There was a photo of Manchester’s ruined railway station in the Daily Mirror. I should have told him about Manchester before he left, she thought. I should have told him about the raids tonight. And about the ones on Sunday night.

On Sunday morning Eileen said, “I’m to take Theodore to the pantomime this afternoon, but perhaps I’d better not. If Mike comes—”

“I’ll tell him where you are,” Polly said, thinking, If you’re at the pantomime, you won’t be here watching the clock and making me nervy.

She was already nervy enough for both of them. Tonight was the attack on the City and St. Paul’s. The Germans had dropped eleven thousand incendiaries and damaged half the railway lines into town. If Mike attempted to come to London tonight …

“What time is the pantomime over?” she asked Eileen.

“I’ve no idea. It begins at half past two, so I should think four. Or half past.”

“And then you must take Theodore back to Stepney?”

Eileen nodded.

“If the trains are running late and you’re still in Stepney when the sirens go, stay there. The raids will be bad tonight.”

“But I thought the East End was the hardest hit—”

“Not tonight. Tonight the City will be the target, and several of the tube stations. You’re safer in Stepney.”

Eileen nodded. “I hate to leave you.”

“I’ll be quite all right. I need to wash out some things.” And be here to warn Mike about tonight if he telephones. “If I get bored,” Polly said, “I’ll read one of the Agatha Christies I gave you and see if I can guess the murderer.”

“You can’t,” Eileen said. “She’s far too clever. I always think I know who did the murder, but it always turns out to be someone I’ve never even thought of, though the clues were right there in front of me. You realize your theory of the crime was all wrong, that something else entirely was going on.”

The frizzy-haired librarian at Holborn had said almost the same thing, that the ending made her realize she’d been looking at things the wrong way round.

Eileen put on her coat. “The theater’s the Phoenix on Shaftesbury Avenue,” she said, and went off to Stepney to fetch Theodore. Polly washed out her blouse and stockings, hung them up to dry, fended off an invitation from Miss Laburnum to go to a prayer service at Westminster Abbey “for our dear boys in uniform,” and ironed her skirt, keeping one ear cocked the entire time for the telephone.

It finally rang at half past eleven.

It was Mike. “Mike! Oh, thank goodness!” she said. “Where are you?”

“In Rochester. I’ve only got a couple of minutes to talk. The train’s about to leave. I just wanted to tell you I’m okay, and I’ll be there in a couple of hours.”

“Did you find—?” She stopped and looked into the kitchen and then the parlor. She couldn’t see anyone, but she lowered her voice anyway. “Did you find what you were looking for?”