Page 69 of The Secrets of Lord Grayson Child
Only when she heard the warning whistle as the heavy press started to turn did she remember Tom Corby. She sprang to her feet, walked quickly into the foyer, saw the bench was empty, and turned to look down the workshop. She spotted Tom, his face alight, working opposite his namesake—Tom Lipson—as, standing on raised platforms on either side of the massive machine, they carefully fed sheets into its voracious maw. Standing at the nearer end, Maguire and Jim carefully received the printed sheets spat out by the whirring machine.
Clangs and clanks filled the air, and after pausing for a moment to savor the satisfaction she always felt on getting out another edition, Izzy retreated to the office and sank into the ledgers again.
A short while later, the bell over the door caught Mary’s attention; being seated on the other side of the desk, she could see who had entered. “It’s Sergeant Littlejohn, ma’am, and he’s brought another lad with him. Looks to be a young constable, given the way his eyes are on stalks.”
Seconds later, Littlejohn appeared in the doorway and nodded to Izzy. “We’ll just be keeping an eye on things, ma’am.” He cast an intrigued eye toward the press. “If there’s anything the lad and I can do to lend a hand…?”
Izzy smiled and waved him down the workshop. “Go and ask Lipson. He always has chores for idle hands.”
Littlejohn tried to smother an expectant grin as he nodded and went.
Izzy forced her gaze to the ledger in front of her and resisted the urge to glance at the presently empty armchair. It was truly ridiculous how Gray had somehow imprinted his presence on her mind, even here, and all in such a short time.
You’ve known he’s the only one for you for over ten years.
She shut her mind to the insidious reminder and refocused on her task, yet no matter how ferociously she concentrated, her senses continued to react as if something was missing.
She and Mary finally reached the end of the invoices and expenses. Mary gathered up the ledgers and went to exchange them for those listing the printing works’ revenue and income.
That left Izzy with nothing to distract her from thinking of what she didn’t wish to dwell on. Such as that kiss last night and what it might mean. She’d already realized the answer was a never-ending prospect of what-ifs, and at this point, she didn’t need further uncertainty.
Indeed, in the small hours, she’d concluded that her best way forward was to set Gray and everything to do with him personally on a mental shelf and leave it there while they dealt with Quimby’s killer.
One fraught situation at a time.
She was drumming her fingers on the desk and mentally hurrying Mary along when Digby poked his head around the doorway. She arched her brows.
“Timothy Donaldson’s here, ma’am, like you asked.”
She glanced at the clock; it was just after ten o’clock. “Excellent.” Mary loomed behind Digby, ledgers in her arms. Izzy caught her eye. “Let me interview Donaldson first. Then we’ll get back to the accounts.”
Mary cast a shy glance at someone out of Izzy’s sight, presumably Donaldson, and readily drew back.
Izzy nodded to Digby. “Show Mr. Donaldson in.”
The man Digby steered into the office was several decades younger than Quimby had been; he appeared to be in his late twenties. He had dark-brown hair and a pleasant, open face with the sort of features that were handsome enough when one focused on them, but in general, were totally forgettable. Donaldson wore a decent overcoat over a neat waistcoat, pressed trousers, clean linen, and a checkered neckcloth. He looked youthful, but not overly young, primarily because of the intelligence that burned in his blue eyes.
He carried a felt hat, along with a portfolio.
Izzy waved him to the armchair Mary had occupied. “Good morning, Mr. Donaldson. Thank you for coming in.”
Donaldson nodded politely. “Thank you for the chance to speak with you, ma’am.”
Izzy folded her hands on the desk and waited as Donaldson leaned the portfolio against the chair’s side and sat. “Now, the first thing you need to be aware of is that your predecessor, Mr. Horace Quimby, was murdered on the premises, in the darkroom here.”
Donaldson’s eyes flew wide, but almost immediately, shock and surprise were overlaid by speculation. He glanced toward the workshop. “Is that what this hue and cry edition is about?”
“Yes.” She waited until Donaldson’s gaze returned to her face to say, “I will understand if you no longer wish to apply for the position of photographer with us.”
He blinked, then frowned. “Was Quimby murdered because of his work withThe Crier?”
“Not specifically.” She saw no reason not to explain their thinking regarding the seven photographs Quimby had taken on the day he’d been killed.
“So the killer followed him here, stabbed the poor beggar, and destroyed all the daguerreotype negatives he could find, but the relevant negatives were calotypes and were safe in a drawer all the time.” Donaldson looked strangely enthused. “That’s like something out of a penny dreadful.”
Izzy conceded that with a tip of her head.
“And now”—Donaldson’s gaze swung toward the workshop—“you’re running all seven photographs and urging anyone with information to come forward.” He returned his gaze to her. “Frankly, if you offer me the job, I’d be a fool not to take it.The London Crieris about to become a sensation.”
