“I will,” Chasuble said, and rushed out.
“Thanks, old man,” Cess said. “I’m in your debt.”
“Get me directions to St. Anselm’s, and we’ll consider it even,” he said.
Cess nodded and left. Ernest only had a few minutes. “Quartermaster Colin T. Worth will see that the crackers reach their destination,” he typed, “and several hundred lucky soldiers will have a happy Christmas, thanks to two resourceful girls ‘doing their bit,’ just as the Prime Minister has asked all of us to do.”
He rolled the sheet out, retrieved the funeral notice, stuck both of them inside his jacket, then sat back down at the desk, fed in a blank sheet and three carbons, and typed in caps, “GERMAN TERROR ROCKET DESTROYS HISTORIC CHURCH.”
“It fell in Bloomsbury, last Wednesday,” Chasuble said, coming in. He’d changed into a jacket and tie. “At 7:20 P.M.”
Wednesday evening. Perfect. Wednesday was choir-practice night. “Any casualties?”
“Yes, four. All fatalities, but there was a second V-1 in the same area at 10:56, so that’s not a problem.”
Except to the four people who died, Ernest thought. And the people who’ll be killed in Dulwich or Bethnal Green when the Germans alter their trajectories because of this photograph.
Cess came in. “Here are the directions to St. Anselm’s.” He handed Ernest a hand-drawn map.
“Good,” Ernest said. “Did you telephone the Herald, Chasuble?”
“Yes. The editor said they’ll hold the story till they hear from you.”
“Come along,” Cess said. “The fête starts at noon.”
“Coming,” Chasuble said. “I’ll never forget your doing this for me, Worthing.”
“It’s nothing. Go knock over milk bottles and win Daphne’s heart,” Ernest said, waving him out.
He wrote up the St. Anselm’s stories, grabbed the copies, the camera, and several rolls of film, and took off for Cricklewood.
It was easy to see why Lady Bracknell had been excited about St. Anselm’s. Not only was the distinctive Norman tower intact, but the wrought-iron arch saying “St. Anselm’s, Cricklewood,” was as well, and the rubble behind it looked exactly like the wreckage from a V-2.
“That’s what I thought it was at first,” the talkative verger said, “there not being any warning noise beforehand, you know. So did the reporter from the Mirror when he came out, but while he was photographing it, I noticed the stones were wet, and as it hadn’t rained, that made me think of the boiler. And that was what it was.”
“You said the reporter was from the Daily Mirror?” Ernest asked. “Did he say they were going to run a story?”
He nodded. “Tomorrow morning. Odd, isn’t it, how St. Anselm’s came all through the Blitz and this last year without so much as a mark on her, only to be done in by a faulty boiler?” He shook his head sadly.
“Did the reporter tell you his name?” Ernest asked.
“Yes, but I can’t remember now what it was. Miller, I believe. Or Matthews.”
“Have reporters from any other papers been here?”
“Only from the local paper. Oh, and the Daily Express, but when I told him it was the boiler, he lost all interest. He didn’t even take any photographs.”
Ernest asked if he could use the telephone in the rectory and put a call through to Lady Bracknell. “I’ll try to intercept the articles,” Bracknell said, “or at least the photographs, in the dailies from this end. You stop the one in the local paper and then ring me back. You’re certain it’s only the Mirror and the Express?”
“Yes,” Ernest said, but after he’d rung off he questioned the verger again, who insisted that only the two journalists had been there. Ernest told him to ring him if any other newspaper showed up, and gave him Lady Bracknell’s number. “And if any other reporters arrive, you’re not to let them take any photographs,” he said, and went to see the local paper’s editor, hoping he wouldn’t ask too many questions.
A vain hope. “But I don’t see how printing the story can be giving the enemy information when it’s nothing at all to do with the war,” the editor said. “This was a boiler explosion, not a bomb.”
“Yes,” Ernest said, “but giving the enemy accurate information about any destruction aids them in their propaganda efforts.”
“But you’ve put that it was destroyed by a V-2,” he said, frowning. “Don’t the Germans know where their rockets hit?”
They will if I don’t pull this off, he thought.
“And won’t saying the church was destroyed by a V-2 assist them in their propaganda efforts?”
“No, because we’ll be able to discredit it later, you see,” Ernest explained, and that actually seemed to satisfy him. To make sure, Ernest offered to set the type himself and then stayed to see the front page printed, which took forever. The paper’s printing press was even more prone to breakdowns than the Call’s. It was after two by the time he reported in.
“I had to threaten them,” Lady Bracknell said, “but I’ve managed to kill both the stories at the Mirror and the Express. But I couldn’t give them the new version, so I need you to run it in to Fleet Street.”
In to Fleet Street? That would take the rest of the day. “Can’t I phone it in? I was hoping to get the photo into some of the village weeklies today as well.”
“No, I want you to go to the Mirror and the Express in person to oversee things. I don’t want any muck-ups. It would only take a single story slipping through to ruin the whole scheme.”
Or for Home Secretary Morrison to realize what they were up to and order them to stop, and then he’d have no reason to be planting stories in the village papers. And it was entirely possible that the editor at the Mirror or the Express had agreed to hold the story but forgotten to tell the reporter. Or the typesetter. Which meant he’d better get in to Fleet Street as soon as possible. He hoped they didn’t prove as difficult as the Cricklewood paper.
They didn’t. The Mirror was holding page 3, and the Express had bumped the story to the next morning’s edition. Both papers allowed him to check the galleys, and the printer gave him a plate of the photo to use in the village weeklies and the name of the stringer who’d written the story.
Ernest tracked him down—at a pub near St. Paul’s—to make certain he hadn’t sold the picture and the story to anyone else. He hadn’t, but as Ernest was leaving, he mentioned having seen a reporter from the Daily Graphic leaving St. Anselm’s as he arrived, so Ernest had to go talk to him, and then make the rounds of the remaining newspapers, just to make certain.
By the time he was satisfied that the only version that would be appearing in the papers was his, it was nine o’clock, which eliminated the local papers, except possibly the Call. If Mr. Jeppers’s printing press had broken down again, he might still be printing the edition at midnight.
If he could get there by then. It was pitch-black and foggy out. He had to creep along, and when he reached Croydon, the door of the Call’s office was locked. But Mr. Jeppers’s bicycle was there. Ernest pounded on the door, rattling the taped glass. “Mr. Jeppers!” he shouted, hoping the printing press wasn’t running. If it was, he’d never hear him. “Let me in!”
“We’re closed!” Mr. Jeppers shouted through the door. “Come back in the morning.”
“It’s Ernest Worthing!” he shouted back.
“I know who it is! Who else would it be this time of night?” He opened the door. “Well, what’s so important it can’t wait till morning? Has Hitler surrendered then?”
“Not yet,” he said, handing Mr. Jeppers the articles.
He refused to take them. “You’re too late. I’ve already put the front page to bed.”
“They needn’t go on the front page,” Ernest said. “At least put this one in.” He handed him the St. Anselm’s story. Next week would have to do for the others.
Mr. Jeppers took it from him. “It says, ‘accompanying photograph,’ ” he said, shaking his head. “I haven’t time to
set a photographic plate.”
“You needn’t. I’ve got it right here.” He held it up. “All that needs to be set is the story. I’ll set it myself,” he said, and before Mr. Jeppers could object, he peeled off his jacket, threw it on top of a roll of newsprint, and grabbed a tray of type.
“All right, have it your way.” Mr. Jeppers kicked the lever. The printing press started up. “But if it’s not set by the time I’m done with the front page, it goes in next week!” he shouted over the rumble of the press.
Ernest began setting up the sticks of type, searching the trays for the needed letters and sliding them into place. This could work out even better than he’d planned. The personals at the bottom of the page had already been set and proofed. If he could get the caption set quickly enough, he could substitute his own pieces, and Mr. Jeppers would be none the wiser.
If. The printing press was shooting out pages at a steady clip, with no sign of jamming. Why, tonight of all nights, had it decided to run properly? And why had he thought using phrases such as “historic architecture” was a good idea?
Where were the U’s? He slotted the finished stick of type into place and grabbed an empty one.
His ears pricked up at the sound of a rattle. Good, the printing press was up to its old tricks. Where the bloody hell were the C’s?
The rattle grew louder and more clanking. It sounded like a wrench had got caught in the gears. “Shut it off!” he shouted, though in another minute he wouldn’t need to. The press would rattle itself apart.
“What?” Mr. Jeppers cupped his hand behind his ear.
“Something’s wrong with the printing press!” Ernest shouted, jabbing his finger at it. “That rattle. It’s—”
The noise cut off abruptly. “Rattle?” Mr. Jeppers shouted over the sound of the smoothly running press. “I can’t hear anything!”
That’s because it’s stopped, Ernest thought. And then, What if that was a doodle—?
But there was no time to complete the thought or shout to Mr. Jeppers or run. No time.
Our little life is rounded with a sleep.
—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, THE TEMPEST
London—Spring 1941
SOMEONE WAS CALLING HER. THE ALL OLEAR MUST HAVE GONE, she thought, but it was Sir Godfrey. “Wake up,” he said sternly. “Can you hear me, miss?”
Her head ached. I must have nodded off during rehearsal. He’ll be furious. And then, It can’t be Sir Godfrey, he always calls me Viola, and remembered where they were.
They were still in the bombed theater, and she was lying on top of Sir Godfrey, her full weight pressing down on him. “I’m sorry, Sir Godfrey,” she said. “I must have fallen on you when I passed out.”
He didn’t answer.
“Sir Godfrey? Wake up,” she said, and attempted to shift herself off him, but the effort made her head ache worse.
“Don’t try to move, miss, we’re coming,” the voice said from somewhere above them. “Careful. I can smell gas.”
“Sir Godfrey,” she said, but he didn’t respond.
And she should have known she couldn’t save him, that they would come too late. “Oh, Sir Godfrey, I am so sorry,” she murmured, and laid her head against his shoulder.
“Miss!” the voice said imperatively. “Are you trapped?”
Yes, she thought, and then hands were reaching down, lifting her off Sir Godfrey.
“No, you mustn’t, he’s bleeding,” she protested, but they had already pulled her out of the hole and sat her down, and now they were lifting the theater seats from Sir Godfrey’s legs, placing a jack under a pillar, jumping down into the hole, bending over him.
“Was there anyone else in the theater when the bomb hit, miss?” the one who’d pulled her out asked.
“I don’t know. I wasn’t here. When I saw the theater’d been hit, I came to find Sir Godfrey, and I caught my heel,” she said, trying to explain, “and while I was trying to free it, I heard his voice—”
“Well, it’s no wonder your heel got caught. This isn’t the sort of shoe to be clambering about an incident in,” he said, looking down at her gilt shoe, at her other, bare foot, and then at her costume, or what was left of it.
“I had to take off my skirt to make a compress,” she began, but he wasn’t listening.
“She’s injured,” he called to someone else, and when she looked down, she saw that her bathing suit and her hands were both covered in blood.
“That isn’t mine. It’s Paige’s,” she said, and even though it was too late and he was already dead, she told them, “Sir Godfrey has a chest wound. You need to apply direct pressure.”
“We’ll see to him, don’t you worry,” he said, examining her hands. “You’re certain you’re not hurt?”
I have blood on my hands, she thought, watching him dully as he turned them over, looking for cuts. Like Lady Macbeth. “ ‘What, will these hands ne’er be clean?’ ” she murmured.
“Miss—”
“You don’t understand. I killed him. I altered events—”
“She’s in shock,” he said to someone.
“No,” she said. Not shock. Shock was when one didn’t see it coming, like that day at what was left of St. George’s when she realized something terrible had happened, that no one was coming for her. This was different. She had known all along it would end this way.
“Bring a stretcher!” he called.
It’s no use. You can’t save me either, she thought, and wondered dimly why she hadn’t died from the gas, too. That way I wouldn’t be able to do any more damage. I wouldn’t be able to kill anyone else.
“I need to get you over to the ambulance,” he said. “Can you walk, do you think?”
“Yes,” she said, thinking, They must not have had a stretcher. Major Denewell must have borrowed all of them.
“That’s a good girl,” he said, and put his hand under her arm and helped her to her feet. “Here we go.”
But when she tried to walk, she swayed and fell against him.
He grabbed her arm. “Is your leg injured?”
“No, it’s my shoe,” she said. “I’m all right,” but when she tried again, her head spun and she nearly pitched forward. “My head—”
“You’ve breathed in a bit of gas, miss, that’s why you’re dizzy,” he said, easing her down onto the toppled back of a theater seat. “You need to take deep breaths … that’s it.”
He raised his head and called over her to the men gathered around the hole, “Sit here a minute, miss—what’s your name?”
“Mary,” she said, but that wasn’t right. This was the Blitz, not the V-1s. “Viola.”
“Viola, listen, my name’s Hunter. I want you to stay here a moment while I go fetch some oxygen to help you breathe, all right?”
She nodded.
“I’ll be back straightaway,” he said, and went to meet two men coming across the wreckage with a stretcher. He said something and took the stretcher from them, and they clambered back across the rubble. He took it over to the hole, where they were lifting out the section of balcony wall.
So they can remove Sir Godfrey’s body, she thought, watching them. You should wait till the gas is shut off.
“Fetch me a plasma drip,” someone called from the hole, and one of the men bounded off like a deer across the tangle of wreckage.
Why is he hurrying? Polly thought, bewildered. Sir Godfrey’s already dead.
She limped over to the hole. They were lifting him out and onto the stretcher. His chest was bandaged, a pad of white gauze taped to the wound, and there was a bandage on his wrist and a line of tubing running up his arm to a glass bottle full of plasma one of them was holding.
“Easy, don’t jar him,” the man holding the bottle said as they lifted the stretcher. “You’ll set him bleeding again.”
He isn’t dead, she thought wonderingly.
But that didn’t mean she’d saved his life. She’d only delayed his death. He’d die on the way to hospital. Or o
n the way to the ambulance, as they carried him across the wreckage on the stretcher. “I’m so sorry,” she said, and the men looked over at her.
“What the bloody hell’s she still doing here?” the one holding the plasma said. “She needs medical attention.”
Hunter hastened over to her. “Viola, I’m going to take you to the ambulance now,” he said. “Put your arm round my neck.”
“Careful,” one of the stretcher-bearers warned as they started across the wreckage with it. “If you strike a spark, you’ll send us all up.”
“We must go, Viola,” Hunter said urgently. “The theater could go up any moment.”
Of course, the gas. One of the stretcher-bearers’ hobnailed boots will scrape against the iron leg of a seat, and the gas will explode in a fireball and envelop us all. Including Hunter, who stayed behind to try to help me.
She had to get away from him. Perhaps if he wasn’t near her or the stretcher when the theater went up, he’d only be injured. “I’m all right. I can walk on my own,” she said, and struck out away from him across the tangle of seats, going as quickly as she could with one shoe and one bare foot.
“Careful, slow down!” Hunter called behind her. “You’ll fall.”
She clambered across a row of seats and over a mahogany railing. The men carrying the stretcher were halfway across the theater, the bottle of plasma held aloft like a lantern.
Polly stepped down onto what had been a wall, painted with masks of Comedy and Tragedy. She glanced back at Hunter. He was only a few steps behind her.
Go away, she thought frantically, hobbling across Tragedy, across Comedy, I’m deadly, and her single heel went through the plaster, all the way up to her ankle. She fell forward onto her hands and knees.
“What happened?” Hunter said, and before she could warn him to keep away, he jumped down beside her and helped her to stand. “Are you hurt?”
“No, my foot—”
“I need some help here!” Hunter called after the stretcher-bearers. “She’s—”
“No,” Polly said. “You need to leave me here and go fetch a crowbar.” But he was already on one knee beside her, pulling on her ankle.