Here were the stairs leading down to the Crypt, but they were barred by a gate, not a door, and what she’d heard was definitely a door. It must be somewhere in the choir. She started into it.

And ran into a young man in a black robe. She jumped a foot, and so did he, but he recovered immediately.

“Were you looking for the shelter, miss? It’s this way.” He took her arm and led her back to the Crypt stairs.

“No, I’m looking for someone,” she said. “A member of the fire watch.”

“They’re all on duty just now,” he replied, as if she’d asked for an appointment. “If you’ll come back tomorrow—”

She shook her head. “I must speak to him now. His name is John Bartholomew—”

“I’m afraid I don’t know most of the watch by name.” He unlatched the gate. “I’m only filling in tonight, you see.”

“Is Mr. Humphreys here?”

“I don’t know if he’s on duty. As I said, I’m only—”

“Then is there someone in charge I could speak to?”

“No, I’m afraid Dean Matthews and Mr. Allen are both up on the roofs. The raids are very bad tonight. The shelter’s down these stairs,” he said, motioning for her to precede him.

“I don’t …,” she began, and thought better of it. She didn’t want him taking her out through the nave and delivering her into the hands of the air-raid warden.

They started down the stone steps. “Mind your step,” he said. “I’m afraid these stairs are rather badly lit. The blackout, you know.”

“Badly lit” was an understatement. Below the first landing there was no light at all, and Polly had to put her hand on the cold stone wall and feel her way.

“I’m only a chorister, you see. One of the volunteers fell ill, and Dean Matthews asked me to help out. Nearly there,” he said helpfully, and pulled aside a black curtain for Polly.

She slipped through it into the Crypt. In spite of the vaulted ceiling and the tombs in the floor, it didn’t look like a crypt. It looked like an ARP post. A paraffin lamp sat on a wooden table next to a gas ring with a kettle on it, and beyond the table was a row of made-up cots, with coveralls and helmets hanging on hooks behind them. But no members of the fire watch.

“Will they come back down during the night to rest and have a cup of tea?” Polly asked.

“It’s not likely they will tonight,” he said, looking up at the low ceiling, through which the droning planes could be heard faintly. “The shelter’s along here.”

He led her past what had to be Wellington’s tomb—an enormous black-and-gold sarcophagus—toward the west end. “I expect they’ll be up on the roofs all night, with all these bombs.”

“Then could you go up and tell John Bartholomew that I must speak with him?”

“Go up? Onto the roofs, you mean?” He shook his head. “I wouldn’t know the first thing about how to get up there. That’s why Dean Matthews put me in charge down here. Our shelter’s just over here,” he added and led her into a sandbagged arch at the end of the church where a half dozen women and a young boy huddled against one wall on folding chairs.