“That’s a good idea,” he said. “I’m afraid I haven’t time today, but I’ll certainly come back. Thank you for your help. And for yours, Mrs. Vernon,” he said to Talbot, “and yours.” He shook hands with each of them in turn. “I don’t want to keep you from the exhibition.”

“Yes. Oh, Eileen, you must see the ‘Beauty in the Blitz’ display,” Talbot said. “They have nylons from the American PX and that dreadful face powder made from chalk. And there’s a lipstick just like the one I lost when Kent pushed me into the gutter that time. It may even be the same one. I’ll never forget that lipstick. Crimson Caress, it was called.” She and Pudge dragged Mrs. Lambert off, and Calvin headed for the exit, winding his way through the displays to the VE-Day exhibit, which was complete with cheers and simulated fireworks.

It was already after eleven, but if he hurried, he might be able to reach St. Paul’s by noon and catch some of the visitors having lunch in the cathedral’s café. He walked swiftly toward the exit.

“Mr. Knight!” someone called from behind him. He stopped and looked back. Mrs. Lambert was bustling along the corridor after him. He stopped and waited for her to catch up. “Oh, good,” she panted, “you’re still here. I was afraid you’d already gone.” She hurried up to where he was standing.

“What is it?” he said. “Did you remember something?”

She shook her head, attempting to catch her breath, her hand to her bosom.

“Are you all right?” he asked. “Can I get you a glass of water or something? We could go into the cafeteria.”

“No, they’ll all be coming in for lunch shortly. I’m sorry about that just now. I couldn’t say anything with Talbot and Pudge there.” She took his arm and led him past the gift shop and into the main hall, looking around, presumably for somewhere they could talk. “I’d hoped to catch you when you first arrived, but I wasn’t certain where you’d be. St. Paul’s is opening their exhibition today as well, and I thought you were more likely to go there to look.”

Oh, God, it was Eileen, and the story about the brother was a fabrication, part of the identity she’d had to adopt after Polly died and she’d been left to fend for herself. She’d had to cope all alone with the duration of the war and all the long years after. And how could she stand there smiling, he wondered. Knowing what I did to her, to them?

She couldn’t, he thought. It isn’t her. She’s talking about something else, a reporter she was supposed to meet or a—

“… and they had exhibits all over the cathedral, in the Crypt and both transepts, so it took forever to make certain you weren’t there, and then another hour to drive out here, and—” She stopped, frowning at him. “You are Colin, aren’t you?”

And there went any doubt. It was her.