And you don’t believe a word I’m saying, she thought.
But all he said was, “I wish her a speedy recovery and you a speedy return. If you are not here for the vote Sunday night, I fear I shall be doomed to performing Peter Pan, a fate which surely you would not wish on me.”
Polly laughed. “No. Goodbye, Sir Godfrey.”
“Goodbye, fair Viola. What a pity I never got to act Twelfth Night with you, though perhaps it’s just as well. I should have hated to find myself playing Malvolio, smiling and cross-gartered. And sadly mistaken in thinking the lady cared for him.”
“Never,” Polly said. “You could never play any part but Duke Orsino.”
He clutched his chest dramatically. “Oh, to be twenty-five again!” He pushed her onto the escalator. “Now, begone. Swiftly, that we may meet again. Sunday night at Notting’s Gate when the Luftwaffe roars. Fail me not, fair maid! My life and your good name upon it!” he said and disappeared into the crowd before she could reply.
She hurried toward the Central Line platform. It was already twenty till. I’ll never make it to Euston in time, she thought. Unless by some miracle it’s late.
It was, and it was a good thing-the sirens started up as the 7:55 was pulling out of the station. But even though they’d escaped that, they still spent most of the night stopped due to raids, and most of Saturday forced onto sidings by troop trains, which meant she missed the train from Leamington. The next one wasn’t till morning. “There’s nothing tonight?”
The ticket agent shook his head. “The war, you know.”
And if the morning train was delayed like the one she’d just been on, she wouldn’t make it to Backbury till Monday afternoon, by which time Merope would have left for Oxford to check in. Or would have gone back altogether. “Is there a bus to Backbury?”
The agent consulted a different schedule. “There’s a bus to Hereford, and another that leaves for Backbury from there tomorrow morning at seven.”
It would mean spending the night in the station in Hereford, but at least she would be in Backbury by Sunday, not Monday, and, unlike a train, a bus couldn’t be shunted onto a siding for hours while a succession of troop trains passed.
It could, however, be stopped at railway crossings while those same troop trains crawled by. And at roadblocks, where overzealous Home Guard officers insisted on checking everyone’s papers. She needn’t have worried about spending the night in the station. It was nearly seven in the morning before they reached Hereford.
The bus for Backbury was stopped by a troop train only once and for only half an hour. When the driver called out “Backbury,” it was just a bit after eight. “What time’s the next bus from here back to Hereford?” Polly asked as she got off.
“Twenty past five.”
“In the afternoon?”
“Only two buses a day on Sunday. The war, you know.”
Yes, I do know. But at least there was a train from Backbury. She was glad she’d checked the ABC and found out when it went. Taking the 11:19 would get her back to London far faster than the bus. If she could get to the manor and back in three hours.
And if she could find it. The driver had stopped among a small huddle of shops and cottages. She couldn’t see a manor house. Or a railway station. She turned back to ask the bus driver, “Can you direct me to the manor?” but he’d already shut the door and was pulling away.
I’ll have to ask one of the villagers, she thought, but there was no one in sight. They might be in church. It was Sunday, and even if Backbury didn’t have an early mass, the local equivalent of Mrs. Wyvern might be there arranging the altar flowers. But when she pushed open the door and looked in the sanctuary, she couldn’t see anyone. “Hullo?” she called. “Anyone there?”
The only response was a distant whistle. So I know which direction the railway station is, she thought, going back outside and following the sound and the plume of smoke. She arrived at the station platform in time to see a troop train race by at top speed.
Why couldn’t they have moved that quickly last night? she thought, walking over to the station, though it could hardly be called that. It was no larger than a potting shed. There was probably no point in knocking, but when she did, there was the sound of a cough and then a shuffle and an unshaven and obviously hungover-or drunken-man opened the door.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” Polly said, taking a step back so he didn’t fall on her. “Can you direct me to the manor?”
“Manor?” he said, weaving and squinting blearily at her. Definitely drunk.
“Yes. Can you tell me how to get there?”
He waved vaguely. “Road just beyond the church.”
“Which way?”
“Only goes one way,” he said and would have shut the door if she hadn’t grabbed it and held it open.
“I’m looking for someone who works at the manor. One of the maids. Her name’s Eileen. She cared for the evacuees at the manor. She has red hair and-”
“Evacuees?” he said, his eyes narrowing. “You ain’t here about those bloody Hodbin brats, are you?”
Hodbin? That was the name of the evacuees who’d given Merope so much trouble.
“You’d better not be bringin’ ’em back.”
“I’m not. Does Eileen still work at the manor?” she asked, but he’d already slammed the door, and it would have been on her hand if she hadn’t snatched it away at the last second. “Can you tell me how far it is?” she called through the door, but got no answer.
It can’t be that far. Merope walked it, Polly thought, going back to the church and then along the road beyond it. It was more a lane than a road-and the sort of lane that looked as if it would peter out in the middle of a field-but there was nothing else resembling either a road or a lane, and it led only south. It was also rutted with tire tracks, and Merope had been going to take driving lessons.
But it sounded from what the station agent had said that the Hodbins were no longer here, and if the evacuees had gone home, Eileen would have, too. From what Eileen had said, though, the Hodbins might have been sent home in disgrace. Or shipped off to a reform school.
The lane led past a hayfield and then into woods. There was a scent of rain in the air. Rain, Polly thought. That’s all I need. Merope had better be here, after all this.
Where was the manor? Polly’d already come at least a mile, and there was still no gateway, or, in spite of all the tire tracks, a vehicle in which she could catch a ride. There were only woods. And more woods.
Merope-correction, Eileen; she had to remember to call her Eileen-had said her drop site was in the woods, near the manor house. If she wasn’t there, perhaps Polly could still find it, though if she’d gone back it would no longer be working.
The lane curved to the left. It can’t be much farther, Polly thought, trudging along the ruts, but there was still no sign of a manor house through the woods, or any other house, for that matter, and the lane seemed to be narrowing. And ahead, the woods had been fenced off with barbed wire.
It is going to peter out in a field, she thought. I must have come the wrong way.
No, wait, there was the manor’s gateway ahead, with its stone pillars and wrought-iron gate. And a sentry box, complete with a bar to keep vehicles out. And a uniformed sentry.
“State your name and business,” he said.
“I’m Miss Sebastian. I was looking for someone, but I must have come the wrong way. I was trying to find the manor.”
“This is it. Or was. Now it’s the Royal Riflery Training School.”
And it was a good thing she hadn’t tried to find the drop on her own. She might have been shot. “When-how long has the school been here?”