“It will by Friday next. Worthing, I need you to go to Dover.”
“To the hospital?” Ernest asked warily.
“No, to the harbor. I need you to deliver a parcel to a boat that’s docked there.”
“Alone?”
“Yes, alone, Lieutenant Worthing. How many people does it take to deliver a single parcel?”
“Sorry, sir,” Ernest said, trying to look chagrined rather than thrilled. Here was his chance. Finally. He’d be on his own and with transport. He could finally get to London. And he’d be able to deliver his articles to the Sudbury Weekly Shopper and the Call without Cess or Prism looking over his shoulder. Especially the Call.
The editor, Mr. Jeppers, always insisted on reading through all of the articles before he okayed them and on asking all kinds of questions.
He’d be pushed for time if he wanted to do both, but luckily, Dover was far enough away that a few hours more or less wouldn’t look suspicious. Unless Lady Bracknell wasn’t sending him right away. “When do I leave, sir?” he asked.
“As soon as you can. His boat will only be in port a day or two. We need to catch him before he goes out again.”
Better and better. He debated asking when Lady Bracknell expected him back from the mission and then decided that was looking for trouble. “Yes, sir,” he said.
“Report to me when you’re ready to leave.”
“Yes, sir.” And as soon as the meeting broke up, he went to borrow Chasuble’s peacoat and see who had a suitable shirt. The sooner he left, the less likely it was that Bracknell would change his mind and decide to send someone with him.
No one had a shirt that could pass for a sailor’s, but Cess produced a shapeless, dingy gray pullover and a pair of canvas sneakers. “The jumper’s Moncrieff’s and the plimsolls are Prism’s,” Cess said.
Prism’s feet were smaller than his, but it didn’t matter. He’d be driving the entire way. “Perfect. Thanks,” he said, yanking the pullover on. “You wouldn’t have a duffel bag, would you?”
“Yes,” Cess said, and returned immediately with a heavy canvas bag and an umbrella. “You’ll need this as well.”
“Hardy seafaring men don’t go about with umbrellas,” Ernest said, shoving a change of clothes into the bag. “And why are you so certain it’s going to rain?
Bracknell said it’s supposed to be fair.”
“He also said that pasture hadn’t any bulls in it,” Cess said, holding out the umbrella. “And it always rains when we have to be outside. Remember the oil-depot ribbon cutting?” He laid the umbrella on the desk and left. As soon as he was gone Ernest opened the file, retrieved the envelope from “Forms 14C,” and put it into the duffel bag under his clothes.
Cess leaned back in. “Bracknell wants to see you.”
Cess leaned back in. “Bracknell wants to see you.”
I knew it was too good to be true, Ernest thought, but Bracknell only wanted to give him the parcel—a large rectangular box that looked heavy but weighed almost nothing—and a letter. “You’re to give both to Captain Doolittle on the Mlle. Jeannette.”
“The Mlle. Jeannette?”
“It’s a French fishing boat.” He told Ernest where it would be docked. “You’re Seaman Higgins. You’re from Cornwall. Can you do a Cornish accent?”
He nodded. “I’m an old hand at accents.”
Bracknell handed him a sheaf of forms. “These are your papers. You were invalided out of His Majesty’s Navy, and you’re looking for work. You’re to say to Captain Doolittle—and only to Captain Doolittle”—he read aloud in his precise upper-class accent—“ ‘Seaman Higgins, sir. Admiral Pickering said as how you was hiring on a crew,’ and Captain Doolittle will reply, ‘Admiral Pickering! How is that old devil? and then you give him the package.’ ”
“Yes, sir.” He repeated his line back to him in what he hoped was an out-of-work sailor’s accent and then said, “Am I taking the Austin or the staff car?”
“Neither. You’re going on foot.”
I knew it was too good to be true, he thought. “You want me to walk all the way to Dover?”
“No, of course not. I want you to hitchhike. That way you’ll be able to discuss the invasion with farmers and other locals. And you’ll be able to stop at pubs along the way and engage the denizens in conversation about the invasion as well.”
But he wouldn’t be able to deliver his articles or get to London.
“The conversations will corroborate the disinformation in our radio transmissions and newspaper articles,” Bracknell said.
“Speaking of which,” Ernest said, “the Call’s and the Shopper’s deadlines are both tomorrow, and if I miss them, there won’t be anything about FUSAG in either paper till week after next. There’ve been planted stories about the American and Canadian troops in every issue of both papers. If they suddenly stop—and in more than one paper—the Germans may notice. And as you’re always saying, sir, in an enterprise like this, if any one piece is missing, the entire scheme will collapse.”
“I am well aware of what I’ve said,” Bracknell snapped. “Have you written the stories?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then Cecily can deliver them for you.” And before Ernest could stop him, he shouted, “Cecily!”
