30. A groundswell of popular feeling

   ‘Until Jane Eyre was kidnapped I don’t think anyone—least of all Hades—realised quite how popular she was. It was as if a living national embodiment of England’s literary heritage had been torn from the masses. It was the best piece of news we could have hoped for.’

Bowden Cable. Journal of a LiteraTec


   Within twenty seconds of Jane’s kidnapping, the first worried member of the public had noticed strange goings-on around the area of page one hundred and seven of their deluxe hide-bound edition of Jane Eyre. Within thirty minutes all the lines into the English Museum library were jammed. Within two hours every LiteraTec department was besieged by calls from worried Bronte readers. Within four hours the president of the Bronte Federation had seen the Prime Minister. By suppertime the Prime Minister’s personal secretary had called the head of SpecOps. By nine o’clock the head of SpecOps had batted it down the line to a miserable Braxton Hicks. By ten he had been called personally by the Prime Minister, who asked him what the hell he was going to do about it. He stammered down the line and said something wholly unhelpful. Meanwhile, the news was leaked to the press that Swindon was the centre of the Jane Eyre investigation, and by midnight the SpecOps building was encircled by concerned readers, journalists and news network trucks.
   Braxton was not in a good mood. He had started to chain-smoke and locked himself in his office for hours at a time. Not even putting practice managed to soothe his ruffled nerves, and shortly after the Prime Minister’s call he summoned Victor and me for a meeting on the roof, away from the prying eyes of the press, the Goliath representatives and especially from Jack Schitt.
   ‘Sir?’ said Victor as we approached Braxton, who was leaning against a smokestack that squeaked as it turned. Hicks was staring out at the lights of Swindon with a detachment that made me worried. The parapet was barely two yards away, and for an awful moment I thought perhaps he was going to end it all.
   ‘Look at them,’ he murmured.
   We both relaxed as we realised that Braxton was on the roof so he could see the public that his department had pledged to help. There were thousands of them, encircling the station behind crowd barriers, silently holding candles and clutching their copies of Jane Eyre, now seriously disrupted, the narrative stopping abruptly halfway down page one hundred and seven after a mysterious ‘Agent in black’ enters Rochester’s room following the fire.
   Braxton waved his own copy of Jane Eyre at us.
   ‘You’ve read it, of course?’
   ‘There isn’t much to read,’ Victor replied. ‘Eyre was written in the first person; as soon as the protagonist has gone, it’s anyone’s guess as to what happens next. My theory is that Rochester becomes even more broody, packs Adele off to boarding school, and shuts up the house.’
   Braxton looked at him pointedly.
   ‘That’s conjecture, Analogy.’
   ‘It’s what we’re best at.’
   Braxton sighed. ‘They want me to bring her back and I don’t even know where she is! Before all this happened, did you have any idea how popular Jane Eyre was?’
   We looked at the crowd below. ‘To be truthful, no.’
   Braxton’s reserve was all gone. He wiped his brow; his hand was visibly shaking.
   ‘What am I going to do? This is off the record but Jack Schitt takes over in a week if this whole stinking matter hasn’t made any favourable headway.’
   ‘Schitt isn’t interested in Jane,’ I said, following Braxton’s gaze over the mass of Bronte fans. ‘All he wants is the Prose Portal.’
   ‘Tell me about it, Next. I’ve got seven days to obscurity and historical and literary damnation. I know we’ve all had our differences in the past, but I want to give you the freedom to do what you need to do. And,’ he added magnanimously, ‘this is irrespective of cost.’ He checked himself and added: ‘But having said that, of course, don’t just spend money like water, okay?’
   He looked at the lights of Swindon again.
   ‘I’m as big a fan of the Brontes as the next man, Victor. What will you have me do?’
   ‘Agree to his terms whatever they are; keep our movements completely and utterly secret from Goliath; and I need a manuscript.’
   Braxton narrowed his eyes.
   ‘What sort of manuscript?’
   Victor handed him a scrap of paper. Braxton read it and raised his eyebrows.
   ‘I’ll get it,’ he said slowly, ‘even if I have to steal it myself!’

31. The People’s Republic of Wales

   ‘Ironically, without the efficient and violent crushing of the simultaneous Pontypool, Cardiff and Newport risings in 1839, Wales might never have been a republic at all. Under pressure from landowners and a public outcry at the killing of 236 unarmed Welsh men and women, the Chartists managed to push the government to early reform of the parliamentary system. Buoyed by success and well represented in the house, they succeeded in securing Welsh home rule following the eight-month “Great Strike” of 1847. In 1854, under the leadership of John Frost, Wales declared its independence. England, weighed down with troubles in the Crimea and Ireland, saw no good reason to argue with a belligerent and committed Welsh assembly. Trade links were good and devolution, coupled with an Anglo-Welsh non-aggression treaty, was passed the following year.’

From Zephania Jones’s. Wales—Birth of a Republic


   When the Anglo-Welsh border was closed in 1965, the A4 from Chepstow to Abertawe became an access corridor through which only businessmen or truck drivers were allowed to pass, either to conduct trade in the city or to pick up goods from the docks. On either side of the Welsh A4 there were razor-wire fences to remind visitors that straying from the designated route was not permitted. Abertawe was considered an open city—a ‘free trade zone’. Tax was low and trade tariffs almost nonexistent. Bowden and I drove slowly into the city, the glassy towers and global banking institutions that lined the coast obvious testament to a free trade philosophy that, while profitable, was not enthusiastically promoted by all the Welsh people. The rest of the Republic was much more reserved and traditional; in places the small nation had hardly changed at all over the past hundred years.
   ‘What now?’ asked Bowden as we parked in front of the Goliath First National Bank. I patted the briefcase Braxton had given me the night before. He had told me to use the contents wisely; the way things were going this was about the last chance we had before Goliath stepped in.
   ‘We get a lift into Merthyr.’
   ‘You wouldn’t suggest it unless you had a plan.’
   ‘I wasn’t wasting my time when I was in London, Bowden. I’ve got a few favours up my sleeve. This way.’
   We walked up the road, past the bank and into a side street that was lined with shops dealing in banknotes, medals, coins, gold—and books. We squeezed past the traders, who conversed mostly in Welsh, and stopped outside a small antiquarian bookshop whose window was piled high with ancient volumes of forgotten lore. Bowden and I shared an anxious look and, taking a deep breath, I opened the door and we entered.
   A small bell tinkled at the back of the shop and a tall man with a stoop came out to greet us. He looked at us suspiciously from between a shock of grey hair and a pair of half-moon spectacles, but the suspicion turned to a smile when he recognised me.
   ‘Thursday, bach!’ he murmured, hugging me affectionately. ‘What brings you out this way? Not all the way to Abertawe to see an old man, surely?’
   ‘I need your help, Dai,’ I said softly. ‘Help like I’ve never needed before.’
   He must have been following the news broadcasts because he fell silent. He gently took an early volume of R.S. Thomas out of the hands of a prospective customer, told him it was closing time and ushered him out of the bookshop before he had time to complain.
   ‘This is Bowden Cable,’ I explained as the bookseller bolted the door. ‘He’s my partner; if you can trust me you can trust him. Bowden, this is Jones the manuscript, my Welsh contact.’
   ‘Ah!’ said the bookseller, shaking Bowden’s hand warmly. ‘Any friend of Thursday’s is a friend of mine. This is Haelwyn the book,’ he added, introducing us to his assistant, who smiled shyly. ‘Now, young Thursday, what can I do for you?’
   I paused.
   ‘We need to get to Merthyr Tydfil—‘
   The bookseller laughed explosively.
   ‘—tonight,’ I added.
   He stopped laughing and walked behind the counter, tidying absently as he went.
   ‘Your reputation precedes you, Thursday. They tell me you seek Jane Eyre. They say you have a good heart—and have faced wickedness and lived.’
   ‘What else do people say?’
   ‘That Darkness walks in the valleys,’ interrupted Haelwyn with a good deal of doom in her voice.
   ‘Thank you, Haelwyn,’ said Jones. ‘The man you seek—‘
   ‘—and the Rhonda has lain in shadow these past few weeks,’ continued Haelwyn, who obviously hadn’t finished yet.
   ‘That’s enough, Haelwyn,’ said Jones more sternly. ‘There are some new copies of Cold Comfort Farm that need to be dispatched to Llandod, hmm?’
   Haelwyn walked off with a pained expression.
   ‘What about—‘ I began.
   ‘—and the milk is delivered sour from the cows’ udders!’ called Haelwyn from behind a bookshelf. ‘And the compasses in Merthyr have all gone mad these past few days!’
   ‘Take no heed of her,’ explained Jones apologetically. ‘She reads a lot of books. But how can I help you? Me, an old bookseller with no connections?’
   ‘An old bookseller with Welsh citizenship and free access across the border doesn’t need connections to get to where he wants to go’
   ‘Wait a moment, Thursday, bach; you want me to take you to Merthyr?’
   I nodded. Jones was the best and last chance I had, all rolled into one. But he wasn’t as happy with the plan as I thought he might be.
   ‘And why would I want to do that?’ he asked sharply. ‘You know the punishment for smuggling? Want to see an old man like me end my days in a cell on Skokholm? You ask too much. I’m a crazy old man—not a stupid one.’
   I had thought he might say this.
   ‘If you’ll help us,’ I began, reaching into my briefcase, ‘I can let you have… this.’
   I placed the single sheet of paper on the counter in front of him; Jones gave a sharp intake of breath and sat heavily on a chair. He knew what it was without close examination.
   ‘How… how did you get this?’ he asked me suspiciously.
   ‘The English government rates the return of Jane Eyre very highly—high enough to wish to trade.’
   He leaned forward and picked up the sheet. There, in all its glory, was an early handwritten draft of ‘I See the Boys of Summer’, the opening poem in the anthology that would later become 18 Poems, the first published work of Dylan Thomas; Wales had been demanding its return for some time.
   ‘This belongs not to one man but to the Republic,’ announced the bookseller slowly. ‘It is the heritage.’
   ‘Agreed,’ I replied. ‘You can do with the manuscript what you will.’
   But Jones the manuscript was not going to be swayed. I could have brought him Under Milk Wood and Richard Burton to read it and he still wouldn’t have taken us to Merthyr.
   ‘Thursday, you ask too much!’ he wailed. ‘The laws here are very strict! The HeddluCyfrinach have eyes and ears everywhere—!’
   My heart sank.
   ‘I understand, Jones—and thanks.’
   ‘I’ll take you to Merthyr, Miss Next,’ interrupted Haelwyn, fixing me with a half-smile.
   ‘It is too dangerous,’ muttered Jones. ‘I forbid it!’

   ‘Hush!’ replied Haelwyn. ‘Enough of that talk from you. I read adventures every day—now I can be in one. Besides—the streetlights dimmed last night; it was a sign?
   We sat in Jones’s parlour until it was dark, then spent a noisy and uncomfortable hour in the boot of Haelwyn the book’s Griffin-12 motor car. We heard the murmur of Welsh voices as she took us across the border and we were pummelled mercilessly by the potholed road on the trip into Merthyr. There was a second checkpoint just outside the capital, which was unusual; it seemed that English troop movements had made the military edgy. A few minutes later the car stopped and the boot creaked open. Haelwyn bade us jump out and we stretched painfully after the cramped journey. She pointed the way to the Penderyn Hotel and I told her that if we weren’t back by daybreak we wouldn’t be coming. She smiled and shook our hands, wished us good luck and headed off to visit her aunt.
   Hades was in the Penderyn Hotel’s abandoned bar at that time, smoking a pipe and contemplating the view from the large windows. Beyond the beautifully lit Palace of Justice the full moon had risen and cast a cool glow upon the old city, which was alive with lights and movement. Beyond the buildings were the mountains, their summits hidden in cloud. Jane was on the other side of the room, sitting on the edge of her seat, angrily glaring at Hades.
   ‘Pleasant view, wouldn’t you say, Miss Eyre?’
   ‘It pales when compared to my window at Thornfield, Mr Hades,’ replied Jane in a restrained tone. ‘While not the finest view I had learned to love it as an old friend, dependable and unchanging. I demand that you return me there forthwith.’
   ‘All in good time, dear girl, all in good time. I mean you no harm. I just want to make a lot of money, then you can return to your Edward.’
   ‘Greed will get the better of you, I think, sir,’ responded Jane evenly. ‘You may think it will bring you happiness, but it will not. Happiness is fed by the food of love, not by the stodgy diet of money. The love of money is the root of all evil!’
   Acheron smiled.
   ‘You are so dull, you know, Jane, with that puritanical streak. You should have gone with Rochester when you had the chance instead of wasting yourself with that drip St John Rivers.’
   ‘Rivers is a fine man!’ declared Jane angrily. ‘He has more goodness than you will ever know!’
   The telephone rang and Acheron interrupted her with a wave of his hand. It was Delamere, speaking from a phone box in Swindon. He was reading from The Mole’s classified section.
   ‘Lop-eared rabbits will be available soon to good homes,’ he quoted down the line. Hades smiled and replaced the receiver. The authorities, he thought, were playing ball after all. He motioned to Felix8, who followed him out of the room, dragging a recalcitrant Jane with him.

   Bowden and I had forced a window in the dark bowels of the hotel and found ourselves in the old kitchen: a damp and dilapidated room packed with large food preparation equipment.
   ‘Where now?’ hissed Bowden.
   ‘Upstairs—I would expect them to be in a ballroom or something.’
   I snapped on a flashlight and looked at the hastily sketched plans. Searching for the real blueprints would have been too risky with Goliath watching our every move, so Victor had drawn the basic layout of the building from memory. I pushed open a swing door and we found ourselves on the lower ground floor. Above us was the entrance lobby. By the glimmer of the streetlights that shone through the dirty windows we made our way carefully up the water-stained marble staircase. We were close; I could sense it. I pulled out my automatic and Bowden did the same. I looked up into the lobby. A brass bust of Brodyr Ulyanov sat in pride of place in the large entrance hall opposite the sealed main doors. To the left was the entrance to the bar and restaurant, and to the right was the old reception desk; above us the grand staircase swept upstairs to the two ballrooms. Bowden tapped me on the shoulder and pointed. The doors to the main lounge were ajar, and a thin sliver of orange light shone from within. We were about to make a move when we heard footsteps from above. We pushed ourselves into the shadows and waited, breath bated. From the upstairs floor a small procession of people walked down the broad marble staircase. Leading the way was a man I recognised as Felix8; he held a candelabra aloft with one hand and clasped a small woman by the wrist with the other. She was dressed in Victorian nightclothes and had a greatcoat draped across her shoulders. Her face, although resolute, also spoke of despair and hopelessness. Behind her was a man who cast no shadows in the flickering light of the candles—Hades.
   We watched as they entered the smoking lounge. We quickly tiptoed across the hall floor and found ourselves at the ornate door. I counted to three and we burst in.
   ‘Thursday! My dear girl, how predictable!’
   I stared. Hades was sitting in a large armchair, smiling at us. Mycroft and Jane were looking dejected on a chaise-longue with Felix8 behind them holding two machine-pistols trained on Bowden and me. In front of them all was the Prose Portal. I cursed myself for being so stupid. I could sense Hades was here; did I suppose he could not do the same with me?
   ‘Drop your weapons, please,’ said Felix8. He was too close to Mycroft and Jane to risk a shot; the last time we met he had died as I watched. I said the first thing that popped into my head.
   ‘Haven’t I seen your face somewhere before?’
   He ignored me.
   ‘Your guns, please.’
   ‘And let you shoot us like dodos? No way. We’re keeping them.’
   Felix8 didn’t move. Our weapons were by our side and his were pointing straight at us. It wouldn’t be much of a contest.
   ‘You seem surprised that I was expecting you,’ said Hades with a slight smile.

  ‘You could say that.’
   ‘The stakes have changed, Miss Next. I thought my ten million ransom was a lot of money but I was approached by someone who would give me ten times that for your uncle’s machine alone.’
   Mycroft shuffled unhappily. He had long ago ceased to complain, knowing it to be useless. He now looked forward only to the short visits he was permitted to Polly.
   ‘If that is the case,’ I said slowly, ‘then you can return Jane to the book.’
   Hades thought for a minute.
   ‘Why not? But first, I want you to meet someone.’
   A door opened to the left of us and Jack Schitt walked in. He was flanked by three of his men and they were all carrying plasma rifles. The situation, I noted, was on the whole less than favourable. I muttered an apology to Bowden then said:
   ‘Goliath? Here, in Wales?’
   ‘No doors are closed to the Corporation, Miss Next. We come and go as we please.’
   Schitt sat down on a faded red upholstered chair and pulled out a cigar.
   ‘Siding with criminals, Mr Schitt? Is that what Goliath does these days?’
   ‘It’s a relativist argument, Miss Next—desperate situations require desperate measures. I wouldn’t expect you to understand. But listen, we have a great deal of money at our disposal and Acheron is willing to be generous in the use of Mr Next’s notable invention.’
   ‘And that is?’
   ‘Ever seen one of these?’ asked Schitt, waving the stubby weapon he held at us both.
   ‘It’s a plasma rifle.’
   ‘Correct. A one-man portable piece of field artillery, firing supercharged quanta of pure energy. It will cut through a foot of armour plate at a hundred yards; I think you will agree it is the high ground for land forces anywhere.’
   ‘If Goliath can deliver—‘ put in Bowden.
   ‘It’s a mite more complicated than that, Officer Cable,’ replied Schitt. ‘You see—it doesn’t work. Almost a billion dollars of funding and the bloody thing doesn’t work. Worse than that, it has recently been proved that it will never work; this sort of technology is quite impossible.’
   ‘But the Crimea is on the brink of war!’ I exclaimed angrily. ‘What happens when the Russians realise that the new technology is all bluff?’
   ‘But they won’t,’ replied Schitt. ‘The technology might be impossible out here but it isn’t impossible in there.’
   He patted the large book that was the Prose Portal and looked at Mycroft’s genetically engineered bookworms. They were on Rest & Recuperation at present in their goldfish bowl; they had just digested a recent meal of prepositions and were happily farting out apostrophes and ampersands; the air was heav’y with th’em & Schitt held up a book whose title was clearly visible. It read: The Plasma Rifle in War. I looked at Mycroft, who nodded miserably.
   ‘That’s right, Mis’s Next.’
   Schitt smiled & tapped the cover with the back of his hand.
   ‘In he’re the Pla’sma Rifle work’s perf&ectly. All we ha’ve to do is open’ the book with the Pros’e Portal, bring out the we’apons & is’sue them. It’s the ultimate weapon, Mis’s’ Next.’
   But he wasn’t referring to the plasma rifle. He was pointing to the Prose Portal. The bookworms responded by belching out large quantities of unnecessary capitalisations.
   ‘Any’thing That The Hu’man Imagination Can Think Up, We Can Reproduce. I Look At The Port’al as Les’s Of A Gateway To A Million World’s, But More Like A Three Dim’ensional P’hotocopier. With It We Can Ma’ke Anything We Want; Even Another Portal—a H&held Version. Chri’stmas Every Day, Miss Next.’
   ‘More Death In The Cr’imea; I Ho’pe You Can Sleep Well At Night, Schitt.’
   ‘On The Co’ntrary, Miss’ Next. Russia Will Roll Over & Piss” Over Itself When It Witnesse’s The Power Of Stonk. The Czar Will Permanently Cede The Peninsula To England; a New Riviera, Won’t That be nice?’
   ‘Nice? Sun Lounger’s & High-Rise Hotel’s? Built On L& That Will Be Dem&ed Back Half a Century From Now? You’re Not S’olving Anything, Schitt, Merely Delaying It. When The Russian’s Have a Plasma Rifle Of Their Own, Then What?’
   Jack Schitt was unrepentant.
   ‘Oh, Don’t Worry About That, Miss Next, I’ll Charge The’m Twice What I”ll Charge The Eng’lish Government!’
   ‘Hear, Hear!’ put in Hades, who was deeply impressed by Schitt’s total absence of scruples so far.
   ‘A Hundred Million’ Dollars Fo’r The Portal, Thursday,’ added Hades excitedly, ‘& a 50% Cut On Every’thing That’ Comes Out Of It!’
   ‘A Lackey For The Goliath Corpor’ation, Acheron? That Doesn’t Sound Like You At All.’
   Hades’ cheek quivered but he fought it, answering:
   ‘Out Of Small Acorn’s, Thur’sday…’
   Schitt looked at him suspiciously. He nodded to one of his men, who levelled a small anti-tank gun at Hades.
   ‘Hade’s, The Instructio’n Manual.’
   ‘Please!’ pleaded Mycroft. ‘You’re Upsetting The Wor’ms! They’re Starting to hy-phe-nate!’
   ‘Shut-up, My-croft,’ snapped Schitt. ‘Ha-de’s, please, The In-Struc-tion Man-ual.’
   ‘Man-ual, My De’ar Chap?’
   ‘Yes, Mr Hade’s. Ev-en You Will Not be Im-Pervious To My Associate’s Small Artillery Piece. You Have My-croft’s Manual For The Por-tal & The Po-em In Which You Have Im-pris-oned Mrs Next. Give-Them-To-Me.’
   ‘No, Mr—Schitt. Give Me The Gun—‘

  But Schitt didn’t flicker; the power that had stolen Snood and countless other people’s reason had no effect on Schitt’s dark soul. Hades’ face fell. He had not come across someone like Schitt before; not since the first Felix, anyhow. He laughed.
   ‘You Dare To Dou-ble—Cross-Me?’
   ‘Sure I Do. If I Did-n’t You’d Have No Res’-pect From Me & That’s No Basis’ For A Work-able Part-ner-ship.’
   Hades dodged in front of the Prose Portal.
   ‘& To Think We Were All Get-ti’ng A-long So Well, Too—!’ he exclaimed, placing the original manuscript of Jane Eyre back into the machine and adding the bookworms, who settled down, stopped farting, belching and hyphenating and got to work.
   ‘Really!’ continued Hades. ‘I expected better from you, I must say. I almost thought I had found someone who could be a partner.’
   ‘But you’d want it all, Hades,’ replied Schitt. ‘Sooner or later and most probably sooner.’
   ‘True, very true.’
   Hades nodded to Felix8 who immediately started shooting. Bowden and I were directly in his line of fire; there was no way he could miss. My heart leaped but strangely the first bullet slowed and stopped in midair three inches from my chest. It was the initial volley of a deadly procession that snaked lazily all the way back to Felix8’s weapon, its muzzle now a frozen chrysanthemum of fire. I looked across at Bowden, who was also in line for a slug; the shiny bullet had stopped a foot from his head. But he was not stirring. Indeed, the whole room was not stirring. My father, for once, had arrived at precisely the right moment.
   ‘Have I come at a bad time?’ asked Dad, looking up from where he was sitting at the dusty grand piano. ‘I can go away again if you want.’
   ‘N-no, Dad, this is good, real good,’ I muttered.
   I looked around the room. My father never stayed for longer than five minutes, and when he left the bullets would almost certainly carry on to their intended victim. My eyes alighted on a heavy table and I upended it, sending dust, debris and empty Leek-U-Like containers to the floor.
   ‘Have you ever heard of someone named Winston Churchill?’ asked my father.
   ‘No; who’s he?’ I gasped as I heaved the heavy oak table in front of Bowden.
   ‘Ah!’ said my father, making a note in a small book. ‘Well, he was meant to lead England in the last war but I think he was killed in a fall as a teenager. It’s most awkward.’
   ‘Another victim of the French revisionists?’
   My father didn’t answer. His attention had switched to the middle of the room, where Hades was working on the Prose Portal. Time, for men like Hades, rarely stood still.
   ‘Oh, don’t mind me!’ said Hades as a shaft of light opened up in the gloom. ‘I’m just going to step inside until all this unpleasantness is over. I have the instruction manual and Polly, so we can still bargain.’
   ‘Who’s that?’ asked my father.
   ‘Acheron Hades.’
   ‘Is it? I expected someone shorter.’
   But Hades had gone; the Prose Portal buzzed slightly and then closed after him.
   ‘I’ve got some repairs to do,’ announced my father, getting up and closing his notebook. ‘Time waits for no man, as we say.’
   I just had time to duck behind a large bureau as the world started up again. The hail of lead from Felix8 struck the heavy oak table I had manoeuvred in front of Bowden, and the bullets that had been destined for me thudded into the wooden door behind where I had been standing. Within the space of two seconds the room was full of gunfire as the Goliath operatives joined in, covering Jack Schitt, who, perplexed that Hades had vanished in mid-sentence, was now beating a retreat to the door leading to the old Atlantic Grill. Mycroft threw himself to the floor followed closely by Jane as dust and debris were scattered about the room. I bellowed into Jane’s ear to stay where she was as a shot came perilously close to our heads, knocking some moulding off the furniture and showering us with dust. I crawled round to where I could see Bowden exchanging shots with Felix8, who was now trapped behind an upended mock-Georgian table next to the entrance of the Palm Court Tea Rooms. I had just loosed off a few shots at Goliath’s men, who had rapidly dragged Schitt from the room, when the firing stopped as quickly as it had begun. I reloaded.
   ‘Felix8!’ I shouted. ‘You can still surrender! Your real name is Danny Chance. I promise you we will do all we can to—‘
   There was a strange gurgling noise and I peeked around the back of the sofa. I thought Felix8 had been wounded but he hadn’t. He was laughing. His usually expressionless face was convulsed with mirth. Bowden and I exchanged quizzical looks—but we stayed hidden.
   ‘What’s so funny?’ I yelled.
   ‘Haven’t I seen your face somewhere before /’ he giggled. ‘I get it now!’
   He raised his gun and fired repeatedly at us as he backed out of the lounge doors and into the darkness of the lobby outside. He had sensed his master’s escape and had no more work to do here.
   ‘Where’s Hades?’ said Bowden.
   ‘In Jane Eyre,’ I replied, standing up. ‘Cover the portal—and if he returns, use this.’
   I handed him the anti-tank weapon as Schitt, alerted to the end of the gunfire, returned. He appeared at the door to the bar.
   ‘Hades?’
   ‘In Jane Eyre with the instruction manual.’
   Schitt told me to surrender the Prose Portal to him.
   ‘Without the instruction manual you’ve got nothing,’ I said. ‘Once I have Hades put of Thornfield and have returned my aunt to Mycroft you can have the manual. There is no other deal; that’s it. I’m taking Jane back with me now.’
   I turned to my uncle.
   ‘Mycroft, send us back to just before Jane comes out of her room to put out the fire in Rochester’s bedroom. It will be as if she had never left. When I want to come back I’ll send a signal. Can you do that?’
   Schitt threw up his arms. ‘What sweet madness is this?’ he cried.
   ‘That’s the signal,’ I said, ‘the words “sweet madness”. As soon as you hear them, open the door immediately.’
   ‘Are you sure you know what you’re doing?’ asked Bowden as I helped Jane to her feet.
   ‘Never been more certain. Just don’t turn the machine off; much as I enjoy the book I’ve no desire to stay there for ever.’
   Schitt bit his lip. He had been outmanoeuvred. His hand, such as it was, would have to be played upon my return.
   I checked that my gun was still loaded, took a deep breath and nodded to Jane, who smiled back eagerly. We grasped each other’s hands tightly and stepped through the doorway.

32. Thornfield Hall

   ‘It wasn’t how I imagined it. I thought Thornfield Hall would be bigger and more luxuriously furnished. There was a strong smell of polish and the air was chill in the upstairs corridor. There was barely any light in the house and the corridors seemed to stretch away into inky blackness. It was dour and unappealing. I noticed all this but most of all I noticed the quiet; the quiet of a world free from flying machines, traffic and large cities. The industrial age had only just begun; the planet had reached its Best Before date.’

Thursday Next. A Life in SpecOps


   I staggered slightly as we made the jump; there had been a bright flash of light and a short blast of static. I found myself in the master bedroom corridor, a few lines above where Hobbes had taken Jane out. The fire was ablaze and Jane took her cue instinctively, opening the door and leaping into Rochester’s room to pour a ewer full of water over the burning covers. I looked quickly around the dark corridor but of Hades there was no sign; at the far end I could just see Grace Poole escorting Bertha to her attic room. The madwoman looked back over her shoulder and smiled crazily. Grace Poole followed her gaze and glared disapprovingly at me. I suddenly felt very alien; this world was not mine and I didn’t belong here. I stepped back as Jane rushed out of Rochester’s room to fetch some more water; upon her face, I noted, was a look of great relief. I smiled and permitted myself a peek inside the bedroom. Jane had managed to extinguish the fire and Rochester was swearing at finding himself in a pool of water. ‘Is there a flood?’ he asked.
   ‘No, sir,’ she replied, ‘but there has been a fire. Get up, do; you are quenched now. I will fetch you a candle.’
   Rochester caught sight of me at the door and winked before rapidly returning his features to a look of consternation.
   ‘In the name of all the elves in Christendom,’ he asked, his eyes glistening at her return, ‘is that Jane Eyre? What have you done with me…’
   I stepped outside the door, confident in the knowledge that back home the book would be starting to rewrite itself across the page. The reference to the ‘agent in black’ would be overwritten and with luck, and Hades willing, things could get back to normal. I picked up the candle that had been left on the mat and relit it as Jane came out, smiled her thanks, took it from me and returned to the bedroom. I walked down the corridor, looked at a particularly fine Landseer painting and sat down upon a Regency chair, one of a pair. Although the house was not big, it afforded all sorts of hiding places for Acheron. I spoke his name to let him know I was about and heard a door slam somewhere in the house. I pulled open a shutter and saw the unmistakable figure of Hades walking rapidly across the lawn by the light of the moon. I watched his form fade into the shadows. He would be as good as safe in the countryside but I still had the upper hand. I knew how to reopen the door and he didn’t; I thought it unlikely he would harm me. I sat down again and was just thinking about Daisy Mutlar and Landen when I drifted off to sleep. I was jolted awake as the door to Rochester’s bedroom opened and the figure of Edward emerged. He was holding a candle and spoke to Jane at the door.
   ‘… I must pay a visit to the third storey. Don’t move, remember, or call anyone.’
   He padded softly down the corridor and hissed: ‘Miss Next, are you there?’
   I stood up.
   ‘Here, sir.’
   Rochester took me by the arm and led me along the gallery and on to the landing above the stairs. He stopped, placed the candle on a low table and clasped both my hands in his.
   ‘I thank you, Miss Next, from the bottom of my heart! It has been a living hell of torment; not knowing when or even if my beloved Jane would return!’
   He spoke with keen and very real passion; I wondered if Landen had ever loved me as much as Rochester loved Jane.
   ‘It was the least I could do, Mr Rochester,’ I responded happily, ‘after your kind attention to my wounds that night outside the warehouse.’
   He dismissed my words with a wave of his hand.
   ‘You are returning straight away?’
   I looked down.
   ‘It’s not quite as easy as that, sir. There is another interloper in this book aside from me.’
   Rochester strode to the balustrade. He spoke without turning around.
   ‘It’s him, isn’t it?’
   ‘You have met him?’ I asked, surprised.
   ‘He has several names. You have a plan?’
   I explained the use of a signal and made it clear that it would be safer for me to remain at Thornfield until the book had run its course. Then I would take Hades with me—somehow.
   ‘The end of the book,’ murmured Rochester unhappily. ‘How I hate the ending. The thought of my sweet Jane travelling to India with that poltroon St John Rivers makes my blood turn to ice.’ He bolstered himself. ‘But I have at least a few months of real happiness before that time. Come, you must be hungry.’ He walked off down the corridor and beckoned me to follow, talking as he went.
   ‘I suggest we try and trap him when Jane has left after—‘ He shivered slightly at the thought of it. ‘—the wedding. We will be quite alone as Jane takes the narrative with her to Moor House and those fatuous cousins. I am not featured again in the book, so we may do as we please, and I am best disposed to be of assistance. However, as you have guessed, you must do nothing that might disturb Jane; this novel is written in the first person. I can get away to speak with you when I am, to all intents and purposes, out of the story. But you must promise me that you will stay out of Jane’s way. I will speak to Mrs Fairfax and Adele privately; they will understand. The servants Mary and John will do whatever I tell them.’
   We had arrived at a door and Rochester knocked impatiently. There was a groaning and a thump and presently a very dishevelled character appeared at the door.
   ‘Mrs Fairfax,’ said Rochester, ‘this is Miss Next. She will be staying with us for a month or two. I want you to fetch her some food and have a bed made ready; she has travelled far to be here and I think she needs sustenance and rest. It would please me if you were not to discuss her presence with anyone, and I would be grateful if you could engineer that Miss Next and Miss Eyre do not meet. I hardly need to stress the importance of this to you.’
   Mrs Fairfax looked me up and down, was particularly intrigued and shocked at the same time by my ponytail and jeans, and then nodded and led me off towards the dining room.
   ‘We will speak again tomorrow, Miss Next,’ said Rochester, a smile breaking out on his troubled face. ‘And I thank you once again.’
   He turned and left me to Mrs Fairfax, who bustled downstairs. The housekeeper told me to wait in the dining room while she brought me something to eat. She returned shortly with some cold cuts of meat and some bread. I ate hungrily as Pilot—who I thought had been let in when Hades went out—sniffed at my trouser leg and wagged his tail excitedly.
   ‘He remembers you,’ remarked Mrs Fairfax slowly, ‘yet I have been working here for many years and I do not recall having laid eyes upon you before.’
   I tickled Pilot’s ear.
   ‘I threw a stick for him once. When he was out with his master.’
   ‘I see,’ replied Mrs Fairfax, suspiciously. ‘And how do you know Mr Rochester?’
   ‘I, ah, met the Rochesters in Madeira. I knew his brother.’
   ‘I see. Very tragic.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Then you know the Masons?’
   ‘Not well.’
   She had been eyeing my jeans again.
   ‘Women wear breeches where you come from?’
   ‘Often, Mrs Fairfax.’
   ‘And where is it that you come from? London?’
   ‘Farther than that.’
   ‘Ah!’ said Mrs Fairfax with a knowing smile. ‘Osaka!’
   She bustled out, leaving me alone with Pilot, having made me promise that I would not feed him from the table. She returned ten minutes later with a tray of tea things, then left me for another half-hour to make up a room. She led me up to a second-storey chamber with a fine view out of the front of the house. I had insisted that Pilot stay with me, and he slept against the locked door, somehow sensing the possible danger that his new mistress might be in. I slept fitfully and dreamed of Hades laughing at me.

   As I slept, Victor and the others back at the Swindon LiteraTec office had been celebrating the return of the narrative to the novel. Apart from a brief mention of Mrs Fairfax making noises on the night of the bedroom fire, it was all pretty much as anyone remembered it. A member of the Bronte Federation had been called in to examine the text as it wrote itself across the last two hundred pages, which up until this moment had been blank. The Bronte scholar knew the book by heart and his pleased expression gave them no cause for complaint.
   I woke to the sound of Pilot scratching on the door to be let out. I quietly unlocked it and peeped out. I could see Jane bustling down the corridor and quickly shut the door and looked at my watch. It was barely 6 a.m. and only a few of the domestic staff were awake. I waited a couple of minutes, let Pilot out and then followed, cautious lest I bumped into Jane. The morning was spent with almost everyone in the house setting Rochester’s room to rights, so after breakfast I was about to make my way out of the house when Mrs Fairfax stopped me.
   ‘Miss Next,’ announced the housekeeper, ‘Mr Rochester has explained to me about the events of the past week and I wanted to add my thanks to his.’
   She said it without emotion but I was in no doubt that she meant it. She added: ‘He has instructed me to have the house guarded against agents who would wish Miss Eyre harm.’
   I looked out of the window; from where we stood I could see an estate worker standing on sentry duty with a large pickaxe handle. As we watched he glanced into the house and scurried out of sight. A few moments later Jane herself walked out of the door, looked about her, took a deep breath in the crisp morning air, and then went back inside. After a few moments the estate worker reappeared and took up his post once more.
   ‘Miss Eyre must never know we are watching and guarding her,’ said Mrs Fairfax severely.
   ‘I understand.’
   Mrs Fairfax nodded and looked at me critically.
   ‘Do women go about with their heads uncovered where you come from?’
   ‘Frequently.’
   ‘It isn’t the accepted thing here,’ she said reproachfully. ‘Come with me and I shall make you presentable.’
   Mrs Fairfax took me to her own room and gave me a bonnet to wear along with a thick black cloak that covered me to my feet. I thanked her and Mrs Fairfax bobbed courteously.
   ‘Is Mr Rochester at home today?’ I asked.
   ‘He has gone to make arrangements. I understand he went to Mr Eshton’s place; there is quite a party going on. Colonel Dent will be there as well as Lord Ingram. I don’t expect him back for a week.’
   ‘With all that is going on here, do you think it is wise?’
   Mrs Fairfax looked at me as though I were an infant.
   ‘You don’t understand, do you? After the fire Mr Rochester goes away for a week. That’s how it happens.’
   I wanted to ask more but the housekeeper excused herself and I was left alone. I collected my thoughts, smoothed the cloak and went outside to walk around the house, checking that everything was secure. All the estate workers nodded to me respectfully as I passed, each of them armed with a weapon of some sort. Hoping that none of them would have to face him, I walked across the lawn in the direction that Hades had taken the previous night. I was just passing the large beeches near the ha-ha when a familiar voice made me turn.
   ‘Do we stand a chance against him?’
   It was Rochester. He was standing behind one of the large tree trunks, looking at me with grave concern etched upon his face.
   ‘Every chance, sir,’ I responded. ‘Without me he is trapped here; if he wants to return he has to negotiate.’
   ‘And where is he?’
   ‘I was going to try the town. Aren’t you meant to be at Mr Eshton’s?’
   ‘I wanted to speak to you before I left. You will do all you can, won’t you?’
   I assured him that I would do everything in my power and then set off for the town.
   Millcote was a good-sized town. I made my way to the centre, where I found a church, a staged-coach stop, three inns, a bank, two draper’s, a bagged-goods merchant and assorted other trades. It was market day and the town was busy. No one gave me a second glance as I walked through the stalls, which were piled high with winter produce and game. Apart from the faint odour of ink that pervaded the scene, it might have been real. The first hostelry I chanced across was The George. Since it was actually named in the book I supposed it might offer the best chance.
   I entered and asked the innkeeper whether a man of large stature had taken a room at the inn that morning. The landlord proclaimed that he had not but added that his was not the only inn in the town. I thanked him and walked to the door, but was arrested by the incongruous sound of a camera shutter. I slowly turned around. Behind me were a Japanese couple, dressed in period costume but with one of them holding a large Nikon camera. The woman hastily tried to conceal the blatant anachronism and started to drag the man out of the door.
   ‘Wait!’
   They stopped and looked nervously at one other.
   ‘What are you doing here?’ I asked incredulously.
   ‘Visiting from Osaka,’ affirmed the woman, at which the man—he seemed not to speak English—nodded his head vigorously and started to consult a Bronte guidebook written in Japanese.
   ‘How—?’
   ‘My name is Mrs Nakijima,’ announced the woman, ‘and this is Mr Suzuki.’
   The man grinned at me and shook my hand excitedly.
   ‘This is crazy!’ I said angrily. ‘Are you trying to tell me that you two are tourists?’
   ‘Indeed,’ admitted Mrs Nakijima, ‘I make the jump once a year and bring a visitor with me. We touch nothing and never speak to Miss Eyre. As you can see, we are dressed fittingly.’
   ‘Japanese? In mid-nineteenth-century England?’
   ‘Why not?’
   Why not indeed.
   ‘How do you manage it?’
   The woman shrugged.
   ‘I just can,’ she answered simply. ‘I think hard, speak the lines and, well, here I am.’
   I didn’t have time for this at all.
   ‘Listen to me. My name is Thursday Next. I work with Victor Analogy at the LiteraTec office in Swindon. You heard about the theft of the manuscript?’
   She nodded her head.
   ‘There is a dark presence in this book but my plan to extract him is dependent on there being only one way in and one way out. He will stop at nothing to use you to get out if he can. I implore you to jump back home while you still can.’
   Mrs Nakijima consulted for some time with her client. She explained that Mr Suzuki was hoping to see Jane if possible, but that if he were taken back now he would want a refund. I reiterated my position on the matter and they eventually agreed. I followed them to their room upstairs and waited while they packed. Mrs Nakijima and Mr Suzuki both shook me by the hand, held on to each other and evaporated. I shook my head sadly. It seemed there were very few places that the tourist business hadn’t touched.
   I left the warmth of the inn for the chill exterior and made my way past a stall selling late root vegetables and on to The Millcote, where I enquired about any new guests.
   ‘And who would be wanting to see Mr Hedge?’ enquired the innkeeper, spitting into and then polishing a crude beer mug.
   ‘Tell him Miss Next is here to see him.’
   The innkeeper vanished upstairs and returned presently.
   ‘Room Seven,’ he replied shortly, and returned to his duties.
   Acheron was sitting by the window, his back to the door. He didn’t move when I entered.
   ‘Hello, Thursday.’
   ‘Mr Hedge?’
   ‘Locals in mid-nineteenth-century England are a superstitious lot. I thought Hades might seem a little strong for them.’
   He turned to face me, his piercing blue eyes seeming to look straight into me. But his power over me had waned; he could not read me as he had others. He sensed this immediately, gave a half-smile and resumed staring out of the window.
   ‘You grow strong, Miss Next.’
   ‘I thrive on adversity.’
   He gave a short laugh.
   ‘I should have made quite sure of you back at Styx’s apartment.’
   ‘And spoilt all the fun? Your life would be considerably more dull without me and the rest of SpecOps to louse it up.’
   He ignored me and changed the subject.
   ‘Someone as resourceful as you would never have come in here without a way out. What is it, Thursday? A prearranged code to let Mycroft know when to open the door?’
   ‘Something like that. If you give me the instruction manual and Polly I promise you shall have a fair trial.’
   Hades laughed.
   ‘I think I am way beyond a fair trial, Thursday. I could kill you now and I feel a strong urge to do precisely that, but the prospect of being trapped in this narrative for all time bars me from that action. I tried to get to London but it’s impossible; the only towns that exist in this world are the places that Charlotte Bronte wrote about and which feature in the narrative. Gateshead, Lowood—I’m surprised that there is even as much of this town. Give me the code word to get out and you can have the manual and Polly.’

   ‘No. You give me the manual and my aunt first.’
   ‘You see? Impasse. You’ll want to wait until the book is written again, though, won’t you?’
   ‘Of course.’
   ‘Then you will expect no trouble from me until such time as Jane leaves Thornfield for good. After that, we negotiate.’
   ‘I won’t negotiate, Hades.’
   Hades shook his head slowly. ‘You’ll negotiate, Miss Next. You may be disgustingly righteous but even you will balk at spending the rest of your life in here. You’re an intelligent woman; I’m sure you’ll think of something.’
   I sighed and walked back outside, where the bustle of the shoppers and traders was a welcome break from the dark soul of Hades.

33. The book is written

   ‘From our position in the lounge of the Penderyn Hotel we could see Thursday’s good work. The narrative continued rapidly; weeks passed in the space of a few lines. As the words wrote themselves back across the page they were read aloud by Mycroft or myself. We were all waiting for the phrase “sweet madness” to appear in the text, but it didn’t. We prepared ourselves to assume the worst; that Hades was not caught and might never be. That Thursday might stay in the book as some sort of permanent caretaker.’

From Bowden Cable’s Journal


   The weeks passed rapidly at Thornfield and I busied myself with the task of making Jane secure without her ever knowing it. I had a young lad positioned at the Millcote to warn of Hades’ movements, but he seemed quite happy just to go out walking every morning, borrow books from the local doctor, and spend his time at the inn. His inaction was a cause of some worry, but I was glad it was merely that for the time being.
   Rochester had sent a note advising of his return and a party was arranged for local friends of his. Jane seemed to be severely agitated by the arrival of the airhead Blanche Ingram, but I gave it little heed. I was busy trying to arrange security with John, the cook’s husband, who was a resourceful and intelligent man. I had taught him to shoot with Rochester’s pistols and he was, I was delighted to find out, an excellent shot. I had thought that Hades might make an appearance with one of the guests but, apart from the arrival of Mr Mason from the West Indies, nothing out of the ordinary occurred.
   The weeks turned into months and I saw little of Jane—on purpose, of course—but kept in contact with the household and Mr Rochester to make sure that all was going well. And it appeared that all was going well. As usual, Mr Mason was bitten by his mad sister in the upper room; I was standing outside the locked door when Rochester went for the doctor and Jane tended to Mason’s wounds. When the doctor arrived I kept watch in the arbour outside, where I knew Jane and Rochester would meet. And so it went on until a brief respite when Jane went away to visit her dying aunt in Gateshead. Rochester had decided to marry Blanche Ingram by this time and things had been slightly tense between him and Jane. I felt some relief that she was away; I could relax and talk to Rochester quite easily without Jane suspecting anything.
   ‘You aren’t sleeping,’ observed Rochester as we walked together on the front lawn. ‘Look how your eyes are dark-rimmed and languorous.’
   ‘I don’t sleep well here, not while Hades is barely five miles distant.’
   ‘Your spies, surely, would alert you to any movement of his?’
   It was true; the network worked well, although not without some considerable expenditure on Rochester’s part. If Hades set off anywhere I knew about it within two minutes from a rider who stood by for just such an occasion. It was in this manner that I was able to find him when he was out, either walking or reading or beating peasants with his stick. He had never come within a mile of the house, and I was happy to keep it that way.
   ‘My spies afford me peace of mind, but I still can’t believe that Hades could be so passive. It chills and worries me.’
   We walked on for a while, Rochester pointing out places of interest to me around the grounds. But I was not listening.
   ‘How did you come to me, that night outside the warehouse, when I was shot?’
   Rochester stopped and looked at me.
   ‘It just happened, Miss Next. I can’t explain it any more than you can explain arriving here when you were a little girl. Apart from Mrs Nakijima and a traveller named Foyle, I don’t know of anyone else who has done it.’
   I was surprised at this.
   ‘You have met Mrs Nakijima, then?’
   ‘Of course. I usually do tours of Thornfield for her guests when Jane is up at Gateshead. It carries no risk and is extremely lucrative. Country houses are not cheap to run, Miss Next, even in this century.’
   I allowed myself a smile. I thought that Mrs Nakijima must be making a very sizeable profit; it was, after all, the ultimate trip for a Bronte fan, and there were plenty of those in Japan.
   ‘What will you do after this?’ asked Rochester, pointing out a rabbit to Pilot, who barked and ran off.
   ‘Back to SpecOps work, I guess,’ I replied. ‘What about you?’
   Rochester looked at me broodingly, his eyebrows furrowed and a look of anger rising across his features.
   ‘There is nothing for me after Jane leaves with that slimy and pathetic excuse for a vertebrate, St John Rivers.’
   ‘So what will you do?’
   ‘Do? I won’t do anything. Existence pretty much ceases for me about then.’
   ‘Death?’
   ‘Not as such,’ replied Rochester, choosing his words carefully. ‘Where you come from you are born, you live and then you die. Am I correct?’
   ‘More or less.’
   ‘A pretty poor way of living, I should imagine!’ laughed Rochester. ‘And you rely upon that inward eye we call a memory to sustain yourself in times of depression, I suppose?’
   ‘Most of the time,’ I replied, ‘although memory is but one hundredth of the strength of currently felt emotions.’
   ‘I concur. Here, I neither am born, nor die. I come into being at the age of thirty-eight and wink out again soon after, having fallen in love for the first time in my life and then lost the object of my adoration, my being…!’
   He stopped and picked up the stick that Pilot had considerately brought him in place of the rabbit he couldn’t catch.
   ‘You see, I can move myself to anywhere in the book I wish at a moment’s notice and back again at will; the greatest parts of my life lie between the time I profess my true love to that fine, impish girl and the moment the lawyer and that fool Mason turn up to spoil my wedding and reveal the madwoman in the attic. Those are the weeks to which I return most often, but I go to the bad times, too—for without a yardstick sometimes the high points can be taken for granted. Sometimes I muse that I might have John stop them at the church gate and stall them until the wedding is over, but it is against the way of things.’
   ‘So while I am talking to you here—‘
   ‘—I am also meeting Jane for the first time, wooing her, then losing her for ever. I can even see you now, as a small child, your expression of fear under the hooves of my horse—‘
   He felt his elbow.
   ‘And feel the pain of the fall, too. So you see, my existence, although limited, is not without benefits.’
   I sighed. If only life were that simple; if one could jump to the good parts and flick through the bad—
   ‘You have a man you love?’ asked Rochester suddenly.
   ‘Yes; but there is much bad air between us. He accused my brother of a crime that I thought unfair to lay upon the shoulders of a dead man; my brother never had a chance to defend himself and the evidence was not strong. I find it hard to forgive.’
   ‘What is there to forgive?’ demanded Rochester. ‘Ignore forgive and concentrate on living. Life for you is short; far too short to allow small jealousies to infringe on the happiness which can be yours only for the briefest of times.’
   ‘Alas!’ I countered. ‘He is engaged to be married!’

   ‘And what of that?’ scoffed Rochester. ‘Probably to someone as unsuitable for him as Blanche Ingram is for me!’
   I thought about Daisy Mutlar and there did, indeed, seem to be a strong similarity.
   We walked along together in silence until Rochester pulled out a pocket watch and consulted it.
   ‘My Jane is returning from Gateshead as we speak. Where is my pencil and notebook?’
   He rummaged within his jacket and produced a bound drawing-book and a pencil.
   ‘I am to meet her as if by accident; she walks across the fields shortly in this direction. How do I look?’
   I straightened his necktie and nodded my satisfaction.
   ‘Do you think me handsome, Miss Next?’ he asked quite suddenly.
   ‘No,’ I answered truthfully.
   ‘Bah!’ exclaimed Rochester. ‘Pixies both! Begone with you; we will talk later!’
   I left them to it and walked back to the house by way of the lake, deep in thought.
   And so the weeks wore on, the air becoming warmer and the buds starting to shoot on the trees. I hardly saw anything of Rochester or Jane, as they had eyes only for each other. Mrs Fairfax was not highly impressed by the union but I told her not to be so unreasonable. She flustered like an old hen at this remark and went about her business. The routine of Thornfield didn’t waver from normalcy for the next few months; the season moved into summer and I was there on the day of the wedding, invited specifically by Rochester and hidden in the vestry. I saw the clergyman, a large man named Mr Wood, ask whether anyone knew of an impediment that might prevent the wedding being lawful or joined by God. I heard the solicitor call out his terrible secret. Rochester, I could see, was beside himself with rage as Briggs read out the affidavit from Mason to declare that the madwoman was Bertha Rochester, Mason’s sister and Rochester’s legal wife. I remained in hiding as the argument ensued, emerging only when the small group was led over to the house by Rochester to meet his mad wife. I didn’t follow; I went for a walk, breathing in the fresh air and avoiding the sadness and anguish in the house as Rochester and Jane realised they could not marry.
   By the following day Jane was gone. I followed at a safe distance to see her take the road to Whitcross, looking like a small stray searching for a better life elsewhere. I watched her until she was out of sight and then walked into Millcote for lunch. Once I had finished my meal at The George I played cards with three travelling gamblers; by suppertime I had taken six guineas off them. As I played, a small boy appeared at our table.
   ‘Hello, William!’ I said. ‘What news?’
   I bent down to the height of the waif, who was dressed in adult-sized hand-me-downs that had been sewn up to fit.
   ‘Begging your pardon, Miss Next, but Mr Hedge has vanished.’
   I leaped up in some alarm, broke into a run and didn’t stop until I arrived at The Millcote. I flew upstairs to the landing, where one of my most trusted spies was tugging at his flat cap nervously. Hades’ room was empty.
   ‘I’m sorry, miss. I was in the bar downstairs, not drinking, mind; I swear to it. He must have slipped past me—‘
   ‘Did anyone else come down the stairs, Daniel? Tell me quick!’
   ‘No one. No one save the old lady…’
   I took the horse from one of my riders and was at Thornfield in double-quick time. Neither of the guards at the doors had seen anything of Hades. I entered and found Edward in the morning room, toasting himself from a bottle of brandy. He raised his glass as I entered.
   ‘She’s gone, hasn’t she?’ he asked.
   ‘She has.’
   ‘Damnation! Curse the circumstances that allowed me to be trapped into the wedding with that halfwit and curse my brother and father for entreating such a union!’
   He fell into a chair and stared at the floor.
   ‘Your work is done here?’ he asked me resignedly.
   ‘I think so, yes. I have only to find Hades and I can be off.’
   ‘Is he not at The Millcote?’
   ‘Not any longer.’
   ‘But you expect to capture him?’
   ‘I do; he seems weakened here.’
   ‘Then you had better tell me your password. Time may not be on our side when the moment comes. Forewarned is forearmed.’
   ‘True,’ I conceded. ‘To open the door, you have to say—‘
   But at that moment the front door slammed, a gust of wind disturbed some papers, and a familiar footfall rang out on the tiles in the hall. I froze and looked across at Rochester who was staring into his glass.
   ‘The code word—?’
   I heard a voice calling to Pilot. It had the deep bass resonance of the master of the house.
   ‘Blast!’ murmured Hades as he melted from his disguise as Rochester and leaped at the wall in a flash, bursting through the lath and plaster as though it were rice paper. By the time I had made my way to the hallway outside he had gone; vanished somewhere deep into the house. Rochester joined me as I listened intently up the stairs, but no sound reached us. Edward guessed what had happened and quickly mustered his estate workers. Within twenty minutes he had them guarding the outside of the house, under strict orders to fire upon anyone who tried to escape without giving a prearranged password. This done, we returned to the library and Rochester drew out a set of pistols and loaded each carefully. He looked uneasily at my Browning automatic as he placed two percussion caps atop the nipples of the pistols and replaced the hammers.
   ‘Bullets just make him mad,’ I told him.