In Farleigh Field: A Novel of World War II Read online

  PRAISE FOR THE CONSTABLE EVANS MYSTERIES

  “Few writers are capable of this deft combination of dark and light. This is a pitch-perfect book, which will charm you in one sentence, chill you in the next.”

  —Laura Lippman, winner of the Edgar, Shamus, Anthony, and Agatha Awards

  PRAISE FOR THE ROYAL SPYNESS MYSTERIES

  “Wonderful characters . . . A delight.”

  —Charlaine Harris

  “Fans of P. G. Wodehouse looking for laughs mingled with some amateur sleuthing will be quite pleased.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Georgie’s high spirits and the author’s frothy prose are utterly captivating.”

  —The Denver Post

  “The perfect fix between seasons for Downton Abbey addicts.”

  —Deborah Crombie, New York Times bestselling author of The Sound of Broken Glass

  “A smashing romp.”

  —Booklist

  PRAISE FOR THE MOLLY MURPHY MYSTERIES

  “I devoured this flawlessly written mystery in one day, and enjoyed every word . . . The book is a wonderful read, full of interesting details that give life to the story.”

  —Historical Novel Society

  “Well-written and fast-paced, with a twist that will leave readers truly surprised. This novel is not to be missed.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “A charming combination of history, mystery, and romance.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Perceptive and poignant writing . . . make[s] us look forward to Molly’s return.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  ALSO BY RHYS BOWEN

  CONSTABLE EVANS MYSTERIES

  Evans Above

  Evan Help Us

  Evanly Choirs

  Evan and Elle

  Evan Can Wait

  Evans to Betsy

  Evan Only Knows

  Evan’s Gate

  Evan Blessed

  Evanly Bodies

  MOLLY MURPHY MYSTERIES

  Murphy’s Law

  Death of Riley

  For the Love of Mike

  In Like Flynn

  Oh Danny Boy

  In Dublin’s Fair City

  Tell Me, Pretty Maiden

  In a Gilded Cage

  The Last Illusion

  Bless the Bride

  Hush Now, Don’t You Cry

  The Family Way

  City of Darkness and Light

  The Edge of Dreams

  Away in a Manger

  Time of Fog and Fire

  ROYAL SPYNESS MYSTERIES

  Her Royal Spyness

  A Royal Pain

  Royal Flush

  Royal Blood

  Naughty in Nice

  The Twelve Clues of Christmas

  Heirs and Graces

  Queen of Hearts

  Malice at the Palace

  Crowned and Dangerous

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2017 Janet Quin-Harkin, writing as Rhys Bowen

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781477818299 [HC]

  ISBN-10: 1477818294 [HC]

  ISBN-13: 9781503941359 [PB]

  ISBN-10: 1503941353 [PB]

  Cover design by Shasti O’Leary Soudant

  First edition

  This book is for Meg Ruley, who believed in it from the beginning and helped to shape it. Meg, you are my champion, and the day we met was one of the high points of my life.

  CONTENTS

  START READING

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  PROLOGUE

  PART ONE PAMELA

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  PART TWO BEN

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  PART THREE MARGOT

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  September 1939

  From: His Majesty’s Government

  To: Civilian Population of Great Britain

  For the duration of the war, the following Seven Rules are to be observed at all times.

  Do not waste food.

  Do not talk to strangers.

  Keep all information to yourself.

  Always listen to government instructions and carry them out.

  Report anything suspicious to the police.

  Do not spread rumours.

  Lock away anything that might help the enemy if we are invaded.

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Roderick Sutton, Earl of Westerham, owner of Farleigh Place, a stately home in Kent

  Lady Esme Sutton, Roderick’s wife

  Lady Olivia “Livvy” Sutton, twenty-six, the Suttons’ eldest daughter, married to Viscount Carrington, mother of Charles

  Lady Margaret “Margot” Sutton, twenty-three, the second daughter, now living in Paris

  Lady Pamela “Pamma” Sutton, twenty-one, the third daughter, currently working for a “government department”

  Lady Diana “Dido” Sutton, nineteen, the fourth daughter, a frustrated debutante

  Lady Phoebe “Feebs” Sutton, twelve, the fifth daughter, too smart and observant for her own good

  Servants at Farleigh (a skeleton staff)

  Soames, butler

  Mrs. Mortlock, cook

  Elsie, parlourmaid

  Jennie, housemaid

  Ruby, scullery maid

  Philpott, Lady Esme’s maid

  Nanny

  Miss Gumble, governess to Lady Phoebe

  Mr. Robbins, gamekeeper

  Mrs. Robbins, gamekeeper’s wife

  Alfie, a Cockney boy, now evacuated to the country

  Jackson, groom

  Farleigh Neighbours

  Rev. Cresswell, vicar of All Saints Church

  Ben Cresswell, the vicar’s son, now working for a “government department”

  At Nethercote

  Sir William Prescott, city financier

  Lady Prescott, S
ir William’s wife

  Jeremy Prescott, Sir William and Lady Prescott’s son, RAF flying ace

  At Simla

  Colonel Huntley, formerly of the British Army

  Mrs. Huntley, the colonel’s wife

  Miss Hamilton, spinster

  Dr. Sinclair, doctor

  Sundry villagers, including an artist couple, a builder, and a questionable Austrian

  Officers of the Royal West Kent Regiment

  Colonel Pritchard, commanding officer

  Captain Hartley, adjutant

  Soldiers under command

  At Dolphin Square

  Maxwell Knight, spymaster

  Joan Miller, Knight’s secretary

  At Bletchley Park

  Commander Travis, deputy head of a secret government department

  Trixie Radcliffe, debutante, now doing useful work

  Froggy Bracewaite, code breaker

  At MI5

  Guy Harcourt, former playboy, now Ben Cresswell’s coworker

  Mike Radison, head of section

  At Aerial Reconnaissance

  Mavis Pugh, keen girl

  In Paris

  Madame Gigi Armande, famous fashion designer

  Herr Dinkslager, Nazi officer and all-around dangerous man

  Count Gaston de Varennes, Margot’s lover

  PROLOGUE

  Elmsleigh, Kent

  August 1939

  It had been unusually hot all summer. Ben Cresswell could feel the sun scorching his thighs through his cricket whites as he sat on the clubhouse veranda, waiting for his turn at bat. Colonel Huntley sat beside him, mopping his red and sweaty face. He was wearing pads because he was next up at bat. He wasn’t as good a batsman as Ben, but he was team captain, and in village cricket, seniority often took precedence over ability.

  Only two overs before tea. Ben hoped that young Symmes wouldn’t make one of his wild swipes and be out before the tea interval. His head was singing with heat. His mouth felt dry. He closed his eyes and listened to the satisfying thwack of bat against ball, the drone of bees on the honeysuckle behind the clubhouse, the rhythmic clatter of a lawn mower in one of the cottage gardens. The scent of new-mown grass wafted on the warm breeze, mingled with the smoke of leaves burning on a distant bonfire. The scents and sounds of an English summer Sunday, unchanged for centuries, Ben thought.

  Polite applause directed his attention back to the match, where two white-clad figures were sprinting between wickets while a fielder ran to retrieve the ball, throwing it in too late. Another run. Jolly good, Ben thought. They might even win for once. Beyond the perfectly mown pitch, the spire of All Saints Church, where his father was vicar, cast a shadow over the village green. And on the far side, an old oak tree cast a similar shadow over the memorial erected to those men from the village who had died in the Great War. There were sixteen names there. Ben had counted them. Sixteen men and boys from a village of two hundred. Senseless, Ben muttered to himself.

  “Where’s young Prescott, then?” Colonel Huntley interrupted his musings. “We could have used him today. He handles a fast bowler as well as anyone I’ve seen.”

  Ben turned away from the cricket pitch to look at the colonel. He was a large, florid man, his face weathered to a perpetual beetroot colour by a long stint in India and too much Scotch. “He’s taking his flying test, sir.”

  “His flying test? Is that what the young idiot’s doing these days?”

  “Yes, sir. He’s been taking flying lessons. He wants to be ready, you see. When war is declared, he’ll go straight into the RAF as a pilot. He didn’t want to find himself up to his neck in mud in the trenches like all those poor chaps in the last war.”

  The colonel nodded. “That was a rum deal. Lucky for me I was on the North-West Frontier. Let’s hope they don’t make the same bloody mistakes this time.”

  “I suppose war is inevitable?” Ben asked.

  “Oh yes. Absolutely. No question about it. That blighter Hitler’s going to march into Poland, and we’re honour-bound to declare war. In the next couple of weeks, I’d say.”

  He spoke with the cheerfulness of a man who knows he is too old to be called up. “We had one of those civil-defence chappies round at the house last week. They wanted me to dig up the back lawn and put in an air-raid shelter. I told him it was quite out of the question. The back lawn is where the memsahib plays her croquet. We’re going to be rationed in everything else. You can’t expect her to give up her croquet, too!”

  Ben smiled politely. “Yes, we had a similar visit. They delivered a lot of corrugated iron and the plans. As if my father has ever built anything in his life. He’s only just learned to turn on the radio!”

  The colonel eyed Ben critically. “So what about you, young fellah? Are you planning on becoming a pilot as well?”

  Ben gave him an apologetic smile. “I’d like to, sir, but I can’t afford the flying lessons at the moment. I’ll have to wait to see if the RAF will take me.”

  The colonel coughed, as if he’d just realised that the son of a vicar recently down from Oxford and now teaching at a very minor prep school wasn’t likely to have much cash to spare. He looked around, clearly trying to think of a topic to change the subject and suddenly said in surprise, “Hello. Here’s a turn-up for the books. It’s Lady Pamela. I didn’t know she was interested in cricket.”

  Ben felt a flush come over his face and was furious with himself. Pamela was walking toward him with that easy grace, looking cool and elegant in peach silk. A strand of ash-blonde hair blew across her face, and she brushed it back as she spotted Ben. The men scrambled to their feet.

  “Good of you to come to cheer us on, my lady,” the colonel said, offering her his place on the bench. “Sit here beside young Cresswell. I’m up next. Need to get the blood flowing into these old legs, anyway.” Pamela flashed him a dazzling smile and slid onto the bench the colonel had vacated.

  “Hello, Pamma,” Ben said. “I didn’t expect to see you here. I thought you were in Paris with your sister.”

  “I was. Pah ordered me to come home. Actually, he ordered me to bring Margot home with me. He’s sure war is about to break out any second, and he’s scared she’ll be stuck on the continent. But she’s refusing to budge.”

  “She’s so keen on learning to design fashions that the threat of a war won’t move her?”

  Pamela’s eyes held his in an amused smile. “I rather think that a certain French count is the reason she doesn’t want to leave.”

  “Crikey,” Ben said, cursing himself for sounding like a schoolboy. “Your sister has fallen in love with a Frenchman?”

  “They are rather attractive, you know,” Pamela said, her eyes still holding his. “So attentive. And they do things like kiss hands. Who could resist?”

  “I hope you did.” The words came out before he could stop them.

  “I don’t go for the Gallic type myself,” Pamela said, then she looked around. “Is Jeremy not playing today?”

  And Ben realised like a punch in the stomach that she had not come to see him after all. It was Jeremy. Of course, it was bloody Jeremy. A picture flashed unbidden into Ben’s mind. He and Pamela and Jeremy on a long-ago summer afternoon like this one, climbing the big oak tree at Farleigh Place, home of Pamela’s father, the Earl of Westerham. Jeremy leading as usual, with Pamela close behind him, going up and up until the branch she was perched on was swaying violently. “Don’t go any higher,” Ben had called. She had flashed him a challenging smile. Then the awful cracking noise. The sight of Pamela’s surprised face going past them, as if in slow motion, and then the thud as she hit the ground. It had taken forever to scramble down to her. Jeremy had reached the bottom first, jumping down beside her. Ben was last, as usual. She was lying there, not moving. Suddenly she opened her eyes, looked first into Ben’s worried face, then focused on Jeremy, and her eyes lit up. “I’m all right. Don’t fuss,” she said. She had not been all right. She’d broken an arm. But that was really t
he first time Ben had realised that it was Jeremy, not him, that she cared about. Also how damned much Ben cared about her.

  So many memories from long-ago summers . . .

  There was a yelled “Howzat?” and a groan from the crowd.

  “Damned young fool,” Colonel Huntley muttered. “He will swipe at it. Clean bowled again.”

  He got to his feet. But before he could walk out from the clubhouse to meet the dismissed batsman, there was a droning sound in the sky. Everyone looked up as a plane appeared over the hills, flying very low. The drone became a roar. The plane continued to descend.

  “It can’t be going to land here?” Colonel Huntley exclaimed. “What is the fool thinking?”

  But the plane was going to land. It skimmed over the large copper beech before touching down on the field, scattering cricketers, and just missing the rolled green of the cricket pitch.

  The plane was painted bright yellow and black, like an overgrown wasp. It bounced across the grass and came to a halt in front of the clubhouse. Ben heard the colonel mutter: “What the devil,” but he didn’t bother to answer. Before the pilot took off his goggles and helmet, Ben had known it was Jeremy. Jeremy’s eyes were scanning the crowd. He spotted Ben; his face broke into the familiar grin, and he beckoned furiously.

  “I’ve just bought her,” he shouted. “Isn’t she a beauty? Come on up for a spin.”

  Pamela stood up and ran toward the plane before Ben could react. “Can’t I come up, too?”

  “What ho, Pamma,” Jeremy said. “Didn’t expect to see you at a cricket match. I thought you were in Paris. But sorry. She’s only a two-seater, and you’re not exactly dressed for climbing into cockpits, however charming you look . . .” He left the rest of the sentence hanging. “I’ll come over and see you later if I may,” he added. “And if you like, I’ll ask your pah if I may take you up in my new bird.”

  “Fine.” Pamela turned away and walked back to the pavilion, brushing against Ben in her annoyance. “It’s always a man’s world in the end, isn’t it?” she said. “Ask my pah, indeed. Go on, then. Go up with him. Have a good time.”

  “I don’t want to leave you on your own. I’m sure there will be other . . .” Ben mumbled.