The library is, as usual, empty and smells of damp and air freshener. Jess texted me to say she has an awesome idea for my scholarship essay, which is good news. I’m trying as hard as I can to think of something to write about, but I’m too exhausted and worried to think straight.
Despite what we now refer to as the “incident” last week, the library is fast becoming my safe space. There’s something about Ruth’s presence that’s so calm and welcoming that it overshadows the bad memory.
It helps that Will isn’t here any longer, there’s no air of unease that followed him around. The thought of him sends a little ripple of gooseflesh across my shoulders and I fight back a shudder. As much as I try not to think about him or the last few weeks, I know I won’t settle properly until he’s been found.
Jess is waiting at the door to a little room I haven’t been into yet. “Mum gave me the idea. Come on.”
It’s a stark, bare space with a couple of computers on a long desk that takes up the back wall, some other machines dotted around them. A small, narrow window high up on the wall lets in a beam of dusty light that illuminates a bank of silver filing cabinets.
“What are we doing?”
“This is where we keep the microfilm,” Jess replies. She stops in front of one of the drawers. I move closer to see that all of the labels have date ranges on them, each meticulously printed by hand. There’s a slight squeal of metal as she pulls one open. “1835–1840, Tray one.”
Inside there are neat rows of cardboard boxes. These are labelled, too, and Jess traces a finger across the writing on each one.
“Nope,” she mumbles, closing the drawer and pulling open the one underneath. She repeats the process and this time she smiles. “Here it is.”
She eases the box from its resting place and replaces it with a little blue block that fits into the space perfectly. “Mum’s tip. So you know exactly where to put it back.”
“Clever.”
She hands me the box and heads over to a computer, loading up programmes. I drag a chair over and sit next to her. “What’s in here, then?”
“Have a look,” she instructs.
I ease the lid off. Inside sit little spools of film, like I imagine old-fashioned movie or newsreels to look.
“Microfilm,” Jess repeats. “Photographs of newspapers and stuff. There are loads of old news articles on here. I was talking to Mum about your job at the museum and she recognized the name of the girl you dress up as, can you believe that?”
“Really?” I watch as Jess takes the reel from the box and starts to load it with a practised hand. “Where from?”
“I’ll show you.” She starts to click the mouse and the computer screen fills with old newsprint.
She carries on clicking, newspaper pages whizzing by on the screen, before finally stopping. “Here we go. August 1838.”
“That was the year Jane died.”
“Yep. Mum said it was in the papers, ’cos she was from a wealthy family. Let’s see. . .” Jess’s brows knit behind her glasses and she scrolls through the pages. “Keep your eye out for her name.”
I sigh and peer at the screen. “Jess, as interesting as this is – in a really morbid, creepy way—”
“You know me,” she grins, eyes still focussed on the screen. “Morbid and creepy are my jam.”
“Yeah, I do know.” I still haven’t forgotten the hair jewellery. “Anyway, interesting as this is, how’s it supposed to help me write this flipping essay on ‘London’s theatrical history’? It’s due in less than a week and I still don’t know where to start.”
“Just wait, you’ll see . . . yes! Here it is.” She adjusts her glasses and sits back, reading aloud from the screen. “After Jane’s unfortunate demise blah, blah, blah, her loving family, blah, blah, blah. . .”
“Jess!” I say, shocked.
“Sorry, we know these bits though.” She carries on, unfazed. “The family will make several donations in her name. These are to include a new children’s wing at St. Mary’s Hospital, Paddington, and a viewing gallery at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, where Miss Alsop spent many happy hours.”
“No way!” I lean closer and read the article myself. “A viewing gallery – is that a box? They named one in the theatre after her?”
“Yeah, that’s why Mum recognized it. She used to volunteer there before her MS got bad. She said she looked up all the names of the boxes. She loves knowing the history behind stuff like that.”
“Just like you.”
She smiles. “Yeah, I guess so. So, do you think you can use this? For your essay, I mean.”
