Sergeant Burns pursed her lips as she finished taking notes. “I’m afraid not, Alice. We’ve spoken to your mother, and she’s only told us what you already have. Unfortunately, there’s still not enough here for us to investigate further.”
“Why not?”
“Because we would have to charge her for child stealing under section 56 of the 1861 Offenses Against the Person Act, and it carries serious penalties. And she’s the grandmother, Alice. I’m sorry, and I have looked into it, but does it really serve anyone’s interest if we don’t have enough evidence to bring a charge? It would only raise your hopes when I’m afraid there isn’t any at this stage.”
Alice’s chest tightened. “I can’t believe that. Family members are often the perpetrators in these cases. What good is it if you can’t hold them accountable?”
“It’s just very hard to prove your mother’s involvement, and I’m sorry to say, but the descriptions that she gave don’t really amount to anything.” Her expression softened as Alice’s face crumpled. “Weeks have passed, and I know you’re not going to want to hear this, but we need to spend time and resources on cases we can readily pursue.”
“But a baby is missing,” Alice said, her voice cracking. “A crime’s been committed. Forget about my mother . . . just find Eadie.”
“We’ve tried, Alice. I’m really sorry, but we have tried. Eadie will stay on the Juvenile Index, and if she’s with baby farmers, as we suspect she is, there’s a good chance we will get a lead at some stage.”
Twenty-five
London, April 20, 1943
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Theo asked, concern in his eyes and sympathetic smile.
“I’m fine, really,” Alice lied as she watched the pages of Patricia Reece’s novel furl through the feeder, certain that the last place she needed to be right now was in the middle of the countryside, out of contact with Penny, Olive and Sergeant Burns. And it was her birthday.
Under any other circumstances, seeing an Original Heidelberg printer would have impressed her. They had driven for over an hour to reach the printworks, one of only three left close to the capital since Partridge’s regular printer, Latimer Trend, had been turned over to government books and stationery. Theo had driven cautiously, only twice veering onto the wrong side of the road, and on one occasion swerving just in time to avoid an oncoming truck. While Alice had felt strangely calm as she’d watched this unfold, she’d been unable to speak when Theo had pulled over to ensure she wasn’t hurt. Now he stood opposite, talking to the foreman and casting frequent worried glances at her.
This wasn’t their first outing together since the Foyle’s luncheon. She’d taken him to visit the bookstores on Charing Cross Road, and they’d stopped to admire the Penguincubator, the book vending machine that Allen Lane had installed: cheaper books, conveniently located but so unexpected. “It’s miraculous!” Theo had exclaimed as he’d placed a coin in the slot and watched the machine dispense a sixpenny paperback. They’d spent quite some time half-seriously speculating on how it might take off, before their conversation had turned to more serious topics.
The press gave a violent shudder, sending reverberations across the workshop floor, and Alice grimaced as she kept her eyes trained on the loader, watching the stack of printed pages grow, ready to be guillotined and bound, the smell of hot oil filling the air. It was an unpleasant sensation, her teeth chattering and her insides jolting around. Just when she hoped it would stop soon, the rollers abruptly ground to a halt and the machine gave a final judder.
The foreman looked up at them and shook his head. They had been having trouble with the press all morning, and it didn’t bode well for their deadline. Not only were there bottlenecks in the production departments, but they’d been told there was also one in the bindery since one of its Seybold trimmers was broken, the other tied up for four days on a different publication. Even if they could solve that problem and Patricia’s novel was printed, there was little chance they would get it to the distributors in time.
Mark Hughes, the master printer and general manager, had taken them on a tour when they’d arrived, first through the light-filled space at the front of the building that housed the commercial artist and typographer, then into the monotype department and compositing room. It had been interesting at first, and a good distraction from waiting to hear any news about Eadie, but now Alice regretted accepting Theo’s invitation. She wished she could take control of her emotions instead of one minute thinking one way and the next moment the reverse. And she really should have stuck to her resolve not to spend any more time alone with Theo.
Mark’s tour had taken them into the machine room at the heart of the building, and even to her untrained eye it was clear that the letterpress and offset lithography equipment had seen better days, so it was no surprise that there were problems or that the intense smell of burning oil was so overbearing.
Theo and Alice watched as the foreman tried to restart the stalled machinery.
“Shall we go outside?” she suggested.
“You go ahead,” he replied. He stayed at the head of the machine, watching intensely, his hands balled into tight fists, as the foreman fiddled with the rollers.
Partridge couldn’t afford another delay or a ruined batch of paper, as booksellers and readers were eagerly awaiting the next installment of the Mary Dray detective series. Alice knew the story inside out; in fact, she could picture one of the villains passing his victims through the jaws of the press, and the swirl of blood and ink that would ooze out the other end.
“I need some air,” she said abruptly, and headed for the door.
Outside she leaned back against the wall, feeling the cold bricks through her dress as she gazed at the emerald fields that led to the horizon. She breathed in the comforting scent of freshly cut hay. Hertfordshire wasn’t far from London, yet the countryside was as rural as any of the distant counties: rolling green hills flecked with the black-and-white dots of sheep and cattle, and vast hedges that hugged the road and train routes in every direction. Alice’s eyes followed each artery into the distance, wondering if any might lead to Eadie.
The door jarred as it opened, and Theo appeared, looking around until he noticed her. “There you are. You sure you’re okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine. I’m just not very good in enclosed spaces.” She clasped her hands behind her back and leaned on them. “What’s the news? Is the book going to live?”
“Sure hope so. They haven’t been able to maintain the machinery properly, and there’s been no investment. That’s what’s so frustrating—it’s all avoidable, it just needs more oil and servicing.”
“At least they know what’s wrong with it.”
“Doesn’t help, though. They need to take it apart and clean it before they can get the press rolling again. Hughes says it will delay us by another day.”
“A wasted journey, then.”
“Not at all. Nobody’s been up here to see them in months, not since Rupert left. Besides, I got to show off my driving skills.” He kept a straight face as he lit a cigarette, and she tried not to smile either.
“You know,” she said, “London’s on the lookout for ambulance drivers.”
“Pity I’ve already got a full-time job.”
“Ah yes, well, there is that,” she said, picking up a long stick and scratching a circle in the dirt.
There was an awkward silence as he watched her, then he joined in, adding a nose to the face she’d etched. After she embellished it with ears, they stood back and smiled at their unlikely creation.
“So, who is it?” Theo asked.
“Maybe George.”
“The smile’s too wide for him, surely. . . . I mean, George is more serious than that.” Theo’s lips tightened around his cigarette.
Alice realized Theo didn’t know George all that well, and she studied him for a moment. What ki
nd of man is Theo Bloom? The best of men . . . or the worst of men, like Rupert Armstrong-Miller?
She asked, “What are you really doing here?”
He didn’t look surprised, just tilted his head up, smoke trailing into the sky before he returned her gaze. “What I told you in the meeting,” he said. “Helping work through the mountain of rules and regulations. Every minute it seems as if there’s a new guideline or practice.”
“So you’re not here to close us down?”
He took a beat too long to respond, and when he did, he didn’t look her in the eye. “I’m here because with Rupert gone, George has got a lot to handle. Possibly too much.”
“Maybe.”
“You must all be missing Rupert.”
It was all she could do to hold on to the stick and not hurl it across the yard. “Yes . . . of course we are. Although George and Tommy have taken on his workload so well that they haven’t had to replace him.”
“But maybe it would have been better if they had.”
There was another awkward silence, and Alice couldn’t collect her thoughts quickly enough to change the subject. She usually did a good job of keeping memories of Rupert at bay, but now they flooded back: the workplace flirtation, the brief rendezvous, and how he’d led her to believe they had a future together. It still seemed unbelievable that Rupert was one of Partridge’s own, George’s son, and yet the cause of all her misery.
“Were you friends?” Theo asked.
“Rupert and I?”
“Yeah. I heard you worked under him for a couple of years.”
She flinched. “We were just colleagues.”
“So you didn’t know him well?”
“We were colleagues—nothing less, nothing more,” she said coldly. “Now, shouldn’t we get back inside?”
“Sorry, I was always told that I was too nosy. It’s just, you’re such good pals with Ursula, I hoped you might be with Rupert too. I want to know more about him and what he brought to your team.”
“I’m sure George could tell you about that, or Tommy.”
“Of course.” A tractor started up in a nearby field, the rattle of its engine distracting them, and Theo held out his hand, frowning. “Friends?”
“Certainly,” she said as she shook it and faked a smile. “I just think we’d better see how things are going, don’t you?”
* * *
It was late afternoon by the time the printer jolted back to life, and the reassuring noise of the mechanism and smell of hot oil filled the machine room again. The foreman agreed to work overnight to help them get back on schedule, and by the time they’d finished their meeting it was too dark to drive back to London; Theo didn’t want to risk driving on the opposite side of the road at night, and Alice was inclined to agree, even though she was desperate to get back. Mark Hughes directed them to the local inn and insisted on paying for their rooms.
“It’s not too bad, is it?” Alice asked, glancing up from her pot roast. “Not like the kind of meals you’re used to eating, I imagine.”
He ate differently than she’d ever seen anyone eat before, holding his fork the wrong way up and in the opposite hand to hers. “It’s good,” he said, a note of relief in his voice as he speared another piece of brisket.
The dining room was half full, and it was just what she’d expected on seeing the dark-beamed exterior of the Swan: low ceilings and doorjambs you were guaranteed to bang your head against, lacy curtains on rods that ran like a petticoat around the window, and a vivid tartan carpet with tan-colored leather chairs, all somehow redeemed by a working fireplace that was nearly as broad as the bar. The smell of the place more than made up for the interior: the rustic aroma of food, the earthiness of smoking wood, the clamor of bouquets from the opened bottles and barrels fighting for attention.
Alice was trying to hide her anxiousness at being stranded. At least she would get to spend a night in a proper bed as opposed to the uncomfortable camping cot in Penny’s attic, and she had her own bathroom. It’s just one day, she kept telling herself. Perhaps a good night’s sleep would give her strength and put her on track for all she had to do. This time tomorrow she would be back in London, hopefully with some news.
Her wine was still untouched, and she took a small sip, the alcohol unfamiliarly strong. With the next mouthful, an unpleasant sensation spread across her tongue—then it mellowed, and so did she, submitting to its power to slow things down and make her feel freer, and more tired, than she had in weeks.
Theo had already replenished his glass and nearly finished his meal, contentment settling over him like the glow of a firefly.
“How long do you think you’ll remain in London?” she asked, watching as he brushed his mustache lightly with the napkin and leaned back in his chair.
“A couple of months. It’s really to understand what’s going on and come up with a solution. Walter is concerned,” he added, growing serious. “And I can see why. If you take the war restrictions out of the equation, the business is still running at a loss and there’s no singular reason for it. That’s what I’m trying to understand—that and how to take advantage of the increased demand for books.”
She could see he meant what he said: that he really did want to help. “I imagine it’s frustrating.”
“Certainly is. Especially when I can see that it wouldn’t take much.”
“Like what?” she asked, interested.
“Doesn’t matter, I shouldn’t be talking like this.”
“I care too.”
“Yes. I know you do.”
They held eye contact, his gaze lingering until it dropped to her mouth and then returned to her eyes with a new intensity. She felt the need to look away. When she glanced back he was still staring at her, so she was compelled to break the tension. “Can you tell me a little more about your plans?”
“They’re still only just ideas.” He relented, telling her all about the strategies they had in the United States, and how he was meeting industry figures here in an attempt to discuss whether Britain could, or should, implement similar practices. It was fascinating, and she finished her wine as they talked, although when he was about to refill her glass she placed her hand across the top, remembering what had happened when she hadn’t stayed alert enough to deny her attraction to Rupert, or strong enough to fend him off.
“And those books for the soldiers, tell me more about them?” she asked.
“The Armed Services Editions. There are several new titles each month; the first one wouldn’t mean much to you, but to us Americans it’s kind of a classic, The Education of Hyman Kaplan.”
“What’s it about?”
“This guy, an immigrant, trying to learn English in New York. He’s not very good at it, that’s what makes it so funny. It’s about his exploits.” Theo had laughter in his voice. “The writer is only a young guy who first published it as a series in The New Yorker.”
“It sounds like a very charming and amusing tale.”
“It is!” He leaned a little closer, turning serious. “The council I’m part of, the one publishing the ASEs, has a motto: ‘Books are weapons in the war of ideas,’ and it seems to have stuck.”
“You’re sold on the idea that books are weapons?” she asked.
“Certainly. And so is Roosevelt, it was his saying: ‘In this war, we know, books are weapons.’ Imagine it, you’re on a remote island—Malta, for example—and all you can do is wait. The heat’s intense, there’s no food, the men are restless . . . What are you gonna do?”
“Swim?” she said teasingly.
He laughed. “Read!”
“I know, you’re right,” she said with a smile.
“They’re hungry for information and ideals; truths they can hold in their hearts and minds. At the moment the men tear books into sections so they can share them.”
It ma
de her think of William and the letters they’d exchanged while he was serving. He too had described books as sustaining soldiers’ lives in a way that nothing else could.
“Yes,” she said, staring into the fire, “everything in their lives is rationed, or a secret, or sacrificed. They’re bound to one another and their country, and the only freedom they still have is in the landscape of their minds.”
“Which writer said that?”
“Just me.” She would never understand what her brother had endured, yet she knew what characters he had for company, what settings would distract him, and what stories would sustain him when he most needed them. “Books might not always be a comfort, but they remind them of what it is to be human, and to love.”
Theo regarded her with a small smile, and their eyes locked again.
The restaurant emptied around them and embers glimmered in the fireplace as Theo spoke passionately about his books and the council, then listened to her speak about her project. She understood exactly why he wanted to create these editions for the troops; it was no different than what she hoped to achieve for readers here.
“A reader can have a bond with a character as strong as any relationship with another human being,” he said, his deep voice slowing to a drawl, his gaze intense.
Alice was drawn in, his words disarmingly sensitive, his manner so intimate that she realized she was feeling something for him that she couldn’t fight.
At that point she made herself glance at her watch, saw it was nearly midnight and came to her senses. But she went to her room with a warm sense of contentment that she hadn’t experienced in a long time. She tried not to think about what seemed to be a mutual attraction, but instead how a male colleague taking her into his confidence and treating her as an equal had restored something in her. She wished it could have been Theo that she’d worked with these past few years; he was decent and kind and behaved like a gentleman, not a predator.
When We Meet Again Page 18
