The Eyre Affair

  “Sir?” said Victor as we approached Braxton, who was leaning against a smokestack that squeaked as it turned. Hicks was staring out at the lights of Swindon with a detachment that made me worried. The parapet was barely two yards away, and for an awful moment I thought perhaps he was going to end it all.

  “Look at them,” he murmured.

  We both relaxed as we realized that Braxton was on the roof so he could see the public that his department had pledged to help. There were thousands of them, encircling the station behind crowd barriers, silently holding candles and clutching their copies of Jane Eyre, now seriously disrupted, the narrative stopping abruptly halfway down page 107 after a mysterious “Agent in black” enters Rochester’s room following the fire.

  Braxton waved his own copy of Jane Eyre at us.

  “You’ve read it, of course?”

  “There isn’t much to read,” Victor replied. “Eyre was written in the first person; as soon as the protagonist has gone, it’s anyone’s guess as to what happens next. My theory is that Rochester becomes even more broody, packs Adele off to boarding school, and shuts up the house.”

  Braxton looked at him pointedly.

  “That’s conjecture, Analogy.”

  “It’s what we’re best at.”

  Braxton sighed.

  “They want me to bring her back and I don’t even know where she is! Before all this happened, did you have any idea how popular Jane Eyre was?”

  We looked at the crowd below.

  “To be truthful, no.”

  Braxton’s reserve was all gone. He wiped his brow; his hand was visibly shaking.

  “What am I going to do? This is off the record but Jack Schitt takes over in a week if this whole stinking matter hasn’t made any favorable headway.”

  “Schitt isn’t interested in Jane,” I said, following Braxton’s gaze over the mass of Brontë fans. “All he wants is the Prose Portal.”

  “Tell me about it, Next. I’ve got seven days to obscurity and historical and literary damnation. I know we’ve all had our differences in the past, but I want to give you the freedom to do what you need to do. And,” he added magnanimously, “this is irrespective of cost.” He checked himself and added: “But having said that, of course, don’t just spend money like water, okay?”

  He looked at the lights of Swindon again.

  “I’m as big a fan of the Brontës as the next man, Victor. What will you have me do?”

  “Agree to his terms whatever they are; keep our movements completely and utterly secret from Goliath; and I need a manuscript.”

  Braxton narrowed his eyes.

  “What sort of manuscript?”

  Victor handed him a scrap of paper. Braxton read it and raised his eyebrows.

  “I’ll get it,” he said slowly, “even if I have to steal it myself!”

  31.

  The People’s Republic of Wales

  Ironically, without the efficient and violent crushing of the simultaneous Pontypool, Cardiff and Newport risings in 1839, Wales might never have been a republic at all. Under pressure from landowners and a public outcry at the killing of 236 unarmed Welsh men and women, the Chartists managed to push the government to early reform of the parliamentary system. Buoyed by success and well represented in the house, they succeeded in securing Welsh home rule following the eight-month “Great Strike” of 1847. In 1854, under the leadership of John Frost, Wales declared its independence. England, weighed down with troubles in the Crimea and Ireland, saw no good reason to argue with a belligerent and committed Welsh assembly. Trade links were good and devolution, coupled with an Anglo-Welsh nonaggression treaty, was passed the following year.

  FROMZEPHANIAJONES’S

  Wales—Birth of a Republic

  WHEN THE Anglo-Welsh border was closed in 1965, the A4 from Chepstow to Abertawe became an access corridor through which only businessmen or truck drivers were allowed to pass, either to conduct trade in the city or to pick up goods from the docks. On either side of the Welsh A4 there were razor-wire fences to remind visitors that straying from the designated route was not permitted.

  Abertawe was considered an open city—a “free trade zone.” Tax was low and trade tariffs almost nonexistent. Bowden and I drove slowly into the city, the glassy towers and global banking institutions that lined the coast obvious testament to a free trade philosophy that, while profitable, was not enthusiastically promoted by all the Welsh people. The rest of the Republic was much more reserved and traditional; in places the small nation had hardly changed at all over the past hundred years.

  “What now?” asked Bowden as we parked in front of the Goliath First National Bank. I patted the briefcase Braxton had given me the night before. He had told me to use the contents wisely; the way things were going this was about the last chance we had before Goliath stepped in.

  “We get a lift into Merthyr.”

  “You wouldn’t suggest it unless you had a plan.”

  “I wasn’t wasting my time when I was in London, Bowden. I’ve got a few favors up my sleeve. This way.”

  We walked up the road, past the bank and into a side street that was lined with shops dealing in banknotes, medals, coins, gold—and books. We squeezed past the traders, who conversed mostly in Welsh, and stopped outside a small antiquarian bookshop whose window was piled high with ancient volumes of forgotten lore. Bowden and I shared an anxious look and, taking a deep breath, I opened the door and we entered.

  A small bell tinkled at the back of the shop and a tall man with a stoop came out to greet us. He looked at us suspiciously from between a shock of gray hair and a pair of half-moon spectacles, but the suspicion turned to a smile when he recognized me.

  “Thursday, bach!” he murmured, hugging me affectionately. “What brings you out this way? Not all the way to Abertawe to see an old man, surely?”

  “I need your help, Dai,” I said softly. “Help like I’ve never needed before.”

  He must have been following the news broadcasts because he fell silent. He gently took an early volume of R. S. Thomas out of the hands of a prospective customer, told him it was closing time and ushered him out of the bookshop before he had time to complain.

  “This is Bowden Cable,” I explained as the bookseller bolted the door. “He’s my partner; if you can trust me you can trust him. Bowden, this is Jones the Manuscript, my Welsh contact.”

  “Ah!” said the bookseller, shaking Bowden’s hand warmly. “Any friend of Thursday’s is a friend of mine. This is Haelwyn the Book,” he added, introducing us to his assistant, who smiled shyly. “Now, young Thursday, what can I do for you?”

  I paused.

  “We need to get to Merthyr Tydfil—”

  The bookseller laughed explosively.

  “—tonight,” I added.

  He stopped laughing and walked behind the counter, tidying absently as he went.

  “Your reputation precedes you, Thursday. They tell me you seek Jane Eyre. They say you have a good heart—and have faced wickedness and lived.”

  “What else do people say?”

  “That Darkness walks in the valleys,” interrupted Haelwyn with a good deal of doom in her voice.

  “Thank you, Haelwyn,” said Jones. “The man you seek—”

  “—and the Rhondda has lain in shadow these past few weeks,” continued Haelwyn, who obviously hadn’t finished yet.

  “That’s enough, Haelwyn,” said Jones more sternly. “There are some new copies of Cold Comfort Farm that need to be dispatched to Llan-dod, hmm?”

  Haelwyn walked off with a pained expression.

  “What about—” I began.

  “—and the milk is delivered sour from the cows’ udders!” called Haelwyn from behind a bookshelf. “And the compasses in Merthyr have all gone mad these past few days!”

  “Take no heed of her,” explained Jones apologetically. “She reads a lot of books. But how can I help you? Me, an old bookseller with no connections?”

  “
An old bookseller with Welsh citizenship and free access across the border doesn’t need connections to get to where he wants to go.”

  “Wait a moment, Thursday, bach; you want me to take you to Merthyr?”

  I nodded. Jones was the best and last chance I had, all rolled into one. But he wasn’t as happy with the plan as I thought he might be.

  “And why would I want to do that?” he asked sharply. “You know the punishment for smuggling? Want to see an old man like me end my days in a cell on Skokholm? You ask too much. I’m a crazy old man—not a stupid one.”

  I had thought he might say this.

  “If you’ll help us,” I began, reaching into my briefcase, “I can let you have . . . this.”

  I placed the single sheet of paper on the counter in front of him; Jones gave a sharp intake of breath and sat heavily on a chair. He knew what it was without close examination.

  “How . . . how did you get this?” he asked me suspiciously.

  “The English government rates the return of Jane Eyre very highly—high enough to wish to trade.”

  He leaned forward and picked up the sheet. There, in all its glory, was an early handwritten draft of “I See the Boys of Summer,” the opening poem in the anthology that would later become 18 Poems, the first published work of Dylan Thomas; Wales had been demanding its return for some time.

  “This belongs not to one man but to the Republic,” announced the bookseller slowly. “It is the heritage.”

  “Agreed,” I replied. “You can do with the manuscript what you will.”

  But Jones the Manuscript was not going to be swayed. I could have brought him Under Milk Wood and Richard Burton to read it and he still wouldn’t have taken us to Merthyr.

  “Thursday, you ask too much!” he wailed. “The laws here are very strict! The HeddluCyfrinach have eyes and ears everywhere!—”

  My heart sank.

  “I understand, Jones—and thanks.”

  “I’ll take you to Merthyr, Miss Next,” interrupted Haelwyn, fixing me with a half-smile.

  “It is too dangerous,” muttered Jones. “I forbid it!”

  “Hush!” replied Haelwyn. “Enough of that talk from you. I read adventures every day—now I can be in one. Besides—the streetlights dimmed last night; it was a sign!”

  We sat in Jones’s parlor until it was dark, then spent a noisy and uncomfortable hour in the trunk of Haelwyn the Book’s Griffin-12 motorcar. We heard the murmur of Welsh voices as she took us across the border and we were pummeled mercilessly by the potholed road on the trip into Merthyr. There was a second checkpoint just outside the capital, which was unusual; it seemed that English troop movements had made the military edgy. A few minutes later the car stopped and the trunk creaked open. Haelwyn bade us jump out and we stretched painfully after the cramped journey. She pointed the way to the Penderyn Hotel and I told her that if we weren’t back by daybreak we wouldn’t be coming. She smiled and shook our hands, wished us good luck and headed off to visit her aunt.

  Hades was in the Penderyn Hotel’s abandoned bar at that time, smoking a pipe and contemplating the view from the large windows. Beyond the beautifully lit Palace of Justice the full moon had risen and cast a cool glow upon the old city, which was alive with lights and movement. Beyond the buildings were the mountains, their summits hidden in cloud. Jane was on the other side of the room, sitting on the edge of her seat, angrily glaring at Hades.

  “Pleasant view, wouldn’t you say, Miss Eyre?”

  “It pales when compared to my window at Thornfield, Mr. Hades,” replied Jane in a restrained tone. “While not the finest view I had learned to love it as an old friend, dependable and unchanging. I demand that you return me there forthwith.”

  “All in good time, dear girl, all in good time. I mean you no harm. I just want to make a lot of money, then you can return to your Edward.”

  “Greed will get the better of you, I think, sir,” responded Jane evenly. “You may think it will bring you happiness, but it will not. Happiness is fed by the food of love, not by the stodgy diet of money. The love of money is the root of all evil!”

  Acheron smiled.

  “You are so dull, you know, Jane, with that puritanical streak. You should have gone with Rochester when you had the chance instead of wasting yourself with that drip St. John Rivers.”

  “Rivers is a fine man!” declared Jane angrily. “He has more goodness than you will ever know!”

  The telephone rang and Acheron interrupted her with a wave of his hand. It was Delamare, speaking from a phone box in Swindon. He was reading from The Mole’s classified section.

  “Lop-eared rabbits will be available soon to good homes,” he quoted down the line. Hades smiled and replaced the receiver. The authorities, he thought, were playing ball after all. He motioned to Felix8, who followed him out of the room, dragging a recalcitrant Jane with him.

  Bowden and I had forced a window in the dark bowels of the hotel and found ourselves in the old kitchen: a damp and dilapidated room packed with large food preparation equipment.

  “Where now?” hissed Bowden.

  “Upstairs—I would expect them to be in a ballroom or something.”

  I snapped on a flashlight and looked at the hastily sketched plans. Searching for the real blueprints would have been too risky with Goliath watching our every move, so Victor had drawn the basic layout of the building from memory. I pushed open a swing door and we found ourselves on the lower ground floor. Above us was the entrance lobby. By the glimmer of the streetlights that shone through the dirty windows we made our way carefully up the water-stained marble staircase. We were close; I could sense it. I pulled out my automatic and Bowden did the same. I looked up into the lobby. A brass bust of Y Brawd Ulyanov sat in pride of place in the large entrance hall opposite the sealed main doors. To the left was the entrance to the bar and restaurant, and to the right was the old reception desk; above us the grand staircase swept upstairs to the two ballrooms. Bowden tapped me on the shoulder and pointed. The doors to the main lounge were ajar, and a thin sliver of orange light shone from within. We were about to make a move when we heard footsteps from above. We pushed ourselves into the shadows and waited, breath bated. From the upstairs floor a small procession of people walked down the broad marble staircase. Leading the way was a man I recognized as Felix8; he held a candelabra aloft with one hand and clasped a small woman by the wrist with the other. She was dressed in Victorian night-clothes and had a greatcoat draped across her shoulders. Her face, although resolute, also spoke of despair and hopelessness. Behind her was a man who cast no shadows in the flickering light of the candles—Hades.

  We watched as they entered the smoking lounge. We quickly tiptoed across the hall floor and found ourselves at the ornate door. I counted to three and we burst in.

  “Thursday! My dear girl, how predictable!”

  I stared. Hades was sitting in a large armchair, smiling at us. Mycroft and Jane were looking dejected on a chaise longue with Felix8 behind them holding two machine pistols trained on Bowden and me. In front of them all was the Prose Portal. I cursed myself for being so stupid. I could sense Hades was here; did I suppose he could not do the same with me?

  “Drop your weapons, please,” said Felix8. He was too close to Mycroft and Jane to risk a shot; the last time we met he had died as I watched. I said the first thing that popped into my head.

  “Haven’t I seen your face somewhere before?”

  He ignored me.

  “Your guns, please.”

  “And let you shoot us like dodos? No way. We’re keeping them.”

  Felix8 didn’t move. Our weapons were by our side and his were pointing straight at us. It wouldn’t be much of a contest.

  “You seem surprised that I was expecting you,” said Hades with a slight smile.

  “You could say that.”

  “The stakes have changed, Miss Next. I thought my ten million ransom was a lot of money but I was approached by someone who w
ould give me ten times that for your uncle’s machine alone.”

  Mycroft shuffled unhappily. He had long ago ceased to complain, knowing it to be useless. He now looked forward only to the short visits he was permitted to Polly.

  “If that is the case,” I said slowly, “then you can return Jane to the book.”

  Hades thought for a minute.

  “Why not? But first, I want you to meet someone.”

  A door opened to the left of us and Jack Schitt walked in. He was flanked by three of his men and they were all carrying plasma rifles. The situation, I noted, was on the whole less than favorable. I muttered an apology to Bowden then said:

  “Goliath? Here, in Wales?”

  “No doors are closed to the Corporation, Miss Next. We come and go as we please.”

  Schitt sat down on a faded red upholstered chair and pulled out a cigar.

  “Siding with criminals, Mr. Schitt? Is that what Goliath does these days?”

  “It’s a relativist argument, Miss Next—desperate situations require desperate measures. I wouldn’t expect you to understand. But listen, we have a great deal of money at our disposal and Acheron is willing to be generous in the use of Mr. Next’s notable invention.”

  “And that is?”

  “Ever seen one of these?” asked Schitt, waving the stubby weapon he held at us both.

  “It’s a plasma rifle.”

  “Correct. A one-man portable piece of field artillery, firing supercharged quanta of pure energy. It will cut through a foot of armor plate at a hundred yards; I think you will agree it is the high ground for land forces anywhere.”

  “If Goliath can deliver—” put in Bowden.

  “It’s a mite more complicated than that, Officer Cable,” replied Schitt. “You see—it doesn’t work. Almost a billion dollars of funding and the bloody thing doesn’t work. Worse than that, it has recently been proved that it will never work; this sort of technology is quite impossible.”

  “But the Crimea is on the brink of war!” I exclaimed angrily. “What happens when the Russians realize that the new technology is all bluff?”

  “But they won’t,” replied Schitt. “The technology might be impossible out here but it isn’t impossible in there.”