I didn’t get to observe Chaplain Howell Forgy at Pearl Harbor, Ernest thought, or the firemen at the World Trade Center, but I’ve done what I set out to do. I’ve gotten to observe heroes. Not just Tensing, but the Commander and Jonathan. And Cess and Prism and Chasuble, fighting recalcitrant inflatables and angry bulls. And Turing and Dilly Knox, patiently deciphering code.

And Eileen, driving an ambulance through burning streets and coping with the Hodbins. And Polly, dealing daily with the threat of certain death.

If I ever get back to Oxford, I won’t need to go to the Pandemic and the Battle of the Bulge, he thought. I’ve collected more than enough material for my work on heroes right here.

“So, I take it you won’t be at this meeting where the policy’s to be discussed?” Ernest asked.

“Of course I’ll be there.” Tensing drew himself up indignantly. “Unless, of course, my back is acting up. Old war injury, you know.” He allowed himself a smile. “Lord Nelson’s not the only one who has a blind eye he can turn.”

Cess opened the door and came in. “Chasuble just rang from Tenterden. He says the Austin’s acting up again.”

Right outside the Plough and Bull, no doubt, Ernest thought, where his barmaid Daphne works.

“You two will need to bring him up to speed, then,” Tensing said. He picked up his briefcase and started out. “Those photographs need to be in the dailies by tomorrow and the village papers by their next deadline.” He opened the door.

“Wait,” Cess said. “I’ve only just thought of something. These rockets, we wouldn’t be sending any of them down on our own heads, would we?”

Tensing shook his head. “You’re too far east. If this works as planned, the bulk of the bombs will fall on Bethnal Green, Croydon, and Dulwich.”

Time, which was once said to be on the side of the Allies, has turned out to be, after all, Hitler’s man.

—MOLLIE PANTER-DOWNES, 15 JUNE 1940

Imperial War Museum, London—7 May 1995

“HERE SHE IS, MR. KNIGHT,” TALBOT SAID. “EILEEN!” SHE shouted, waving across the room at the woman who’d just come into the Blitz exhibit.

She was just as Talbot had described her: gray hair, medium height, rather stout. “Lambert! Over here!” Talbot called, and then turned to Calvin, beaming. “I told you she’d be here soon, Mr. Knight.”

“Her name’s Eileen?” he asked, hoping to God he’d misheard her.

“Yes. Eileen! Goody!” Talbot called, waving again. Mrs. Lambert hadn’t looked up. She was fumbling in her handbag, apparently looking for a pen to write on the name tag she held in the other hand.

There were lots of Eileens in the war, he told himself over the sickening thud of his heart. That’s why Merope chose the name, because it had been so common. And this Eileen looked nothing like the slim, pretty, green-eyed redhead he’d seen in Oxford eight years ago.

But she would have aged fifty-five years since then, and the curly-haired brunette WAAC in the photo had looked nothing like the elderly woman he’d talked to either. And Mrs. Lambert’s gray hair as she bent over a display case, writing her name on the name tag, bore hints of what might be faded red.