Connie Willis - All Clear

The conversation turned to the deprivations of rationing and the “criminal” shortage of sugar, fresh fruit, and “a really nice brisket”—none of which would have afforded any opportunities for hints about the invasion, if they’d included him in the conversation, which they didn’t. They hadn’t even noticed him. He stared into the weak tea at the bottom of his cocktail glass and mentally composed a letter to the East Anglia Weekly Advertiser: “Dear Editor, The present rationing situation is simply criminal, and it has been made far worse by the arrival of so many American and Canadian troops in our area …”

“Oh, and that dreadful wheat-meal loaf,” one of the women was saying. “What do they put in it? One’s afraid to ask.”

Ernest let Chasuble give him another weak-tea cocktail and wandered over to where Cess was talking to an elderly gentleman. The gentleman appeared to be deaf

—a good thing, since Cess seemed to have completely forgotten he was supposed to be using an American accent.

“So then the bloke says to me,” Cess said, “ ‘I’ll wager we won’t invade till August.’ ”

Ernest wandered back to within earshot of the first group. The woman was still talking. “And jam’s simply disappeared from the shops. Even Fortnum and Mason’s haven’t—” She stopped, staring at the door.

Everyone did, including the deaf gentleman and the white-gloved servants. “Sorry I’m late,” General Patton boomed. He was standing in the doorway, flanked by aides and looking even more dramatic than Ernest had expected, in full brass-buttoned field uniform, from his star-studded helmet liner right down to his polished riding boots. There were spurs on his boots and more stars on his collar and his field jacket.

Cess had abandoned the deaf gentleman to come over for a closer look. “He looks like the bleeding Milky Way!” he whispered to Ernest.

“Not bleeding. Goddamned Milky Way,” Ernest whispered back.

“And look at that armament!”

Ernest nodded, staring at the pair of ivory-handled revolvers on his hips. And at the white bull terrier panting at Patton’s feet.

“Darforth!” Patton bellowed, and strode into the ballroom and over to the host, followed by the bull terrier. And his aides. “Sorry we didn’t get here earlier.” He grabbed Lady Darforth’s hand and began pumping it up and down. “Came here straight from the field. Didn’t have time to change. We were down in Keh—”

“Would you like me to take Willy outside for you, sir?” an aide cut in, stopping him in mid-word.

“No, no, he’s all right,” Patton said impatiently. “Willy loves parties, don’t you, Willy?” He turned back to the host. “As I was saying, I just got back from—” He glared at the disapproving-looking aide. “From an undisclosed location, and didn’t have time to change.”

“I quite understand,” Lady Darforth said. “Allow me to introduce you to Lord and Lady Eskwith, who’ve been eager to meet you.” She led him over to the far side of the room.

“Thank God he isn’t really in charge of the invasion,” Cess whispered. “They’d never be able to keep it secret. He stands out—what’s the American expression?”

“Like a sore thumb,” Ernest said. “Which I’d imagine is why he was chosen for this assignment.”

“Mingle,” Moncrieff whispered, coming up behind them.

Ernest nodded and wandered over to the edge of another group who had watched Patton and then begun talking animatedly among themselves, but they were discussing food, too. “Last night I dreamt of roast chicken,” a horsy-looking woman said.

“It’s pudding I always dream of,” the woman next to her said. “They say things will be better after the invasion.”

“Oh, I do hope it will come soon. All this waiting makes one so nervy,” the horsy-looking woman said, and Ernest moved closer.

“Of course it’s coming soon,” the plump woman’s husband said. “The question is, where will it come?” He, and the rest of the group, turned to look pointedly at Ernest. “Well, sir? You’re undoubtedly in the know. Which is it to be, Normandy or the Pas de Calais?”

“I’m afraid I wouldn’t be allowed to tell, sir,” Ernest said, “even if I knew.”

“I’m afraid I wouldn’t be allowed to tell, sir,” Ernest said, “even if I knew.”

“Oh, bosh, of course you know. Wembley and I have a wager going,” he said, pointing with his glass to a mustached man. “He says Normandy, and I say Calais.”

“You’re both wrong,” a third, balding man said, coming over. “It’s Norway.”

Which meant Fortitude North in Scotland was doing its job.

“Can’t you at least give us a hint?” the horsy woman said. “You can’t know how difficult it is to make plans, not knowing what’s going to happen.”

“Everyone knows it’s Normandy,” Wembley said. “In the first place, the Pas de Calais is where Hitler will be expecting it.”

“That’s because it’s the only logical point of attack,” the other man said, his face getting red. “It’s the shortest distance across the Channel, and the shortest land route to the Ruhr is from there. It has the best ports—”

“Which is why we’re going to invade at Normandy,” Wembley said loudly. “Hitler will be concentrating his troops at Calais. He won’t be expecting the attack to come at Normandy. And Normandy—”

Ernest had to stop this. It was all much too close to the truth. “You both make interesting cases,” he said, and turned to Mrs. Wembley. “Have you read Agatha Christie’s latest mystery novel?”

“Hmmph,” Wembley said, drawing himself up.

Ernest ignored him. “Have you?”

“Why, yes,” she said. “Are you saying her book—”

He leaned toward her confidentially. “I can’t say anything about the invasion—it’s all top secret, you know—but if I were in charge of it,” he lowered his voice,

“I’d take all of Agatha Christie’s novels off the shelves till fall.”

“You would?” she said breathlessly.

“Or I’d have their titles painted over, like you English did with your train stations,” he whispered, emphasizing the word train.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, ladies,” he said, then bowed slightly and limped back over to Cess and Chasuble, who were plotting how to get their hands on the real liquor.

“I fail to see what detective novels have to do with the invasion,” he heard Wembley grumble as he walked away.

“It’s a riddle, darling,” his wife said. “The answer’s in the title of one of her books.”

“Oh, I do love puzzles,” the horsy woman said.

“He mentioned railway stations,” Mrs. Wembley said musingly. “Let’s see, there’s The Mystery of the Blue Train. And The A.B.C. Murders. A.B.C. Could that be some sort of code, do you think?”

Cess looked over at the group. “What did you say to them?” he asked curiously.

Ernest told them. “I got the idea from those mysteries Gwendolyn’s always reading. Moncrieff told us ‘subtle,’ ” he said, picking up an impaled pilchard-on-a-toothpick and eyeing it dubiously. “But I think it may have been a bit too subtle.” He put the pilchard back on the tray and rejoined the group.

“It could be something with a place-name in it,” Mrs. Wembley was saying. “There’s Murder in Mesopotamia—”

“As much as the Allies cherish the value of a surprise,” the balding man said, “I doubt very much they will invade by way of Baghdad.”

“Oh, of course,” she said, flustered. “How silly of me. Oh, I can’t think. What else did she write? There’s Murder at the Vicarage, but that can’t be it, and the one where he did it, and the one where the two of them—”