Owen met her eyes, his expression despondent. “How’s that, Miss Daly?”

She offered him a small smile. “A record of your death.”

CHAPTER NINE

CATHERINE BROUGHT GUY and Owen back to the Invercarn Chronicle.

They stood across the street from the building, and this close to the river, the air was filled with the smell of dirt and rust and damp. Catherine eyed the window to Ainsworth’s office. He seldom ventured outside of it during the workday, and he rarely visited the archive, which was where the old obituaries were kept.

Beside her, Guy took off his hat. “I’m not certain about this.”

Catherine couldn’t tell whether he was talking to her or to Owen. Perhaps both of them, though Owen didn’t appear too keen on this endeavor. He’d had to borrow more of Guy’s clothes, namely a dark coat and hat, which Guy had unearthed from a linen chest, taking a needle and thread to the torn seams before they set off.

Approaching the front door, Catherine asked, “Why do you say so, Mr. Nolan?”

“Well, we’ve no name, no date of birth, nor date of death. And I’ve got to head back to the shop around noon—I’ve clients coming by to pick up repairs.” He checked his pocket watch, marking the time.

“Can’t your father handle that?” Odd that she hadn’t seen him at breakfast.

“He left earlier this morning,” replied Guy. “He’s repairing someone’s long-case clock across the city.”

“Well, I know my way around the archives. It shan’t take long,” Catherine said. “It’s worth a look, at the very least.”

Inside, she nodded to the employees who greeted her. She didn’t stop to make conversation, leading the boys up the staircase to the fourth floor. It was still, near silent, away from the clatter of print work. The archive was around the back of the building, a long stretch of space crowded with tables and cabinets, old prints and files stowed away for safekeeping. It was the newspaper’s own morgue.

The windows here were lined with soot and grime, the gray morning offering little illumination. Catherine set about lighting the lamps, the familiar task easing the knot of worry inside her.

“Is it all right that we’re in here?” asked Owen.

She turned around. He stood next to one of the tables by the door, as if too nervous to step any farther into the room. Guy, meanwhile, was already scrutinizing the cabinets, the labeled drawers with their brass knobs, scratches in the wood finish. He tried one of the drawers; the wood was swollen, stuck fast, and Guy winced at the scraping sound it made as he tugged it out. Looking back at Owen, Catherine said, “Of course. The Chronicle has kept archives since it was established, a decade or so before your passing. We get plenty of visitors wishing to look through the old records.”

Guy pushed up his glasses and flipped through the contents of the drawer. “Shall we each take a year? We can start with the papers printed twenty years ago and work forward from there.”