I hadn’t. He showed me the inside front page of
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 manoeuvres 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 sabre-rattling; but in any event I don’t think we can ignore it.’
‘Then we need to steal a march. Any ideas?’
‘What did Mьller say again?’ asked Finisterre.
I sat down.
‘He screamed: “He’s at Penderyn”; nothing else.’
‘Nothing else?’ asked Bowden.
‘No; when Schitt asked him
Bowden spoke up.
‘What were his
‘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 Penderyn 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 Mycroft 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
‘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 Bronte’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.’
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 on to 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 towards the corridor.
