“The Mission on the Moor”: An Evelyne Redfern Short Story

Betrayal at Blackthorn Park is just weeks away from coming out in bookstores, but I’ll admit that I can’t quite wait to share the next installment of my Evelyne Redfern mystery series. Because of that, I’ve written a short story that slots neatly between the action of A Traitor in Whitehall and Betrayal at Blackthorn Park that you can read right now!

Please enjoy “The Mission on the Moor!”

November 1, 1940

The darkened manor house looked innocuous enough, but I had learned not to trust first impressions. Over the last week, I’d observed that, during the day, the ugly Gothic revival house was normally a hive of activity, with army vehicles coming and going down the long, sweeping drive at all times. However, at night it fell almost eerily quiet, isolated as it was in the heart of the Yorkshire countryside. 

The blackout had been drawn over each window as soon as twilight approached, so I had been forced to look for other signs that the house was slowing. For the past half hour, no cars had departed via the long drive, smoke no longer twisted its way out of brick chimneys, and I hadn’t seen the telltale sliver of light that announced an opening exterior door. If I was going to go, it would have to be now. 

Staying low, I crept out of the tree line and free from the bushes where I had been crouching in cover, camouflage since six o’clock. Keeping my movements as efficient as possible, I swept my eyes back and forth for any movement and then sprinted for what had once been a lawn tennis court and now contained rows and rows of potatoes, onions, and kale. I wondered whether the house’s owner had dug for victory before the government’s requisition note had wrested control of it from them but, just as quickly, the thought was gone and my focus returned to the very delicate matter at hand. 

I crouched down behind the waist-high hedge that edged the old tennis court, using the yew as a barrier against the sightline from the upper floors of the house. I knew from my week of observation that the guards worked in regular patrols, crossing paths occasionally but leaving short periods where this area would be unobserved. However, on occasion, I’d also seen the men steal a moment for a cheeky cigarette, using the servants’ entrance by the kitchen door where their superiors were less likely to spot them from an upstairs window.

My best point of access, I had decided a few days ago, would be the French doors on the far side of the house. I peeked out over the top of the hedge, scanning the windows to check that no one had peeled back the blackout, and then put my head down and ran. 

I’m tall for a woman, and most of that is leg—a fact my best friend Moira likes to remind me of whenever she encourages me to don a bathing costume for a trip to the seaside. However, until six weeks ago, I’d never really given the function of my legs or any other part of my body much thought. But that had been before my stay at Beaulieu, the Special Operations Executive’s secret “finishing school” that trained men and women in the art of spycraft and sabotage. Now I was glad for the newly formed muscle that was the result of punishing mornings of runs, calisthenics, and other tortuous drills I’d been put through in the name of physical training. 

Heart pounding, I reached the French doors I’d picked out and dropped into a crouch behind a huge stone planter with a frieze depicting Athena springing forth fully formed from Zeus’s head. I breathed deeply through my nose and out through my mouth, counting until I could feel my pulse start to slow. Then I held up my hands, checking for any shake. Nothing. 

A quick examination of the door revealed no wires or other signs that there might be an alarm system on the exterior. I’d checked during my earlier reconnaissance mission, but it would be rotten luck to find out that someone had decided in the last forty-eight hours to secure the one unalarmed entrance to the house. 

Reaching up into the sleeve of my tight-fitting black wool jumper, I freed the lock-picking tools I’d secured there with a band of elastic when I’d dressed in the early evening. I slid the tension wrench into the lock and then inserted my hook. I moved slowly, displaying a patience I hadn’t known I could possess until I’d been forced to pick locks for hours on end. After a few moments, there was a satisfying click.

I was in.

Not wanting to alert the entire Yorkshire countryside to my presence, I cracked the door open a fraction and performed all of my checks for wires again. Satisfied that I wouldn’t accidentally complete a circuit and give the game away, I slipped inside and quietly closed the door behind me. 

The room I stood in had likely once been a morning room where, decades earlier, ladies had donned the first of their three or four outfits of the day to write their correspondence and read in peace. Now it was a glorified storage room stuffed with discarded tables, chairs, cabinets, and all of the other bits and bobs of furniture deemed unnecessary for the house’s current propose. Weaving my way around the detritus of another person’s life, I reached the white painted door and eased it open.

Someone had left the sconces that ran the length of the corridor on—my first hint that the house was still occupied. I allowed myself the indulgence of a silent curse. I had known that there was a possibility someone might be pottering around even at this late hour, but unexpected people meant that my job was going to be all the harder. 

Of course it was. 

I shook my head and forced myself to think of the map of the house’s floorpan I’d memorized. I could turn right down the corridor, make a left, and then cross the main entryway before taking another corridor to the study, or I could turn left and take the servants’ stairs. Going that way, I would have to pass through the working rooms of the house’s cellar, past the old laundry and still rooms, by the kitchen and the door to the wine cellar, and then back up again via the servants’ staircase that served the house’s other wing. It would take me longer, exposing me to some risk there, but it would avoid the four-sided entryway that served as the main junction for those trying to traverse the house’s ground floor, not to mention the grand staircase that provided no hope of protection from view.

I decided that the lower ground floor was my safest option. I turned left and slipped into the servant’s stairs, an unadorned space save for a well-worn carpet that fortunately muffled my footfalls.

At the bottom of the stairs, I heard the distinctive, if faint, sound of someone whistling. 

I froze.

As the tune grew louder, I weighed my three options: I could retreat and try to go the other direction, I could wait until the erstwhile songbird passed and hope I wouldn’t run into them on the lower level, or I could eliminate the problem entirely.

I chose the last option and, as the whistler approached, I flexed my hands. Moving silently, I crouched on the last stair and waited until I saw khaki.

Moving in a flash, I threw my forearm around the man’s neck and clamped a hand on his mouth. He was, I was grateful to find, not much taller than me and, with the element of surprise on my side, I managed to lock him in place as he struggled against my grip. The moment I felt him lose consciousness, I loosened my grip and hauled him to the darkened still room. 

Pushing back my black wool sleeve, I checked Maman’s gold watch, cursing the time I’d lost in dispatching my whistling friend. I would need to move fast. 

As silently as I could, I raced through the lower floor to the other wing’s stairs. Up, up I went, letting myself out of the servants’ stair door in the other wing. However, as soon as I’d closed the servant’s stair door, a shadow rounded the corner and a huge man in a khaki tunic spotted me.

“Miss!” he called. “You’re not supposed to be here! Give your name and rank or I’ll be forced to—”

“Bloody Hell,” I muttered and then put my head down and rush straight into him.

He let out a “oof!” as I crashed into him to pin him against the wall. However, unlike his counterpart downstairs he had the advantage of me by at least six inches and several stone—most of which, I feared, were muscle.

I twisted away and just managed to avoid a meaty hand that grabbed for my waist. Ducking low, I swept my leg to knock him off of his feet. He fell heavily against the corridor’s wood paneling, and when he righted himself, I could see the angry red start of what would become a knot bloom over his forehead.

The bull of a man pushed up on his feet and roared, diving for me. However, what he had on me in bulk and power, I had in speed and litheness. I side-stepped and he staggered past me, struggling to slow and round to face me again. When he did, I was ready. I pulled back my right fist and slugged him across the jaw. 

I won’t flatter myself and pretend that I could normally knock out a bear like that with a single punch, but the evening was proving to be a lucky one because, again, my opponent fell against the paneling. However, this time he struck his head, went down like a boulder, and stayed there. 

Panting, I checked his pulse and found it strong.

I dropped his wrist, leaving him to his slumber, and sprinted for the study door.

I guessed that I had only moments until someone came down to investigate what had caused all of that noise. I checked the darkened room was secure and then went straight for a rather ugly oil painting of a springer spaniel that hung over a brass and glass drinks cart, using only the light of the half moon shining through a sliver of the study’s heavy curtains for guidance. I removed the painting, revealing a safe. I gave the drinks cart a shove out of the way and then, from around my waist, I untied a doctor’s stethoscope, placed it against the iron, and began to turn the tumblers.

I listened for the clicks, but my concentration kept slipping, knowing that someone would likely burst through the study door at any moment. 

With a huff of frustration, I straightened. Again, I calmed my breath. 

In through my nose, out through my mouth.

I could feel my heart rate drop. Then I put the stethoscope back to the safe door and tried again.

I couldn’t help my rush of relief when at last the tumblers clicked into place. I pulled the safe’s handle down and hauled the heavy door open. However, when I looked inside, my stomach dropped.

Instead of the stack of folders I’d expected, it was empty.

Harsh electric light flooded the study. I whipped around and found Colonel Ellis sitting in a wingback chair, one leg casually crossed over the other. 

“Good evening, Ensign Redfern,” he said, his bushy salt and pepper eyebrows bouncing as he spoke.

My heart sank even as I straightened to attention. All of that planning. All of those hours surveying the house and learning layouts, guard patterns, and other vital information—all of it was for naught.

“Good evening, sir,” I said, trying to keep the disappointment from my voice.

The right side of the colonel’s mouth lifted a fraction of an inch. “Don’t be disheartened.”

“I failed the mission, sir.”

“Did you?” he asked.

“I was meant to retrieve the files and escape,” I said. It was my last mission—the one that would see me made a full agent—and I’d bungled the entire thing by being caught.

He inclined his head. “That is true. However the fine details of your mission have changed.”

“Changed, sir?” I asked, perking up a bit. Perhaps all was not lost.

He placed one hand on either of his knees and rose, the leather of his boots creaking as he did so. “The decision has been made that you are to be sent back to London without delay.” The door to the study opened, and the hulking army sergeant I’d left in a heap in the corridor stepped inside with a respectful nod to the colonel. “You’re to travel by special train at 23:17. Sergeant Cook will drive you to your barracks and then to the station.”

I glanced at Sergeant Cook whose expression was stoney, even though the knot on his forehead seemed to be growing by the minute. 

“What am I to do when I return to London?” I asked.

“Await instructions. You are a field agent now, Ensing Redfern,” said Colonel Ellis.

I couldn’t stop the grin spreading over my face. “Does this mean that I’ve passed my training?”

Colonel Ellis curled his lips under, as though trying to repress a laugh. “You broke into a secret army training location, incapacitated first Sergeant Williams in the cellar and then Sergeant Cook in the west wing, and cracked a safe in a matter of minutes. I’d say that your performance was more than satisfactory, Ensign.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said, trying not to preen.

He nodded. “Now, I’d suggest that you go pack.”

I watched him leave the room until a clearing of the throat brought my attention up to Sergeant Cook. 

“If you’re going to make your train, we really should be leaving,” he said apologetically.

I nodded and then folded the note back into its envelope. 

“How is your head?” I asked as we made our way out of the study.

He lifted a hand to the knot and shrugged. “Nothing I haven’t had before. They’re always sending you lot here to train. You become used to it,” he said cheerfully. 

“I’m not certain whether that’s a good thing or not.”

That earned me another shrug. “You learn to take things as they come in this war, don’t you, Ensign?”

“You do indeed, Sergeant,” I said with a smile. “You do indeed.”

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