn’t open,” Mrs. Finch said with great relish. “They say he was an awful mess.”
“How terrible for him. Who was he?”
Mrs. Finch leaned closer. “He was wearing an army uniform, but it’s my belief he was one of them German spies. They say they’re everywhere these days. Even dressed up as nuns, if you can believe it.”
“Mrs. Finch, what have I told you about gossip?” Reverend Cresswell said. “Remember the posters: ‘Careless Talk Costs Lives.’ We have no reason to believe this poor man was anything more than the victim of a training exercise gone wrong. I protested when they had him taken away. I’d like to have given him a decent burial.”
Leaning forward to cut into the piecrust, he was clearly dismissing the matter. The rich aroma of herbs came out, and he nodded in satisfaction. “Now that’s what I call a proper meal. Give me your plate, young lady, and you’ll have some real food for the first time in ages.”
They ate until they were full. The flaky crust covered a succulent portion of young bird in rich herb gravy and was accompanied by cauliflower with a white sauce, then followed by stewed apples and custard.
“I really should be getting on home.” Pamela stood up. “But I’m dying to see Jeremy. I don’t suppose the family will mind much if I go over to Nethercote first. I didn’t tell them exactly when I’d be arriving. And you said you’d come with me, Ben.” She looked at him appealingly.
“If you want me to.” He stood up also, placing his napkin on the table. “All right with you, Father, if I walk Pamma over to Nethercote?”
“You don’t have to ask my permission, my boy. You’re a grown man now. If Pamela wants you with her when she goes to visit her young man, then by all means.”
Ben reacted to the words her young man as if they were a punch in the gut. He knew they were true, of course. They had always been true. But he’d always had hope, especially when Jeremy was reported missing. And now his job was to deliver Pamela back to his rival. He wondered if she realised, if she had any inkling of what he was feeling?
They set off through the village. The one street there was almost devoid of life. A bell tinkled as a woman came out of Markham’s General Store and Post Office with a basket over her arm. She greeted them with a polite nod. “Lady Pamela. Mr. Ben. Pleasant weather for the time of year, isn’t it?” And went on her way, as if their sudden return was nothing out of the ordinary. London and points beyond Sevenoaks were out of her sphere of experience and thus not of interest. From the school came the sound of children’s voices chanting a times table. A farm cart came toward them with a load of manure. They hadn’t spoken to each other since they left the vicarage. Now Pamela turned to him.
“Nothing changes here, does it? It’s just like it always was.”
“Except no young men,” he said.
She nodded.
They left the village behind them, and the road narrowed to a lane with a riot of flowers growing from the banks. As they came to the impressive wrought-iron gates at the entrance to the Prescotts’ home, Nethercote, Pamela suddenly froze.
“I suppose it’s all right to go in uninvited? Should we have telephoned first to let them know we were coming?”
“When did we ever need to wait for an invitation to Jeremy’s house?” Ben had to laugh.
“But things are different now,” she said, her forehead creased into a worried frown. “Jeremy’s home from a prison camp. He may not want to . . . to see us.”
Ben took a deep breath. “It’s my belief that he’s been dreaming about seeing you again since the day he took off in that plane,” he said.
She flashed him a nervous smile.
“And if we are told that he’s not up to visitors, then we go away.”
“Ben, I’m so glad you’re here,” she said. “I would have flunked it and run off like a frightened rabbit.”
“You’re never like a frightened rabbit, Pamma. You’re the strongest of any of us. Come on. Let’s go and surprise Jeremy.”
They passed through the gateway and walked up the broad gravel drive. The elegant Georgian house stood ahead of them, red brick with white trim, perfectly proportioned, with formal gardens on either side of the drive. The beds were a mass of tulips. Wisteria hung from trellises. The lawns were perfectly manicured. It was clear that gardeners were still at work here, war or no war.
As they approached the house, they saw an old bicycle, standing beside the front steps, looking out of place in the otherwise perfect scene. Ben was about to comment on it when the front door opened and Lady Diana Sutton came out.
“Of course I will. Thanks awfully. Bye,” she called, waving to an invisible person inside as she ran down the steps.
Then she saw Pamela and Ben. “Hello, you two. What a surprise!”
“What are you doing here, Dido?” Pamela asked in a clipped voice.
“Well, that’s what I call a warm welcome,” Dido said. “How about ‘It’s lovely to see you again after so long, dear sister’?”
“Well, of course I’m pleased to see you.” Pamela still sounded flustered. “It’s just that . . .”
“If you must know, I’ve been representing the family and visiting Jeremy to cheer him up.” She picked up the bicycle. “Somebody had to.”
Then she rode off without another word, her tyres scrunching on the gravel.
PART THREE
MARGOT
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Paris
May 1941
She had not realised before that fear had a smell. She had always been told that dogs can smell fear, but she’d never heard it said of humans. Yet, she identified it now—sweet and palpable—as she sat on the chair in a dark room. She was not sure whether the fear was coming from her own pores or was part of the building, oozing from the walls where so many people had felt terror and desperation. She had been blindfolded in the car that brought her here, but she did not need to be told where she was. She was in Gestapo headquarters, and they were leaving her alone in the darkness to break her spirit.
Lady Margot Sutton sat on the upright wooden chair, not moving, staring out into blackness. She had no idea how long she had been sitting there or whether it was light outside yet. Clearly, the room had no window because even with blackout curtains, there were always chinks of light. They had come for her in the middle of the night—two men, who said nothing more than “You must come with us, please” in English.
Her upbringing had kicked in. “What do you mean? Why should I come with you? I’ll do no such thing. It’s the middle of the night, and I was asleep.”
Then one of them said, “You will come with us now, Fräulein. We will give you one minute to put some clothes on.” He eyed her lacy robe with distaste.
It was the word Fräulein that did it. They were not in uniform, but they were Germans. That could mean only one thing. Gestapo. And one did not resist the Gestapo. All the same, she was not going to let them see she was afraid. Her aristocratic English background was her one trump card at the moment. The Germans respected the English aristocracy, having given up their own.
“This is most irregular,” she said, her voice becoming an imitation of Queen Victoria not amused. “On whose authority are you here? What can you possibly want with me?”
“We just obey orders,
Fräulein,” he said. “You will find out soon enough who wishes to speak to you.”
“I am not ‘Fräulein,’” she said. “I am Lady Margaret Sutton, daughter of Lord Westerham.”
“We know very well who you are.” The man’s face was expressionless. “One minute, Lady Margaret, or we will be forced to take you wearing your nightclothes.”
She fled back into her bedroom, mind racing. What should she take with her? The pistol Gaston had given her? No, her best chance was to convey innocence and indignation. And after all, I am innocent, she told herself. I know nothing. I can tell them nothing.
Thus reassured, she grabbed a black suit that had come from the House of Armande and put on a white blouse and pearls. She was not going to let those bastards see that she was in any way afraid of them. Then the thought crossed her mind: What if Gaston comes back to the flat and I’m not here? How could she let him know where she was?
“Lady Margaret?” a voice called outside her door.
“I’m just brushing my hair,” she called back. “Do I need to take a toothbrush with me, or will I be returning home immediately?”
“I suspect that’s up to you,” the voice said.
As she ran lipstick over her lips, she noticed Madame Armande’s card lying on her dressing table. She took the lipstick, printed “CALL HER” on the back and left it lying there. Gaston was quick on the uptake, and Armande knew everybody in Paris. She’d know how to find a missing Englishwoman. If I’m still alive by then, Margot thought.
It was cold and damp in that dark space where they had put her, and she felt an urgent need to pee. But she willed herself not to. Rumour had it that certain royal persons trained their bodies to go without bathrooms all day when on tours abroad. She thought she detected a shout in the distance. Or was it a cry? She couldn’t tell if it came from outside the building or inside. She stiffened when she heard footsteps coming closer—heavy footsteps of booted feet. They came very close, then passed, and she let out a small sigh of relief as they receded in the distance. She turned her mind to other things: Farleigh in the summer. Tennis on the lawn. Strawberries and cream. Pah, red-faced and wearing that ridiculous white floppy hat. Mah always looking cool and composed, no matter what her brood was doing. “Farleigh,” she whispered. “I want to go home.”
