Page 80 of The Secrets of Lord Grayson Child
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?”
