In Farleigh Field: A Novel of World War II

“All ready to go, ma’am,” Mavis called back. She turned back to Ben. “Just let me hand these over to the bloke from the ministry, then I’m all yours.” Her double meaning was quite clear. As she started for the door, it was pushed open and a man in an RAF uniform came in.

“I’m here to collect . . .” He began. He looked at Mavis, then at Ben.

“Good God, Ben,” Jeremy said. “What on earth are you doing here?”



When Ben recovered from his shock, he realised that he should not be surprised to see Jeremy. After all, he had told Ben that he would be working at the Air Ministry until he was fit to fly again.

“Hello, Jeremy,” he said.

“But what are you doing here?” Jeremy asked. “You don’t work for the Air Ministry, do you?”

“No, but I was sent to pick up a photograph here for one of the bosses.”

“Amazing coincidence,” Jeremy said. He turned to Mavis. “This chap and I were best friends growing up. And to meet him here of all places.”

“Oh, then you can tell me all the secrets of his past,” Mavis said.

Jeremy raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I get it. You and she . . . you sly dog.”

“We’ve only just met,” Ben said. “But I did ask her out to the pictures.”

“Tell you what,” Jeremy said, “why don’t you bring her to my party on Wednesday?” He turned to Mavis. “I’ve just moved into my parents’ flat in Mayfair, and I’m going to celebrate my freedom with a flat-warming party.”

“Mayfair? How grand.” Mavis’s eyes sparkled. “Oh, Ben. I’d love that.”

“Can you get time off?”

“You bally well know I’m going to work it somehow. Even if I have to take awful shifts for a month.”

“Then let me write down the address for you,” Jeremy said. “We’ll have fun. The old man has a good cellar, and I plan to work my way through it.”

“Spiffing,” Mavis said. “I’m glad you have such interesting friends, Ben.”

“Interesting?” Jeremy gave a mock frown. “How about handsome, dashing, debonair?”

“Those too,” she said.

“Are the Sutton girls coming?” Ben asked, trying to sound casual.

“Just Dido and Pamma. Livvy is too old and stodgy, and Feebs is too young. It was quite a job persuading Lord Westerham to let Dido come up to town. They keep her on such a tight leash.”

“Probably with good reason,” Ben said, and Jeremy grinned.

“There are going to be titled people there?” Mavis asked, her eyes wide now. “Crickey. You’re not a lord or something, are you?” She turned to Ben.

“Just plain mister,” Ben said. “Jeremy’s father is a sir.”

“But I’m also just plain flight lieutenant,” Jeremy said. “And I haven’t even told you my name yet. Jeremy Prescott. And yours is?”

“Mavis,” she stammered it a little. “Mavis Pugh.”

“There you are, Jeremy. You’ve bowled the poor girl off her feet,” Ben said.

“So if you’re a flight lieutenant, why aren’t you flying?” she asked, sounding bolder now.

“I escaped from a stalag in Germany recently and managed to make my way back home. I was shot and in rather bad shape. I’m still supposed to be recovering, but I didn’t want to sit at home doing nothing, so they’re letting me work at the ministry.”

“I thought your face was familiar,” she said, her eyes glowing now. “I saw your picture in the papers. The girls here were talking about your escape.” She looked at Ben. “Were you also a flyer once?”

“He was in a plane crash caused by my bad piloting,” Jeremy said quickly. “I feel guilty about it every day of my life.” He paused, then added, “And the offer still stands to get you a job at the Air Ministry, old chap. You’d have legitimate cause to visit Mavis often.”

“As tempting as that sounds, I don’t think you’ll find it’s that easy to switch around in wartime,” Ben said. “And I am playing my part where I’m working right now.”

“Well, I’d best be getting back to town,” Jeremy said. “I’ll see you two at my party, then?”

He picked up the package, gave Mavis a wink, and strode out of the room.





CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO


Bletchley Park


Pamela and Froggy Bracewaite were back at the big house, studying transcripts.

“It’s interesting that they don’t always use the same pieces of music, don’t you think?” Froggy said. “I mean they always sign on with Beethoven, but then they have a selection of German composers between news and commentaries.”

“Probably only reminding the world how superior German culture is,” Pamela said.

“But I think we should identify and study each of the pieces chosen. Maybe the notes spell something out. Maybe it’s the fourth movement of the third symphony or something, and those numbers signify dates?”

“I think you’re chasing at straws,” Pamela said. “If they want to send messages to German sympathisers or agents in Britain, they would have to be brilliant to work out things like that.”

“Unless they have codebooks. Maybe Bach means one thing. Handel another.”

“But we don’t have their codebooks,” Pamela said. “I wonder if MI5 knows more about this. We’re shut out here, sworn to secrecy, and we have no idea what other ministries or departments know or don’t know. I think we should ask Commander Travis about this.”

“Maybe,” Froggy said doubtfully.

When Pamela went back to her room that night, she opened a drawer to put away the items she had taken with her while camping out, and she paused, frowning. Someone had been through her things. She distinctly remembered leaving her one good pair of nylon stockings wrapped in a handkerchief so that there was no chance they would catch on something and get a run in them. And her diary—she was sure that had been under her spare nightdress.

Trixie arrived while Pamela was sitting on her bed, considering this. “Oh, you’re back in the land of the living,” she said. “Are you finished with night shifts?”

“For the moment, I think,” Pamela said. “I say, Trixie, you didn’t borrow my stockings, did you? I wouldn’t be angry if you did, but it’s just that they aren’t where I put them.”

“I jolly well did not,” Trixie said. “You know me better than that, Pamma. If I want to borrow something of yours, I ask.”

“Then someone has been snooping in my drawer,” Pamma said.

“Mrs. Entwhistle, obviously,” Trixie said. “I always thought she looked like the type who was a snoop.”

“I don’t know what she hoped to find, unless she gets a thrill from reading other people’s diaries,” Pamma said.

“Why, is your diary full of juicy details?” Trixie grinned.

“Absolutely not. It’s about as boring as you can get. Yesterday we had cottage pie, and it was raining. That kind of thing. I never was the type to spill my innermost thoughts on paper.”

“Neither was I,” Trixie said. “Too many prying eyes in my house when I was growing up. With two younger sisters one had to be very careful.”

“The same with me,” Pamela said. “Well, I don’t suppose it mattered that Mrs. Entwhistle looked through my things. I have nothing worth stealing. But it does feel a little creepy, doesn’t it?”

“Maybe we could set a trap for her and catch her out,” Trixie suggested. “You know, a letter in German, or a photo of Adolf Hitler with the message ‘Meet me at midnight, mein Liebling.’”