“No. I’m afraid not, Chief Inspector. Seemed a nice enough boy. A little anxious, but then that is what you’d expect in one about to face aerial combat, I think. No, I gave him my answer and he departed.”
The Count raised an arm, shuddered, then closed his eyes. Without opening them, he rang a bell on his desk. “An agonising back spasm, gentlemen. Forgive me, but I really cannot continue.” A man appeared. “Andrei, I need to lie down. Help me upstairs.” Merlin cast a wary eye at Bridges and reluctantly rose to his feet.
*
Francis Evans reported in at the Chelsea AFS station at midday. He was perspiring for some reason although, despite the sun having come out, it felt like a brisk autumnal day. “Anyone seen Stewart?”
“He’s just popped out for a packet of fags. Back in a minute.” Bill Cooper was lounging with his feet over the arm of a rackety old armchair in the corner. He had a copy of the day’s edition of the Daily Mirror in his hands. Evans saw the headline “Cloud Dodgers in the Blitz”. He thought “cloud dodgers” seemed a rather poetic description and wondered to what the story referred, but knew that if he asked the notoriously verbose Cooper he would be stuck there forever. He went into the washroom and splashed his face with water.
When he emerged, Stewart was back. “Hello, Chief. Can I have a word?”
Stewart opened his cigarette packet and offered Evans one. The two men lit up and sat down at the large table that took up most of the space in the back end of the station. “I need to get away for a couple of hours later today. Will that be possible?”
“Better ask Goering not me.”
“Yes, of course, if there’s a raid then I’ll be here, but if nothing’s doing around 3 or 3.30 do you mind if I pop out for a short time? I’ve not far to go.”
Stewart thought for a moment. Evans had proven himself a brave and diligent firefighter and had never asked for anything before. He’d also been generous with that fascinating Turner book. He decided to cut him some slack. “Got to see a girl? Is that it?”
Evans blushed. “No. No. Just a little bit of business someone’s asked me to help out with. Is it alright?”
Stewart drew on his cigarette, then slowly exhaled. The smoke spiralled away above them. “Very well, Mr Evans. If nothing’s doing here you can get off at – is it 3 or 3.30 you want?”
“I think 3.15 might be best.”
“Very well, 3.15 and back at?”
“If I see the bombers coming in, I’ll head straight back, but otherwise say 5.30?”
“Fine. Meanwhile there’s a little bit of paperwork I could do with some help on.”
“Of course. Of course.”
Stewart withdrew to the other end of the station room and returned with some forms that required review and completion. Evans made short work of these, then walked over to the tea-urn and brewed himself a strong cup. He found himself a quiet corner to sit and pulled Blunt’s letter out of his jacket for one more read through.