In Farleigh Field: A Novel of World War II

“We must let somebody know right away.” Ben jumped up and headed for the door. “But who? My boss is away. Ten Downing Street. They’ll know where Mr. Churchill is. They can take precautions.” His heart was hammering, and he could hear himself babbling as he ran to catch up with the landlady. “Do you have a telephone?”

“There’s a telephone box in the middle of the village outside the post office,” she said.

“I’ll collect our things. You go,” Pamela called.

He ran down the street and stood in the telephone box, fumbling for coins. Did he have the right change? Surely the operator would connect him in a national emergency.

“Number, please,” came the operator’s voice.

“I need you to connect me with Ten Downing Street,” Ben said, trying to sound calm. “This is an emergency.”

“Are you being funny?” she asked.

“No, of course I am not being funny,” he snapped. “I am with MI5 and I’m stuck in the depths of Somerset, and it is imperative that I speak with someone immediately.” He was surprised at his own forcefulness.

“Very good, sir. I’ll do what I can.” The woman sounded shaken.

Ben waited impatiently, then a male voice came on the line. “Prime minister’s residence. How can I help you?”

“Is the prime minister there?” Ben asked.

“No, sir. I believe he spent the night in the war rooms,” the calm voice said.

“Then please listen carefully,” Ben said. “My name is Benjamin Cresswell. I am an agent of MI5. My superiors will vouch for that, if necessary. But I have reason to believe there is a plot to assassinate the prime minister today.”

“Sir, we get threats against the prime minister all the time,” said the patient voice. “Can you substantiate this? And why has this information not gone through the proper channels?”

“Because my boss is away this weekend, and I can’t reach him. I have been following a lead that started with a dead German, and I’m standing in the middle of the bloody Somerset countryside. And I thought you might like to know.” Ben heard himself shouting.

“Can you give me details?”

“Obviously not over a public phone line where any number of people may be listening in,” Ben said. “But I suggest he stays put in the war rooms today.”

“The prime minister is scheduled to attend a ceremony at Biggin Hill Aerodrome,” the voice said. “I’m sure he will not change his plans because of an unsubstantiated threat. And he will be at an aerodrome. Where could he be better protected?”

“I’ve done my part,” Ben said as frustration boiled over. “I have warned you. If you choose to disregard my warning, upon your head be it.”

“Look, I’ll advise the prime minister’s security detail to be armed and extra vigilant,” the voice said. “But if you think the PM would ever stay home like a frightened rabbit because of a threat against his life, then you don’t know Churchill.”

Ben put the receiver down and walked back to Pamela.

“Have they told the prime minister? Will they take steps?” she asked him.

“I’m not sure.” Ben sighed. “I don’t know what else to do.”

She touched his arm. “You’ve done your part. You were the one who worked out the plot against him.”

“But all of that is no use if he gets shot anyway, is it? Bloody fools. So damned complacent. What else can I do? Telephone Biggin Hill, I suppose, and go there ourselves as quickly as possible. With any luck we’ll get there before it’s too late.”



Phoebe awoke early, feeling excited and restless. It wasn’t just the garden party and her mother’s anxiety that all would go smoothly. Something else was going on. Why had Ben and Pamela left in a hurry on a motorbike right when Margot came home? She felt sorry for Pamela’s friend, brought here and then abandoned while they went off without her. And then there was the telephone call she had overheard the night before. Someone in Pah’s study making a phone call late at night. A woman’s voice, but Phoebe couldn’t hear what was being said through the thick wood of the door. Then Soames had come past, and she’d had to go up to bed. A morning ride, that’s what she needed.

She put on her jodhpurs and riding boots, grabbed her crash cap, and went down to the stables. Old Jackson was already up and about. Phoebe paused and stared up at Miss Gumble’s window. Was she already awake? Would she report that Phoebe had gone out riding without permission?

“Saddle up Snowball, please, Jackson,” Phoebe said.

“Is the master all right with you taking her out alone?” he asked.

“I’ll be good and not gallop and not jump over logs,” she said. “But she hasn’t been exercised enough lately, and she’s getting fat.”

“That’s true enough,” he agreed. “Do you want me to come with you?”

“No, you’ll make me walk too slowly,” she said.

He grinned. “Well, I don’t suppose any harm will come to you. You’re a grand little rider, I’ll say that for you. A credit to your family.”

Phoebe beamed and glanced up at Miss Gumble’s window again.

“You don’t need to worry about her,” Jackson said. “She went out hours ago. Off on one of them bird-watching expeditions with her binoculars round her neck.”

Phoebe mounted her pony, and they set off. Once out of sight of the house, she urged Snowball into a canter, enjoying the feel of the early-morning breeze in her face. She hoped she might meet Alfie in the fields, but there was no sign of him. She directed Snowball closer to the woods and the gamekeeper’s lodge, but again saw nothing. She was on a bridle path through a stand of trees when she heard the sound of a motor vehicle driving up the track beyond a thick stand of rhododendron bushes. It didn’t sound like a big army lorry, and she tried to get a glimpse of it, but the shrubbery was too thick. She heard the motor stop. Then she heard a voice.

“You got my message, then?”

It was low, hardly more than a whisper, but clearly a woman’s.

“What’s wrong?” This time a man’s voice.

“I can’t go through with it.”

“You have to. It’s all planned. You can’t back out now.”

“But I can’t do it.”

“You have to. Obviously, I can’t do it now, so it’s up to you. You agreed.”

“Please don’t ask me to do this.”

“You know the consequences if you don’t see it through.”

Phoebe thought she heard a sob. The voice dropped to a mutter. Phoebe wanted to urge the horse forward but was scared that the chinking of the bit would give her away.

Then she heard clearly. “Here’s the gun. Already loaded. Take it. Don’t let us down.”