In Farleigh Field: A Novel of World War II

“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.”





PART TWO



BEN





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.”