Blackout

London-26 September 1940

POLLY’S RETRIEVAL TEAM STILL HADN’T COME BY THURSDAY night. I can’t stand this waiting. I’ll give it till Saturday, and then I’m going up to Backbury, she thought, listening to Miss Laburnum and the others argue over which play to do.

Surprisingly, Sir Godfrey had agreed to the idea of a full-scale theatrical production. “I’d be delighted to assist in such a worthy cause,” he’d said. “We must do Twelfth Night. With Miss Sebastian as Viola.”

“Oh, I had my heart set on one of Barrie’s plays,” Miss Laburnum said.

“Perhaps Peter Pan,” Mrs. Brightford suggested. “The children could be in it.”

“Nelson could play Nana,” Mr. Simms said.

Sir Godfrey looked aghast. “Peter Pan?”

“We can’t,” Polly said quickly. “We’ve no way to manage the flying.”

Sir Godfrey shot a grateful glance at her. “An excellent point. On the other hand, Twelfth Ni-”

“It must be a patriotic play,” Mrs. Wyvern said decisively.

“Henry V,” Sir Godfrey said.

“No, not enough women. We must do a play with women in it so everyone in our little troupe can participate.”

“And with a dog,” Mr. Simms said.

“Twelfth Night has lots of women,” Polly said. “Viola, the Lady Olivia, Maria-”

“I think we should do the clock one,” Trot said.

“What a good idea!” Miss Laburnum exclaimed. “We can do Barrie’s A Kiss for Cinderella!”

“Is there a part for a dog in it?” Mr. Simms asked.

“What about a murder mystery?” the rector said.

“The Mousetrap,” Sir Godfrey said dryly.

When I get to Backbury, I must tell Merope that Sir Godfrey likes Agatha Christie, Polly thought, and then realized he was referring to Hamlet. And probably plotting the murder of Miss Laburnum.

She half listened to them propose possible plays, trying to decide when to go. If she waited till after work on Saturday, she wouldn’t need to ask Miss Snelgrove for time off or run the risk of missing the retrieval team while she was gone. But she seemed to remember Merope saying her half-day off was Monday and that that was when she went through to Oxford to check in. If it took Polly longer than planned to get to Backbury, she ran the risk of Merope’s not being there when she arrived.

Or not being there at all. Merope’s assignment had to be nearly over. What if she was going back for good on Monday? I’d better not wait till Saturday night, Polly thought.

“I saw three copies of Mary Rose in a secondhand bookshop last week,” Miss Laburnum said. “Such an affecting play… That poor boy, searching for his lost love those years…” She put her hand to her bosom. “I shall make an expedition to Charing Cross on Saturday.”

And I shall make one to Backbury, Polly thought. I’ll go Saturday and come back Sunday.

She needed to find out about trains. It was too late to go to Euston to look at the schedule. The Underground trains had already stopped for the night. She would have to do it in the morning.

But when the trains began running again at half past six the next morning, there was a notice board saying the Central Line was out of service due to “damage on the line,” so instead she had to ask Marjorie to watch her counter while she ran up to the book department and consulted an ABC railway guide.

The earliest train on a Saturday was at 10:02, with connections at Reading and Leamington. It didn’t get in to Backbury till… Oh, no, after ten o’clock at night. That meant she wouldn’t be able to go to the manor till Sunday morning. And depending on how far from Backbury it was, it might take her the better part of the day to walk there and back.

And if Merope had already gone back, she couldn’t afford to miss the return train. And, according to the ABC, the only one from Backbury on Sunday went at 11:19 A.M.

I shall to have to go tonight, she thought. If there’s a train.

There were three, the first one at 6:48. If I go straight to Euston from work, I should be able to make the 6:48, she thought, starting down to her counter to relieve Marjorie.

Marjorie. If Merope was in Backbury, Polly wouldn’t be coming back, which meant that before she left she needed to buy Marjorie stockings to replace the ones she’d borrowed. But she hadn’t enough money with her for them and her train fare. She’d have to go back to Mrs. Rickett’s for Mr. Dunworthy’s emergency money, and take the 7:55 instead, but that had a benefit. She’d be able to tell Mrs. Rickett where she was going. And if she was delayed for some reason, she could take the 9:03.

She hurried back to her counter. Marjorie was busy with a customer. Polly brought Doreen over to write up the purchase and, when Marjorie finished waiting on her customer, took the stockings over to her. “They’re lovely,” Marjorie said, “but it wasn’t necessary for you to do that.”

Yes, it is, Polly thought. You’ve no idea how scarce stockings are about to become. You may well have to make these last for the remainder of the war.

“Thank you,” Marjorie said. She leaned over the counter toward Polly. “You’ll never guess who was here while you were gone,” she whispered, and before Polly’s heart could turn over, “The airman I told you about who’s always after me to go out with him. Tom. He wanted me to go out dancing.”

“And are you going?” Polly asked.

“No, I told you, he’s terribly fast.” She frowned. “Though perhaps I should have. As he said, in times like these people need to seize happiness while they can.”

Which was also a very old line. “I need to ask you something,” Polly said. “Is it Miss Snelgrove I need to speak to about getting tomorrow off, or Mr. Witherill?”

“A day off?” Marjorie echoed. She sounded horrified.

“Yes. I’ve had a letter from my sister, you see. My mother’s ill, and I must go home.”

“But you can’t go tomorrow. Saturday’s Townsend Brothers’ busiest day of the week. They’ll never allow it.”

It had never occurred to Polly that she might not be able to get the day off, especially with an excuse like an ailing mother. She could just leave, of course, but if Merope wasn’t in Backbury, working here was her best chance of being found by the retrieval team.

“Miss Snelgrove’s already had her quota of human kindness for the week,” Marjorie was saying. “And Mr. Witherill will be convinced you’re doing a flit.” She looked at Polly sharply. “You’re not, are you? Not that I’d blame you. Sitting in that horrid cellar last night, listening to the bombs, I thought, ‘When the all clear goes, I’m going to go straight to Waterloo Station, take the train to Bath, and move in with Brenda.’”

“I’m not running away.” Polly pulled out the letter from Props and handed it over, making certain Marjorie saw the Northumbria postmark on the envelope. “It’s her heart. Surely if I tell Miss Snelgrove-”

But Marjorie was shaking her head. “Don’t say anything to her or Mr. Witherill,” she ordered, handing the letter back. “Tomorrow morning, I’ll say you rang me up and said you weren’t feeling well. Will you be back by Monday?”

“Yes, unless…” Polly said hesitantly. She hated to get Marjorie into trouble if she didn’t return.

“I’ll cover for you Monday as well. If you need to stay on longer, you can always write from home and tell them.”

“But what about tomorrow? You’ll be left shorthanded.”

“I’ll manage. No one’s buying girdles just now. They take too long to put on when there’s a raid. Do you leave tonight?”

Polly nodded. “Thank you so much for covering for me. If anyone should come in asking for me, tell them I’ll be back on Monday, or Tuesday at the latest.”

Marjorie leaned confidingly on the counter. “Who is this mysterious person you’re always hoping will come in and ask for you? A man?”

I don’t know, Polly thought. It was likely the retrieval team would be female, but not certain.

“Is he a pilot?”

“No. A cousin of mine is coming to London and might look me up,” she said and walked quickly back to her own counter before Marjorie could ask any more questions.

At a quarter past five, she began tidying up, hoping she might be able to leave early, but just before the closing bell Miss Snelgrove demanded to see her sales book.

Marjorie came over, already in her hat and coat. “I’m leaving now, Miss Snelgrove,” she said, and turned to Polly. “Are you feeling all right? You look rather pale.”

“I’m fine,” Polly said, then realized Marjorie was attempting to help her set up her alibi for tomorrow. “It’s only a headache, and my throat’s been a bit sore this afternoon.” She put her hand to her throat, but Miss Snelgrove didn’t look impressed. Marjorie was right; she’d used up her quota of kindness for the week.

“Where is your sales receipt for Mrs. Scott?” Miss Snelgrove demanded.

Polly had wanted to say goodbye to Marjorie-it was, after all, the last time she might ever see her-but by the time Miss Snelgrove finished reprimanding Polly for smudging her carbons, she’d already gone, and it was probably for the best. Polly couldn’t afford to have her ask what her “cousin”’s name-or gender-was. And at any rate, there was no time for goodbyes. It was already a quarter to six.

She had to leave. And to make the 6:48, she’d have to take a taxi to Mrs. Rickett’s. If she could find one. There weren’t any parked in front of Townsend Brothers or on the street. She finally ran the four blocks to Padgett’s and had its doorman hail her one, but it took several minutes, and by the time they reached Mrs. Rickett’s, it was twenty past. Polly told the cabbie to wait, and raced inside, hoping Miss Hibbard would be in the parlor so she wouldn’t have to deal with either Mrs. Rickett or the talkative Miss Laburnum, but there was no one there, or in the dining room, though the supper dishes still lay on the table. The sirens must have gone early again-the raids tonight didn’t start till nine.

She pelted up the stairs to her room to get her money, ran back downstairs, leaped in the taxi, and said, “Euston Station. And hurry. I’ve a train to catch.”

“I’ll get you there,” he said and roared down Cardle Street to Notting Hill Gate and past the Underground station.

Oh, no, Polly thought. I didn’t tell them I’m leaving. When she’d realized the siren had sounded, she’d forgotten all about it. I should have left a note.

It was too late now. It was already twenty till. She’d be lucky to catch her train as it was. But she was seeing the tears streaming down Miss Hibbard’s face and the look on Sir Godfrey’s ashen face before he saw her. She was remembering her own knees giving way when she saw the wrecked church.

I can’t do that to them again, she thought, not when they’ll have to face so many real deaths in the four and a half years ahead. She leaned forward and tapped the cabbie on the shoulder. “I’ve changed my mind,” she said. “Take me to Notting Hill Gate Underground Station.”

“But what about your train, miss?”

“I’ll take the next one,” she said.

He made a U-turn and headed back. “Do you want me to wait again?” he asked, pulling up in front of the station.

With the sirens already having gone, the guard wouldn’t let her out of the station. “No, I’ll take the tube from here,” she said, handed him the fare, and ran inside and down to the platform.

“Oh, good, the warden told you,” Miss Laburnum said the moment she saw her.

“Told me what?”

“About the gas leak.”

“A delayed-action bomb went off two streets over and ruptured a gas main,” Miss Hibbard said, coming over with her knitting. “During supper.”

A gas leak! A spark from the taxi’s ignition could have blown us both sky-high.

The rector and Mrs. Rickett were there, and Mrs. Brightford and her girls, all spreading out their blankets. “I’m glad you’re here,” Miss Laburnum said. “We’ve been discussing the play.”

“I can’t stay,” Polly said. “I only came to tell you I won’t be here tonight.”

“Oh, but you must,” Miss Laburnum said.

“We’ve decided the only fair thing to do is put it to a vote,” Mrs. Wyvern said.

Oh, dear, that meant Barrie. Poor Sir Godfrey.

“But Sir Godfrey wants us to wait till Sunday. First he wants us to see a scene from Twelfth Night. The one where Viola longs to tell him of her love, but she can’t because she can’t reveal her true identity-and he wants you to play Viola.”

He was obviously counting on her to help him talk them out of Barrie. But she had to catch the 7:55. “I’m afraid someone else will have to play Viola. I-”

“Oh, but Sir Godfrey insists you do it. He says you’re perfect for the part.”

“I can’t. I’ve had a letter from my sister. My mother’s ill, and I must go home. I only came to tell you so you wouldn’t think-”

“You were killed,” Trot said promptly, and Polly was very glad she’d come, even though it meant she’d missed the 6:48.

“Yes,” she said, “and to tell you I won’t be back till Sunday night at the earliest. It all depends on how my mother is. Tell Sir Godfrey I’m sorry I couldn’t stay, but my train-”

“Of course, you must go. We quite understand,” the rector said, and the others, excepting Mrs. Rickett, nodded sympathetically.

“Thank you. For everything. Goodbye,” she said and hurried off down the platform and along the tunnel, sorry she hadn’t been able to tell Sir Godfrey goodbye, though that was probably for the best. Lying to Miss Laburnum and the rector was one thing, but Sir Godfrey wasn’t fooled nearly so easily. And she wasn’t certain she could have turned him down if he’d asked her to stay and play the part of Viola to his Orsino.

And I must make the 7:55, she thought, hurrying across to the escalator, glancing at her watch as she pushed through the crowd. A quarter past. If there wasn’t too long a wait between trains, she should be able to-

“Miss Sebastian, wait,” Sir Godfrey called. He caught up to her. “I’ve just been told that you are leaving us.”

“Yes. I’ve had a letter saying my mother’s ill.”

“And so you must away to Northumbria?”

“Yes.”

“Forever?”

I should have pretended I didn’t hear him calling me, she thought. And it didn’t matter what she told him, he could see right through her. “I don’t know.”

A look like pain crossed his face, and he said quietly, abandoning his theatrical language, “Are you in some sort of trouble, Viola?”

Yes, she thought. And you were right. Viola’s the perfect role for me. I am in disguise. I can’t tell you the truth.

“No,” she said, hoping she really was the actress he’d said she was. “It’s only that I’m so worried over my mother. My sister says she’s not in any danger, but I’m afraid-”

“That she’s not telling you the truth?”

“Yes,” she said, meeting his gaze steadily. “She knows how difficult it is for me to take time off from my job. That’s why I must go, to see if she’s all right. If it isn’t anything serious, I’ll return on Sunday, but if she’s really ill, I may have to stay for several weeks, or months.”

And you don’t believe a word I’m saying, she thought.

But all he said was, “I wish her a speedy recovery and you a speedy return. If you are not here for the vote Sunday night, I fear I shall be doomed to performing Peter Pan, a fate which surely you would not wish on me.”

Polly laughed. “No. Goodbye, Sir Godfrey.”

“Goodbye, fair Viola. What a pity I never got to act Twelfth Night with you, though perhaps it’s just as well. I should have hated to find myself playing Malvolio, smiling and cross-gartered. And sadly mistaken in thinking the lady cared for him.”

“Never,” Polly said. “You could never play any part but Duke Orsino.”

He clutched his chest dramatically. “Oh, to be twenty-five again!” He pushed her onto the escalator. “Now, begone. Swiftly, that we may meet again. Sunday night at Notting’s Gate when the Luftwaffe roars. Fail me not, fair maid! My life and your good name upon it!” he said and disappeared into the crowd before she could reply.

She hurried toward the Central Line platform. It was already twenty till. I’ll never make it to Euston in time, she thought. Unless by some miracle it’s late.

It was, and it was a good thing-the sirens started up as the 7:55 was pulling out of the station. But even though they’d escaped that, they still spent most of the night stopped due to raids, and most of Saturday forced onto sidings by troop trains, which meant she missed the train from Leamington. The next one wasn’t till morning. “There’s nothing tonight?”

The ticket agent shook his head. “The war, you know.”

And if the morning train was delayed like the one she’d just been on, she wouldn’t make it to Backbury till Monday afternoon, by which time Merope would have left for Oxford to check in. Or would have gone back altogether. “Is there a bus to Backbury?”

The agent consulted a different schedule. “There’s a bus to Hereford, and another that leaves for Backbury from there tomorrow morning at seven.”

It would mean spending the night in the station in Hereford, but at least she would be in Backbury by Sunday, not Monday, and, unlike a train, a bus couldn’t be shunted onto a siding for hours while a succession of troop trains passed.

It could, however, be stopped at railway crossings while those same troop trains crawled by. And at roadblocks, where overzealous Home Guard officers insisted on checking everyone’s papers. She needn’t have worried about spending the night in the station. It was nearly seven in the morning before they reached Hereford.

The bus for Backbury was stopped by a troop train only once and for only half an hour. When the driver called out “Backbury,” it was just a bit after eight. “What time’s the next bus from here back to Hereford?” Polly asked as she got off.

“Twenty past five.”

“In the afternoon?”

“Only two buses a day on Sunday. The war, you know.”

Yes, I do know. But at least there was a train from Backbury. She was glad she’d checked the ABC and found out when it went. Taking the 11:19 would get her back to London far faster than the bus. If she could get to the manor and back in three hours.

And if she could find it. The driver had stopped among a small huddle of shops and cottages. She couldn’t see a manor house. Or a railway station. She turned back to ask the bus driver, “Can you direct me to the manor?” but he’d already shut the door and was pulling away.

I’ll have to ask one of the villagers, she thought, but there was no one in sight. They might be in church. It was Sunday, and even if Backbury didn’t have an early mass, the local equivalent of Mrs. Wyvern might be there arranging the altar flowers. But when she pushed open the door and looked in the sanctuary, she couldn’t see anyone. “Hullo?” she called. “Anyone there?”

The only response was a distant whistle. So I know which direction the railway station is, she thought, going back outside and following the sound and the plume of smoke. She arrived at the station platform in time to see a troop train race by at top speed.

Why couldn’t they have moved that quickly last night? she thought, walking over to the station, though it could hardly be called that. It was no larger than a potting shed. There was probably no point in knocking, but when she did, there was the sound of a cough and then a shuffle and an unshaven and obviously hungover-or drunken-man opened the door.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” Polly said, taking a step back so he didn’t fall on her. “Can you direct me to the manor?”

“Manor?” he said, weaving and squinting blearily at her. Definitely drunk.

“Yes. Can you tell me how to get there?”

He waved vaguely. “Road just beyond the church.”

“Which way?”

“Only goes one way,” he said and would have shut the door if she hadn’t grabbed it and held it open.

“I’m looking for someone who works at the manor. One of the maids. Her name’s Eileen. She cared for the evacuees at the manor. She has red hair and-”

“Evacuees?” he said, his eyes narrowing. “You ain’t here about those bloody Hodbin brats, are you?”

Hodbin? That was the name of the evacuees who’d given Merope so much trouble.

“You’d better not be bringin’ ’em back.”

“I’m not. Does Eileen still work at the manor?” she asked, but he’d already slammed the door, and it would have been on her hand if she hadn’t snatched it away at the last second. “Can you tell me how far it is?” she called through the door, but got no answer.

It can’t be that far. Merope walked it, Polly thought, going back to the church and then along the road beyond it. It was more a lane than a road-and the sort of lane that looked as if it would peter out in the middle of a field-but there was nothing else resembling either a road or a lane, and it led only south. It was also rutted with tire tracks, and Merope had been going to take driving lessons.

But it sounded from what the station agent had said that the Hodbins were no longer here, and if the evacuees had gone home, Eileen would have, too. From what Eileen had said, though, the Hodbins might have been sent home in disgrace. Or shipped off to a reform school.

The lane led past a hayfield and then into woods. There was a scent of rain in the air. Rain, Polly thought. That’s all I need. Merope had better be here, after all this.

Where was the manor? Polly’d already come at least a mile, and there was still no gateway, or, in spite of all the tire tracks, a vehicle in which she could catch a ride. There were only woods. And more woods.

Merope-correction, Eileen; she had to remember to call her Eileen-had said her drop site was in the woods, near the manor house. If she wasn’t there, perhaps Polly could still find it, though if she’d gone back it would no longer be working.

The lane curved to the left. It can’t be much farther, Polly thought, trudging along the ruts, but there was still no sign of a manor house through the woods, or any other house, for that matter, and the lane seemed to be narrowing. And ahead, the woods had been fenced off with barbed wire.

It is going to peter out in a field, she thought. I must have come the wrong way.

No, wait, there was the manor’s gateway ahead, with its stone pillars and wrought-iron gate. And a sentry box, complete with a bar to keep vehicles out. And a uniformed sentry.

“State your name and business,” he said.

“I’m Miss Sebastian. I was looking for someone, but I must have come the wrong way. I was trying to find the manor.”

“This is it. Or was. Now it’s the Royal Riflery Training School.”

And it was a good thing she hadn’t tried to find the drop on her own. She might have been shot. “When-how long has the school been here?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to ask Lieutenant Heffernan that. I’ve only been here two weeks.”

“You don’t know if any of the staff stayed on after the manor was taken over, do you?”

“You’ll have to ask Lieutenant Heffernan.” He stepped back into the sentry box and picked up the telephone. “A Miss Sebastian to see Lieutenant Heffernan. Yes, sir,” he said. He hung up and came back out. “You’re to go up.” He raised the bar so she could pass through. “Follow the drive up to the house and ask for Operations.” He handed her a pasteboard visitor’s pass. “It’s just through there,” he said, pointing between a pair of new-looking barracks.

“Thank you,” Polly said and started up the gravel drive, even though there was no point. Merope’s assignment had obviously ended with the takeover of the manor. Unless the remaining evacuees had been transferred to another village and she’d gone with them. But Lieutenant Heffernan couldn’t tell her anything about the evacuees.

“I didn’t arrive till after the school was in operation,” he said.

“When did the Army take over the manor?”

“August, I believe.”

August. “Did any of the staff stay on here?”

“No. Some of them may have gone with the lady of the manor. I believe she went to stay with friends.”

In which case she’d only have taken her personal maid and chauffeur.

“I can give you her ladyship’s address,” he said, looking through a stack of papers. “It’s here somewhere…”

“No, that’s all right. Do you know if the evacuees who were here returned home or were billeted somewhere else?”

“I’m afraid I don’t. I believe Sergeant Tilson was here then. He might be able to help.”

But Sergeant Tilson hadn’t been there either. “I didn’t come till September fifteenth, and the evacuees had already gone back to their parents by then.”

“To their parents? In London?”

He nodded.

Then Merope definitely hadn’t gone with them. “What about the staff?”

“From what Captain Chase said, they went home to their families as well.”

“Captain Chase?”

“Yes. He was in charge of setting up the school. He’d be able to tell you-he was here when they all left-but I’m afraid you just missed him. He left for London early this morning and won’t be back till Tuesday.” He frowned. “The vicar in the village might be able to tell you where they went.”

If I can find him, Polly thought. But if she could make it back to Backbury before eleven, he’d be at the church, preparing for the service. She quickly took her leave of the sergeant-and the sentry, who solemnly raised the bar again to let her out-and hurried back along the road.

It was already past ten. I’ll never make it walking, she thought, and it was too far to run. And just outside the gate, it began to rain in earnest, turning the lane into a muddy mire. She had to stop twice to scrape the caked mud off her shoes with a stick.

They’ll already be in church, she thought when she finally splashed into the village. She spotted the vicar, half running, half walking along the side of the church toward the vestry door, clutching a sheaf of paper, his robe flying out behind him.

“Vicar!” she called, running after him. “Vicar!” Or was he the vicar? Now that she grew closer, he looked awfully young. Perhaps he was the choir director, and those papers were the morning’s anthems. “Sir! Wait!”

She caught up to him just as he was going in. “What is it, miss?” he said, his hand on the half-open vestry door. His eyes swept over her damp hair, her muddy shoes. “What’s happened? Has there been an accident?”

“No,” she said, out of breath from running. “I’ve just been out to the manor. I came in on the bus this morning-”

“Vicar!” A small boy poked his head out of the half-opened door. “Miss Fuller said to tell you they’ve finished the prelude.” He tugged at the vicar’s sleeve.

“Coming, Peter,” he said, and to Polly, “Has something happened at the riflery school?”

“No. I only wanted to ask you a question. I-”

“It’s time for the invocation,” Peter hissed.

“I must go,” the vicar said regretfully, “but I’ll be glad to speak with you as soon as the service is over. Would you care to join us?”

“Vicar, it’s time!” Peter said, and dragged him into the church.

And that’s that, Polly thought and walked out to the station to wait for the train. Unless the stationmaster knows where the evacuees have gone.

But he’d apparently spent the last three hours drinking. “Whaddya want?” he demanded, and it was obvious he didn’t recognize her from this morning.

“I’m waiting for the 11:19 to London.”

“Won’t be here f’r ’ours,” he said, slurring his words. “Bloody troop trains. Always late.”

Good. She could go back to the church, wait for the end of the service, and ask the vicar after all. And if the 11:19 was as late as every other train she’d been on, she could also ask everyone else in the village. She hurried back to the church through the rain and slipped into the back of the sanctuary.

Only the first few rows of pews had people in them-several white-haired ladies in black hats, a handful of balding men, and young mothers with children. They were just finishing singing “O God, Our Help in Ages Past.” Polly tiptoed in and sat down in the last pew.

The vicar looked up from his hymnal and smiled welcomingly at her, and one of the white-haired ladies, who looked like a cross between Miss Hibbard and Mrs. Wyvern, turned around and glared. Miss Fuller, no doubt.

She’s the person I should speak with, Polly thought. The captain had suggested the vicar, but she doubted if he were on intimate terms with the hired help at the manor. But this was a tiny village. Miss Fuller and the other elderly women would know all the comings and goings of everyone. If Polly could get past that disapproving glare.

But even if she couldn’t, the boy Peter was likely to know about the evacuees, or could at least point out the schoolmistress to her. She’d be certain to know. And in the meantime, if it wasn’t exactly warm in the sanctuary, it was at least dry, and hopefully the vicar’s sermon wouldn’t be too long, though she doubted it from the thickness of his sheaf of papers, which he was now arranging on the top of the pulpit.

He finished arranging them and gazed out over the congregation. “The Scriptures say that our true home is not in this world, but the next, and that we are only passing through…”

Truer words, Polly thought.

“Thus it is with this war,” he said. “We find ourselves stranded in an alien land of bombs and battles and blackouts, of Anderson shelters and gas masks and rationing. And that other world we once knew-of peace and lights and church bells chiming out over the land, of loved ones reunited and no tears, no partings-seems not only impossibly distant, but unreal, and we cannot quite imagine ourselves ever getting back there. We mark time here, waiting…”

For church to be over, for the train to arrive, for the retrieval team to come, Polly thought. The vicar’s sermon was cutting a little too close to the bone. Why couldn’t he have preached on begats or something?

“… hoping that this ordeal will pass, but secretly fearing that we shall never see that land of milk and honey-and sugar and butter and bacon-again. That we will be trapped in this dreadful place forever-”

A whistle cut sharply across his words. Peter got onto his knees to look out the window, and Miss Fuller glared at him. Polly looked down at her watch: 11:19. The train. But the stationmaster had said it was always late.

It’s another troop train, she thought, but she could already hear it slowing.

“Just as we have faith that one day the war will be over,” the vicar said, “we have faith that one day we shall attain heaven. But just as we cannot hope to win this war unless we ‘do our bit’-rolling bandages, planting Victory gardens, serving in the Home Guard-so we cannot hope to attain heaven unless we also do our bit-”

Polly hesitated, caught in an agony of indecision. This was today’s only train, and the bus wouldn’t come till after five. If it was on time.

But someone here might know where Merope went. You know where she went, Polly thought, and you know what they’ll tell you. That all the evacuees went back to London and she left as soon as they were gone. She’s been back in Oxford for weeks. Which means her drop isn’t working anymore, and even if it was, you don’t know where it is and can’t get to it without being shot at, so there’s no point in staying here.

And if you miss that train, there’ll be no way you’ll make it back to London before Tuesday-or Wednesday-and Marjorie can’t cover for you forever. You’ll lose your job, and when the retrieval team comes, they won’t be able to find you.

“We must act-” the vicar said. The whistle, much closer, blew again.

Polly stood up, shot the vicar an apologetic glance, opened the church door, and ran for the train.