“I will,” Chasuble said, and rushed out.

“Thanks, old man,” Cess said. “I’m in your debt.”

“Get me directions to St. Anselm’s, and we’ll consider it even,” he said.

Cess nodded and left. Ernest only had a few minutes. “Quartermaster Colin T. Worth will see that the crackers reach their destination,” he typed, “and several hundred lucky soldiers will have a happy Christmas, thanks to two resourceful girls ‘doing their bit,’ just as the Prime Minister has asked all of us to do.”

He rolled the sheet out, retrieved the funeral notice, stuck both of them inside his jacket, then sat back down at the desk, fed in a blank sheet and three carbons, and typed in caps, “GERMAN TERROR ROCKET DESTROYS HISTORIC CHURCH.”

“It fell in Bloomsbury, last Wednesday,” Chasuble said, coming in. He’d changed into a jacket and tie. “At 7:20 P.M.”

Wednesday evening. Perfect. Wednesday was choir-practice night. “Any casualties?”

“Yes, four. All fatalities, but there was a second V-1 in the same area at 10:56, so that’s not a problem.”

Except to the four people who died, Ernest thought. And the people who’ll be killed in Dulwich or Bethnal Green when the Germans alter their trajectories because of this photograph.

Cess came in. “Here are the directions to St. Anselm’s.” He handed Ernest a hand-drawn map.

“Good,” Ernest said. “Did you telephone the Herald, Chasuble?”

“Yes. The editor said they’ll hold the story till they hear from you.”

“Come along,” Cess said. “The fête starts at noon.”

“Coming,” Chasuble said. “I’ll never forget your doing this for me, Worthing.”

“It’s nothing. Go knock over milk bottles and win Daphne’s heart,” Ernest said, waving him out.

He wrote up the St. Anselm’s stories, grabbed the copies, the camera, and several rolls of film, and took off for Cricklewood.

It was easy to see why Lady Bracknell had been excited about St. Anselm’s. Not only was the distinctive Norman tower intact, but the wrought-iron arch saying “St. Anselm’s, Cricklewood,” was as well, and the rubble behind it looked exactly like the wreckage from a V-2.

“That’s what I thought it was at first,” the talkative verger said, “there not being any warning noise beforehand, you know. So did the reporter from the Mirror when he came out, but while he was photographing it, I noticed the stones were wet, and as it hadn’t rained, that made me think of the boiler. And that was what it was.”

“You said the reporter was from the Daily Mirror?” Ernest asked. “Did he say they were going to run a story?”

He nodded. “Tomorrow morning. Odd, isn’t it, how St. Anselm’s came all through the Blitz and this last year without so much as a mark on her, only to be done in by a faulty boiler?” He shook his head sadly.

“Did the reporter tell you his name?” Ernest asked.

“Yes, but I can’t remember now what it was. Miller, I believe. Or Matthews.”

“Have reporters from any other papers been here?”