“If you’re thinking of walking, check with me first. You may find some changes. New people have bought the old oast house beyond Broadbent’s farm. Arty types from London, one gathers. Needless to say, they haven’t been near the church.” He smiled. “But I hear that they’ve tried to block the footpath from going through their grounds. People have told them they can’t do it. Old right-of-way from the village to Hildenborough. But I don’t think it’s had much effect. And in wartime, nobody is going to bother with a court case.”
“I’m not worried, Father,” Ben said. “Plenty of other places to walk. So have you met the new people yet?”
“Can’t say I have. I gather they frequent the pub occasionally. Two men from London. One of them a well-known artist. Dr. Sinclair said he’d been for sherry with them, and the paintings were frightful. All red-and-black daubs, he said. One of them is Danish. Hansen. But he’s not the famous one. Some sort of Russian name. Stravinsky? Something like that.”
While his father spoke, Ben spread out the map on a table. He took a ruler and rotated it in a five-mile radius. There was a broad area of flat land toward Tonbridge. Lots of fields to land in. So if the parachutist had really chosen Lord Westerham’s field, then, realistically, his contact had to be within walking distance. That meant the Farleigh estate, the village cottages, the bigger houses on the green: his father’s vicarage, Dr. Sinclair, Miss Hamilton’s, Colonel Huntley’s. A couple of farms came within this radius: Highcroft’s and Broadbent’s. And then Nethercote, the Prescotts’ estate, a half mile from the village. That was it.
Ben sighed. He’d known the people in the village all his life, unless there were any recent arrivals apart from the oast-house men. And the colonel and Nethercote and Farleigh. They were all as true blue and English as you come. Nobody who would want to aid the Germans. He came to the conclusion that they had got it wrong. The man who fell was not a spy trying to pass a message to a contact. He had to be an accident: a man who fell from a plane by mistake, in the wrong place.
But he’d been commissioned to investigate by a powerful and senior man. So he had to carry out the assignment and do it well. He folded up the map again. “I’ll keep this for the moment, if you don’t mind.”
Reverend Cresswell looked up and nodded. “What? Oh no. By all means, keep it.” He looked at his son. “So why are you home?”
“Why? Aren’t you glad to see me?”
“Of course. But I just wondered whether that leg of yours was proving too much of a hindrance, and you weren’t really able to . . .”
“You’re asking whether they kicked me out? From a desk job? In wartime?” Ben’s voice was sharp. “Really, Father. In spite of what anyone may think, I am not a poor cripple. I can walk perfectly well. Pamela and I walked from the station with suitcases. I just have a blasted knee that won’t bend, that’s all. So don’t sign me up as wicketkeeper if we have a village cricket match.”
His father looked shocked at the outburst. “I’m sorry, Benjamin. I really didn’t mean to upset you. I just wondered when you arrived home out of the blue and one hears that nobody is getting any sort of leave these days.”
Ben took a deep breath, his distaste of what he had to say already showing on his face. “As a matter of fact, I was told I had been overdoing it and needed a few days off. All those night shifts can take a toll, you know. And fire-watching duty when one isn’t working.”
“You’re still in central London? Seen a lot of bombing?”
“Quite a bit.”
“You’re in one of the ministries, aren’t you?”
“That’s right.”
“Interesting work?”
Ben smiled now. “Father, there’s a war on. Even if I’m doing the most boring job in the world, I’m not allowed to tell you about it.”
“I understand,” his father said. “Well, it’s good to have you home, my boy. Make the most of your time here. Enjoy Mrs. Finch’s cooking. Get some fresh air.”
“I intend to. Thanks.”
As he was about to walk from the room, his father said, “And Lady Pamela, what’s she doing home?”
“Same as me, I should think,” he said. “Working too many long night shifts.”
“They don’t expect girls to work all night, do they?”
“Everybody has to work, all the time,” Ben said.
“But, surely, they don’t need things like filing done at night? Where did you say she works?”
“I didn’t. But it’s a government department, and they’ve been moved out of London.”
“Bright girl, Lady Pamela. First-class brain,” Reverend Cresswell said. “She’d have done well at Oxford. I tried to tell her father, but he wouldn’t hear of it. In his mind, one marries off a daughter at the first opportunity and then is free of all obligations toward her. Positively medieval.”
The word reminded Ben of his other sphere of inquiry. “That reminds me, Father. You’re a history buff. Fourteen sixty-one. What happened that year? Anything significant?”
Reverend Cresswell stared past Ben out the window, where a large draught horse was pulling a cart full of manure. “Fourteen sixty-one, you say? Wars of the Roses, wasn’t it?”
“Wars of the Roses?” Ben tried to remember the history lessons at Tonbridge School.
There had been endless repetitions of dates and battles that he retained in his head until the exam was passed, then he happily forgot. “The House of Lancaster versus the House of York. And York won, eventually?”
“Henry VI with his bouts of insanity was deposed by Edward IV in 1461, if I remember correctly. That’s right. There were two bloody battles, one on the Welsh border at Mortimer’s Cross and the other up in Yorkshire. Battle of Towton. One of the bloodiest battles ever. Scores of men killed, and Edward emerged victorious.”
Ben was taking this information one step further. “And would you happen to know whether either was fought on terrain with a steep hillside behind it?”
“I have no idea.” Reverend Cresswell sounded surprised. “I didn’t know you were interested in battles, at least not ancient ones.”
“A question I was asked at work,” he said. “I get a lot of strange questions in the reference department.”
“Well, the Welsh Marches are quite hilly, aren’t they? And Yorkshire? You have the Dales and the Moors, but both are more gentle slopes if I recall correctly from rambling up there in my student days.”
“Thank you.” Ben smiled at his father. “You’ve been very helpful. It’s good to have a father who is a fount of knowledge.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” The vicar coughed in an embarrassed sort of way. “I’ve always enjoyed history, as you know. And I like to read. Not much for the wireless, and the winter evenings can seem very long and lonely. So one reads.”
Ben looked at his father with compassion. All those years alone since his mother died, and yet he had happily sent his son off to boarding school, knowing it would be the right thing to do if his son wanted to get ahead.
“You don’t happen to have an ordnance survey map of the whole of Britain, do you?” he asked.
“I’m afraid not. I expect they have one in the library in Sevenoaks or Tonbridge.” He looked at Ben with interest. “I’m glad you’re keen on taking exercise. Build up the muscles. That’s the ticket.”
“Actually, I was thinking more of those battles. Mortimer’s Cross. Towton.”
“I’m surprised that ancient battles are of interest in the middle of a modern war,” Reverend Cresswell said, “but I expect you have your reasons. Good to have something to work on and keep the mind busy. And I should be getting back to my sermon.”