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  Praise for

  POPPY REDFERN

  AND THE MIDNIGHT MURDERS

  “Arlen pens a dynamite beginning to a new series, filled with wartime suspense, skillfully wrought emotions, and a liberal dash of romance. Readers will fall in love with clever and quirky Poppy Redfern and the colorful villagers of Little Buffenden, as well as their dashing new neighbors—the American Airmen.”

  —Anna Lee Huber, bestselling author of the Lady Darby Mysteries

  “This engaging mystery introduces an intrepid new sleuth in Poppy Redfern and draws us into the lives of a small English village, upturned by war and the unexplained murders of two young women. I was enamored by the story and the residents of Little Buffenden from first page to last.”

  —Shelley Noble, New York Times bestselling author of Ask Me No Questions, a Lady Dunbridge Mystery

  “Poppy Redfern and the Midnight Murders is a WWII gem of a novel with such a strong sense of time and place, you feel like you’re there. Filled with characters you’ll want to meet again, it’s a compelling mystery that grabs the reader from the very beginning! A must-read for fans of historical fiction.”

  —Emily Brightwell, New York Times bestselling author of the Victorian Mysteries

  “A dash of romance, moments of action, and twists worthy of Hollywood thrillers. For a relatively light, speedy read, it still has plenty of meat and rich prose; Arlen has once again crafted a winner. It’ll be great fun seeing what Poppy Redfern faces next.”

  —Criminal Element

  “This is a well-crafted historical mystery with elements of romance. Highly recommended.”

  —Historical Novel Society

  BERKLEY PRIME CRIME TITLES BY TESSA ARLEN

  Poppy Redfern and the Midnight Murders

  Poppy Redfern and the Fatal Flyers

  BERKLEY PRIME CRIME

  Published by Berkley

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  penguinrandomhouse.com

  Copyright © 2020 by Tessa Arlen

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  BERKLEY and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks and BERKLEY PRIME CRIME is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Author photo owned by the author

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Arlen, Tessa, author.

  Title: Poppy Redfern and the fatal flyers / Tessa Arlen.

  Description: First Edition. | New York: Berkley Prime Crime, 2020. |

  Series: A woman of World War II mystery; 2

  Identifiers: LCCN 2020031994 (print) | LCCN 2020031995 (ebook) |

  ISBN 9781984805829 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9781984805836 (ebook)

  Subjects: GSAFD: Mystery fiction. | Historical fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3601.R5445 P664 2020 (print) | LCC PS3601.R5445

  (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020031994

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020031995

  First Edition: December 2020

  Cover art by Robert Rodriguez

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  pid_prh_5.6.1_c0_r0

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Praise for Poppy Redfern and the Midnight Murders

  Berkley Prime Crime Titles by Tessa Arlen

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Historical Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  To Nancy

  ONE

  MISS REDFERN? FOR HEAVEN’S SAKE, WHERE IS SHE?” A TALL gray-haired woman was standing in the doorway to the Script Department of the Crown Film Unit. She lifted her voice over the clatter of a room full of typewriters. “Miss Redfern? Oh, there you are. Yes, well, will you join us for a meeting, please? Room four.” She lifted an impatient hand and waved me to her.

  I picked up my notepad and leapt to my feet. A desk away in the tightly packed room my new friend, Clary, fed four sheets of foolscap, layered with carbon paper, into the platen of her typewriter. Her face was set with concentration. “Only production meetings are held in room four—you’re on your way, Poppy.” She didn’t lift her head as I squeezed past her desk. “I bet Fanny has an assignment for you!”

  “Do you really think so?” I had waited for this moment for weeks, and now that it was here a feeling of dread had started in my stomach and was working its way upward, making it hard to breathe. I fumbled my notepad and dropped my pencil on the floor, breaking its magnificently sharp point. “Where’s room four?”

  Clary carefully typed as she said the words, “Fifth Octo-ber nine-teen-for-ty-two,” and looked up at me. “Turn right out of here and go along the corridor to the back stairs all the way down to the basement. It’s on the left.” She waved her hand in dismissal of first-project nerves. “You’ll be fine—isn’t this what you’ve been waiting for? You’re going to have a film with your name on it in tiny print at the end.” I set off for the door. “And don’t be intimidated by Fanny—he’s always tetchy after lunch,” she shouted after me.

  I was intimidated by everyone in this shabby rambling brick building that housed the Crown Film Unit—even if our task is to keep British morale high. My mouth was chalk dry as I made my way along the cracked linoleum of the long basement corridor to a closed door with a crooked four painted on it. I wiped the palm of my hand down the side of my skirt and tapped so lightly on its dull gray wood that no one could have possibly heard me.

  How long I stood there, uncertain and unsure, could only have been a matter of seconds, but I was simply paralyzed with anxiety at the thought of attending a production meeting.

  I was rescued by the patrician voice of the main character of the book I had written: the heroine of my love story and murder mystery, who had helped me to win this wonderful new job as a scriptwriter. Her calm tones floated into my consciousness like a cooling breeze. The v
oice belonged to Ilona Linthwaite, girl-reporter extraordinaire and everything I was not: confident, worldly, and, sometimes, wise. Come on, ducky, pull yourself together. Remember that you have a lot to offer these wretched people.

  I took a deep breath as I opened the door and peeked round it. The room was packed with the people I had seen racing past me, in corridors and hallways, all week. They looked up for the briefest moment and then carried on lighting up cigarettes and arguing. One of them waved a large pink hand.

  “Yes, yes, come on in and find somewhere to sit.” The hand belonged to a big man with a round bald head sitting at the head of the table. He looked like an overgrown baby in a pin-striped suit. There appeared to be no empty chair, so I edged into the room and stood with my back against the wall.

  “This week in postproduction,” the large pink man continued. “Nigel and Brian are working on a ten-minute short about the woman who trains dogs to search for unexploded bombs—for release next Tuesday. Who will edit this piece now that Cliff’s been transferred?” This had to be Mr. Fanshaw, the Crown Film Unit’s head of production. I tried not to catch his eye as he looked around the table at the faces of writers whose names I did not know; production managers I had heard terrifying stories about; unit directors who thought they were God; and a crew of round-shouldered film editors gathered at the far end of the cheap pine table.

  Room four was large enough to hold ten at a pinch, and there were at least twenty puffing clouds of cigarette smoke at one another. My breath caught in my throat and I swallowed hard.

  “Come on, come on, I need an editor. What about you, Roy?”

  A groan from under a mop of fair hair.

  “Good, now we’re getting somewhere.”

  “But I’ve already got . . .” said the overworked Roy.

  Fanny waved a dismissive hand and sat forward in his chair. “Right then, what’s on the books for new and exciting projects?” His laugh was high-pitched as he looked around the table at lifted faces. “Ah yes, we all love something new.” His fixed his eye at the far end of the table. “Jim and Derek, I want you to go to Eastbourne to do a piece about the teenage girl who rescued three sailors from drowning using a boat she made herself. Shades of Grace Darling, what?” There was a ripple of obliging laughter. “That leaves Annabelle to write up a quick five minutes about the old-age pensioner who knitted a hundred and twenty pairs of socks in one month for soldiers. She runs a grocery shop in Cardiff when she’s not up to her eyes in yarn.”

  An attractive girl in a yellow beret put out her cigarette and shrugged her shoulders.

  “Sorry about that, Annabelle, but we are stretching staff as it is.” However fat and pink he was, Mr. Fanshaw’s voice was quiet and there was enough finality in his tone to silence any dissenters in his group.

  “Which leaves us with—” He looked at his agenda and smiled. “Ah yes, the Air Transport Auxiliary pilots. Huntley, I’m giving this one to you. I want a fifteen-minute short on these ATA women flyers. Take Keith; he’s getting quite handy with a camera.” He sat back in his chair. “Should be fun—they are a pretty glamorous bunch apparently. We’ll send Miss Redmayne down ahead, so she can draft up a script for you—don’t want any of you boys getting into trouble.”

  “Redmayne?” Huntley looked around the table. “Who’s he?”

  Fanny lifted his arm and waved across at me. “Miss er . . . Redmayne, isn’t it?”

  Somehow, I managed to get my tongue off the roof of my mouth. “Actually, it’s Redfern, sir.”

  “So it is. Meet our new assistant scriptwriter, Miss Redfern, everyone. The ATA will be a good piece for her to cut her teeth on.” I could feel the color in my cheeks building to a full-strength blush as heads turned to look at me. “Pop along to Miss Murgatroyd’s office after the meeting and she’ll give you your brief, Miss Red . . . and get down to Didcote Airfield as soon as possible.”

  I turned for the door.

  “No need to run.” Fanny’s laugh was loud and inclusive, and I turned back to face him. His tongue was a startling raspberry pink. “Tomorrow morning will do.”

  Alone in the safety of the empty corridor, I exhaled in triumph as I leaned my hot forehead against its wall.

  He seems nice enough, Ilona said. Almost human, really, and he has a sense of humor. I think you are going to enjoy this job.

  I didn’t care if Fanny ate assistant scriptwriters for breakfast. I was going on location—I was part of Crown Films’ production team.

  * * *

  * * *

  MISS MURGATROYD WAS round and deceptively maternal-looking with fluffy white hair. “Didcote ATA, did you say?” She picked up a wire basket and took out a sheaf of papers. “Your room has been paid for at the Fisherman’s Lodge at Didcote for two nights, which includes a cooked breakfast. Don’t forget to take your ration book. You will not be reimbursed for any meals on either of your travel days, so there is no need to save any receipts. Neither will you be reimbursed for any lost personal items, and if your portable typewriter is damaged, stolen, or mislaid you will be liable for the cost of its replacement: one pound, ten shillings, and sixpence. Please sign here . . . and here . . . and initial here.” I obediently complied. “Rail passes—second class. Please don’t travel in third and try to recoup the price difference.” Three rapid applications with a smudgy blue rubber stamp and the passes were mine. “And someone rang this office at half past four. I did not take a message. This is not your personal telephone”—she tapped the instrument—“and I am not your secretary. Please remember that, Miss Redfern.” I started to stumble out an apology, but she wasn’t having it.

  “He was an American.” Disdain for our allies and their friendly invasion was not disguised.

  “I’m so terribly sorry, it won’t happen again,” I managed to get out.

  “It had better not.” She sighed and pressed her lips together. A pause and another sigh. “He said he would pick you up outside your digs, I forget what time, and he mentioned someone called Bess.”

  * * *

  * * *

  THE LAST RAYS of the sun shone on a bright red Alvis drophead coupe parked outside 122 Elms Road. Leaning up against its long glossy bonnet was a man in American Army Air Force uniform. Sitting demurely at his feet was my little dog, Bess. Her bob of a tail stirred apologetically as she looked down her nose at me as if going for a walk on Clapham Common with Lieutenant Griff O’Neal was the event of the year. Then, remembering who fed her every day, she got to her feet and danced between us, yodeling with delight as I crossed the road to join them.

  I felt just as enthralled about seeing him as she obviously did, but I managed to greet him with the cool reserve we English practice at the best, and worst, of times. Unlike my prancing little dog, I kept my feet firmly planted on the ground.

  “What on earth are you doing here—are you on leave?” No one could tell from my polite welcome that my heart was thumping like mad, and to my immense relief the old awkward schoolgirl shyness that always threatened when we first met only revealed itself in a slight blush.

  He leaned down to spank dog hair off his immaculate trousers. “We’ve been a bit busy lately.” It was his term for flying missions. When he lifted his head, I saw that his face was thinner, the skin more tightly drawn around the eyes. I saw something else as well. There were two silver flashes on his shoulder.

  “Captain? Oh, Griff, congratulations!”

  “Yes, I told you we’d been busy.” He shrugged off his promotion from lieutenant to captain as if it might be more of a burden than an acknowledgment of skill and experience. “Our commanding officer has packed me off for seven days of what he describes as long-overdue rest and recreation. He sends his regards to you, by the way.” Like Griff, Colonel Duchovny had become a good friend of my family when the American Army Air Force had arrived to take possession of their new airfield earlier this year. It had been built
for them on my grandfather’s farmland outside the village of Little Buffenden: a village our family have lived in for generations. “And your grandparents send their love too, of course. I had dinner with them yesterday evening.”

  “Did you cook?” I laughed. “Or did Granny?” I could see Griff in our tiny kitchen contentedly sautéing mushrooms in half a pound of American military-issue butter. My grandmother is an authority on toast and jam. Griff is . . . well, let’s just say he is a man who takes pains with the things he likes to eat.

  “They were our guests at the mess. Or I should say, they were our guests in their old dining room.” When the War Office had requisitioned our farmland for the airfield, our lovely old farmhouse had been turned into the headquarters and officers’ mess for the AAAF. My grandparents now lived in the lodge at the bottom of the drive to what was now known as Reaches Airfield.

  “Your grandparents told me you had managed a visit, to pick up Bess. They miss you—but wouldn’t dream of saying so, of course. Your grandad talked about your new job, nonstop—you could have only topped it by joining the navy. But your grandmother is quite sure that after a couple of months of life in London, you will be desperate for the peace of the country.”

  I laughed. My visit to my grandparents had been heaven: there is nothing like spending a weekend with those you love and allowing yourself to settle back into comfortable old habits, especially in these uncertain times, but the quiet village streets of Little Buffenden and the repetitive gossip of its inmates had palled after a day. I had adjusted to a faster pace of life since my arrival in London four weeks ago. The city with its bustling, crowded streets was gloriously anonymous; no one cared what you said or did or discussed it avidly with their next-door neighbor. I didn’t say that the one person I missed most from life in Little Buffenden was now standing in front of me.

  Bess, fed up with being ignored, stood up on her hind legs and put her paws on my knees.

  “Yes, I know, Bessie, I’m with you: I’m famished.” Griff folded his arms in a cloud of dog hair. “Why don’t you go and put on your hat, Poppy? I have reservations for dinner at the Savoy.”