anything other than a useful cog in his machine. Not that I wanted him to, mind.
“This is serious business, Uncle Mick,” I reminded him.
He nodded, though his expression was still amused. “You know what I say, Ellie girl. Prepare as best you can and be ready for whatever else may come.”
* * *
It wasn’t a long walk to the Colindale Newspaper Library the next morning. The weather was pleasant, and it was good to be out and about in the sunshine and cool breeze. I felt a bit as though I had been living in some dark bubble the past week or so, everything done in the shadows and in secret.
I had never had call to visit the Newspaper Library before, though I had spent many a happy hour in the London Library. We were a bookish lot, though one might not have thought it to look at us. I had fond memories of Uncle Mick reading to me and the boys as we sat before the fire, adventure and mystery stories mostly, things like The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. Uncle Mick liked crime stories. The irony appealed to him, I think.
The Newspaper Library was a sturdy brick building that had the air of knowledge about it. I went inside and was greeted by the scent of paper and ink.
A cheerful young woman was only too glad to assist me with what I was looking for, and within a few minutes I was sitting at a long wooden table in the reading room with bound copies of last month’s issues of The Old Smoke, The Times, and two or three of the lesser-known papers before me.
It was the idea of learning more about Chinese porcelain that had brought me here. It had occurred to me that, in addition to researching pottery, it might be useful to learn what I could about some of the people who we were to encounter at the dinner party.
Major Ramsey had given me the basics, of course, but he was the sort of man who only revealed what was absolutely necessary, and I was certain there was more to be learned. I wasn’t accustomed to working without doing my research. Just because I had agreed to help the man didn’t mean that everything was going to be done his way.
I wouldn’t uncover any deep, dark secrets within the pages of these papers, certainly, but at least I wouldn’t be wandering into the lion’s den blind.
Flipping through the first paper, it quickly became apparent this wasn’t going to be an easy task. There is a great deal of news published in London, and much of it is dreadfully dull.
I looked first for information about Mr. Harden’s death. It didn’t take me long to find it, though there wasn’t much hullabaloo made about his passing. MAN KILLED IN HOME ROBBERY, the headline read. The article was sparse in detail, and very little seemed to be said about the man or his grisly demise. “Thomas Harden was killed in an apparent robbery at his home, the killers making off with the contents of his safe. It is a reminder that, in these dark days, we must be vigilant.”
It was true enough, I supposed. After all, Uncle Mick and I had been taking advantage of “these dark days” ourselves. For the first time in a long time, I felt a little pang of conscience. We would never have dreamed of harming anyone, of course, but it seemed a bit shabby to use the war to our advantage.
There was no mention of Mr. Harden’s connection with the weapons factory, though, of course, those things would not have been made known to the public. There was a great deal happening in London these days that would not be found in the newspapers.
Included in the article was a small photograph of the man. I looked at it closely, pushing aside in my head the image of his dead eyes staring up at the ceiling in his office. It wasn’t a quality photograph, but I had a good memory for faces, and I was fairly certain I had seen his before. When he was alive, that is. Perhaps if I thought about it for a few moments, it would come back to me.
As for the suspects we would be meeting tonight, I had decided to start with our first, and host of the party, Sir Nigel. Since he owned The Old Smoke, I assumed there would be a good deal to learn about