All Clear

“The names of the people you took to St. Bart’s on the night of the twenty-ninth, especially the officer you kept from bleeding to death. And any information you can find out about them and about what happened to them after they got out of hospital, if they did get out of hospital.”

“You think I did something to lose the war, don’t you?” Eileen said, anguished.

“No,” Polly said, “I think you may have done just the opposite, but I need proof. Where are Alf and Binnie?”

“At school.”

“What about Mr. Dunworthy?”

“He’s sleeping, finally, and you’re not to wake him. He’s been so worried.”

“But there’s something I must ask him.”

“You can do it after I come back,” Eileen said firmly, and made Polly get into bed.

“Wait, before you go, you said Alf did the navigating that night. How did he know the streets?”

“From his planespotting,” she said. “He pored over his maps of England and London for hours.”

“Where did he get them? Did you give them to him?”

“No, the vicar did. During the quarantine. Alf was driving me mad, and I asked Mr. Goode to please send over something to keep him occupied.”

And if Eileen hadn’t been there, none of it would have been able to happen. Alf wouldn’t have known the streets, and Binnie wouldn’t have known how to drive, wouldn’t even have been alive. It all fit perfectly, as if it had been planned: Steps for Saving a Bombing Victim During an Air Raid.

“You’re to rest till I get back,” Eileen said.

Polly promised, and Eileen left. Polly waited five minutes, in case she came back to check on her, and then dressed and went to Alf and Binnie’s school and told the headmistress she needed to take them home. “It’s an emergency,” she said, which was true.

The headmistress sent a student to fetch them.

“Where’s Eileen?” Binnie asked when she saw Polly.

“At St. Bart’s,” Polly said, and Binnie went ashen.

“She’s dead, ain’t she?” Alf said hoarsely.

“No,” Polly said. “She’s perfectly fine. I sent her there to find out something for me.”

“You swear?”

“I swear,” Polly said, and Binnie’s color began to come back.

“Then what are you doin’ ’ere?” Alf asked.

“I came to take you out for a sweet to thank you for helping me at the hospital.”

“What sort of sweet?” Alf asked suspiciously.

She hadn’t thought that far, but the Hodbins knew exactly where to go. Polly bought them both ices and then asked, “This autumn did you ever go to St. Paul’s Station?”

Binnie, her mouth full, began to say no, but Alf was already blurting out, “That guard was lyin’. We didn’t do nothin.’ ’E give me that shilling. For tellin’ ’im what station it was, and then the guard come along and said we picked ’is pocket, but we never. ’E ain’t gonna put us in jail, is ’e?”

“I don’t know,” Polly said consideringly. “If the guard says you did … Do you remember what the gentleman looked like who gave you the shilling? Perhaps if we could find him, he’d be willing to speak to the police—”

“It weren’t no gent,” Alf said. “ ’E was a boy.”

“How old?”

Alf shrugged. “I dunno.”

“Older ’n us,” Binnie said. “Maybe seventeen.”

“And where were you when he gave you the shilling?”

“By the map,” Binnie said. “ ’E was standin’ there, and we come up to look at it. There ain’t no law says we can’t look at a map, is there? ’Ow else do you find out which line to take?”

“And then what happened?”

“The guard come up,” Binnie said, sounding outraged, “and told ’im ’e’d better check ’is money and papers.”

“We didn’t do nothin’,” Alf said.

Except delay him in the tunnel for a critical few minutes. If it was him.

Binnie was frowning at her thoughtfully.

I need to change the subject before she puzzles it out, Polly thought. “It was very clever of you to think of the snake at the hospital, Binnie,” she said.

“It was my idea,” Alf said, offended.

“It was not, you slowcoach.”

“Well, it was my snake. D’you want to see ’im?” He reached for his pocket.

“No,” Polly said, bought them both a lollipop, delivered them back to the headmistress, and hurried home. Eileen wasn’t there yet, and Mr. Dunworthy’s door was still shut. Polly rapped gently on it and went in.

Mr. Dunworthy wasn’t in bed. He was sitting by the window, looking out, and she was struck all over again by how weary and defeated he seemed. “Mr.

Dunworthy,” she said gently.

“Polly!” he cried and held out his hands to her. “Last night when you didn’t come home, I was afraid—”

He stopped and gave her a searching look. “What is it? Has something happened to Eileen?”

“No,” Polly said. She pulled a stool over in front of his chair and sat down facing him. “I need to ask you some questions. Mike said the night of the twenty-ninth, Mr. Bartholomew saved the life of the firewatcher who was injured. Is that right?”

“You think he contributed to what’s happened, too?”

“Yes, but not in the way you think. Did he? Save his life?”

“I don’t know. He said Langby had fallen on an incendiary and was badly burned. He might have.”