In Farleigh Field: A Novel of World War II

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 . . .”