In Farleigh Field

CHAPTER SIX

Wormwood Scrubs prison

Acton, West London

May 1941

The gate to Wormwood Scrubs prison closed behind Ben Cresswell with a clang of finality. Even though he had been coming and going through this particular gate for the past three months, he still felt an odd frisson of fear when he entered and an absurd sense of relief when he was safely outside again, as if he’d got away undetected.

“Let you out early for good behaviour then, did they?” the policeman on duty asked him with a grin. The joke had now become old, but apparently the bobby still hadn’t tired of it.

“Me? Absolutely not. I escaped over the wall. Didn’t you notice?” Ben replied, straight-faced. “Shirking on the job?”

“Get outta here!” The policeman chuckled and gave Ben a nudge.

MI5’s move to Wormwood Scrubs for security reasons was supposed to be strictly hush-hush, but everyone connected to the prison seemed to be fully aware of what the newcomers who had taken over one wing were up to. Even a bus conductor had been known to announce the stop by yelling down the bus, “All change for MI5.” So much for secrecy, Ben thought while he crossed the street to the bus stop. As the headquarters of a secret service division, the prison had proved to be a dismal failure. The cells they had been assigned were cold and damp; some doors had actually been removed, so it was easy to overhear what was going on in the next room. Furthermore, it was more inconvenient and difficult to get to than the former headquarters on the Cromwell Road.

Recently, part of B Division, responsible for counterespionage, had been moved out to Blenheim Palace in Oxfordshire, where rumour had it that, in spite of being in a stately home, the accommodations were even more primitive than at the prison. Even so, Ben wished he’d been assigned there and was actually doing something useful for the war effort. Since he had been recruited into MI5 a year ago, his spy catching had been confined to following up on rumours and tips in the greater London area. The rumours were nearly always a waste of time. Mostly they were false alarms or a chance to even old scores. A nosy old woman had peeked out of her blackout curtain and seen a furtive man slinking past her back garden. Definitely looked like an invading Nazi. Only it turned out to be the lover of the lady next door, sneaking in while her husband was away. Or a woman suspected that her neighbours were secret German sympathisers because they always played Mozart on their radiogram. When Ben pointed out that Mozart was actually Austrian, the woman had sniffed in annoyance. No difference really, she’d said. Wasn’t Hitler Austrian? And besides, they were always cooking with garlic. You could smell it a mile off. And if that wasn’t suspicious, what was?

Ben turned to look back at the ornate red-and-white brick towers that housed the prison gate. Trust the Victorians to make even a prison look impressive! Then he walked down Du Cane Road to the East Acton tube station. He hoped the tube would be quicker into central London than a bus, but one never knew. One bomb on the line overnight and everything would grind to a halt. His gait was slightly uneven and jerky, thanks to the tin knee in his left leg, but he was still able to move quite fast. Just not able to play rugger nor bowl at cricket. He was about to cross to the tube station when a man came out of the tobacconists with a paper under his arm, stared at Ben, then frowned. “Here, you, son. Why aren’t you in uniform?” he demanded, waving an aggressive finger at Ben. “What are you, a bleeding conchie?”

Ben had faced similar accusations many times since the war began. “Aeroplane crash,” he said. “One leg smashed up and no use to anyone.”

The man’s face turned red. “Sorry, mate. I didn’t realise you were RAF. Shouldn’t have spoken like that to one of our brave boys. God bless you.”

Ben no longer tried to correct anyone. Let them think he was RAF. He would have been, if he hadn’t been in that stupid plane crash at Farleigh. And if he had been? The thought danced around in his head. Shot down over Germany and now languishing in a Stalag Luft like Jeremy? What bloody use was that to the war effort? At least he was doing something vaguely useful in his current job. Or would be, if they’d give him a case he could sink his teeth into.

Ben sighed. The trouble was, the whole country was on edge, fearing the invasion at any moment. He bought his ticket and hauled himself up the steps, up to the platform, as the Underground line actually ran above ground this far out of the city. The platform was crowded, indicating that a train hadn’t come for some time. He squeezed his way close to the line and waited, hoping that it would show up soon and wouldn’t be too full. He had to get to central London in a hurry. For once, he had what might be an important assignment.

“You’re wanted by the powers that be,” his cellmate Guy Harcourt had said with relish when he returned from lunch.

“The powers that be?” Ben had asked.

“The grand pooh-bah Radison himself, no less. Most put out that you had the nerve to go off to luncheon rather than eat a cheese sandwich at your desk.” He was the sort of languid and elegant young man one would expect to find at a country house party, playing croquet with Bertie Wooster. Frightfully good fun, but not too many brains. Ben thought privately that he’d make an excellent spy. Nobody would ever suspect him. They had been at Oxford together, where Harcourt never seemed to do any swotting but managed to pass his exams anyway. They had never been friends. For one thing, Harcourt was too rich, too aristocratic for Ben to be part of his circle, so Ben was surprised when Harcourt had sought him out at the start of the war and recruited him for what turned out to be MI5. They were assigned the same billet at a dreary private hotel on the Cromwell Road and got along well enough.

“I’d hardly call it luncheon,” Ben said. “Do you know they are making rissoles out of horsemeat these days? I’ve had to have the cauliflower cheese three days in a row because the alternatives were too ghastly.”

“Never eat there myself,” Harcourt said. “I pop over to the Queen’s Head on the corner. Beer is nourishing, isn’t it? I plan to survive on it for the duration. I mean to say, horsemeat? These blighters have clearly never ridden to hounds in their lives. You wait, it will be dogs and cats next. Better lock up your Labradors.”

“Did Radison say what he wanted?” Ben asked.

“My dear chap, we’re supposed to be a secret service organisation, aren’t we?” Harcourt asked with a grin. “He’s hardly likely to come in here and tell me what he wants with another agent. There has to be some air of mystery about things.”

“Did he seem annoyed with me?”

“Why, have you blotted your copybook?” Harcourt was grinning now.

“Not that I know of. I was rather short with that chap who wanted his Jewish neighbours locked up as Nazi spies.”

“Better hurry up and see what he wanted, then, hadn’t you? And if you don’t come back, can I have your chair? It’s less wobbly than mine.”

“Very funny.” Ben tried to sound more lighthearted than he felt. He couldn’t think what he might have done, but one never knew. Departments like this were all about the old-boy network, and he didn’t have connections.

Mr. Radison regarded him suspiciously after Ben knocked and entered his office.

“Been out to lunch, have we?” he asked.

“I believe I am allowed a lunch break, sir,” Ben answered. “And I only went to the canteen. Horsemeat rissoles.”

Radison had nodded with understanding then. “I’ve had a message from headquarters. You’re to report to this address on Dolphin Square.”

“Dolphin Square?” He had heard vague rumours about an office in Dolphin Square. Again, nobody was supposed to know that MI5 maintained an office there or whose office it was, but he was fairly sure that it was that of a nebulous character known as Captain King or Mr. K. Someone who was outside the usual hierarchy of the various divisions. Ben felt excitement tinged with apprehension. What could this person want with him? He might have a leg that didn’t always work well, but none of his assignments had required cross-country sprints yet. As boring as his low-level assignments were, he’d fulfilled them perfectly. He had shown himself to be keen and willing. So perhaps this really did bode well—a promotion, a juicy assignment at last.

CHAPTER SEVEN

London

May 1941

Ben snapped out of these thoughts as the loudspeaker announced the arrival of the train, with the warning to stand clear and mind the gap. Doors opened and the crowd surged forward, bearing Ben with them. He managed to grab a pole as the doors closed and the train rattled off. He felt lucky to have something to hang on to; his balance was none too steady, and his bad leg was apt to give way at inconvenient moments. But he made it to Notting Hill Gate Station and changed to the Circle Line to Victoria. The whole journey went remarkably smooth, and he heaved a sigh of relief as he set off down Belgrave Street toward the river. It was a pleasant summery day, warm for May, and Londoners who could escape from offices for a few minutes were sitting at any little square of green they could find, soaking up the sunshine. Dolphin Square rose in front of him, a giant rectangular block of luxury flats. Ben had never seen it before and wondered now how many of those flats were still occupied by rich people who needed a London pied-à-terre. He suspected that anybody who could afford to was staying well away from the Blitz.

There were four big modern buildings around a central quadrangle; the address he had been given said 308 Hood House. He studied the bank of doorbells outside the front door and was surprised to find that 308 was listed as Miss Copplestone. Had he been given the wrong address? Was it someone’s idea of a joke to send him to confront an angry spinster? It was the sort of thing that Halstead might do to liven up a boring afternoon, but the directive had come from Radison, and Radison was the epitome of a civil servant with no sense of humour. With misgivings, Ben pressed the doorbell.

“Can I help you?” said a patrician voice. Ben was tempted to walk away rapidly, but he said, “I’m not sure if I have the right address. My name is Cresswell, and I was told . . .”

“I’ll let you in, Mr. Cresswell,” said the efficient voice. “Take the lift. Fifth floor and turn right.”

At least he was expected. A tinge of apprehension mingled with excitement as the lift rose slowly. He came out to the fifth floor. The hallway was carpeted and smelled of polish, with a lingering tinge of pipe tobacco. He found the flat and saw that Miss Copplestone was also on the doorplate. He took a deep breath before he knocked. The door was opened by an attractive young woman, her well-cut suit and patrician air betraying that in other times and circumstances she would have been a deb and then been married off to a dull young man of impeccable pedigree. For young women like her, the war had presented a great opportunity to escape, to prove that they were good at all sorts of things, not just small talk and knowing where to seat a bishop at a dinner table.

“Mr. Cresswell? Mr. Knight is expecting you. Come in,” she said in a clipped upper-class voice. “I’ll tell him you are here.”

Ben waited, heard low voices, and was immediately ushered into a large, bright room with windows that looked down the Thames to the Houses of Parliament, barrage balloons bobbing over the buildings to prevent low-level bombing raids. The man sitting at a polished oak desk had his back to the view. He was slim and fit-looking, clearly an outdoor type, and to Ben’s amazement, he was handling what Ben initially thought was a length of rope, which uncoiled and revealed itself to be a small snake.

“Ah, Cresswell. Good of you to come.” He stuffed the snake back into a pocket and held out his hand to Ben. “I am Maxwell Knight. Take a seat.”

Ben pulled up an upholstered leather chair.

“Cambridge man?” Knight asked.

“Oxford.”

“Pity. I find that Cambridge produces men who can think creatively.”

“I’m afraid I can’t undo that now,” Ben said. “Besides, Hertford College offered me a scholarship. Cambridge didn’t.”

“Scholarship boy, then?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And before that?”

“Tonbridge. Also on a scholarship.”

“And yet, apparently, you hobnob with the gentry. You know the Earl of Westerham.”

The statement took Ben completely by surprise. “Lord Westerham?”

“Yes. I’m told you’re quite pally with him. Is that correct?”

“I wouldn’t say pally, sir. I wouldn’t presume to claim friendship, but he knows me quite well. My father is the vicar of All Saints, Elmsleigh, the village next to Farleigh. I grew up playing with Lord Westerham’s daughters.”

“Playing with Lord Westerham’s daughters,” Max Knight repeated with the hint of a smile.

Ben’s face betrayed no emotion. “May I ask what this is about, sir? Has my background anything to do with the quality of my work here?”

“Absolutely, at this moment. You see, we need insights, young man. An insider.”

Ben looked up, frowning. “Insights into what?”

Max Knight’s clear blue eyes still held Ben’s. “Three nights ago now, a man apparently fell from a plane onto one of Lord Westerham’s fields. His parachute didn’t open. He was pretty much a mess, as you can imagine. Face too damaged to get an idea what he looked like. But he was wearing the uniform of the Royal West Kents.”

“They’ve taken over most of Farleigh, haven’t they?” Ben frowned. “But they’re an infantry regiment. Where did the parachute come in?”

“It didn’t. Their commander says that his chaps don’t leap out of planes and are all present and accounted for. The identity disc belonged to a soldier who was killed at Dunkirk, and it turns out that the cap badge was the one the regiment wore in the Great War.”

“So a possible spy, then?” Ben felt his pulse quicken.

“Quite possible. I’m also told by one of our bright young women who was going through his clothing—not an enviable task, as you can well imagine—that his socks were wrong.”

“Socks? Wrong?”

“Yes, she’s something of a knitter, and she says that the heel isn’t turned like that in British Army regulation socks. On further investigation, she could just make out the number 42 on them.”

“Forty-two?”

“Metric size.”

“Oh, I see.” Ben nodded now. “So the socks came from the Continent.”

“I’m glad we use Oxford lads. So quick on the uptake,” Max Knight said. Ben flushed.

“Therefore I suppose the question is, what was he doing in Lord Westerham’s field,” Max Knight continued. “Was he there on purpose or by accident?”

“Was there a high wind that night? He could have been blown off course, or the parachute malfunction might have caused him to drift.”

“We’ve checked on that. The breeze was only two knots. Besides, you don’t drift if your parachute doesn’t deploy properly. You plunge straight down.”

“It might just have been pure coincidence that the landing site was Lord Westerham’s field,” Ben said. “He was instructed to parachute down within reach of London or within reach of Biggin Hill RAF station.”

“Then why not an RAF uniform instead of the West Kent Regiment?” He took a deep breath that sounded almost like a sigh. “You can see the tricky situation we find ourselves in, can’t you, Cresswell? If the landing was intentional, if he was a German spy—and we have to assume that is the case—then he was sent to make contact with someone nearby, in an area where a uniform of the West Kents would not arouse suspicion.”

“What about his pockets, sir?” Ben asked. “Was there nothing useful that could be retrieved from his pockets?”

“His pockets were completely empty, apart from a small snapshot in his breast pocket.”

“A snapshot?” Ben asked, half-interested and half-afraid now.

“Of a landscape. Of course it was covered in blood, but the lab has been able to clean it up. We had to prise this out of the hands of army intelligence, by the way. They weren’t too keen to share information. Nobody is these days.” He opened a drawer and took out a slim file, which he opened and turned toward Ben. Ben stood up to look at it. It hadn’t been a very good photograph to begin with. The sort of small snapshot a tourist might take on summer holiday, and now, after having been bloodied and cleaned, it was even more indistinct. From what Ben could make out, it was a general view of an English countryside with fields divided by hedges, and rising in the background, a steep-sided hill, topped with a crown of trees. Amid the trees was just the hint of a village with what looked like a square tower of a church poking above Scotch pines. Ben stared at it. “That’s not anywhere I’ve seen, and it doesn’t look like our part of Kent,” he said. “It looks more bleak, and steep, and windswept. Scots pines, aren’t they? More like the West Country from that square-towered church. Cornwall maybe?”

Max Knight nodded. “Could well be. So what was it doing in his pocket? Was he supposed to make his way there—in which case, why drop him in the middle of Kent? Was he supposed to hand it to someone telling the site for a rendezvous for some unknown purpose?”

“Or the name of the village is somehow significant?” Ben suggested.

Knight sighed again. “Again possibly. You’ll note there were numbers written on it. Almost washed away, but the pen left an impression on the photo paper.” He looked up at Ben. “It’s all right to pick it up.”

Ben took the photograph gingerly and held it up to the light: 1461. “Fourteen sixty-one. Any significant battles take place on that date?”

Knight looked at him long and hard. “That’s for you to find out, son. I’m dumping this in your lap. Reports on you say that you are quick and you’re keen, and you don’t like sitting around twiddling your thumbs. Normally, I’d give something like this to a senior man, but you have what nobody else in this department has—you’re one of them.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Dolphin Square, London

May 1941

Ben shifted uneasily in his seat. “Excuse me, sir, but what do you want me to do? Find out where the snapshot was taken?”

“That can wait. Right now I’d like you to go home for a few days.”

“But I say, sir, isn’t there an element of haste in this? The Germans wouldn’t have dropped somebody into the Kent countryside unless it was for an urgent mission.”

“The messenger is dead, Cresswell. And with him, presumably the message he carried. They will have to regroup and try again, likely in a different way this time, as they assume we’ll be looking out for parachutists. What we have to find out is for whom the message was intended. That’s where you come in. Go home. Don’t make it obvious, but ask questions.”

“What kind of questions?”

Maxwell Knight looked at Ben as if he were a bit dense. “I’m sure the neighbourhood will still be buzzing with news of the body. Someone will be bound to suggest that it’s a German spy. Watch their reactions.”

“Exactly what are you suggesting?” Ben asked cautiously.

“We must assume that the man did not parachute into that field by accident. If he was a German spy, which we have to assume is the case, why Lord Westerham’s estate?”

“Maybe it was convenient open space fairly close to London.”

“Then why no money in his pockets? He couldn’t get far. He carried no papers, so it appears he was planning to deliver a message in person to someone nearby. Or go to a safe house nearby. And there was no sign of a radio or any way to communicate with his base. My guess is that he was planning to hand over that photograph. So the question is to whom?”

Ben gave an uneasy chuckle. “You’re not suggesting that Lord Westerham or one of his neighbours is working for the Jerries?”

Max Knight gave him a long stare. “Surely you are aware that there are pro-German sentiments among certain members of the aristocracy. The Duke of Windsor is a prime example. He couldn’t wait to visit Hitler in his own lair. Why else do you think he was shipped off to be governor of the Bahamas? So that the Americans can keep an eye on him and foil any plot to put him in power here as a puppet king.”

“Gosh,” Ben said. “But having German connections, or even German sympathies, does not mean that any Englishman would actively work to help Germany, surely? Even the Duke of Windsor would do the right thing if approached by Hitler’s emissaries. He’d never agree to depose his brother . . .”

“Would he do the right thing?” Max Knight held Ben’s gaze. “One hopes he would, but he has already demonstrated weakness and susceptibility to be led, has he not? He abandoned his duty for a woman—for a woman of questionable morals at that. Our present king may not have his brother’s charm, but at least he has backbone. He’ll see us through if anyone can.”

“So you want me to go down to Farleigh and try to root out pro-German sentiments?”

“Go home and keep your eyes and ears open, that’s all. Lord Westerham and his neighbours. Say you draw a five-mile radius. Who does that encompass?”

“Including the two or three villages?”

“Possibly. Although I’m sure all the villagers will tell you quickly enough about anyone who is new to the area, who behaves strangely, once went on holiday to Germany, Switzerland, or Austria, or even likes Beethoven. No, I’m interested in bigger fish, my boy. Someone who might be able to do real damage. Who exactly lives at Farleigh these days?”

Ben laughed. “An entire brigade of the Royal West Kent Regiment for one thing.”

Max Knight smiled, too. “We have army intelligence working on them. So far they’ve come up with no leads there at all. The entire West Kent Regiment was asleep and tucked up in their beds when our man dropped in from the sky. And according to their commander, they all seemed to lead remarkably simple and boring lives before the war. Salt of the earth. Backbone of the country. The butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker. I meant the family.”

“There at the moment?” Ben paused, thinking. “Well, Lord and Lady Westerham. Their oldest daughter, Olivia, and two younger daughters, Diana and Phoebe. Olivia is married, but she returned to Farleigh with a baby while her husband is overseas in the army.”

“Lord Westerham has other children?”

“Two more daughters. Margot was in Paris, last time I heard. Stuck there for the duration because she wouldn’t leave a French boyfriend.”

“What was she doing in Paris? Finishing school?”

“Oh no. She was already out in society. She wanted to study fashion design and apprenticed herself to Gigi Armande. Doing quite well at it, so one heard.”

Max Knight scribbled something on a pad. “And the other daughter?”

“Pamela. She’s doing some kind of war work in London. Secretarial stuff, I believe.”

Ben was conscious that Max Knight was staring long and hard at him. The man had a powerful stare, almost as if he could read thoughts, and Ben found a flush was creeping up his cheeks. But then Max Knight looked away.

“All sounds admirable, doesn’t it? The quintessential English family and their servants. No new Continental maids or Swiss butlers, I take it?”

Ben grinned. “They are down to a skeleton staff, so my father tells me. All the footmen gone off to fight. And, of course, the family has been allowed to occupy only one wing, so they don’t need that many servants. The cook and Soames, the butler, have been with them for donkey’s years.”

“And what about the neighbours?”

“I take it you mean the upper-class neighbours, not local farmers.”

Max Knight gave the ghost of a smile. “Let’s say I am more interested in the upper-class neighbours.”

“The closest neighbour is my father,” Ben said. “His church borders the Farleigh estate. And I can assure you my father never had any interests outside of history and birds.”

“Birds?”

“Passionate bird-watcher. He’s a typical country vicar—dull as ditch-water, although he’s a good-hearted old cove. My mother died when I was a baby. She caught the Spanish flu in 1920, and so my father’s been on his own ever since.”

“And other neighbours?” Max Knight had clearly dismissed Ben’s father as not important.

“There are Colonel and Mrs. Huntley at the Grange. They returned from India in the mid- thirties. He’s as true blue as they come. There’s an elderly spinster, Miss Hamilton. And then there are the Prescotts. Sir William and his wife. They have an estate nearby. Nethercote. He’s a big noise in the city, as you probably know.”

“And they have a son.”

Ben nodded. “Jeremy. He and I were at Oxford together. He was RAF. Shot down over France and now in a German prisoner-of-war camp.”

“Rotten luck,” Max Knight said. There was something in his expression that Ben couldn’t read. Almost a private joke he was enjoying. He flushed as Knight asked suddenly, “You weren’t attracted to join the RAF yourself, then?”

“I would have liked to, sir. Unfortunately, I was in a plane crash before the war, and my left leg was badly damaged. Doesn’t bend enough to climb in or out of planes easily.”

“That’s bad luck.” Max Knight nodded in sympathy. “But at least you’re doing useful work here, aren’t you? Equally important work.”

“If you say so, sir.” Ben’s face was blank.

“Up till now it hasn’t seemed that important?” Max Knight asked, with the hint of a grin.

Ben wondered how that information got onto his files and what else they said about him. He looked up. “Will that be all, sir?”

“For the moment, yes. I’ll send a memo over to Mike Radison that I’m borrowing you for a while. From now on, you report only to me. Is that clear? And I don’t need to remind you that nothing said here goes any further than this room.”

“Of course not, sir.”

“And that it is of paramount importance that your neighbours down in Kent have no inkling of why you are there or what you do.”

“I’m sure they don’t, sir. They think I have a gammy leg and I’m stuck in a desk job in a ministry.”

“Then let’s keep them thinking that, shall we? You might even drop a hint that the work has become a bit much for you, and you’ve been advised to take a break.”

“You want me to appear mentally unstable as well as physically incapable?” Ben’s voice had a sudden sharp edge to it.

Max Knight grinned. “If it suits our purposes. You would be amazed at the cover some of those I recruit invent for themselves.”

Ben remembered then that there were rumours about a certain Captain King or Mr. K., the spymaster who lived in Dolphin Square, and a thrill of excitement shot through him that he had just been recruited to be a spy, albeit on the home front.

Ben stood up. Max Knight held out his hand. “Good to meet you, Cresswell. I think you’re just the man for the job.”

They shook hands. Ben remembered the snake in Knight’s pocket. “I say, sir. That snake. Is it some kind of pet? A good-luck charm?”

“I’m a nature lover, Cresswell. An animal lover. I found this poor blighter about to be dispatched by some village children, so I rescued him. He seems to have taken quite well to life in my office.”

“Don’t you ever worry that he might escape from your pocket?”

“If he does, good luck to him. But I rather think he knows on which side his bread is buttered. I suggest you do the same.”

Ben hesitated. “Excuse me, sir, but how do I contact you?”

“You come here, or you send me a telegram with a number where you can be reached. We never use the telephone system, for obvious reasons.”

As Ben walked to the door, Max Knight said after him, “That plane crash. Jeremy Prescott was the pilot, wasn’t he? Got away without a scratch. I hope there’s no bad feelings there.”

Ben turned back. “I’d rather be here than in a German stalag, sir. And who knows how banged up he is, after bailing out of a plane.” He paused. “It was an accident. Pure and simple. No bad feelings. We were always the best of pals.”

He went then. It was only when he was in the lift going down that he realised Maxwell Knight had known all the details of his friends and neighbours before the interview started. It was he who had been investigated and put to the test.

Back at Wormwood Scrubs prison, Ben had just resumed his usual place when Harcourt breezed in. “You’re back. Not dismissed on the spot with a curt ‘never darken our doors again.’”

“So it would seem,” Ben replied.

“Damn. So I can’t take over your chair? Mine has started squeaking in a most annoying manner, as well as rocking.”

“You can use it for the next week or so if you like. I’ve been told to take some time off.”

“Time off? What for?”

“Apparently I’ve been overdoing it.” Ben grimaced with distaste and found it hard to get the words out.

“Good God. I haven’t noticed any hint of someone about to crack up,” Harcourt said. He came around to perch on Ben’s desk and peered down at him. “Frightfully sorry, old fellow.”

“I’m not about to go loony or anything,” Ben replied. He wanted to say there was nothing wrong with him. “It’s just that the quack felt I should take a couple of weeks off, that’s all.”

“I wish my doctor would prescribe the same thing,” Harcourt said. “I’m dying for strawberry and cream teas and some good village cricket.”

“I don’t think you’d find enough men still at home to make up a cricket team,” Ben said.

“Probably not.”

“I never asked,” Ben said, deciding that attack was the best form of defence, “but why aren’t you in uniform?”

“Strictly between ourselves, it’s flat feet, old sport. Terribly embarrassing, I know. I usually tell people I have a dickey heart. Feel as fit as a fiddle, but the local doctor wouldn’t sign off on me. Frankly, I’d rather be out fighting somewhere exotic and foreign. And not having to explain myself to every Tom, Dick, and Harry that I pass in the street.”

“I know. It’s pretty bloody, isn’t it?” Ben agreed.

“At least you can lift up your trouser and show them your leg,” Harcourt said. “I can tell they don’t believe me about the heart, and they certainly wouldn’t go along with the feet.”

There was an awkward silence. “So you’ll be going home for a bit?” Harcourt said.

“Just for a bit.”

“Lovely. Kent in late spring. Apple blossoms. Bluebells. You lucky duck. Mind if I come down and visit? My folks are in Yorkshire. Too far away for a weekend pass.”

Ben was surprised. “Of course not. You’re welcome anytime. My father actually has quite a good cook. No horsemeat on the menu, I can guarantee.”

“So you’re off today, then?” Harcourt looked down at him again. “Going to clear out your desk?”

“It’s not the end of term at school. And I’m not leaving anything confidential. Just a few pencils and the like.”

“Only I heard that we might be moving down to Blenheim Palace soon to join the rest of B Division. In which case . . .”

“In which case you’ll probably get a new chair,” Ben said.

Harcourt stood up again with that easy grace and started to leave, but then he turned back. “So it was nothing to do with Dolphin Square, then?”

Ben turned to look at him in surprise. “Dolphin Square?”

“Yes, your little jaunt today.”

“Isn’t that the big ugly block of flats where rich people keep a London pied-à-terre?”

“That’s right. But one also hears that”—Harcourt shrugged—“oh, never mind. I probably got the wrong end of the stick again.”

“What made you think I might be going to Dolphin Square?” Ben asked.

“It’s just that, well, I happened to be passing—and you know how you can hear through the bloody walls of these partitions—and I heard Radison saying, ‘You want him at Dolphin Square? Now?’ And then he came out into the hall and started looking for you. So naturally, being a chap who is quick on the uptake, I put two and two together.”

“And made five, I’m afraid,” Ben said. “So what does go on in Dolphin Square? Is it a cover for some kind of special operations?”

“How would I know?” Harcourt said. “I’m just a lowly peon like you. It’s just that”—he walked over to the door and closed it—“one does hear a certain chap who goes by various names operates out of an office there. And he answers to nobody, except presumably Churchill and the king.”

“Crikey,” Ben said. “Is he on our side?”

“One hopes so. It seems he could do a lot of damage if he weren’t.”

“Then it’s lucky we’re stuck with good old plodding but reliable Radison, isn’t it?” Ben said. He removed several pencils and a lined school notebook from his desk, along with some Rowntrees Fruit Gums, now gone hard, and a map of the Underground, and dropped them into his briefcase. “I hope to see you in a couple of weeks. Take care of yourself.”

“You, too, old chap. Get well soon.” And much to Ben’s surprise, Harcourt shook his hand.

CHAPTER NINE

Bletchley Park

May 1941

“You’re going on leave?” Trixie demanded. “When?”

Pamela had found her in their room, applying the final touches to her makeup before she headed for the late shift at 4:00 p.m. While other girls wore sensible two-piece suits or cotton frocks to work, Trixie always seemed to look as if she were about to attend a fancy luncheon. Today it was a flowery silk tea dress.

“At the end of this current rotation,” Pamela said.

“But that’s not fair.” Trixie shook her head in annoyance so that her curls bounced. She wore her dark-brown hair tightly permed in Shirley Temple fashion, unlike Pamela’s soft ash-blonde pageboy. “I applied for leave last week and was turned down. I was told that I took a whole week at Christmas, and I’d have to wait until July at the earliest before I could go again.”

“Obviously, you’re more valuable than I am,” Pamela said.

“Is there a reason for this sudden departure?” Trixie asked. “I hope it’s not bad news and compassionate leave.”

“Well, it is in a way,” Pamela said. “I just heard that a friend of mine has made it home to England after escaping from a German prisoner-of-war camp. We’d had no news of him for ages. We didn’t know if he was alive or dead. When I found out, I was so shocked that I collapsed outside the station. I’ve never done anything that stupid in my life—well, only once or twice I fainted when I went to early communion service at church without any breakfast. I went through a rather religious phase in my teens.”

“Golly,” Trixie said, “I certainly never did. But the fainting is quite understandable. I feel awful when I’m on night shift. One never gets proper sleep. And trying to read in that poor light always gives one a headache, doesn’t it?” She came over and put an arm around Pamela’s shoulder. “But clever old you. You faint and make them think you’re cracking up and need a break, thus achieving exactly what you wanted—to go straight home to see your chap.”

“I don’t know if he’s exactly my chap,” Pamela replied, turning pink. “We grew up together. We went dancing and things a few times, but it was never serious. He never asked me to be his girl before he went into the RAF. He hardly ever wrote. And I’m sure I wasn’t the only one in his life. He’s awfully good-looking and rich.”

“My dear, I might just have to come down to the depths of the Kent countryside to visit you,” Trixie said with a wicked grin. “Good-looking and rich. Who could resist?”

“Hands off,” Pamela said, laughing. “This one is mine. At least I hope he’s mine. We’ll see in a few days.” She put her hands up to her face. “Golly, how exciting. I can hardly wait.”

“You should be prepared for a shock, old thing,” Trixie said quietly. “I mean, if he crashed or bailed out of a plane, he might be quite badly wounded. Disfigured, you know.”

Pamela clearly hadn’t considered this. She paused, then said firmly, “He was strong enough to escape from a prison camp and make it safely home all the way across France. I think that was jolly brave of him.”

“Or foolish,” Trixie said. “If I were in a fairly decent prisoner-of-war camp, I think I’d stay put and sit out the war playing cards rather than being sent back to fight.”

“It’s different if you’re a fighter pilot,” Pamela said. “To them it’s a huge game. Like chess in the air. Jeremy loved it.”

“Jeremy? Are we talking about Jeremy Prescott?”

“Yes. Do you know him?”

Trixie’s eyes lit up. “My dear, he was the talk of all the debs during our season. Eligible bachelor number one. Lucky old you if you snag him.”

“I fully intend to,” Pamela said. She bent to retrieve her suitcase from under the bed and opened it, ready to start packing.

The train from Bletchley seemed to take an eternity. It was shunted into sidings several times to let goods trains and troop trains pass. As the train entered London, recent bomb damage became evident. Blackened shells of buildings, a house with one wall missing revealing a complete bedroom still intact with a brass bed, a quilt with pink roses on it, and a china wash basin in the corner. On the next street a whole row had been demolished, yet one fish-and-chip shop stood unscathed in the midst of destruction with a notice tacked to the door, “Still Open for Business.” Pamela shut her eyes, willing the images to go away. She was desperately tired, having come straight from work, but even the rhythmic rocking of the train couldn’t lull her to sleep. She had been decidedly on edge, ever since she had overheard a conversation in her hut the night before.

The long hut in which she worked was partitioned into small rooms on either side of a central corridor. In the middle of her shift, she had needed to heed the call of nature. She had to walk the length of the hut to go to the ladies’ lavatory at the far end. She had almost reached the far door when she remembered she had left her torch behind. In the blackout, she would not find the lavatories without her torch. As she returned, she heard two male voices, speaking softly.

“So are you going to tell her before she goes on leave?”

“Absolutely not. If you want to know, I still think it’s a mistake. I’m going to try and talk the old man out of it.”

“But she’s damned good. You know that as well as I do. The right person for the job.”

“Is she? She’s one of them.”

“She could prove to be useful in her position.”

“Depends where her loyalty lies—with us or with them. I don’t think we should take the risk, old chap.”

Then one of them walked across and closed the door. And Pamela was absolutely sure the conversation was not meant for her ears and that they were talking about her.

So what could they possibly mean? she asked herself. Had they any reason to question her loyalty? And to whom did they think she might be loyal? Surely they couldn’t suspect she was a German spy? She waited impatiently for the train to pull into Euston Station.

Charing Cross Station was in its usual state of chaos as Pamela came up from the Underground that had taken her across London from Euston: servicemen of the various branches tramping past to a new assignment or going home on leave prior to being shipped out to Africa or the Far East. Small children with labels around their necks waiting together in a group, ready to be evacuated, while mothers stood watching behind the barrier, staring with anxious eyes. The train on the adjoining platform was about to pull out. Almost every window had a serviceman leaning out, saying good-bye to his sweetheart or his mother. One girl stood on tiptoe to kiss her darling. “Take care of yourself, Joe,” she said.

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll be just fine,” he answered. “I’m like a cat with nine lives, I am.”

Pamela looked at them with pity and longing. How many young men had said that same thing and never returned? And yet, she envied the way they gazed into each other’s eyes, as if nobody else existed in the whole world. Her train was already standing at the platform, and she fought her way aboard with the rest of the waiting crowd. She had chosen a carriage with a corridor and squeezed past soldiers with their kit bags who had already taken up position there, chatting and smoking as if this were a Sunday jaunt.

Some of them called out harmlessly flirtatious things as she passed. “Sit here, darling.” One patted a kit bag. “We’ll keep you entertained during the trip. Care for a Woodbine?”

She brushed them off good-naturedly, knowing that the bravado was necessary, and a smile from a pretty girl was just what they needed right now. When she found a compartment with an empty seat, she took it, gratefully. The carriage was already occupied by a mother with a toddler, sucking a thumb contentedly on her lap, a young Wren in uniform, and two stout middle-aged ladies, complaining bitterly that the railways no longer provided ladies-only compartments. “It’s a disgrace having to squeeze past those men,” the chubbier one said. “Do you know that one of them said, ‘Take it easy, mother. You’re not exactly giving me a thrill.’”

“Shocking. The world has gone mad.”

They looked at Pamela for sympathy. “I hope they didn’t accost you, my dear?”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle.” Pamela smiled.

A whistle blew. There were running feet and slamming doors as the train lurched forward and pulled out of the station. Those newly arrived started moving past, along the corridor. Pamela turned away and stared out the window as the train crossed the railway bridge over the Thames, and a panorama of the City of London came into view, with the dome of St. Paul’s rising bravely among ruins. When they pulled into Waterloo Station on the south bank, she saw that someone had come to lean against the door of her compartment—a young man in a tweed jacket. There was something definitely familiar about the way that dark hair curled around his collar. She wrenched open the compartment door, making the man step away hastily and turn around.

“Ben? Good heavens. It is you,” she said, her face lighting up. “I thought I recognised the back of your head.”

“Pamela?” He looked at her incredulously. “What are you doing here?”

“Same thing as you, I suppose. Going home for a few days. Come on in. There’s room for one more.”

“Is there? I thought it might be ladies only. If the other ladies don’t mind . . .”

“Of course they don’t.” Pamela patted the seat across from her, and Ben put his bag up on the rack.

“What a coincidence that we’re going home at the same time,” she said, still smiling at him. “It is so good to see you. It’s been ages.”

“I got a brief glimpse of you in church last Christmas,” he said. “You’re looking awfully well.”

“And you, too. So they’re not working you too hard?”

“A lot of boring stuff. Rather repetitious, but necessary, I suppose,” he replied with a self-deprecating smile.

“You’re with one of the ministries, aren’t you?”

“Attached to one of them. Research. Looking up lots of useless information. Aren’t you doing the same sort of thing?”

“Similar. Clerical stuff. Frightfully boring filing and things. But someone has to do it.”

“Are you in London itself?” he asked.

“No, my branch has been evacuated outside to Berkshire. Have to keep the records safe from bombs, you know. How about you?”

“I’ve been in London, but I’m not sure where I might be sent next. It seems they are sending everyone out to the country these days.”

There was a silence. They exchanged a smile.

Ben cleared his throat. “Any word on Jeremy?”

Pamela’s face brightened. “You haven’t heard? You obviously haven’t been reading the papers recently.”

“Never read them. Always full of bad news.”

She leaned closer to him across the aisle. “He’s home, Ben. He escaped from the camp and made it all the way across France. Isn’t that wonderful?”

“Amazing,” Ben said. “Well, if anyone could escape from a prison camp and make it halfway across Europe without getting caught, it would be Jeremy.”

“I know.” She sighed. “I could hardly believe it when I read it in the newspaper, but I telephoned my family, and he’s actually back at Nethercote, recuperating from his ordeal. You must come with me to see him.”

“Are you sure you want me tagging along?”

“Of course. Jeremy will want to see you as much as he wants to see me. And if he is . . . you know . . . banged up or something . . . well, then, I’d rather have you there with me.”

“All right,” he said. “I’ll come with you.”

“You must come up to the house as soon as you’ve said hello to your father. I’m sure they’ll all want to see you.”

“How are they all?”

“I haven’t been home since Christmas, but as far as I can tell from Mah’s letters, Pah is perpetually annoyed at having to live in such cramped conditions—as if one wing of Farleigh is actually cramped.” She laughed. “He’s also annoyed that he’s too old to do his bit, as he puts it. He’s enlisted in the local home guard, but I suspect he’s just a nuisance to them, wanting to give the orders. Mah just goes on in her usual sweet way, oblivious to everything. Livvy’s taken over the top floor for little Charles’s nursery. She’s become very maternal and stodgy.”

“Any news on your sister Margot?”

Pamela’s face clouded. “Not for ages. It’s awfully worrying. One hopes she is holed up somewhere with her French count, but one does hear terrible things about what’s going on in France these days.”

“And the two young ones are still at home? Or has Dido found herself a job?”

“She’d love to, but Pah says that nineteen is too young to be away from home. She’s positively bursting with frustration. You know Dido—not the sort to sit at home and practise the piano. I suppose I can understand. It’s very unfair on her that she won’t get a season like the rest of us. No dances. No chance to meet eligible men. Last time I saw her, she was talking of running away and going to work in a factory.”

“I’m sure she could find a job less dramatic than one in a factory,” Ben said. “Couldn’t you find someone to take her on where you work? They always seem to need extra girls for office work, don’t they? She could billet with you.”

“Unfortunately, I’m already sharing a room with a pal,” she said. “What about your ministry? Could you do something for her? She could probably take the train up to London every day if she had a job. Pah might not object to that.”

“We work shifts, that’s the problem. She wouldn’t be able to find a train up to London in the middle of the night, and I’m sure your father wouldn’t want her walking around in the blackout. It’s hard enough for me, and I simply have to get to the nearest Underground station.”

Pamela made a face. “I know. I work shifts, too. It’s beastly, isn’t it? My body never gets used to night shifts, and I feel awful with no sleep.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Ben said. “Actually, that’s why I was lucky enough to get some leave. They said I’d been overdoing it.”

There was a snort from one of the elderly women by the window. “Overdoing it,” she said, turning to glare at Ben. “You want to try being out in the desert like my grandson. Fighting Rommel, that’s what he’s doing. Not sitting comfortably in an office in London.”

“That’s enough, Tessie.” The other woman reached across to rest a hand on her friend’s. She looked across at Ben and Pamela. “She’s had a shock. Her son’s just been called up—at thirty-nine years old. She’s only got the one son.”

“I’m sorry,” Ben said, “but . . .”

“Mr. Cresswell survived a very bad aeroplane crash,” Pamela said angrily. “Show them your leg, Ben.”

The first woman went bright red. “Oh, I’m sorry. I spoke out of turn. I’m upset, you see. This war’s making all of us on edge, all of the time.”

There was an embarrassed silence in the compartment.

“The boys where I work get the same thing,” Pamela muttered to Ben. “It’s so unfair. Not everybody needs to carry a gun. Wars can’t be won without the right kind of support.”

“Sometimes I’m tempted to go out and buy a uniform,” he said. “It would certainly make things easier.”

“Until they asked to see your identity discs and you weren’t wearing any.”

Identity discs, Ben thought. That parachutist would have been found out as soon as any military police stopped him and asked for his number. So he definitely wasn’t planning to go far. Max Knight was right. His contact had to be in the immediate neighbourhood.

They changed trains in Sevenoaks and waited for the local train to go one stop to Hildenborough.

“It’s a long walk from the station these days,” Ben said. “It’s too bad trains stopped calling at Farleigh Halt.”

Pamela laughed. “We can’t expect trains to stop just for us during wartime, Ben. At this moment being an aristocrat means nothing, and quite right, too. Suddenly, we’re all equal.”

“Is someone coming to pick you up?” Ben looked around for a waiting car.

Pamela shook her head. “I didn’t tell them I was coming. I thought I’d surprise them. Everyone needs the occasional nice surprise these days, don’t they?”

“I didn’t tell my father I was coming, either. Are you up to a couple of miles with a suitcase? I can carry it for you if you like.”

“You have your own bag,” she said. “And I’m fit enough to do it. We do a lot of bike riding to get around where I work. It’s a glorious day, isn’t it? A walk through the countryside is just what the doctor ordered.”

“It’s certainly nice to breathe good fresh air again,” Ben said as they set off down a lane. “The air in London is perpetually full of smoke and dust from bombs.”

“I’m lucky. I’m out in the country, and I have fields and trees around me.”

“Where exactly did you say you are?” he asked.

“About an hour north of London. We’ve taken over a big house. Definitely not as pretty as Farleigh.”

“Some of our boys are being sent out to Blenheim Palace.”

“Golly. That’s quite a step up for most people, isn’t it?”

Ben laughed. “I gather from reports that it isn’t particularly comfortable. They’ve partitioned it into horrible plywood cubicles, and there is no heat, and bats inhabit the top floor.”

“Sounds lovely.” She looked up at him, and his eyes held hers for a moment. He had awfully nice eyes, she thought suddenly. That deep greeny blue, like looking into the ocean. Strange that she’d never noticed before. “I’m so glad to see you again,” she said at last. “You never change. I feel as if you’re dear Ben, steady as a rock. Always there for me.”

“That’s me. Good old Ben,” he said, then regretted his sarcasm. “But yes, I am always there whenever you need me.”

She reached across and slipped her hand into his. They walked side by side in silence while larks rose from new hayfields, singing overhead, and the scent of apple blossom was sweet in the air.

“Will you come and see Jeremy with me this afternoon?” she asked eventually, breaking the spell.

“I said I would. Why don’t we both stop off at my father’s place and have something to drink, then I’ll carry your case the rest of the way to Farleigh with you.”

“Lovely.” She gave him that dazzling smile again.

CHAPTER TEN

All Saints vicarage, Elmsleigh, Kent

May 1941

The vicarage was a big redbrick Victorian building at the edge of the churchyard. They passed the weatherworn gravestones, and Ben let himself in at the front door. It was never locked.

“Well, I never. Mr. Ben!” Mrs. Finch threw up her hands in surprise, coming out of the kitchen at the sound of the door closing. Then the look of surprise turned to astonishment. “And Lady Pamela, too. It’s good to see you, your ladyship.”

“How are you, Mrs. Finch?” Pamela asked.

“Can’t complain, your ladyship. We’re getting along as well as can be expected. A lot better than the poor blighters in London, getting bombed every night. And we don’t do too badly for food, either. I’ve got a good little kitchen garden going out back, and the two hens provide us with eggs when the rats or foxes don’t get at them first. Added to that, everyone’s fond of the vicar around here, and we often find the odd bit of meat or fish on the doorstep. I shouldn’t be surprised if they are not illegal or even black market, but of course I don’t tell the vicar. What he don’t know can’t hurt him.”

And then she chuckled. “You’re in luck today, as it happens. We were given a brace of pigeons yesterday, and I’ve made pigeon pie. I’m just about to get the vicar’s dinner for him, so why don’t you stay to join us, your ladyship?”

She still called it dinner, although the vicar had tried to educate her for years that the working classes had their dinner at midday, but the upper classes had luncheon.

“I really should be getting home. The family will be waiting to see me,” Pamela said.

Without thinking, Ben covered her hand with his own. “Do stay,” he said. “If the stuff you’ve been eating is anything like the stodge from our cafeteria, then I can assure you that Mrs. Finch’s pigeon pie will seem like manna from heaven.”

Pamela did not withdraw her hand. Instead, she smiled. “After a buildup like that, how could I resist? Thank you, Mrs. Finch.” She looked around at the well-worn oak furniture, highly polished for years by Mrs. Finch and by the housekeepers who came before her. Then her gaze moved from the view out of the window across the fields to where she glimpsed the shape of Farleigh rising above the trees. And she thought, This is where I feel safe.

Reverend Cresswell came up the path from the church just as Mrs. Finch was laying the table. A smile crossed his tired face. “Well, this is a nice surprise, my boy. We had no idea you were coming.”

“It was all very last minute,” Ben said, going over to shake hands with his father. “Someone decided I was due for a few days’ leave, so here I am.”

“And Pamela, too.” He turned to smile at her, then examined her critically. “Looking a bit peaky, my dear.”

“It’s night shifts. I can’t seem to sleep during the daytime.”

“Of course you can’t. But a few days here will have you right as rain. Good food. Country air. You can put the war aside for a few days. It’s just as it always was out here.”

“Apart from an army regiment living in my house,” Pamela reminded him.

“And that body in your field,” Mrs. Finch said as she put the pie on a trivet on the dining table.

“Body? In a field?” Pamela asked.

“A parachutist whose chute didn’t open,” Mrs. Finch said with great relish. “They say he was an awful mess.”

“How terrible for him. Who was he?”

Mrs. Finch leaned closer. “He was wearing an army uniform, but it’s my belief he was one of them German spies. They say they’re everywhere these days. Even dressed up as nuns, if you can believe it.”

“Mrs. Finch, what have I told you about gossip?” Reverend Cresswell said. “Remember the posters: ‘Careless Talk Costs Lives.’ We have no reason to believe this poor man was anything more than the victim of a training exercise gone wrong. I protested when they had him taken away. I’d like to have given him a decent burial.”

Leaning forward to cut into the piecrust, he was clearly dismissing the matter. The rich aroma of herbs came out, and he nodded in satisfaction. “Now that’s what I call a proper meal. Give me your plate, young lady, and you’ll have some real food for the first time in ages.”

They ate until they were full. The flaky crust covered a succulent portion of young bird in rich herb gravy and was accompanied by cauliflower with a white sauce, then followed by stewed apples and custard.

“I really should be getting on home.” Pamela stood up. “But I’m dying to see Jeremy. I don’t suppose the family will mind much if I go over to Nethercote first. I didn’t tell them exactly when I’d be arriving. And you said you’d come with me, Ben.” She looked at him appealingly.

“If you want me to.” He stood up also, placing his napkin on the table. “All right with you, Father, if I walk Pamma over to Nethercote?”

“You don’t have to ask my permission, my boy. You’re a grown man now. If Pamela wants you with her when she goes to visit her young man, then by all means.”

Ben reacted to the words her young man as if they were a punch in the gut. He knew they were true, of course. They had always been true. But he’d always had hope, especially when Jeremy was reported missing. And now his job was to deliver Pamela back to his rival. He wondered if she realised, if she had any inkling of what he was feeling?

They set off through the village. The one street there was almost devoid of life. A bell tinkled as a woman came out of Markham’s General Store and Post Office with a basket over her arm. She greeted them with a polite nod. “Lady Pamela. Mr. Ben. Pleasant weather for the time of year, isn’t it?” And went on her way, as if their sudden return was nothing out of the ordinary. London and points beyond Sevenoaks were out of her sphere of experience and thus not of interest. From the school came the sound of children’s voices chanting a times table. A farm cart came toward them with a load of manure. They hadn’t spoken to each other since they left the vicarage. Now Pamela turned to him.

“Nothing changes here, does it? It’s just like it always was.”

“Except no young men,” he said.

She nodded.

They left the village behind them, and the road narrowed to a lane with a riot of flowers growing from the banks. As they came to the impressive wrought-iron gates at the entrance to the Prescotts’ home, Nethercote, Pamela suddenly froze.

“I suppose it’s all right to go in uninvited? Should we have telephoned first to let them know we were coming?”

“When did we ever need to wait for an invitation to Jeremy’s house?” Ben had to laugh.

“But things are different now,” she said, her forehead creased into a worried frown. “Jeremy’s home from a prison camp. He may not want to . . . to see us.”

Ben took a deep breath. “It’s my belief that he’s been dreaming about seeing you again since the day he took off in that plane,” he said.

She flashed him a nervous smile.

“And if we are told that he’s not up to visitors, then we go away.”

“Ben, I’m so glad you’re here,” she said. “I would have flunked it and run off like a frightened rabbit.”

“You’re never like a frightened rabbit, Pamma. You’re the strongest of any of us. Come on. Let’s go and surprise Jeremy.”

They passed through the gateway and walked up the broad gravel drive. The elegant Georgian house stood ahead of them, red brick with white trim, perfectly proportioned, with formal gardens on either side of the drive. The beds were a mass of tulips. Wisteria hung from trellises. The lawns were perfectly manicured. It was clear that gardeners were still at work here, war or no war.

As they approached the house, they saw an old bicycle, standing beside the front steps, looking out of place in the otherwise perfect scene. Ben was about to comment on it when the front door opened and Lady Diana Sutton came out.

“Of course I will. Thanks awfully. Bye,” she called, waving to an invisible person inside as she ran down the steps.

Then she saw Pamela and Ben. “Hello, you two. What a surprise!”

“What are you doing here, Dido?” Pamela asked in a clipped voice.

“Well, that’s what I call a warm welcome,” Dido said. “How about ‘It’s lovely to see you again after so long, dear sister’?”

“Well, of course I’m pleased to see you.” Pamela still sounded flustered. “It’s just that . . .”

“If you must know, I’ve been representing the family and visiting Jeremy to cheer him up.” She picked up the bicycle. “Somebody had to.”

Then she rode off without another word, her tyres scrunching on the gravel.