“You said the reporter was from the Daily Mirror?” Ernest asked. “Did he say they were going to run a story?”
He nodded. “Tomorrow morning. Odd, isn’t it, how St. Anselm’s came all through the Blitz and this last year without so much as a mark on her, only to be done in by a faulty boiler?” He shook his head sadly.
“Did the reporter tell you his name?” Ernest asked.
“Yes, but I can’t remember now what it was. Miller, I believe. Or Matthews.”
“Have reporters from any other papers been here?”
“Only from the local paper. Oh, and the Daily Express, but when I told him it was the boiler, he lost all interest. He didn’t even take any photographs.”
Ernest asked if he could use the telephone in the rectory and put a call through to Lady Bracknell. “I’ll try to intercept the articles,” Bracknell said, “or at least the photographs, in the dailies from this end. You stop the one in the local paper and then ring me back. You’re certain it’s only the Mirror and the Express?”
photographs, in the dailies from this end. You stop the one in the local paper and then ring me back. You’re certain it’s only the Mirror and the Express?”
“Yes,” Ernest said, but after he’d rung off he questioned the verger again, who insisted that only the two journalists had been there. Ernest told him to ring him if any other newspaper showed up, and gave him Lady Bracknell’s number. “And if any other reporters arrive, you’re not to let them take any photographs,” he said, and went to see the local paper’s editor, hoping he wouldn’t ask too many questions.
A vain hope. “But I don’t see how printing the story can be giving the enemy information when it’s nothing at all to do with the war,” the editor said. “This was a boiler explosion, not a bomb.”
“Yes,” Ernest said, “but giving the enemy accurate information about any destruction aids them in their propaganda efforts.”
“But you’ve put that it was destroyed by a V-2,” he said, frowning. “Don’t the Germans know where their rockets hit?”
They will if I don’t pull this off, he thought.
“And won’t saying the church was destroyed by a V-2 assist them in their propaganda efforts?”
“No, because we’ll be able to discredit it later, you see,” Ernest explained, and that actually seemed to satisfy him. To make sure, Ernest offered to set the type himself and then stayed to see the front page printed, which took forever. The paper’s printing press was even more prone to breakdowns than the Call’s. It was after two by the time he reported in.
“I had to threaten them,” Lady Bracknell said, “but I’ve managed to kill both the stories at the Mirror and the Express. But I couldn’t give them the new version, so I need you to run it in to Fleet Street.”
In to Fleet Street? That would take the rest of the day. “Can’t I phone it in? I was hoping to get the photo into some of the village weeklies today as well.”
“No, I want you to go to the Mirror and the Express in person to oversee things. I don’t want any muck-ups. It would only take a single story slipping through to ruin the whole scheme.”
Or for Home Secretary Morrison to realize what they were up to and order them to stop, and then he’d have no reason to be planting stories in the village papers.
And it was entirely possible that the editor at the Mirror or the Express had agreed to hold the story but forgotten to tell the reporter. Or the typesetter. Which meant he’d better get in to Fleet Street as soon as possible. He hoped they didn’t prove as difficult as the Cricklewood paper.
They didn’t. The Mirror was holding page 3, and the Express had bumped the story to the next morning’s edition. Both papers allowed him to check the galleys, and the printer gave him a plate of the photo to use in the village weeklies and the name of the stringer who’d written the story.
Ernest tracked him down—at a pub near St. Paul’s—to make certain he hadn’t sold the picture and the story to anyone else. He hadn’t, but as Ernest was leaving, he mentioned having seen a reporter from the Daily Graphic leaving St. Anselm’s as he arrived, so Ernest had to go talk to him, and then make the rounds of the remaining newspapers, just to make certain.
By the time he was satisfied that the only version that would be appearing in the papers was his, it was nine o’clock, which eliminated the local papers, except possibly the Call. If Mr. Jeppers’s printing press had broken down again, he might still be printing the edition at midnight.
If he could get there by then. It was pitch-black and foggy out. He had to creep along, and when he reached Croydon, the door of the Call’s office was locked. But Mr. Jeppers’s bicycle was there. Ernest pounded on the door, rattling the taped glass. “Mr. Jeppers!” he shouted, hoping the printing press wasn’t running. If it was, he’d never hear him. “Let me in!”
“We’re closed!” Mr. Jeppers shouted through the door. “Come back in the morning.”
“It’s Ernest Worthing!” he shouted back.
“I know who it is! Who else would it be this time of night?” He opened the door. “Well, what’s so important it can’t wait till morning? Has Hitler surrendered then?”
“Not yet,” he said, handing Mr. Jeppers the articles.
He refused to take them. “You’re too late. I’ve already put the front page to bed.”
“They needn’t go on the front page,” Ernest said. “At least put this one in.” He handed him the St. Anselm’s story. Next week would have to do for the others.
Mr. Jeppers took it from him. “It says, ‘accompanying photograph,’ ” he said, shaking his head. “I haven’t time to set a photographic plate.”
“You needn’t. I’ve got it right here.” He held it up. “All that needs to be set is the story. I’ll set it myself,” he said, and before Mr. Jeppers could object, he peeled off his jacket, threw it on top of a roll of newsprint, and grabbed a tray of type.
