Page 46 of The Secrets of Lord Grayson Child
Rather than interrupt, Gray ambled deeper into the workshop. He noticed that the darkroom door was propped open and glimpsed Digby inside, filling containers with solutions. Gray wondered when and from where Izzy would find another photographer. He skirted the huge, hulking printing press, still being crawled over by Tom Lipson and Horner, and came again to where Maguire, now assisted by Matthews, was preparing his type for setting the new edition.
Maguire gave Gray an encouraging smile. “The printing business new to you, then?”
Gray glanced at the press. “I know the basics—that you set the type into frames and those get inked and paper rolled over them in the press.” He looked at Maguire. “I also know that Friday is distribution day, and Mrs. Molyneaux and Mary are both hard at work writing their pieces for this Friday’s edition. But I’m curious. How does the work progress day to day?”
“Ah, well.” Maguire’s quick fingers didn’t pause in sorting the tiny type. “If we start on Saturday, that’s clean-up day. Then today, Monday, is get-ready day.” He tipped his head toward the press and the men climbing over it. “Gerry and Tom go over the press and the boiler, and Jim and I get all our type cleaned, sorted, and ready to go. Then tomorrow, Tuesday, that’s layout day. Mrs. Molly, Lipson, and our Mary finalize the layout for all twelve pages, and Jim and I get the formes for each page set up, ready for dropping in the type boxes for each article and advert. That’s all done in the morning, and in the afternoon, Jim and I get started on setting the adverts and the articles as they’re finalized.”
Maguire reached for another shallow wooden box divided into segments and pulled it closer. “Wednesday is what we call drop-dead day. Articles have to be finalized by midday so we can get them set, ready for printing on Thursday. Digby knows what we need for the photographs, but as there’ll be seven—no, nine all told—in this edition, that’s going to be a challenge. It’s lucky Quimby took the time to teach Digby all he did, otherwise, we’d be in difficulties.”
Again, Gray glanced at the press. “So on Thursday, the press runs.”
“Aye.” Maguire grinned. “Can’t hear yourself think, and we’re all busy, collating sheets. We run tests first, of course—a few sheets pushed out by hand so we can read over it and spot any errors. Sometimes, we get to proofreading on Wednesday afternoon, but regardless, it has to be done. But on Thursday, once we’re all happy everything’s right, the boiler’s fired up, and the press rolls.”
“You enjoy it,” Gray stated.
Maguire nodded. “Gets in your blood, it does.” He glanced at Jim. “Heh, Jim?”
Jim raised his eyes from his task and smiled. “It does, indeed.” He, too, glanced at the press. “I was just thinking that it’s lucky this is one of our quiet spells.”
Gray glanced around. “This is quiet?”
Maguire chuffed. “At times, we’re like a beehive in here, everyone rushing and doing at once. But right now, with the university term just started, we don’t have much by way of pamphlets, booklets, and such that we do for the faculties and societies and the like.”
“We were rushed off our feet all through December,” Jim explained. “It’s always like that. Toward the end of one term, all the lecturers and secretaries start thinking of what they need for the next.”
Maguire nodded. “So right now, we’re quiet, which means we can concentrate onThe Crierand doing what we can to help to catch Quimby’s killer.”
After a moment, Gray asked if he could help. Maguire glanced at Gray’s coat, then nodded to where a number of leather aprons hung. “Best get one of those on, or you’ll end with ink smudges everywhere.”
Gray donned an apron, then sat on a stool opposite Maguire and was soon engaged in sorting type. That was, he reflected, something he was actually qualified to do.
Half an hour later, with the clock inexorably ticking toward five, Izzy decided she’d got as far with the main article and Quimby’s obituary as she could that day. For the article, she needed to step back and let her thoughts settle, and she needed more details about Quimby to lend color to the obituary.
She rose from the desk and stretched, then walked out to the workshop.
Lipson saw her and came to show her his list of advertisers and confirm he would spend the following day visiting them and explaining about the special edition and the new rates for advertising in it.
After approving the list and the increased rates, Izzy checked with Mary and went over what she’d written—an article they’d had in mind for some time, focusing on the good work of the nearby Foundling Hospital. Izzy had decided to suspend their usual lighthearted articles on the foibles of those in ton society. She hoped the piece on the Foundling Hospital, being serious but also uplifting, would strike the right note to balance the sensational and, of necessity, rather dark account of murder she was penning.
Reassured that Mary had the piece well in hand, Izzy turned from the counter and spotted Gray, wearing a typesetter’s apron, sorting type and chatting with Maguire and Jim.
She blinked several times to confirm she was neither dreaming nor hallucinating.
Before she could investigate the unexpected sight, the big clock on the workshop wall above the counter chimed for five o’clock, and the staff paused, assessing their work, then downed tools and headed for the pegs on which their coats hung.
Izzy remained at the counter, smiling and returning farewells. After doffing the apron, Gray came to stand beside her, plainly intending to dog her steps as he had for the past several days.
She didn’t react, but somewhat to her surprise, she noticed that the nods directed his way as the staff filed toward the door were not just accepting but also approving. To a man and a woman, her staff were pleased that she had someone like him by her side.
She might have sniffed dismissively at that, only she was, in truth, grateful. She wasn’t silly enough to be otherwise, regardless of their past.
Consequently, when she stepped onto the front steps, locked the door, and started down the street and he fell in beside her, she accepted that attempting to dissuade him from escorting her would be hypocritical.
They walked to Woburn Square, spent a few minutes chatting with Mrs. Carruthers, then left via the rear door and, in the rear lane, climbed into her carriage.
As they traveled the streets toward Norfolk Crescent, she reviewed the events of the day and acknowledged how much of a help he had been. She slanted a glance across the carriage; he was idly watching the houses slip past.
He could have been much more of a nuisance, but instead…
