Gwendolyn was making his report to Lady Bracknell as Ernest squeezed into a seat next to Cess. “Camp Omaha has been completed,” Gwendolyn said. “Fifty barracks, a motor pool, a mess hall, and a camp kitchen with smoke coming out of its chimney, but I’m not certain how long that will last, so if a German reconnaissance plane could get through our coastal defenses soon, that would be excellent.”

Lady Bracknell nodded. “I’ll arrange it for tomorrow afternoon. The meteorological report is for fair weather till tomorrow evening.” He made a note. “We’ll need soldiers walking between buildings, unloading supplies, and drilling in formation.”

“And guess who those soldiers will be,” Cess whispered to Ernest. “Just my cup of tea—drilling in the pouring rain.”

Lady Bracknell fixed them with a gimlet stare. “All of you except Chasuble and Worthing will report to Camp Omaha at fourteen hundred hours tomorrow. Chasuble, I need you to arrange a ribbon-cutting ceremony for the airfield in Sissinghurst for Friday next.”

Chasuble frowned. “Does Sissinghurst have an airfield?”

“It will by Friday next. Worthing, I need you to go to Dover.”

“To the hospital?” Ernest asked warily.

“No, to the harbor. I need you to deliver a parcel to a boat that’s docked there.”

“Alone?”

“Yes, alone, Lieutenant Worthing. How many people does it take to deliver a single parcel?”

“Sorry, sir,” Ernest said, trying to look chagrined rather than thrilled. Here was his chance. Finally. He’d be on his own and with transport. He could finally get to London. And he’d be able to deliver his articles to the Sudbury Weekly Shopper and the Call without Cess or Prism looking over his shoulder. Especially the Call. The editor, Mr. Jeppers, always insisted on reading through all of the articles before he okayed them and on asking all kinds of questions.

He’d be pushed for time if he wanted to do both, but luckily, Dover was far enough away that a few hours more or less wouldn’t look suspicious. Unless Lady Bracknell wasn’t sending him right away. “When do I leave, sir?” he asked.

“As soon as you can. His boat will only be in port a day or two. We need to catch him before he goes out again.”

Better and better. He debated asking when Lady Bracknell expected him back from the mission and then decided that was looking for trouble. “Yes, sir,” he said.

“Report to me when you’re ready to leave.”

“Yes, sir.” And as soon as the meeting broke up, he went to borrow Chasuble’s peacoat and see who had a suitable shirt. The sooner he left, the less likely it was that Bracknell would change his mind and decide to send someone with him.

No one had a shirt that could pass for a sailor’s, but Cess produced a shapeless, dingy gray pullover and a pair of canvas sneakers. “The jumper’s Moncrieff’s and the plimsolls are Prism’s,” Cess said.

Prism’s feet were smaller than his, but it didn’t matter. He’d be driving the entire way. “Perfect. Thanks,” he said, yanking the pullover on. “You wouldn’t have a duffel bag, would you?”