“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 ward sisters, 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.