‘You know who it is you are after?’

‘Mr Quaverley, sir.’

‘Splendid. I feel a speech coming on.’

He climbed on to a carved oak table.

‘My friends!’ he began. ‘This is a very great day for science and a very bad one for Dickensian literature.’

He paused for dramatic effect.

‘Comrades, we stand on the very brink of an act of artistic barbarism so monstrous that I am almost ashamed of it myself. All of you have been my faithful servants for many years, and although none of you possesses a soul quite as squalid as mine, and the faces I see before me are both stupid and unappealing, I regard you all with no small measure of fondness.’

His four comrades mumbled their thanks.

‘Silence! I think it is fair to say that I am the most debased individual on this planet and quite the most brilliant criminal mind this century. The plan that we embark upon now is easily the most diabolical ever devised by man, and will not only take you to the top of everyone’s Most-Wanted list but will also make you wealthy beyond your wildest dreams of avarice.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘So let the adventure begin, and here’s to the success of our finest criminal endeavour!’

‘Sir?’

‘What is it, Dr Mьller?’

‘All that money. I’m not so sure. I’d settle for a Gainsborough. You know—that one of the kid in the blue suit.’

Acheron stared at him for a moment, a smile slowly breaking across his features.

‘Why not? Odious and art-loving! What a divine dichotomy! You shall have your Gainsborough! And now, let us—What is it, Hobbes?’

‘You won’t forget to make the ESC put on my improved version of the Scottish play—Macbeth: No More “Mr Nice Guy”?’

‘Of course not.’

‘A full eight-week run?’

‘Yes, yes, and Midsummer Night’s Dream with chainsaws. Mr Delamare, is there anything that you require?’

‘Well,’ said the man with the brain of a dog, rubbing the back of his head thoughtfully, ‘could I have a motorway services named after my mum?’

‘Insufferably obtuse,’ remarked Acheron. ‘I don’t think that should be too difficult. Felix7?’

‘I require no payment,’ said Felix7 stoically. ‘I am merely your willing servant. To serve a good and wise master is the best that can be expected of any sentient being.’

‘I love that man!’ said Hades to the others. He chuckled to himself and then turned back to Hobbes, who was waiting to make the jump.

‘So you understand what it is you have to do?’

‘Perfectly.’

‘Then, Mycroft, open the portal and my dear Hobbes: Godspeed!’

Mycroft pressed the green Open button and there was a bright flash and a strong electromagnetic pulse that had every compass for miles around spinning wildly. The portal opened rapidly and Hobbes took a deep breath and stepped through; as he did, Mycroft pressed the red Close button, the portal slid shut and a hush descended on the room. Acheron looked at Mycroft, who stared at the timer on the large book. Dr Mьller read a paperback of Martin Chuzzlewit to check Hobbes’s progress, Felix7 kept an eye on Mycroft, and Delamare looked at something sticky he had found inside his ear.

Two minutes later Mycroft pressed the green Open button once more and Hobbes came back through, dragging a middle-aged man dressed in a badly fitting suit with high collar and necktie. Hobbes was quite out of breath and sat on a nearby chair panting. The middle-aged man looked around him in mystification.

‘My friends,’ he began, looking at their curious faces, ‘you find me in a disadvantaged state. Pray explain the meaning of what I can only describe as a bewildering predicament—‘

Acheron walked up to him and placed a friendly arm round his shoulders.

‘Ah, the sweet, sweet smell of success. Welcome to the twentieth century and reality. My name is Hades.’

Acheron extended a hand. The man bowed and shook it gratefully, mistakenly believing he had fallen among friends.

‘Your servant, Mr Hades. My name is Mr Quaverley, resident of Mrs Todger’s and a proctor by trade. I have to confess that I have no small notion of the large wonder that has been subjected to me, but pray tell me, since I see you are the master of this paradox, what has happened and how I can be of assistance.’

Acheron smiled and patted Mr Quaverley’s shoulder affectionately.

‘My dear Mr Quaverley! I could spend many happy hours in discussion with you about the essence of Dickensian narrative, but it would really be a waste of my precious time. Felix7, return to Swindon and leave Mr Quaverley’s body where it will be found in the morning.’

Felix7 took Mr. Quaverley firmly by the arm. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Oh, and Felix7—‘

‘Yes, sir?’

‘While you’re out, why don’t you quieten down that Sturmey Archer fellow? He’s of no earthly use to us any more.’

Felix7 dragged Mr Quaverley out of the door. Mycroft was weeping.

‘So who is this guy we’re going to see?’

‘Fellow named Sturmey Archer,’ replied Bowden as I pulled my car into the kerb. We found ourselves opposite a small factory unit that had a gentle glow of light showing through the windows.

‘A few years ago Crometty and myself had the extreme good fortune to arrest several members of a gang which had been attempting to peddle a rather poorly forged sequel to Coleridge’s “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner”. It was entitled “Rime II—the Mariner Returneth” but no one had been fooled. Sturmey avoided jail by turning state’s evidence. I’ve got some dirt on him about a Cardenio scam. I don’t want to use it, but I will if I have to.’

‘What makes you think he has anything to do with Crometty’s death?’

‘Nothing,’ said Bowden simply, ‘he’s just next on the list.’

We walked across in the gathering dusk. The streetlights were flickering on and the stars were beginning to appear in the twilit sky. In another half-hour it would be night.

Bowden thought about knocking but didn’t bother. He opened the door noiselessly and we crept in.

Sturmey Archer was a feeble-looking character who had spent too many years in institutions to be able to look after himself properly. Without designated bath times he didn’t wash and without fixed mealtimes he went hungry. He wore thick glasses and mismatched clothes and his face was a moonscape of healed acne. He made part of his living these days by casting busts of famous writers in plaster of Paris, but he had too much bad history to be kept on the straight. Other criminals blackmailed him into helping them and Sturmey, already a weak man, could do little to resist. It wasn’t surprising that, out of his forty-six years, only twenty had been spent at liberty.

Inside the workshop we came across a large workbench on which were placed about five hundred foot-high busts of Will Shakespeare, all of them in various states of completion. A large vat of plaster of Paris lay empty next to a rack containing twenty rubber casts; it seemed Sturmey had a big order on.

Archer himself was at the back of the shop indulging in his second profession, repairing Will-Speak machines. He had his hand up the back of an Othello as we crept up behind him.

The mannequin’s crude voice-box crackled as Sturmey made some trifling adjustments:

It is the cause, it is the cause, (click) yet I’ll not shed a drop of her blood, (click) nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow…