“I had a wormery back in London, Uncle, and they didn’t like paper either—”
“Shh!” murmured my uncle, and beckoned me closer to the worms.
Amazing!
“What is?” I asked, somewhat perplexed; but as soon as I looked at Mycroft’s smiling face I realized it wasn’t him speaking.
Astonishing! said the voice again in a low murmur. Incredible! Astounding! Stunning!
I frowned and looked at the worms, which had gathered themselves into a small ball around the scrap of paper and were pulsating gently.
Wonderful! mumbled the bookworms. Extraordinary! Fantastic!
“What do you think?” asked Mycroft.
“Thesaurean maggots—Uncle, you never cease to amaze me!”
But Mycroft was suddenly a lot more serious.
“It’s more than just a bio-thesaurus, Thursday. These little chaps can do things that you will scarce believe.”
He opened a cupboard and pulled out a large leather book with PP embossed on the spine in gold letters. The casing was richly decorated and featured heavy brass securing straps. On the front were several dials and knobs, valves and knife switches. It certainly looked impressive, but not all Mycroft’s devices had a usefulness mutually compatible with their looks. In the early seventies he had developed an extraordinarily beautiful machine that did nothing more exciting than predict with staggering accuracy the number of pips in an unopened orange.
“What is it?” I asked.
“This,” began Mycroft, smiling all over and puffing out his chest with pride, “is a—”
But he never got to finish. At that precise moment Polly announced “Supper!” from the door and Mycroft quickly ran out, muttering something about how he hoped it was snorkers and telling me to switch off the lights on my way out. I was left alone in his empty workshop. Truly, Mycroft had surpassed himself.
Dazzling! agreed the bookworms.
Supper was a friendly affair. We all had a lot of catching up to do, and my mother had a great deal to tell me about the Women’s Federation.
“We raised almost seven thousand pounds last year for ChronoGuard orphans,” she said.
“That’s very good,” I replied. “SpecOps is always grateful for the contributions, although to be fair there are other divisions worse off than the ChronoGuard.”
“Well, I know,” replied my mother, “but it’s all so secret. What do all of them do?”
“Believe me, I have no more idea than you. Can you pass the fish?”
“There isn’t any fish,” observed my aunt. “You haven’t been using your niece as a guinea pig have you, Crofty?”
My uncle pretended not to hear; I blinked and the fish vanished.
“The only other one I know under SO-20 is SO-6,” added Polly. “That was National Security. We only know that because they all looked after Mycroft so well.”
She nudged him in the ribs but he didn’t notice; he was busy figuring out a recipe for unscrambled eggs on a napkin.
“I don’t suppose a week went by in the sixties when he wasn’t being kidnapped by one foreign power or another,” she sighed wistfully, thinking of the exciting old days with a whiff of nostalgia.
“Some things have to be kept secret for operational purposes,” I recited parrot fashion. “Secrecy is our biggest weapon.”
“I read in The Mole that SpecOps is riddled with secret societies. The Wombats in particular,” murmured Mycroft, placing his completed equation in his jacket pocket. “Is this true?”
I shrugged.
“No more than in any other walk of life, I suppose. I’ve not noticed it myself, but then as a woman I wouldn’t be approached by the Wombats anyway.”
“Seems a bit unfair to me,” said Polly in a tut-tutting voice. “I’m fully in support of secret societies—the more the better— but I think they should be open to everyone, men and women.”
“Men are welcome to it,” I replied. “It means that at least half the population won’t have to make complete idiots of themselves. It surprises me that you haven’t been approached to join, Uncle.”
Mycroft grunted.
“I used to be one at Oxford many years ago. Waste of time. It was all a bit silly; the pouch used to chafe something awful and all that gnawing played hell with my overbite.”
There was a pause.
“Major Phelps is in town,” I said, changing the subject. “I met him on the airship. He’s a colonel now but is still blasting the same old line.”
By an unwritten rule, no one ever spoke of the Crimea or Anton in the house. There was an icy hush.
“Really?” replied my mother with seemingly no emotion.
“Joffy has a parish up at Wanborough these days,” announced Polly, hoping to change the subject. “He’s opened the first GSD church in Wessex. I spoke to him last week; he says that it has been quite popular.”
Joffy was my other brother. He had taken to the faith at an early age and tried all sorts of religions before settling for the GSD.
“GSD?” murmured Mycroft. “What in heaven’s name is that?”
“Global Standard Deity,” answered Polly. “It’s a mixture of all the religions. I think it’s meant to stop religious wars.”
Mycroft grunted again.
“Religion isn’t the cause of wars, it’s the excuse. What’s the melting point of beryllium?”
“180.57 degrees centigrade,” murmured Polly without even thinking. “I think Joffy is doing a grand job. You should call him, Thursday.”
“Maybe.”
Joffy and I had never been close. He had called me Doofus and smacked me on the back of my head every day for fifteen years. I had to break his nose to make him stop.
“If you are calling people why don’t you call—”
“Mother!”
“He’s quite successful now, I understand, Thursday. It might be good for you to see him again.”
“Landen and I are finished, Mum. Besides, I have a boyfriend.”
This, to my mother, was extremely good news. It had been of considerable anguish to her that I wasn’t spending more time with swollen ankles, hemorrhoids and a bad back, popping out grandchildren and naming them after obscure relatives. Joffy wasn’t the sort of person who had children, which kind of left it up to me. In all honesty I wasn’t against the idea of kids, it was just that I wasn’t going to have them on my own. And Landen had been the last man to have remotely interested me as a possible life partner.
“A boyfriend? What’s his name?”
I said the first name that popped into my head.
“Snood. Filbert Snood.”
“Nice name.” My mother smiled.
“Daft name,” grumbled Mycroft. “Like Landen Parke-Laine, come to that. Can I get down? It’s time for Jack Spratt’s Casebook.”
Polly and Mycroft both got up and left us. Landen’s name didn’t come up again and neither did Anton’s. Mum offered me my old room back but I quickly declined. We had argued ferociously when I had lived at home. Besides, I was almost thirty-six. I finished my coffee and walked with my mother to the front door.
“Let me know if you change your mind, darling,” she said. “Your room is the same as it always was.”
If that were true the dreadful posters of my late teenage crushes would still be up on the wall. It was a thought too hideous to contemplate.
10.
The Finis Hotel, Swindon
Miltons were, on the whole, the most enthusiastic poet followers. A flick through the London telephone directory would yield about four thousand John Miltons, two thousand William Blakes, a thousand or so Samuel Coleridges, five hundred Percy Shelleys, the same of Wordsworth and Keats, and a handful of Drydens. Such mass name-changing could have problems in law enforcement. Following an incident in a pub where the assailant, victim, witness, landlord, arresting officer and judge had all been called Alfred Tennyson, a law had been passed compelling each namesake to carry a registration number tattooed behind th
e ear. It hadn’t been well received—few really practical law-enforcement measures ever are.
MILLON DE FLOSS
—A Short History of the Special Operations Network
I PULLED into a parking place in front of the large floodlit building and locked the car. The hotel seemed to be quite busy, and as soon as I walked into the lobby I could see why. At least two dozen men and women were milling about dressed in large white baggy shirts and breeches. My heart sank. A large notice near reception welcomed all comers to the 112th Annual John Milton Convention. I took a deep breath and fought my way to the reception desk. A middle-aged receptionist with oversize earrings gave me her best welcoming smile.
“Good evening, madam, welcome to the Finis, the last word in comfort and style. We are a four-star hotel with many modern features and services. Our sincere wish is to make your stay a happy one!”
She recited it like a mantra. I could see her working at SmileyBurger just as easily.
“The name’s Next. I have a reservation.”
The receptionist nodded and flicked through the reservation cards.
“Let’s see. Milton, Milton, Milton, Milton, Milton, Next, Milton, Milton, Milton, Milton, Milton, Milton. No, sorry. It doesn’t look like we have a booking for you.”
“Could you check again?”
She looked again and found it.
“Here it is. Someone had put it with the Miltons by accident. I’ll need an imprint of a major credit card. We take: Babbage, Goliath, Newton, Pascal, Breakfast Club and Jam Roly-Poly.”
“Jam Roly-Poly?”
“Sorry,” she said sheepishly, “wrong list. That’s the choice of puddings tonight.” She smiled again as I passed over my Babbage charge card.
“You’re in room 8128,” she said, handing me my key attached to a key ring so large I could barely lift it. “All our rooms are fully air-conditioned and are equipped with minibar and tea-making equipment. Did you park your car in our spacious three-hundred-place self-draining car park?”
I hid a smile.
“Thank you, I did. Do you have any pet facilities?”
“Of course. All Finis hotels have full kennel facilities. What sort of pet?”
“A dodo.”
“How sweet! My cousin Arnold had a great auk once called Beany—he was Version 1.4 so didn’t live long. I understand they’re a lot better these days. I’ll reserve your little friend a place. Enjoy your stay. I hope you have an interest in seventeenth-century lyrical poets.”
“Only professionally.”
“Lecturer?”
“Litera Tec.”
“Ah.”
The receptionist leaned closer and lowered her voice.
“To tell you the truth, Miss Next, I hate Milton. His early stuff is okay, I suppose, but he disappeared up his own arse after Charlie got his head lopped off. Goes to show what too much republicanism does for you.”
“Quite.”
“I almost forgot. These are for you.”
She produced a bunch of flowers from under the desk as if in a conjuring trick.
“From a Mr. Landen Parke-Laine—”
Blast. Rumbled.
“—and there are two gentlemen waiting in the Cheshire Cat for you.”
“The Cheshire Cat?”
“It’s our fully stocked and lively bar. Tended to by professional and helpful bar staff, it is a warm and welcoming area in which to relax.”
“Who are they?”
“The bar staff?”
“No, the two gentlemen.”
“They didn’t give any names.”
“Thank you, Miss?—”
“Barrett-Browning,” said the receptionist, “Liz Barrett-Browning.”
“Well, Liz, keep the flowers. Make your boyfriend jealous. If Mr. Parke-Laine calls again, tell him I died of hemorrhagic fever or something.”
I pushed my way through the throng of Miltons and onto the Cheshire Cat. It was easy to find. Above the door was a large red neon cat on a green neon tree. Every couple of minutes the red neon flickered and went out, leaving the cat’s grin on its own in the tree. The sound of a jazz band reached my ears from the bar as I walked across the lobby, and a smile crossed my lips as I heard the unmistakable piano of Holroyd Wilson. He was a Swindon man, born and bred. He could have played any bar in Europe with one phone call, but he had chosen to remain in Swindon. The bar was busy but not packed, the clientele mostly Miltons, who were sitting around drinking and joking, lamenting the Restoration and referring to each other as John.
I went up to the bar. It was happy hour in the Cheshire Cat, any drink for 52.5 p.
“Good evening,” said the barman. “Why is a raven like a writing desk?”
“Because Poe wrote on both?”
“Very good.” He laughed. “What’s it to be?”
“A half of Vorpal’s special, please. The name’s Next. Anyone waiting for me?”
The barman, who was dressed like a hatter, indicated a booth on the other side of the room in which two men were sitting, partially obscured by shadows. I took my drink and walked over. The room was too full for anyone to start any trouble. As I drew closer I could see the two men more clearly.
The elder of the two was a gray-haired gentleman in his mid-seventies. He had large mutton-chop sideburns and was dressed in a neat tweed suit with a silk bow tie. His hands were holding a pair of brown gloves on top of his walking stick and I could see a deerstalker hat on the seat next to him. His face had a ruddy appearance, and as I approached he threw back his head and laughed like a seal at something the younger man had said.
The man opposite him was aged about thirty. He sat on the front of his seat in a slightly nervous manner. He sipped at a tonic water and wore a pinstripe suit that was expensive but had seen better days. I knew I had seen him before somewhere but couldn’t think where.
“You gentlemen looking for me?”
They both got up together. The elder of the two spoke first.
“Miss Next? Delighted to make your acquaintance. The name’s Analogy. Victor Analogy. Head of Swindon LiteraTecs. We spoke on the phone.”
He offered his hand and I shook it.
“Pleased to meet you, sir.”
“This is Operative Bowden Cable. You’ll be working together.”
“I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, madam,” said Bowden quite grandly, slightly awkwardly and very stiffly.
“Have we met before?” I asked, shaking his outstretched hand.
“No,” said Bowden firmly. “I would have remembered.”
Victor offered me a seat next to Bowden, who shuffled up making polite noises. I took a sip of my drink. It tasted like old horse blankets soaked in urine. I coughed explosively. Bowden offered me his handkerchief.
“Vorpal’s special?” said Victor, raising an eyebrow. “Brave girl.”
“Th-thank you.”
“Welcome to Swindon,” continued Victor. “First of all I’d like to say how sorry we were to hear about your little incident. By all accounts Hades was a monster. I’m not sorry he died. I hope you are quite recovered?”
“I am, but others were not so fortunate.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, but you are very welcome here. No one of your caliber has ever bothered to join us in this backwater before.”
I looked at Analogy and was slightly puzzled.
“I’m not sure I understand what you’re driving at.”
“What I mean—not to put too fine a point on it—is all of us in the office are more academics than typical SpecOp agents. Your post was held by Jim Crometty. He was shot dead in the old town during a bookbuy that went wrong. He was Bowden’s partner. Jim was a very special friend to us all; he had a wife, three kids. I want . . . no, I want very badly the person who took Crometty from us.”
I stared at their earnest faces with some confusion until the penny dropped. They thought I was a full and pukka SO-5 operative on a rest-and-recuperation assignment. It wasn’t unusual.
Back at SO-27 we used to get worn-out characters from SO-9 and SO-7 all the time. Without exception they had all been mad as pants.
“You’ve read my file?” I asked slowly.
“They wouldn’t release it,” replied Analogy. “It’s not often we get an operative moving to our little band from the dizzy heights of SpecOps-5. We needed a replacement with good field experience but also someone who can . . . well, how shall I put it?—”
Analogy paused, apparently at a loss for words. Bowden answered for him.
“We need someone who isn’t frightened to use extreme force if deemed necessary.”
I looked at them both, wondering whether it would be better to come clean; after all, the only thing I had shot recently was my own car and a seemingly bullet-proof master criminal. I was officially SO-27, not SO-5. But with the strong possibility of Acheron still being around, and revenge still high on my agenda, perhaps it would be better to play along.
Analogy shuffled nervously.
“Crometty’s murder is being looked after by Homicide, of course. Unofficially we can’t do a great deal, but SpecOps has always prided itself on a certain independence. If we uncovered any evidence in the pursuit of other inquiries, it would not be frowned upon. Do you understand?”
“Sure. Do you have any idea who killed Crometty?”
“Someone said that they had something for him to see, to buy. A rare Dickens manuscript. He went to see it and . . . well, he wasn’t armed, you know.”
“Few LiteraTecs in Swindon even know how to use a firearm,” added Bowden, “and training for many of them is out of the question. Literary detection and firearms don’t really go hand in hand; pen mightier than the sword and so forth.”
“Words are all very well,” I replied coolly, suddenly enjoying the SO-5 woman-of-mystery stuff, “but a nine-millimeter really gets to the root of the problem.”
They stared at me in silence for a second or two. Victor drew out a photograph from a buff envelope and placed it on the table in front of me.
“We’d like your opinion on this. It was taken yesterday.”
The Eyre Affair Page 10
