The Eyre Affair

‘He’s not to know. We can protect you, Mьller, but we need to capture Hades. Where is he?’

Mьller looked at us one by one.

‘Protective custody?’ he stammered. ‘It’ll need a small army.’

‘I can supply that,’ asserted Schitt, using the truth with an economy for which he had become famous. ‘The Goliath Corporation is prepared to be generous in this matter.’

‘Okay… I’ll tell you.’

He looked at us all and wiped his brow, which had suddenly started to glisten.

‘Isn’t it a bit hot in here?’ he asked.

‘No,’ replied Schitt. ‘Where’s Hades?’

‘Well, he’s at… the…’

He suddenly stopped talking. His face contorted with fear as a violent spasm of pain hit his lower back and he cried out in agony.

‘Tell us quick!’ shouted Schitt, leaping to his feet and grabbing the stricken man’s lapels.

‘Pen-deryn—!’ he screamed. ‘He’s at—!’

‘Tell us more!’ roared Schitt. ‘There must be a thousand Penderyns.’

‘Guess!’ screamed Mьller. ‘G-weuess… ahhh!’

‘I’ll not play your games!’ yelled Schitt, shaking the man vigorously. ‘Tell me or I’ll kill you with my bare hands right now!’

But Mьller was now beyond rational thought or Schitt’s threats. He squirmed and fell to the floor, writhing in agony.

‘Medic!’ I screamed, dropping to the floor next to the convulsing Mьller, whose open mouth screamed a silent scream as his eyes rolled up into his head. The smell of scorched clothes reached my nostrils. I leaped back as a bright orange flame shot out of Mьller’s back. It ignited the rest of him and we all had to beat a hasty retreat as the intense heat reduced Mьller to ash in under ten minutes.

‘Damn!’ muttered Schitt when the acrid smoke had cleared. Mьller was a heap of cinders on the floor. There wouldn’t even be enough to identify him.

‘Hades,’ I murmured. ‘Some sort of built-in safety device. As soon as Mьller starts to blab… up he goes. Very neat.’

‘You sound as if you almost respect him, Miss Next,’ observed Schitt.

‘I can’t help it.’ I shrugged. ‘Like the shark, Acheron has evolved into the almost perfect predator. I’ve never hunted big game and never would, but I can understand the appeal. The first thing,’ I went on, ignoring the smoking pile of ash that had recently been Mьller, ‘is to treble the guards on any places where original manuscripts are held. After that we want to start looking at anywhere called Penderyn.’

‘I’ll get on to it,’ said Hicks, who had been looking for a reason to go for some time.

Schitt and I were left looking at one another.

‘Looks like we’re on the same side, Miss Next.’

‘Sadly,’ I replied disdainfully. ‘You want the Prose Portal. I want my uncle back. Acheron has to be destroyed before either of us gets what we want. Until then we’ll work together.’

‘A useful and happy union,’ replied Schitt with anything but happiness on his mind.

I pressed a finger to his tie.

‘Understand this, Mr Schitt. You may have might in your back pocket but I have right in mine. Believe me when I say I will do anything to protect my family. Do you understand?’

Schitt looked at me coldly.

‘Don’t try to threaten me, Miss Next. I could have you posted to the Lerwick LiteraTec office quicker than you can say “Swift”. Remember that. You’re here because you’re good at what you do. Same reason as me. We are more alike than you think. Good-day, Miss Next.’

A quick search revealed eighty-four towns and villages in Wales named Penderyn. There were twice as many streets and the same number again of pubs, clubs and associations. It wasn’t surprising there were so many; Die Penderyn had been executed in 1831 for wounding a soldier during the Merthyr riots—he was innocent and so became the first martyr of the Welsh rising and something of a figurehead for the republican struggle. Even if Goliath could infiltrate Wales, they wouldn’t know which Penderyn to start with. Clearly, this was going to take some time.

Tired, I left to go home. I picked up my car from the garage, where they had managed to replace the front axle, shoehorn in a new engine and repair the bullet holes, some of which had come perilously close. I rolled up at the Finis Hotel as a Clipper-class airship droned slowly overhead. Dusk was just settling and the navigation lights on either side of the huge airship blinked languidly in the evening sky. It was an elegant sight, the ten propellers beating the air with a rhythmic hum; during the day an airship could eclipse the sun. I stepped inside the hotel. The Milton conference was over and Liz welcomed me now as a friend rather than as a guest.

‘Good evening, Miss Next. All well?’

‘Not really.’ I smiled. ‘But thanks for asking.’

‘Your dodo arrived this evening,’ announced Liz. ‘He’s in Kennel five. News travels fast; the Swindon Dodo Fanciers have been up already. They said he was a very rare Version one or something—they want you to call them.’

‘He’s a 1.2,’ I murmured absently. Dodos weren’t high on my list of priorities right now. I paused for a moment. Liz sensed my indecision.

‘Can I get you anything?’

‘Has, er, Mr Parke-Laine called?’

‘No. Were you expecting him to?’

‘No—not really. If he calls, I’m in the Cheshire Cat if not my room. If you can’t find me, can you ask him to call again in half an hour?’

‘Why don’t I just send a car to fetch him?’

‘Oh God, is it that obvious?’

Liz nodded her head.

‘He’s getting married.’

‘But not to you?’

‘No.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘Me too. Has anyone ever asked you to marry them?’

‘Sure.’

‘What did you say?’

‘I said: “Ask me again when you get out.”‘

‘Did he?’

‘No.’

I checked in with Pickwick, who seemed to have settled in well. He made excited plock plock noises when he saw me. Contradicting the theories of experts, dodos had turned out to be surprisingly intelligent and quite agile—the ungainly bird of common legend was quite wrong. I gave him some peanuts and smuggled him up to my room under a coat. It wasn’t that the kennels were dirty or anything; I just didn’t want him to be alone. I put his favourite rug in the bath to give him somewhere to roost and laid out some paper. I told him I’d move him to my mother’s the following day, then left him staring out of the window at the cars in the carpark.

‘Good evening, miss,’ said the barman in the Cheshire Cat. ‘Why is a raven like a writing desk?’

‘Because there is a “B” in “both”?’

‘Very good. Half of Vorpal’s special, was it?’

‘You must be kidding. Gin and tonic. A double.’

He smiled and turned to the optics.

‘Police?’

‘SpecOps.’

‘LiteraTec?’

‘Yup.’