In Farleigh Field

CHAPTER ONE

Bletchley Park

May 1941

Lady Pamela Sutton stared at the dreary government-issued posters on the wall of her small cubicle in Hut 3. Some of them cheerful exhortations to do one’s best, to soldier on with a stiff upper lip, and others dire warnings about letting the side down. Beyond the blackout curtains that covered the windows, dawn would be breaking. She could hear the chorus of birds in the woods behind the hut, still chirping madly and joyfully as they had done before the war began and would keep doing after it ended—whenever that would be. It had already gone on too long, and there was no end in sight. Pamela rubbed her eyes. It had been a long night, and her eyes were stinging with tiredness. According to civil-service regulations, women were not supposed to work on the night shift with men, in case their morals were compromised. She had found this amusing when the shortage of male translators meant that one of the girls had to do night-shift work. “Frankly, I don’t think my honour is in danger from any of the chaps here,” she had said. “They are more interested in maths problems than girls.”

But she had come to regret her bravado many times since. Night work was brutal. Thank God her shift was soon coming to an end and she could go to bed. Not that she could ever sleep properly during the day with trains rattling past her window.

“Bloody war,” she muttered and breathed onto her hands, trying to induce some warmth into her fingers. Although it was May, the huts were cold and damp overnight. The coke ration had been stopped on May first. But that wasn’t entirely bad; the cast-iron stove smoked badly and spewed out noxious fumes. Everything was so horrible these days. No decent food to eat. Meals consisting of powdered eggs, canned corned beef, sausages that were more sawdust than meat. Her landlady obviously hadn’t been much of a cook before the war, but what she cooked now was quite inedible. Pamela envied those on the day shift. At least they could take their main meal in the dining room, which was supposed to be quite good. She could go across and get some breakfast before she went off duty, but she was always too tired to eat by the end of a long night.

At the outbreak of the war she had been anxious to do something useful. Jeremy had joined up on the first day, welcomed into the RAF with open arms. He’d been one of the most decorated pilots at the Battle of Britain, but then in typical Jeremy fashion, he’d strayed too far into France chasing a returning German plane and been shot down. Now he was in the Stalag Luft, a camp for captured airmen, somewhere in Germany, and nobody had heard from him in months. She didn’t even know whether he was alive or dead. She squeezed her eyes shut so that a tear couldn’t form. Stiff upper lip at all times, she repeated to herself—that was what was expected these days. “We must set an example,” her father had said in his normal thundering manner, pounding on the table for better effect. “Never let anyone see you are upset or afraid. People look up to us, and we have an obligation to show them how it’s done.”

It was for that very reason that she had been selected for this job. Her friend Trixie Radcliffe, fellow deb in the spring of 1939, had invited her for tea in London, back in the early days of the war when civilised things like tea at Brown’s Hotel still existed.

“I say, Pamma, this chap I know introduced me to another chap who might want to give us a job,” Trixie had said in that enthusiastic way of hers. “He’s looking for girls like us. From good families. No nonsense. Nor prone to hysterics.”

“Goodness. What kind of job is he offering—deportment classes for the WAACs and Wrens?”

Trixie had laughed. “Nothing like that. I gather it’s something rather hush-hush. He asked me if I could be trusted to keep my mouth shut and never gossip.”

“Golly.” Pamela looked surprised.

Trixie leaned closer. “He seems to think that we are brought up to do the right thing. Hence, will not let the side down and give away secrets. He even asked me whether I drink a lot.” She laughed. “I gather people are apt to spill too many beans when drunk.”

“So what did you tell him?”

“That I’d only just come out before the war, and since rationing, I hadn’t really had a chance to prove how well I hold my liquor.”

Pamela laughed, too, then her face grew serious again. “I wonder what he could possibly want us for? Sending us as spies into Germany?”

“He did ask if I spoke German. Actually, he said, ‘Did I have the German,’ which I first took to mean a German chap. I’m afraid I broke out in a fit of giggles. I told him we’d both been to finishing school in Switzerland and that you were a whiz at languages. He seemed really interested in you, by the way. Really perked up when I said I knew you.”

“Golly,” Pamela said again. “I don’t think I can see myself as a spy, vamping German officers. Can you?”

“No, my sweet. I can’t see you vamping Germans. You always were too pure. I, on the other hand, might be quite good at it. Unfortunately, my German is spoken with a decidedly English accent. They’d detect me as a phoney in an instant. But I don’t think it’s spying. This chap also asked how good I was at crossword puzzles.”

“What a strange thing to ask,” Pamela said.

Trixie leaned even closer until she was whispering in Pamela’s ear. “I rather think it may be something to do with breaking codes and things.”

And so it had proved to be. The two girls had taken the train from Euston Station to Bletchley Junction, an hour north of London. It was almost dark when they arrived. The station and the town were both unprepossessing. A pall of dust from the local brickworks hung over the air. There was nobody to meet the train, and they carried their own suitcases up a long path beside the railway line until they came to a high chain-link fence topped with barbed wire.

“Crikey.” This time even Trixie was alarmed. “It certainly doesn’t look very inviting, does it?”

“We don’t have to do this,” Pamela said.

They stared at each other, each willing the other to bolt.

“We can at least find out what they want us to do and then say ‘no thank you very much but I’d rather be a land girl and raise pigs.’”

This put them both in better spirits.

“Come on. Let’s face the music.” Trixie nudged her friend, and they walked up to the main gate. The RAF guard on duty in the concrete sentry box had their names on his clipboard, and they were directed to the main house, where they were to report to Commander Travis. Nobody offered to carry their bags, which more than anything told Pamela that they were now in a very different world from the one she was used to. The driveway passed rows of long drab-looking huts before the main house came into view. It had been built by a nouveau riche family at the height of Victorian excess and was a sprawling mixture of styles with fancy brickwork, gables and oriental pillars, and a conservatory sticking out of one end. New arrivals from lower down the social scale were often impressed, but to girls raised in stately homes, it produced the opposite effect.

“What a monstrosity!” Trixie exclaimed, laughing. “Lavatory gothic, wouldn’t you say?”

“But the view’s pretty,” Pamela said. “Look—there’s a lake, and a copse, and fields. I wonder if there are horses and one can go riding.”

“It’s not a house party, darling,” Trixie said. “We’re here to work. Come on. Let’s get it over with and find out what we’re in for.”

They entered the main house and found themselves in the sort of impressive interior they were used to—ornately carved ceilings, panelled walls, stained-glass windows, and thick carpets. A young woman carrying a sheaf of papers came out of a side door and didn’t seem surprised to see them. “Oh, I suppose you’re the latest lot of debs,” she said, regarding Trixie’s mink collar with disdain. “Commander Travis is upstairs. Second door on the right.”

“Hardly the warmest welcome,” Trixie whispered as they left their suitcases and ascended a rather grand carved-oak staircase.

“Do you think we’re making an awful mistake?” Pamma whispered.

“A bit late to turn back now.” Trixie squeezed her hand, then stepped forward to knock on a polished oak door. Commander Travis, the deputy director, looked at them with clear scepticism.

“This is no joyride, young ladies. In fact, it’s bloody hard work. But I hope you’ll find it’s rewarding work. You’ll be doing your part to stop the enemy—just as important a job as our boys in the service are doing. And the first thing we stress here is absolute secrecy. You will be required to sign the Official Secrets Act. After that you are not permitted to discuss your work with anyone outside your unit. Not even with each other. Not even with your parents or boyfriends. Is that clear?”

The girls nodded, then Pamela got up the courage to ask, “Exactly what will our work be? We’ve been told nothing so far.”

He held up a hand. “First things first, young lady.” He produced two sheets of paper and two fountain pens. “Official Secrets Act. Read this and sign here, please.” He tapped a finger on the paper.

“So you’re saying that we have to promise never to divulge what goes on here before we know what goes on here?” Trixie asked.

Commander Travis laughed. “You’ve got spirit. I like that. But I’m afraid once you came in through that gate, you became a security risk to the country. And I assure you that your work here will be a damned sight more interesting and rewarding than other jobs you could do.”

Trixie looked at Pamela, shrugged, and said, “Why not? What have we got to lose?” She took the pen and signed. Pamela followed suit. Later, when she was alone, she discovered that she was to be sent to Hut 3 to translate decoded German messages. Pamela didn’t know what Trixie was doing, as they were only allowed to share information with members of their own hut, but she knew that Trixie was annoyed that she hadn’t been given a more exacting and glamorous job. “Filing and typing in the index room. Can you imagine anything more boring?” she had said. “While one gathers, the men in the huts have all the fun working on strange machines. I’d never have come if I’d known I’d be doing boring, menial stuff. How about you? Is your job going to be menial, too?”

“Oh no, I’m going to be chatting daily with Herr Hitler,” Pamela said, then burst out laughing at her friend’s face. “A joke, darling. One has to keep up a sense of humour at all times. And yes, I’m sure my job will be utterly menial, too. After all, we’re not men, are we?”

And she had never told Trixie any more than that. She was horribly conscious of the importance of her job and that a failure to translate or a mistranslation might mean hundreds of lives lost. She realised that she was usually handed the lowest-level-priority decodes and that the priority intercepts went to the men, but just occasionally, she had the satisfaction of coming up with a hidden gem.

The task had been challenging and exciting at first, but after a whole year, she had become tired and jaded. The unreality of it all, the discomforts and the constant stream of bad news from the battlefields were beginning to wear down even a cheerful person like Pamela. The huts were horribly basic, freezing in winter, sweltering in summer, always gloomy with inadequate bare lightbulbs hanging from the ceiling. And at the end of long shifts, she had to return to her billet—a dismal boarding-house room backed against the railway line. As she rode back into town on the ancient bike she had acquired, she found her thoughts turning to Farleigh in the spring—the woods a carpet of bluebells in this first week of May. Young lambs in the fields. Riding in the early morning with her sisters. And she found that she really longed to see her sisters. And she had to admit that she had never really been close to any of them, except for Margot, whom she hadn’t seen in ages and missed terribly. They were all so different—Livvy, five years her senior, had been born prissy and grown-up, and was always telling the others how to behave properly.

Pamela realised with regret that she hardly knew Phoebe, the youngest daughter. She had seemed a bright little girl and had the makings of a splendid horsewoman but spent most of her life in the nursery, away from the rest of the family. And then there was the annoying Dido, two years her junior, fiercely competitive, and desperate to be grown up and out in society—to have everything Pamela had. But Dido saw her as a rival, never a partner in crime as Margot had been, and they had never shared the same intimacy.

Pamela turned back to her work when a basket of transcripts was placed in front of her. The early-morning messages were beginning to come in, which was good news. It meant that the brainy chaps in Hut 6 had got the Enigma settings right, and the resulting printouts were in real German, or at least vaguely understandable German. She picked up the first card. The Typex produced long strips of letters divided into groups of five. Xs were periods, Ys were commas, and proper names were preceded by a J. She looked at the first one: WUBY YNULL SEQNU LLNUL LX. This was something that came through every day. Wetterbericht. The morning weather forecast for sector six. And null meant nothing important was going on. She wrote out a quick translation and dropped it into the out-basket.

The next one was equally routine. ABSTI MMSPR UCHYY RESTX OHNEX SINN. A test sending from a German command to make sure the day’s codes were working. “Thank you, Hamburg, they are working very nicely,” she said with a smile, as she dropped this one into the basket. The next one had come through badly corrupted. Half the letters were missing. Messages were often received like this and required the skill used to solve a crossword puzzle as well as a good knowledge of the German terminology of war. Pamela managed to deduce that the subject of the message was the twenty-first Panzer Division, part of Rommel’s desert force. But the following letters—FF-I—G had her flummoxed. Was it two words or even three? If it was more than one word, then the first one might be auf, meaning “on.” She stared harder until the letters danced in the poor light. She longed to remove the blackout curtains, but only the warden was allowed to do that at his appointed hour. Her eyes hurt. Rest, she thought. I need to rest.

Then she was alert again, a hopeful smile on her face. She tried the letters. Auffrischung. The twenty-first Panzer Division needed to rest and refit!

She jumped up and almost ran through to the watch room. Wilson, the older man who was watch chief, looked up with a frown. He didn’t approve of women on his night shift and ignored Pamela as much as possible.

“I think I’ve got something interesting, sir,” she said. She put the Typex in front of him with her translation underneath. He stared at it, frowning for a long time before he looked up. “Rather a stretch of the imagination, wouldn’t you say, Lady Pamela?” He alone always insisted on addressing her with her title. To the rest of them she was P.

“But it could mean that the twenty-first Panzers might be withdrawn. That’s important, isn’t it?”

Two other men at the table leaned over to see what the fuss was about.

“She may be right, Wilson,” one of them said. “Auffrischung. Good word.” He gave Pamela an encouraging smile.

“See if you can come up with something else that makes sense, then, Wilson,” the other said. “We all know her German is better than ours.”

“You should pass it along to army HQ anyway, just in case,” the first said. “Well done, P.”

Pamela allowed herself a grin as she returned to her seat. She had just emptied her in-basket when voices at the other end of the hut signalled the arrival of the early day shift. Pamela took her coat from its peg.

“Lovely day out there,” one of the young men said as he came toward her. He was tall and gangly, peering at the world through thick glasses. His name was Rodney, and he was the epitome of the studious young Oxford or Cambridge men who had been lured to work at Bletchley Park. “Lucky you get time to enjoy it. Rounders match this afternoon, I gather. If you happen to like rounders. I’m a complete duffer at it myself, I regret. And country dancing tonight, but then you’ll be working, won’t you.” He paused and ran a nervous hand through unruly hair. “I don’t suppose you care to come to the cinema with me on your night off?”

“Kind of you, Rodney,” she said, “But frankly, on my night off, I’d rather catch up on sleep.”

“You are looking a little hollow around the eyes,” he agreed, never having shown himself to be tactful. “These night shifts do get to one after a while, don’t they? Still, all in a good cause, so they say.”

“So they say,” she repeated. “I wish we could see that we’re making progress. The country, I mean. All the news seems to be bad, doesn’t it? And the poor people in London being bombed night after night. How long can we take it, do you think?”

“As long as we have to,” Rodney said. “Simple as that.”

Pamela looked at his retreating back with admiration. He represented the backbone of Britain at this moment. A skinny, awkward bookworm, yet determined to keep going for as long as it took to defeat Hitler. She felt ashamed of her own depression and lack of faith as she went to retrieve her bicycle and rode into town.

Her digs at Mrs. Adams’s boarding-house were close to the station, and a train whistled as it approached the platform. If my parents could see where I’m living now, Pamela thought, with a grim smile. But then they had no idea where she was working or what she was doing. Under the Official Secrets Act, she was not allowed to divulge anything to anybody. It hadn’t been easy to persuade her father to let her leave home, but she had turned twenty-one and come out into society, so he could hardly forbid her. And when she had said, “I want to do my bit, Pah. You said it’s up to us to set an example, and I’m setting one,” he had reluctantly agreed.

She dismounted from her bike and wheeled it along the pavement. She felt sick with hunger and tiredness, but she sighed as she wondered what breakfast would await her today: the lumpy porridge made with water? Bread fried in the drippings from last Sunday’s scrag end of mutton? Toast with a scrape of margarine and watery marmalade if they were lucky. And her mind drifted to the spread on the sideboard back at Farleigh: the kidneys and bacon and kedgeree and scrambled eggs. How long before she could go home? But if she went home, how would she force herself to come back?

There was a newsstand outside the station, and a headline read “Hero Comes Home.” Pamela glanced at the front page on the pile of newspapers. Since the war began and paper was scarce, the print had become smaller and more crowded and the pictures tiny. But there, halfway down the front page of the Daily Express, she spotted a grainy photograph of a man in RAF uniform and recognised the jaunty grin. She fished in her pocket for tuppence and took the newspaper. “Ace pilot Flight Lieutenant Jeremy Prescott escapes against all odds from German prisoner-of-war camp. Only survivor of a breakout.” Before she could read any more, her legs buckled under her, and she sank to the ground.

Instantly there were people around her, arms lifting her up.

“Steady on, love. I’ve got yer,” one voice said.

“Bring her over to the bench, Bert, and someone go in the station café for a cup of tea. She’s as white as a sheet.”

It was the kindness more than anything that produced a great heaving sob from deep within Pamela. All the tension, the long nights, the hard work, the depressing news escaped from her in that one sob, and following it, the tears started streaming down her cheeks.

She felt herself carried and placed gently on a seat. She found she was still clutching the newspaper.

“What was it, love—bad news?” the woman at the newspaper stand asked.

Pamela’s body was still shaking with sobs. “No, it’s good news,” she managed to gasp at last. “He’s alive. He’s safe. He’s coming home.”

That afternoon she received a message to report to Commander Travis. Her heart skipped a beat. What could she have done wrong? Had someone reported the incident at the station? She was heartily ashamed and embarrassed about her complete lack of control. Pah would have been mortified, would’ve told her she had let the side down. And now she worried: Had she said anything she shouldn’t? She had heard rumours about people who had said too much, breached security. They disappeared and were never seen again. There were nervous jokes about where they had gone, but nobody laughed too much. The jokes might have been true.

But then one was not summoned to the deputy director for everyday matters. She jumped on her bike and pedalled back to the campus. Commander Travis looked up from his paperwork as she came in. He motioned to the chair beside his desk. She perched on the edge of it.

“I hear you had a little trouble earlier today, Lady Pamela?” he said. The formality of her title in itself was worrying.

“Trouble, sir?”

“I hear you collapsed on the street outside the station. Are you not eating enough? I know the food is not exactly always appetising.”

“I’m eating enough, sir.”

“The night shifts? They take their toll on the body, I know.”

“But we all have to rotate and do our share. I don’t enjoy them. I never seem to get enough sleep when I’m on night shift, but it must be the same for everyone else.”

“You are quite well?” he asked, giving her a knowing stare. He waited a second or two before he added, “Do you have a particular attachment to one of our young men?”

She actually laughed then. “I’m not pregnant if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

“You don’t look like the fainting type to me.” He leaned closer to her across his desk. “So what’s up?”

“I’m sorry, sir. I feel so foolish. And you’re right. I don’t make a habit of doing that sort of thing.”

He thumbed through her file. “How long since you’ve taken leave?”

“I went home for a couple of days at Christmas, sir.”

“Then you’re overdue.”

“But we’re understaffed in Hut Three. It wouldn’t be right to . . .”

“Lady Pamela. I expect our people to do first-class work. I can’t have them cracking up on us. Take a week off.”

“But there would be nobody to take my place, and we can’t have . . .”

“When does your current rotation finish?”

“At the end of the week.”

“Then work your rotation and go home then.”

“Oh, but sir . . .”

“That’s an order, Lady Pamela. Go home. Have a good time and come back refreshed.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

It was only when she came down the steps of the big house that the full implication of this struck her. She would be going home, and Jeremy was safely back in Britain. He might already be at Nethercote. Suddenly everything was right with the world.

CHAPTER TWO

Farleigh Place

Near Sevenoaks, Kent

May 1941

It was the gamekeeper’s boy who spotted it first. He had been out at dawn checking the traps (since wartime rationing had meant that rabbit was on the menu, even at the big house). It was a chore he had taken on willingly, loving the freedom and solitude of the countryside, still in awe of the wideness and greenness of it all, of the immense arc of sky like pale-blue glass overhead. After the flat in Stepney and the alleyway with its small strip of grubby sky, Farleigh still seemed too improbable to be real.

This particular morning he was returning empty-handed. The gamekeeper suspected some village lads were helping themselves to the odd rabbit or partridge, and he talked of putting down mantraps. The thought of mantraps brought an added spice of excitement to the daily chore for the boy. He wondered how it would feel to see one of the bigger village boys caught in a trap—the boys who took delight in bullying him and pushing him around because he was a runt and an outsider. He quickened his stride for the cottage, his stomach growling for porridge and eggs, real eggs, not the powdered stuff that tasted like cardboard. It was going to be a warm and perfect early summer’s day. Strands of mist lingered over the meadows, and a cuckoo was calling loudly, drowning out the dawn chorus of birds.

The boy came out of the woods and into the parkland that surrounded the big house, looking out carefully for the herd of deer because he was still rather scared of them. Smooth green grass was dotted with spreading oaks, chestnuts, and copper beeches, and beyond he caught a glimpse of the big house itself rising like a fairy-tale castle above the trees. He was about to take the path that led to the cottage when he saw something lying in the grass—something brown, and beside it, something long and light and flapping a little, like a large wounded bird. He couldn’t imagine what it could be, and he went toward it cautiously, still conscious that the country was full of unexpected dangers. When he got closer, he saw that it was a man lying there. Or had been a man. He was wearing an army uniform and lying facedown, his limbs at improbable angles. From a pack on his back came strings, and the strings were attached to what looked like long strands of whitish fabric. It took him a while to realise that it was a parachute, or the remains of a parachute, because it lay there, limp and lifeless, torn and flapping pathetically in the breeze. The boy understood then that the man had literally fallen from the sky.

He stood for a moment, wondering what to do, feeling slightly sick because the corpse was horribly damaged and the grass around it stained with blood. Before he could make up his mind, he heard the thud of hoofbeats on grass and the jingle of a bridle. He looked up to see a girl on a fat white pony galloping toward him. The girl was well turned out in a velvet crash cap, jodhpurs, and hacking jacket, and as she came closer, he recognised her as Lady Phoebe, the youngest of the daughters from the big house. He realised with horror that she’d ride right into the corpse if he didn’t stop her. He ran forward waving his arms.

“Stop!” he cried.

The pony skidded to a halt, whinnied, danced, and bucked nervously, but the girl kept her seat well.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded. “Are you mad? You could have had me off. Snowball could have trampled you.”

“You mustn’t go that way, miss,” he said. “There’s been an accident. You wouldn’t want to see it.”

“What kind of accident?”

He glanced back. “A man fell from the sky. He’s all smashed up. It’s horrible.”

“Fell from the sky?” She was straining to see past him. “Like an angel, you mean?”

“A soldier,” he said. “I don’t think his parachute opened.”

“Golly. How horrid. Let me see.” She tried to urge the pony forward, but it was still snorting and dancing nervously.

The boy stepped between her and the corpse again. “Don’t look, miss. You don’t want to see things like that.”

“Of course I do. I’m not squeamish, you know. I’ve watched the men butchering a hog. Now, that really was rather horrid. The way it screamed. I decided never to eat bacon again. But I happen to adore bacon, so that didn’t last long.”

She nudged the pony forward, making the boy step aside. The pony took a few nervous steps, then stopped, sensing that it didn’t want to go any closer. Phoebe stood up in the saddle and peered.

“Crikey,” she said. “We must tell somebody.”

“We should tell the army blokes. He’s one of them, ain’t he?”

“Isn’t he,” she corrected. “Really, your grammar is awful.”

“Bugger my grammar, miss, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

“I do mind. And it’s not ‘miss.’ I’m Lady Phoebe Sutton, and you should address me as ‘my lady.’”

“Sorry,” he said, swallowing back the word miss that was about to come out.

“We must tell my father,” she said firmly. “It is still his land, after all, even though the army is using it at the moment. It still belongs to Farleigh. Come on. You’d better come with me.”

“To the big house, miss? I mean, my lady?”

“Of course. Pah is always up early. The rest of them will still be asleep.”

He started to walk beside the pony.

“You’re the boy who is staying with our gamekeeper, aren’t you?” she asked.

“That’s right. Alfie’s me name. I came down from the Smoke last winter.”

“Smoke? What sort of smoke?”

He chuckled then. “It’s what us Cockneys call London.”

She stared down at him critically. “I haven’t seen much of you on the estate.”

“I’m at school in the village all day.”

“How do you like it?”

“It’s all right. The village kids pick on me ’cos I’m little for my age, and I ain’t got no one to stick up for me.”

“That’s not nice.”

He looked up at her haughty little face, a face that looked so content with itself, so secure. “In case you haven’t noticed, people aren’t nice,” he said. “There’s a war on. Blokes are flying over London every night dropping bombs and not caring who they kill—women, children, old people . . . it don’t matter to them. I saw a baby after a bomb had gone off. Lying there in the street, looking as if there wasn’t a mark on it. And I went to pick it up, and it was stone-cold dead. And another time a woman ran down the street screaming, and all her clothes had been blown off in the blast, and do you know what she was screaming? She was screaming, ‘My little boy. He’s buried under all that rubble. Someone save my little boy.’”

Phoebe’s expression softened. “You were sensible to come here, away from the Smoke,” she said. “How old are you?”

“Eleven, almost twelve.”

“I just turned twelve,” she said proudly. “I was hoping they’d send me to school when I was thirteen, but I don’t think it will happen now. Not with a war on. My sisters went to school, lucky ducks.”

“You mean you haven’t been to school yet?”

“No. I’ve always had a governess. It’s so boring doing lessons alone. It was different for my sisters because they had each other, and they were naughty and played tricks on the governess. But I was an afterthought. Dido says I was an accident.”

“Who’s Dido?”

“My sister Diana. She’s nineteen. She’s furious about the war because she was supposed to come out last year.”

“Come out of what?”

Phoebe laughed, a rather fake and superior sort of ha-ha. “You don’t know anything, do you? Girls like us have a season and are presented at court. We go to dances and are supposed to find a husband. But Dido’s been stuck here instead, dying of boredom. The older ones all had their season.”

“And got married?”

“Livvy did. But she was always the good child, Dido says. She married boring Edmund Carrington and she’s already produced the heir.”

“Air?” Alfie asked, making her laugh again.

“Not that sort of air. I mean she’s had the required son to inherit the title one day. Our parents couldn’t manage a son, which means Farleigh will go to some remote cousin when Pah dies, and we’ll all be turned out into the snow, Dido says. But I think she was teasing. Things like that don’t happen these days, do they? Especially with a war on.”

She paused while Alfie digested this information, then continued, “But the others didn’t quite obey the rules, much to Pah’s fury. Margot went to France to study fashion in Paris and met a handsome Frenchman. She wouldn’t leave when she had a chance, and now she’s trapped in Paris, and we don’t know what has happened to her. And Pamma—well, she’s really nice and very clever. She wanted to go to university, but Pah said it was a waste of time educating women. I think she had someone she wanted to marry, but he went into the RAF, and he was shot down, and he’s in a prison camp in Germany. So it’s all rather sad, isn’t it? This horrid war spoiling everybody’s lives.”

Alfie nodded. “My dad’s with the army in North Africa,” he said. “We hardly ever hear from him, and when we do, it’s a tiny little bit of paper with most of the words blacked out by the censor. Mum cried the last time one came.”

Alfie was getting out of breath, walking fast to keep up with the pony and talking at the same time as they crossed the soft grass of the parkland, went through a stand of trees, and came to the edge of the formal gardens. There were still perfect rows of rosebushes and herbaceous borders, but the flower beds were now overgrown, and the roses hadn’t been pruned. To one side, the lawn had been dug up and turned into another kitchen garden. And beyond them, where the forecourt had once allowed carriages to draw up, there were rows of camouflaged army vehicles.

Alfie hardly ever came this close to the big house. He stared at it now in wonder. He’d been taken to Buckingham Palace once, but this was just as big and imposing. It was built of solid grey stone, was three stories high, and the roof was adorned with towers at both ends. Two wings came out from the front to create the shape of an E with the imposing central entry making the middle bar of the letter. The pillars at this central entrance supported a pediment adorned with classical figures engaged in a battle. The impression of grandeur was marred, however, by a group of soldiers, sauntering down the marble steps, laughing and smoking. More soldiers were standing around army vehicles of various shapes and sizes, and from the other side of the house sounded the tramp of boots and shouts of drill sergeants as the ranks were put through morning parade.

Two officers approached, walking toward them. “Hello, young lady, going out for a ride, are you?” one of them said affably.

“I’ve already been, thank you,” Phoebe said primly. “We’re just taking my pony back to the stables.”

She looked down at Alfie as soon as they were past the soldiers. “Don’t mention to my father that I was out riding alone. He’d be furious. I’m not supposed to go out without the groom. But that’s so silly, isn’t it? I’m a perfectly good rider, and the groom is getting old and doesn’t like to gallop.”

Alfie nodded. Now that he was close to the big house, his stomach had tied itself in knots. He remembered too clearly the day he had arrived here. When he had first come by train from the Smoke, as he called it, he had been a pathetic-looking little specimen—scrawny and small for his age, wearing short trousers one size too big, revealing skinny knees covered in scabs. His nose was running, and he wiped it with the back of his hand, leaving a trail of snot across his cheek. No wonder he had been the last of the evacuated children to find someone willing to take him in. In the end, the billeting officer, Miss Hemp-Hatchett, local justice of the peace and Girl Guide captain, had put him in the back of her Morris and driven him to Farleigh.

“You’ll have to have him, Lady Westerham,” she had said in the voice that made generations of Girl Guides snap to attention. “There is simply nobody else, and you do have a bigger place than the rest of us.”

Then she had departed, leaving the boy standing there, staring in awe at the marble foyer with its weapons and portraits of ancestors glaring down at him with looks of distaste.

“Damned blasted cheek,” Lord Westerham exploded when Lady Westerham came to report this to him. “Who does the bloody woman think she is, bossing us around? Where do these damned people think we’re going to put the brat? We’ve already had two-thirds of our house taken from us by the army. We’re reduced to one bally wing, and a damned inconvenient wing it is, too. Does she think I’m going to put a child from the London slums on a camp bed in my bedroom? Or should he bunk in with one of our daughters?”

“Don’t shout, Roddy,” Lady Westerham said in her calm way, after thirty years, accustomed to her husband’s outbursts. “It makes your eyes bulge most unpleasantly. There is a war on. We have to do our bit, and it must seem to most people that we have more than our fair share.”

“So we’re supposed to have a slum child given free rein of our house? Running around pinching the silver, I shouldn’t wonder. It’s not on, Esme. It’s simply not on. How am I to enjoy a gin and tonic in my study, never knowing whether I’m going to be interrupted by a Cockney child? Tell that Hemp-whatsit woman that we won’t do it, and that’s that.”

“The poor little mite has to find somewhere to stay, Roddy,” Lady Westerham said gently. “We can’t send him back to bombed streets. His parents might even be dead. How would you feel if you were wrenched from all you knew?”

“What about the tenant farmers?”

“They’ve already taken in children.”

“Then the outdoor staff? Aren’t there any spare cottages?”

“You can’t put a child in an empty cottage.” She paused, a pensive look coming over her face. “I’ve got it. The Robbinses must have a spare bedroom since their son was called up. Robbins isn’t the friendliest of individuals, I’ll give you that. But Mrs. R is a good cook. The poor little mite needs fattening up.”

Alfie had been overhearing this conversation as he stood alone and shivering in the foyer. They hadn’t realised that his biggest fear was that he’d have to stay in a place like this, where he’d be terrified every moment of meeting a ghost or breaking something. A cottage with a good cook in it sounded like a much better idea.

“Here. Hold the bridle a moment while I dismount,” Phoebe said, jerking him back into the present. Alfie realised she was used to giving orders. He did as he was told, even though he’d never touched a horse before. The pony stood, still and placid, while Phoebe kicked her feet from the stirrups and swung herself down. Then she set out for the stables, leaving Alfie to walk behind her, still leading the pony. They had just rounded the corner when a groom came running toward them, red-faced and waving his arms.

“You shouldn’t have taken Snowball out alone without me, your ladyship. You know what his lordship said.”

“Rubbish, Jackson. You know I ride perfectly well.” Phoebe tossed her head defiantly, and it seemed that the pony mirrored her action, almost jerking the reins from Alfie’s grasp.

“I know you’re a splendid little rider, my lady,” he said. “I think your dad is more concerned about all them soldiers hanging around here. Not safe anymore, even on our own grounds.”

Phoebe’s cheeks were rather pink, but she said, “You can take Snowball now. I have to tell my father something important.”

The groom took the pony, and Alfie followed Phoebe, who was already striding out for the big house. He had to run to catch up with her as she headed up the front steps. For a moment he was tempted to let her go in alone—he could sneak back to the gamekeeper’s cottage where he knew breakfast would be waiting. But at the last second, she turned back, holding open the door. “Come along, Alfie. Do get a move on,” she said impatiently.

The entrance hall was as daunting as he remembered it; now their feet were echoing on the marble tiled floor to the painted vault of ceiling high above. A group of officers was coming down the main staircase.

“We could tell them,” Alfie whispered to Phoebe.

“I told you, it’s my father’s land. He has to know first,” Phoebe said. She passed the officers, who nodded to her as they crossed the foyer, then she turned left. The long gallery that ran the length of the building had been boarded up with plywood, with a newly erected door in it marked “Family Quarters: Private.” Phoebe opened the door, and Alfie found himself in the gallery. It was lined with oak panelling. The high ceiling was carved with gilded Tudor roses, and along its length were trophy heads of animals as well as tapestries of hunting scenes. To Alfie it was quite alarming, but Phoebe strode on, not seeming to notice.

At the end of the hall, they came to another foyer with a staircase on one side, not as grand as the central one. Phoebe looked around. “I do hope he’s up. I’m sure he must be up.”

At the sound of her voice, a butler appeared. “You’ve been out riding already, my lady? A fine morning—”

“Have you seen my father, Soames?” Phoebe cut into his words. “I must find him. It’s important.”

“I saw him come down the stairs a few minutes ago, my lady, but I’m not sure where he went. Would you like me to locate him for you?”

“It’s all right. We’ll find him. Come on, Alfie,” Phoebe said as she set off again down a central hallway lined with family portraits. “Pah?” she called. “Pah? Where are you?”

Lord Westerham was sitting at the breakfast table, about to attack a mound of kedgeree. Thank God for kippers, he was thinking. One of the few things that are still worth eating. Not that they appeared often at the local fishmonger’s, since fishing in the North Sea had become such a dangerous occupation. But when the odd kipper was available, the fishmonger always sent a message to Farleigh and reserved a couple behind the counter. “I know how fond his lordship is of his kippers,” the fishmonger’s wife said. In the good old days, it would have been a pair of kippers each for breakfast. Now Mrs. Mortlock had to make the most of them by using them in a kedgeree instead of the traditional smoked haddock.

He had just taken a mouthful when he heard someone shouting. He had barely identified the voice as his youngest daughter’s, as she burst into the room.

“Was that you making that unseemly row?” Lord Westerham scowled at her, waving his fork. “Does your governess not teach you the rudiments of good behaviour?”

“No, Pah, she’s always telling me that a lady never raises her voice, but it’s an emergency. I simply had to find you right away. We’ve found a body. At least Alfie found it, and he stopped me from riding over it.”

“What? What’s this?” Lord Westerham put down his fork and glared at Alfie, trying to remember who he was and why a strange child was in his breakfast room.

“A body, Father. In the far field. He fell out of the sky. It’s rather horrible, but you have to come.”

“His parachute didn’t open,” Alfie added, then rather wished he had stayed silent as Lord Westerham turned to glare at him. Lord Westerham’s glare, under those bushy eyebrows, was quite alarming, and Alfie swallowed nervously, glancing at the door and wondering if a bolt was possible.

“What were you doing on my land? Poaching, I shouldn’t wonder,” Lord Westerham said.

“No, sir. I’m staying with your gamekeeper, remember?” Alfie said.

“Oh yes. So you are.”

“And he sends me out to check the traps in the early morning,” Alfie said. “And I saw this thing lying there, and I didn’t know what it was, so I went to look, and it was this bloke, all smashed up. A right mess. And then your daughter came galloping toward him, so I stopped her, and she said we should tell you first.”

“Quite right. Quite right.” Lord Westerham put down his napkin and stood up. “Well, I suppose you’d better take me to see, hadn’t you?” He glared in annoyance as two English setters raced toward the door, sensing that their master was about to go out. “And make sure those blasted dogs don’t get out. I don’t want them nosing about a corpse.” He looked down at them, their feathery tales wagging excitedly, eyes fixed on him, and his tone softened in a way that he never addressed his children. “Sorry, St. John. Sorry, Missie, old girl. Can’t take you this time. But we’ll make up for it later.” He gave them a quick pat on the head. “Now stay!” he commanded. Both dogs sat, looking worried. As their little party reached the end of the long gallery, Phoebe turned to see the dogs still sitting in a shaft of sunlight.

CHAPTER THREE

Farleigh, the kitchen

May 1941

“What was that kerfuffle all about, Mr. Soames?” Mrs. Mortlock looked up from the kitchen table, her arms elbow deep in flour as the butler was coming through the baize door. “Young Elsie said she heard shouting when she was carrying up the hot water for Miss Livvy.”

“Lady Phoebe seemed most agitated about something,” Mr. Soames said, in his calm and measured way. “I didn’t quite hear the full story, but I caught something about a body.”

“A body? Well, I never. What next?” Mrs. Mortlock brushed off her hands so that a cloud of flour rose around her. “Poor Lady Phoebe. Don’t tell me she came upon a body. A shock like that could unhinge the mind of a delicate young girl like Lady Phoebe.”

Mr. Soames smiled. “I rather suspect that Lady Phoebe is as tough as any of us, Mrs. Mortlock. But as you say, it is most worrying to think of a body here at Farleigh.”

“Where was it found, Mr. Soames? Anyone we know?” Mrs. Mortlock asked, moving away from her mixing bowl now that she was truly interested.

“Not that I heard. Just that she had found a body. And since she had just come in wearing her riding outfit, one must assume she found it on the grounds.”

“It’s them soldiers,” Ruby, the kitchen maid, commented from the kitchen sink. “They’re all sex-starved.”

There was a gasp from Mrs. Mortlock.

“Ruby, where did you hear such language?” Mr. Soames demanded. “It’s not what I expect from the servants in a house like this.”

“I heard it from Elsie,” Ruby said. “She was telling Jenny. And she gets it from the picture papers. They’re always talking about sex in Hollywood. Anyway, Elsie said them soldiers are all sex-starved. Some of them invited her to go to the pub with them when she was polishing the door knocker.”

“I hope she put them in their place,” Mrs. Mortlock said. “Speak to her, Mr. Soames. We can’t let down standards just because there’s a war on.”

“I most certainly will speak to her, Mrs. Mortlock. That’s what happens when there’s no housekeeper and no senior servants to supervise things. The young ones get ideas.”

“Did they say what kind of body it was?” Mrs. Mortlock asked.

“I bet they lured some girl from the village here and had their way with her and she died of shock,” Ruby went on.

“That’s enough, Ruby,” Mr. Soames said firmly. “I don’t wish to hear such talk again.”

“And luckily, Ruby will be so fully occupied with washing up and peeling potatoes that she is not likely to encounter any of the soldiers,” Mrs. Mortlock said, giving Ruby a long warning look. “And if she doesn’t get a move on, we’ll be behind with the luncheon. I don’t know what his lordship will say when he finds out it’s vegetable pie again, but we’ve no more meat coupons for the rest of the month.”

“It don’t seem fair that the family can’t eat their own meat when they’ve got a farm and all them animals.”

“Those animals, Ruby. Really your grammar leaves a lot to be desired!” Mr. Soames sighed.

“I’m not really complaining,” Mrs. Mortlock said. “I know we do better than most, and it’s only right that those that raise food share it with those who live in the cities. But it’s certainly a challenge trying to come up with appetizing meals on the ration of a quarter pound of meat per person per week.”

“And it don’t seem fair that I’m stuck in a kitchen washing up when I could be making good money in a factory,” Ruby muttered, half to herself.

“And what factory would take you?” Mrs. Mortlock demanded. “You have to be sharp and nimble to work in a factory. You’re all thumbs. You wouldn’t last a day. No, my girl. You thank your lucky stars her ladyship took you on here. Otherwise, it would have been a land girl, digging potatoes out in the freezing rain.”

“I wouldn’t mind. At least there would be people to talk to,” Ruby said. “It’s no fun now all the footmen have gone, and we’re down to Elsie and Jenny and her ladyship’s maid and nanny.”

“It’s not exactly fun for us, either, Ruby,” Mr. Soames said. “I am not thrilled about waiting at table and doing footmen’s work at my age and with my seniority. But I do it cheerfully, knowing that the family depends on me. Above all, we do not let the family down. We try to make it seem that this place is running as it always had. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Mr. Soames,” Ruby said in a dutiful voice.

“Don’t you think we should send up some hot cocoa with brandy in it to Lady Phoebe?” Mrs. Mortlock asked. “They say brandy is the thing for shock, don’t they?”

“Knowing young people, I suspect that Lady Phoebe is more thrilled than shocked at finding a body, Mrs. Mortlock, and will now be tucking into a large and satisfying breakfast.” Mr. Soames smiled as he walked toward the door.

Phoebe was just coming out of her bedroom when a door farther down the hall opened, and a bleary-eyed head poked out. “Was that you running up and down the hall and waking everyone at the crack of dawn?” Lady Diana Sutton asked in a petulant voice. She was wearing blue silk pyjamas, and her blonde bob was tousled.

“Dawn cracked hours ago, Dido,” Phoebe said. “I’ve already been out riding, and you’ll never guess what I found!”

“I can hardly wait. The suspense is killing me.” Lady Diana came out into the hall and leaned against the doorframe, in what she hoped was a blasé and sophisticated manner. “Could it have been mushrooms? Or a fox maybe?”

“It was a body, Dido,” Phoebe said.

“A body? Of a person? Dead?”

“Bodies usually are. And this one was very dead indeed. It had fallen from an aeroplane.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because he was wearing the remains of a parachute that didn’t open properly.”

“Golly.” Dido suddenly forgot her sophistication. “Have you told Pah?”

“Yes, and he’s gone to talk to the army people.”

“Hold on a minute,” Lady Diana said. “I’ll get some clothes on, and you can show me before they move it away.”

“I don’t think Pah would like that,” Phoebe said. “Not when he’s with the army people.”

“Don’t be such a wet blanket, Feebs,” Diana said. “You know I have to make the most of the only excitement we’re likely to get around here. I don’t know about you, but I’m dying of boredom. It’s just not fair. I should have had my season and come out by now. I might even have been engaged to a yummy French count like Margot is. Instead, there are only boring soldiers and aged farmers, and Pah won’t even let me go up to London. He won’t even let me be a land girl because he says the farmhands only have one thing on their minds. Doesn’t he know that I’m positively drooling for that one thing?”

“What thing is that?” Phoebe asked. “A boyfriend?”

“Sex, darling. You don’t understand, but you will one day.” She gave Phoebe a withering look. “I hate this stupid war. And I’m going to take a look at that body whether you show me or not.” She turned and went back into her bedroom, slamming the door so that the pictures on the wall shook dangerously on their hooks.

CHAPTER FOUR

A field at Farleigh

May 1941

“Well?” Lord Westerham looked up at the officer standing beside him. “One of yours, is he?” He was not at all pleased with having the Royal West Kents taking over his house, but he tolerated Colonel Pritchard, their commanding officer, reasonably well. He was a gentleman, one of the right sort, and he had gone to some trouble to make sure the army caused the least disruption possible.

Colonel Pritchard looked rather green about the gills as he stared down at the corpse. He was a small, dapper man with a neat little mustache. Out of uniform, he would not have been taken for a soldier—a city gent maybe, or a bank manager. He now moved his shoe out of the area of blood-soaked grass. “Our chaps don’t go leaping out of aeroplanes,” he said. “We’re strictly infantry.”

“But isn’t he wearing your uniform?”

“Hard to tell. Looks a little like it.” The colonel frowned. “But as I say, if any man under my command had been given permission to jump out of a plane, I should have been told. Besides, I also should have heard if they were not all present and accounted for.”

“So what’s the procedure now?” Lord Westerham demanded. “We can’t have him lying here in my field, scaring my deer. Someone’s going to have to remove him. Should we summon the local police and have him taken to the nearest morgue?”

“I hardly think that’s appropriate,” Colonel Pritchard said. “The chap is in uniform, after all. It will be an army matter. Someone will know who he is, or was, rather. Someone will have ordered a bungled parachute jump last night—although why here, I can’t tell you.”

“Perhaps he drifted off course in the wind.”

“Hardly any breeze last night,” Colonel Pritchard said. “Besides, judging by the shape that parachute is in, he didn’t do much drifting. I suppose we could take a look at the poor blighter’s identity discs. Then at least we’ll know who he was and where he came from.” He gave a shudder of supreme distaste at this thought.

Between them, they bent to turn over the body. It felt like moving a bag of odd bits and pieces, as if every bone had been smashed, and even Lord Westerham shuddered this time. The front of the corpse was a bloody mess, his face unrecognisable. The colonel turned away as he opened the top button on the uniform and hauled out the identity tags. It was hard to tell that one had been red and one green, and the cord that held them was now sticky and crusting. Flies had already located the body and were arriving in droves, their buzzing filling the quiet of the meadow. Colonel Pritchard removed a knife from his pocket and cut the cord that held the discs.

“Can’t read anything at the moment. They’ll have to wash away the blood.” He took a starched white handkerchief from his pocket and carefully placed the tags inside it.

“There you are. He was one of yours,” Lord Westerham said, pointing down at the flash on his shoulder. Through the blood and grime they could just make out the words Royal West Kents.

“Good God.” Colonel Pritchard stared. “What did he think he was doing? Out for a joyride or some kind of prank? Had a pal in the RAF and was going to surprise us all by dropping in on morning roll call? Let’s hope his fate dissuades anyone else from such foolishness.”

Diana hurried down the steps and out onto the grounds. She was well aware of the surreptitious looks she was getting from the soldiers she passed and allowed herself a secret smile. She was wearing red linen trousers and a white halter top—a little too cold for the time of day, but highly fashionable. On her feet were rope-soled wedge sandals. By the time she had crossed the first lawns, the sandals were wet with dew, and she rather regretted that she had not put on a cardigan. But such thoughts vanished as she approached the group of soldiers, in the process of lifting the body onto a stretcher. It was already covered with a sheet. An ambulance stood nearby. The men looked up as Diana came toward them, and she saw the astonishment, and appreciation, in their faces.

“You don’t want to come anywhere near here, miss,” one of them said, coming over to intercept her. “There’s been a nasty accident, I’m afraid.”

“She’s not ‘miss.’ That’s his lordship’s daughter,” an older man, wearing sergeant’s stripes, corrected him. “You have to say ‘my lady.’”

“Sorry, I’m sure, my lady,” the young man said.

“Don’t worry about it. I really don’t care about all these silly rules. My name’s Diana. And I came out to see the body.”

“You wouldn’t want to see it, Lady Diana, trust me,” the older man said. “What a mess. Poor bloke.”

“Was he a spy, do you think?” Diana asked. “You hear about German spies parachuting in, don’t you?”

This made them chuckle.

“If he was, he’d got hold of our army uniform,” the older one said. “No, it’s my guess he was on some kind of training mission that went wrong, poor bugger.” Then he remembered to whom he was speaking and grimaced. “Pardon my language, your ladyship.”

“They were probably trying out some new parachute prototype on him,” another soldier agreed. “There’s a lot they don’t tell us, and they use us as guinea pigs.”

His friends nodded agreement.

“He was wearing a ring, bloody poofta,” the young one said with disgust.

“Well, he was married, wasn’t he?”

“He was bloody stupid,” the young one went on.

“Why was that?” Diana asked. “Stupid to get married?”

“No, your ladyship. Stupid because if he got his ring caught during the jump, it would have ripped his finger off.”

Diana shuddered, noticing how easily they spoke of such things. But then they had already fought in France and escaped from Dunkirk. They had seen friends blown up beside them. Another failed parachute jump was nothing to them. The stretcher was loaded into the ambulance and was driven away. The men headed back to the house. Diana fell into step beside them.

“How long do you think you’ll be staying here? Do you know?”

“For the duration, as far as I’m concerned,” the older one said.

“Not me, Smitty. I want to see some action. I wouldn’t mind heading out to North Africa tomorrow and taking on Rommel,” the young soldier who had first spoken to her said.

“You’ve only just joined up, Tom. If you’d been with us at Dunkirk, you wouldn’t feel the same way. Never more grateful in my life to get home. Those blokes in their little boats did an amazing job. I came home on someone’s yacht. This posh bloke crammed about twenty of us on board. Horribly overloaded. I thought we were going to capsize, but we didn’t. And when he dropped us off on the beach, he turned around and went back again. That takes guts, that does.”

Diana nodded. “So what do you do all day when you’re here?” she asked.

“Training. Drilling. Preparing for an invasion.”

“Do you think the Germans will invade?”

“I think it’s only a matter of time,” one of them said. “They’ve got a bloody great war machine. But we’ll be ready for them. They won’t get past us without a fight.”

“I think you all are so brave,” Diana said, watching with amusement as they looked embarrassed.

“You should come down to one of the dances in the village, my lady,” the bold one said. “They’re good fun.”

“I just might do that,” Diana said. She didn’t add “if my father lets me.”

She was rather sorry to have reached the house, and she watched the men moving off toward their quarters.

Back at the house Phoebe went into her bedroom to change clothes. Jodhpurs were not allowed in the dining room, even with the relaxed rules of wartime. Now that she was alone, she found that she felt rather sick, but put it down to the fact that she hadn’t had breakfast yet.

“Been out riding, Phoebe?” Her governess, Miss Gumble, came into the room. She was tall and thin and carried herself well. Her face was now rather gaunt, but she must have been good-looking once. In fact, she came from a good family and she might have married well, but the Great War robbed her of the chance to find a husband.

She had been hired as Phoebe’s governess when Dido was sent to finishing school in Switzerland. They got along well. Phoebe was a bright little girl and a pleasure to teach, even though Miss Gumble’s conscience had been nagging her to abandon her post and volunteer for war work. She had a good brain. Surely she could be useful in any number of ways.

Phoebe looked up. “Oh, hello, Gumbie. I didn’t hear you come in. You’ll never guess what: I found a body in the far field when I was riding this morning.”

“A body? Good gracious. Did you tell your father?”

“Yes, and he and the army man went to take a look at it. It was a man whose parachute didn’t open, and he must have fallen out of a plane. He was awfully smashed up.”

“How horrid for you,” Gumbie said.

“Yes, it was, rather,” Phoebe said. “But you would have been proud of me. I didn’t let anyone see I was upset. The worst thing was that I almost rode over it. Can you imagine? Luckily, the boy from London who’s living with the gamekeeper ran out and stopped me. He was jolly brave, actually.”

“Good for him.” Gumbie came around behind Phoebe to do up the buttons on her cotton dress. Since Phoebe had now declared herself too old to have a nanny, her governess had taken over such tasks. She was smart enough to realise that a girl of twelve needed some looking after, even if she claimed she didn’t. The child’s mother, Lady Esme, was a nice enough person but hadn’t a clue about mothering her children, essentially leaving them to fend for themselves. Miss Gumble was only surprised that they had all turned out remarkably well. She smiled at Phoebe.

“If I were you, I’d go down and have a jolly good breakfast before we start work. I always find that food is the best thing if you’ve had a shock. Food and hot, sweet tea. They work wonders.”

Phoebe undid her pigtails and started to brush her hair. “I wonder who he was, poor man.”

“I expect it was some kind of night-time training exercise that went wrong,” Miss Gumble said. “You know, commando stuff.”

“So many horrid things seem to be happening, don’t they?” Phoebe said while she tugged at a stubborn tangle in her corn-coloured hair. “Alfie said he saw a dead baby lying in the street and a woman whose clothes had been blown off her.”

“Poor Alfie,” Miss Gumble said. “He was sent here to get away from the distressing sights of the war, and now the war has followed him.”

She took the brush from Phoebe. “Give me your hair ribbon. You can’t go downstairs looking like Alice in Wonderland.”

Phoebe turned obediently and allowed her governess to tie back her hair. “Gumbie,” she said. “How long do you think the war will go on? For a long time?”

“I hope so,” Miss Gumble replied.

Phoebe spun around, shocked. “You want the war to go on?”

“I do. Because if it ends quickly, it will mean that the Germans have conquered.”

“Conquered? You mean come into England?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Do you think that might happen?”

“I think it’s all too possible, Phoebe. We’ll do our best, of course. Mr. Churchill said that we would fight them on the beaches and in our back gardens, but I wonder how many people actually would when it came to it?”

“My father would,” Phoebe said.

“Yes, I expect he would,” Miss Gumble replied, “but there are plenty of people who wouldn’t put up a fight. We’ve all grown tired of war already, and if it goes on much longer . . . well, we’ll welcome anyone who can return life to normal.”

She tied the girl’s hair ribbon. “Go on. Go down before your father eats all the good stuff.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Farleigh, the breakfast room

May 1941

Phoebe actually liked this dining room better than the cavernous oak-panelled room where they had taken their meals before the war. This had been a former music room, painted light blue with gilded trim, and tall French windows looked out over the lake. Sunlight was streaming in. It felt warm and safe because Phoebe was still cold. She had looked in vain for scrambled eggs and just served herself a plate of kedgeree when her father came in, followed by the English setters who were jumping around him excitedly.

“I hope you’ve left something for me, young lady,” he said, striding over to the sideboard. “Would you blasted animals go away and leave me in peace? You’ll not get any bacon, you know. There’s a war on.”

“I thought you’d had breakfast.” Phoebe took a generous mouthful of rice. It was now, unfortunately, almost cold, but the bits of kipper made it taste all right.

“I was interrupted in the middle of mine, if you remember.” Lord Westerham took the silver lid off the chafing dish. “Ah, good. There is still plenty. I suppose nobody else is up yet?”

“Dido is. She wanted me to show her the body.”

“That young woman is going to come to a sticky end if she’s not careful.” He looked up as Lady Esme came in, holding an envelope in her hand. “Hear that, Esme? Your idiot daughter wanted to see the body of a man who fell into our field.” He took his place at the head of the table, and the dogs sat expectantly beside him.

Lady Esme looked only vaguely surprised. “I thought I heard something of the kind when I was having my morning tea,” she said. “Well, I suppose she could be curious. I suppose I was at her age. Whose body was it?”

“Some damned army chappie, although the colonel doesn’t see how it can be one of his. Bit fishy if you ask me.”

“Mummy, I found the body,” Phoebe said.

Lady Westerham had now taken a piece of toast and sat beside her husband. “Did you, dear? That must have been exciting for you.”

Phoebe glanced at her. Gumbie was perceptive enough to know that it had shocked Phoebe, but not her mother, who was now calmly opening the envelope. “Oh, it’s a letter from Clemmie Churchill,” she said, showing enthusiasm for the first time. “I was expecting to hear from her about the garden party at Chartwell next month.”

“Garden party?” Lord Westerham bellowed. “Doesn’t Clemmie Churchill know there’s a war on?”

“Of course she does, but Winston misses Chartwell and needs cheering up, so she arranged this little garden party for him at the home he misses so much,” she said. “Be quiet and let me read, Roddy.”

Her eyes scanned the page. “Poor thing,” she said.

“I hardly think that being wife of the prime minister can be described as a poor thing,” Lord Westerham muttered between bites of breakfast.

“She says that Winston is horribly overworked, gets almost no sleep, and in consequence is always bad-tempered.”

Lord Westerham snorted. “Winston has always been bad-tempered, ever since I’ve known him. The moment anything doesn’t go the way he wants it to, he explodes. I should imagine losing a war would not be kind to anyone’s temper.”

Lady Esme was still reading. “You know how he loves Chartwell. I’d invite them to stay with us, but . . .”

“Esme, we’re packed in like sardines as it is,” Lord Westerham said. “You can’t invite the prime minister of England to bunk up in the maid’s quarters.” The thought of this made him chuckle.

“Don’t be silly, dear,” Lady Westerham said calmly, not looking up from her letter. “Oh no,” she exclaimed as she read on. “How disappointing.”

Lord Westerham raised an eyebrow.

“I told you he has to come down here anyway to attend that ceremony at Biggin Hill Aerodrome next month, honouring those brave lads who were killed in the Battle of Britain. Clemmie had wanted me to help her with the garden party at Chartwell, but Winston got word of it and has put his foot down. No parties in wartime, he says. In these times of economy we have to set an example and not open up the house for one weekend. Isn’t that just like him?”

“Nasty Americanism, the word ‘weekend,’” Lord Westerham remarked. Although he had known Churchill for many years, he still hadn’t quite forgiven him for his American mother.

“Do be quiet and stop interrupting, Roddy.” Lady Westerham frowned at him across the table. “Oh, this is a splendid idea. Listen, Roddy. She wonders if they might come here for tea on the lawn after the ceremony. It would be a lovely surprise for Winston to be with the old neighbours, she says.”

“The prime minister, here to tea? What do you plan to feed them? Dandelions? Are they going to bring their own ration cards?” Lord Westerham demanded.

“Don’t be difficult, Roddy. You know you’d love to see the Churchills again. And we do have kitchen gardens. The strawberries should be ripe, and there would be cucumbers and cress for sandwiches. We’ll manage somehow. So I’ll write back, and tell her it’s a splendid idea, shall I?”

Before Lord Westerham could answer, the door opened and Olivia, the eldest of the Sutton sisters, came in. Although she was only twenty-six, she was already starting to look matronly. She was wearing a navy dress with a white round collar and pin-tuck pleats at the front, which emphasised her ample bosom. And she wore her hair rolled in a coil at the back of her neck, which didn’t really suit her round face.

“Charlie has a bit of a cough,” she said. “I hope he’s not coming down with something. Has the post arrived yet, Pah? Is there anything from Teddy?”

“Nothing but a couple of bills and a letter for your mother from Mrs. Churchill,” Lord Westerham said. “Your husband is probably having far too good a time to think of writing.”

“Don’t say that, Pah. He’s only doing his duty. He had to go where he was sent.”

“And the Bahamas is not exactly a hardship posting.” Lord Westerham looked at his wife, who smiled vaguely.

“How nice for him. I hear they have lovely beaches.”

They all looked up as Dido came in. There were goose bumps on her bare shoulders and arms, but her face was glowing from being outside. “Golly, the whole clan is here. What are you doing up, Mummy? I thought you told me one of the few luxuries of being a married woman was breakfast in bed.”

“Darling, I used to look forward to my fresh brown egg and thin soldiers of lovely fresh bread. Having toast and margarine somehow hardly makes it worthwhile staying in bed.”

“I hear you went out looking for the body, Dido,” her father said. He was eyeing her critically. “Don’t tell me you went outside looking like that? You need your head examined—all those bloody soldiers hanging around with too much time on their hands. You’ll come a cropper, my girl.”

“The soldiers were very sweet to me, Pah. And besides, I was too late to see the body,” Dido said, helping herself to the last of the kedgeree. “Oh goody, hooray for Mrs. Stubbins. She found kippers for us again.”

“Never did I think there would come a day when we would all rejoice over kippers,” Lord Westerham said. “I suppose a mere taste is better than nothing, but I really miss my pair of kippers, all to myself.” He turned to wave a warning finger at his daughter. “But in future, Diana, I do not want you wandering all over the property alone, especially not dressed like that. It looks as if you’re wearing your pyjamas.”

“It’s the height of fashion, Pah. Or at least it was when there was still Vogue. Not that there is any point in trying to be fashionable when one is stuck in the depth of the countryside.” She put her plate down next to Phoebe’s, then reached over to pat the setter’s head before she picked up her napkin. “If you’d let me get a job up in London, I’d be safely out of your hair, Pah. And I wouldn’t have any time on my hands, would I?” she replied bitterly. “I’m dying of boredom, you know. There’s a war on. Plenty of excitement. I want to be part of it.”

“We’ve been through this before, Dido,” Lord Westerham said. “You are too young to go and work on your own in London. I don’t mind you helping out with the animals on the home farm, or even helping teach the children at the village school, but that’s it. And that’s my final word on the subject. Don’t bring it up again.”

Dido sighed and took her place at the far end of the table. They all looked up at the sound of a heavy, measured tread, and Soames came in, bearing a silver salver.

“A letter for you, my lady,” he said. “Hand delivered.”

Lady Esme looked surprised as she took it. “Goodness. What an eventful morning. Who can be writing to me now?” The rest of the family waited as she took the envelope, noted the crest on the back, and smiled. “Oh, it’s Lady Prescott. I wonder what she wants? I thought we were too impossibly dowdy and old-fashioned for them.”

“Perhaps she wants to borrow a cup of sugar,” Lord Westerham replied with a snort. “Times are hard for all at the moment, even the Prescotts.”

“Oh, not the Prescotts, I think,” Livvy said. “Every time I take Charlie out in his pram, I seem to see a delivery van pulling up at their house.”

“What does it say, Mah?” Dido asked.

Lady Esme looked up, a pleased smile on her face and began to read aloud:

Dear Lady Westerham,

I wanted to share our good news with you before you heard it through the village grapevine. Our son Jeremy has arrived home safely against all odds. He is naturally weak, recovering from an infected gunshot wound, but we have every reason to hope he will make a full recovery.

When he has regained his strength, we look forward to giving a little dinner party in his honour and hope that your family will be able to join us.

Yours sincerely,

Madeleine Prescott

She folded the letter and looked around at her family, beaming. “Isn’t that wonderful? I must write to Pamela straight away. She’ll be thrilled.”

“Why Pamma any more than the rest of us?” Dido demanded. “Or is she the favoured child?”

“Dido, you know how sweet Pamma is on Jeremy. In fact, if there hadn’t been this stupid war, I rather think there might have been an announcement by now.” She gave an enigmatic smile.

“Mah, you’re too keen to get your children married off, aren’t you? Jeremy Prescott never struck me as the faithful type.”

“I’m sure lots of young men sow their wild oats but settle down when the time comes,” Lady Esme said. “Anyway, the main thing is that he’s home now, and all will be well.” She got up. “I must write to Pamma this very minute.”

Dido watched her go. “I don’t know where I’m ever supposed to find a husband,” she said. “Stuck here in the country, it will have to be a pig farmer, I suppose.”

This made Phoebe giggle. “He’d smell horrible,” she said. “But you’d get good bacon.”

“That was supposed to be sarcasm, Feebs,” Dido said. “I was just reminding everyone that I didn’t get my season like my sisters.”

“I didn’t order this blasted war,” Lord Westerham said. “And you’re still young. There will be plenty of chance for parties and dances when it’s over.”

“If you know how to do German folk dances,” Phoebe said.

Lord Westerham’s face turned beetroot red. “Not funny, Phoebe. Not in the least bit funny. The Germans will not win, and that’s final.”

He flung down his napkin and strode from the room.

Later that morning, the colonel’s adjutant, Captain Hartley, sought out his commanding officer.

“We’ve checked the tags, sir, and they don’t match anyone in the West Kents. Furthermore, all were present and correct at roll call this morning, apart from Jones, who was given two days’ leave because his wife had a baby, and Patterson, who is in the hospital with appendicitis.”

“So what do you think we should do now?” Colonel Pritchard scratched his head, pushing his cap askew. “Find out who this joker was and why he was wearing our uniform.”

“One can’t rule out the possibility, sir, that he was a spy. Wearing the uniform of the West Kents would give him a good excuse to roam around this area, wouldn’t it?”

Colonel Pritchard sucked air in through his teeth. “One hears about such things, but surely they are all rumour.”

“Oh, I’m pretty sure there are plenty of fifth columnists around.”

“You think so?” Colonel Pritchard glared. “Englishmen deliberately wanting to work for the Hun?”

“I’m afraid so, sir. If someone needed to contact them, what better way than to parachute a man in on a dark, moonless night?”

Colonel Pritchard stared past him, out across the lawns. He found it hard to believe that this was England, Blake’s green and pleasant land, and yet they were no longer safe at home. Bombs were falling indiscriminately. And now, maybe spies were working among them.

“Send the tags to army intelligence. They can come and take the body. It’s out of our hands,” he said, then looked up as a private approached them, walking fast. He stopped, came to attention, and saluted.

“Begging your pardon, Colonel, sir,” he said, “but I was one of the men sent to get that body today. And at the time, I thought there was something that wasn’t quite right. Then I realised what it was. He still had his cap tucked into his lapel, and the badge was wrong.”