In Farleigh Field: A Novel of World War II

The trees along the Champs-élysées were in full leaf as they drove up the hill to the Arc de Triomphe. In peacetime, the cafés bordering the street would have been full with people sitting at outdoor tables, enjoying an afternoon coffee. Now, the street was almost deserted. An old woman shuffled past, head bowed as if she didn’t want to be seen. Two German soldiers passed her, and she stepped aside for them. At Place de l’étoile, that circle from which streets fanned out like the spokes of a wheel, they turned onto the wide boulevard of Avenue Foch. Before the war, this had been a good address. Tall, light stone houses with balconies and brightly painted shutters stood back from the road behind rows of trees. One would have expected to see elegant couples strolling, a little dog at their heels. Now, this street, too, was deserted, apart from German staff cars parked at the curb. When they had almost reached the end of the street at the Porte Dauphine, one of the old city gates, the car came to a halt. Margot read the house number, 84. I must remember this, she thought. Just in case. Not that she really hoped anyone would try to rescue her from what was clearly either Gestapo or similar headquarters. She clasped her hands together to stop them from shaking.

The driver came around to open the door for her, and again Herr Dinkslager escorted her inside as if he were ushering her into a good restaurant. The soldier at the door saluted. A conversation was held with a man in a black uniform. He nodded, then spoke into a telephone mouthpiece. They waited, nobody speaking. Then the telephone rang again, the man in the black uniform answered it and nodded to them. Herr Dinkslager said, “We go up now.”

They stepped together into a small Parisian iron-cage elevator, and the door clanged shut with finality. Up they went, floor after floor. Margot hadn’t realised the building was so tall; she had expected to be taken down to a basement or dungeon. At last the elevator wheezed and ground to a halt, and the door clanked open. She stepped out onto a landing and was motioned to go ahead of Herr Dinkslager to a door opposite. Her heels clicked loudly across the tiled floor, echoing back from the skylight above. Herr Dinkslager opened the door, took her arm, and propelled her inside. Margot’s heart was thudding so loudly in her chest that she could hardly breathe, but she walked in, head held high.

Two men scrambled to their feet, one tall, blond, and erect, almost a caricature of a German soldier. The other a scrawny shadow of a man, unkempt hair, filthy clothing, with an ugly bruise on his left cheek. His left eye was swollen half-shut. Margot let out an involuntary gasp.

“Gaston!” she exclaimed.

The man looked at her with horror. “For the love of God, Margot, what are you doing here?” He turned to the Germans. “This woman knows nothing. I have told her nothing. Not one word. Let her go immediately.”

“She came here of her own volition, Monsieur Le Comte. She is trying to institute your release to a neutral country, like Switzerland.”

Gaston stared at Margot but said nothing. She could not interpret his gaze.

“On what terms?” he demanded.

“That you supply us with the information we want.”

“I have told you before you waste your time. I will never betray my friends or my country, whatever you choose to do to me.”

“I see.” Dinkslager turned to Margot. “Please take a seat, your ladyship.”

He pulled out a plain upright chair at a wooden table, and she sat. He pulled out the other chair and sat beside her.

“It seems we have come here for nothing, Lady Margaret. Such a pity.”

“You would have me betray brave men?” Gaston asked her. He was looking at her coldly.

“No. Of course not,” she said. “I wanted proof that you were still alive.”

“I am alive, just. Now let her go,” he said to the Germans.

Herr Dinkslager picked up Margot’s hand. She flinched, but he held it tightly. “You have elegant hands, my lady,” he said. “An artist’s hands. And such long fingernails. Strange things, fingernails. We no longer need them now that we do not have to hunt our prey . . . in that manner.”

His voice was pleasant, but Margot felt fear rising in her throat. He stroked her hand, playing with her fingers one by one.

“Since they are of no value, maybe we should just remove them?” He looked directly at Gaston. Margot wanted to snatch her hand away but couldn’t. She couldn’t let the German see she was afraid. He held out his hand to the young agent, who passed him something that looked like a thin piece of wood. Without saying another word he took this and placed it under the nail of Margot’s forefinger. He looked up questioningly at Gaston, who remained immobile. Then he pushed down inside the nail. The pain was so red-hot and searing that tears spurted from her eyes. She clamped her lips together to prevent herself from crying out.

“Shall I go on?” He looked up at Gaston. “You wish your beloved to suffer for your stubbornness?”

Gaston remained silent.

“Shall I tear off the nails, one by one? And then there are worse things that can happen to her. This young man here, he has appetites and has been too long without a woman.”

Margot watched the blood welling up onto the wood, then she looked up at Gaston’s face. His expression hadn’t changed. She waited for him to say something.

Then he said, in a cold voice. “She is not my beloved, and you may cut her into little pieces for all I care. But it will not make me change my mind. I will not betray my colleagues and my country, whatever you do. But I must state that I find it dishonourable that you should torture somebody else to try to extract information from me. I am sorry if this woman tried to help in a misguided sense of loyalty to me. However, if you sent me to Switzerland, I should come straight back and join the Resistance again. Why don’t we stop wasting each other’s time, and you kill me right now?”

Margot pulled the wedge out of her bleeding finger and stood up. “Take me away,” she said. “I will do what you want.”





CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR


At Farleigh


After breakfast the next morning, Ben cycled over to Farleigh—to check on the damage, he told his father. At first glance, it appeared that nothing had changed: The horse chestnuts still bloomed. Swans were still swimming on the lake, and the great house stood, strong and defiant against a blustery sky. But the smell of burning lingered in the air, and the wind tossed down burnt fragments like a fine black shower. Then he noticed that the top-floor windows were open, and net curtains flapped out as if appealing for help. He shuddered again when he thought what might have happened to Pamela if he hadn’t been there. The beam would have fallen on her. She might have been overcome by smoke inhalation, and she would only have been found much later. He remembered the feel of her body against his as he flung her forward. The way their hearts thudded in time. Then he shook his head firmly.

Get a grip, Cresswell, he said to himself.

As he dismounted and wheeled his bike up to the front steps, he encountered Phoebe coming across the forecourt with the dogs at her heels. She was dressed in riding breeches and a cotton shirt.

“Ben!” She beamed on seeing him. He was still being accorded hero status.

“Hello, Feebs. Been riding?” he asked.