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 I I2th 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 mini-bar and tea-making equipment. Did you park your car in our spacious three-hundred-place self-draining carpark?’

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?’

‘LiteraTec.’

‘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 haemorrhagic fever or something.’

I pushed my way through the throng of Miltons and on to 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 grey-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 pin-stripe 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 calibre 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.’