All Clear (47 page)

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.

“And let’s hope she doesn’t run into Dr. Cross while she’s finding out,” she said to Polly.

Binnie came tearing up. “I been to all the wards, and ’e ain’t there. You want me to go look someplace else?”

“No, stay here till the nurse comes back,” Eileen said. If the nurse didn’t bring any information, they could send her to surgery. “Where’s Alf?”

“I dunno,” Binnie said. “Me and ’im split up. Do you want I should go look for ’im?”

“No.” Eileen grabbed her to ensure she didn’t.

The nurse returned. “I spoke with the ambulance driver who brought Mr. Langby in. She said only one member of the fire watch came with Mr. Langby—a Mr. Bartholomew—and that he left as soon as Mr. Langby was safely inside the hospital.”

“Left?” Polly said, looking as though she’d been kicked in the stomach.

“Left to go where?” Binnie asked, and the nurse seemed to suddenly become aware of her presence.

“Children aren’t allowed in—” she began.

“Left to go where?” Eileen cut in. “It’s
essential
Dr. Cross speak with him immediately. When did he leave?”

“Over an hour ago,” the nurse said. “You’ll have to take that child to the waiting room.”

“She’s Dr. Cross’s niece,” Eileen said. “I’ll go and tell him.”

She let go of Binnie’s arm, grabbed Polly’s, and propelled her down
the corridor. “Don’t worry. We can still catch him. We’ll drive to St. Paul’s,” she said. “Binnie—” But Binnie had disappeared.

An orderly was coming toward them, looking angry—no doubt the reason she’d vanished, and she’d reappear as soon as he passed. But she didn’t.

Good
, Eileen thought, steering Polly through the maze of corridors, looking for something familiar to show her they were headed in the right direction. They obviously couldn’t take Alf and Binnie with them, and this way they wouldn’t have to waste time arguing with them over their staying here.

But Alf popped up moments later and said, “If you’re lookin’ for the ambulance, you’re goin’ the wrong way.”

“Where’s your sister?” Eileen asked.

He shrugged. “I dunno. We split up. Where’s your coat?”

“I took it off. Show us the way.”

“Come along,” he said, and led her and Polly quickly and expertly to the dispensary.

Agatha Christie wasn’t there, which Eileen supposed was good, considering what had happened last time, but she’d have liked to see her again now that she knew who she was.
And what? Tell her how much you love her novels? London’s burning to the ground, and you’ve got to get to St. Paul’s
, She pushed out through the emergency doors.

The ambulance wasn’t there.

Of course not. There were hundreds of casualties, and Guy’s Hospital’s ambulances couldn’t get through.
I should have taken the keys like Alf
, she thought, feeling sick, staring at the empty spot where the ambulance had been.

Polly was staring at the sky. The wall of smoke was still there, but the red had faded to a pinkish charcoal gray, and above the pall the overcast sky was beginning to show a hint of paler gray. “It’s nearly morning,” she said. “We’ll never make it in time.”

“No, it isn’t,” Eileen said staunchly. “That’s the light from the fires reflecting off the cloud cover.”

Polly shook her head. “ ‘It is the lark.’ ”

“It isn’t. It’s only—” Eileen held her watch up, trying to see the time, but it was too dark to make out the hands. “There’s still time to get there before he leaves,” she said, though she didn’t see how. The Underground wouldn’t start running till half past six, and even if they could get to Blackfriars, they’d have to climb Ludgate Hill.

Polly was still staring blindly at the sky. “We won’t be able to find him,” she murmured as if to herself. “We’ll be too late.”

“Alf,” Eileen said, “do you think you could find us a taxi?”

“A
taxi
?” Alf said. “Whattya want a taxi for?”

Wretched child
. “We must get to St. Paul’s immediately. It’s an emergency.”

“Why don’t you take the ambulance?” he said, and Binnie came driving around the corner of the hospital.

She leaned out the window. “I thought I better ’ide it so nobody else took it.”

Alf opened the passenger door, scrambled in, and rolled down his window. “Well?” he said. “Are we goin’ or what?”

MIKE WOKE UP WITH A SPLITTING HEADACHE, AND WHEN
he tried to put his hand to his forehead, a searing pain shot along his arm.

He opened his eyes. His arm was swathed in gauze, and he was lying in a white-painted iron bed in a dimly lit ward. He turned his head to look at the sleeping patient in the bed next to him. It was Fordham, with his arm still in traction. “Oh God,” he murmured, trying to sit up. “How did I get here?”

“Shh,” a pretty, wimpled nurse—not Sister Carmody—said, pushing him back down and pulling the blankets up over him. “Lie still. You’ve been injured. You’re in hospital. Try to rest.”

“How did I get to Orpington?” he asked.

“Orpington?” she said. “You
did
get a knock on the head. You’re in St. Bartholomew’s.”

St. Bartholomew’s. Good. He was still in London. He must have … but then what was Fordham doing here? He looked over at him, and it wasn’t Fordham, after all. It was a teenaged boy.

“What time is it?” Mike asked, looking over at the windows, but they were completely covered by sandbags piled against them.

“Never you mind about that. Would you like some breakfast?”

Breakfast
? Oh, Christ, he’d been out cold the whole night.

“You must try to rest,” the nurse was saying. “You’ve a concussion.”

“A concussion?” He felt his head. There was a painful bump on the left side.

“Yes, a burning wall fell on you,” she said, pulling out a thermometer. “You were extremely lucky. You’ve a burn on your arm, but it could have been far worse.”

How
? he thought.
I was supposed to be finding John Bartholomew, and I’ve been out of commission all night
.

“Eight other firemen were killed in Fleet Street when a wall collapsed,” she said.

Mike tried to sit up. “I’ve got to go—”

She pushed him back down. “You’re not going anywhere,” she said, sounding exactly like Sister Carmody.

A horrible thought struck him. What if he’d been here for weeks, like in Orpington? “What day is it?”

“What day?” she said, looking worried. “I’ll fetch the doctor.” She stuck the thermometer into her pocket and hurried off.

Oh, God, it
had
been weeks. He’d missed the drop.

No, Eileen and Polly wouldn’t have gone without you
, he told himself.
They’d have made John Bartholomew wait
. Or sent a retrieval team back for him.

But they wouldn’t have had any idea where he was. Even if they’d thought to search the hospitals, the nurse obviously thought he was a fireman …

“I heard you ask what day it was,” the kid in the next bed said. “It’s Monday.”

“No, the
date
,” Mike asked.

The kid gave him the same look the nurse had given him. “December thirtieth.”

Relief washed over Mike. “What time is it?”

“I don’t know,” the boy said. “But it’s early. They haven’t brought breakfast round yet.”

If St. Bart’s was like Orpington, they brought everybody’s breakfast at the crack of dawn, which meant there was still time. But not much. The nurse would be back with the doctor any minute.

Mike sat up carefully, testing for dizziness. His head was splitting, but not so bad he couldn’t stand up, and he didn’t have time to wait till the pain lessened. He swung his legs over the side of the bed.

“What are you doing?” the kid asked, alarmed. “Where are you going?”

“St. Paul’s.”

“St.
Paul’s
?” he said. “You’ll never get anywhere near it. Our fire brigade tried. We couldn’t get any nearer than Creed Lane.”

“You’re a
fireman
?” Mike asked. The kid couldn’t be fifteen.

“Yes. Redcross Street Fire Brigade,” he said proudly. “You won’t be able to get through. They had to take me all the way round to Bishopsgate when they brought me here.”

“I
have
to get through.” Mike stood up, his head swimming. “Did you see what the nurse did with my clothes?”

“But you can’t just get dressed and walk out of here,” the kid protested. “You haven’t been discharged.”

“I’m discharging myself,” Mike said, yanking open the drawers of the nightstand.

His clothes weren’t there. “I said, did you see what the nurse did with my
clothes
?”

The kid shook his head. “You were already here when I was brought in,” he said, “and you heard what the nurse said. You’ve a concussion. Why don’t you wait for her to come back and—”

And have her what? Tell him not to worry? Promise to ask the matron and then disappear for hours? It could be
days
before they’d let him out of here.

“Or at least wait till the doctor’s had a chance to examine you,” the kid said, his eyes straying toward the bell on the nightstand between their beds.

Mike snatched the bell up and jammed it under his own pillow. “Did you see what the nurse did with
your
clothes?”

“In the cupboard there,” he said, pointing at a white metal cabinet. “But I don’t think you should—”

“I’m fine,” Mike said, limping over to the cupboard. His own clothes were on the top shelf, neatly folded on top of his shoes. He began pulling on his trousers, keeping one eye on the ward doors. The nurse would be back with the doctor any second. He tried not to wince as he eased his shirtsleeve over his bandaged arm. “Where’s the nearest tube stop?”

“Cannon Street,” the kid said, “but I doubt the trains are running. Waterloo and London Bridge were both hit last night.”