58

Vaughn put a tray of drinks on the table. Pints for the men. Glasses of sherry for the women. We had the saloon bar to ourselves in the early evening. The public bar on the other side of the wooden screen was busier with the usual crowd of farm labourers and Tommies.

Freddie passed out the drinks.

‘What’s your assessment?’ he asked Constance.

‘A bit nervy, but we’ll make a poster-sticker of him yet,’ she said.

I took a deep swallow of beer and for the first time that day felt a settling, a return to reality.

‘Will it be in the paper tomorrow?’ Margaret asked.

‘No,’ Vaughn replied. ‘They keep it quiet. Doesn’t fit in with their version of reality.’

‘The news is controlled by the people in power,’ Freddie said. ‘Don’t ever believe anything you read in the paper or hear on the radio.’

Margaret knocked back her sherry and reached across the table for my pint, taking a deep swallow before returning it. I knew how she felt. I finished the beer and rose to get more.

‘Anyone else?’ I asked, but they ignored me. Freddie was getting onto his high horse, ready to win another debate.

‘Every time you hear something on the radio, ask yourself why they’re letting you hear it,’ Freddie said. It sounded like a well-rehearsed pitch. I stood at the bar waiting for the landlord, and watched Margaret listening to Freddie’s -lecture. She was glowing. They all were. I knew the feeling well. Returning from a mission, that feeling of having beaten the odds, returning unscathed. The conquering heroes.

I ordered two pints of best, and two shots of whisky, and listened to Freddie while I waited.

‘Every news story, ask yourself, if this is true, why do they want me to know it? What do they want me to think, or feel, or do?’

There was a noticeboard behind the bar. A community service, a place for announcements, job postings, government warnings about keeping mum. What to do in the event of an invasion. A new poster stood out.

Behind me, Freddie was getting into his rhythm.

‘Imagine it’s not the truth,’ he continued. ‘Why are they lying to me? Either way, with the limited time to tell you what’s going on in the whole wide world, why are they choosing these things? What kind of picture of the world are they trying to conjure up? What do they want of me?’

The new poster was a land agent’s notice. Sale of property. Victorian villa. Superior craftsmanship. Priced for a quick sale.

At the far end of the bar, someone was watching me. -Horace Knight. The land agent. Like a spider, watching his lines for tremors.

He joined me, and paid for my drinks. He could afford it. He’d done well enough out of me in the past, each time I’d added land to my farm.

‘Interesting opportunity,’ he said. ‘Not sure how it would fit in with your operation, but I try to leave the strategic thinking to my clients.’

‘An investment,’ I said. ‘I hear the rental market’s heating up. People want to get out of London, avoid whatever’s coming.’

‘You’re telling me,’ he said. ‘Rents are double what they were a year ago. You could let that place for a pretty penny.’

‘Who’s the seller?’ I asked.

‘Davidson’s boy.’

‘How much do you reckon he’d let it go for?’

‘He’s motivated to sell. Gambling debts.’

‘How motivated?’

Knight sipped his drink. He had to be careful. He was representing the seller, and wanted to get as much for his client as he could. But his main incentive was to sell the place quickly and pocket the commission. If they sold the place for twenty thousand, his one per cent commission would be two hundred. A nice fee but not likely to make or break his year either way. If a buyer knocked him down to fifteen thousand, the sellers would be out by a fortune, but Knight’s fee would only be cut by fifty pounds.

‘I think he’ll go for sixteen,’ he said. My estimate had been close to the mark. Kate’s father would have spent as much to build the place at the turn of the century, but the -economy had been on a wild ride since then.

‘When did he take you on?’ I asked.

‘The day after the mother died,’ he said. ‘Life goes on.’

‘I’ll think about it,’ I said.

‘He said you’d come around,’ he said. ‘Gave me a -message to pass on.’

He smirked as he rummaged in his coat pocket. He’d been holding back, enjoying the power. Treating me like a fool.

He handed me an envelope. Nice paper. Expensive. A relic of the family’s past. Grandfather sitting in his study writing important letters to important clients. I opened it. The letter was written in a barely legible scrawl. Three -generations, they say, to go from rich man to poor.

The note was a threat. Not particularly intelligent. I could take it to Neesham and it would give him all he needed. But that would be the coward’s way out. If a job’s worth doing, Blakeney used to say, do it yourself. And this was a job that was well worth doing. The note read:

Your next

The grammatical error blunted the message. Harder to take a man seriously when he lays his lack of intelligence in front of you.

Someone was next, that much was true. But it wasn’t going to be me.

Margaret gave me a quizzical look as I took the drinks back to the table. I passed her a pint and a shot and took my place between Constance and Miriam. There was a -pregnant pause.

‘What did I miss?’ I asked.

Everyone looked at Vaughn. He was clearly the one -pulling the strings.

‘The thing is, Cook,’ Vaughn said, talking in a low murmur, ‘we reckon there’s a higher than fifty per cent chance you’re a plant. Sent to egg us on until we’re in it up to our necks.’

‘Margaret gets a pass, I suppose.’

‘We know Mags,’ Vaughn said. ‘We don’t know you.’

‘Difficult to prove a negative,’ I said.

I drank my beer and looked each of them in the eye, ending with Vaughn.

‘You’re right not to trust me,’ I said. That got Vaughn’s attention. He exchanged a look with Freddie.

‘People look at me, they see a farmer,’ I said. ‘Suits my purposes nicely, let’s me move about the countryside, talk to people. Keep my finger on the pulse.’

I leant in, and everyone else around the table followed my lead.

‘A month ago I was up in London to see an old friend for a pint. Army man. Knows what’s really going on. Knows how tenuous the whole thing is, especially since they locked up Mosley.’

I sipped my pint, gave it a long pause for dramatic effect.

‘I’ve been given a job,’ I said. ‘Keep an eye out for agitators. Report back to the authorities. It gives me access.’

Vaughn nodded.

‘I was told to infiltrate your unit,’ I said. ‘Margaret was the way in. Seduce her, get her to introduce me to you.’ I looked at Vaughn. ‘There are a lot of people high up in the War Office who’d like to see you brought down a peg or two. You’ve got them worried. They know if the invasion starts and you’re here, you’ll be a rallying point for right-minded people.’

Vaughn looked at Margaret.

‘She doesn’t know,’ I said. ‘Like I said. I’ve been using her. Not such an odious task, as you can imagine.’

Margaret got up from her chair. She looked shocked. I doubted she was buying my story. I hoped she wasn’t. Hoped this was her acting. If it was, she was doing a decent job.

She slapped me. The crack of it silenced the pub. Acting or not, it hurt like hell.

‘Margaret,’ Miriam said, getting up from her chair in support. Margaret rushed out of the pub, and Miriam followed.

I watched them go. When the door closed behind them, and the evening’s chatter resumed around them, I looked back at Vaughn and Freddie.

Vaughn was hooked. I could see the part about me using Margaret had got into his head. Probably imagining us together. Realising that was over, and she was available.

‘We’ve got an opportunity,’ I said. ‘I’ve got no love for the Germans but if it’s them in charge instead of us going through another four years of war, that’s a price I’m willing to pay. I was there last time. I’ve seen what war looks like.’

Vaughn leant back, thinking. I had him interested. He’d seen the bait, but he hadn’t decided whether or not he was going to bite.

‘I know about Aspidistra,’ I said.

Vaughn couldn’t hide his reaction. He was hooked. Now I just had to reel him in.

Freddie still had his doubts. ‘And we’re just meant to -believe you’re willing to turn traitor?’ he asked.

‘I’m not a traitor,’ I said, giving it some edge. ‘I’m a -patriotic Englishman. I love this country and I’ll do what it takes to protect it. Like I said, I don’t care who gets to sit in Downing Street, but I’ll do whatever I can to stop my farm and others like it turning into wastelands like the Somme. If you want to get into Aspidistra, you’ve got a decision to make. Keep listening to fences, or take a punt.

‘You know where it is?’ Vaughn asked.

‘I’ve been inside,’ I said. ‘I can show you.’