Jasper Fforde - The Eyre Affair

‘I don’t speak Welsh,’ murmured Mycroft.

Hobbes shut the door and rebolted it.

‘Bit of a drawback in Merthyr, old boy,’ said Acheron, smiling. ‘You’d not get far without it.’

Mycroft looked at Hades uneasily.

‘But Polly—!’

‘Ah, yes!’ replied Hades. ‘Your delightful wife.’ He pulled out the copy of ‘I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud’ and produced a large gold lighter, which he ignited with a flourish.

‘No—!’ cried Mycroft, taking several steps forward. Acheron arched an eyebrow, the flame nearly touching the paper.

‘I’ll stay and help you,’ said Mycroft wearily.

A broad grin broke out on Hades’ features. He put the poem back in his pocket.

‘Stout fellow! You won’t regret this.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Actually, you probably will.’

Mycroft sat unsteadily on a handy chair.

‘By the by,’ went on Hades, ‘have I introduced you to all my fiendish compatriots?’

Mycroft shook his head sadly.

‘No? Most remiss. The man with the gun over there is Mr. Delamare. His obedience is matched only by his stupidity. He does everything I say and would die for me if necessary. A sort of human red setter, if you will. He has an IQ below that of a neanderthal and believes only what he reads in The Gadfly. Mr Delamare, my friend, have you committed your wicked act today?’

‘Yes, Mr Hades. I drove at seventy-three miles per hour.’

Hades frowned. ‘That doesn’t sound very wicked.’

Delamare chuckled. ‘Through the Arndale centre?’

Hades wagged an approving finger and smiled a wicked smile. ‘Very good.’

Thank you, Mr Hades.’

‘Over there is Mr Hobbes. He is an actor of some distinction whose talents the English Shakespeare Company foolishly decides to ignore. We will try and rectify that fault; is that not so, Mr Hobbes?’

‘It is, sire,’ responded Mr Hobbes, bowing low with a flourish. He was dressed in tights, a leather jerkin and codpiece. He had been passed over for every major part with the ESC for ten years, relegated to walk-ons and understudying. He had become so dangerously unstable that even the other actors noticed. He had joined up with Acheron shortly after his escape from a lengthy prison sentence; pushing thespian interpretation to the limits, he had killed Laertes for real while playing Hamlet.

‘The third man over there is Mьller, a doctor whom I befriended after he was struck off. The particulars are a bit sordid. We’ll talk about it over dinner some time, as long as we’re not eating steak tartar. The fourth man is Felix7, who is one of my most trusted companions. He can remember no farther than a week in the past and has no aspirations for the future. He thinks only of the work he has been assigned to carry out. He is without conscience, mercy or pity. A fine man. We should have more like him.’

Hades clapped his hands together happily.

‘Shall we get to work? I haven’t committed a singularly debauched act for almost an hour.’

Mycroft reluctantly walked over to the Prose Portal and started to ready it. The bookworms were fed, watered and cleaned, power supplies were laid on, and all the details in the child’s exercise book neatly followed. As Mycroft worked, Acheron sat down and flicked through an old manuscript filled with spidery writing, replete with scribbled corrections and bound up with faded red ribbon. He skipped through various sections until he found what he was looking for.

‘Perfect!’ he chortled.

Mycroft finished the testing procedure and stepped back.

‘It’s ready,’ he sighed.

‘Excellent!’ Acheron beamed as he handed over the aged manuscript.

‘Open the portal just here.’

He tapped the page and smiled. Mycroft slowly took the manuscript and looked at the title.

‘Martin Chuzzlewit, Fiend!’

‘Flattery will get you nowhere, my dear professor.’

‘But,’ continued Mycroft, ‘if you alter anything in the original manuscript—!’

‘But that’s the point, isn’t it, my dear Mycroft,’ said Hades, clasping one of Mycroft’s cheeks between finger and thumb and shaking gently. ‘That’s… the… point. What good is extortion unless you show everyone what massive damage you could do if you wanted? And anyway, where’s the fun in robbing banks? Bang, bang, give me the money? Besides, killing civilians is never any real fun. It’s a bit like shooting rabbits that have been pegged to the ground. Give me a SWAT platoon to deal with any day.’

‘But the damage—!’ continued Mycroft. ‘Are you mad!?’

Acheron’s eyes flashed angrily as he grasped Mycroft tightly by the throat.

‘What? What did you say? Mad, did you say? Hmm? Eh? What? What?’

His fingers tightened on Mycroft’s windpipe; the professor could feel himself start to sweat in the cold panic of suffocation. Acheron was waiting for an answer that Mycroft was unable to utter. ‘What? What did you say?’

Acheron’s pupils started to dilate as Mycroft felt a dark veil fall over his mind.

‘Think it’s fun being christened with a name like mine? Having to live up to what is expected of one? Born with an intellect so vast that all other humans are cretins by comparison?’

Mycroft managed to give out a choke and Acheron slackened his grip. Mycroft fell to the floor, gulping for breath. Acheron stood over him and wagged a reproachful finger.

‘Don’t ever call me mad, Mycroft. I’m not mad, I’m just… well, differently moralled, that’s all.’

Hades handed him Chuzzlewit again and Mycroft needed no second bidding. He placed the worms with the manuscript inside the heavy old book; within half an hour of feverish activity the device was primed and set.

‘It is ready,’ announced Mycroft miserably. ‘I have only to press this button and the door will open. It will stay open for ten seconds at most.’ He sighed deeply and shook his head. ‘May God forgive me—!’

‘ I forgive you,’ replied Acheron. ‘It’s the closest you’ll get!’ Hades walked across to Hobbes, who was now dressed in black combat gear. He wore a webbing harness around his waist upon which hung all sorts of items that might be of use on an unplanned armed robbery—a large torch, bolt cutters, rope, handcuffs and an automatic.

‘You know who it is you are after?’

‘Mr Quaverley, sir.’

‘Splendid. I feel a speech coming on.’

He climbed on to a carved oak table.

‘My friends!’ he began. ‘This is a very great day for science and a very bad one for Dickensian literature.’

He paused for dramatic effect.

‘Comrades, we stand on the very brink of an act of artistic barbarism so monstrous that I am almost ashamed of it myself. All of you have been my faithful servants for many years, and although none of you possesses a soul quite as squalid as mine, and the faces I see before me are both stupid and unappealing, I regard you all with no small measure of fondness.’

His four comrades mumbled their thanks.

‘Silence! I think it is fair to say that I am the most debased individual on this planet and quite the most brilliant criminal mind this century. The plan that we embark upon now is easily the most diabolical ever devised by man, and will not only take you to the top of everyone’s Most-Wanted list but will also make you wealthy beyond your wildest dreams of avarice.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘So let the adventure begin, and here’s to the success of our finest criminal endeavour!’

‘Sir?’

‘What is it, Dr Mьller?’

‘All that money. I’m not so sure. I’d settle for a Gainsborough. You know—that one of the kid in the blue suit.’