“I need to go,” he said.

“Go? In this weather? Are you daft? Listen to that.” He jabbed his pipe up toward the ceiling. “It’s raining cats and dogs. You’ll catch your death, lad. No, you stay. You can sleep in the bunk there.”

It was a tempting offer.

But the last time you did that, you ended up halfway to Dunkirk.

“Sorry. I have another delivery I have to make,” he said, and stood up. He waded over to his duffel, took out the parcel and the letter, and gave them to the Commander, who opened them both immediately. The parcel contained a phonograph record like the one Ernest had played in the field with the bull.

“It says,” the Commander said, reading the letter, “that we’re to stay here and get fitted with amplifiers, and then when we hear the message telling us the invasion’s on, we’re to head for Calais, anchor offshore, and play this.” He waved the record.

Which would no doubt have the sounds of a landing force debarking on it—the rattle of chains, the scrape of boats being lowered, men shouting—which would hopefully fool some German officer into thinking that what he was hearing was the invasion.

It was a hell of a lot more dangerous than mapping the beaches. “Good luck,” Ernest said sincerely. He put on his almost-dry coat and shouldered his duffel bag. “Goodbye, Commander.”

“Not Commander—Captain,” he said proudly.

“Grandfather got his commission,” Jonathan explained.

“Congratulations, Captain,” Ernest said, and saluted. The Commander beamed. “Good luck to both of you.”

“We don’t need luck,” he said. “Thanks to you, we’ve got the Lady Jane, and she won’t let us down. We’re going to come out of this all right, you mark my words.”

“I hope you’re right,” Ernest said, shook hands with Jonathan, and went up the ladder onto the deck.

And into a veritable hurricane. He had to force his way, bent double, off the boat and back along the dock, hoping he wouldn’t be blown into the water. When he heard Jonathan behind him, calling, “Seaman Higgins!” he thought, If he’s coming after me to bring me back, I’ll go.

But Jonathan wanted to give him something—a flat packet wrapped in oilcloth and tied with twine. “Am I supposed to give this to Tensing?” Ernest shouted, using his real name, since there was no way anyone could possibly overhear them in this gale.

Jonathan shook his head, raindrops flying from his wet hair. “It’s for my mother,” he shouted. “It’s in case we don’t make it back. So she’ll know what happened.”

“For after the invasion?” Ernest yelled.

“No!” he shouted back. “For after the war. All these secrets won’t matter then.”

No, Ernest thought. They won’t.

“I’ll send it,” he promised, and stuck it inside his shirt, thinking, as he watched Jonathan run back along the dock, Maybe I could give one to Cess to send.

But what could it say? “Dear Eileen, I wasn’t really killed that night in Houndsditch. I waited till after Bank Station was bombed and then went to find an incident that the Civil Defence hadn’t arrived at yet and left my papers and scarf for them to find, just like a murderer in one of your Agatha Christie mysteries. I’m sorry to have burned the coat, after all the trouble you went to to get it for me …”