The Upper Deeping Despatch offices took up the first two floors of a four-story building just off the main town square. Kit had to settle for a parking space six blocks away, but the weather was so mild that I didn’t mind the walk. We’d just reached the square when Kit stopped short and announced that he’d had his own brilliant idea.
“I know how we’ll talk our way into the archives,” he said. “You, my American friend, have come to Upper Deeping to do genealogical research, and you hope the Despatch’s archives will help you with your project.”
“I always wondered where Aunt Penelope came from,” I said, rubbing my chin thoughtfully. Then I reached up and patted Kit on the head. “Brilliant.”
I felt a pang of regret when we left the sunshine and balmy breezes behind and stepped into the newspaper’s utilitarian and fluorescently lit front office. A chest-high counter separated a waiting area—two plastic chairs, a low table, and an upright rack filled with dog-eared copies of the Despatch—from a large, untidy desk and a swivel chair that was, at the moment, unoccupied.
“Hello?” Kit called.
A muffl ed bellow sounded from afar. “Coming!”
The door behind the untidy desk sprang open, and a pudgy young man in a tweed jacket and twill trousers bustled up to the counter. He had a round, shiny face, thinning brown hair, a ballpoint pen parked behind his right ear, and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses perched halfway down his nose.
“Sorry,” he said. “Our receptionist is . . . um . . .” He peered nearsightedly around the reception area, as though the receptionist Aunt Dimity: Vampire Hunter
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might be playing hide-and-seek. “Not here, apparently. No idea where she’s got to, but never mind, I’m here. Desmond Carmichael, at your service. How may I help you?”
Kit gestured toward me and began, “My friend is—”
“I know who your friend is,” Desmond broke in, staring avidly at me. “You’re the lady who was shot by the stalker on Erinskil Island, aren’t you? I read about you in the Times. ”
“That’s me,” I said. “Want to see my scar?”
“Whoops. Sorry,” Desmond said, with an apologetic grimace. “It must have been a harrowing experience for you, but to be perfectly honest”—he pushed his horn-rimmed glasses up his nose and leaned his elbows on the counter—“reading about it was a thrill for someone like me, who spends his life writing about church fetes and gymkhanas.” His eyes brightened, and he pointed a finger at me. “I’ve seen you at gymkhanas, too! Your sons ride with the Anscombe Manor team, don’t they?”
“The junior team,” I admitted modestly.
“The Willis twins,” said Desmond, nodding, but his knowing look was rapidly replaced by one of puzzlement. “But your name is—”
“Lori Shepherd,” I said. “That’s right. I didn’t change my name when I married, but we decided to reduce confusion all around by giving my husband’s last name to the boys.”
“Well, I’m delighted to meet you,” said Desmond, straightening. “What brings you to the Despatch today?”
“As you’ll know from the articles in the Times, ” said Kit, “Lori is an American. She’s doing genealogical research, and she thought she might fi nd some pertinent information in your archives.”
My hard-won celebrity status had its uses. Desmond bounced into action as if he’d been shot from a cannon, ushering us around the counter and through the door behind the desk, past several offi ces, and down a stairway at the rear of the building.
“The archives are housed in the cellar, I’m afraid,” he said, pulling a ring of keys out of his pocket and inserting one in the door at
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the bottom of the stairs. “We were afraid the upper floors wouldn’t take the weight.”
The cellar wasn’t too bad, as cellars go. It had a high ceiling and finished walls, a tiled floor and ample lighting, which Desmond turned on with the flick of a switch near the door. A computer sat on the large metal desk that occupied the only floor space that wasn’t filled with shelves, and a single plastic chair sat facing the computer.
“How far back would you like to go?” Desmond inquired. “We’ve got the last ten years on disk, but it’s bound volumes before that, six months per volume. We’re trying to put it all on disk, of course, but we never seem to have the budget or the manpower to make much progress. We do have indexes to each year’s run, though, going right back to the beginning. They’re not as detailed as I’d like them to be, but you might find them helpful.”
Desmond showed us how to use the computer, explained how the bound volumes were organized, fetched an extra chair from upstairs, and gave us his cell-phone number, in case we needed to call on him for further guidance. After wishing us the best of luck, he closed the door and left us on our own.
“What a helpful young man,” I said.
“I’m surprised he didn’t ask for your autograph,” said Kit.
“I’m surprised he didn’t want to see my scar,” I said. “Well?