It had been a busy day in
Whatever the reason, by the time the short journey over the river had been made, McAllistair had resolved to do two things: contact Harry McFry to warn him about Galloway’s interest in the medals and (more particularly) the paper that accompanied them; and to find Lillian McFry, who could surely only be Lillian Blyth.
That same afternoon, Laurel McFry saw her bank manager and signed the papers to dispose of her shares in McFry & Sons. She’d have a precise account of their value the next day, she’d been promised, but it was a concerned and worried Laurel McFry who made her way back to her house, unsure, still, whether she had done the right thing.
In the offices of the Birkenhead Beagle, Bill Blunt had been musing some more over Jonathan Harcourt. After his call to Harry, he’d rung through to the national offices of the NUJ, where he spoke to the union’s head archivist. He’d surmised, correctly, that the NUJ would keep records of all the aliases used by its members: how else could they have prevented non-union members from writing for newspapers? The archivist would be busy the rest of the day, he’d said, but hoped to be able to check the records tomorrow. As soon as he had anything, he promised, he’d ring Bill back.
Cyril Galloway, meanwhile, was reluctant to leave