Traitor's Gate by Michael Ridpath

Author:Michael Ridpath [Ridpath, Michael]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fiction, Historical Fiction, WW II
ISBN: 9781781851838
Google: BUU-AAAAQBAJ
Publisher: Head of Zeus
Published: 2013-05-31T12:00:00+00:00

22

Conrad was met at Castle Cary station by Tyndall, his father’s chauffeur, in the shooting brake. It had been a long day: an early morning flight from Berlin’s Tempelhof Aerodrome to Croydon, then through London to Paddington. It was late afternoon, and the sun shone out of a sky dotted with small puffs of cloud on to the green English countryside. According to Tyndall it had been a wet summer, and indeed the fields looked remarkably lush for July. They drove down ever-narrower roads winding in and out of small valleys and tiny villages. After nearly two months living in Germany, Conrad was struck by how disorganized everything was, how the villages and their buildings followed no set pattern, how the road network seemed random and meandering. The sky was smaller here among the rolling hills; there were copses and woods rather than forests, small quiet streams rather than great continental rivers, and a general lack of purpose in the inhabitants as they ambled along roadsides. This time of day was rush hour for the bovine community, and three times they found themselves trundling behind a herd of cows on their way in for the evening milking.

Chilton Coombe was not a grand house, but it was a beautiful one, with a long history, originally built in the sixteenth century. Honeysuckle, vines and a pink rose climbed up the faded red brickwork. A lawn sloped down to a rock garden and a small pond. The house and garden nestled in a narrow valley scored into the flank of a small range of hills overlooking the flat Somerset levels, which stretched as far as the ancient domed hills of Glastonbury and its tor to the north and Cadbury to the west. Conrad’s grandfather had bought the house and surrounding estate fifty years before and although Conrad had lived in London for most of his childhood, he had looked forward to the long holidays spent there with his brothers and sisters. His father had inherited the estate in 1931, and since then his parents had divided their time between there and their town house in Kensington Square.

From the moment he walked into the hall he could tell from the atmosphere that his father was in a good mood. Millie, his tall, rangy, 22-year-old sister, almost skipped as she hugged him welcome. His mother’s forehead was wrinkle-free as she kissed him, and his brother Reggie’s grin was vacuous and uninhibited.

A few moments later Lord Oakford himself appeared from his study. Tall, with a spare frame and a stoop, his hair was still sleekly black, but his moustache had flecks of grey. The left sleeve of his jacket was empty, the permanent reminder of how he had won his Victoria Cross. He grinned when he saw Conrad, and his restless eyes quickly assessed his son. ‘Wonderful to see you. How was your flight?’

‘A bit bumpy. Some of the other passengers were sick.’

‘Oh, yuck,’ said Millie. ‘Aeroplanes sound such beastly machines. Don’t they smell, with all that vomit and the engine oil and everything?’

‘Millie, really,’ said her mother.

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