“Drop?” Binnie said alertly.
Alf cut in, “You mean like when they ’ang somebody?”
“I didn’t have a chance to tell him anything,” Eileen said. “I was on the train platform when he ran past, and I tried to go after him to catch him, but—”
“Alf got in the way,” Binnie said.
“I never,” Alf responded indignantly. “It was that guard what stopped ’er.”
“Shh, both of you,” Eileen said. “I tried to go after him, but I was shanghaied into driving two bombing victims to St.—”
“We been rescuin’ people all night,” Alf said.
“Except for this one what died,” Binnie put in. “We got there too late.”
“Too late,” Polly murmured.
“You mustn’t worry,” Eileen told her. “We’ll find him. What sort of injury did the firewatcher he brought in have? Burns? Broken bones? Internal injuries?”
If it was internal injuries, he’d be in surgery, but Polly didn’t know. “All I know is they had to carry him down from the roofs on a stretcher.”
“They? There was more than one firewatcher with him?”
“Yes. The other one was Mr. Humphreys. Elderly, balding.”
“Good,” Eileen said. “You know what he looks like, and I know what Mr. Bartholomew looks like.”
“I’ll find ’em,” Alf said, and started to dash off. Eileen grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and Binnie by her sash.
“What’re you doin’ that for?” Alf demanded indignantly. “I’ll wager I can find ’em sooner’n you. I’m good at spottin’.”
“I know you are,” Eileen said, “but neither of you is going anywhere till we’ve worked out a plan. Mr. Bartholomew is tall and has dark hair. How tall is Mr.
Humphreys, Polly?”
“Shorter than me,” she said. “They should both be wearing blue coveralls and tin helmets unless Mr. Bartholomew didn’t have time to change, in which case—”
“He’ll be wearing street clothes and an overcoat,” Eileen said. “You and Binnie check the waiting rooms, and I’ll go ask Dr. Cross—”
“What if ’e makes you drive him someplace again?” Binnie asked.
She was right. “I’ll ask the matron, then, and Polly, you go describe the patient to the admitting nurse. We’ll all meet back here. Alf, Binnie, if you find Mr. Humphreys, ask him where Mr. Bartholomew is, and tell him—”
“You’re lookin’ for ’im,” Alf finished for her.
Polly gave Eileen a rapid look.
“No,” Eileen said. “He won’t know who we are. Tell him someone from Oxford needs to speak to him.”
“You ain’t from Oxford,” Alf said. “You’re from Backbury.”
“ ’Ow come ’e won’t know who you are?” Binnie asked.
“I’ll explain later. If he won’t come with you, tell him to stay where he is, and then come fetch us.”
“What if we get thrown out?” Alf asked.
Always a possibility where the Hodbins were concerned. “Go round to the door of the ambulance entrance and wait for us there,” Eileen said.
“What if ’e’s unconscious so we can’t tell ’im?” Alf asked.
“We ain’t lookin’ for the one what’s hurt, you dunderhead,” Binnie said. “We’re lookin’ for the ones what’re with ’im. Ain’t we, Eileen?”
“Yes,” she said, and Alf nodded and took off like a shot down the deserted corridor.
Binnie started after him and then stopped. “You ain’t tryin’ to ditch us like you done when you said you was goin’ to tell Matron we was in the waitin’ room, are you?”
She should have known better than to think she could fool them. “I’m sure.”
“You swear?”
“I swear,” Eileen said.
Binnie pelted down the corridor. “I take it those are the fabled Hodbins,” Polly said, looking after them.
“Yes, and if anyone can find Mr. Bartholomew, they can.”
She led Polly back to the spot where Dr. Cross had told her to wait, said, “Someone inside will be able to tell you where the admitting desk is, Polly. And the ambulance room entrance,” and hurried upstairs.
She’d hoped the busyness and disorganization would enable her to sneak unnoticed into the wards, but a matron stopped her. “No one’s allowed up here—you’re injured. Orderly!” the matron called. She took Eileen’s arm and attempted to steer her to a chair. “Where are you bleeding?”
“It’s not my blood,” Eileen said, cursing herself for not taking off her coat. “I’m Dr. Cross’s driver. He sent me to ask about a patient who was admitted here tonight, a member of the St. Paul’s fire watch.”
“The men’s wards are on the second and third floors.”
“Thank you,” Eileen said, and ran upstairs, pausing on the landing to shed her coat, drape it over the railing, and use her handkerchief and spit to rub the worst of the caked blood off her wrists and hands before going on up.
There was no matron on second, but a nurse came out of the first ward as she was going in. She went through her story again. “What’s the patient’s injury?” the nurse asked.
“Dr. Cross didn’t tell me,” Eileen said. “Two other firewatchers brought him in, Mr. Bartholomew and Mr. Humphreys.” She described them.
The nurse shook her head. “They wouldn’t be on the ward. No one but patients is allowed on this floor.” But Eileen went through the litany with nurses outside each of the wards, hoping one of them might know where Mr. Bartholomew was, and then went up to third. It took forever, and she felt as if she was still in the ambulance, dealing with endless detours and blocked-off lanes.
There was no sign of Mr. Bartholomew or Mr. Humphreys. Or of Alf and Binnie. They’ve probably already managed to get themselves thrown out, she thought, but as she ran down to Admitting, she thought she glimpsed them darting around a corner.
Polly hadn’t had any luck either. “The admitting nurse went to ask if anyone in the emergency ward knows anything,” she said, “but she’s been gone forever. I’m afraid she may have been waylaid to help out with patients.”
The way I was with the ambulance, Eileen thought. “The firewatcher wasn’t in the patient roster?”
“No.”
“Are you certain he was brought here?”
“Yes,” Polly said, then looked uncertain. “That is, the firewatcher I talked to said he thought they’d come here, but if the roads were blocked, they might have taken him to Guy’s.”
“No, it caught fire. They had to evacuate.”
“Where were they taking the patients?”
“I don’t know,” Eileen said. And if they set off to some other hospital, they might miss him, the way she and Polly had missed each other that day she’d gone to Townsend Brothers. “They might not even be here yet,” she said. “You may have been able to come here faster on foot, there are so many roads blocked. I’ll go check the ambulance entrance.”
If I can find it, she added silently, and set off to look for it, but before she was halfway down the corridor Polly called her back.
The nurse had returned. “I found the patient you were looking for,” she said. “Mr. Langby.”
“Where is he?” Polly asked.
“He’s just been taken upstairs from surgery.”
Eileen and Polly started toward the stairs, and the nurse moved swiftly to block their way. “I’m afraid no one’s allowed in the recovery room. If you’d like, you can wait in the waiting room.”
“Two men brought him in,” Polly said. “Members of the fire watch. Can you tell us where they are?”
And when the nurse seemed to hesitate, Eileen put in, “Dr. Cross sent me to find out. I’m his driver.”
“Oh,” the nurse said. “Of course. I’ll go and see.”
“One’s elderly and the other’s tall with dark hair,” Eileen called after the nurse, and described what she thought they were wearing.