by Adrian Cole
“Ah, Brian,” said the latter. “Looks like you’ve made good time here. Not a moment too soon. The bulldozers move in soon, I gather.”
“That’s right, Sir Maurice.”
“Well the Library Committee are delighted. It’s just such a damn pity about Mears.”
“Yes, sir. I can’t understand it. He’s made my job easy.”
“Oh?”
“Well, sir, he has already got everything pretty well organised. All the staff have been retired or re-located, even the archivist, Mr. Abbott, and he was a bit of a difficult chap.”
Sir Maurice chuckled. “Yes, so I understand. We thought he might chain himself to the last bookcase. Sort of latter day suffragette, so to speak.”
“Well, Mr. Mears has straightened it all out. Mr. Abbott is retiring, I believe. And these crates are the last to go. It’s just so odd about Mr. Mears.”
“And no one really has any idea where he went?”
“None at all, sir. He was a bit of a loner, but he always seemed to be on the ball. Like I said, this operation was tricky, but he handled it very professionally.”
“I just hope he turns up. Well, looks like you’ve got things well in hand, Brian. I’ll leave you to it —”
There was a shout from the far end of the library. One of the workmen was waving at them. Sir Maurice scowled, but Gardener excused himself and went to see what the fuss was about. He rejoined Sir Maurice a moment later, his face apparently troubled.
“Anything wrong?”
“Sir, I think you ought to come and see this.”
Sir Maurice followed, threading through the crates to the far wall. The workman who had called pointed to a section of shelving, which he was pulling away from the wall. “I was about to dismantle this, sir,” he said.
“What is it?” said Sir Maurice, peering at the wall behind the stack.
“It’s a door, sir,” said the workman. “The shelves and the books had been put in front of it. Could have been sealed up for donkey’s years.”
“How intriguing,” said Sir Maurice. “Can we get in?”
“Just a jiffy,” said the workman. He slid the last of the wood away and revealed a thick oaken door. “Locked solid. I’ll have to jemmy it —”
“Hold on, Jack,” said Gardener, pulling a set of keys out of his pocket. “I wonder if it’s the key here that I couldn’t match to anything.” He slotted the large key into the keyhole, twisted and grinned as the lock clicked. “Bingo.”
He pushed the door open, disturbing a small cloud of dust beyond.
“Whatever is it?” said Sir Maurice. “Store room?”
Gardener looked stunned. “No, sir. It’s — well, I think it’s part of the old Athenaeum. And it’s in amazingly good nick — condition.”
Sir Maurice followed him into the room, looking round appreciatively at the paintings. “By Jove! There’s Stevenson and Kipling! And bless me, Rider Haggard! Does anyone know about this room? Dammit, Brian, it’s a positive treasure trove!”
Gardener ventured further in, going to the huge, polished table. As he reached it, he turned. His face clouded, then paled. “Oh, my God,” he murmured.
“Now what?” grinned Sir Maurice.
Gardener tried to steer him away from the high-backed chair. “I think you’d better leave, Sir Maurice.”
But the latter pushed forward, looking down at the chair. And its occupant.
“Mears!” he gasped.
It was the administrator, sitting in the chair as if asleep, head lowered on his chest, magazine clutched tightly in his fingers. But it was evident that he was not asleep.
Gardener felt his pulse, but shook his head.
“Dead?” said Sir Maurice. “Good grief. What was it, heart attack?”
“I’d better ring the police, Sir Maurice. Can I ask you not to touch anything, sir?”
“Of course, of course. Please go ahead.”
Gardener went to the door, spoke quietly to the workman who had found the way in and led him away. Sir Maurice found himself alone with the seated Mears. He walked around the table, looking at the face, which at least seemed expressionless, as if the man had passed away without any discomfort.
Sir Maurice sat opposite him, shaking his head. Such a young man, can’t be more than thirty five. He pulled a mobile phone from his inner pocket and flicked its lid open, punching buttons nervously, cursing his fingers as he had to re-dial to get the number he wanted.
After a moment’s pause, he heard a voice on the other end. “David? It’s Maurice. I’m in the Athenaeum. Well, no, I’m afraid not. It’s Mears. Our administrator. We’ve found him. I’m sorry to say that he’s, well, dammit, he’s dead. Yes, the administrator. Rupert Mears.”
The body opposite was lifeless, the eyes closed, but somewhere within that limp frame, a spark of energy still glowed, like the last ember from a fire, slowly winking out into the final oblivion. Bannerman heard the voice of the man sitting opposite as he spoke on his phone.
Cyberwolf was gone, his own body was back in Pulpworld and the last of his essence, fused to this body, faded. But if he could have forced a smile to the lips of Mears’s face, he would have done so. It was his last thought as he became one with the final dark.
