And this Eileen looked nothing like the slim, pretty, green-eyed redhead he’d seen in Oxford eight years ago.
But she would have aged fifty-five years since then, and the curly-haired brunette WAAC in the photo had looked nothing like the elderly woman he’d talked to either. And Mrs. Lambert’s gray hair as she bent over a display case, writing her name on the name tag, bore hints of what might be faded red.
Now she was struggling to put her name tag on. And what if, when she finally managed to pin it on, it read “Eileen O’Reilly”?
“What did Mrs. Lambert do in the war?” he asked Talbot. Let her say she was a Wren. Or a chorus girl, he prayed.
“She drove an ambulance,” Talbot said. “Oh, dear, she still doesn’t see us. Come along.” And Talbot dragged him across the room to Mrs. Lambert. She didn’t look as old as Talbot, but that was no doubt due to her plumpness, and Merope had been younger than Polly. The evacuation of the children had been her first assignment.
And, if this was her, her only one.
“Eileen,” Talbot said. “Here’s someone who wants to meet you.”
Eileen had finally got her name tag attached, but it was no help. It merely read “Eileen Lambert,” and “Women’s World War II Alumni Association,” and when she looked up, her eyes were a pale aqua, which might or might not have been green when she was younger.
“I’m sorry,” Talbot was saying. “I’ve forgotten what your name was, Mr.—”
“Knight. Calvin Knight. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Lambert,” he said, watching her closely as he shook her hand. “I’m from Oxford,” he added, and thought he saw a flicker of recognition. Oh, God, it was her.
“Mr. Knight is looking for someone who might have known his grandmother,” Talbot said. “Where were you, Goody? Browne said you had to run some sort of errand?”
“Yes. At St. Paul’s. I’d asked my brother to go for me, but he couldn’t. He’s down at the Old Bailey this morning, so I had to go.”
Brother. She had a brother. It wasn’t Eileen after all. The relief hit him with the force of a punch to the stomach.
“And the traffic was wretched,” Mrs. Lambert was saying.
Talbot nodded. “They simply must do something about that area near St. Bart’s. It’s impossible.”
Pudge came up. “Oh, you two have found each other. Excellent. Did Lambert know your grandmother?” she asked him.
“I haven’t asked her yet.”
“His grandmother was in London during the Blitz,” Talbot explained to Eileen. “Her name was Polly—what did you say her last name was, Mr. Knight?”
“Sebastian. Polly Sebastian.” Both ladies looked expectantly at Eileen Lambert, but she was already shaking her head.
“No, there isn’t anyone by that name in the organization,” she said. “Was Polly a nickname for Mary?”
“Yes.”
“We had a Mary in our ambulance unit,” Talbot said, “but her last name was Kent.”
Mrs. Lambert ignored her. “What was your grandmother’s maiden name, Mr. Knight?”
“Sebastian. Her married name was O’Reilly,” he said, just in case, but he couldn’t detect any reaction from her.
“No, sorry,” she said. “We haven’t any Mary O’Reillys either. Have you tried the museum’s archives?”
Yes, he thought. And the British Museum’s. And the Public Record Office’s. And the morgues of the Times and the Daily Herald and the Express.
“That’s a good idea,” he said. “I’m afraid I haven’t time today, but I’ll certainly come back. Thank you for your help. And for yours, Mrs. Vernon,” he said to Talbot, “and yours.” He shook hands with each of them in turn. “I don’t want to keep you from the exhibition.”
“Yes. Oh, Eileen, you must see the ‘Beauty in the Blitz’ display,” Talbot said. “They have nylons from the American PX and that dreadful face powder made from chalk. And there’s a lipstick just like the one I lost when Kent pushed me into the gutter that time. It may even be the same one. I’ll never forget that lipstick. Crimson Caress, it was called.” She and Pudge dragged Mrs. Lambert off, and Calvin headed for the exit, winding his way through the displays to the VE-Day exhibit, which was complete with cheers and simulated fireworks.
It was already after eleven, but if he hurried, he might be able to reach St. Paul’s by noon and catch some of the visitors having lunch in the cathedral’s cafe. He walked swiftly toward the exit.
“Mr. Knight!” someone called from behind him. He stopped and looked back. Mrs. Lambert was bustling along the corridor after him. He stopped and waited for her to catch up. “Oh, good,” she panted, “you’re still here. I was afraid you’d already gone.” She hurried up to where he was standing.
“What is it?” he said. “Did you remember something?”
She shook her head, attempting to catch her breath, her hand to her bosom.
“Are you all right?” he asked. “Can I get you a glass of water or something? We could go into the cafeteria.”
“No, they’ll all be coming in for lunch shortly. I’m sorry about that just now. I couldn’t say anything with Talbot and Pudge there.” She took his arm and led him
“No, they’ll all be coming in for lunch shortly. I’m sorry about that just now. I couldn’t say anything with Talbot and Pudge there.” She took his arm and led him past the gift shop and into the main hall, looking around, presumably for somewhere they could talk. “I’d hoped to catch you when you first arrived, but I wasn’t certain where you’d be. St. Paul’s is opening their exhibition
