There were several police and SpecOps cars clustered around the entrance to my mother’s house when we pulled up. A small crowd had assembled and was peering over the fence. The dodos had gathered on the other side and were staring back, wondering what the fuss was all about. I showed my badge to the officer on duty.
“Litera Tec?” he said scornfully. “Can’t let you in, ma’am. Police and SpecOps-9 only.”
“He’s my uncle!—” I said angrily, and the officer reluctantly let me through. Swindon was the same as London: A Litera Tec’s badge held about as much authority as a bus pass. I found my mother in the living room surrounded by damp Kleenex. I sat beside her and asked her what had happened.
She blew her nose noisily.
“I called them in for dinner at one. It was snorkers, Mycroft’s favorite. There was no answer so I went down to his workshop. They were both gone and the double doors wide open. Mycroft wouldn’t have gone out without saying anything.”
This was true. Mycroft never left the house unless it was absolutely necessary; since Owens had been meringued Polly did all his running around.
“Anything stolen?” I asked a SpecOps-9 operative who stared at me coldly. He didn’t relish being asked questions by a Litera Tec.
“Who knows?” he replied with little emotion. “I understand you’d been in his workshop recently?”
“Yesterday evening.”
“Then perhaps you can have a look around and tell us if there is anything missing?”
I was escorted to Mycroft’s workshop. The rear doors had been forced and I looked around carefully. The table where Mycroft had kept all his bookworms had been cleared; all I could see was the massive two-pronged power lead that would have slotted into the back of the Prose Portal.
“There was something right here. Several goldfish bowls full up with small worms and a large book a bit like a medieval church Bible—”
“Can you draw it?” asked a familiar voice. I turned to see Jack Schitt lurking in the shadows, smoking a small cigarette and overseeing a Goliath technician who was passing a humming sensor over the ground.
“Well, well,” I said. “If it isn’t Jack Schitt. What’s Goliath’s interest in my uncle?”
“Can you draw it?” he repeated.
I nodded, and one of the Goliath men gave me a pencil and paper. I sketched out what I had seen, the intricate combination of dials and knobs on the front of the book and the heavy brass straps. Jack Schitt took it from me and studied it with great interest as another Goliath technician walked in from outside.
“Well?” asked Schitt.
The agent saluted neatly and showed Schitt a pair of large and slightly molten G-clamps.
“Professor Next had jury-rigged his own set of cables to the electrical substation just next door. I spoke to the electricity board. They said they had three unexplained power drains of about one point eight megawatts each late last night.”
Jack Schitt turned to me.
“You better leave this to us, Next,” he said. “Kidnapping and theft are not part of the Litera Tec’s responsibility.”
“Who did this?” I demanded, but Schitt didn’t take crap from anyone—least of all me. He wagged a finger in my direction.
“This investigation is nothing to do with you; we’ll keep you informed of any developments. Or not. As I see fit.”
He turned and walked away.
“It was Acheron, wasn’t it?” I said, slowly and deliberately. Schitt stopped in midstride, and turned to face me.
“Acheron is dead, Next. Burned to a crisp at junction twelve. Don’t spread your theories around town, girl. It might make you seem more unstable than you actually are.”
He smiled without the least vestige of kindness and walked out of the workshop to his waiting car.
15.
Hello & Goodbye, Mr. Quaverley
Few people remember Mr. Quaverley anymore. If you had read Martin Chuzzlewit prior to 1985 you would have come across a minor character who lived in Mrs. Todger’s boarding house. He discoursed freely with the Pecksniffs on the subject of butterflies, of which he knew almost nothing. Sadly, he is no longer there. His hat is hanging on the hat rack at the bottom of page 235, but that is all that remains . . .
MILLON DE FLOSS
— Thursday Next Casebook, Volume 6
ASTOUNDING!” SAID Acheron quietly as he surveyed Mycroft’s Prose Portal. “Truly astounding!”
Mycroft said nothing. He had been too busy wondering whether Polly was still alive and well since the poem closed on her. Against his protestations they had pulled the plug before the portal had reopened; he didn’t know if any human could survive in such an environment. They had blindfolded him during the journey and he was now standing in the smoking lounge of what had once been a large and luxurious hotel. Although still grand, the décor was tatty and worn. The pearl-inlaid grand piano didn’t look as though it had been tuned for years, and the mirror-backed bar was sadly devoid of any refreshment. Mycroft looked out of the window for a clue as to where he was being held. It wasn’t hard to guess. The large quantity of drab-colored Griffin motorcars and the absence of any advertising hoardings told Mycroft all he needed to know; he was in the People’s Republic of Wales, somewhere well out of reach of the conventional law enforcement agencies. The possibility of escape was slim, and if he could get away, what then? Even if there was a chance he could make it back across the border, he would never be able to leave without Polly—she was still imprisoned in the poem, itself now little more than printed words on a scrap of paper that Hades had placed in his breast pocket. There seemed to be little chance of regaining the poem without a fearsome struggle, and besides, without the bookworms and the Prose Portal, Polly would stay in her Wordsworthian prison forever. Mycroft bit his lip nervously and turned his attention to the other people in the room. Besides himself and Hades there were four others—and two of them held guns.
“Welcome, Professor Next,” said Hades as he grinned broadly, “from one genius to another!”
He gazed fondly at the machine. He ran a finger along the rim of one of the goldfish bowls. The worms were busy reading a copy of Mansfield Park and were discussing where Sir Thomas got his money from.
“I can’t do this alone, you know,” said Hades without looking up. One of the other men shuffled to get more comfortable on one of the few original upholstered armchairs.
“The next step for me is to gain your full support.” He looked at Mycroft with a serious expression. “You will help me, won’t you?”
“I would sooner die!” replied Mycroft coldly.
Acheron looked at him, then broke into another broad grin.
“I don’t doubt it for one moment, but I’m being rude! I have abducted you and stolen your life’s work and haven’t even introduced myself!” He walked up to Mycroft and shook him warmly by the hand, a gesture that Mycroft didn’t return.
“My name is Hades, Acheron Hades. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”
“Acheron the extortionist?” asked Mycroft slowly. “Acheron the kidnapper and the blackmailer?”
Acheron’s smile didn’t leave his lips.
“Yes, yes and yes. But you forgot murderer. Forty-two times a murderer, my friend. The first one is always the hardest. After that it doesn’t really matter, they can only hang you once. It’s a bit like eating a packet of shortbread; you can never just have one piece.” He laughed again. “I had a run-in with your niece, you know. She survived, although,” he added, in case Mycroft erroneously believed there was a vestige of goodness in his dark soul, “that wasn’t the way I had planned it.”
“Why are you doing this?” asked Mycroft.
“Why?” repeated Acheron. “Why? Why, for fame, of course!” he boomed. “You see, gentlemen?—” The others nodded obediently. “Fame!” he repeated. “And you can share that fame!—”
He ushered Mycroft over to his desk and dug out a file of press clippings.
“Look what the paper
s say about me!”
He held up a cutting proudly.
HADES 74 WEEKS AT TOP OF
“MOST-WANTED” LIST
“Impressive, eh?” he said proudly. “How about this one?”
TOAD READERS VOTE HADES
“LEAST FAVORITE PERSON”
“The Owl said that execution was too good for me and The Mole wanted Parliament to reintroduce breaking on the wheel.”
He showed the snippet to Mycroft.
“What do you think?”
“I think,” began Mycroft, “that you could have used your vast intellect far more usefully by serving mankind instead of stealing from it.”
Acheron looked hurt.
“Where’s the fun in that? Goodness is weakness, pleasantness is poisonous, serenity is mediocrity and kindness is for losers. The best reason for committing loathsome and detestable acts—and let’s face it, I am considered something of an expert in this field—is purely for their own sake. Monetary gain is all very well, but it dilutes the taste of wickedness to a lower level that is obtainable by almost anyone with an overdeveloped sense of avarice. True and baseless evil is as rare as the purest good—”
“I’d like to go home.”
“Of course!” said Acheron, smiling. “Hobbes, open the door.”
The man nearest the door opened it and stepped aside. The large door led to the lobby of the old hotel.
“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’s 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 Gad-fly. 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 mall?”
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 Müller, 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 moraled, 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 co
ming on.”
He climbed onto 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 endeavor!”
“Sir?”
“What is it, Dr. Müller?”
“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.”
Acheron stared at him for a moment, a smile slowly breaking across his features.
“Why not? Odious and art-loving! What a divine dichotomy! You shall have your Gainsborough! And now, let us—What is it, Hobbes?”
“You won’t forget to make the ESC put on my improved version of the Scottish play—Macbeth: No More ‘Mr. Nice Guy’?”
“Of course not.”
“A full eight-week run?”
“Yes, yes, and Midsummer Night’s Dream with chainsaws. Mr. Delamare, is there anything that you require?”
“Well,” said the man with the brain of a dog, rubbing the back of his head thoughtfully, “could I have a motorway services named after my mum?”
“Insufferably obtuse,” remarked Acheron. “I don’t think that should be too difficult. Felix7?”