Hennessy was on the pavement opposite, head down, scribbling furiously in his notebook. Of Donaldson and Digby, there was no sign. She crossed to Hennessy and halted beside him.
He paused in his scribbling and glanced at her. “Best story I’ll ever write.”
“I’m sure you say that of every new story.”
He grinned. “This time, however, it’s true.”
“Did you happen to notice what photographs Donaldson took?”
Hennessy glanced sidelong at her. “None with you in it, if that’s what you want to know. We were all too surprised to do anything when you burst out of the station with the bomb in your arms. Donaldson wasn’t ready, but he managed to get a shot of Duvall racing out, looking desperate, and he thinks he might even have one of the explosion.” Hennessy nodded toward the station. “We saw the case sail above the roof, and Donaldson pointed his camera up that way, and he thinks, what with his newfangled processes, that there’s a decent chance he caught the moment. It’ll be amazing if he did.”
She arched her brows. “That would, indeed, be a coup. Did he manage to get photographs of the police capturing Duvall?”
“He got one of the other two bringing Duvall down, and once they’d stepped away, he got two shots of Baines and Littlejohn hauling their prisoner along. Should work well with what I’m writing.”
She glanced around. “Where are they? Donaldson and Digby.”
Hennessy tipped his head toward the road above the station. “They hurried up there to photograph what’s left of the bomb and the soldiers. Always goes down a treat, showing men in uniform in action.”
She nodded, knowing that was true. Hennessy looked down at his notebook. She followed his gaze. “Incidentally, I’ll need to vet whatever you write.”
Without looking at her, he murmured, “So no hint of who Mrs. I. Molyneaux actually is slips out?”
She stared at his profile for several seconds, then drew in a breath, let it out, and inclined her head. “Just so.”
To her relief, Hennessy nodded. “Whatever it is, your secret’s safe with me. As far as I’m concerned, you’re the owner ofThe London Crier,and that’s all anyone needs to know.”
Another portion of the tension that had gripped her eased and fell away.
“One thing, though—just to put it in your diary, so to speak—this exercise and all I’ve already seen of your operation has firmed up an idea I’ve had for a while. It’s something I’d like to discuss with you once we’re back in town and this mayhem is over. I’d like to put a proposition to you”—Hennessy looked across the street at Gray—“and I fancy it might come at an opportune time to be of definite interest to you.” He tapped his pencil on his notebook and flashed her a grin. “Especially if this story turns out to be half as good as I think it will.”
She laughed. “You don’t lack for confidence, do you, Hennessy?”
“No, I don’t.” He met her eyes and dipped his head. “And you don’t lack for courage, ma’am.” He glanced up, over the roof of the station. “That was really something.”
Standing with Martin and Toby on the other side of the street, Gray saw Izzy head toward him, but as soon as she stepped onto the pavement, the lady and her daughter and the stationmaster and his assistants surrounded her. All had seen her snatch the bomb and rush it outside; although they hadn’t seen what had occurred subsequently, they were gushing in their praise.
“My dear, I don’t know how to thank you.” The lady promptly did her best to do so, extolling Izzy’s selflessness and making her squirm. Luckily, the lady was a local and clearly did not recognize to whom she spoke.
The instant the lady wound down, the stationmaster and his assistants took up the baton, raining thanks on Izzy’s head, but their curiosity was showing.
Gray tensed to intervene, but Hennessy strolled up to the group, identified himself as writing forThe London Crier, and asked the station staff what they’d seen of the action.
The three men admitted they hadn’t noticed Duvall’s case until Izzy had grabbed it, and although they’d all seen Duvall’s cheroot, they’d thought nothing of it. He’d asked for a form to send a telegraph message to Calais, then he’d bent and been doing something below the level of the counter while the assistant had gone to fetch the form.
In a soft voice, the little girl piped, “I saw him use the burning part of his smelly stick to make the end of the piece of rope start fizzing.” When everyone looked at her, she stared back with wide eyes. “I’ve never seen rope spark and hiss like that. I thought he was doing a trick.”
Izzy smiled at the child, and Hennessy nodded. “You’re a smart girl and a good observer.”
“I gather”—the stationmaster looked inquiringly at Izzy, then at Hennessy before glancing at the rest of their crew—“that you’ve been assisting in tracking our villain here to prevent him attacking the telegraph station.”
That was the bare-bones story Toby had relayed.
Still smiling, Izzy smoothly said, “Unfortunately, we didn’t realize he intended to carry out the attack in quite the way he did, not until he’d lit the fuse. Luckily, however, we were all here, on the spot, and everything turned out well.”
On that note, she excused herself and walked on to where Gray, Martin, and Toby were standing to one side, trying to be inconspicuous.
Hennessy promptly distracted the lady, the girl, and the telegraph staff by requesting names and asking for their reactions.
