“But you’ve put that it was destroyed by a V-2,” he said, frowning. “Don’t the Germans know where their rockets hit?”
They will if I don’t pull this off, he thought.
“And won’t saying the church was destroyed by a V-2 assist them in their propaganda efforts?”
“No, because we’ll be able to discredit it later, you see,” Ernest explained, and that actually seemed to satisfy him. To make sure, Ernest offered to set the type himself and then stayed to see the front page printed, which took forever. The paper’s printing press was even more prone to breakdowns than the Call’s. It was after two by the time he reported in.
“I had to threaten them,” Lady Bracknell said, “but I’ve managed to kill both the stories at the Mirror and the Express. But I couldn’t give them the new version, so I need you to run it in to Fleet Street.”
In to Fleet Street? That would take the rest of the day. “Can’t I phone it in? I was hoping to get the photo into some of the village weeklies today as well.”
“No, I want you to go to the Mirror and the Express in person to oversee things. I don’t want any muck-ups. It would only take a single story slipping through to ruin the whole scheme.”
Or for Home Secretary Morrison to realize what they were up to and order them to stop, and then he’d have no reason to be planting stories in the village papers.
And it was entirely possible that the editor at the Mirror or the Express had agreed to hold the story but forgotten to tell the reporter. Or the typesetter. Which meant he’d better get in to Fleet Street as soon as possible. He hoped they didn’t prove as difficult as the Cricklewood paper.
They didn’t. The Mirror was holding page 3, and the Express had bumped the story to the next morning’s edition. Both papers allowed him to check the galleys, and the printer gave him a plate of the photo to use in the village weeklies and the name of the stringer who’d written the story.
Ernest tracked him down—at a pub near St. Paul’s—to make certain he hadn’t sold the picture and the story to anyone else. He hadn’t, but as Ernest was leaving, he mentioned having seen a reporter from the Daily Graphic leaving St. Anselm’s as he arrived, so Ernest had to go talk to him, and then make the rounds of the remaining newspapers, just to make certain.
By the time he was satisfied that the only version that would be appearing in the papers was his, it was nine o’clock, which eliminated the local papers, except possibly the Call. If Mr. Jeppers’s printing press had broken down again, he might still be printing the edition at midnight.
If he could get there by then. It was pitch-black and foggy out. He had to creep along, and when he reached Croydon, the door of the Call’s office was locked. But Mr. Jeppers’s bicycle was there. Ernest pounded on the door, rattling the taped glass. “Mr. Jeppers!” he shouted, hoping the printing press wasn’t running. If it was, he’d never hear him. “Let me in!”
“We’re closed!” Mr. Jeppers shouted through the door. “Come back in the morning.”
“It’s Ernest Worthing!” he shouted back.
“I know who it is! Who else would it be this time of night?” He opened the door. “Well, what’s so important it can’t wait till morning? Has Hitler surrendered then?”
“Not yet,” he said, handing Mr. Jeppers the articles.
He refused to take them. “You’re too late. I’ve already put the front page to bed.”
“They needn’t go on the front page,” Ernest said. “At least put this one in.” He handed him the St. Anselm’s story. Next week would have to do for the others.
Mr. Jeppers took it from him. “It says, ‘accompanying photograph,’ ” he said, shaking his head. “I haven’t time to set a photographic plate.”
“You needn’t. I’ve got it right here.” He held it up. “All that needs to be set is the story. I’ll set it myself,” he said, and before Mr. Jeppers could object, he peeled off his jacket, threw it on top of a roll of newsprint, and grabbed a tray of type.
“All right, have it your way.” Mr. Jeppers kicked the lever. The printing press started up. “But if it’s not set by the time I’m done with the front page, it goes in next week!” he shouted over the rumble of the press.
Ernest began setting up the sticks of type, searching the trays for the needed letters and sliding them into place. This could work out even better than he’d planned.
The personals at the bottom of the page had already been set and proofed. If he could get the caption set quickly enough, he could substitute his own pieces, and Mr.
Jeppers would be none the wiser.
If. The printing press was shooting out pages at a steady clip, with no sign of jamming. Why, tonight of all nights, had it decided to run properly? And why had he thought using phrases such as “historic architecture” was a good idea?
Where were the U’s? He slotted the finished stick of type into place and grabbed an empty one.
His ears pricked up at the sound of a rattle. Good, the printing press was up to its old tricks. Where the bloody hell were the C’s?
The rattle grew louder and more clanking. It sounded like a wrench had got caught in the gears. “Shut it off!” he shouted, though in another minute he wouldn’t need to. The press would rattle itself apart.
“What?” Mr. Jeppers cupped his hand behind his ear.
“Something’s wrong with the printing press!” Ernest shouted, jabbing his finger at it. “That rattle. It’s—”
The noise cut off abruptly. “Rattle?” Mr. Jeppers shouted over the sound of the smoothly running press. “I can’t hear anything!”
That’s because it’s stopped, Ernest thought. And then, What if that was a doodle—?
But there was no time to complete the thought or shout to Mr. Jeppers or run. No time.
Our little life is rounded with a sleep.
—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, THE TEMPEST
London—Spring 1941
SOMEONE WAS CALLING HER. THE ALL OLEAR MUST HAVE GONE, she thought, but it was Sir Godfrey. “Wake up,” he said sternly. “Can you hear me, miss?”
Her head ached. I must have nodded off during rehearsal. He’ll be furious. And then, It can’t be Sir Godfrey, he always calls me Viola, and remembered where they were.
They were still in the bombed theater, and she was lying on top of Sir Godfrey, her full weight pressing down on him. “I’m sorry, Sir Godfrey,” she said. “I must have fallen on you when I passed out.”
He didn’t answer.
“Sir Godfrey? Wake up,” she said, and attempted to shift herself off him, but the effort made her head ache worse.
“Don’t try to move, miss, we’re coming,” the voice said from somewhere above them. “Careful. I can smell gas.”
“Sir Godfrey,” she said, but he didn’t respond.
And she should have known she couldn’t save him, that they would come too late. “Oh, Sir Godfrey, I am so sorry,” she murmured, and laid her head against his shoulder.
“Miss!” the voice said imperatively. “Are you trapped?”
Yes, she thought, and then hands were reaching down, lifting her off Sir Godfrey.
“No, you mustn’t, he’s bleeding,” she protested, but they had already pulled her out of the hole and sat her down, and now they were lifting the theater seats from Sir Godfrey’s legs, placing a jack under a pillar, jumping down into the hole, bending over him.
“Was there anyone else in the theater when the bomb hit, miss?” the one who’d pulled her out asked.
“I don’t know. I wasn’t here. When I saw the theater’d been hit, I came to find Sir Godfrey, and I caught my heel,” she said, trying to explain, “and while I was trying to free it, I heard his voice—”
“Well, it’s no wonder your heel got caught. This isn’t the sort of shoe to be clambering about an incident in,” he said, looking down at her gilt shoe, at her other, bare foot, and then at her costume, or what was left of it.