I pulled it out. It was an order of service for Sunday the tenth of November. I opened the folded sheet, blackened fragments flaking away as I did.

I squinted, trying to read it in the gloom, wishing I had the new recruit’s pocket torch. “…and red carnations on the High Altar,” it read, “were given in remembrance of Lieutenant David Halberstam, RAF. The pulpit arrangement of pink begonias and the bouquet of yellow chrysanthemums in the bishop’s bird stump were donated and arranged by the Flower Committee of the Ladies’ Altar Guild, Chairwoman Lo—”

The rest of the chairwoman was burnt away, but at least we had proof that the bishop’s bird stump had been in the cathedral five days ago. So where was it now?

I kept digging. It got darker, and the moon that had been such an aid to the Luftwaffe the night before came up and promptly disappeared into the murk of smoke and dust.

This part of the church seemed to have fallen in all in one piece, and I almost immediately ran out of things I could lift by myself. I looked over at Carruthers, but he was deep in royal conversation with the verger and, presumably, getting some information out of him. I didn’t want to bother him.

“Give me a hand!” I called to the new recruit instead. He was squatting next to Mr. Spivens, watching him burrow into the tunnel. “Over here!” I shouted, gesturing to him.

Neither of them paid any attention. Mr. Spivens had nearly disappeared into the tunnel, and the new recruit was fiddling with his pocket torch again.

“Hullo!” I shouted, “Over here!” and several things happened at once. Mr. Spivens reappeared, the new recruit reared back and fell over, the pocket torch came on, its beam sweeping the sky like one of the searchlights, and a long dark animal shot out of the tunnel and across the top of the rubble. A cat. Mr. Spivens took off after it, barking wildly.