Polly looked stricken. “I don’t know. I should have asked, but I thought I might still be able to catch them —”
“It’s all right. I know what Mr. Bartholomew looks like and what he had on. I saw him earlier tonight. He was wearing street clothes and an overcoat and scarf.
We’ll go through the wards—”
“You saw him?” Polly said. “Where?”
“At Blackfriars. He—”
“Why didn’t you say so before?” Polly said eagerly. “If you told him about us—Did he tell you where the drop was?”
“Drop?” Binnie said alertly.
Alf cut in, “You mean like when they ’ang somebody?”
“I didn’t have a chance to tell him anything,” Eileen said. “I was on the train platform when he ran past, and I tried to go after him to catch him, but—”
“Alf got in the way,” Binnie said.
“I never,” Alf responded indignantly. “It was that guard what stopped ’er.”
“Shh, both of you,” Eileen said. “I tried to go after him, but I was shanghaied into driving two bombing victims to St.—”
“We been rescuin’ people all night,” Alf said.
“Except for this one what died,” Binnie put in. “We got there too late.”
“Too late,” Polly murmured.
“You mustn’t worry,” Eileen told her. “We’ll find him. What sort of injury did the firewatcher he brought in have? Burns? Broken bones? Internal injuries?”
If it was internal injuries, he’d be in surgery, but Polly didn’t know. “All I know is they had to carry him down from the roofs on a stretcher.”
“They? There was more than one firewatcher with him?”
“Yes. The other one was Mr. Humphreys. Elderly, balding.”
“Good,” Eileen said. “You know what he looks like, and I know what Mr. Bartholomew looks like.”
“I’ll find ’em,” Alf said, and started to dash off. Eileen grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and Binnie by her sash.
“What’re you doin’ that for?” Alf demanded indignantly. “I’ll wager I can find ’em sooner’n you. I’m good at spottin’.”
“I know you are,” Eileen said, “but neither of you is going anywhere till we’ve worked out a plan. Mr. Bartholomew is tall and has dark hair. How tall is Mr.
Humphreys, Polly?”
“Shorter than me,” she said. “They should both be wearing blue coveralls and tin helmets unless Mr. Bartholomew didn’t have time to change, in which case—”
“He’ll be wearing street clothes and an overcoat,” Eileen said. “You and Binnie check the waiting rooms, and I’ll go ask Dr. Cross—”
“What if ’e makes you drive him someplace again?” Binnie asked.
She was right. “I’ll ask the matron, then, and Polly, you go describe the patient to the admitting nurse. We’ll all meet back here. Alf, Binnie, if you find Mr.
She was right. “I’ll ask the matron, then, and Polly, you go describe the patient to the admitting nurse. We’ll all meet back here. Alf, Binnie, if you find Mr.
Humphreys, ask him where Mr. Bartholomew is, and tell him—”
“You’re lookin’ for ’im,” Alf finished for her.
Polly gave Eileen a rapid look.
“No,” Eileen said. “He won’t know who we are. Tell him someone from Oxford needs to speak to him.”
“You ain’t from Oxford,” Alf said. “You’re from Backbury.”
“ ’Ow come ’e won’t know who you are?” Binnie asked.
“I’ll explain later. If he won’t come with you, tell him to stay where he is, and then come fetch us.”
“What if we get thrown out?” Alf asked.
Always a possibility where the Hodbins were concerned. “Go round to the door of the ambulance entrance and wait for us there,” Eileen said.
“What if ’e’s unconscious so we can’t tell ’im?” Alf asked.
“We ain’t lookin’ for the one what’s hurt, you dunderhead,” Binnie said. “We’re lookin’ for the ones what’re with ’im. Ain’t we, Eileen?”
“Yes,” she said, and Alf nodded and took off like a shot down the deserted corridor.
Binnie started after him and then stopped. “You ain’t tryin’ to ditch us like you done when you said you was goin’ to tell Matron we was in the waitin’ room, are you?”
