Now she was struggling to put her name tag on. And what if, when she finally managed to pin it on, it read “Eileen O’Reilly”?

“What did Mrs. Lambert do in the war?” he asked Talbot. Let her say she was a Wren. Or a chorus girl, he prayed.

“She drove an ambulance,” Talbot said. “Oh, dear, she still doesn’t see us. Come along.” And Talbot dragged him across the room to Mrs. Lambert. She didn’t look as old as Talbot, but that was no doubt due to her plumpness, and Merope had been younger than Polly. The evacuation of the children had been her first assignment. And, if this was her, her only one.

“Eileen,” Talbot said. “Here’s someone who wants to meet you.”

Eileen had finally got her name tag attached, but it was no help. It merely read “Eileen Lambert,” and “Women’s World War II Alumni Association,” and when she looked up, her eyes were a pale aqua, which might or might not have been green when she was younger.

“I’m sorry,” Talbot was saying. “I’ve forgotten what your name was, Mr.—”

“Knight. Calvin Knight. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Lambert,” he said, watching her closely as he shook her hand. “I’m from Oxford,” he added, and thought he saw a flicker of recognition. Oh, God, it was her.

“Mr. Knight is looking for someone who might have known his grandmother,” Talbot said. “Where were you, Goody? Browne said you had to run some sort of errand?”

“Yes. At St. Paul’s. I’d asked my brother to go for me, but he couldn’t. He’s down at the Old Bailey this morning, so I had to go.”

Brother. She had a brother. It wasn’t Eileen after all. The relief hit him with the force of a punch to the stomach.

“And the traffic was wretched,” Mrs. Lambert was saying.

Talbot nodded. “They simply must do something about that area near St. Bart’s. It’s impossible.”

Pudge came up. “Oh, you two have found each other. Excellent. Did Lambert know your grandmother?” she asked him.

“I haven’t asked her yet.”

“His grandmother was in London during the Blitz,” Talbot explained to Eileen. “Her name was Polly—what did you say her last name was, Mr. Knight?”

“Sebastian. Polly Sebastian.” Both ladies looked expectantly at Eileen Lambert, but she was already shaking her head.

“No, there isn’t anyone by that name in the organization,” she said. “Was Polly a nickname for Mary?”

“Yes.”

“We had a Mary in our ambulance unit,” Talbot said, “but her last name was Kent.”

Mrs. Lambert ignored her. “What was your grandmother’s maiden name, Mr. Knight?”

“Sebastian. Her married name was O’Reilly,” he said, just in case, but he couldn’t detect any reaction from her.

“No, sorry,” she said. “We haven’t any Mary O’Reillys either. Have you tried the museum’s archives?”

Yes, he thought. And the British Museum’s. And the Public Record Office’s. And the morgues of the Times and the Daily Herald and the Express.