In Farleigh Field
by Rhys Bowen
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.
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
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
Rev. Cresswell, vicar of All Saints Church
Ben Cresswell, the vicar’s son, now working for a “government department”
Sir William Prescott, city financier
Lady Prescott, Sir William’s wife
Jeremy Prescott, Sir William and Lady Prescott’s son, RAF flying ace
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
Colonel Pritchard, commanding officer
Captain Hartley, adjutant
Soldiers under command
Maxwell Knight, spymaster
Joan Miller, Knight’s secretary
Commander Travis, deputy head of a secret government department
Trixie Radcliffe, debutante, now doing useful work
Froggy Bracewaite, code breaker
Guy Harcourt, former playboy, now Ben Cresswell’s coworker
Mike Radison, head of section
Mavis Pugh, keen girl
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.”