Jasper Fforde - The Eyre Affair

I was about to lose my temper when Bowden spoke up.

‘Sir,’ he began, ‘if we could move slowly towards a goal we might be able to burrow our way out of the predicament we find ourselves shuffling into.’

Mandias’s attitude abruptly changed and he smiled solemnly.

‘If that is the case, I am sure we could manage a quick look for you—as long as you promise not to touch anything.’

‘On my word,’ replied Bowden pointedly, patting his stomach. The two of them shook hands and winked and we were soon escorted into the museum.

‘How the hell did you do that?’ I hissed.

‘Look at his ring.’

I looked. He had a large ring on his middle finger with a curious and distinctive pattern on it.

‘What of it?’

‘The Most Worshipful Brotherhood of the Wombat.’

I smiled.

‘So what have we got?’ I asked. ‘A double murder and a missing script? They just took the manuscript, right? Nothing else?’

‘Right,’ replied Mandias.

‘And the guard was shot with his own gun?’

Mandias stopped and looked sternly at me. ‘How did you know that?’

‘A lucky guess,’ I replied evenly. ‘What about the videotapes?’

‘We’re studying them at the moment.’

‘There’s no one on them, is there?’

Mandias looked at me curiously. ‘Do you know who did this?’

I followed him into the room that once held the manuscript. The untouched glass case was sitting forlornly in the middle of the floor. I ran my fingertips across a mottled and uneven patch on the glass.

‘Thanks, Mandias, you’re a star,’ I said, walking back out. Bowden and Mandias looked at one another and hastened after me.

‘That’s it?’ said Mandias. ‘That’s your investigation?’

‘I’ve seen all I need to see.’

‘Can you give me anything?’ asked Mandias, trotting to keep up. He looked at Bowden. ‘Brother, you can tell me.’

‘We should tell the DI what we know, Thursday. We owe him for allowing us in.’

I stopped so suddenly Mandias almost bumped into me.

‘Ever hear of a man named Hades?’

Mandias went visibly pale and looked around nervously.

‘Don’t worry; he’s long gone.’

‘They say he died in Venezuela.’

‘They say he can walk through walls,’ I countered. ‘They also say he gives off colours when he moves. Hades is alive and well and I have to find, him before he starts to make use of the manuscript.’

Mandias seemed to have undergone a humbling change as soon as he realised who was behind it all.

‘Anything I can do?’

I paused for a moment.

‘Pray you never meet him.’

The drive back to Swindon was uneventful, the area on the Mi where all the trouble had been now back to normal. Victor was waiting for us in the office; he seemed slightly agitated.

‘I’ve had Braxton on the phone all morning bleating on about insurance cover being inoperative if his officers act outside their jurisdiction.’

‘Same old shit.’

‘That’s what I told him. I’ve got most of the office reading Jane Eyre at the moment in case anything unusual happens—all quiet so far.’

‘It’s only a matter of time.’

‘Hmm.’

‘Mьller mentioned Hades being at Penderyn somewhere,’ I said to Victor. ‘Anything come of that?’

‘Nothing that I know of. Schitt said he had looked into it and drawn a blank—there are over three hundred possible Penderyns that Mьller might have meant. More worrying, have you seen this morning’s paper?’

I hadn’t. He showed me the inside front page of The Mole. It read:

I read on with some alarm. Apparently there had been troop movements near Hereford, Chepstow and the disputed border town of Oswestry. A military spokesman had dismissed the manoeuvres as simple ‘exercises’, but it didn’t sound good at all. Not at all. I turned to Victor.

‘Jack Schitt? Do you think he wants the Prose Portal badly enough to go to war with Wales?’

‘Who knows what power the Goliath Corporation wields. He might not be behind this at all. It could be coincidence or just sabre-rattling; but in any event I don’t think we can ignore it.’

‘Then we need to steal a march. Any ideas?’

‘What did Mьller say again?’ asked Finisterre.

I sat down.

‘He screamed: “He’s at Penderyn”; nothing else.’

‘Nothing else?’ asked Bowden.

‘No; when Schitt asked him which Penderyn he meant, as there must be hundreds, Mьller told him to guess.’

Bowden spoke up.

‘What were his precise words?’

‘He said “Guess”, then repeated it but it turned into a yell—he was in grave pain at the time. The conversation was recorded but there is about as much chance as getting hold of that as—‘

‘Maybe he meant something else.’

‘Like what, Bowden?’

‘I really only speak tourist Welsh but “Gwesty” means hotel.’

‘Oh my God,’ said Victor.

‘Victor?’ I queried, but he was busy rummaging in a large pile of maps we had accumulated; each of them had a Penderyn of some sort marked on it. He spread a large street plan of Merthyr Tydfil out on the table and pointed at a place just between the Palace of Justice and Government House. We craned to see where his finger was pointing but the location was unmarked.

‘The Penderyn Hotel,’ announced Victor grimly. ‘I spent my honeymoon there. Once the equal of the Adelphi or Raffles, it’s been empty since the sixties. If I wanted a safe haven—‘

‘He’s there,’ I announced, looking at the map of the Welsh capital city uneasily. ‘That’s where we’ll find him.’

‘And how do you suppose we’ll manage to enter Wales undetected, make our way into a heavily guarded area, snatch Mycroft and the manuscript and get out in one piece?’ asked Bowden. ‘It takes a month to even get a visa!’

‘We’ll find a way in,’ I said slowly.

‘You’re crazy!’ said Victor. ‘Braxton would never allow it!’

‘That’s where you come in.’

‘Me? Braxton doesn’t listen to me.’

‘I think he’s about to start.’

Hobbes shook his head in the relative unfamiliarity of the corridors of Rochester’s home, Thornfield Hall. It was night and a deathly hush had descended on the house. The corridor was dark and he fumbled for his torch. A glimmer of orange light stabbed the darkness as he walked slowly along the upstairs hall. Ahead of him he could see a door which was slightly ajar, through which showed a thin glimmer of candlelight. He paused by the door and peered around the corner. Within he could see a woman dressed in tatters and with wild unkempt hair pouring oil from a lantern on to the covers under which Rochester lay asleep. Hobbes got his bearings; he knew that Jane would soon be in to put out the fire, but from which door he had no way of knowing. He turned back into the corridor and nearly leaped out of his skin as he came face to face with a large, florid-looking woman. She smelled strongly of drink, had an aggressive countenance and glared at him with thinly disguised contempt. They stood staring at each other for some moments, Hobbes wondering what to do and the woman wavering slightly, her eyes never leaving his. Hobbes panicked and went for his gun, but with wholly unlikely speed the woman caught his arm and held it pinched so tightly that it was all he could do to stop yelling out in pain.