In Farleigh Field: A Novel of World War II

by Rhys Bowen

  No family member was in sight as she went into the dining room and grabbed a hasty slice of toast, spreading marmalade on it and gulping it down. She wanted to pour herself a cup of tea, but she knew that if Pah came in, she’d be in trouble for coming to breakfast in riding gear. She looked up when she heard footsteps, but it was only Pamma’s friend Trixie who had come to help with the party. She looked pretty and elegant in a summery dress, and she smiled when she saw Phoebe.

  “Hello, young lady,” she said. “Going out riding? Lovely day for it. If I hadn’t signed up for hard labour today, I’d come and join you.”

  “Actually, I just got back,” Phoebe said. “I’m going down to the village with Alfie. Would you tell the others when you see them?”

  “Of course,” Trixie said. “Who is Alfie—your boyfriend?” She gave Phoebe a teasing smile.

  Phoebe blushed. “Of course not. He’s the gamekeeper’s boy. But we are friends. And we’ve an important job to do. Something I overheard that needs to be reported.”

  “Good for you.” Trixie nodded and smiled. “Only don’t stay away too long, or your mother will not be pleased. It’s all hands on deck today, as you very well know.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be back soon,” Phoebe said and hurried out.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  On the way back from Somerset

  Ben pushed the underpowered bike to its limits as he rode back to Kent. He gripped the handlebars, staring straight ahead with a look of grim determination on his face. What if they chose to ignore him? How could he possibly make it to Biggin Hill before the prime minister arrived? And if he was there in time, what on earth could he do?

  At least it promised to be a beautiful day, sparkling clear. Lady Westerham would be happy for her garden party, he thought. Of course, he had to get Pamma home for that. Another thing to worry about. Pamma would undoubtedly be chastised for not being there to help her mother prepare, but surely they’d all see that this was more important.

  They passed Stonehenge, left Hampshire behind, then through the genteel gardens of Surrey, arriving at Biggin Hill around noon. The gate was closed, and a guard walked out to them as Ben removed his goggles.

  “Sorry, the ceremony is already over,” he said.

  “Is the prime minister here?” Ben snapped out the words.

  “Already left, mate,” the guard said.

  Ben heaved a sigh of relief.

  “Is he going back to London?”

  The guard grinned. “He don’t tell me his plans, son. But I heard he wanted to pop in and see his house, seeing it’s so close by.”

  Chartwell, of course. A stone’s throw away, Ben thought. Should he go after the PM?

  “What was this ceremony?” Pamela asked, climbing out of the sidecar and stretching as she spoke.

  “Remembering our chaps who went down at the Battle of Britain last year. And presenting a few gongs, that’s all. Keeping up morale. There’s one of our chaps just made it back to Blighty after escaping from a German prison camp. What a tale he had to tell. He was the only one who survived an attempted breakout. He was shot and played dead, but managed to get all the way across Germany and France. The prime minister made a big fuss of him.”

  “We know him,” Pamela exclaimed. “He’s a good friend. Is he still here?”

  The guard looked around. “He was just saying good-bye to his family last time I saw,” he said. “Oh, there he is, over there. Hold on, I’ll get him for you. Oy, Gunner Davis. More friends to see you,” he shouted.

  A small, wiry man came toward them. He looked confused when he saw Ben and Pamma.

  “Yes? Can I help you?” he asked.

  “I’m sorry,” Ben said. “Our mistake. We thought you’d be our friend. Flight Lieutenant Prescott. He also escaped from a German prison camp recently.”

  “Prescott?” The man shook his head. “He’s back in England? Well, strike me pink. We all thought he was a goner.”

  “No, if it was the same prison camp, he survived the breakout by playing dead, just like you,” Pamela said. “He was wounded, but he made his way back to England. He was awfully brave, as I’m sure you were.”

  The man scratched his head, pushing his cap sideways. “That’s not right, miss. Lieutenant Prescott was in the same camp, but he wasn’t part of the breakout. He was taken away in a German staff car a couple of weeks before. Gestapo, I’m pretty sure. In fact, when the Jerries were waiting for us in the woods as we came out of the tunnel, I thought to myself that they’d tortured Prescott and he’d spilled the beans. So he made it home, did he? I wonder how he managed that? We thought he was a goner.”

  Ben looked at Pamela. Neither of them could find anything to say.

  “Thank you, Gunner Davis,” Pamela said at last. “And congratulations on your medal. Well deserved.”

  Ben looked at her with admiration. No wonder people respected the upper classes. She’d just had a second devastating blow, but she remained calm, poised, gracious. Confused thoughts were buzzing around in his head. If Jeremy had been taken away from the camp by the Germans, how on earth had he made it home? Escaping from a prison camp was one thing. Escaping from the Gestapo was something else. And why had he lied about being part of the breakout? Swimming down the river? Ben glanced at Pamela. The only way he could have escaped from the Gestapo would have been if they’d let him go. Ben felt sick and cold inside. Jeremy had been his friend all his life. It was hard to believe that he’d turned traitor. There had to be a good explanation.

  He collected himself. He had a job to do. “So the prime minister and all his entourage have left?”

  The gate guard nodded. “That’s right.”

  “And they are going to Chartwell?” Ben asked.

  “That was the original plan, so I heard. But Mr. Churchill called it off because he didn’t think it was right to open up the house just for him.”

  Gunner Davis was still standing nearby. “Just stopping by on their way to some garden party, I heard. Mrs. Churchill told Winston they shouldn’t dawdle, or the Westerhams would be annoyed if they were late.”

  Pamela’s face was ashen white as she climbed back into the sidecar.

  “I can’t believe it.” She turned away from Ben. “I thought I knew him. But I didn’t know him at all.” Then she started to say, “You don’t think that . . .” but she couldn’t finish the sentence.

  Phoebe and Alfie came out of the gate and headed toward the village.

  “Who do you think they are going to shoot with that gun?” Alfie asked.

  “Mr. Churchill, of course,” Phoebe said. “He’s coming here today for the garden party. We were right all along, Alfie. There must be a German spy in the neighbourhood. If only we could find out who it is.”

  “We can tell the grown-ups. Then it’s up to them,” Alfie said. “But the garden party should be pretty safe. They can put guards on the gate. It’s pretty bloody impossible to climb that wall.”

  “Your language still hasn’t improved,” Phoebe said primly. Then she looked at him. “But I’m glad you’re with me. I wouldn’t like to have to do this alone.”

  They stepped into the hedge and heard the sound of an approaching vehicle. It was a small white delivery van; it slowed to a halt beside them.

  “Where are you off to, young’uns?” Jeremy Prescott rolled down the window.

  “Oh, hello, Jeremy,” Phoebe said. “We’re going into the village to report something serious.”

  “Serious? Not a lack of champagne for the party, surely?” He laughed. “My father already sent over six bottles.”

  “No, really serious,” Alfie said. “Someone might be going to shoot the prime minister this afternoon.”

  “What? Is this some kind of joke?” Jeremy was still smiling.

  “No. Not a joke. It’s real,” Phoebe said.

  “How did you figure that one out?”

  “Phoebe overheard this morning.” Alfie moved closer to the van so that nobody could overhe
ar. “A man told a woman she had to do it, and he gave her a loaded gun and she was very upset.”

  “Good God. Really?” Jeremy was no longer smiling. “You’re right. This is serious stuff. We should go and tell the police right away.” He got out and came around the van. “Jump in. I’ll give you a lift.”

  He had opened the rear door. They scrambled into the back of the van. The door closed behind them.

  “Hey, don’t shut us in. It’s dark in here,” Alfie shouted, but the van was already driving off again.

  When it hadn’t slowed after a few minutes, Phoebe whispered to Alfie, “I don’t think we’re going to the police station, do you?”

  “No. We’d better get out of here next time it slows down. Okay?”

  “Yes, let’s. I have a really bad feeling about this.”

  She slid across to the door and ran her hands over it. “There doesn’t seem to be a way to open it from the inside,” she whispered. “Let’s bang and shout. Somebody will hear us.”

  “But he’ll hear in the front seat. He might come around and kill us,” Alfie said.

  “Oh, don’t be silly. This is Jeremy. I’ve known him all my life. He wouldn’t ever . . .” She paused. “I don’t think he’d kill us,” she said in a small voice.

  The van was being driven fast, throwing the children from side to side. At last it slowed and came to a halt. They felt it shake as the driver’s door slammed.

  “Now!” Alfie whispered to Phoebe. “Bang on the sides and shout. Ready, go.”

  “Help!” they shouted. “Let us out!” They banged with their fists on the sides of the van.

  Then Alfie noticed something. “He’s left the engine running,” he said. “We’d better hope we’re not in a garage, or we won’t last five minutes.”

  “Don’t say that!” Phoebe put her eye to the crack where the doors came together but could see nothing.

  Alfie gave a sudden sob. “Oh God,” he yelled. “Get me out of here!”

  He hammered on the door of the van.

  “Calm down,” Phoebe said primly. She put a hand on his back and felt him shaking.

  “I hate being shut in like this,” he said. “Ever since the door was blown in on the bomb shelter, and we couldn’t get out and everyone was screaming, and I thought we were going to die. I’ve got to get out . . .”

  Phoebe patted his shoulder. “It’s going to be all right, Alfie. We’ll find a way.”

  “How?”

  Phoebe looked around, trying to think of something to make him feel better. “You’re a Cockney,” she said. “Don’t people like you know how to pick locks?”

  “Not all people in London are criminals, you know.” He sounded miffed now, but at least he had stopped whimpering.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant that you’ve had to do things we never have. Look, I’ve got bobby pins in my hair,” she said. She took one out and handed it to him. “Give it a try.”

  She held her breath until he said, “It’s no use. The lock seems to be on the other side.”

  “Golly,” she sighed. “I can’t think what else to do, can you?”

  “Keep hoping, I suppose,” he said.

  “Oh, Pamela, there you are at last, you naughty girl,” Lady Westerham greeted her daughter as the motorbike pulled up outside Farleigh. “You promised you’d be here to help me. Margot and your friend have been stellar. So helpful. And Dido, too.”

  “I’m sorry, Mah. It was a matter of great importance, or I’d never have gone,” Pamela said. “A matter of national security.”

  “What on earth has national security to do with you?” Lady Westerham asked with disdain. “It’s no business of yours. Leave such things to the professionals. And for God’s sake, go and change before the guests arrive.”

  Ben was feeling a little better now that they were back at Farleigh. He had had a word with Colonel Pritchard, who did take him seriously but urged him not to worry. There were plenty of soldiers around. The gate could be guarded, the guests vetted before they came in. But what if the enemy was already inside the gate, Ben worried. He looked down at his rumpled trousers. He realised he was not dressed suitably for a garden party, but there was no time to go home and change. He would make sure he stayed out of sight, in the background, observing. As he walked around to the back lawn, he saw that chairs and tables had been placed under the large copper beech. A long table had been set up on the gravel beside the house. Champagne stood ready in buckets of ice. Plates of sandwiches and cakes were covered in white napkins. A large bowl of strawberries stood next to a jug of cream. Two maids were putting out teacups at one end while another carried out a tray of glasses.

  Trixie and Margot came out through open French doors, carrying a large flower arrangement between them. Trixie spotted Ben. “Oh, you’re back. Thank heavens. Lady Westerham was so annoyed. Are you all right?”

  “Yes, thank you,” he said. “I’m sorry we saddled you with all the work. Unavoidable. Caught in a rainstorm.”

  “Oh, we managed just fine,” Margot said. “I’ve enjoyed every second. It’s wonderful to be part of something like this. Normal life, the way it used to be. One never appreciates it until one doesn’t have it. I mean, look at all this food and drink. We were starving in Paris. Living on turnip soup and foul bread.”

  “You must be so glad to be home,” Ben said.

  “I can’t tell you how glad.” Ben looked at her, but Margot didn’t meet his gaze.

  “But she had to leave her chap behind,” Trixie said. “She was telling me all about it. So sad.”

  “He’s probably dead by now,” Margot said. “But he was very brave and wouldn’t betray his friends. I admire him for that.”

  Ben looked at her critically. There were things she was not saying, he was sure of that.

  “Now that you’re here, I’m putting you in charge of pouring champagne,” Trixie said. “I’m hopeless at opening champagne bottles.”

  “I’m not too hot myself,” Ben said, “and I’m not suitably dressed for a party. We came straight back from the West Country.”

  “Did you find what you were looking for?” she asked. Ben was conscious of Margot standing beside him.

  “Not really. False alarm,” he said. “It was only an old monastery that had been burned by Cromwell’s men.”

  “What was all this about, then? Some kind of scavenger hunt?” Margot asked.

  “No, we were trying to identify a place in a photograph for my boss,” Ben said. “I don’t think it even matters now. So, where do you want to put me to work?”

  “I think the maids will need help with that tea urn,” Margot said. “It’s jolly heavy. We’re going up to change.”

  As he helped position an urn of tea, he looked around. The lawn on which the tables were set was surrounded by a rose arbour, tall topiaries, and shrubs. Plenty of cover for someone who wanted to hide. When the others had moved away, he set off on a tour, examining possible hiding places with an easy escape into the woods. Unlike the front of the house with its lake and lawns giving a view for miles, the rose arbour led to an enclosed rose garden, and then the kitchen gardens. And beyond them a thick stand of yew trees. Plenty of opportunity for a quick gunshot. He shuddered. Why on earth hadn’t they held this on the front lawns? Probably because they wanted to be away from the comings and goings of the West Kents, he thought. Giving the impression of a serene country house, removed from thoughts of war, for once.

  Pamela appeared at his side, looking serene and lovely in lemon-yellow chiffon and a large white hat trimmed with daisies. “So Trixie and Margot are upstairs changing right now. Trixie’s been an absolute brick. You know I’ve always taken her for a bright young thing who’d be useless in a crisis, but she worked jolly hard this morning. And isn’t it wonderful to have Margot home? It’s a miracle, Ben. You don’t know how I’ve longed for this moment.” Her face, Ben noted, was strained, and her eyes darted around. “What next?” she asked.

  �
��We wait. The colonel’s men are at the gate. Nobody can get in. We should be all right.”

  She reached out and took his hand. “God, I hope so. I’m scared, Ben. If Mr. Churchill is killed, the whole country will crumble, won’t it?”

  “That’s obviously what the Germans intend. We must make sure . . .” He stopped. How could he tell Pamela that he suspected her beloved sister?

  Lord and Lady Westerham came out, she looking incredibly regal in purple flowery silk and a feathered purple hat.

  “Well, I think we’ve done it,” she said to her husband. “Now all we do is wait for the guests.”

  At that moment, the dogs rushed up, barking hysterically.

  “Be quiet! Get down, you stupid beasts,” Lord Westerham bellowed. He motioned to Soames who was hovering in the doorway. “Take them inside and shut them up. I don’t know what has got into them. They are normally so well behaved.”

  One by one, the guests began to arrive: Colonel and Mrs. Huntley bringing Miss Hamilton from the village. Sir William and Lady Prescott. The Musgroves. Colonel Pritchard from the West Kents. Ben noted that he was armed today.

  “I’ve brought a few of my men to help out where needed, Lady Westerham,” he said.

  “How kind, but I think we have everything under control,” Esme said.

  Margot and Trixie came down together. Margot was wearing a light, tailored, form-fitting dress that was obviously the height of Parisian fashion. Ben examined her, deciding there was nowhere to hide a weapon. She didn’t even carry a purse.

  Pamela went over to Trixie. “Are you all right? You look rather washed out.”

  “I’m not feeling too wonderful, but I’ll be fine,” Trixie said. “A bit of a migraine. I might go and lie down as soon as the party starts. Nobody will miss me.”

  “I’ll miss you. You’ve been a real brick,” Pamela said.

  Trixie smiled. “That’s me. Trixie the brick.”

  “I should disappear, too,” Ben said to Pamela. “I can’t let the great man see me looking like a dishevelled farm labourer.”

  “I think you look just fine,” Pamela said. And she gave him an entrancing smile.