In Farleigh Field: A Novel of World War II

by Rhys Bowen

  Ben slipped into the shadows between the bushes. A figure was standing behind the rose arbour. A woman dressed in bright-red pyjamas. Ben crept up to her. It was Dido.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  She jumped guiltily when she heard him. “Oh, it’s only you, Ben,” she said. “If you must know, I’m sneaking a cigarette. Pah doesn’t know that I smoke. But I felt that I needed something to calm my nerves before I face everyone.”

  Ben looked up. “I can hear voices,” he said. “I think the PM has arrived. You’d better go and be visible.”

  Dido gave an exaggerated sigh. “I suppose, if I must, I must,” she said.

  As Ben watched Dido walk away in her sexy red pyjamas, he heard someone coming through the rose garden. He spun around to see Guy Harcourt coming toward him.

  “What are you doing here?” Ben’s voice was sharp.

  “I did say I might come and crash the party, didn’t I?” He grinned. “Actually, I came with the advance party to make sure all was well for the PM, old boy. Have you been keeping an eye on Lady Margot?”

  “She’s wearing such a skimpy dress that she couldn’t have a weapon on her,” Ben said. He examined Guy as he was speaking. Wasn’t that a gun holster under Guy’s jacket? Should he say something? It all seemed quite unreal. He decided to find the colonel and tell him to watch Guy.

  “Ah, champagne. Jolly good,” Guy said. “I thought this assignment might have its perks.”

  He left Ben and headed for the table where champagne was now being poured into flutes. Applause and cheers announced the arrival of Winston Churchill. Ben could see the great man coming around the house and walking toward the back lawn with Lord Westerham at his side. Clementine Churchill and Lady Esme walked together, chatting.

  Then Ben heard a voice coming from the shrubbery behind him. “Are you there?” The words were hissed, and it was impossible to tell if it was a man or a woman. Ben crept in the direction of the voice. “I can’t do it! I told you.”

  Ben came around a large flowering bush and saw Trixie standing on the other side. A gun was in her hand, but she was turned away from the prime minister and she was shaking. “Take it. I don’t want it. I don’t want any part of it.” She held out the gun to someone standing in the deep shadow. Then to Ben’s amazement, Jeremy stepped out and snatched the gun.

  He said in a low voice, “You absolute weakling. You’re not one of us. You’ll regret this.”

  He moved into the open to get a clear shot at the approaching prime minister. Churchill was now in full view, some twenty-five yards away. As Ben heard Jeremy cock the gun, he stepped out in front of him.

  “Get out of the bloody way. I don’t want to shoot you, old man,” Jeremy said. His eyes had a wild look to them.

  “If you want to shoot Churchill, you’ll have to shoot through me,” Ben replied.

  “Jeremy, no!” Ben heard Pamela scream as she rushed toward them. Jeremy glanced in her direction, taking his focus away from the prime minister for an instant. Ben took his chance and went for the gun, knocking it upward as it fired. He let out a cry as the force of the bullet threw him to the ground.

  He was conscious of everything happening in slow motion, Pamela screaming, “How could you? You betrayed us all.” She dropped to her knees beside Ben while Guy and the soldiers converged on them. They were looking down at him. Pamela was stroking his hair.

  “Don’t die,” she whispered. “Please don’t die.”

  “I’ll be all right.” Ben managed a brave smile. In truth, he didn’t feel any pain, just strange and far away and warm with the feel of Pamela’s hand on his forehead. “I think he just winged my shoulder.” He tried to sit up. “I must go after him. Can’t let him get away.” Then he fainted.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  In a van in Farleigh wood

  Phoebe and Alfie lay sprawled, sleeping in the locked van. They had tried anything possible to attract attention, to kick their way out, but had given up in despair. The sides of the van were smooth metal. And nobody could hear them. The van rattled and hummed as the engine ticked over. Fumes began to seep up, making their eyes water.

  “Someone will notice I’m missing and come looking for me soon,” Phoebe said, trying to sound encouraging.

  “But what if we’re parked miles from anywhere? What if we’re in the middle of a field or even in a garage?” Alfie said.

  Phoebe put her ear to the side of the van. “I don’t think we’re in a building. I think I can hear birds.”

  “How much air do you think we have?” Alfie asked.

  Phoebe looked at the tiny sliver of daylight where the doors closed. She didn’t really think that it could help them much, but she knew it was her job to stay calm and positive. She was bred to be a leader. And leaders didn’t show they were scared. “I think we’ll be fine,” she said. “And it’s probably better that air can’t get in, because then the fumes can’t get in either.”

  “Cheerful thought,” Alfie said, making her laugh in spite of everything.

  At one point, their hopes were raised. They heard the sound of dogs, sniffing around the van and then barking.

  “Those barks sound like our dogs. Good boys,” Phoebe shouted. “Go for help.” She turned to Alfie. “See. We can’t be too far away. We might even be at Farleigh. They’ll be here soon.”

  They hammered, kicked, and yelled again, but nobody came. After a while they lapsed into silence. “Alfie, you’re not falling asleep, are you?” Phoebe asked.

  “Bloody tired,” he muttered. “Can’t seem to stay awake.”

  Phoebe shook him. “You can’t fall asleep. You absolutely can’t. Do you hear me?”

  Alfie just mumbled something unintelligible. Phoebe’s own head was singing. “Must not sleep,” she kept saying. But in the end, she, too, had passed out. They were roused by the van shaking and the slamming of a door. Phoebe couldn’t remember where she was for a moment. Her head felt woozy, as if she had been drugged. When she tried to sit up, she was thrown back against the door as the van took off. It was clear it was being driven very fast.

  Then something struck the back of the van with a loud crack.

  “Golly, I think someone’s shooting at us,” Phoebe shouted, shaking Alfie. “Wake up, but stay down low.”

  Alfie mumbled again, still half-drugged. They pressed themselves to the floor, being flung from side to side as the van drove around bends. But there were no more gunshots. Alfie roused himself and tried to sit up.

  “Look,” Alfie said, awake now and wriggling toward the door. “The bullet made a hole in the door. That’s good. We can breathe fresh air!”

  “Not while we’re being tossed around like this,” Phoebe said. “Golly, I hope they don’t shoot at us again. I feel sick, don’t you?”

  “I feel bleedin’ terrible,” he muttered.

  “Don’t swear,” Phoebe said, secretly glad that he was awake and talking to her.

  The drive seemed to go on forever.

  “Do you think he’s driving to the Channel to meet a German submarine?” Alfie asked.

  “I don’t know. We don’t know if he’s the German spy, do we?”

  “What else would he be?” Alfie said. “He only locked us in the van when he knew you’d overheard about the gun.”

  Phoebe nodded. “Yes. He must be. I find it so hard to believe. He’s Jeremy. I’ve known him all my life. He’s one of us. How could he possibly behave this way?”

  “The Germans must have forced him to work for them when he was in the prison camp.”

  “No true Englishman could be forced to work for Germans,” Phoebe said hotly. “They’d rather die first.”

  “Let’s hope he doesn’t want to die now and is planning to drive us off a cliff,” Alfie said.

  “Why do you always have to be so cheerful?” Phoebe snapped.

  Then there was a crash as they hit something; the van rocked but didn’t slow. Then it screeched to a halt. A door slammed. Suddenly
their door was wrenched open. Bright daylight flooded in, and fresh air. They sat up, gulping and blinking.

  “You’re still alive,” Jeremy said, sounding more surprised and relieved than angry. He reached in and grabbed Phoebe by her hair, dragging her out of the van. “Come on. You’re coming with me.”

  She screamed, blinking in the bright light, her legs wobbly and not wanting to support her as he set her on her feet. Alfie grabbed at her blouse, but Jeremy sent him sprawling, then dragged her forward. “Come on. Move. Faster.”

  She looked around her as she was propelled forward. They were on the tarmac of an aerodrome.

  “Help!” she screamed. Jeremy put a hand over her mouth as he forced her along.

  Alfie scrambled to his feet. His head still swum around, and he staggered after Phoebe like a drunken man. Jeremy and Phoebe were heading for one of the Spitfires lined up beside the runway. With a supreme effort he ran at them, flinging himself at Jeremy and trying to rugby tackle his legs. “Let her go,” he shouted.

  Jeremy turned and launched a vicious backhanded punch at him, sending him flying backward, and hitting the ground hard.

  “Don’t you hurt Alfie, you horrid man,” Phoebe screamed as his hand had slipped from her mouth. She grabbed that hand and sank her teeth into the soft flesh of his palm. Jeremy let out a roar of pain and instinctively snatched his hand away. Phoebe reached out for Alfie. “Quick, run.”

  Jeremy drew a pistol, raised it, then said, “What the hell. Go on, you little brats. Go. No one can stop me now, anyway.”

  As the children ran toward a line of huts, they met an armoured car driving toward them. It screeched to a halt and airmen leaped out. “Two children,” one of them shouted. “What the devil are you doing here?”

  “You must stop him,” Phoebe gasped, out of breath after their ordeal. “Jeremy Prescott. He kidnapped us. He’s a German spy.”

  “Is that right?” the first airman was grinning. “Is this some kind of dare?”

  “No. Of course not.” Phoebe glared at him. “I’m Lady Phoebe Sutton, Lord Westerham’s daughter, and we were kidnapped by Jeremy Prescott, and we think he was planning to shoot Winston Churchill. You can telephone Farleigh if you don’t believe me, but first you should try to stop Jeremy Prescott before he does something awful. He just ran toward those aeroplanes.”

  Men’s shouts made them look up. A Spitfire was taxiing toward the runway.

  “He’s stolen a plane.” An airman came running toward them. “He shot one of our blokes and took a Spitfire.”

  The plane’s engine had become a roar. It raced down the runway and up into the sky.

  “Now do you believe me?” Phoebe asked, triumphantly.

  “You were very brave children,” the camp commander said when they had repeated their story for the sixth or seventh time and were seated in his office drinking cups of tea. “It’s all over now. It’s all right if you go ahead and cry, little lady.”

  Phoebe frowned at him and stuck out her chin. “My father would not like me to cry in public. We’re supposed to set an example.” She stood up. “Do you think someone could telephone my parents and drive us home, please?”

  It was when she arrived home that the tears finally came. Phoebe discovered that they hadn’t even missed her.

  “We thought you were staying out of the way in the schoolroom because you didn’t want to get involved with the preparations this morning,” Lady Esme said. “And because you don’t like being polite to strangers at parties.”

  “But didn’t the dogs come to get you?” Phoebe said, the distress in her voice rising at her mother’s calmness. “I was sure they would.”

  Lady Westerham stared at her in horror. “The dogs did come,” she said. “They were barking and making an awful commotion right before the Churchills arrived. I had Soames take them inside and shut them up.” Then she suddenly did a most uncharacteristic thing and wrapped Phoebe into her arms. “Oh, my poor little girl,” she said. “You might have died.”

  “I nearly did,” Phoebe said. “If Alfie hadn’t been jolly brave and tackled Jeremy, he might have flown with me to Germany. Or he might have killed me.” And then, without warning, she burst into tears.

  When she had been calmed and sat beside her mother on the sofa, her father asked, “My dear child, why on earth didn’t you come to us if you thought that someone was planning to shoot the prime minister?”

  “I wasn’t sure you’d believe me,” Phoebe said. “Besides, we’re supposed to report anything suspicious to authorities. It says so.”

  “To the authorities?” Lord Westerham blustered. “That bloody idiot in the village wouldn’t know a spy if one leapt out and bit him.”

  “Don’t swear in front of the children, Roddy,” Lady Westerham said.

  “The child’s bloody well been kidnapped by a rotten traitor and might have died, and you’re worried about her hearing a swear word?” he demanded. “What we should be doing is sending her off to a good boarding school where she has less time on her hands.”

  Phoebe glanced at Dido and grinned.

  “How come she gets rewarded for taking stupid risks?” Dido said. “How about sending me off to finishing school? Or at the very least let me go and drive a lorry.”

  “Over my dead body,” Lord Westerham said. “Which it probably would be if anyone put you behind the wheel.”

  Alfie had been sitting, silent and uncomfortable, in the morning room, wishing he could go home. It was strange, but he now thought of the gamekeeper’s lodge as home and found himself wondering if he’d ever want to go back to his mother in London, even if the war ended.

  He stood up. “I should be getting back. Mrs. Robbins will be worried about me.”

  “Of course.” Lady Westerham looked at him kindly. “Off you go, then. You’re a brave young man. Thank you. Well done.”

  At the doorway, Alfie paused and looked back. “I found out about Baxter’s yard. Do you know what he’s building in there? Coffins. Lots and lots of coffins.”

  “In readiness for the invasion,” Lord Westerham said. “Which now might be a little further off, thanks to what didn’t happen today.”

  Lady Westerham looked around as if just noticing that one of her brood was missing.

  “Is Pamma still with Ben?” Lady Westerham asked.

  “Yes, she’s still at the hospital,” Margot said. “He was awfully brave. I do hope he’ll be all right.”

  “I expect he’ll be glad he was able to do something for his country at last,” Lord Westerham remarked.

  Pamela sat beside Ben’s bed in the hospital. His shoulder was bandaged. His face looked white, but he was propped up and wide awake.

  “I can’t believe it of Trixie,” Pamela said. “It seems she was working for the Germans all along. She was stealing information at Bletchley.”

  “Why would she do that, I wonder?” Ben said.

  “The thrill of it, I suppose. No doubt she’ll tell us in time. It does seem that her father has always been pro-German, pro-Nazi. But Jeremy—what could have made him turn on us that way? Do you think they brainwashed or tortured him in Germany?”

  “I wonder if it wasn’t a twisted sense of patriotism. I gather that some people think that by ending the war now, it is sparing Britain from the destruction of our most precious monuments, even if it does mean being under Germany’s domination.”

  Pamela shuddered. “I don’t think we’ll ever know now,” she said. “I wonder if he’s flown to Germany in that plane. I suppose so.”

  They looked up as footsteps tapped across the tiled floor. A curtain was pulled back and Guy Harcourt stood there.

  “Oh, sorry. I’m not interrupting a tryst, am I?” he asked with a mischievous smile on his face.

  “Of course not. Come in, Guy,” Pamela said.

  Guy stood at the foot of the bed. “How are you feeling, old chap?”

  “As if a mule kicked my shoulder, but otherwise okay. I’m told I was lucky, and the b
ullet went through nothing but muscle and out the other side.”

  “Damned lucky. Actually, I came with some news. Prescott’s plane was shot down over the Channel.”

  “Our Spitfires chased him and caught him?” Ben asked.

  Guy gave a wry smile. “No, quite the opposite. He was shot down by Messerschmitts. Ironic, isn’t it?”

  Ben reached out and took Pamma’s hand. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Poor Jeremy,” Pamela sighed. “What a horrible end.”

  “It’s how he’d have wanted to go—blazing out like a firework.” Ben stared past her, out the hospital window. In spite of everything, Jeremy had meant something to him, too, been an important part of his life, whether he liked it or not.

  They remained silent while hospital noises went on in the background—the clatter of a trolley, the crisp voice of a nurse giving a command.

  “I wonder why nobody picked up on that blighter Prescott before?” Guy said. “I suppose the enemy relied on the fact that they assumed nobody had survived that breakout to tell the truth about him.”

  “So the man who fell into our field had been sent to deliver a message to him, do you think?” Pamela asked.

  “Undoubtedly.” Ben glanced up at Guy and nodded. “That he carried nothing on him but the snapshot was a clear indication that he hadn’t far to go. He didn’t need money or a ration card or tools. Presumably, Jeremy had already arranged a place to hide him.”

  “And the snapshot was the go-ahead for the date to kill Churchill, once their agents knew he’d be visiting a nearby aerodrome,” Pamela said, putting the pieces together.

  “How did they know about the garden party at Farleigh?” Guy asked. “Shooting the PM at an aerodrome was surely a risky business.”

  “It wasn’t supposed to be Farleigh when it was planned,” Ben said. “It was going to be at Chartwell, but the PM nixed those plans, so the Westerhams offered instead.”

  “The message must have eventually been delivered by other means,” Pamela went on. “One of those radio messages that we were trying to decode, maybe.”