“So a possible spy, then?” Ben felt his pulse quicken.
“Quite possible. I’m also told by one of our bright young women who was going through his clothing—not an enviable task, as you can well imagine—that his socks were wrong.”
“Socks? Wrong?”
“Yes, she’s something of a knitter, and she says that the heel isn’t turned like that in British Army regulation socks. On further investigation, she could just make out the number 42 on them.”
“Forty-two?”
“Metric size.”
“Oh, I see.” Ben nodded now. “So the socks came from the Continent.”
“I’m glad we use Oxford lads. So quick on the uptake,” Max Knight said. Ben flushed.
“Therefore I suppose the question is, what was he doing in Lord Westerham’s field,” Max Knight continued. “Was he there on purpose or by accident?”
“Was there a high wind that night? He could have been blown off course, or the parachute malfunction might have caused him to drift.”
“We’ve checked on that. The breeze was only two knots. Besides, you don’t drift if your parachute doesn’t deploy properly. You plunge straight down.”
“It might just have been pure coincidence that the landing site was Lord Westerham’s field,” Ben said. “He was instructed to parachute down within reach of London or within reach of Biggin Hill RAF station.”
“Then why not an RAF uniform instead of the West Kent Regiment?” He took a deep breath that sounded almost like a sigh. “You can see the tricky situation we find ourselves in, can’t you, Cresswell? If the landing was intentional, if he was a German spy—and we have to assume that is the case—then he was sent to make contact with someone nearby, in an area where a uniform of the West Kents would not arouse suspicion.”
“What about his pockets, sir?” Ben asked. “Was there nothing useful that could be retrieved from his pockets?”
“His pockets were completely empty, apart from a small snapshot in his breast pocket.”
“A snapshot?” Ben asked, half-interested and half-afraid now.
“Of a landscape. Of course it was covered in blood, but the lab has been able to clean it up. We had to prise this out of the hands of army intelligence, by the way. They weren’t too keen to share information. Nobody is these days.” He opened a drawer and took out a slim file, which he opened and turned toward Ben. Ben stood up to look at it. It hadn’t been a very good photograph to begin with. The sort of small snapshot a tourist might take on summer holiday, and now, after having been bloodied and cleaned, it was even more indistinct. From what Ben could make out, it was a general view of an English countryside with fields divided by hedges, and rising in the background, a steep-sided hill, topped with a crown of trees. Amid the trees was just the hint of a village with what looked like a square tower of a church poking above Scotch pines. Ben stared at it. “That’s not anywhere I’ve seen, and it doesn’t look like our part of Kent,” he said. “It looks more bleak, and steep, and windswept. Scots pines, aren’t they? More like the West Country from that square-towered church. Cornwall maybe?”
Max Knight nodded. “Could well be. So what was it doing in his pocket? Was he supposed to make his way there—in which case, why drop him in the middle of Kent? Was he supposed to hand it to someone telling the site for a rendezvous for some unknown purpose?”
“Or the name of the village is somehow significant?” Ben suggested.
Knight sighed again. “Again possibly. You’ll note there were numbers written on it. Almost washed away, but the pen left an impression on the photo paper.” He looked up at Ben. “It’s all right to pick it up.”
Ben took the photograph gingerly and held it up to the light: 1461. “Fourteen sixty-one. Any significant battles take place on that date?”
Knight looked at him long and hard. “That’s for you to find out, son. I’m dumping this in your lap. Reports on you say that you are quick and you’re keen, and you don’t like sitting around twiddling your thumbs. Normally, I’d give something like this to a senior man, but you have what nobody else in this department has—you’re one of them.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Dolphin Square, London
May 1941
Ben shifted uneasily in his seat. “Excuse me, sir, but what do you want me to do? Find out where the snapshot was taken?”
“That can wait. Right now I’d like you to go home for a few days.”
“But I say, sir, isn’t there an element of haste in this? The Germans wouldn’t have dropped somebody into the Kent countryside unless it was for an urgent mission.”
“The messenger is dead, Cresswell. And with him, presumably the message he carried. They will have to regroup and try again, likely in a different way this time, as they assume we’ll be looking out for parachutists. What we have to find out is for whom the message was intended. That’s where you come in. Go home. Don’t make it obvious, but ask questions.”
“What kind of questions?”
Maxwell Knight looked at Ben as if he were a bit dense. “I’m sure the neighbourhood will still be buzzing with news of the body. Someone will be bound to suggest that it’s a German spy. Watch their reactions.”
“Exactly what are you suggesting?” Ben asked cautiously.
“We must assume that the man did not parachute into that field by accident. If he was a German spy, which we have to assume is the case, why Lord Westerham’s estate?”
“Maybe it was convenient open space fairly close to London.”
“Then why no money in his pockets? He couldn’t get far. He carried no papers, so it appears he was planning to deliver a message in person to someone nearby. Or go to a safe house nearby. And there was no sign of a radio or any way to communicate with his base. My guess is that he was planning to hand over that photograph. So the question is to whom?”
Ben gave an uneasy chuckle. “You’re not suggesting that Lord Westerham or one of his neighbours is working for the Jerries?”
Max Knight gave him a long stare. “Surely you are aware that there are pro-German sentiments among certain members of the aristocracy. The Duke of Windsor is a prime example. He couldn’t wait to visit Hitler in his own lair. Why else do you think he was shipped off to be governor of the Bahamas? So that the Americans can keep an eye on him and foil any plot to put him in power here as a puppet king.”
“Gosh,” Ben said. “But having German connections, or even German sympathies, does not mean that any Englishman would actively work to help Germany, surely? Even the Duke of Windsor would do the right thing if approached by Hitler’s emissaries. He’d never agree to depose his brother . . .”
“Would he do the right thing?” Max Knight held Ben’s gaze. “One hopes he would, but he has already demonstrated weakness and susceptibility to be led, has he not? He abandoned his duty for a woman—for a woman of questionable morals at that. Our present king may not have his brother’s charm, but at least he has backbone. He’ll see us through if anyone can.”
“So you want me to go down to Farleigh and try to root out pro-German sentiments?”
“Go home and keep your eyes and ears open, that’s all. Lord Westerham and his neighbours. Say you draw a five-mile radius. Who does that encompass?”
“Including the two or three villages?”
“Possibly. Although I’m sure all the villagers will tell you quickly enough about anyone who is new to the area, who behaves strangely, once went on holiday to Germany, Switzerland, or Austria, or even likes Beethoven. No, I’m interested in bigger fish, my boy. Someone who might be able to do real damage. Who exactly lives at Farleigh these days?”