“It’s not exactly the same with margarine on it,” Lady Esme said, “but luckily, Mrs. Mortlock had the pantry stocked with a good supply of jam before sugar was rationed. If we use it sparingly, it may last us for another year, and by then let us hope that the war is over.”
“Gumbie says she hopes the war won’t be over soon,” Phoebe chimed in.
“What?” Lord Westerham sat up in his armchair. “Don’t tell me you hired a governess who is a Nazi, Esme.”
“A Nazi?” Lady Westerham looked puzzled. “Oh no, dear. I’m sure she’s not. She comes from Cheltenham.”
“No, Pah,” Phoebe said. “What she meant was that if the war ended soon, it would mean Germany had won. She said it would take a long time if we were going to beat Germany and drive them out of Europe.”
“That’s so true,” Pamela said. “This crumpet is marvellous, isn’t it? You should see the great doorstops of bread and margarine I have to face at my digs. My landlady really is the most awful cook.”
“I must say our cook is managing pretty well, considering,” Lord Westerham commented, helping himself to a biscuit. “Haven’t had a decent joint of beef for ages, of course. But one can’t expect prewar meals. So how are you, Pamela? How’s the job going?”
“I’m well, thank you, Pah. The job is tiring. Long hours. Night shifts. But at least I feel that I’m doing something. And it’s quite jolly on our days off—sports and concerts and various clubs.”
“So what exactly are you doing, Pamma?” Diana asked. “Can’t you get me a job there?”
“Just secretarial work—filing, that kind of thing. And no, I’m sure Pah wouldn’t want you living in digs so far from home.”
“Quite right,” Lord Westerham said. “I’ve made it quite clear to you, Dido, that you’re not old enough to move away from home.”
“There are plenty of boys who join the army at eighteen,” Diana said. “And plenty of eighteen-year-olds who were killed in the Great War.”
“Which I think proves my point,” Lord Westerham said, wagging a finger at her. “Do you think I want my young daughter going into danger? I want to protect you. I want to protect my family.”
“You haven’t said hello to little Charles yet,” Livvy said in a peeved voice. “He can pull himself up to standing now, and I’m sure he actually said ‘DaDa’ the other day. You heard him, didn’t you, Mah?”
“He certainly made some kind of sound,” Lady Esme said. Pamela was amused to notice that she still wore what would have been a tea dress before the war, pastel chiffon with a handkerchief hemline. “Whether he knew what he was saying is another matter.”
“I’m sure he did. He misses Teddy terribly. So do I. I haven’t heard a thing for weeks. I do hope he’s all right.”
“But isn’t he in the Bahamas with the Duke of Windsor?” Pamela asked.
“Yes, but there are German submarines. And plots, you know. Spies and assassins.”
“Speaking of which, we had a bit of excitement here the other day,” Lord Westerham said. “Damned chap fell into one of our fields.”
“Fell?” Pamela asked.
“Parachute didn’t open. Must have fallen from a plane.”
“Golly,” Pamela said. “How awful.”
“And you’ll never guess, Pamma,” Phoebe said proudly. “I found him. Or at least the evacuated boy who lives with the gamekeeper and I found him. He was all smashed up and bloody. Quite revolting.”
“How horrid, Feebs.” Pamela turned back to her father. “Did you find out who he was?”
“No, but there was definitely something fishy about the chap. We thought he was one of the local West Kents, but the colonel says he wasn’t. Which makes one wonder who the hell he was. Some bloody German spy, I shouldn’t wonder. Still, nobody has bothered to come down here to find out.”
“Don’t swear in front of the children, Roddy,” Lady Esme said.
“They are no longer children, and if hearing the word ‘bloody’ is the worst thing that happens to them, then they can bloody well consider themselves lucky.”
Phoebe giggled. Pamela exchanged a grin with Livvy. But secretly she was already thinking about the German spy. She knew from conversations in her hut that Germans were sending out coded messages to Britain, presumably to sympathisers or to spies who had been planted in the communities. But it seemed almost impossible to believe that any spy would find it worthwhile to be operating in this bucolic area of north Kent, far from towns and factories and anything worth bombing.
Phoebe watched Pamela with interest. Her brain was racing, and excitement was brimming up inside her. She wriggled on her seat. She couldn’t wait for tea to be over.
Lord Westerham noticed. “What’s the matter with you, child?” he demanded. “Got ants in your pants?”
“No, Pah. But I’ve finished, and I have things I need to do.”
“You don’t want any cake? That’s not like you,” Lord Westerham said.
“I’m full of crumpet,” Phoebe said, making Diana snicker. “So may I please be excused?”
“I don’t see why not,” Lord Westerham said. “As long as what you have planned isn’t illegal, immoral, or just bloody stupid.”
“Oh no, Pah,” Phoebe said innocently. “I’m going out into the fresh air. It’s such a lovely day, isn’t it? I’ll take the dogs if you like.”
“Good idea, but don’t let them annoy those army chappies,” Lord Westerham said. “I had a complaint last week that the dogs had messed up one of their drills by running in and out when they were marching.”
“I’ll not go near any drills,” Phoebe said.
“But no riding on your own, understand!” He wagged a finger at her. “I’ve heard about you sneaking Snowball out without telling anyone.”
“I’m not riding, Pah.” She opened the door. “Come on, dogs. Let’s go. Walkies.”
Both dogs needed no urging and rushed after her, their long, silky tails streaming out behind them.
Phoebe took them out through the French doors in the new dining room, rather than risk upsetting the soldiers in the main entrance hall. The dogs rushed ahead of her across the gravel, barking at a pair of ducks that had just waddled out of the lake. The ducks took off with a great flapping of wings, and the dogs waited, tongues lolling, for Phoebe to catch up with them. They skirted the lake, crossed the lawn, and entered the first stand of trees. Beyond was the far field where the body had lain. Phoebe glanced nervously, wondering if she could still see the blood on the grass. It had rained once at night, and that should have washed it nicely away.
On the other side of the trees, she picked up the bridle path that wound through the woodland. Among the trees she caught a glimpse of the fallow deer. The dogs pricked up their ears again, looking at her expectantly.
“No,” she said firmly. “Your master wouldn’t want you to go chasing deer.”
Beyond the wood rose the wall that circled the estate, and nestled against it was a small brick cottage. Phoebe knocked at the door, and it was opened by a woman in a flowery apron. She reacted in surprise when she saw Lady Phoebe.
“Hello, Mrs. Robbins,” Phoebe said brightly.
“Why, your ladyship. What a surprise. I’m afraid Mr. Robbins isn’t here at the moment.”
“It’s not Mr. Robbins I want to see. It’s your boy, Alfie. Is he at home?”
“He is, your ladyship. He’s just home from school, and I’ve just given him his tea, as a matter of fact. If you’d care to come inside . . .” She opened the door wider.
“Sit,” Phoebe said, pointing sternly at the dogs. “Stay.”
She stepped into the cottage. The kitchen was off a tiny front hall. It faced the estate wall and was quite dark, but copper pots gleamed over an old-fashioned stove, and it smelled of newly baked bread. Phoebe could see the loaf in the middle of the table. Alfie was sitting there, a slice of bread, laden with jam, up at his mouth. When he saw Phoebe, he lowered the bread but traces of the jam painted a smile across his cheeks. He wiped at the jam with his finger.