“Hello? Hello?”
The incident officer took the telephone from her. “Hullo?” He flicked the switching mechanism back and forth. “Are you there? Hullo?” He listened for a moment. Eileen could hear a woman’s voice on the line.
“They just lost the telephone exchange at Guildhall,” the incident officer said. “They’re trying to get it back.”
But they won’t, Eileen thought. The Guildhall’s on fire. They’re evacuating the telephone operators.
“I’ll see if I can patch you through,” he said.
But that didn’t work either. “The operator says lines are down all over the city. If I do get through, what should I tell him?”
She thought quickly. “Tell him Eileen said that we can’t get through, but the three of us are coming to him as soon as we can, and to stay at St. Paul’s till we arrive. Tell him on no account is he to leave for Mr. Dunworthy’s in Oxford without us,” Eileen instructed, and at his curious look, she added, “We were to have gone to our friends in Oxford for the New Year.”
He nodded, then ran up to the ambulance as she was pulling away. “You didn’t tell me your husband’s name.”
“Husband?” Alf said incredulously. “She ain’t—”
“Bartholomew, John Bartholomew,” she said quickly, and drove off before Alf could do any more damage.
“Bartholomew,” Dr. Cross said musingly. “How fitting that you and your children, the angels who’ve come to St. Bartholomew’s aid, should be named Bartholomew.”
Binnie began, “We ain’t—”
“Angels,” Eileen finished neatly.
“Oh, but you are,” Dr. Cross said. “I don’t know what we should have done without you. Half of our drivers were caught on the other side of the fire and couldn’t make it in. If it hadn’t been for you and your children—”
“We ain’t—”
“Which way do I turn up here?” Eileen cut in to ask.
“Left,” Alf said, “but—”
“It was extraordinarily good luck that Mrs. Mallowan told me she’d seen you leaving,” Dr. Cross said, and Eileen realized she’d heard him say that name before, when they were leaving St. Bart’s on that first run. But it had to be some other Mrs. Mallowan.
“Mrs. Mallowan?” she asked, to be certain.
He nodded. “Our dispenser, though actually she’s not ours. Our regular dispenser couldn’t make it in, and Mrs. Mallowan kindly offered to—”
“Her given name isn’t Agatha, is it?”
“Yes, I believe so.”
“Agatha Christie Mallowan?”
“I believe so. She lives in Holland Park.”
Binnie had said, “The dispenser looks like she don’t miss a trick,” and she was certainly right about that.
I finally get to meet Agatha Christie, Eileen thought ruefully, and when I do, she stops me from making my getaway and going to St. Paul’s.
“Are you acquainted with Mrs. Mallowan?” Dr. Cross was asking.
“Yes. No. I’ve heard of her.”
“Oh, yes, I believe she writes some sort of novels. Are they good?”
“People will still be reading them a hundred years from now,” Eileen said, and turned into Alwell Lane.
And into a scene of chaos. Nearly every building on both sides of the narrow street was on fire, bright yellow flames shooting from the windows and boiling up violently from the roofs and over the narrow street, threatening to engulf it at any moment. Three firemen had their hoses aimed at the burning buildings, even though there was no way they could save any of it. The stream from their hoses was only a thin trickle.
But they kept on spraying the buildings, oblivious to the flames arching dangerously over their heads. And to Dr. Cross. He had to shout at them twice before they told him where to find the injured fireman, and there turned out to be three other casualties as well—two firemen unconscious from smoke inhalation and a young boy with badly burned hands. They had to cram the four of them into the rear of the ambulance, and Binnie had to sit on the doctor’s lap on the way back to St. Bart’s.
The journey took even longer than the others had. Every road they turned up was blocked with fallen masonry or roaring flames or both. They could no longer catch even glimpses of St. Paul’s. It had been swallowed up in a boiling mass of smoke that filled the entire sky. When they pulled in to St. Bart’s, the smoke stood like a great red wall stretching from horizon to horizon.
There was no one at the entrance to take the patients inside. Binnie had fallen asleep on Dr. Cross’s lap. Eileen had to shake her gently awake to get her off him so he could go in to get help.
“I’m awake,” Binnie murmured crankily and curled up again next to the drowsing Alf.
“Shove off!” he said, then sat up and rubbed his eyes sleepily. “ ’E’s gone. Why ain’t you takin’ off for St. Paul’s?”
“Because we have four patients in the back.” And Dr. Cross was coming out the door with a trolley.
“I couldn’t find anyone,” he said. “We’ll have to take them in ourselves.”
Somehow they managed—with Alf and Binnie helping—to get all four patients onto trolleys, into the hospital, and through an endless maze of corridors to a place where they could be turned over to the staff.
And it was no wonder there hadn’t been anyone at the entrance. Every ward, every examining room, was filled with patients, scurrying nurses, soot-covered rescue workers, doctors shouting orders, harried-looking attendants—one of whom detached himself at Dr. Cross’s order from the ARP warden he was bandaging to come take Eileen’s end of the trolley from her. “What are you doing?” he asked. “You’re injured. Sit down. I’ll fetch a doctor.”
Why did everyone keep saying that? “I’m Dr. Cross’s driver.”
“What are you doing?” Dr. Cross said impatiently to the attendant. “Grab hold of the trolley.” To Eileen he said, “Wait here.”
Eileen nodded, and he and the attendant disappeared with the trolley through a pair of double doors. And she was suddenly free to leave and go to St. Paul’s, as long as she wasn’t waylaid by some other doctor on the way out.
And if I can get to the cathedral, she thought, remembering that wall of red and what the warden had said about all of Ludgate Hill being on fire. She looked at Alf and Binnie, drooping beside her. I can’t take them back into the middle of those fires, she thought, though she wasn’t at all certain she could find her way to St. Paul’s without them.
I must. I’ve already exposed them to too much danger tonight as it is. Which meant she had to get away from them, a feat that she knew from experience was nearly impossible. Perhaps if she persuaded them to sit down, they’d fall asleep again.
But when she suggested it, Binnie said, “Sit down? He’ll likely be back any minute.”
“Come along,” Alf said, grabbing her hand.
“In a moment,” she said. “I need to tell the matron we’ve gone out to the waiting room so the doctor won’t know where we’ve gone,” which was larcenous enough for them to fall in eagerly with the scheme.
“Stay there,” she ordered, and walked quickly down the corridor.
She wasn’t certain she could find her way back to the ambulance, let alone to St. Paul’s. She hadn’t paid any attention to which way they’d come when they brought the trolley in. And she had to be quick, or Alf and Binnie would tumble to what she was doing, and she’d find them waiting for her outside.
She looked in vain for someone to ask. There—walking away down that side corridor—was someone. Not a nurse. She was hatless and wearing a navy blue coat. An ARP warden, Eileen thought. She’d very likely just brought a patient in.
“Miss!” Eileen called. “Can you tell me where the emergency ward is?”
The young woman turned. She looked disheveled, her fair hair badly windblown, and smears of soot on her cheeks and forehead. Not an ARP warden, Eileen thought. A patient.
“Eileen! Oh, thank God!” the young woman cried, and beg
an to run toward her.
“Polly?”
Polly flung her arms around her. “I was so afraid I’d be too late. It took me hours to get here,” she said, nearly sobbing. “There were fires everywhere, and I couldn’t get through … and I thought I’d never find the hospital … but here you are, thank God!”
They were both talking at once. “How did you find me?” Eileen asked. “I thought you were at St. Paul’s. I was just leaving to look for you. Where’s Mike?”
Polly pulled back from her. “Isn’t he here with you?”
“No, I … we got separated. I thought he went to St. Paul’s. He’s not with you?”
“No. Where did you see him last?” She stopped, staring at Eileen in horror. “What’s happened? Are you hurt?”
“No. You mean because I’m here at St. Bart’s? I was dragooned into driving an ambulance and—”
“But you’re bleeding.”
“No, I’m not,” Eileen said, and looked down at herself. The entire front of her coat was covered in dried blood. Her hands were bloody, too. A crooked line of blood had trickled down the back of her hand and wrist and into her sleeve. No wonder people had kept asking her if she was injured.
“It’s not mine,” she said. “There was a lieutenant who was bleeding. I had to apply direct pressure.”
“And I ’ad to drive,” Binnie said, popping up beside her.
“I told you where to go, you pudding’ead,” Alf said. “You’d ’ave ended up bein’ burnt to ashes if I ’adn’t.”
“I would not,” Binnie said.
“You would so.” Alf turned to tug at Eileen’s bloody sleeve. “What’re you doin’ ’ere? The ambulance is that way.” He pointed back down the corridor. “And who’s she?”
“My friend Polly. Are you certain Mike didn’t come to St. Paul’s?” Eileen asked Polly. “That’s where he said he was going.”
“Who’s Mike?” Binnie asked.
“Hush,” Eileen said. “Might you have missed each other somehow?”
“Yes … I don’t know. He might have come while I was on the roofs—”
“Or he might have gone back to Blackfriars tube station to find me,” Eileen said. “He told me to wait there for him. Come along, we’ve got transport. We’ll go to St. Paul’s first. Mike may have told Mr. Bartholomew where—”
“Who’s Mr. Bartholomew?” Alf asked.
“Shh,” Eileen said. “Mike may have told him where he was going, and if he didn’t, we’ll tell Mr. Bartholomew to search between St. Paul’s and Pilgrim Street—that’s where we got separated—and we’ll go to Blackfriars and look—”
“No,” Polly said. “Mr. Bartholomew’s here!”
“Here?”
“Yes, in this hospital.”
“Oh, well, then, that makes it simple. He can go back to St. Paul’s and look for Mike there, and we can go to Black—”
“You don’t understand,” Polly said. “I came here to find John Bartholomew, but I don’t know where he is. I’ve been asking the staff, but no one will tell me anything. I know he’s somewhere here in the hospital—”
Eileen stared blankly at her. “You haven’t found him yet?”
“No, I only just missed him. The fire watch said he’d left for hospital—he brought the man who was injured here—and I came to find him, but it’s taken me hours, and—”
“He brought him here? When?”
“I’m not certain,” Polly said. “A bit before eleven.”
John Bartholomew had been here at St. Bart’s the entire time she was transporting patients. If she’d only known. “What’s the name of the firewatcher who was injured?” Eileen asked.
Polly looked stricken. “I don’t know. I should have asked, but I thought I might still be able to catch them—”
“It’s all right. I know what Mr. Bartholomew looks like and what he had on. I saw him earlier tonight. He was wearing street clothes and an overcoat and scarf. We’ll go through the wards—”
“You saw him?” Polly said. “Where?”
“At Blackfriars. He—”
“Why didn’t you say so before?” Polly said eagerly. “If you told him about us—Did he tell you where the drop was?”
“Drop?” Binnie said alertly.
Alf cut in, “You mean like when they ’ang somebody?”
“I didn’t have a chance to tell him anything,” Eileen said. “I was on the train platform when he ran past, and I tried to go after him to catch him, but—”
“Alf got in the way,” Binnie said.
“I never,” Alf responded indignantly. “It was that guard what stopped ’er.”
“Shh, both of you,” Eileen said. “I tried to go after him, but I was shanghaied into driving two bombing victims to St.—”
“We been rescuin’ people all night,” Alf said.
“Except for this one what died,” Binnie put in. “We got there too late.”
“Too late,” Polly murmured.
“You mustn’t worry,” Eileen told her. “We’ll find him. What sort of injury did the firewatcher he brought in have? Burns? Broken bones? Internal injuries?”
If it was internal injuries, he’d be in surgery, but Polly didn’t know. “All I know is they had to carry him down from the roofs on a stretcher.”
“They? There was more than one firewatcher with him?”
“Yes. The other one was Mr. Humphreys. Elderly, balding.”
“Good,” Eileen said. “You know what he looks like, and I know what Mr. Bartholomew looks like.”
“I’ll find ’em,” Alf said, and started to dash off. Eileen grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and Binnie by her sash.
“What’re you doin’ that for?” Alf demanded indignantly. “I’ll wager I can find ’em sooner’n you. I’m good at spottin’.”
“I know you are,” Eileen said, “but neither of you is going anywhere till we’ve worked out a plan. Mr. Bartholomew is tall and has dark hair. How tall is Mr. Humphreys, Polly?”
“Shorter than me,” she said. “They should both be wearing blue coveralls and tin helmets unless Mr. Bartholomew didn’t have time to change, in which case—”
“He’ll be wearing street clothes and an overcoat,” Eileen said. “You and Binnie check the waiting rooms, and I’ll go ask Dr. Cross—”
“What if ’e makes you drive him someplace again?” Binnie asked.
She was right. “I’ll ask the matron, then, and Polly, you go describe the patient to the admitting nurse. We’ll all meet back here. Alf, Binnie, if you find Mr. Humphreys, ask him where Mr. Bartholomew is, and tell him—”
“You’re lookin’ for ’im,” Alf finished for her.
Polly gave Eileen a rapid look.
“No,” Eileen said. “He won’t know who we are. Tell him someone from Oxford needs to speak to him.”
“You ain’t from Oxford,” Alf said. “You’re from Backbury.”
“ ’Ow come ’e won’t know who you are?” Binnie asked.
“I’ll explain later. If he won’t come with you, tell him to stay where he is, and then come fetch us.”
“What if we get thrown out?” Alf asked.
Always a possibility where the Hodbins were concerned. “Go round to the door of the ambulance entrance and wait for us there,” Eileen said.
“What if ’e’s unconscious so we can’t tell ’im?” Alf asked.
“We ain’t lookin’ for the one what’s hurt, you dunderhead,” Binnie said. “We’re lookin’ for the ones what’re with ’im. Ain’t we, Eileen?”
“Yes,” she said, and Alf nodded and took off like a shot down the deserted corridor.
Binnie started after him and then stopped. “You ain’t tryin’ to ditch us like you done when you said you was goin’ to tell Matron we was in the waitin’ room, are you?”
She should have known better than to think she could fool them. “I’m sure.”
“You swear?”
“I swear,” Eileen said.
Binnie pelted down the corridor. “I take it those are the fabled Hodbins,” Polly said, looking after them.
“Yes, and if anyone can find Mr. Bartholomew, they can.”
She led Polly back to the spot where Dr. Cross had told her to wait, said, “Someone inside will be able to tell you where the admitting desk is, Polly. And the ambulance room entrance,” and hurried upstairs.
She’d hoped the busyness and disorganization would enable her to sneak unnoticed into the wards, but a matron stopped her. “No one’s allowed up here—you’re injured. Orderly!” the matron called. She took Eileen’s arm and attempted to steer her to a chair. “Where are you bleeding?”
“It’s not my blood,” Eileen said, cursing herself for not taking off her coat. “I’m Dr. Cross’s driver. He sent me to ask about a patient who was admitted here tonight, a member of the St. Paul’s fire watch.”
“The men’s wards are on the second and third floors.”
“Thank you,” Eileen said, and ran upstairs, pausing on the landing to shed her coat, drape it over the railing, and use her handkerchief and spit to rub the worst of the caked blood off her wrists and hands before going on up.
There was no matron on second, but a nurse came out of the first ward as she was going in. She went through her story again. “What’s the patient’s injury?” the nurse asked.
“Dr. Cross didn’t tell me,” Eileen said. “Two other firewatchers brought him in, Mr. Bartholomew and Mr. Humphreys.” She described them.
The nurse shook her head. “They wouldn’t be on the ward. No one but patients is allowed on this floor.” But Eileen went through the litany with nurses outside each of the wards, hoping one of them might know where Mr. Bartholomew was, and then went up to third. It took forever, and she felt as if she was still in the ambulance, dealing with endless detours and blocked-off lanes.
There was no sign of Mr. Bartholomew or Mr. Humphreys. Or of Alf and Binnie. They’ve probably already managed to get themselves thrown out, she thought, but as she ran down to Admitting, she thought she glimpsed them darting around a corner.
Polly hadn’t had any luck either. “The admitting nurse went to ask if anyone in the emergency ward knows anything,” she said, “but she’s been gone forever. I’m afraid she may have been waylaid to help out with patients.”
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