His foot hit something metal, and it fell over with a terrific, echoing clatter. He dived to silence whatever it was, and his hand came down in a bucket of freezing water and nearly knocked it over. He felt frantically for the thing he’d banged into.
A stirrup pump. He could tell by the metal handle, the rubber hose. He straightened, clutching the pump in both hands and peering anxiously into the blackness, listening for running footsteps or a shouted “What was that?”
Neither came, which meant the entire fire watch was still up on the roofs, thank heavens, and if he could just reach the nave with its high windows, there should be a bit more light and he’d be able to see where he was going.
There wasn’t any more light. The wall he’d been patting his way along ended and the quality of the hush changed, so that he could tell he was in a wider, higher space, but it was still pitch-black. Bartholomew had said they’d kept a small light burning on the altar at night for the fire watch to orient itself by, but when he looked toward where the choir and the altar should be, there was nothing but a black blankness.
And I will have a few things to say to Mr. Bartholomew on the accuracy of his historical reporting when I return to Oxford, he thought, feeling for the angled and fluted pillars that formed the corner of the wall. He didn’t dare go out into the middle of the nave. It was full of wooden folding chairs to crash into. He’d best keep to the north aisle.
He felt along the aisle’s wall, one hand on the cold stone and the other hand in front of him, attempting to remember what lay along it. Lord Leighton’s statue, he thought, and promptly stumbled over it, the sandbags breaking his fall.
I’m too old for this, he thought, getting to his feet again and working his way past it, past an alcove, a rectangular pillar, another alcove. And another bucket, this one full of sand—which he nearly broke his toe against but, thankfully, did not knock over.
Colin was right, I should have brought a pocket torch, he thought, feeling his way around another pillar. And up against what was unmistakably a brick wall.
There aren’t any brick walls in St. Paul’s, he thought. Could I be somewhere else altogether? Then he realized what it was. The Wellington Monument, which they’d bricked up because it was too large to move. He worked his way quickly along its face to the next pillar. After this there should be only the All Souls’ Chapel and then St. Dunstan’s Chapel before he reached—
A door slammed somewhere behind him, and footsteps hurried down the nave toward him. Dunworthy ducked behind the pillar, hoping he was out of sight. “I’m certain I heard something,” a man’s voice said.
“An incendiary?” a second voice asked.
No, you heard me crashing about, Dunworthy thought. They were obviously members of the fire watch.
A pocket torch flashed briefly. Dunworthy shrank further behind the pillar. “I don’t know,” the first man said. “It might have been a DA.”
A pocket torch flashed briefly. Dunworthy shrank further behind the pillar. “I don’t know,” the first man said. “It might have been a DA.”
A delayed-action bomb, Dunworthy thought.
“Bloody hell, that’s all we need,” the second one said. And bloody hell was right. They’d search the entire cathedral.
“It sounded like it was in the nave,” the first one said, and Dunworthy braced himself, wondering what sort of tale he could concoct to explain his presence. But when the torch flashed again, it was over toward the south aisle, and their footsteps grew softer as they moved away from him.
Dunworthy stayed where he was, trying to hear what they were saying, but he only caught snatches. “… have been on the south chancel roof? … likely put it out …”
They must have decided it was an incendiary after all. They were all the way to the west end of the nave. He caught, “… over for tonight …” and something that sounded like “Coventry,” though that was unlikely. He didn’t think Coventry had been bombed before the fourteenth of November.
“… north aisle?” one of them said, and Dunworthy looked back toward the transept, wondering if he should retreat there.
“No … check the gallery first.” There was a brief flash of light, and Dunworthy heard a clank of metal and footsteps ascending.
They’re going up Wren’s Geometrical Staircase, he thought, and took advantage of the covering sound of their footsteps to walk quickly along the aisle, his hand on the wall for guidance. Pillar, pillar, iron grille. That was St. Dunstan’s Chapel. The vestibule and the door should be just beyond.
“… find anything?” he heard from somewhere above him. He ducked for cover moments before the pocket torch’s light flared down.
“Here it is!” one of them shouted; it must have been the first one because he said triumphantly, “I told you I heard something. It’s an incendiary. Fetch a stirrup pump.”
Dunworthy heard the second one racket along the gallery overhead. He felt his way quickly to the door, opened it, and slipped out to the porch and the steps.
