All Clear (5 page)

But she doubted Mike would be convinced by her arguments, especially if he’d found out about Padgett’s. He’d go into a tailspin, certain he’d lost the war, and nothing short of telling him about VE-Day would persuade him otherwise. But telling him meant their finding out about her deadline, and the rest of it. Which would give them even more to worry about, and now, with this discrepancy …

I
must
find out about those fatalities before he does
, Polly thought. “Don’t bring up the subject of Alf and Binnie to Mike,” she said to Eileen. “He needn’t know about the letter. And there’s no need to tell him you didn’t write and tell them your address.”

“But perhaps I
should
write to them. To tell them Whitechapel’s dangerous.”

I should imagine they already know that
. “I thought you didn’t want them to know where you are.”

“But I’m the one responsible for them being there instead of in Canada. And Binnie’s still not completely well from the measles. She nearly died, and—”

“You didn’t tell me that,” Polly said.

“Yes, she had a horribly high fever, and I didn’t know what to do. I gave her aspirin—”

And thank goodness Mike hadn’t heard that either.

“If Alf and Binnie are in danger,” Eileen said, “it’s my fault. I—”

“Shh,” Polly said. “Someone’s coming.”

They listened. Far below them a door shut and footsteps began to ascend the iron steps.

“Eileen? Polly? Are you up there?”

“It’s Mike,” Eileen said, and ran down to meet him. “Where
were
you?”

“I went to the morgue,” Mike said.

Oh, no, I’m too late
, Polly thought.
He’s already found out about the five fatalities
.

But when he came up the stairs, he said cheerfully, “I found a bunch of airfield names, and I’ve got a job, so we don’t have to live on just Polly’s wages.”

“A job?” Eileen said. “But if you’re working, how will you be able to go look for Gerald?”

“I’ve been hired as a stringer for the
Daily Express
, which means I go out and find news stories—including at airfields—and get paid by the story. I didn’t have any luck finding a map, so I went to the
Express
’s morgue to look through their back issues for mentions of airfields—”

The
newspaper
morgue
, Polly thought,
not the actual morgue
.

“And when I told them I was a reporter who’d been at Dunkirk, they hired me on the spot. Best of all, they gave me a press pass, which will give me access at the airfield. So now all we need is to figure out which one it is.” He pulled a list from his pocket. “What about Digby? Or Dunkeswell?”

“No, it was two words … I think,” Eileen said.

“Great Dunmow?”

“No. I’ve been thinking. It might have begun with a B instead of a D.”

Which means she has no idea what letter it began with
, Polly thought. “Boxted,” she said.

“No,” Eileen said.

“B,” Mike murmured, going down the list. “Bentley Priory?”

Eileen frowned. “That sounds a bit like it, but—”

“Bury St. Edmunds?”

“No, though that might … oh, I don’t know!” She threw her hands up in frustration. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll find it,” Mike said, wadding up his list. “There are lots more airfields.”

“Can you remember anything else Gerald said about where he was going?” Polly asked.

“No.” She frowned in concentration. “He asked me how long I was going to be in Backbury, and I said till the beginning of May, and he said that was too bad, that if I’d been staying longer he’d have come up some weekend to ‘brighten my existence.’ ”

“Did he say how?”

“How? You mean motor up or come by train?” Eileen asked. “No, but he said, ‘Is backwater Backbury even
on
the railway?’ ”

“And the day I saw him,” Mike interjected, “he said one of the things he had to do was check the railway schedule.”

“Good,” Polly said. “That means the airfield’s near a railway station. Mike, you said he went through to Oxford?”

“Yes, but that was just to set things up, not for his assignment. He could have been checking on a train to anywhere …”

Polly shook her head. “Wartime travel is too unreliable. Mr. Dunworthy would have insisted he come through near where he needed to go. Troop trains cause all sorts of delays.”

“She’s right,” Eileen said. “Some days the train to Backbury didn’t come at all.”

“So we’re looking for an airfield near Oxford,” Mike said.

“Or Backbury,” Polly said.

“Or Backbury. And near a railway station, and one that has two words in its name and begins with D, P, T, or B. That narrows it down considerably. Now, if we can just find a map …”

“We’re working on that,” Polly said. “And I’m working on writing down all the raids.” She gave them each a copy of the list for the next week.

“There are raids
every night
next week?” Eileen said.

“I’m afraid so. They let up a bit in November when the Luftwaffe begins bombing other cities, and later on when winter weather sets in.”

“Later on?” Eileen asked in dismay. “How long did the Blitz
last
?”

“Till next May.”

“May? But the raids taper off, don’t they?”

“I’m afraid not. The biggest raid of the entire Blitz was May ninth and tenth.”

“That’s when the worst raid was?” Mike asked. “In mid-May?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Nothing. It doesn’t matter. We’ll be out of here long before that.” He smiled encouragingly at Eileen. “All we have to do is figure out where Gerald is. Can you think of anything else he said that might give us a clue? Where were you when you had this conversation?”

“There were two—in the lab, and then over at Oriel when I went there to get my driving authorization. Oh, I remember something he said about that. It began to rain while he was telling me how important and dangerous his assignment was, and he looked up at the sky and held out his hand the way one does to see if it’s really raining, then pointed at my authorization—you know, the printed form one has to fill up for driving lessons. You had one, Polly.”

Polly nodded. “A printed red-and-blue form?”

“Yes, that’s the one. He pointed at it and said, ‘You’d better put that away, or you’ll never learn to drive. Or at any rate, where
I’m
going you wouldn’t,’ and then he laughed as though he’d said something tremendously clever. He’s always doing that—he fancies himself a comedian, though his jokes aren’t funny in the least, and I didn’t understand that one at all. Do you understand the joke?”

“No,” Polly said, and she couldn’t think of anything the form would have to do with an airfield. “Can you remember anything else he said?”

“Or anything at all about when you were talking to him?” Mike said. “What else was going on?”

“Linna was on the phone with someone, but it didn’t have anything to do with Gerald’s assignment.”

“But it may trigger a memory of the name of the airfield. Try to remember every detail you can, no matter how irrelevant.”

“Like the dog’s ball,” Eileen said eagerly.

“Gerald had a dog’s ball?” Mike asked.

“No. There was a dog’s ball in one of Agatha Christie’s novels.”

Well, that’s certainly irrelevant
, Polly thought.

“In
Dumb Witness
,” Eileen said. “At first it didn’t seem to have anything at all to do with the murder, but then it turned out to be the key to the entire mystery.”

“Exactly,” Mike said. “Write it all down, and see if it triggers something. And in the meantime, I want you to make the rounds of the department stores on Monday and fill out a job application at each one.”

“I can ask Miss Snelgrove if they need anyone at Townsend Brothers,” Polly said.

“This isn’t about a job,” Mike said. “It’s so they’ll have her name and address on file when the retrieval team comes looking for us.”

Which must mean the arguments I made to him this morning at Padgett’s convinced him he didn’t alter history after all
, Polly thought. But after they’d curled up under their coats on the landing to sleep, he shook her awake and motioned her to tiptoe after him past the sleeping Eileen and down the steps to the landing below.

“Did you find out anything more about Padgett’s?” he whispered.

“No,” Polly lied. “Did you?”

He shook his head.

Thank goodness
, Polly thought.
When the all clear goes, I’ll take him straight to the drop. He can’t talk to anyone there. He can sit there till I come back from the hospital. If I can get him out of here without Miss Laburnum latching on to us and blurting out something about how awful it is that there were five people kil—

“You said there were three fatalities, right?” Mike asked.

“Yes, but the information in my implant could have been wrong. It—”

“And the supervisor—what was his name? Feathers?”

“Fetters.”

“Said everybody who worked at Padgett’s had been accounted for.”

“Yes, but—”

“I’ve been thinking. What if it was our retrieval team?”

MARY FLUNG HERSELF DOWN IN THE GUTTER NEXT TO TALBOT
, half on top of her, listening to the sudden silence where the
putt-putt
of the engine had been.

“What in God’s name are you doing, Kent?” Talbot said, trying to wriggle free from underneath her.

Mary pushed her back down into the gutter. “Keep your head down!” They had twelve seconds before the V-1 exploded. Eleven … ten … nine … 
Please, please, please, let us be far enough away from it
, she prayed. Seven … six …

“Keep my—?” Talbot said, struggling against her. “Have you gone mad?”

Mary pressed her down. “Cover your eyes!” she ordered, and squeezed her own shut against the blinding light that would come with the blast.

I should put my hands over my ears
, she thought, but she needed them to hold down Talbot, who was, unbelievably, still attempting to get up. “Stay down! It’s a flying bomb!” Mary put her hand to the back of Talbot’s head and forced it flat against the bottom of the gutter. Two … one … zero …

Her adrenaline-racing mind must have counted too quickly. She waited, arms tight around Talbot, for the flash and deafening concussion.

Talbot was struggling harder than ever. “
Flying
bomb?” she said,
wrenching herself free and raising herself on her hands and elbows. “
What
flying bomb?”

“The one I heard. Don’t …,” Mary said, trying vainly to push her down again. “It’ll go off any second. It …”

There was a sputtering cough, and the
putt-putt
ing sound started up again.
But it can’t have
, she thought bewilderedly.
V-1s don’t start up again …

“Is
that
what you heard?” Talbot asked. “That’s not a flying bomb, you ninny. It’s a motorcycle.” And as she spoke, an American GI came around the corner on a decrepit-looking De Havilland, sped toward them, and careened to a stop.

“What happened?” he asked, leaping off the motorcycle. “Are you two all right?”

“No,” Talbot said disgustedly. She pulled herself to sitting and began brushing dirt off the front of her uniform.

“You’re bleeding,” the GI said.

Mary looked at Talbot in horror. There was blood on her blouse, blood trickling down her mouth and her chin. “Oh, my God, Talbot!” she cried, and she and the Gl began fumbling for a handkerchief.

“What are you talking about?” Talbot said. “I’m not bleeding.”

“Your mouth,” the GI said, and Talbot felt it cautiously and then looked at her fingers.

“That’s not blood,” she said, “it’s lipstick—oh, my God, my lipstick!” She began looking frantically around for it. “I only just got it. It’s Crimson Caress.” She started to stand up. “Kent knocked it out of my hand when she—
Oh!
Ow!” She collapsed back onto the curb.

“You
are
hurt!” the GI said, hurrying over.

“Oh, Talbot, I’m so sorry,” Mary said. “I thought it was a V-1. The newspapers said they sounded like a motorcycle. Is it your knee?”

“Yes, but it’s nothing,” Talbot said, putting her arm around the GI’s neck. “It twisted under me as I went down. It’ll be fine in a moment—Ow! Ow! Ow!”

“You’re not fine,” the GI said. He turned to Mary. “I don’t think she can walk. Or ride a motorcycle. Have you got a car?”

“No. We came up here from Dulwich by bus.”

“I’m all right,” Talbot said. “Kent can give me a hand.”

But even supported by both of them, she couldn’t put any weight at all on the knee. “She’s torn a ligament,” the GI said, easing her back down to sitting on the curb. “You’re going to have to send for an ambulance.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Talbot protested. “
We’re
the ambulance crew!”

But he was already mounting his motorcycle to go find a telephone. Mary gave him the exchange and number of Bethnal Green’s post. “No, not Bethnal Green,” Talbot protested. “If the other units find out, we’ll be laughingstocks. Tell him to ring Dulwich, Kent.”

She did, but when the ambulance arrived a few minutes later, it was from Brixton. “Both of yours were out at incidents,” the driver said. “Jerry’s sending them over fast and furious today.”

Not over us
, Mary thought ruefully.

Brixton’s crew took the news that she had mistaken a motorcycle for a V-1 in stride, but when she and Talbot got back to Dulwich, there was a good deal of merriment. “The newspapers
said
they sound like a motorcycle,” Mary said defensively.

“Yes, well, the newspapers said they sound like a washing machine, too,” Maitland said. “I suppose we’d best be careful when we do our laundry, girls.”

Parrish nodded. “I don’t want to run the risk of being flung down while hanging up my knickers.”

“It was a very old De Havilland,” Talbot said in her defense, “and it did sputter and then die rather like a flying bomb.” But that only made it worse. The girls began calling her De Havilland and Triumph and any other motorcycle name that was handy, and whenever a door slammed or a pot boiled over, someone shouted, “Oh, no, it’s a flying bomb!” and attempted to tackle her from behind.