In Farleigh Field: A Novel of World War II

“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.”