The Eyre Affair

‘We know all about Mycroft, Miss Next. He will learn that such a quantum leap in scientific thought should not be the property of a man who is incapable of understanding the true potential of his device. The technology belongs to the nation.’

‘You’re wrong,’ I said obstinately, getting up to leave. ‘About as wrong as you can possibly be. Mycroft destroys any machine that he believes might have devastating military potential; if only scientists stopped to think about the possible effects of their discoveries, the planet would be a much safer place for all of us.’

Schitt clapped his hands slowly.

‘Brave speech but spare me the moralising, Next. If you want your fridge-freezer and your car and a nice house and asphalt on the roads and a health service, then thank the weapons business. Thank the war economy that drives us to this and thank Goliath. The Crimea is good, Thursday—good for England and especially good for the economy. You deride the weapons business but without it we’d be a tenth-rate country struggling to maintain a standard of living anywhere near that of our European neighbours. Would you prefer that?’

‘At least our conscience would be clear.’

‘Naive, Next, very naive.’

Schitt returned to his golf and Braxton took up the explanation: ‘Officer Next, we are extending all possible support to the Goliath Corporation in these matters. We want you to help us capture Hades. You know him from your college days and he addressed this to you. We’ll agree to his demands and arrange a drop. Then we tail him and arrest him. Simple. Goliath get the Prose Portal, we get the manuscript, your uncle and aunt are freed, and SpecOps 5 get Hades. Everyone gets something so everyone is happy. So for now, we sit tight and wait for news of the drop.’

‘I know the rules on giving in to extortionists as well as you do, sir. Hades is not one to try and fool.’

‘It won’t come to that,’ replied Hicks. ‘We’ll give him the money and nab him long before he gets away. I have complete confidence in Schitt’s operatives.’

‘With every respect, sir, Acheron is smarter and tougher than you can possibly imagine. We should do this on our own. We don’t need Schitt’s hired guns blasting off in all directions.’

‘Permission denied, Next. You’ll do as I tell you, or you’ll do nothing. I think that’s all.’

I should have been more angry but I wasn’t. There had been no surprises—Goliath never compromised. And when there are no surprises, it’s harder to get riled. We would have to work with what we were given.

When we got back to the office I called Landen again. This time a woman answered; I asked to speak to him.

‘He’s asleep,’ she said shortly.

‘Can you wake him?’ I asked. ‘It’s kind of important.’

‘No, I can’t. Who are you?’

‘It’s Thursday Next.’

The woman gave a small snigger that I didn’t like.

‘He told me all about you, Thursday.’

She said it disdainfully; I took an instant dislike to her.

‘Who is this?’

‘This is Daisy Mutlar, darling, Landy’s fiancee.’

I leaned back in my chair slowly and closed my eyes. This couldn’t be happening. No wonder Landen asked me as a matter of some urgency if I was going to forgive him.

‘Changed your mind, have you, sweetheart?’ asked Daisy in a mocking tone. ‘Landen’s a good man. He waited nearly ten years for you but I’m afraid now he’s in love with me. Perhaps if you’re lucky we’ll send you some cake, and if you want to send a present, the wedding list is down at Camp Hopson.’

I forced down a lump in my throat.

‘When’s the happy day?’

‘For you or for me?’ Daisy laughed. ‘For you, who knows? As for me, darling Landy and I are going to be Mr and Mrs Parke-Laine two weeks on Saturday.’

‘Let me speak to him,’ I demanded, my voice rising.

‘I might tell him you called when he wakes up.’

‘Do you want me to come round and bang on the door?’ I asked, my voice rising further. Bowden looked at me from the other side of the desk with an arched eyebrow.

‘Listen here, you stupid bitch,’ said Daisy in a hushed tone in case Landen heard, ‘you could have married Landen and you blew it. It’s all over. Go and find some geeky LiteraTec or something—from what I’ve seen all you SpecOps clowns are a bunch of weirdos.’

‘Now just you listen to—‘

‘No,’ snapped Daisy. ‘You listen. If you try anything at all to interfere with my happiness I’ll wring your stupid little neck!’

The phone went dead. I quietly returned the receiver to its cradle and took my coat from the back of the chair.

‘Where are you going?’ asked Bowden.

‘The shooting range,’ I replied, ‘and I may be some time.’

22. The waiting game

‘To Hades, the loss of every Felix brought back the sadness of the first Felix’s death. On that occasion it had been a terrible blow; not only the loss of a trusted friend and colleague in crime, but also the terrible realisation that the alien emotions of loss he had felt betrayed his half-human ancestry, something he abhorred. It was little wonder that he and the first Felix had got on so well. Like Hades, Felix was truly debased and amoral. Sadly for Felix, he did not share any of Hades’ more demonic attributes and had stopped a bullet in the stomach the day that he and Hades attempted to rob the Goliath Bank at Hartlepool in 1975. Felix accepted his death stoically, urging his friend to “carry on the good work” before Hades quietly put him out of his pain. Out of respect for his friend’s memory he removed Felix’s face and carried it with him away from the crime scene. Every servant expropriated from the public since then had been given the dubious honour not only of being named after Acheron’s one true friend, but also of wearing his features.’

Millon de Floss. Life after Death for Felix Tabularasa

Bowden placed the ad in the Swindon Globe. It was two days before we all sat down in Victor’s office to compare notes.

‘We’ve had seventy-two calls,’ announced Victor. ‘Sadly, all enquiries about rabbits.’

‘You did price them kind of low, Bowden,’ I put in playfully.

‘I am not very conversant in matters concerning rabbits,’ asserted Bowden loftily. ‘It seemed a fair price to me.’

Victor placed a file on the table. ‘The police finally got an ID on that guy you shot over at Sturmey Archer’s. He had no fingerprints and you were right about his face, Thursday—it wasn’t his own.’

‘So who was he?’

Victor opened the file.

‘He was an accountant from Newbury named Adrian Smarts. Went missing two years ago. No criminal record; not so much as a speeding fine. He was a good person. Family man, churchgoer and enthusiastic charity worker.’

‘Hades stole his will,’ I muttered. ‘The cleanest souls are the easiest to soil. There wasn’t much left of Smarts by the time we shot him. What about the face?’

‘They’re still working on that. It might be harder to identify. According to forensic reports Smarts wasn’t the only person to wear that face.’