Cess leaned in the door. “Have you seen Chasuble?”
“No,” Ernest said, typing, “Mr. Dunworthy, originally of Oxford—Did you check the mess?”
“No, I’ll do that,” he said, and, amazingly, left. Ernest went back to typing. “—is survived by his children, Sebastian Dunworthy and Eileen Ward—”
“Hullo,” Chasuble said, coming in with several photographs. “Is that the caption for the church in Hampstead you’re typing?”
“No, here it is.” Ernest handed it to him. “Check the time, will you? I couldn’t decipher your handwriting,” and while Chasuble was reading it, he typed hastily,
“The funeral will be held at St. Mary-at-the-Gate in Cardle 20 October at ten o’clock,” ripped it out of the typewriter, and laid it face down on the desk. “Is that the right time?”
“No,” Chasuble said. “It should be 3:19 P.M., not 2:19.” He handed it back to Ernest, who rolled the sheet in, Xed out the time, and typed “3:19” above it.
“Where did it actually hit?”
“Charing Cross Road,” Chasuble said, and handed Ernest several photographs. “Here are last week’s incidents, but I don’t think there’s anything we can use. Only one church and one shopping street, and they were both totally demolished. Nothing identifiable. The V-2’s simply too good at what it does.”
Ernest leafed through the photos. “What about this one?” He held up a photo of a demolished school with a dozen uniformed students clambering happily over the wreckage.
Chasuble shook his head. “Photo’s already been in the Daily Express.”
“I thought they’d been told they had to run it by us first.”
“They were, but they failed to tell the reporter that, and it slipped through.” He shuffled through the photos and handed Ernest one of a tangle of timbers. “See that?” he said, pointing to a broken sign in one corner.
Ernest squinted at the tiny letters. “Dentist?” he guessed.
“Dental surgeon,” Chasuble said. “Or, rather, ‘dental surg—’ I know it’s small, but I thought perhaps a personal-interest story—‘Extreme Cure for Toothache,’ or something, about a man who was on his way to the dentist when the V-2 hit, and the blast knocking the offending tooth out.”
Ernest nodded. “Where’s this supposed to be?”
“Brixton,” he said. “It’s actually a street in Walworth, but I was able to crop out the village hall. The bomb fell at”—he consulted his list—“4:05 A.M. on the eleventh.”
“4:05? That won’t work. The dentist wouldn’t be open at that hour, not even for an emergency root canal.”
“Oh, right,” Chasuble said, taking the picture back. “I’ll see what else I’ve got.” But he still didn’t leave.
“Cess was here earlier looking for you. He said it was urgent,” Ernest said, and Chasuble finally departed so he could get back to his typing. He’d had more and more difficulty finding time to write his messages since D-Day. Now that Moncrieff and Gwendolyn were in France, Cess had no one else to pester and was always coming in to sit on the edge of his desk. And when he wasn’t there, Chasuble was, talking about Daphne the barmaid and reading over his shoulder. Which meant he had to snatch odd moments in which to compose his messages.
And the disinformation articles he was writing now gave him fewer opportunities to work in Polly’s and Eileen’s names and information since the locations had to be the false ones they’d agreed on, and since Chasuble and Cess frequently ended up delivering the stories to the papers. But he did the best he could, writing an assortment of announcements, letters to the editor, and human-interest pieces, and sticking them in with the captioned V-1 and V-2 photographs whenever he was the delivery boy.
“Christmas is still two months off,” he typed, “but two Nottingham girls are already hard at work on a festive project: sending a bit of Advent cheer in the form of homemade crackers to our brave lads in uniform. Misses Mary O’Reilly and Eileen Sebastian of Cardle Hill are making the—”
“I couldn’t find Cess,” Chasuble said, coming back in.
“Try the mess,” Ernest suggested.
But it was too late. “There you are, Chasuble,” Cess said, appearing in the doorway. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Remember how Daphne told you she wouldn’t go out with you?”
“I’ve been trying to forget it,” Chasuble said glumly.
“Well, you needn’t. I’ve got good news. I’m taking her to a harvest fete in Goddards Green this afternoon. Wait!” he said, backing away from Chasuble’s raised fists and putting his hands up to protect himself. “Hold on till you’ve heard the whole thing.”
“Go ahead,” Chasuble said grimly. “How exactly is this good news?”
“Because she’s bringing her friend Jean with her, and I told her I’d bring along a friend for her. Wait!” He circled around behind the desk.
Ernest draped a concealing arm over the paper in the typewriter.
“Don’t you see?” Cess said. “While you’re impressing Daphne with your prowess at the coconut shy, I lure Jean off to the tea tent, and by the time you find us, I’ll have worked my fatal charm on Jean, you’ll have worked your fatal charm on Daphne, and we swap. We’re leaving at ten.” He started out the door.
“Wait,” Chasuble said. “Isn’t it a bit late in the year for a harvest fete? And why is it on a Wednesday?”
“The fete had to be delayed when a V-2 hit the Women’s Institute,” Cess said. He started out again and then leaned back in. “Oh, I nearly forgot,” he said to Chasuble. “Lady Bracknell wants to see you.”
“What about? You don’t think he’s found out about the Austin, do you?”
“I do hope not,” Cess said. “You’re no use to me dead.” And the two of them finally departed.
