In Farleigh Field: A Novel of World War II

In Farleigh Field: A Novel of World War II

Rhys Bowen




September 1939



From: His Majesty’s Government To: Civilian Population of Great Britain

For the duration of the war, the following Seven Rules are to be observed at all times.



Do not waste food.

Do not talk to strangers.

Keep all information to yourself.

Always listen to government instructions and carry them out.

Report anything suspicious to the police.

Do not spread rumours.

Lock away anything that might help the enemy if we are invaded.





CAST OF CHARACTERS


Roderick Sutton, Earl of Westerham, owner of Farleigh Place, a stately home in Kent Lady Esme Sutton, Roderick’s wife Lady Olivia “Livvy” Sutton, twenty-six, the Suttons’ eldest daughter, married to Viscount Carrington, mother of Charles Lady Margaret “Margot” Sutton, twenty-three, the second daughter, now living in Paris Lady Pamela “Pamma” Sutton, twenty-one, the third daughter, currently working for a “government department”

Lady Diana “Dido” Sutton, nineteen, the fourth daughter, a frustrated debutante Lady Phoebe “Feebs” Sutton, twelve, the fifth daughter, too smart and observant for her own good

Servants at Farleigh (a skeleton staff) Soames, butler

Mrs. Mortlock, cook

Elsie, parlourmaid

Jennie, housemaid

Ruby, scullery maid

Philpott, Lady Esme’s maid

Nanny

Miss Gumble, governess to Lady Phoebe Mr. Robbins, gamekeeper

Mrs. Robbins, gamekeeper’s wife Alfie, a Cockney boy, now evacuated to the country Jackson, groom



Farleigh Neighbours

Rev. Cresswell, vicar of All Saints Church Ben Cresswell, the vicar’s son, now working for a “government department”



At Nethercote

Sir William Prescott, city financier Lady Prescott, Sir William’s wife Jeremy Prescott, Sir William and Lady Prescott’s son, RAF flying ace

At Simla

Colonel Huntley, formerly of the British Army Mrs. Huntley, the colonel’s wife Miss Hamilton, spinster

Dr. Sinclair, doctor

Sundry villagers, including an artist couple, a builder, and a questionable Austrian

Officers of the Royal West Kent Regiment Colonel Pritchard, commanding officer Captain Hartley, adjutant

Soldiers under command



At Dolphin Square

Maxwell Knight, spymaster

Joan Miller, Knight’s secretary

At Bletchley Park

Commander Travis, deputy head of a secret government department Trixie Radcliffe, debutante, now doing useful work Froggy Bracewaite, code breaker

At MI5

Guy Harcourt, former playboy, now Ben Cresswell’s coworker Mike Radison, head of section

At Aerial Reconnaissance

Mavis Pugh, keen girl



In Paris

Madame Gigi Armande, famous fashion designer Herr Dinkslager, Nazi officer and all-around dangerous man Count Gaston de Varennes, Margot’s lover





PROLOGUE


Elmsleigh, Kent

August 1939



It had been unusually hot all summer. Ben Cresswell could feel the sun scorching his thighs through his cricket whites as he sat on the clubhouse veranda, waiting for his turn at bat. Colonel Huntley sat beside him, mopping his red and sweaty face. He was wearing pads because he was next up at bat. He wasn’t as good a batsman as Ben, but he was team captain, and in village cricket, seniority often took precedence over ability.

Only two overs before tea. Ben hoped that young Symmes wouldn’t make one of his wild swipes and be out before the tea interval. His head was singing with heat. His mouth felt dry. He closed his eyes and listened to the satisfying thwack of bat against ball, the drone of bees on the honeysuckle behind the clubhouse, the rhythmic clatter of a lawn mower in one of the cottage gardens. The scent of new-mown grass wafted on the warm breeze, mingled with the smoke of leaves burning on a distant bonfire. The scents and sounds of an English summer Sunday, unchanged for centuries, Ben thought.

Polite applause directed his attention back to the match, where two white-clad figures were sprinting between wickets while a fielder ran to retrieve the ball, throwing it in too late. Another run. Jolly good, Ben thought. They might even win for once. Beyond the perfectly mown pitch, the spire of All Saints Church, where his father was vicar, cast a shadow over the village green. And on the far side, an old oak tree cast a similar shadow over the memorial erected to those men from the village who had died in the Great War. There were sixteen names there. Ben had counted them. Sixteen men and boys from a village of two hundred. Senseless, Ben muttered to himself.

“Where’s young Prescott, then?” Colonel Huntley interrupted his musings. “We could have used him today. He handles a fast bowler as well as anyone I’ve seen.”

Ben turned away from the cricket pitch to look at the colonel. He was a large, florid man, his face weathered to a perpetual beetroot colour by a long stint in India and too much Scotch. “He’s taking his flying test, sir.”

“His flying test? Is that what the young idiot’s doing these days?”

“Yes, sir. He’s been taking flying lessons. He wants to be ready, you see. When war is declared, he’ll go straight into the RAF as a pilot. He didn’t want to find himself up to his neck in mud in the trenches like all those poor chaps in the last war.”

The colonel nodded. “That was a rum deal. Lucky for me I was on the North-West Frontier. Let’s hope they don’t make the same bloody mistakes this time.”

“I suppose war is inevitable?” Ben asked.

“Oh yes. Absolutely. No question about it. That blighter Hitler’s going to march into Poland, and we’re honour-bound to declare war. In the next couple of weeks, I’d say.”

He spoke with the cheerfulness of a man who knows he is too old to be called up. “We had one of those civil-defence chappies round at the house last week. They wanted me to dig up the back lawn and put in an air-raid shelter. I told him it was quite out of the question. The back lawn is where the memsahib plays her croquet. We’re going to be rationed in everything else. You can’t expect her to give up her croquet, too!”

Ben smiled politely. “Yes, we had a similar visit. They delivered a lot of corrugated iron and the plans. As if my father has ever built anything in his life. He’s only just learned to turn on the radio!”

The colonel eyed Ben critically. “So what about you, young fellah? Are you planning on becoming a pilot as well?”

Ben gave him an apologetic smile. “I’d like to, sir, but I can’t afford the flying lessons at the moment. I’ll have to wait to see if the RAF will take me.”