The Eyre Affair

‘No, no,’ explained Bowden. ‘Jack Schitt is only in this copy—if we had put him in an original manuscript then who knows what he might have done.’

‘Con-g’rat-ula’tions!’ exclaimed Mycroft as he walked up to us. Polly was with him and looked radiant in a new hat.

‘We’re Bo’th Very Hap-py For You!’ added Polly.

‘Have you been working on the bookworms again?’ I asked.

‘Doe’s It Sh’ow?’ asked Mycroft. ‘Mu’st Dash!’

And they were off.

‘Bookworms?’ asked Landen.

‘It’s not what you think.’

‘Mademoiselle Next?’

There were two of them. They were dressed in sharp suits and displayed SpecOps 12 badges that I hadn’t seen before.

‘Yes?’

‘Prefet Lavoisier, ChronoGendarmerie. Ou est votre pere?’

‘You’ve just missed him.’

He cursed out loud.

‘Colonel Next est un homme tres dangereux, mademoiselle. II est important de lui parler concernant ses activites de trafic de temps.’

‘He’s my father, Lavoisier.’

Lavoisier stared at me, trying to figure out whether anything he could say or do would make me help him. He sighed and gave up.

‘Si vous changez votre avis, contactez-moi par les petites annonc.es du Grenouille. Je Us toujours les archives.’

‘I shouldn’t count on it, Lavoisier.’

He mulled this over for a moment, thought of something to say, decided against it and smiled instead. He saluted briskly, told me in perfect English to enjoy my day, and walked away. But his younger partner also had something to say:

‘A piece of advice to you,’ he muttered slightly self-consciously. ‘If you ever have a son who wants to be in the ChronoGuard, try and dissuade him.’

He smiled and followed his partner in their quest for my father.

‘What was that son thing about?’ asked Landen.

‘I don’t know. He looked kind of familiar, though, didn’t he?’

‘Kinda.’

‘Where were we?’

‘Mrs Parke-Laine?’ asked a very stocky individual, who stared at me earnestly from two deep-set brown eyes.

‘SO-12?’ I asked, wondering quite where the little beetle-browed man had sprung from.

‘No, ma’am,’ he replied, seizing a plum from a passing waiter and sniffing at it carefully before eating it, stone and all. ‘My name Bartholomew Stiggins; with SO-13.’

‘What do they do?’

‘Not at liberty to discuss,’ he replied shortly, ‘but we may have need your skills and talents.’

‘What kind of—‘

But Mr Stiggins was no longer listening to me. Instead, he was staring at a small beetle he had found on a flowerpot. With great care and a dexterity that belied his large and clumsy-looking hands, he picked the small bug up and popped it in his mouth. I looked at Landen, who winced.

‘Sorry,’ said Stiggins, as though he had just been caught picking his nose in public. ‘What the expression? Old habit die hard?’

‘There’s more in the compost heap,’ said Landen helpfully.

The little man grinned very softly through his eyes; I didn’t suppose he showed much emotion.

‘If interested, I’ll be in touch.’

‘Be in touch,’ I told him.

He grunted, replaced his hat, bid us both a happy day, enquired about the whereabouts of the compost heap and was gone.

‘I’ve never seen a neanderthal in a suit before,’ observed Landen.

‘Never mind about Mr Stiggins,’ I said, reaching up to kiss him.

‘I thought you’d finished with SpecOps?’

‘No,’ I replied with a smile. ‘In fact, I think I’m only just beginning…!’