“I’ve got just the one room,” the landlord said. “I don’t suppose you’ll mind that, will you?”
Ben looked at Pamela. Before he could say anything, she gave a bright smile. “Of course not. That would be lovely.”
“I’ll see if the missus can send up an airing rack to dry your clothes,” the landlord went on. “Should I bring up a couple of pints of beer or cider?”
Ben looked at Pamela, and she said, “Cider for me, please. And something to eat?”
The landlord frowned. “We don’t serve food anymore, not since rationing. But the wife has baked pasties, and I dare say we can spare a couple.”
He led them up a creaky staircase to the room. It had an enormous double bed, piled high with quilts. As soon as the landlord closed the door, Pamela looked at it and laughed. “Talk about the Princess and the Pea.”
“And you, being of noble birth, will undoubtedly be too uncomfortable to sleep.” Ben tried to sound lighthearted.
“On the contrary, after all that fresh air, I shall sleep perfectly,” she said.
“We should take off our wet clothes,” Ben said. “Do you want me to wait outside while you change?” His face was red with embarrassment.
“I’m not too badly soaked,” Pamela said. “My legs were under the canopy of the sidecar. And my blouse was only wet around the collar. My jacket, however, is a disaster.” She took it off and draped it over the back of a chair. “You, on the other hand . . .” She looked at him and laughed.
“Quite damp, I’d say.” He laughed, too.
“Go on. Take them off. I won’t look,” she said.
Ben stripped to his underwear and wrapped himself in a towel that was hanging on the rack.
“You take the bed. I’ll curl up in that chair,” he said, not looking at her.
“You certainly won’t. There is room for both of us,” she said. “You need a good night’s sleep as much as I do.”
There was a tap at the door, and a landlady appeared with glasses of cider and two pasties.
“Give me the wet things, and I’ll put them in the airing cupboard,” she said, then gave them a bright smile and left.
The cider and pasties went down remarkably quickly, then Pamela climbed up into the bed, and Ben turned the light out before sliding in beside her. “Are you sure this is all right?” he asked.
Pamela put a hand on his arm. “Oh, Ben. You are so sweet. I feel perfectly safe with you. You’re like the brother I never had.”
“Good,” Ben said. He didn’t mean it.
They lay there in darkness, listening to the drumming of rain and the distant growl of thunder.
“I never felt safe with Jeremy,” Pamela said suddenly. “I suppose that was part of the attraction—that he was not quite safe. Flirting with danger, you know. He wanted to make love to me, but I wouldn’t let him.” There was silence again, then she blurted out, “I was wondering. Do you think I might be frigid?”
“I hope you’re not suggesting that I prove otherwise right now,” Ben said, with an uneasy laugh.
She laughed, too. “Oh no, of course not. It’s just that I’ve been wondering ever since. And feeling guilty. If I’d given Jeremy what he wanted, he’d never have seduced Dido.”
“I don’t think Dido needed much seducing,” Ben said. “You, on the other hand, would want everything to be right before you committed yourself. That’s the way you are.”
“You understand me so well,” she said. And she laid her head on his shoulder. He could hear his heart beating, horribly conscious of her nearness, the cool touch of her skin. The brother she never had, he muttered to himself. She fell asleep quickly, and he lay listening to her breathing.
They woke to a deafening chorus of birds and sounds of activity outside. A farmer was driving cows past the window. A tractor was heading for the field. They looked at each other and smiled. “A little rumpled but hardly the worse for wear,” Pamela said.
“You look splendid,” Ben said. “Would you go down and find my clothes, then we’ll get some breakfast and be off, shall we?”
Down in the private bar, the landlady cooked them bacon, eggs, fried bread.
“That was wonderful,” Pamela said. “After what we’ve been living on. My landlady is a horrible cook.”
“You’re out on a little holiday then, are you? Before your young man goes back into uniform?”
“That’s right,” Pamela said. “And we were interested in that hill over there. Does it have any sort of special history?”
“What, Church Hill, you mean?” The landlady asked.
“Is that its name?” Ben asked sharply.
“That’s how it’s always been known around here.”
“What is it, Ben?” Pamela asked while the landlady cleared away their plates. “You’ve gone quite white.”
“I was just looking at the calendar on the wall,” he said. “It’s the fourteenth of June. That makes the date 14, 6, 1941. Look at the numbers on the photograph. 1461. Today’s date. I think I know what it must mean now. This was an order from Germany to kill Churchill today.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
In Somerset
“We must let somebody know right away.” Ben jumped up and headed for the door. “But who? My boss is away. Ten Downing Street. They’ll know where Mr. Churchill is. They can take precautions.” His heart was hammering, and he could hear himself babbling as he ran to catch up with the landlady. “Do you have a telephone?”
“There’s a telephone box in the middle of the village outside the post office,” she said.
“I’ll collect our things. You go,” Pamela called.
He ran down the street and stood in the telephone box, fumbling for coins. Did he have the right change? Surely the operator would connect him in a national emergency.
“Number, please,” came the operator’s voice.
“I need you to connect me with Ten Downing Street,” Ben said, trying to sound calm. “This is an emergency.”
“Are you being funny?” she asked.
“No, of course I am not being funny,” he snapped. “I am with MI5 and I’m stuck in the depths of Somerset, and it is imperative that I speak with someone immediately.” He was surprised at his own forcefulness.
“Very good, sir. I’ll do what I can.” The woman sounded shaken.
Ben waited impatiently, then a male voice came on the line. “Prime minister’s residence. How can I help you?”
“Is the prime minister there?” Ben asked.
“No, sir. I believe he spent the night in the war rooms,” the calm voice said.
“Then please listen carefully,” Ben said. “My name is Benjamin Cresswell. I am an agent of MI5. My superiors will vouch for that, if necessary. But I have reason to believe there is a plot to assassinate the prime minister today.”
“Sir, we get threats against the prime minister all the time,” said the patient voice. “Can you substantiate this? And why has this information not gone through the proper channels?”
“Because my boss is away this weekend, and I can’t reach him. I have been following a lead that started with a dead German, and I’m standing in the middle of the bloody Somerset countryside. And I thought you might like to know.” Ben heard himself shouting.
“Can you give me details?”
“Obviously not over a public phone line where any number of people may be listening in,” Ben said. “But I suggest he stays put in the war rooms today.”
“The prime minister is scheduled to attend a ceremony at Biggin Hill Aerodrome,” the voice said. “I’m sure he will not change his plans because of an unsubstantiated threat. And he will be at an aerodrome. Where could he be better protected?”