“Is this supposed to be a lead?” I asked, sighing with exasperation.
George-Harrison put two other photos in front of me. “These were taken that same night. Look. You can clearly make out the faces of two other people.”
“How did you even manage to steal those? I didn’t see a thing.”
“You really assume the worst about people, don’t you? I went back last night. I don’t know about you, but I couldn’t get to sleep. When I got there, the owner was closing up, and I explained that it was my mother up there on the wall.”
“So, he just took it down and gave it to you, throwing in two more as a bonus, all because you batted your eyelashes?”
“You flatter me,” he said. “Truth is, I offered him twenty bucks and didn’t really have to twist his arm. He told me he’s renovating the main space this winter. Remind me—what’s the name of that newspaper?”
“The Independent.”
“Well, I guess that’s as good a place as any to start. If the paper was published in Baltimore, there’s gotta be something out there.”
“I’ve already done some serious digging online, and couldn’t find a single trace.”
“Isn’t there some kind of archive where old newspapers would be stored? You’re a journalist, shouldn’t you know this kind of thing?”
I was. And I should. Yet my first thought was of Michel. “The public library! If there’s even one copy out there, that’s where we’d find it. Just the masthead alone could be a gold mine . . .”
“Remind me what a masthead is again?”
“It’s usually on the editorial page, where you can find all the editing and publishing credits.”
We climbed back into the pickup, and George-Harrison waited behind the wheel while I dug up the address.
“Four hundred Cathedral Street,” I said, scanning the screen on my iPhone, smiling at what I read.
“What’s got you so chirpy all of a sudden?”
“Just the library we’re headed to. It has a whole collection of Edgar Allan Poe stuff, original editions donated by his family.”
“And that’s a good thing?”
“Maybe not for you, but for me? Definitely. Step on it!”
We got to the library in no time and strode right up to the front desk. Unfortunately, it quickly became clear that the woman working there had no idea how to navigate the maze of books and archives for something so specific. But I knew someone who might. I glanced at my watch—still just three in the afternoon in Croydon. Vera picked up straightaway, faithfully stationed at her post as always. After some polite small talk, she offered to go and get Michel, but I told her not to bother; she was the one I was calling for. Vera was flattered and eager to help. I told her I needed to know how the archives would be organized at a library like hers, or at a similar one that was a bit larger. Specifically, how one would go about finding a weekly newspaper published in the late seventies.
“For that, your best bet is microfiche,” she explained. “That’s how newspapers were archived in those days.”
I would have kissed her, had we been in the same time zone.
“Are you sure you don’t wish to speak to Michel? I know he’d be delighted to hear your voice. Ah, and here he comes right now. Just a moment, please.”
I heard a muffled exchange, and then my brother came on the line. “Although you never checked in with me, I am aware that you arrived safely. I tracked down all the flight information and verified that no plane has crashed since your departure.”
“Well, there you have it, that’s one way to find out I’m still alive and kicking,” I replied. “I actually did try calling you a few times, but you never picked up.”
“That makes perfect sense. Mobile phones are strictly prohibited within the library. And I tend to keep mine off when I’m at home.”
I took a few steps away from George-Harrison until I was sure he couldn’t listen in to our conversation. “I read the letter you gave me,” I told my brother.
“I do not wish to speak of it. I believe that was the arrangement.”
“And I do intend to respect that, but you did mention a box where other letters could be found.”
“Yes, thirty, to be exact.”
“Assuming you’re not willing to read those to me over the phone, would you consider sending them here?”
“No. I was given specific orders from Mum to always keep them close at hand.”
“Damn it, Michel! Mum’s dead. And I need those letters.”
“Why is that?”
“Look. You were the one who said I care more about people I don’t even know than my own family. I’m trying to change that, Michel.”