“I do hope not,” Cess said. “You’re no use to me dead.” And the two of them finally departed.
And hopefully whatever it was Lady Bracknell wanted, it would take at least half an hour, Cess would be curious enough to listen at the door the entire time, and he’d have time to finish his article. “The Christmas crackers are made of pasteboard tubes and wrapping paper donated by Townsend Brothers Department Store and contain tissue-paper crowns. As for the traditional pop of a cracker, Miss O’Reilly, known to her friends as Polly, said, ‘No, our soldiers have had enough “bangs” for the year and should like peace and quiet for the holidays.’ ”
Not that they’d get it. Christmas week was the Battle of the Bulge. Another event I’ll never be able to observe, he thought, remembering the attack on Pearl Harbor, which he’d spent decoding intercepts. And during the Battle of the Bulge, I’ll be typing articles about Christmas on the home front and sending V-1s and V-2s down on innocent people’s heads.
“The Christmas crackers will also contain a sweet,” he typed, “and a handwritten motto, such as ‘A stitch in time saves nine,’ and ‘Seek and you shall find.’ ”
Chasuble stomped in. “Well, that’s that,” he said disgustedly.
Cess leaned in the door. “What happened?”
Damn it, Ernest thought, stopping typing. At this rate, Christmas would be over before he finished the story.
“The boiler at St. Anselm’s in Cricklewood blew up,” Chasuble said angrily.
“Cricklewood?” Ernest said, frowning. “I thought you were taking the girls to Goddards Green.”
“Not now. I’m not taking them anywhere. It seems the bell tower is still standing.”
“What?”
“It’s Norman. And famous. Bracknell wants photographs, captions, and accompanying stories delivered to all the London papers for the evening-edition deadline.”
Oh, now he understood. The damage from the boiler explosion looked like that from a V-2 attack, and the famous Norman tower would have been in travel guides, which would make the identification of the church by the German Abwehr not only possible but likely. And it was northwest of London, where they were trying to convince the Germans their V-1s and V-2s were landing.
“It’s not fair,” Chasuble said dejectedly. “I’ll never get another chance at Daphne.”
“You’re quite right,” Cess said. “You go to Goddards Green with the girls, and I’ll go to Cricklewood.”
“No, I will,” Ernest said. And deliver my pieces to the village weeklies on the way back.
“You will?”
“Yes. But before you go, get me the time of the V-2 we’re going to say this is. And I’ll need directions to St. Anselm’s. Oh, and ring up the Herald and tell them not to print anything about St. Anselm’s till we say so.”
“I will,” Chasuble said, and rushed out.
“Thanks, old man,” Cess said. “I’m in your debt.”
“Get me directions to St. Anselm’s, and we’ll consider it even,” he said.
Cess nodded and left. Ernest only had a few minutes. “Quartermaster Colin T. Worth will see that the crackers reach their destination,” he typed, “and several hundred lucky soldiers will have a happy Christmas, thanks to two resourceful girls ‘doing their bit,’ just as the Prime Minister has asked all of us to do.”
He rolled the sheet out, retrieved the funeral notice, stuck both of them inside his jacket, then sat back down at the desk, fed in a blank sheet and three carbons, and typed in caps, “GERMAN TERROR ROCKET DESTROYS HISTORIC CHURCH.”
“It fell in Bloomsbury, last Wednesday,” Chasuble said, coming in. He’d changed into a jacket and tie. “At 7:20 P.M.”
Wednesday evening. Perfect. Wednesday was choir-practice night. “Any casualties?”
“Yes, four. All fatalities, but there was a second V-1 in the same area at 10:56, so that’s not a problem.”
Except to the four people who died, Ernest thought. And the people who’ll be killed in Dulwich or Bethnal Green when the Germans alter their trajectories because of this photograph.
Cess came in. “Here are the directions to St. Anselm’s.” He handed Ernest a hand-drawn map.
“Good,” Ernest said. “Did you telephone the Herald, Chasuble?”
“Yes. The editor said they’ll hold the story till they hear from you.”
“Come along,” Cess said. “The fete starts at noon.”
“Coming,” Chasuble said. “I’ll never forget your doing this for me, Worthing.”
“It’s nothing. Go knock over milk bottles and win Daphne’s heart,” Ernest said, waving him out.
He wrote up the St. Anselm’s stories, grabbed the copies, the camera, and several rolls of film, and took off for Cricklewood.
It was easy to see why Lady Bracknell had been excited about St. Anselm’s. Not only was the distinctive Norman tower intact, but the wrought-iron arch saying
“St. Anselm’s, Cricklewood,” was as well, and the rubble behind it looked exactly like the wreckage from a V- 2.
“That’s what I thought it was at first,” the talkative verger said, “there not being any warning noise beforehand, you know. So did the reporter from the Mirror when he came out, but while he was photographing it, I noticed the stones were wet, and as it hadn’t rained, that made me think of the boiler. And that was what it was.”
