"But they must look as if they are," Prism said. "And you must go. You're the one who's going to write this all up for the London papers."

The London papers meant the story would get a good deal more notice than an article in the Call, particularly if there was an accompanying photograph, and it was a chance to meet Queen Elizabeth, which any Fortitude South agent-or any historian-would give his eyeteeth for. Plus, it looked as if he was going to go whether he wanted to or not. "Do I need to bring my camera?" Ernest asked.

"No. The London papers will have their photographers there. All you need is your pajamas," Prism said. "Now come along, we're late."

"If it's not too much to ask," Ernest said once they were in the staff car, with Moncrieff driving, "why am I meeting the Queen in my pajamas?"

"Because you've been wounded," Moncrieff said. "A broken foot would be appropriate, I think." He looked back at Ernest in the backseat. "We'll put you in a plaster and on crutches. Unless you'd rather have a broken neck."

"Have you any idea what he's babbling on about?" Ernest leaned forward to ask Prism.

"We're attending the ribbon cutting for a hospital," he explained. "They've turned Mofford House into a military hospital to deal with the soldiers who'll be coming back wounded from the invasion."

"Which hasn't happened yet. So how can we be invasion casualties?"

"We're not. We were wounded at Tripoli. Or Monte Cassino, whichever you prefer."

"But-"

"We're window dressing," Prism said impatiently. "The newspaper stories you'll write will say that the hospital has only a few patients at present, but that its capacity is six hundred, and that it's one of five new hospitals which will open in the area over the next four months."

"Which plays nicely into the scenario that the invasion's scheduled for mid-July," Ernest said. "So the Queen will be seen visiting the wards?"

"Ward," Prism said. "They were only able to mock up one for the ribbon cutting. The hospital in Dover couldn't spare the beds for more than that, and Lady Mofford wasn't keen on having her entire house turned into a hospital just for one afternoon's photographs."

"Afternoon?" Ernest said. "I thought you said this would only take a couple of hours."

"It will. There'll be a speech welcoming the Queen, a visit to the ward, and then tea. The Queen's to arrive at one."

"One o'clock this afternoon?" Cess cried. "That's hours from now. And Worthing and I haven't even had breakfast. Why did we need to leave now?"

"I told you," Prism said imperturbably. "The Queen will be there. One can't keep royalty waiting. And we need to help set up."

"But I'm starving!" Cess said.

"And I must be in Croydon by four o'clock, or my articles won't make this week's edition."

"Then they'll have to go in next week's."

"That's what you said last week," Ernest said. "At this rate, they won't go in till after the invasion, and a bloody lot of good they'll do then."

"Very well," Prism said. "When we get there I'll ring up Lady Bracknell and have Algernon take them to Croydon for you."

Which would completely defeat the purpose. "They're not done yet," he said. "I'd intended to finish writing them up last night, and instead I ended up playing matador."

"With a tank as his cape," Cess said, and launched into an account of their adventures with the bull and his charging of the tank, which Prism and Moncrieff both found highly amusing.

"Today won't be nearly so dangerous," Moncrieff said. "And don't worry, we'll have you back to the castle in plenty of time."

At which point, I will no doubt be sent to blow up more tanks.

"Speaking of dangers," Prism said, "you need to read this." He handed a sheet of paper back to Ernest over the seat. "It's a memo from Lady Bracknell."

"Warning us," Cess said, "about"-he lowered his voice to a sinister whisper-"spies in our midst."

Ernest snatched the paper from Prism. "Spies?"

"Yes," Cess said. "It says we're to look out for suspicious behavior, particularly for people who seem unfamiliar with local customs. And we're not to discuss our mission with anyone, no matter how harmless and trustworthy they seem, because they might be German spies. That bull this morning, for instance."

"It's not a joking matter," Prism said. "If there's a security breach, it could endanger the entire invasion."

"I know," Cess said. "But whom exactly does Bracknell think we'd talk to? The only people we ever see are irate farmers, except for Ernest here-"

"And the only people I talk to are irate editors who want to know why my articles are always late," Ernest said. He needed to get this conversation off the topic of spies. "And I doubt very much that they'll believe I missed their deadline because I was having tea with the Queen. How are we supposed to address her, by the way? Your Majesty? Your Highness?"

"There! You see that?" Cess said, pointing an accusing finger at him. "Unfamiliarity with local customs. Definitely suspicious behavior. And he behaved very oddly around that bull. Are you a spy, Worthing?" he said, and when Ernest didn't answer, "Well, are you?"

We shall fight in the offices ... and in the hospitals.

-WINSTON CHURCHILL,

1940.

London-27 October 1940 THE MOMENT POLLY RETURNED FROM SEEING MARJORIE, Eileen said, "Mr. Fetters rang up while you were gone. He said they'd found three bodies in Padgett's." Which meant Polly hadn't had to go to the hospital after all.

She wished she hadn't. She'd gone there to prove the number of dead wasn't a discrepancy so that Mike could stop worrying that he'd altered events, only to find that she'd altered them.

Don't be ridiculous, she thought. Historians can't do that. And there were dozens of reasons why Mr. Dunworthy could have got the time of the St. Paul's UXB's removal wrong. The newspaper could have moved the time up to throw the Germans off. During the V-1 and V-2 attacks, they'd printed false accounts of where the rockets fell to trick the Germans into shortening their range. They might have done something like that with the UXB, to convince the Nazis the bomb was easier to defuse than it had been. Or they could simply have got the time wrong, like the nurses at Padgett's had got the number wrong.

You thought the number of fatalities was a discrepancy, she reassured herself, and it turned out it wasn't. And look at your last assignment. For a few weeks there, you were convinced you'd altered events, but you hadn't. Everything worked out exactly the same as it would have if you hadn't been there.

And this will, too. The doctors say Marjorie's going to make a full recovery, and it isn't as if she married her airman or got knocked up. In a few days she'll be out of hospital and back at Townsend Brothers, just as if nothing had happened. And all I have to do is make certain Mike doesn't find out what Marjorie said. And that Eileen kept the Hodbins from going on the City of Benares.

She wondered if she should caution Eileen again not to say anything about that, but she didn't want her inquiring why. And Eileen wasn't likely to bring up the subject of the Hodbins to Mike for fear that he'd make her write to them and tell them where she lived. At any rate, the only thing on Eileen's mind was what had happened at Padgett's.

"Mr. Fetters says they were three charwomen," Eileen said. "They didn't work at Padgett's. They worked at Selfridges. He said they must have been on their way to work when the raids began and took shelter in Padgett's basement."

Which meant Mike could also stop worrying about the fatalities being the retrieval team, and so could she. And now all I have to worry about is where the team is. And whether it will show up before my deadline. And about the possibility that Oxford's been destroyed.

And about Eileen, who'd been badly shaken by the knowledge that "we could have been in that basement shelter, too."

"No, we couldn't," Polly had said firmly. "Because I know when and where the raids are, remember?" At any rate till January.

"You're right." Eileen looked reassured. "It was a tremendous comfort yesterday going to Stepney, knowing there weren't going to be any sirens."

Except the one which had sounded at Townsend Brothers. Had that been a discrepancy, too?

"Oh, and I wanted to ask you," Eileen said, "Mr. Fetters said Padgett's is reopening 'on a limited basis' next month, and asked me if I was interested in coming back to work there, and I wondered what I should tell him. I mean, we mightn't be here by then ..."

Or we might.

"I'll ask Mike," Polly said. "I'm going to check on him now and take him a blanket."

"Can I come with you?"

"No, there are too many people about. I'll show you tonight where the drop is. Oh, I nearly forgot. I think I found the airfield Gerald's at. Was it Boscombe Down?"

"No," Eileen said. She looked thoughtful. "Though the B sounds right. I'm sorry ..."

"It's all right," Polly said, fighting back disappointment. She'd been so certain that was it. "I'll go ask Mrs. Rickett if she has an ABC. If she does, you can look through the names while I'm gone."

Mrs. Rickett didn't have one. Miss Laburnum was certain she had one "somewhere" and looked through every drawer and cupboard in her room before she said, "Oh, that's right, I lent it to my niece when she was visiting from Cheshire." And then insisted on showing Polly two coconuts she'd managed to scrounge up for the play and relating in detail the time she'd seen Sir Godfrey onstage when she was a girl. It was two o'clock before Polly was able to escape, by which time she was convinced that Mike would be dead from hypothermia.

He wasn't, and even though his teeth were chattering, he refused to leave the drop. "There have been contemps in the area all day. It'll have a much better chance of opening after the raids start tonight."

"But it won't help to have you freeze to death," she said, and tried to persuade him to let her spell him long enough for him to go to Mrs. Leary's and eat his supper, but he refused.

"The more coming and going there is, the greater the chance someone will see us," he argued.

"Won't you at least let me bring you another blanket and something to eat?"

"No, I'll be fine. Where are the raids tonight?"

"The East End, the City, and Islington."

"Good. Then there won't be firemen or rescue workers around here to see the shimmer. Were you able to find out anything about the casualties at Padgett's?"

"Yes." She told him about the three dead charwomen.

"So it wasn't the retrieval team. And there wasn't a discrepancy. Good," he said, sounding relieved. "What about Phipps's whereabouts? Were you able to get hold of a railway guide?"

"Not yet, but I'll look at the one at Townsend Brothers tomorrow, and I should be able to find out some more airfields at Notting Hill Gate tonight," she said, thinking of her troupe mates Lila and Viv. "Is there anything else you want us to do?"

"Yes, buy some newspapers for us to use for our personal ads. And keep pumping Eileen about what else Gerald said. You haven't figured out what his joke about getting her driving authorization meant, have you?"

"No. The only thing I've been able to think of is that RAF pilots carried their papers in a waterproof wallet in case they had to ditch in the Channel, but the wallet wasn't red, and I don't see what-"

"But at least that tells us we're on the right track about his being at an airfield," he said. "You'd better go. When are the sirens supposed to go tonight?"

"I don't know." She explained about having left before Colin got the siren data to her. "The raids begin at 7:50. Here, take my coat. I can borrow one for tonight," she said, draping it over his knees. "And if it begins to rain again, go home. Don't try to be a hero."

"I won't," he promised, and she hurried back to the boardinghouse, got Eileen, took her to Notting Hill Gate, then sent her off to Holborn to see if the lending library had an ABC.

"If they don't," she said, "borrow some newspapers." She told Eileen about Mike's ideas of using personal ads to tell the retrieval team where they were.

"I know where we can find examples of the right kind of ads," Eileen said eagerly. "A Murder Is Announced."

"What?" Polly said.

"It's a mystery novel. By Agatha Christie. It's full of personal ads ... Oh, no, that won't work," she said glumly.

"Why not? The library at Holborn has several Agatha Christie novels, and if they don't have it there, I'm certain one of the bookshops in Charing Cross Road-"

"No, they won't. It wasn't written till after the war." She cheered up. "But I think there's one in The Dawson Pedigree that we could use." She started toward the Central Line.

"Wait," Polly said. "You need to be back before half past ten. That's when the trains stop."

"Yes, Fairy Godmother," Eileen said. "Any other instructions?"

"Yes. Keep a close watch on your belongings. There's a band of urchins at Holborn who pick people's pockets."

"Of course. It's my fate to be surrounded by horrible children no matter where I go. But at least it's not the Hodbins," she said, and went off to catch her train. Polly went out to the District Line platform, where the troupe was rehearsing, to talk to Lila and Viv.

They weren't there. "They went to a dance," Miss Laburnum reported.

"On a Sunday night?" the rector said, shocked.

"It's an American USO dance," Miss Laburnum explained. "I don't know what Sir Godfrey will say when he gets here. He so wanted to rehearse the shipwreck scene."

What Sir Godfrey said, when he arrived a moment later, was, " 'False varlets! How all occasions do inform against me. They hath outvillained villainy!' Their foul perfidy leaves us no choice but to rehearse the rescue scene. We shall begin at the point at which the castaways have heard the ship's gun and have all rushed down to the beach."

Polly and Sir Godfrey were the only ones in that scene, which meant she had no chance to look through Sir Godfrey's Times for more airfields. And after rehearsal was over, when she asked Mrs. Brightford if she knew the names of any, Sir Godfrey said dryly, "Does this mean that you, too, will be abandoning us to 'foot it featly here and there,' Lady Mary?"

"No," she said, hoping Holborn had had an ABC.

"It didn't," Eileen reported on her return. "And it only had two newspapers. The librarian said children keep taking them for the scrap-paper drive. But she had heaps of Agatha Christies.

"Look," she said excitedly when they reached the emergency staircase, showing Polly a paperback book. "Murder in the Calais Coach!"

"Is that the one you thought had a personal ad in it?"

"No, that's not by Agatha Christie, it's by Dorothy Sayers. At least I think that's what it was in. It might have been in Murder Must Advertise instead, and at any rate, the library didn't have either one. But"-she produced another paperback-"it did have The ABC Murders."