The Secrets of Lord Grayson Child by Stephanie Laurens
Chapter 11
It was strange how seeing Izzy over the breakfast table had come to seem normal. On walking into the Norfolk Crescent breakfast parlor and finding her at the table, Gray felt something in him relax. Stand down.
Exchanging a smile, he pulled out the chair opposite, sat, and asked, “How went the print run?”
She told him, and with a few well-chosen questions, he had her describing her day in detail, outlining the altered logistics involved in printing a larger number of copies and giving her opinion of Donaldson, the new photographer, and her hopes for what he would bring to The Crier and also how well he’d fitted in with the rest of the staff through the ensuing hours.
“It was a real team effort,” she concluded as they rose from the table and headed for the front hall.
They shrugged on their coats and retrieved their hats, and she threw him a curious glance. “How did the house hunting go?”
He smiled and escorted her out of the door and into the waiting carriage. Once they’d sat and the carriage had started rolling, he replied, “I’m not as yet sure. That particular house might suit, but I need to do some research first.”
Before she could probe further, he said, “I’m curious—did Baines lend a hand, too?”
“Believe it or not, he did, but only at the end, in the last hour or so. However, Littlejohn was there for the entire day, along with a young constable. They were a big help, as was your Tom Corby.”
“He told me he’d enjoyed himself. So what, exactly, will happen today?”
As the carriage rattled across London, she explained how the distributors would send lads to fetch their allocated number of copies. “Most have a set amount, week to week, but I expect, once the distributors themselves see the edition, we’ll have reorders coming in. That’s why we printed extra, and Lipson and Maguire are going to prepare the formes this morning, so that if we get even more orders beyond the extra copies printed, then this afternoon, we can run off more.”
A mounting sense of expectation had gripped them both by the time the carriage drew up at the back of Mrs. Carruthers’s house. They stopped to say hello, but didn’t dally and went straight through, emerging into Woburn Square and walking briskly to the printing works.
When they turned onto the mews, even though it wanted a good ten minutes to eight o’clock, there was already a queue of impatient lads lined up before the door. Some were alone, but others were in pairs and towed small handcarts.
Several recognized Izzy and bobbed their heads. On gaining the steps before the front door, she surveyed the gathering. “You’re here bright and early.”
The group exchanged glances, then one of the pair of older lads closest to the door volunteered, “Our gaffers all heard about the special edition. Mr. Hughes warned us to be here good and early and to get twenty copies more than our usual.”
Murmurs along the line confirmed that others had similar orders.
Izzy smiled reassuringly. “I’m sure we’ll be able to manage that.” Confidingly, she added, “We printed extra.”
Relieved, the lads grinned.
With a “Won’t be long now,” she turned to the door.
Mary stood on the other side; she flipped the lock and let Izzy and Gray in, then shut and locked the door again. “Cheeky beggars. The instant we open up, they’ll be streaming in.”
Izzy, Gray noticed, hadn’t stopped smiling. He took in the towers of stacked copies of The Crier and owned himself impressed.
All the staff were already there, scattered behind the counter and deeper in the workshop, no doubt having been let in by those who had spent the night guarding the place. Izzy raised her voice and spoke to the workshop at large. “Our distributors have heard about the special edition and are already asking for extra copies.”
Everyone brightened.
Scanning the faces, Gray saw signs of the underlying tension he felt, overlaid by hope that the novel tack of a hue and cry edition would work, and today, they would get some clue that would identify Quimby’s killer.
That all their hard work over the past days would pay off.
He and Izzy retreated to the office and shed their hats and coats, then somewhat reluctantly, Izzy sat behind her desk.
When he looked at her questioningly, she sighed. “I need to note and issue amended invoices to account for the extra copies they want to take. There isn’t enough space at the counter to do it there, so…” She gestured at her desk.
At eight o’clock on the dot, Mary unlocked the front door. With Horner standing beside her, ready to yank any overzealous lad up by his collar, and Matthews lounging against the counter, blocking ready access to the copies stacked there, the youths read the signs and came in quietly and waited their turn to hand in a slip provided by their employers, stating the number of copies to be taken in their name.
Seated in his customary armchair in the office, Gray watched the process of distributing The Crier throughout the city get underway, remarkably smoothly. The staff had done this many times before, as had the delivery lads, and it showed. Mary accepted the order slips, and after she logged the details into a ledger and gave the go-ahead, Horner and Matthews loaded the correct number of copies into the waiting youth’s arms. If there were more than the lad could carry, he’d cart them out to where his mate waited with a handcart, then return to get the rest of his order. Meanwhile, Mary handed Digby the annotated order slip the youth had tendered, and Digby scampered across to the office and delivered it to Izzy.
She, in turn, wrote out invoices to match the slips and also kept a running tally of the number of copies dispatched.
She saw him taking note of the tally and explained, “Depending on when in the day we get to four and a half thousand copies dispatched, we’ll make a decision on whether to run the press again.”
He’d seen Lipson, his son, and Maguire working about the press and remembered her earlier comment about running the machine again. “I wouldn’t mind seeing the press in action.”
She briefly smiled. “I wouldn’t mind seeing it in action again myself, as that will signal we’re well on the way to making a windfall profit on this edition.” She paused, then frowned. “Is it morally wrong to profit from a murder?”
He snorted. “What do you think your competitors would say? And besides, you and the staff here are doing this to avenge Quimby. Your principal motive is to find his killer, and by definition, that can’t be morally wrong.”
She arched her brows. “It’s certainly true that we all want the killer caught.”
Digby raced in with another invoice. She accepted it and returned to her task.
Not long after, Baines and Littlejohn arrived. After pausing in the foyer and taking note of the ordered activity there—and being duly noted by the delivery boys—the policemen came into the office.
Izzy briefly glanced up, acknowledged their nods, and waved at the armchairs near the window. “Take a seat, gentlemen. We’re going to be busy for some time.”
Baines grunted. “Waiting for a case to break is something we’re used to.”
After exchanging nods with Gray, Baines and Littlejohn retreated to the chairs by the window.
Minutes later, just after Digby, who was popping in and out of the office like a jack-in-the-box, had rushed out again, a man carrying a camera and tripod—presumably Donaldson—tapped on the door frame.
When Izzy glanced up, Donaldson held up the camera. “I was thinking I should take a few shots of the boys picking up the copies, preferably now while there’s still stacks of copies on the counter.” He glanced toward Baines and Littlejohn. “And perhaps a shot of the inspector and sergeant standing before the counter holding up a copy of the first true hue and cry edition.”
Baines frowned, but before he could refuse, Donaldson added, “I could run you each a copy of the photograph. You never know when it might come in handy in the years to come.”
Baines paused.
Littlejohn had already shifted to the edge of his seat. “He’s right, sir,” Littlejohn murmured. “Having such a photograph to show at our next boards won’t hurt at all.”
Baines shot his sergeant a look, then returned his gaze to Donaldson. “If we agree, we get to see the picture before it’s used in the paper.”
Donaldson glanced at Izzy, who had paused in her scribbling to follow the exchange.
She nodded. “Just make sure the picture’s a good one.”
Donaldson grinned, looked at the police, and tipped his head toward the foyer. “We could do it now, if you like?”
Littlejohn looked eagerly at Baines.
Baines sighed. “Might as well.” He hauled himself out of the chair and, with Littlejohn, headed for the door.
Izzy caught Donaldson’s satisfied gaze. “A moment, if you would.”
Donaldson stepped back to allow the policemen through the doorway, then set down his tripod and came to the desk.
Izzy smiled approvingly. “I don’t suppose Baines and Littlejohn have had their photograph taken before—it won’t hurt to get them used to the process.” She waved at Gray. “And this is Lord Child, who was with me when I found Quimby dead and, ever since, has been assisting with the investigation. No doubt he’ll be present as matters progress.”
Gray held out his hand, and Donaldson, mildly curious, grasped it and shook.
“A pleasure, my lord.” Releasing Gray’s hand, Donaldson cut a shrewd glance at Izzy. “It would save time to know if his lordship has any objection to being photographed.”
Izzy arched her brows at Gray. “Do you?”
He thought for a moment, then said, “Provided the photograph relates to the investigation or the pursuit of Quimby’s killer”—he met Donaldson’s gaze—“I have no objection.”
Izzy looked at Donaldson. “Anything further?”
Donaldson’s boyish grin returned. “No, ma’am.” He hefted his camera. “I’ll get on with it.”
Izzy watched him go, then looked at Gray. “What do you think?”
“That he’s intelligent and keen to do well, which in such a situation constitutes an excellent recommendation.”
She nodded and turned to receive the latest order slip Digby raced in to deliver.
From where he was sitting, Gray could see Baines and Littlejohn posing before the counter, with the stacks of copies of The Crier towering behind them. Donaldson was putting a copy into Baines’s hands and showing him how to hold it so the front page was fully revealed.
Digby continued to race back and forth, and Izzy’s head remained down as she worked through the orders and kept her tally.
Gray uncrossed his legs and rose. “I’m going to take a look around.”
She nodded without glancing up.
He ambled to the doorway and halted there. The foyer was a veritable hive of activity, with Mary, Horner, and Matthews continuing to take in the orders and load up the delivery boys. Although the line that had formed earlier had gone, there always seemed one lad at the counter and at least two waiting, impatiently shifting from foot to foot. As soon as one lad weighed down with copies left, another came barreling through the door, which was constantly opening and closing to the extent that someone had disabled the bell.
Closer to the office, Donaldson had set up his camera on its tripod and was in the process of aiming the lens at Baines and Littlejohn.
Gray stepped out of the doorway to let Digby rush past and remained by the wall, watching Donaldson work. When everything was ready and the photographer emerged to say “Hold still now” and pressed a button attached to the camera, Gray counted off the seconds.
Only seven elapsed before Donaldson took his finger off the button, relaxed, smiled, and nodded at the frozen policemen. “That should do it.”
Both Baines and Littlejohn looked faintly self-conscious. Baines turned and set the copy he’d held on the stack behind him, then with his sergeant, approached Donaldson.
Smiling, the photographer said, “I should have prints from that by tomorrow. If I don’t see you, I’ll leave them at the counter, shall I?”
“Mind, I want a look at it before you go putting it in the paper,” Baines growled.
Uncowed, Donaldson replied, “Of course.”
With a sharp nod, Baines ambled off, going past the end of the counter to prowl through the workshop.
After sharing an understanding look with Donaldson, Littlejohn followed his superior.
Gray left his position by the wall and approached Donaldson, who was fiddling with his apparatus. “That was a remarkably short exposure.” When Donaldson glanced at him, he added, “I’ve seen cameras used quite a bit in America, but I’ve never seen a photograph taken so quickly.”
Donaldson grinned. “It’s the latest lenses coupled with the newest medium. In fact, the way I work nowadays, that was a longish exposure, because it’s indoors”—he glanced at the wide front window at his back—“and the light in here isn’t that strong.” He turned back to Gray. “In halfway decent daylight, I can get good results in a few seconds or even less.”
Gray considered what that meant. “I imagine that will make photographs and photography much more exciting.”
Donaldson’s grin widened. “So we—all the photographers—hope.”
Gray watched him realign his camera, then walk across to speak with three delivery lads clustered about the counter. Donaldson spoke, and the three lads’ faces lit, and they nodded eagerly. He posed them so that one appeared to be about to receive his copies from Matthews, a second was at the counter, speaking earnestly with Mary, who was writing in her ledger, while the third looked on, slip in hand, poised to move in and submit his employer’s order.
Digby, ordered not to intrude on the scene, came to hover by Donaldson’s elbow.
Noting the intense concentration on Digby’s face, Gray smiled.
As soon as the photograph was taken, he started to return to the office, but then the front door burst open, and everyone whirled—hope leaping in every eye that someone was coming in with information—but it was only a gaggle of five delivery lads.
Immediately, a scuffle broke out over which of the five should front the counter first. From the words they flung at each other, each had been sent by their employer to secure extra copies of the hue and cry edition.
“Stop!” Gray’s tone cut like a whip and shocked the five lads into stillness. Across the foyer, he held them silent with his gaze and ordered, “Line up and wait your turn, or we’ll throw the lot of you out for half an hour.”
Baines and Littlejohn appeared at that moment. Baines scowled at the offenders, who immediately looked contrite and sorted themselves into a short queue.
Baines settled as if to keep an eye on things.
Gray nodded at him and was about to turn away when three more breathless lads rushed in. Seeing the queue, they jostled each other to join it.
Mary started frowning as if she was having trouble reading some of the scrawled orders.
With nothing better to do, Gray rounded the counter and offered his services, which were gratefully accepted.
He settled beside Mary, intimidating any presumptuous delivery boys and helping to decipher the rushed orders.
Seeing that Gray had matters at the counter in hand, Horner went to help Matthews load up the delivery lads. As the copies stacked on the counter dwindled, they were replaced by others from elsewhere in the workshop.
At a quarter to twelve, Izzy emerged from her office and walked briskly to the end of the counter. “Lipson?”
The manager straightened from where he’d been poking at the side of the press. “Here, ma’am.”
Izzy beamed. “We’ve already sent out more than four and a half thousand, and the demand for extra copies isn’t slackening off. We’ll need to run the press again.”
A cheer went up from all the staff.
Lipson beamed back. “Right away, ma’am. Gerry, get the boiler stoked. Tom, Digby, get paper ready to roll. Maguire, Matthews, let’s get the formes into place.”
The summoned staff left what they’d been doing and hurried to their tasks, while Donaldson leapt to set up his camera to take shots of the press being readied for action.
That left Mary behind the counter and Gray and Izzy loading up the delivery boys. After a few moments of hanging back, when still more boys came rushing in and the queue grew longer and wound out of the door, both Baines and Littlejohn also pitched in, counting copies and dumping them into the lads’ waiting arms.
Then the press cranked into action, and Gray got a taste of what employment in a printing works was really like. Steam hissed, and iron cogs and gears clattered and clanked. The noise was horrendous; they had to yell to make themselves heard.
But the buoyant spirits only rose higher as more and more lads returned to get still more copies of The Crier’s special edition, leaving everyone smiling in triumphant delight.
This is going to work.
Increasingly, Gray felt sure of that.
Izzy glanced at the clock, the hands of which showed the time to be after twelve. “We won’t be able to stop for a lunch break—not today.”
Gray counted the queue; possibly because the delivery lads were taking lunch breaks, it had dwindled to four. He glanced at Baines and Littlejohn. “Littlejohn, if you can relieve me here, I’ll go to the pub around the corner and pick up some food and drink.” He tipped his head toward the workshop. “Our crew needs sustenance.”
Baines grunted. “I’ll come and help carry things back.”
With no time to waste—the temporary hiatus was unlikely to last—Gray gave up his position to Littlejohn and, with Baines, left and strode quickly down the street.
In the local pub, the publican and his wife were happy—indeed, honored—to be asked to supply food for The Crier’s staff. While the pair bustled about packing pies, sandwiches, pasties, and bottles of cider, Gray and Baines lounged against the bar and idly surveyed the other patrons, intrigued to see that many were poring over copies of The Crier.
At one of the nearer tables, three workmen were each reading their own copy. They were studying the photographs, and every now and then, one would squint, point at the paper, and make some comment, to which the other two would either grunt or reply.
Baines mused, “Not the sort of readership The Crier would normally command.”
“No, indeed,” Gray murmured. “But it’s an excellent sign.”
The instant the victuals were ready, he paid, and Baines helped him cart the packages back to the workshop.
The line of delivery lads had grown again. Gray and Baines hurriedly set their burdens on the table near the darkroom and returned to the counter to assist as before.
When Lipson next paused the press to change out a forme, those working about the machine fell on the food with ravenous intent. Shortly after, the tide of delivery lads slowed enough for Izzy and Gray to man the counter alone, allowing Mary, Littlejohn, Baines, and Donaldson—who had put aside his camera to help Mary—to appease their appetites.
Once the press cranked into gear again and the others, licking crumbs from their fingers and wiping their lips, returned, Gray and Izzy retreated to stand about the table and eat selections from the still-considerable remains.
Izzy took a neat bite of an egg sandwich and held the rest up. “Thank you for this.” She surveyed the activity about the counter and also about the press. “I might have hoped, but I had no idea the interest would be this great.”
Gray told her of the men he and Baines had seen in the pub. “They’re treating it like a community game—spot the murderer.”
Izzy swallowed the last of her sandwich. “I don’t care what they think, just as long as they look and come and tell us what we need to know.” She dusted off her hands. “I’m back to the fray.”
His gaze on the press and its many moving parts, Gray nodded.
He heard the smile in Izzy’s voice as she said, “We can manage without you for a few minutes if you want to take a closer look.”
He grinned and glanced at her. “I won’t be long.”
He swiped up another sandwich and, with a bottle of cider in his other hand, walked down the workshop, careful not to get in the way of those scurrying purposefully about the giant beast of a machine. To some extent, he’d grown accustomed to the noise and the reek of ink, coal, oil, and other mechanical scents combined, enough to be able to pay full attention to what he was seeing. He halted near the rear door from where he could see the mechanism that allowed the steam from the boiler Horner constantly stoked to rotate the thick, woven belt that powered the huge drum of the press and its associated levers and gears.
That was fascinating in its own right.
After he’d looked his fill, he walked slowly back along the side of the press, noting the precision with which the plate holding the current forme was lowered and a fine, apparently even coat of ink was applied, then the plate was raised again, locking into place, and the huge drum turned, and the next sheet was printed.
Gently shaking his head in amazement, he ate the crust in his hand, then washed down the impromptu meal with the last of the cider. After leaving the bottle with the other empties under the layout table, he returned to the counter.
As the afternoon wore on, the rush of extra orders didn’t abate; indeed, the stream of lads coming through the door, some on their third mission, only increased, until the queue before the counter snaked through the door and continued down the street—and the number of copies stacked on the counter and yet to be claimed dwindled to dangerously low.
Then the clatter in the workshop slowed, and steam hissed mightily, and the press ponderously ground to a halt.
Instead of relaxing, the staff rearranged themselves and started collating sheets.
Minutes later, Lipson tapped Gray on the shoulder. “We need two more on the folding table. You and Littlejohn will have to lend a hand.” He nodded at Baines. “If you can help the ladies, Inspector, we need to get more copies prepared or”—Lipson tipped his head toward the queue of youths who were growing increasingly agitated as the stacks on the counter shrank—“we’re like to have a riot.”
His gaze on the restive lads, Gray asked Lipson, “How many extra copies did you print?”
“Another thousand plus.”
Gray raised his voice. “There’s more copies coming. Be patient, stay in line, and you’ll get what you’ve been sent for.”
Baines nodded approvingly and said to Littlejohn, “Go. I’ll hold the fort here.”
Lipson led Gray and Littlejohn to the typesetting table and showed them what was required. Working alongside Maguire and Matthews, they buckled down and stacked, neatened, and folded like demons.
Soon, the flow of copies out of the door had increased again. Gray heard several lads exclaim over the warmth of the recently printed papers. The term “hot off the press” had never been more accurate.
Eventually, as the clock ticked past four, the queue reduced, and by a quarter past the hour, it was gone altogether. With the last of the new print run folded and stacked, the staff and their conscripts could finally relax.
Under Izzy’s direction, Baines reset the bell above the door, and everyone gathered about the table near the darkroom and devoured the last of the food and drink.
Mary and Donaldson hovered by the counter, ready to respond to the few lads still turning up for more copies.
Gray noticed that each time the bell tinkled, everyone looked up and across—hoping that someone would turn up and reveal some useful fact—but on each occasion, the newcomer proved to be another delivery boy wanting more copies for his master.
Then, just after four-fifty, three likely-looking lads, perhaps nineteen years or so old, came through the door. It was instantly apparent they weren’t delivery lads; they lacked the focused drive of that species. The trio looked around curiously, then noticed everyone watching them and straightened and, with a show of bravado, fronted up to the counter.
One, presumably the leader, grinned at Mary and Donaldson. “We’ve come to offer information, like—for the reward.”
Eyes widening, hope in her expression, Mary looked across at Izzy.
The entire staff, Donaldson included, looked at Izzy with expectation in their eyes.
Baines, who’d been standing beside Gray, sighed heavily. He murmured to Izzy, “Let me handle this.” He started for the foyer. “Littlejohn—with me.”
Already drawing out his notebook, but with a disapproving look in his eyes, Littlejohn readily fell in at Baines’s heels.
Baines pulled out his badge and waved it at the lad who’d spoken. “Inspector Baines, from Scotland Yard.” He held the badge so all three lads could see it, then tucked it away again. “Right, then. What do you have for us?”
The leader blinked, then shot a glance at his mates. “I…er.” He swallowed. “We thought we’d be speaking to the man who owns the paper—I. Molyneaux.”
Baines nodded amiably. “The owner’s assisting us. If you have information to share, son, now’s the time to tell it.”
“Er…well.” After another glance at his mates, the leader blurted, “We saw the bloke.”
“And which bloke was this?”
“The photographer fellow—”
“No, it was the murderer,” the lad to the leader’s left insisted. When the leader turned startled eyes his way, the second lad mumbled, “They know what the photographer looked like. Stands to reason it’s the other one they’re after.”
Baines’s expression hardened. “Do you three actually know anything? Or are you just chancing your luck?”
The three protested, but it quickly became apparent that it was the latter description that applied.
Baines sent the three off with fleas in their ears.
As the door shut behind the trio, Gray glanced around and saw disappointment in every expression.
Izzy sighed and voiced what she was sure everyone had thought. “I know the edition has only been out for a matter of hours, but I’d hoped we would have had someone come forward with at least a snippet of honest information by now.”
Baines grunted and faced the assembled crew. “To have anyone with real information come forward today was, at best, a very long shot. Even if the right people have read the paper by now, I can tell you that members of the public with genuine information always think twice before ‘getting involved.’ Most often, they’ll sleep on it before doing what their conscience prompts them to do, and sometimes it takes even longer for them to work up the backbone to own to what they know. Frankly, if it wasn’t for the reward, I doubt we’d see much result, even from all this effort. But sizeable as it is, the reward changes things mightily. And I warn you, come tomorrow, I’m sure we’ll have a slew of people thinking to flummox us with spurious information, but amongst all the dross, I won’t be at all surprised if we don’t get at least a few worthwhile sightings, a few real clues.”
Izzy scanned the faces around her and saw Baines’s words sink in. She glanced at the clock, then turned to address her troops. “Right, then. You’ve heard the inspector’s experienced assessment, which means we’ve no cause to feel disappointed, much less dejected. As it’s nearly five o’clock, I suggest we get everything squared away and go home for a well-earned rest.”
“You’re not wrong about that rest,” Lipson said, making the others smile. “Usual time tomorrow, everyone, and expect to be busy. Chances are we’ll have more orders come in, and we’ll need to get the press cleaned and ready for next week.”
On cue, the bell tinkled, and another hopeful delivery lad came in. Mary and Donaldson moved to the counter to deal with him, and the rest of the staff dispersed to, among other things, disconnect the boiler and belt assembly from the press and remove the formes and stack them ready to be broken down and cleaned.
Two more delivery lads turned up just as Mary was closing her ledger. She opened it again, and Donaldson quickly counted out the copies the lads had been sent to collect.
Reminded of the chore she’d neglected due to the hectic afternoon, Izzy swooped in and gathered all the order slips Mary had stashed beneath the counter. She carried the untidy pile into the office and placed it on her desk. She eyed the stack; she wasn’t looking forward to tomorrow, when she would have to go through all the slips and issue invoices to match.
She returned to the foyer as the staff were collecting their hats and coats. “It seems likely that tomorrow, we’ll have more would-be informants flood in, most no more genuine than those three lads earlier.” She looked at Baines. “Inspector, are you and Sergeant Littlejohn planning to be here?”
Baines settled his hat on his head. “As it’s possible you’ll have some genuine information come in tomorrow, you couldn’t keep me away.” He cast a sidelong glance at his sergeant. “As for Littlejohn, likely you couldn’t keep him away regardless.”
Everyone laughed, even Littlejohn.
“Very well.” Relieved on that score, Izzy turned to the staff. “Before we leave, we should discuss how we’ll handle anyone coming in claiming to have information.”
“Aye.” Lipson nodded. “I suspect we’ll have lots.”
A short discussion ended with Mary—the least threatening person—being deputized to man the front counter as usual, but actively supported by Lipson and Littlejohn. Between them, they would take down the name and address of anyone offering information, along with the details of that information. Subsequently, only those Littlejohn deemed to have genuine insights pertinent to the crime would be conducted to the office, where Izzy, Gray, and Baines would undertake a more in-depth interview.
With the next day as organized as it could be, Izzy sent everyone off. Now that the hue and cry edition had been distributed far and wide, all had agreed there was no longer any reason for the killer to target the printing works’ premises.
Goodbyes were called as the staff departed, and she answered as she fetched her coat and bonnet. With both on, she joined Gray, who had already donned his coat and hat and was waiting in the foyer. The staff had gone, but Baines and Littlejohn lingered; apparently, the pair had been chatting with Gray and had remained to see her safely on her way.
She waved toward the door and led them to it. As she approached, through the glass, she saw three delivery lads crowd onto the steps, tapping desperately.
“Allow me, ma’am.” Littlejohn stepped to the door, unlocked it, and patiently explained that as it was after five o’clock, the office was closed.
Izzy glanced at the counter and saw with relief that all the extra copies they still had—several hundred—had been secreted out of sight.
A predictable wail of woe greeted Littlejohn’s news, but he was unmoved. “Be here tomorrow when the place opens again.”
“At eight o’clock,” Izzy called.
Littlejohn nodded to the three. “You heard—eight of the clock, and you’ll have your extra copies. That’s the best you’ll do.”
Disgruntled, but recognizing that arguing with the law would do no good, the three reluctantly turned and left.
Baines cleared his throat. “You might want to put a notice in the window.” When Izzy turned to him and arched a brow, he said, “Something along the lines of: ‘Copies of the latest edition are still available and will be distributed from this office from eight o’clock Saturday morning. Also from that time, the owner of The London Crier, I. Molyneaux, will be available at this office to receive any information pertinent to the recent death of Mr. Horace Quimby, as detailed in The Crier’s latest edition.’” Baines paused, clearly running the words through his mind, then nodded. “That should do it.”
The sense in the suggestion was obvious; Izzy returned to her office, wrote out the notice more or less as Baines had stated, and returned to place the card in the front window, where she propped it up in the corner by the door with a piece of wood kept there for the purpose.
She waved the three men ahead of her through the door, then followed and locked it.
Gray offered her his arm, and she took it, and in the company of the policemen, they walked around to Woburn Place. After parting from Baines and Littlejohn, she and Gray continued toward Woburn Square.
Everything seemed so normal. As they neared Number 20, she sighed. “It seems quite anticlimactic—all the excitement of getting the edition out, but now we have to wait and see.”
Gray smiled and caught her eye. “Patience.”
She shook her head. “That never was my strong suit.”
He chuckled and escorted her up the steps and inside.
They spent a pleasant twenty minutes with Agatha Carruthers, relating the events of the day. Izzy was amused to note that Gray had become a firm favorite with the older lady, who appreciated his ability to tell a tale.
When they finally said their goodbyes and walked through the house to the back door, it struck Izzy that Gray had somehow become a part of even this minor aspect of her life.
The thought would have made her stop and think, except he was following at her heels. She continued down the garden path to the lane where Fields waited with her carriage.
Gray handed her inside, but made no move to follow.
When she arched a brow in question, he smiled. “I’ve an evening engagement I can’t avoid. It’s faster if I head south from here.”
Reminded of her own schedule, she sighed. “I’ve got an unavoidable engagement, too.” Resigned, she met his gaze and inclined her head. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He grinned. “Buck up. According to Baines, tomorrow will be the day on which everything happens.”
“One can hope.” She looked at him questioningly. “Will you be around for breakfast?”
He nodded. “Most definitely. Your cook is well worth the effort.”
She laughed, and smiling, he shut the door. He stood and watched the carriage roll down the narrow lane, then exit it and disappear.
He started walking down the lane. He would have preferred to go with her regardless of where she had to go that evening, but…
On reaching Russell Square, he headed for Woburn Place, keeping an eye out for a hackney to take him to Jermyn Street. He had just enough time to reach his lodgings and make himself presentable and get to Matcham House, whither he’d been summoned by his paternal aunt for dinner.
Knowing his aunt, she would have music as some part of her evening. He just hoped it didn’t involve an impromptu concert of young ladies playing the pianoforte or harpsichord.
He quelled an instinctive shudder and strode on.