Imperial War Museum, London—7 May 1995

“WHAT ON EARTH ARE YOU DOING HERE, CONNOR?” THE woman said. He couldn’t see more than her outline in the pitch-darkness of the blackout exhibit, but it must be the fortyish-something woman whom he’d seen unloading things from her car and then going into the museum when he first arrived, though she was far too young to be Merope.

And Merope wouldn’t have called you Connor, he thought, so this woman’s clearly mistaken you for someone else. “I’m afraid you’ve—” he began, but she was plunging eagerly on.

“I saw you going into the exhibit, and I thought, that has to be Connor Cross.”

Oh, God, he thought. It’s Ann. “I’m sorry, you’ve mistaken me for someone else,” he said firmly, thanking God the room was dark. “I’m not—”

“You don’t remember me, do you?” she said. “Ann Perry? We met at the British Library years ago. We were both doing research on British Intelligence in World War II. It was in 1976, just after they’d released all the classified documents. You were looking for an agent who’d rescued downed fliers—I don’t remember his name, Commander Something—”

Commander Harold.

“And I was researching the false articles they’d put in the newspapers to convince Hitler the invasion was going to be at Calais,” she said.

And you showed me an announcement in the Croydon Clarion Call in May 1944, he thought, which read, “Mr. and Mrs. James Townsend of Upper Notting announced the engagement of their daughter Polly to Flight Officer Colin Templer of the 21st Airborne Division, currently stationed in Kent. A late June wedding is planned.”

It’s because of you that I found Michael Davies, he thought, that I’m here looking for someone who worked with Polly.

But he couldn’t say that. “I—” he began, but she was still talking.

“I designed this exhibition for the museum,” she said, putting her arm in his. “I came this morning to make certain there weren’t any last-minute muck-ups, and I’m so glad I did. It gives me the chance to tell you that you were responsible for my deciding to specialize in the history of World War Two,” she went on, leading him along the white arrows toward the exit curtain. “I had the most awful crush on you, but you were completely oblivious.”

No, I wasn’t.

“I was convinced you must already have a girlfriend—”

I did.

“—or that you had some sort of tragic secret.” She pushed the curtain aside, and the light beyond spilled into the room where they were standing, revealing the chopped-off bonnet of a bus with shuttered headlamps. And Ann.

She was as pretty as ever, even though it had been nineteen years, but he couldn’t say that either.

“And I was determined to find out what your secret was—” She smiled up at him and then stopped, appalled, and jerked her hand away from his arm. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” she said, blushing. “I thought you were someone I knew. You must think me a complete fool.”

“Not at all,” he said. “I’ve done the same thing myself.”

“It’s only that you look exactly like …,” she said, frowning bewilderedly at him. “You’re certain you’re not Connor Cross? No, of course you’re not. Nineteen years ago you’d have been, what, six years old?”

“Eight,” he said. But it hadn’t been nineteen years ago. It had been five, and they’d both been twenty-two. He extended his hand. “Calvin Knight. I’m a reporter for Time Out. I’m here to write an article on the exhibit.”

“How do you do, Mr. Knight,” she said, turning pink again. “You haven’t a much older brother who looks just like you, have you? Or an uncle?”

“No, sorry.”

“Or a portrait of yourself stashed away somewhere, like Dorian Gray?”

“No. You designed this blackout exhibit?” he asked, to change the subject.

“Yes, the entire Blitz exhibition, actually,” and he was afraid she’d offer to give him a tour, but she said, “I’d show you round, but I have a meeting at the British Museum. I’m doing an intelligence-war exhibit for them in August, which you’d be interested in, about Fortitude South and the deception campaign—” She stopped, looking embarrassed all over again. “No, you wouldn’t. I am so sorry. I keep forgetting you’re not Connor. You look exactly like him.”

“I’m sure it will be a very interesting exhibit. I’ll certainly come,” he lied. He couldn’t run the risk of running into her again. Ann had been a very bright girl. He might not be able to fool her twice.

“You’re very kind,” she said. “I hope my idiotic behavior won’t influence your review of the Blitz exhibit.”

“It won’t.”

“Good. Again, I am sorry,” she apologized, and hurried off before he could say anything, which was probably just as well—though he wished there was some way he could thank her for having given him the clue he’d spent the five previous years looking for. And for producing this exhibit so he could, hopefully, find the next one.

Which he needed to get on with. But he stood there in the dark for several minutes, looking at nothing, remembering those long months spent in the reading room searching for some clue as to where Michael Davies and Merope were, for some hope that Polly wasn’t dead. Ann had talked to him, asked him about his research, commiserated with him over the clumsy microfilm readers and the faulty heaters. She’d brought him sandwiches and contraband cups of tea and cheered him up, especially after he’d found the notice of an unidentified man who’d been killed by an HE on September 10, the day Mr. Dunworthy had attempted to go through to.

That had been a black day, and Ann, seeing him sitting there, staring blindly at the microfilm screen, had insisted he come out with her for supper and “a stiff drink” and then had held his head when he vomited in the pub’s loo. I couldn’t have done it without you, he called silently after her.

And you still haven’t done it, he thought. You still haven’t found Polly, or anyone who knew her, and it’s already half past ten. And Cynthia Camberley and the rest were probably already halfway through the exhibit by now.

He hurried into the next room. There were sandbags piled along the walls, a door with an air-raid shelter symbol on it, and next to it a mannequin in an ARP helmet and coveralls holding a stirrup pump. The muffled sounds of sirens and bombs came from inside the shut door. The other three walls of the room were lined with display cases. Camberley was looking at one filled with ration books and wartime recipes. “Do you remember those dreadful powdered eggs?” she was asking the woman in the flowered hat.

“Yes, and Spam. I haven’t been able to look at a tin since.”

He went over to them, pretending to look at the display. “What’s that?” he asked, pointing at a loaf of moldy-looking gray bread.

“Lord Woolton’s National Wheatmeal Bread,” Camberley said, making a face. “It tasted of ashes. It’s my personal opinion that Hitler was behind the recipe.”

“Can I quote you on that?” he asked, pulling out his notebook. He introduced himself, then asked them their impressions of the exhibit and what they’d done in the war.

“I drove an ambulance,” Camberley said.

It was difficult to imagine her being tall enough to see over the steering wheel. “In the Blitz?” he asked.

“No, during the V-rocket attacks. I was stationed at Dulwich.”

Dulwich. That was near Croydon, which meant she might have known Polly, but that was no help. He needed someone who’d known her later, or rather, earlier, after she went to the Blitz. “Did you drive an ambulance as well?” he asked Herbaceous Border, whose name tag read “Margaret Fortis.”

“No, nothing so glamorous, I’m afraid. I spent the Blitz cutting sandwiches and pouring tea. I worked in a WVS canteen in one of the Underground shelters,” she explained. “They’re supposed to have a replica here.” She looked vaguely about.

“Which station?” he asked, trying not to sound too eager. If it was the one Polly had used as a shelter, there was a chance she might have known her.

“Marble Arch,” she said.

Marble Arch had been hit, so that didn’t help.

“You’re interested in the Blitz?” Camberley asked.

“Yes, my grandmother was in London during the Blitz.” Forgive me, Polly, he thought. “And I was hoping to find someone who knew her.”

“What did she do?”

“I don’t know. She died before I was born. I know she worked at Townsend Brothers during the first part of the Blitz and then did some sort of war work, and an uncle of mine said he thought she might have driven an ambulance.”

“Oh, then Talbot might know her.”

“Talbot?”

“Yes. Talbot—I mean, Mrs. Vernon. During the war we got in the habit of calling one another by our last names, and we still do it, even though most of us have married and those aren’t our names any longer. Mrs. Vernon was at Dulwich with me. She drove an ambulance in the East End during the Blitz.”

If Polly’d known Mrs. Vernon, or rather, Talbot, during the rocket attacks, she’d have taken care to keep out of her way during the Blitz, but he went with Camberley to find her in case she knew of other ambulance drivers he could contact.

Talbot, a formidable woman three times Camberley’s size, was listening to a BBC recording with headphones on. Camberley had to tap her on the back to get her to turn around. “This is Mr. Knight. He’s looking for someone who knew his grandmother. She was an ambulance driver.”

“What was her name?” Talbot asked.

“Polly. Polly Sebastian.”

“Sebastian…,” she said, shaking her head. “No, I don’t remember anyone by that name in the FANYs. But I know whom you should ask. Goody. Mrs. Lambert,” she explained. “She’s our group’s historian, and she knows everyone who worked in the Blitz.”

“Which one is she?”

“I don’t see her,” Talbot said, looking round the room. “She’s medium height, gray hair, rather stout.” Which described three-quarters of the women he’d seen this morning. “I know she’s here somewhere. Browne will know.”

She dragged him over to a gray-haired woman peering through her spectacles at a parachute mine. “Browne, where’s Goody Two-Shoes, do you know?”

“She’s not here. She had to do something in the City this morning, I don’t know what, but she said she’d come as soon as she’d finished with whatever it was.”

“Oh, dear,” Talbot said. “This young man is looking for someone who might have known his grandmother.”

“Oh. What did your grandmother do in the war?” Browne asked, and he went through the entire rigamarole again.

“Were you an ambulance driver?” he asked her.

“No, an RAF plotter. So I was only in London for the first two months of the Blitz. You said your grandmother worked at Townsend Brothers. So did Pudge. That’s her over there in the green dress,” she said, pointing at a thin, birdlike woman looking at a display of clothing ration books.

But Pudge, whose name tag read Pauline Rainsford, had worked at Padgett’s, not Townsend Brothers. “Till it was hit,” she said matter-of-factly, “at which point I decided I might as well be in the armed services, and I volunteered to be a Wren.”

“Do you know of anyone who did work at Townsend Brothers?” he asked.

“No, but I know who you should ask. Mrs. Lambert. She’s our group’s historian.”

“I was told she wasn’t here.”

“She’s not,” Pudge said, “but she’s coming. In fact, I expected her here already. I’ll let you know as soon as she arrives, and in the meantime, you can ask the others. Hatcher!” she called to an elegant elderly woman in tweeds and pearls. “You were in London during the Blitz, weren’t you?”

“No. Bletchley Park,” she said, coming over, “which was not nearly as romantic as the historians make it sound. It was mostly drudgery, sorting through thousands upon thousands of combinations, looking for one that might work.”

Like the last eight years of my life, he thought, calculating coordinate after coordinate, searching for clues, trying to find a drop that would open.

“Do you know of anyone who was in London during the Blitz?” Pudge was asking Hatcher.

“Yes,” she said, pointing at two women looking at a display of war posters. “York and Chedders were.”

But neither York nor Chedders—Barbara Chedwick, according to her name tag—remembered a Polly Sebastian, and neither did any of the other women they passed him on to.

“There was a Polly in our troupe,” a large woman whose name tag read “Cora Holland” said.

“In your troop?” he asked. “You were in the WAACs?”

“No, not troop, troupe.” She spelled the word out. “We were in an ENSA show together. We were both chorus girls.” He must not have succeeded in hiding his astonishment because she snapped, “I realize you may find that difficult to believe, but I had quite a good figure in those days. What did you say her last name was?”

“Sebastian.”

“Sebastian,” Cora repeated. “No, that doesn’t ring a bell, I’m afraid, though that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. I might not have ever heard her last name. Mr. Tabbitt called us all by our stage names. Polly’s was Air Raid Adelaide. If her name was Polly. It might have been Peggy.”

Well, and Polly wouldn’t have been a chorus girl in any case. But he couldn’t afford to leave any stone unturned. “Do you know what happened to her?”

“I’m afraid not,” she said apologetically. “It’s so easy to lose track of people in a war, you know.”

Yes.

“I seem to remember having heard that she’d been assigned to one of the groups touring airfields and Army camps.”

So, definitely not his Polly. And neither was the Polly who’d worked with Miss Dennehy on a barrage-balloon crew, even though Miss Dennehy was certain her last name had been Sebastian. “She was killed in August of ’40,” Miss Dennehy said.

By half past eleven he’d interviewed the entire group except for another white-haired woman too deaf to understand anything he’d said to her, and Mrs. Lambert still wasn’t there. And if he waited any longer, he’d miss the ones at St. Paul’s.

He went to find Pudge to ask for Mrs. Lambert’s address and telephone number, but she’d disappeared. He checked the blackout room, holding the curtain aside so he could see, and then the mockup of a tube shelter.

Pudge wasn’t in there, but Talbot was, looking at a “Report Suspicious Behavior” poster on the tiled tunnel wall. “Did you find Lambert?” she asked. “Did she know what your grandmother did during the Blitz?”

“No,” he said. “She’s not here yet, and I’m afraid I must go. I was wondering if you—”

“She’s not here yet? I can’t imagine what’s keeping her,” she said, and dragged him off to find the woman who’d been too deaf to interview.

“Rumford,” Talbot said, “did Goody Two-Shoes tell you what she had to do before she came here?”

“What?” Rumford said, cupping her hand to her ear.

“I said,” Talbot shouted, “did Goody Two-Shoes—Mrs. Lambert—tell you what she had to do before she came here? Mrs. Lambert!”

“Lantern?”

“No. Lambert. Do you know where she was going this morning before she came here?”

Rumford looked round vaguely. “Isn’t she here yet?”

“No. And this young man wants to speak to her. Do you know where she went?”

“Yes,” she said. “To St. Paul’s.”

St. Paul’s, where he could already be if he hadn’t waited here for her.

“St. Paul’s?” Talbot said. “Why did she need to go there?”

“What?” Rumford cupped her hand to her ear again.

“I said, why did—oh, good, she’s here,” Talbot said, pointing at the far side of the exhibit where a plump, friendly-looking woman was rummaging in her handbag. “Goody Two-Shoes!” Talbot called, and when she didn’t look up, “Lambert! Over here. Eileen!”