The foreman looked up at them and shook his head. They had been having trouble with the press all morning, and it didn’t bode well for their deadline. Not only were there bottlenecks in the production departments, but they’d been told there was also one in the bindery since one of its Seybold trimmers was broken, the other tied up for four days on a different publication. Even if they could solve that problem and Patricia’s novel was printed, there was little chance they would get it to the distributors in time.

Mark Hughes, the master printer and general manager, had taken them on a tour when they’d arrived, first through the light-filled space at the front of the building that housed the commercial artist and typographer, then into the monotype department and compositing room. It had been interesting at first, and a good distraction from waiting to hear any news about Eadie, but now Alice regretted accepting Theo’s invitation. She wished she could take control of her emotions instead of one minute thinking one way and the next moment the reverse. And she really should have stuck to her resolve not to spend any more time alone with Theo.

Mark’s tour had taken them into the machine room at the heart of the building, and even to her untrained eye it was clear that the letterpress and offset lithography equipment had seen better days, so it was no surprise that there were problems or that the intense smell of burning oil was so overbearing.

Theo and Alice watched as the foreman tried to restart the stalled machinery.

“Shall we go outside?” she suggested.

“You go ahead,” he replied. He stayed at the head of the machine, watching intensely, his hands balled into tight fists, as the foreman fiddled with the rollers.

Partridge couldn’t afford another delay or a ruined batch of paper, as booksellers and readers were eagerly awaiting the next installment of the Mary Dray detective series. Alice knew the story inside out; in fact, she could picture one of the villains passing his victims through the jaws of the press, and the swirl of blood and ink that would ooze out the other end.

“I need some air,” she said abruptly, and headed for the door.

Outside she leaned back against the wall, feeling the cold bricks through her dress as she gazed at the emerald fields that led to the horizon. She breathed in the comforting scent of freshly cut hay. Hertfordshire wasn’t far from London, yet the countryside was as rural as any of the distant counties: rolling green hills flecked with the black-and-white dots of sheep and cattle, and vast hedges that hugged the road and train routes in every direction. Alice’s eyes followed each artery into the distance, wondering if any might lead to Eadie.