Eric and Avery paused only a moment to observe this dawn of regular activity before continuing on to Montague Street. Their goal was the Newspaper Reading Room, at the extreme eastern end of the building. It thrust out among the houses of Montague Street, smooth stone beside the brown brick, far more modest than the portico and plaza on Great Russell Street. One might never know, without rounding the corner, that the buildings were one and the same. Climbing the steps to the side door, one felt less like a supplicant at the temple of knowledge and more like an everyday bureaucrat going in to work.
Perhaps it was simply this reduced scale, but Eric sensed a more relaxed atmosphere here: the academics were generally less anxious, and the tourists were nonexistent. The room itself was long, as high ceilinged as the rest of the museum rooms, and filled with academic clutter. Three of its tall windows faced northeast onto Montague Street, and the crisp grey morning light flooded in over the desks and reading stands. There was the subdued rustle of broadsheet pages being turned, and the musty smell of old newsprint. Elderly eccentrics in threadbare jackets and with unruly grey beards barely looked up from their perusal of the most recent newspapers, which they preferred not to purchase for themselves. Others were harder to place: students of more recent history, perhaps, tracing obscure threads through the past few decades; or novelists anxious to avoid an anachronism. Perhaps one or two were amateur sleuths researching a forgotten crime for some connection to the present.
The simple fact was that if one wanted to know about anything that had happened in the world in the past hundred years, one began with newspaper reports; and that meant a tedious and meticulous search through the British Museum’s collection. Every issue of London’s various newspapers since the 1820s had a copy kept here.
Eric set Avery to reading backwards from the present day, while he himself began ploughing forwards from the day of Emily Ang’s disappearance. “Remember,” he said, “we’re looking for reports of unidentified bodies and the like. We also want every report of a missing person, whether it’s a man or a woman. It might be that one of the unidentified bodies can be matched up to another missing person, and we’ll know then that it’s not Emily Ang. And we want those missing persons for another reason: a spate of disappearances could mean a gang of white slavers, and that she’d been abducted by them.” His brow furrowed in concern. “I just hope it’ll all be in the London papers.”
Avery looked up sharply. “Oh?”
“This thing happened in Sussex, Avery, so of course it’d be reported in the Sussex papers; but not everything in the Sussex papers gets repeated in the London papers. And if it’s not in the London papers, we’ll have to order the Sussex papers down specially from the repository in Colindale. I think the next delivery will be in three days from now.”
“Oh, I do say.” Avery huffed in annoyance. “Why don’t you do that, then, and come back in three days? Instead of dragging me down here at too-early o’clock today to look for something you’re not sure is here?”
“Because we can’t order down six years’ worth of newspapers, that’s why. Even if we don’t find what we want, the London papers might give us an idea of where to look. And we’d better get it right the first time around, because these deliveries from Colindale are only done once a week and we’d have to wait that long again. Oh, chin up, Avery: maybe we’ll find everything we need today after all, and it’ll save us all that bother.”
Still grumbling at what he considered a fool’s errand at an ungodly hour, Avery buried his nose in his paper. He was not a man who suffered mornings gladly.
The light intensified with the afternoon, shifting as it did into a more indirect glow and trading contrast for brightness. The threadbare eccentrics shuffled off in search of other entertainment. Other readers took their place. The researchers and academics came and went, but Eric and Avery ploughed on. Evening fell, and the glare of electric lights overhead replaced the daylight from the windows. At their elbows, their research notes grew and shrank as hopeful leads were found and answered, until they finally met over the Times of the second of February 1921.
It was dark outside now. All but one of the researchers had gone, and this last one seemed desperate to fill up his notebook before being kicked out. The fellow in charge of shutting up the Newspaper Reading Room for the night was hovering in a corner, giving all of them the evil eye. There were still fifteen minutes on the clock before the official closing time, but he’d already shut off most of the electric lights and left half the reading desks in shadow. The subdued library hush had turned into a dead silence.
Eric sat next to Avery and said, “I’m going to assume, from your lack of excitement, that you didn’t find anything definitive.”
“I think it was a rotten trick to make me go backwards from today. Anything you wanted about Emily Ang would almost certainly have been much earlier.”
“You don’t know that. And anyway, I didn’t find much that might be definitive, either. I reckon we really will have to order in the Sussex papers after all.”
Avery let out a long-suffering groan. Over in his corner, the museum employee cleared his throat and glanced meaningfully at the clock.
Eric pulled over his notebook and the four newspapers he’d saved over the course of his search. “I’ll go first, shall I?”
“Please do.” Avery lit up a clove cigarette, and the smoke coiled around them like incense, shielding them from the museum employee’s malevolent glare and the last researcher’s growing desperation. The silence deepened.
26 November 1918: Miss Jane Harris, 27, was reported missing yesterday from St. Catherine’s, a girls’ boarding school near Petersfield where she taught mathematics and history. Miss Harris, an alumna of the school, was last seen departing for the weekend on Friday the 22nd, supposedly to visit her aunt, Miss Gladys Atkinson, in Ashford, Kent. Miss Atkinson admits no knowledge of any planned visit.
“Jane’s been a bit queer since her young man was killed in the fighting over in France,” says Miss Atkinson. “She told me once that she blamed herself, as he wouldn’t have gone but for her making him. I hope she hasn’t gone and done anything foolish.”
“That sounds promising,” Avery said, and Eric nodded in response.
“Aside from the suggestion of her having ‘done something foolish,’ the details sound rather like what Mrs. Benson told us about Emily’s disappearance.”
10 April 1919: Yesterday evening, Miss Angelica Truelove, 23, was abducted by persons unknown from outside the Monkey’s Paw pub in Southampton, where she worked as a barmaid. Witnesses describe a black Vauxhall tourer driven by an unsavoury foreigner with a sinister beard …
“It’s always an unsavoury foreigner with a sinister beard,” Eric remarked, “unless it’s a sinister foreigner with an unsavoury beard. I doubt that the description is accurate, but here’s an actual abduction, with witnesses.”
But Avery said, “Angelica Truelove! What a name! Wait … yes … isn’t that Lady Felton’s maiden name? I remember now, Lord Hadley Felton eloped with her to America, and there was a great to-do because she was only a … a chorus girl’s the most common story, but I’ve also heard she was a shopgirl or a barmaid. Everyone who wasn’t a Felton thought it too romantic for words, but the family was desperate to hush it all up.”
Eric sighed and struck a line through Angelica Truelove’s name.
3 September 1920: The body of a young woman was washed up on the beach near Bognor Regis earlier today. Police are seeking the public’s aid in identifying the woman. She was between 5′1″ and 5′4″ in height, with black hair. The cause of death is believed to have been an accidental drowning …
“Oh, I say!” Avery exclaimed. “That does sound right. Eric, you could have told me you’d found her, and saved me a long afternoon of slogging through all those papers.”
“I didn’t want to jump to any conclusions, Avery. This might easily be someone else.”
“I don’t see how. Bognor Regis is just a s
hort jaunt from Chichester and that dreadful village we were in, and this was only two years after the disappearance—”
Eric gave a start. “Two years! I’d missed that. After two years in the water, how on earth would there have been enough left for anyone to know so easily that she was a woman with black hair? No, this body must have gone into the water much later, long after Emily disappeared.”
“Oh.” Avery looked crestfallen. “Perhaps she wasn’t killed until much later?”
“It’s possible,” Eric replied slowly, “but it seems unlikely. If she wasn’t killed immediately, then we’re back to the question of it having been a kidnapping first. And unless there are more reports of missing women in the Sussex papers, it’s looking more and more unlikely that she was the victim of white slavers.”
25 January 1921: Police are seeking the whereabouts of Mr. Robert Unwin, 32, who was last seen departing his house in Petworth, Sussex, on Sunday for a walk. He is described as about 5´6˝, weighing approximately 11 stone, with a persistent cough due to lung damage sustained in the War. He had just undergone retraining as an accounts clerk, as this lung damage had rendered him unfit for his pre-War occupation in farm labour. He was to begin work within the week with the Walton-Gale Shipping Company in London.
Friends and neighbours describe Mr. Unwin as a quiet, unassuming individual with a deep love of the countryside. “He didn’t like the idea of moving to London,” one friend says, “but he knew how lucky he was. Not everyone gets these opportunities, and it was better pay than he ever got before. We all reckoned things were on the up and up for old Robbie Unwin.”
“I know the answer to that one,” Avery said, digging out the last page of his own notes.
4 April 1921: The body of Mr. Robert Unwin, 32, of Petworth, Sussex, was recovered from the River Rother on Saturday afternoon by Boy Scouts exploring the local flora. Unwin, an ex-serviceman with an unblemished record, is believed to have shot himself with a pistol he’d taken as a souvenir of the War.
Mr. Unwin was fond of long walks along the Rother, and friends describe him as a great lover of the English countryside. The suggestion of suicide has been called into question by the fact that Mr. Unwin had been looking forward to a new job with a shipping company in London. “He had everything to live for,” say friends. “He knew how lucky he was.”
A coroner’s inquest is to be called for a closer examination of the facts.
“Shot himself,” commented Avery. “At least he knew what he was doing, if he really did shoot himself … I seem to have come across a rather awful lot of stories about ex-servicemen accidentally shooting themselves while cleaning their guns. You’d think a soldier would know to be careful.”
Eric nodded slowly. He’d seen a few of those as well. He knew enough to know that these were probably suicides disguised as accidents, but the sheer number of them was unsettling. It made him wonder about the men he’d had under his command. They’d drifted apart after five years, and many were never the sort to write, but still … they were his responsibility once.
They’d reached the end of what Eric considered plausible or relevant. He’d found and discarded several other stories that had clearly nothing to do with Emily Ang. They turned now to Avery’s stack of notes.
15 February 1924: Police are seeking the identity of a young had woman whose body was discovered in an abandoned cottage outside Basingstoke on Wednesday. Her estimated age is between 18 and 30, and she is believed to have been a victim of murder. The woman’s hands and feet had been bound with rough hemp, and her face mutilated with a sharp, heavy implement, possibly a machete …
“I reckon we can put this aside for the same reason as the Bognor Regis woman?” Avery asked. “I really don’t want to read any more of it, not again. I don’t know, but I get the idea that she hadn’t only been murdered.”
Eric nodded. “It reminds me of another story, actually. The exact same thing happened to another woman in Reading this last May. That time, the murderer was caught almost immediately, and I wonder if he did this murder too. As I recall, he’d been an inmate of a hospital somewhere, being treated for shell shock, until about two years ago.” The gentlemen of the Britannia had been strangely interested in the story, though no one seemed to want to talk about it.
Avery asked, “Do you think he could have murdered Emily Ang in the same way?”
“I’ll have to find the story again to be sure, but I think he was already locked away in a hospital by then.” A glance up at the clock told them that they should have left the Newspaper Reading Room five minutes ago. The museum employee glowering at them had let them stay on only because of a hefty bribe from the other researcher to keep the room open a little longer, and no amount of money would induce him to let them seek out another newspaper to confirm their theories.
“Let’s carry on,” Eric said. “What else have you got?”
10 August 1923: Skeletal remains, believed to be that of a woman, were discovered in a shallow pond near Wilmington, within sight of the Long Man. Police are seeking aid in identifying these remains. While nearly all articles of clothing have since rotted away, the skeleton was wearing a ring bearing an unusual crest …
“Here’s a picture of the ring,” Avery said. “Does it look at all familiar?”
Eric examined the picture and nodded. “Yes. I recognise it. It’s the school crest for St. Catherine’s, the girls’ boarding school that Miss Jane Harris disappeared from back in 1918. There was picture of it with the story.” Going back to his own notes, he scored a line through Jane Harris’s name. “And that’s one mystery solved, though unfortunately it’s not ours.”
It looked as though Emily Ang was now the only undiscovered missing woman of 1918.
6 February 1923: Mr. Joseph Davis, 39, of Horsham, Sussex, was reported missing yesterday morning when he failed to report to work at the solicitor’s firm where he had only just been named a partner. Foul play is suspected.
Mr. Davis was last seen drinking heavily at his London club, in celebration of his promotion. He is thought to have retired to one of the club’s lodging rooms afterwards, though there was no sign of him in the morning. It was believed that Mr. Davis had risen early and left before the day’s staff came on duty. According to the club’s porter, this was not at all unusual for Mr. Davis, and in fact it was more expected than not.
“Stop right there,” Eric said. “I know that one. Davis was a member of the Britannia Club. I know I’ve seen his obituary, too. Are you sure you didn’t see any other news about him? The discovery of his body, perhaps?”
“If I had, I’d have written it down, just in case you found the missing person report first. You know, just as I did for Robert Unwin. There wasn’t anything. Do you know what happened to him in the end, then?”
“He’s supposed to have fallen off the pier while on a day trip to Eastbourne,” Eric said. “An accident.” But was it?
“I’ve got one last grisly discovery,” Avery said, interrupting Eric’s thoughts.
17 May 1922: A skeleton was unearthed from a shallow grave in Bruton Wood on the afternoon of the 15th. It is believed to be that of a young woman, aged between 16 and 28. Police are making inquiries.
“Is that all?” Eric asked, flipping through the copy of the Times where Avery had found the article.
“No,” said Avery, shaking his head, “that’s all I found. I very nearly missed it, in fact.”
Eric wanted to be excited, but caution reined him in, and he was still feeling some lingering unease from having been inundated all day with stories of untimely death. On the whole, he had more unidentified bodies than missing persons: some disappearances must have gone unreported, and this skeleton, the Bruton Wood skeleton, might have been an unreported disappearance as well. He’d have to know more, and that meant ordering the Sussex newspapers from the time around 15 to 17 May 1922.
There was no ignoring the time any longer. Eric and Avery bundled out into the darkness of Montague Street, t
he museum employee practically snapping at their heels to hasten them on their way. They’d spent the whole day there, and Eric was suddenly aware of a gnawing hunger in his belly. “It’s been a good day’s work, I think,” he said, his breath misting in the sudden outdoor chill. “Tell you what, Avery: Why don’t I take you out to tea? My way of saying thanks.”
“Tea … at the Britannia Club?”
Eric hesitated. “I was thinking of the Shafi, actually. What do you think?”
The Shafi on Gerrard Street catered to an Indian palate and was Eric’s favourite restaurant. It was Avery who’d introduced Eric to it back in 1920 when it first opened, but Avery was in no mood for it tonight. “I’m still trying to wash the curry stains from our last visit out of my handkerchief,” he said. “It’s yellow splotches all over.”
“That would be the turmeric. Turmeric never washes out.”
“Then I reckon you owe me a new handkerchief in addition to tea.”
The two men turned the corner into Great Russell Street. The plaza of the British Museum was empty, and the Ionic colonnade was dark. A lighted window here and there indicated a curator working late, but the harried academics and eager-eyed tourists of that morning had gone, no doubt to get their own tea. Light and life had moved to the other side of the street, where movement in the windows of the venerable terraced townhouses showed residents settling in for the evening. Listening carefully, one could hear whispers of modern dance music: someone was having a party, and getting more unpopular with their neighbours by the minute. But on the street below, as on the museum plaza, all was quiet.
The news stories had got Eric to thinking about his men. Collins, he remembered, had been convinced to volunteer by his girl, just as Jane Harris had convinced her young man. One hoped that had ended in significantly less tragedy. Jenks had gone to Canada. Eric frowned. Forrester had dropped their correspondence rather too suddenly, now that he thought about it. He’d have to find out what happened.
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