All Clear

London—26 October 1940

AS SOON AS THEY REACHED THE LANDING OF THE EMERGENCY staircase, Mike asked Polly, “What if the retrieval team was in Padgett’s looking for Eileen, just like we were?”

“But … they can’t have been,” Polly stammered. The idea that some of the fatalities might have been the retrieval team had never occurred to her. The possibility so knocked her back on her heels that for a moment it seemed entirely possible. It would explain why there’d been five casualties—the three there were supposed to be and the two-man retrieval team.

“Why couldn’t they have been?” Mike pressed her. “Who else could they be? You heard Eileen’s supervisor. Everyone who worked there had been accounted for.

And that would explain why they haven’t been found yet—because they don’t know there’s anyone to look for.”

“But they knew Padgett’s was going to be hit. They wouldn’t have gone—”

“We knew it was going to be hit, and we did. What if they saw us go in and followed us? If they didn’t realize we’d taken the elevator down, they might still have been looking for us when the HE hit.”

There was no reason why a retrieval team, like historians, couldn’t be killed on assignment. And if that was what had happened, then Oxford hadn’t been destroyed and Colin hadn’t been killed. And Mike hadn’t lost the war.

She wondered if that was why he was so determined that this was what had happened. Because, bad as it was, it was better than the alternative. On the other hand, it could explain why their retrieval teams hadn’t shown up, and why there were five fatalities.

You don’t know for certain that there are, she reminded herself. You need to find out. And soon, before Mike heard about the five.

I must go to the hospital tomorrow. And keep him away from Miss Laburnum and newspapers till then. He’d said they needed to check her drop and see if it was working. If she could take him there as soon as they got out of here—

“As soon as the all clear goes, I’m going back to Padgett’s,” he said. “I’ve got to tell them there may still be casualties in the wreckage. If it’s the retrieval team, they won’t be looking for them.”

“But you can’t—”

“I won’t tell them it’s the retrieval team. I’ll say I saw some people going in while I was waiting for Eileen. We can’t just leave them there. They may still be alive.”

No, they aren’t, Polly thought. Whoever it is, they’ve already been pulled out of the wreckage dead. But she couldn’t say that.

“We have to help them,” Mike said.

“We can’t—”

“Mike?” Eileen called from above them. “Polly? Where are you?”

“Down here!” Mike shouted, and they heard her start down the clanking steps.

“Don’t say anything to her about this till we know for certain,” Polly whispered to Mike. “She’s—”

“I know,” he whispered back. “I won’t.”

Eileen came down to where they were standing. “You weren’t leaving to go to the drop without me, were you?”

“Not a chance,” Mike said. “We were just trying to figure out what other historians might be here besides Gerald Phipps.”

“Why did you come down here to do that?”

“We didn’t want to disturb you,” Polly said.

Mike nodded. “We couldn’t sleep, and we thought we might as well make use of the time. Don’t worry. We wouldn’t go off and leave you.”

“I know you wouldn’t,” Eileen said shamefacedly. “I’m sorry. It’s only that I can’t bear the thought of being here all alone again.” She sat down on the step. “So have you thought of anyone?”

And you’d better come up with something quickly, Polly said silently, or she’ll know we’re lying.

“Yeah,” Mike said, “Jack Sorkin, but unfortunately, he’s on the USS Enterprise in the Pacific.”

“What about your roommate?” Eileen asked. “Wasn’t he doing World War II?”

“Yes, but that doesn’t do us any good either. Charles is doing Singapore.”

Oh, my God. Singapore! Polly thought. And if his drop isn’t working, like ours, he’ll still be there when the Japanese arrive. He’ll be captured and put in one of their prison camps. She wondered if Mike realized that. She hoped not. “Who else?” she asked to change the subject. “Eileen, what about the other people in your year? Were any of them doing World War II?”

“I don’t think so. Damaris Klein might … no, I think she was doing the Napoleonic Wars. What about the historian who was doing the rocket attacks?” She turned to Polly. “When did those begin, Polly?”

“June thirteenth of 1944,” Polly said, “which is too late to be of any use. We need someone here now.”

“And we don’t know who it was who did the V-1 attacks,” Mike said.

“But if we can’t find anyone else …,” Eileen said. “Mike, are you certain they didn’t say who it was?”

“They might have …,” he said, frowning as if trying to remember.

“Could it have been Saji Llewellyn?” Polly asked.

“No, she was observing Queen Beatrice’s coronation. You know that, Polly,” Mike said. “Do either of you know Denys Atherton?”

“I’ve seen him at lectures and things,” Eileen said, “but I’ve never spoken to him. What’s he doing?”

“I don’t know,” Mike said, “but it’s something from March first to June fifth, 1944, which is also too late to help us. What would he be observing then, Polly? The war in Italy?”

“No, he would have come through earlier for that. He’s likelier to have been observing the buildup to the invasion, especially since his return date’s one day before D-Day.”

“Which means he’ll be here in England,” Mike said. “Where? Portsmouth? Southampton?”

“Yes, or Plymouth or Winchester or Salisbury,” Polly said. “The buildup was spread over the entire southwestern half of the country. Or he could be observing Fortitude, in which case he’d be in Kent. Or Scotland.”

“Fortitude?” Eileen said. “What’s that?”

“An intelligence operation to fool Hitler and the German High Command into believing the Allies were attacking somewhere other than Normandy. They built dummy Army installations and planted false news stories in the local papers and sent faked radio messages. Fortitude North was in Scotland. Its mission was to convince the Germans the invasion would be in Norway, and Fortitude South in southeast England’s mission was to convince them it was coming at the Pas de Calais.”

“So Denys Atherton could be anywhere,” Mike said.

“And if he’s working in Intelligence, he won’t be using his own name,” Polly said.

“But I know what he looks like,” Eileen said. “He’s tall and has dark curly hair—”

“Christ,” Mike said. “I hadn’t even thought about names. That means Phipps could be here under some other name, too. Eileen, did he say anything about whether he’d be using his own name or not?”

“No.”

Polly asked Mike, “And you didn’t see his name on the letters he was carrying?”

“No,” he said disgustedly.

“But you and Eileen both know what he looks like.”

“If I can only remember the name of his airfield,” Eileen said ruefully. “I know I’d know it if I heard it.”

“It’ll be in the railway guide,” Polly said. “I’ll see if Mrs. Rickett has one in the morning, and if she doesn’t, I know Townsend Brothers has one in the book department. I used it to look up the trains to Backbury. I’ll buy it on Monday. And in the meantime, the best thing we can do is get some sleep. We’ll all be able to think more clearly if we’ve had some rest.” And I’ll be able to think of a way to keep Mike from going to Padgett’s in the morning, she thought.

But how? Telling him that they couldn’t help, that historians couldn’t affect events, brought them back to Hardy. And telling him it had already happened and there were fatalities, and therefore there was no point in trying, not only sounded completely heartless but was too much like their own situation. And hopefully Mr.

Dunworthy wasn’t telling Colin the same thing at this very moment.

She would have to persuade Mike that she should be the one to go to Padgett’s. “Mr. Fetters is less likely to recognize me than Eileen or you,” she could tell him,

“especially if I change my clothes and put my hair up. I can tell him I was waiting outside for Eileen and saw people go in just as the store closed.”

But when she tried to persuade him, waking him up before the all clear so the sleeping Eileen wouldn’t hear, he insisted on going himself.

“But shouldn’t I show you where the drop is first?” Polly asked. “If it’s working, you can go through and tell Oxford to send a team disguised as rescue workers.”

He shook his head. “We’ll go to Padgett’s first and then the drop.”

“But what will we tell Eileen?”

He finally agreed to take Eileen back to Mrs. Rickett’s, tell her the two of them were going to the drop, and then go to Padgett’s.

Which created a whole new problem. If they left now, they’d run straight into the troupe, and Miss Laburnum would almost certainly say something about the five fatalities.

“We need to wait here till everyone’s gone so they don’t see us leaving the emergency staircase,” she said. “Once they realize it’s not locked, all sorts of people will want to use it. And we should let Eileen sleep, poor thing. I doubt if she’s had a good night’s rest since she came to London.”

“All right,” he said, and agreed to let Eileen sleep another half hour, during which Polly hoped he’d fall asleep and she could go find out alone. But he didn’t, and after they’d walked Eileen home and Polly had got her safely upstairs without seeing anyone, he insisted on going straight to Padgett’s, even though it had begun to rain again. And there was nothing for it but to go with him and hope a rescue crew was digging, or Mike might insist on going down into the pit himself.

But a crew was there, at least a dozen men hard at work with picks and shovels in spite of the rain, and the incident officer had just come on duty and didn’t know if they’d recovered any victims or not. “But they must think there are some of them under there,” he said when Mike told him he’d seen three people going in. “Or they wouldn’t be working like that.”

Which seemed to satisfy Mike, at least for the moment, and when Polly said they needed to go now or they’d run into people on their way to church—which was true, even though St. George’s was no longer there; the rector was conducting services at St. Bidulphus’s—Mike agreed to leave the dig and let her take him to the drop.

She felt guilty over it—it was raining harder than ever, and even with the Burberry Miss Laburnum had got him, he’d freeze sitting on the cold steps. But she had to have time to find out the truth about the fatalities.

And Mike didn’t seem dismayed by the rain. “At least there won’t be many contemps out in this,” he said, “so there’ll be less chance of the shimmer being seen.”

He was right about no one being out in the rain. The streets were deserted. Polly led Mike through the partially cleared rubble to the alley and over to the passage which led to the drop. The rain had washed away the chalked messages she’d scrawled on the walls and the barrels, but the ones on the door were still there, and she was glad to see that the overhang had largely protected the steps and the well.

“It seems fairly dry in here,” she said. But it was also untouched. The dust, leaves, and spiderwebs were all still there.

“You put this ‘For a good time, ring Polly’ here?” Mike asked, pointing at the door.

“Yes, and I put an arrow on that barrel,” she said, pointing, “and Mrs. Rickett’s address and the name of Townsend Brothers on the back, though I imagine the rain’s washed them away. I thought if the retrieval team came, it could help them find me.”

“It was a good idea,” he said. “I had one like it when I was in the hospital.”

“You were going to put messages on your gun emplacement?”

“No, in the newspapers. We could put an ad in the personal column.”

“An ad? What sort of ad? ‘Stranded travelers seek retrieval team to come and get them’?”

“Exactly. Only not in those words. They’ll have to look like all the other personal ads, but be worded so someone from Oxford would recognize them as being from us and know what they mean.”

“ ‘Wounds my heart with a monotonous languour,’ ” Polly murmured.

“What?”

“That was the coded message they sent out over the BBC to the French Resistance the day before D-Day. It’s from a Verlaine poem. It meant ‘Invasion imminent.’ ”

“Exactly,” Mike said. “Coded messages.”

“But that could be dangerous. If they decide we’re German spies—”

“I’m not talking about ‘The dog barks at midnight’ or ‘Wounds my heart with’—whatever the hell you said. I’m talking about, ‘R.T. Meet me in Trafalgar Square noon Friday, M.D.’ ”

Polly shook her head. “Meetings in public places are nearly as suspect as ‘The dog barks at midnight.’ ”

“All right, then, we’ll make it ‘R.T. Can’t wait to see you, darling. Meet me Trafalgar Square noon Friday. Love, Pollykins.’ ”

“I suppose that might work,” Polly said thoughtfully. The personal columns were full of messages to and from lovers, and from people who’d gone to the country or been bombed out, notifying their friends and relations of their new addresses. “But there are dozens of London newspapers. How will we know which one to put the message in?”

“We’ll work that out later,” he said. “In the meantime, we need to replace the messages you wrote here that have washed off.”

“They’ll only be washed off again.”

“Then we’ll have to buy some paint.”

“And hope this rain stops,” Polly said, looking up at the rain dripping from the overhang. “Do you want me to bring you an umbrella?”

“Not if it’s that bright green one of Eileen’s. It can be seen for miles. I’m trying not to be seen, remember?”

“Mine’s black. I’ll bring it,” she promised. “And something to eat.” And a thermos of hot tea, she thought.

But not till I see Marjorie.

Visiting hours weren’t till ten, and in spite of everything they’d already done this morning, it was still only half past eight. But if she went back to Mrs. Rickett’s, Eileen might be awake and want to come with her. And perhaps this early the stern admitting nurse who’d refused to answer her questions wouldn’t be on duty yet.

She wasn’t. A very young nurse was. Good. “Have you a patient named James Dunworthy here?” Polly asked her. “I was told he was brought here night before last. From Padgett’s?”

The admitting nurse checked the records. “No, we’ve no one by that name.”

“Oh, dear,” Polly said anxiously, calling on the acting techniques Sir Godfrey had taught her. “My friend was certain he was brought here. She works at Padgett’s with Mr. Dunworthy, and she asked me to find out for her. She was a bit banged up and couldn’t come herself. She’s terribly worried about him. Mr. Dunworthy would have been brought in early in the evening.”

“I wasn’t on duty that night. Let me see what I can find out,” the nurse said, and went off. When she returned, she said, “I spoke by telephone with the ambulance crew who handled the incident, and they only transported one”—a fractional hesitation—“injured victim to hospital, and it was a woman.” And the pause meant the

“injured victim” had died on the way to hospital, just as Marjorie had said.

“But if he wasn’t brought here, then that means—” Polly said, and clapped her hand to her mouth. “Oh, no, how dreadful.”

“You mustn’t worry,” the nurse said sympathetically, and looked quickly round to make certain no one was in earshot. “I asked the ambulance crew about fatalities, and they said both the others were women, too.”

Three fatalities, not five. “Did they work at Padgett’s?” Polly asked.

“No. They haven’t been identified yet.”

So there was still a possibility that they might be the retrieval team. If it was Polly’s or Eileen’s, they’d almost certainly have sent women to blend in at a department store, though they usually only sent two historians to retrieve. But what if they were Polly’s and Eileen’s teams?

At least it wasn’t a discrepancy. “Oh, my friend will be so relieved!” Polly said truthfully. “There must have been some sort of mix-up.”

She thanked the nurse profusely and hurried out of the hospital and down the steps, where she nearly collided with a pair of young nurses in dark blue capes coming on duty. “Last night I went to an RAF dance and met the most adorable lieutenant,” one of them was saying. “He’s a pilot. He’s stationed at Boscombe Down. He said he’d come to see me on his next leave.”

Boscombe Down. Could that be the name of Gerald’s airfield? It was two words, one beginning with a B and one beginning with a D. It had to be it.

She’d expected to need to spend the entire day tracking down the information about the casualties, but now that she’d solved both her problems, she could actually do what she’d told Eileen she intended to do and go visit Marjorie. It would mean one less lie she could be caught in.

But it wasn’t ten yet, and at any rate she couldn’t go in the front door when she was supposed to be hurrying off to tell her Padgett’s friend that James Dunworthy was all right.

She knew which ward Marjorie was in from when she’d attempted to visit before, so she wouldn’t need to ask, but if the admitting nurse saw her going up …

She found the emergency entrance and waited out of sight till an ambulance pulled in, bells clanging, and began to unload patients, and then walked purposefully past them and the attendants coming out to help.

From there, she darted up the first flight of stairs she saw to the fourth floor, and into Marjorie’s ward. And found she needn’t have gone to all the trouble of inquiring after a fictitious patient to find out what she needed to know. She could have simply asked Marjorie.

“I was wrong about five people being killed. There were only three,” Marjorie said, sitting propped against her pillows, her arm in a sling. “None of them worked at Padgett’s. They’ve no idea who they were or what they were doing there. Like me. If I’d been killed, no one would have known what I was doing in Jermyn Street either.”

“What were you doing there?”

“I went to meet Tom,” she said, and at Polly’s blank look she explained, “the airman I told you about. He’d been after me to go away with him, and I wouldn’t, but then when you were nearly killed at St. George’s, I thought, why not? I might be killed tomorrow. I’ve got to snatch at life while I can.”

Polly’s heart began to pound. “You changed your mind because of me?”

“Yes. When I saw you that morning, your skirt torn and your face all covered in plaster, it brought it home to me that you might have died—that I could die at any moment. And that working at Townsend’s would have been all there was to my life. And I decided I wasn’t going to die without ever doing anything, so the next time Tom came in—it was the Friday you went to see your mother—I told him I’d go away with him.”

And when she went to meet him, she’d been hit, buried, nearly killed. And I did it, Polly thought. I’m the one who put her there.

She’d been assuring Mike that he hadn’t saved Hardy, that Hardy would have seen the boat even without Mike’s pocket torch or been rescued by some other boat, but there was no other reason why Marjorie would have been in Jermyn Street that Friday night. No other reason for her broken arm and cracked ribs, for her having spent all those hours in the rubble, for her nearly having been killed.

But that’s impossible, Polly thought. Historians can’t alter events. The net won’t let them.

Unless Mike’s right. And suddenly she thought of the UXB at St. Paul’s. What if it hadn’t been an error in the historical record that it had been removed on Saturday and not Sunday? What if the time difference was a discrepancy?

One does not conduct deceptions merely to deceive. It is a kind of game, but a kind of game played in deadly earnest for compelling reasons and with dangerous consequences.

—WORLD WAR II BRITISH SECRET

INTELLIGENCE SERVICE MANUAL