“The bloke what didn’t have no coat?”

“Yes,” Polly said, remembering with a sharp pang Mike sitting there defeatedly in his shirtsleeves on St. Paul’s steps, remembered wrapping the pumpkin-colored scarf round his neck. “He was killed, and—”

“Eileen won’t ’afta go to an orphanage, will she?” Alf asked.

“No, you noddlehead,” Binnie said. “Only children get sent to orphanages.”

“Eileen’s been feeling very sad since Mr. Davis was killed,” Polly said, “and I was hoping you two might cheer—”

“Was it a bomb what killed ’im?” Binnie cut in.

“Yes, and Eileen—”

“What sorta bomb?” Alf demanded. “A thousand-pounder or a parachute mine?” Before Polly could answer, he said, “Parachute mines is the worst. They blow you up! Ka-blooie!” He flung his arms out. “And bits of you go everywhere!”

What was I thinking? Polly asked herself. These two have no business going anywhere near Eileen.

But now how would she get rid of them? Especially when Binnie was saying, “So you want we should cheer Eileen up?”

“Yes, but Eileen’s too sad to see anyone yet. I thought perhaps you could send her a condolence card.”

“We ain’t got no money,” Alf said.

“We could come to the funeral,” Binnie said. “When is it?”

“We don’t know yet,” Polly said, fumbling in her bag for money. She had to get rid of them before Eileen came out.

“ ’Ow can we send ’er a card?” Binnie said. “We don’t know where she lives.”

And I have no intention of telling you, Polly thought. “You can send it to Townsend Brothers.”

“And we ain’t got money for a stamp,” Alf said.

“Yes, you do,” Polly said, coming up with a shilling. “Here.”

Alf snatched it, and the two of them darted off immediately, thank goodness.

But she was back to square one, and Eileen was more determined than ever that Mike was alive. “People don’t just disappear.”

Yes, they do, Polly thought.

“Perhaps Mike went to Bletchley Park again, to see if Gerald came through after he’d left, and he can’t tell us because of Ultra’s being so secret and everything. So he had to make it look like he was dead.” Which made no sense. “He didn’t want to, but it was the only way he could get you out before your deadline.”

And that’s what this is about, Polly thought. If she admits Mike’s dead, that they weren’t able to pull him out before he was killed, then it’s also admitting they won’t be able to pull me out either.

But this couldn’t go on. Polly wondered if she should write the vicar again, but she didn’t have to. He walked up to her counter, wearing his clerical collar, just before closing. “Miss Sebastian?” he said. “I’m Mr. Goode. I believe we met briefly in Backbury last autumn. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to come sooner. Your letter didn’t reach me till two days ago, and I had difficulty making arrangements—”

“Thank you so much for coming,” Polly said, smiling at him. “I can’t tell you how much this will mean to Eileen.”