Footsteps approached. “Alice, I’m so sorry,” said Elizabeth, walking out of the gloom. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long?”

“Not at all, it’s fine. I got a note from Olive . . . You have something for me?”

“Ah, yes. Here it is.” The librarian reached for a pile of manila folders and handed the top one to Alice with a smile. “How’s the book coming along?”

“Very well, thank you. I—”

The lights flickered, and a rumbling grew louder as the sound of an Underground train closed in around them, transforming the space into an eerie cavern. They looked at each other, and Alice shuddered as they waited motionless for the noise to fade and the light to be restored, Elizabeth’s pale eyes still visible through the near darkness. “You always wonder, don’t you,” she whispered, “if they’re coming back.”

Alice knew she was referring to the Luftwaffe and the raids that were still so fresh in their minds.

“I know . . . but we’re okay.” Alice squeezed Elizabeth’s arm reassuringly. “And thank you. I really appreciate this.”

She left quickly, before the librarian had the chance to reply, and settled at a table in the adjoining room. A handwritten note from Olive was clipped inside the folder: I thought this might be of interest for the book. P.S. It’s been cleared for use.

Alice felt completely deflated and then a flash of anger; all this time she’d believed Olive could give her leads, but these were just articles she’d already seen.

Only when she calmed down did she realize the misunderstanding was entirely hers: these were clippings she hadn’t seen before. She scanned them, desperately searching for a new clue, the musty newspaper reminding her of the time and distance that separated her from Eadie.

What had Olive noticed that she’d missed? She’d spent days down here researching all she could about baby farmers.

Another slip of paper was tucked behind the note: a list from Olive with names and districts, some of which Alice recognized from other articles. She spread the clippings out across the desk and saw that the same three names kept appearing. She glanced over the articles again, noticing that the offenders were all suspected baby farmers because their charges were in relation to children, for cruelty and manslaughter by willfully withholding food.

It was wrong for her to have doubted Olive—this was just what she’d been waiting for, some names and places to start looking. But she had expected more. Three seemed such a small number compared to what she’d learned of how widespread the practice had become, and these were just the ones who had been caught.