Page 64 of Miss Moriarty, I Presume?
Back at her desk, she pressed her palms against her eyes.
She didn’t want to move, but she also couldn’t stay where she was. Even if the Reading Room were open twenty-four hours a day, she still needed to go back to her hotel. Soon.
With hands that didn’t seem to be her own, she put her pencil and notebook back into her reticule and checked that she still had Mrs. Watson’s reader’s ticket. Officially tickets were not transferable but she hadn’t brought her own as she hadn’t expected to be in London in the first place.
On the front of the ticket was written Mrs. Watson’s name and the period of time for which the ticket had been granted. Tickets were rarely issued for more than six months at a time. Mrs. Watson’s had been renewed in September and would be usable until the beginning of next month.
Renewal...
Livia sat up straighter. Mr. Marbleton had said himself, didn’t he, that he hadn’t been to the Reading Room since summer? That being the case, had he needed to renew his ticket?
She was afraid to try. What looked like an avenue of hope would most likely turn out to be another blind alley, another wall for her to smash into.
But she also couldn’t not try. She swallowed, gathered the rest of her things, marched to the catalogue tables, and approached one of the attendants—not the one who had spoken to her, but a kindlier-looking man who hadn’t been there earlier. “Good day, sir. I do believe I need to renew my ticket.”
“Very well, miss,” he replied. “Here is the register for you to sign.”
The register was a thick bound book, open to a page marked with the date. Underneath, the space was divided into ten rubrics, each identical except for the printed number to the left. Above the number, either a large R was written, indicating a renewal, or two numbers were written, separated by a slash, to show that the reader was new to the Reading Room.
Inside each rubric were printed the wordsI have read the directions respecting the Reading Roomand I declare that I am not under twenty-one years of age. And under that, a space reserved for the reader’s signature and address.
A quick scan showed no names that she recognized—nor any handwriting that she could be sure belonged to Mr. Marbleton. She would not be surprised if he wrote in several scripts. It was a useful skill to have, especially for a man in his circumstances. But at the moment it worked againsther.
“Your ticket please, miss,” said the attendant.
She was beginning to perspire again. “A moment please. Let me find it. Oh, there’s a gentleman waiting there. Perhaps you can help him first?”
Since it was so easy to renew tickets, the Reading Room rarely renewed them before they expired. If she were to present her ticket right away, she would be gently but firmly turned away.
The attendant went to assist the other reader. Livia opened her reticule and stuck a hand inside, giving the appearance that she was conducting a search. With her other hand she flipped the register back a page.
This spread of two pages also contained registrations and renewals from today. Again, she encountered no names that she recognized. What if he used an alias with which she was unfamiliar? How would she know that it was his?
The Reading Room was not a bustling place, precisely, but hundreds of readers did come through daily. How many renewals and new ticket issuances would there be, on a given day?
Eight signatures there had been on the next page, and on these two pages, twenty. Twenty-eight altogether. He had come less than two hours ago. Even if these twenty-eight did not represent the whole day’s count, they had to exceed the number that had taken place since his arrival.
So if he had written anything in here, it must be either on these two facing pages or the next.
She read over the lines, her heartbeat thudding in the back of her head. So many names. So many bewilderingly different styles of handwriting. But still she didn’t see anything she associated with him. Nor was the word Snowham visible anywhere.
“Miss, have you found your ticket yet?” asked the attendant.
Her heart thumped even faster. Could she say she’d misplaced her ticket? No, then she’d need to leave her spot to find it. Could she pretend that she was having trouble locating it in her handbag? Well, under the attendant’s gaze, she’d probably need to remove her eyes from the register and actually look into the handbag.
There was no point doing either. She bit the inside of her cheek, pulled out Mrs. Watson’s ticket, and handed it to him.
The moment he took it to look, she flipped the register ahead to the latest page, where she was supposed to sign and put down her place of residence.
“Mrs. Watson.”
He meant her, the imposter. Was he about to take away the register? She gripped it tight, her eyes glued to the page.
Charles Edmonds, 36 Piccadilly W
John Dore, 37 Chalcot Crescent, Primrose Hill
Elliot Hartford, 23 Hanley Street
