“You take the Times index,” said Iris, pointing to one section of the shelves. “I’m switching to the Daily Express. We’ll grab a couple of plinths—”

“A couple of what?”

“Plinths. Those reading desks.”

“They’re called plinths? I always thought that was something vaguely architectural.”

“A plinth is a thing upon which you can place another thing,” said Iris. “Like one of those massive bound indices, or the massive bound volumes of newspapers they will bring us after we use the massive bound indices.”

“Right,” said Gwen, looking at them dubiously. “I do hope there are some muscular bearers to bring out the massive bound thingies. So I’m on Talbot patrol. Where do I start?”

“Begin at the ending,” Iris said, very gravely, “and go on till you come to the beginning: then stop.”

“Curiouser and curiouser,” said Gwen, gazing along the dates until she found the most recent volume.

She pulled it out and rested it on a plinth, then began flipping through it until she got to the T’s.

“Nothing,” she said.

“You don’t have to tell me that for every single one,” said Iris, scanning the Daily Express.

“Sorry. Oh!”

“What?”

“This just covers part of the year. So I should continue with the other parts?”

“Yes,” said Iris wearily.

This is going to be a very long afternoon at this rate, she thought irritably. What was I thinking, letting an amateur—

“Found him!” crowed Gwen. “That was easy.”

Iris stared at her with a mix of astonishment and chagrin.

“Well?” she asked.

“I am now giving up any hope of interviewing the man,” said Gwen.

“Why is that?”

“I’ve found his death notice. And his funeral. Both in April of last year.”

“I was afraid that would be the case,” said Iris, coming over to look at the spot where Gwen was pointing.

“Really? Why?”

“The anonymous letter. ‘I know what he knew.’ It put him in the past tense.”

“Well, he’s been put there on a permanent basis, it appears,” said Gwen. “What do I do now?”

“Write down the dates on a call slip and take it to the desk. Someone will fetch that volume for you.”

“A muscular bearer!”

“We can only hope.”

Gwen trotted off, looking supremely pleased with herself.

Iris located the same information in the Daily Express, but elected to travel back into the past, searching for any other reference she could find. Somewhere in 1937, Gwen returned, staggering under the bulk of a thick, Times-sized book.

“I’ve joined the muscular bearers union,” she gasped, lowering the book carefully onto the plinth. “It took ages for it to arrive from the mysterious bowels of the building. The woman who fetched it was eighty-seven and used a rolling cart, which I think is cheating.”

“Let’s take a look at our dead man, shall we?”

Gwen sat at the desk and flipped through the pages.

“Be gentle,” urged Iris. “Newspaper is delicate.”

“There’s the notice,” said Gwen. “Eighteenth of April 1945. ‘Commander Sir Gerald Talbot, KCVO, CMG, OBE, RNVR (retired) died at Felixstowe yesterday.’ Where’s Felixstowe?”