No family member was in sight as she went into the dining room and grabbed a hasty slice of toast, spreading marmalade on it and gulping it down. She wanted to pour herself a cup of tea, but she knew that if Pah came in, she’d be in trouble for coming to breakfast in riding gear. She looked up when she heard footsteps, but it was only Pamma’s friend Trixie who had come to help with the party. She looked pretty and elegant in a summery dress, and she smiled when she saw Phoebe.
“Hello, young lady,” she said. “Going out riding? Lovely day for it. If I hadn’t signed up for hard labour today, I’d come and join you.”
“Actually, I just got back,” Phoebe said. “I’m going down to the village with Alfie. Would you tell the others when you see them?”
“Of course,” Trixie said. “Who is Alfie—your boyfriend?” She gave Phoebe a teasing smile.
Phoebe blushed. “Of course not. He’s the gamekeeper’s boy. But we are friends. And we’ve an important job to do. Something I overheard that needs to be reported.”
“Good for you.” Trixie nodded and smiled. “Only don’t stay away too long, or your mother will not be pleased. It’s all hands on deck today, as you very well know.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be back soon,” Phoebe said and hurried out.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
On the way back from Somerset
Ben pushed the underpowered bike to its limits as he rode back to Kent. He gripped the handlebars, staring straight ahead with a look of grim determination on his face. What if they chose to ignore him? How could he possibly make it to Biggin Hill before the prime minister arrived? And if he was there in time, what on earth could he do?
At least it promised to be a beautiful day, sparkling clear. Lady Westerham would be happy for her garden party, he thought. Of course, he had to get Pamma home for that. Another thing to worry about. Pamma would undoubtedly be chastised for not being there to help her mother prepare, but surely they’d all see that this was more important.
They passed Stonehenge, left Hampshire behind, then through the genteel gardens of Surrey, arriving at Biggin Hill around noon. The gate was closed, and a guard walked out to them as Ben removed his goggles.
“Sorry, the ceremony is already over,” he said.
“Is the prime minister here?” Ben snapped out the words.
“Already left, mate,” the guard said.
Ben heaved a sigh of relief.
“Is he going back to London?”
The guard grinned. “He don’t tell me his plans, son. But I heard he wanted to pop in and see his house, seeing it’s so close by.”
Chartwell, of course. A stone’s throw away, Ben thought. Should he go after the PM?
“What was this ceremony?” Pamela asked, climbing out of the sidecar and stretching as she spoke.
“Remembering our chaps who went down at the Battle of Britain last year. And presenting a few gongs, that’s all. Keeping up morale. There’s one of our chaps just made it back to Blighty after escaping from a German prison camp. What a tale he had to tell. He was the only one who survived an attempted breakout. He was shot and played dead, but managed to get all the way across Germany and France. The prime minister made a big fuss of him.”
“We know him,” Pamela exclaimed. “He’s a good friend. Is he still here?”
The guard looked around. “He was just saying good-bye to his family last time I saw,” he said. “Oh, there he is, over there. Hold on, I’ll get him for you. Oy, Gunner Davis. More friends to see you,” he shouted.
A small, wiry man came toward them. He looked confused when he saw Ben and Pamma.
“Yes? Can I help you?” he asked.
“I’m sorry,” Ben said. “Our mistake. We thought you’d be our friend. Flight Lieutenant Prescott. He also escaped from a German prison camp recently.”
“Prescott?” The man shook his head. “He’s back in England? Well, strike me pink. We all thought he was a goner.”
“No, if it was the same prison camp, he survived the breakout by playing dead, just like you,” Pamela said. “He was wounded, but he made his way back to England. He was awfully brave, as I’m sure you were.”
The man scratched his head, pushing his cap sideways. “That’s not right, miss. Lieutenant Prescott was in the same camp, but he wasn’t part of the breakout. He was taken away in a German staff car a couple of weeks before. Gestapo, I’m pretty sure. In fact, when the Jerries were waiting for us in the woods as we came out of the tunnel, I thought to myself that they’d tortured Prescott and he’d spilled the beans. So he made it home, did he? I wonder how he managed that? We thought he was a goner.”
Ben looked at Pamela. Neither of them could find anything to say.
“Thank you, Gunner Davis,” Pamela said at last. “And congratulations on your medal. Well deserved.”
Ben looked at her with admiration. No wonder people respected the upper classes. She’d just had a second devastating blow, but she remained calm, poised, gracious. Confused thoughts were buzzing around in his head. If Jeremy had been taken away from the camp by the Germans, how on earth had he made it home? Escaping from a prison camp was one thing. Escaping from the Gestapo was something else. And why had he lied about being part of the breakout? Swimming down the river? Ben glanced at Pamela. The only way he could have escaped from the Gestapo would have been if they’d let him go. Ben felt sick and cold inside. Jeremy had been his friend all his life. It was hard to believe that he’d turned traitor. There had to be a good explanation.
He collected himself. He had a job to do. “So the prime minister and all his entourage have left?”
The gate guard nodded. “That’s right.”
“And they are going to Chartwell?” Ben asked.
“That was the original plan, so I heard. But Mr. Churchill called it off because he didn’t think it was right to open up the house just for him.”
Gunner Davis was still standing nearby. “Just stopping by on their way to some garden party, I heard. Mrs. Churchill told Winston they shouldn’t dawdle, or the Westerhams would be annoyed if they were late.”
Pamela’s face was ashen white as she climbed back into the sidecar.
“I can’t believe it.” She turned away from Ben. “I thought I knew him. But I didn’t know him at all.” Then she started to say, “You don’t think that . . .” but she couldn’t finish the sentence.
Phoebe and Alfie came out of the gate and headed toward the village.
“Who do you think they are going to shoot with that gun?” Alfie asked.
“Mr. Churchill, of course,” Phoebe said. “He’s coming here today for the garden party. We were right all along, Alfie. There must be a German spy in the neighbourhood. If only we could find out who it is.”
“We can tell the grown-ups. Then it’s up to them,” Alfie said. “But the garden party should be pretty safe. They can put guards on the gate. It’s pretty bloody impossible to climb that wall.”
“Your language still hasn’t improved,” Phoebe said primly. Then she looked at him. “But I’m glad you’re with me. I wouldn’t like to have to do this alone.”
They stepped into the hedge and heard the sound of an approaching vehicle. It was a small white delivery van; it slowed to a halt beside them.
“Where are you off to, young’uns?” Jeremy Prescott rolled down the window.
“Oh, hello, Jeremy,” Phoebe said. “We’re going into the village to report something serious.”