ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛᴇꜱꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴀᴄᴋᴇᴛᴇᴇʀ

Twenty | ᴅᴀᴘʜɴᴇ

A violent sneeze wracked Daphne's body.

“Ahhh-choooo!”

The sudden, explosive exclamation caused Hattie Kohl, the editor and chief's secretary, to automatically glance up from her typewriter. “Bless you!” she chanted in a sing-song voice.

“That makes three,” Daphne laughed, pinching her nose. “You don't have to bless me every time, Hat. It's just the dust.”

“Bad luck not to,” Hattie countered. She eyed the pile of archived newspapers that was tipping precariously at the edge of Daphne's desk. “Why you're lookin' at those old, dusty Post issues is beyond me,” she said. “And why ya had to get here before the right crack of dawn to do it is downright mysterious. What're ya up to, Daphne?”

“Just a bit of research,” Daphne answered, purposely vague. It was true. She was perusing old issues because she wanted to examine every Daily Post article that had been printed about William Mercer and his family before she was hired at the newspaper. And she'd come into the office early because her flat was too empty and too quiet without Rose. Waking that morning with the knowledge that her cousin wasn't in the second bedroom caused the small tenement to feel foreign and unwelcoming. She'd needed to escape.

Ergo, here she sat. At her desk, eyeballs-deep in outdated periodicals, searching for and jotting notes on any article that might give her information she didn't already have on the Mercer family or the Deansgate Streeters. Most of the articles were cautious to the point of being outright cover-ups. But the brash articles, those written in the voice of a true journalist of muck-raking gumption, all sported the same name: Sid Dawkins.

“Hattie,” Daphne called as her eyes skimmed an article about a particularly nasty brawl that erupted between the Mercer and Ginovesi families at the Manchester Derby a few years back. “You've been here at the paper for quite some time, isn't that right?”

“Only all the best years of me life,” Hattie responded with a theatrical sigh. “Mr. Hughes took me on as his secretary when I was twenty-one. I'm forty now! Forty! Can ya believe it? Disgustin', I tell ya. But don't you go repeatin' that to anyone, eh? I'm thirty-five as far as the men in Manchester are concerned. And not a day older.”

Daphne made a show of locking her lips and tossing Hattie the imaginary key. “I thought you were thirty-four.”

“That's 'cause you're a good lass, Daphne. A good lass,” Hattie told her with a firm nod. “Anyway, 'nuff about me. Been here forever. Why d'ya ask?”

“Do you remember a journalist on staff by the name of Sid Dawkins?” Daphne inquired. “I'm certain I never met him, but it looks like he wrote for the Post for years.” She indicated the pile of old issues. “I see his name repeatedly.”

“Aw, Sid?” Hattie asked. Her thin lips pulled up into a smile, causing her skeletal cheekbones to become even more pronounced. “He was a reckless one, that man! Wicked fun. Always pushin' the envelope. And his deadlines. A newspaper in London scooped him up, oh...about...six months before you came along. Truth be told, I got the impression that the Mercer family had summat to do with his sudden relocation. No proof, o’course. Either way, I miss him bein' around. Good fella. You woulda liked him.”