The Eyre Affair

  “Isn’t this a case for the Yorkshire Litera Tecs, sir? Jane Eyre is one of this county’s most valued treasures.”

  Mandias stopped to face her.

  “Unlike other SpecOps departments, the Yorkshire LiteraTecs rely on evidence supplied by the regular police. Litera Tecs are not police and have no place in a police environment.”

  “Why do you suppose the Goliath Corporation made an appearance this morning?”

  “No more questions!” called out Mandias’s deputy as a throng of other news crews started to converge. Goliath had been and gone but no one was going to learn anymore about it. The police pushed their way past and Lydia stopped to have a snack; she had been reporting live since before breakfast. A few minutes later Bowden and I drove up in the Speedster.

  “Well, well,” I muttered as I got out of the car, “Startright keeps herself busy. Morning, Lyds!”

  Lydia almost choked on her SmileyBurger and quickly threw it aside. She picked up her microphone and chased after me.

  “Although the Yorkshire Litera Tecs and Goliath are claimed not to be present,” muttered Lydia as she tried to keep up, “events have taken an interesting turn with the arrival of Thursday Next of SO-27. In a departure from normal procedure, the Litera Tecs have come out from behind their desks and are visiting the crime scene in person.”

  I stopped to have some fun. Lydia composed herself and started the interview.

  “Miss Next, tell me, what are you doing so far out of your jurisdiction?”

  “Hi, Lydia. You have mayonnaise on your upper lip from that SmileyBurger. It has a lot of salt in it and you really shouldn’t eat them. As for the case, I’m afraid it’s the same old shit: ‘You will understand that anything we may discover will have to remain a blah-de-blah-de-blah.’ How’s that?”

  Lydia hid a smile.

  “Do you think the two thefts are linked?”

  “My brother Joffy is a big fan of yours, Lyds; can you let me have a signed picture? ‘Joffy’ with two Fs. Excuse me.”

  “Thanks for nothing, Thursday!” called out Startright. “I’ll be seeing you!”

  We walked up to the police line and showed our IDs to the constable on duty. He looked at the badges, then at the two of us. We could see he was not impressed. He spoke to Mandias.

  “Sir, these two Wessex LiteraTecs want to get at the crime scene.”

  Mandias ambled over painfully slowly. He looked us both up and down and chose his words with care.

  “Here in Yorkshire Litera Tecs don’t leave their desks.”

  “I’ve read the arrest reports. It shows,” I replied coldly.

  Mandias sighed. Keeping what he described as eggheads in check, especially those from another SpecOps region, was obviously not something he was keen to do.

  “I have two murders on my hands here and I don’t want the crime scene disturbed. Why don’t you wait until you get the report and then take your investigation from there?”

  “The murders are tragic, obviously,” I replied, “but Jane Eyre is the thing here. It is imperative that we get to see the crime scene. Jane Eyre is bigger than me and bigger than you. If you refuse I’ll send a report to your superior officer complaining of your conduct.”

  But Mandias was not a man to listen to threats, idle or otherwise. This was Yorkshire, after all. He stared at me and said softly:

  “Do your worst, pen-pusher.”

  I took a step forward and he bridled slightly; he wasn’t going to give way. A nearby officer moved in behind him to give assistance if needed.

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

  “Sir,” he began, “if we could move slowly toward 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 colors 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 realized 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 M1 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.”

  “Müller 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 Müller 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:

  TROOP MOVEMENTS NEAR WELSH BORDER

  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 maneuvers 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 saber-rattling; but in any event I don’t thin
k we can ignore it.”

  “Then we need to steal a march. Any ideas?”

  “What did Müller 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, Müller 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 Pen-deryn 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 My-croft 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.”

  29.

  Jane Eyre

  Jane Eyre was published in 1847 under the pseudonym Currer Bell, a suitably neuter name that disguised Charlotte Brontë’s sex. It was a great success; William Thackeray described the novel as “The master work of a great genius.” Not that the book was without its critics: G. H. Lewes suggested that Charlotte should study Austen’s work and “correct her shortcomings in the light of that great artist’s practice.” Charlotte replied that Miss Austen’s work was barely—in the light of what she wanted to do—a novel at all. She referred to it as “a highly cultivated garden with no open country.” The jury is still out.

  W.H.H.F.RENOUF

  —The Brontës

  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 onto 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.

  “What are you doing here?” she hissed, one eyebrow twitching.

  “Who in Christ’s name are you?” asked Hobbes.

  She smacked him hard across the face; he staggered before recovering.

  “My name is Grace Poole,” said Grace Poole. “In service I might be, but you have no right to utter the Lord’s name in vain. I can see by your attire that you do not belong here. What do you want?”

  “I’m, um, with Mr. Mason,” he stammered.

  “Rubbish,” she replied, staring at him dangerously.

  “I want Jane Eyre,” he stammered.

  “So does Mr. Rochester,” she replied in a matter-of-fact tone. “But he doesn’t even kiss her until page one hundred and eighty-one.”

  Hobbes glanced inside the room. The madwoman was now dancing around, smiling and cackling as the flames grew higher on Rochester’s bed.

  “If she doesn’t arrive soon, there won’t be a page one hundred and eighty-one.”

  Grace Poole caught his eye again and fixed him with a baleful glare.

  “She will save him as she has before thousands of times, as she will again thousands of times. It is the way of things here.”

  “Yeah?” replied Hobbes. “Well, things just might change.”

  At that moment the madwoman rushed out of the room and into Hobbes with her fingernails outstretched. With a maniacal laugh that made his ears pop she lunged at him and pressed her uncut and ragged nails into both his cheeks. He yelled out in pain as Grace Poole wrestled Mrs. Rochester into a half nelson and frogmarched her to the attic. As Grace got to the door she turned to Hobbes and spoke again.

  “Just remember: It is the way of things here.”

  “Aren’t you going to try and stop me?” asked Hobbes in a puzzled tone.

  “I take poor Mrs. Rochester upstairs now,” she replied. “It is written.”

  The door closed behind her as a voice shouting “Wake, wake!” brought Hobbes’s attention back to the blazing room. Within he could see the night-robed Jane throwing a jug of water over the recumbent form of Rochester. Hobbes waited until the fire was out before stepping into the room, drawing his gun as he did so. They both looked up, the “elves of Christendom” line dying on Rochester’s lips.

  “Who are you?” they asked, together.

  “Believe me, you couldn’t possibly begin to understand.”

  Hobbes took Jane by the arm and dragged her back toward the corridor.

  “Edward! My Edward!” implored Jane, her arms outstretched to Rochester. “I won’t leave you, my love!”

  “Wait a minute,” said Hobbes, still backing away, “you guys haven’t fallen in love yet!”

  “In that you would be mistaken,” murmured Rochester, pulling out a percussion pistol from beneath his pillow. “I have suspected something like this might happen for some time.” He aimed at Hobbes and fired in a single quick movement. He missed, the large lead ball burying itself in the door frame. Hobbes fired back a warning shot; Hades had expressly forbidden anyone in the novel to be hurt. Rochester pulled a second pistol after the first and cocked it.

  “Let her go,” he announced, his jaw set, his dark hair falling into his eyes.

  Hobbes pulled Jane in front of him.

  “Don’t be a fool, Rochester! If all goes well Jane will be returned to you forthwith; you won’t even know she has gone!”

  Hobbes backed down the hall toward where the portal was due to open as he spoke. Rochester followed, gun outstretched, his heart heavy as his one and only true love was dragged unceremoniously from the novel to that place, that other place, where he and Jane could never enjoy the life they enjoyed at Thornfield. Hobbes and Jane vanished back through the portal, which closed abruptly after them. Rochester put up his gun and glowered.

  A few moments later Hobbes and a very confused Jane Eyre had fallen back through the Prose Portal and into the dilapidated smoking lounge of the old Penderyn Hotel.

  Acheron stepped forward and helped Jane up. He offered her his coat to warm herself. After Thornfield H
all the hotel was decidedly drafty.

  “Miss Eyre!—” announced Hades kindly. “My name is Hades, Acheron Hades. You are my respected guest; please take a seat and compose yourself.”

  “Edward?—”

  “Quite well, my young friend. Come, let me take you to a warmer part of the hotel.”

  “Will I see my Edward again?”

  Hades smiled.

  “It rather depends on how valuable people think you are.”

  30.

  A Groundswell of Popular Feeling

  Until Jane Eyre was kidnapped I don’t think anyone— least of all Hades—realized quite how popular she was. It was as if a living national embodiment of England’s literary heritage had been torn from the masses. It was the best piece of news we could have hoped for.

  BOWDEN CABLE

  —Journal of a Litera Tec

  WITHIN TWENTY seconds of Jane’s kidnapping, the first worried member of the public had noticed strange goings-on around the area of page 107 of their deluxe hidebound edition of Jane Eyre. Within thirty minutes all the lines into the English Museum library were jammed. Within two hours every LiteraTec department was besieged by calls from worried Brontë readers. Within four hours the president of the Brontë Federation had seen the prime minister. By suppertime the prime minister’s personal secretary had called the head of SpecOps. By nine o’clock the head of SpecOps had batted it down the line to a miserable Braxton Hicks. By ten he had been called personally by the prime minister, who asked him what the hell he was going to do about it. He stammered down the line and said something wholly unhelpful. Meanwhile, the news was leaked to the press that Swindon was the center of the Jane Eyre investigation, and by midnight the SpecOps building was encircled by concerned readers, journalists and news network trucks.

  Braxton was not in a good mood. He had started to chain-smoke and locked himself in his office for hours at a time. Not even putting practice managed to soothe his ruffled nerves, and shortly after the prime minister’s call he summoned Victor and me for a meeting on the roof, away from the prying eyes of the press, the Goliath representatives and especially from Jack Schitt.