‘Hello, Sturmey,’ said Bowden.

Sturmey jumped and shorted out the Othello’s controls. The dummy opened its eyes wide and gave out a terrified cry of MONUMENTAL ALABASTER! before falling limp. Sturmey glared at Bowden.

‘Creeping around at night, Mr Cable? Hardly like a LiteraTec, is it?’

Bowden smiled.

‘Let’s just say I’m rediscovering the joys of fieldwork. This is my new partner, Thursday Next.’

Archer nodded at me suspiciously. Bowden continued:

‘You heard about Jim Crometty, Sturmey?’

‘I heard,’ replied Archer with feigned sadness.

‘I wondered if you had any information you might want to impart?’

‘Me?’

He pointed at the plaster busts of Will Shakespeare.

‘Look at those. A fiver each wholesale to a Jap company that wants ten thou. The Japanese have built a seven-eighths-scale replica of Stratford-upon-Avon near Yokohama and love all this crap. Fifty grand, Cable, that’s literature I can relate to.’

‘And the Chuzzlewit manuscript?’ I asked. ‘How do you relate to that?’

He jumped visibly as I spoke.

‘I don’t,’ shrugged Sturmey in an unconvincing manner.

‘Listen, Sturmey,’ said Bowden, who had picked up on Archer’s nervousness, ‘I’d be really, really sorry to have to pull you in for questioning about that Cardenio scam.’

Archer’s lower lip trembled; his eyes darted between the two of us anxiously.

‘I don’t know anything, Mr Cable,’ he whined. ‘Besides, you don’t know what he would do.’

‘Who would do what, Sturmey?’

Then I heard it. A slight click behind us. I pushed Bowden in front of me; he tripped and collapsed on top of Sturmey, who gave a small cry that was drowned out by the loud concussion of a shotgun going off at close quarters. We were lucky; the blast hit the wall where we had been standing. I told Bowden to stay down and dashed low behind the workbench, trying to put some distance between myself and our assailant. When I reached the other side of the room I looked up and saw a man dressed in a black greatcoat holding a pump-action shotgun. He spotted me and I ducked as a blast from the shotgun scattered plaster fragments of Shakespeare all over me. The concussion of the shot had started up a mannequin of Romeo, who intoned pleadingly: He jests at scars, that never felt a wound. But soft! What light through yonder… until a second shot from the shotgun silenced him. I looked across at Bowden, who shook the plaster out of his hair and drew his revolver. I ran across to the far wall, ducking as our assailant fired again, once more shattering Archer’s carefully painted plaster statues. I heard Bowden’s revolver crack twice. I stood up and fired at our attacker, who had secreted himself in an office; my shots did nothing except splinter the wood on the door frame. Bowden fired again and his shot ricocheted off a cast-iron spiral staircase and hit a Will-Speak machine of Lord and Lady Macbeth; they started whispering to one another about the wisdom of murdering the King. I caught a glimpse of the man running across the room to outflank us. I had a clear view of him when he stopped, but as he did so Sturmey Archer stood up between us, blocking my shot. I couldn’t believe it.

‘Felix!’ cried Archer desperately. ‘You must help me! Dr. Mьller said—‘

Archer, sadly, had mistaken Felix7’s intentions but had little time to regret them as our assailant dispatched him swiftly at close range, then turned to make his escape. Bowden and I must have opened fire at once; Felix7 managed three paces before stumbling under the shots and falling heavily against some packing cases.

‘Bowden!’ I yelled. ‘You okay?’

He answered slightly unsteadily but in the affirmative. I advanced slowly on the fallen figure, who was breathing in short gasps, all the time watching me with a disconcertingly calm face. I kicked away the shotgun then ran a hand down his coat while holding my gun a few inches from his head. I found an automatic in a shoulder holster and a Walther PPK in an inside pocket. There was a twelve-inch knife and a baby Derringer in his other pockets. Bowden arrived at my side.

‘Archer?’ I asked.

‘Finished.’

‘He knew this clown. He called him Felix. Mentioned something about a Dr Mьller, too.’

Felix7 smiled up at me as I took out his wallet.

‘James Crometty!’ demanded Bowden. ‘Did you kill him?’

‘I kill a lot of people,’ whispered Felix7. ‘I don’t remember names.’

‘You shot him six times in the face.’

The dying killer smiled.

‘That I remember.’

‘Six times! Why?’

Felix7 frowned and started to shiver.

‘Six was all I had,’ he answered simply.

Bowden pulled the trigger of his revolver two inches from Felix7’s face. It was lucky for Bowden that the hammer fell harmlessly on the back of a spent cartridge. He threw the gun aside, picked up the dying man by the lapels and shook him.

‘WHO ARE YOU?’ he demanded.

‘I don’t even know myself,’ said Felix7 placidly. ‘I was married once, I think; and I had a blue car. There was an apple tree in the house where I grew up and I think I had a brother named Tom. The memories are vague and indistinct. I fear nothing because I value nothing. Archer is dead. My job is done. I have served my master; nothing else is of any consequence.’

He managed a wan smile.

‘Hades was right.’

‘About what?’

‘About you, Miss Next. You’re a worthy adversary.’

‘Die easy,’ I told him. ‘Where is Hades?’

He smiled for the last time and shook his head slowly. I had been trying to plug his wounds as he lay dying, but it was no good. His breathing became more laboured and finally stopped altogether.

‘That’s Mr Schitt to you, Next!’ said a voice behind us. We turned to see my second-least favourite person and two of his minders. He didn’t look in a terribly good mood. I surreptitiously pushed Felix7’s wallet under a workbench with my foot and stood up.

‘Move to the side.’

We did as we were told. One of Schitt’s men reached down and felt Felix7’s pulse. He looked up at Schitt and shook his head.

‘Any ID?’

The minder started to search him.

‘You’ve really screwed things up here, Next,’ said Schitt with barely concealed fury. ‘The only lead I’ve got is flatline. When I’ve finished with you, you’ll be lucky to get a job setting cones on the M4.’

I put two and two together.

‘You knew we were in here, didn’t you?’

He glared at me.

‘That man could have taken us to the ringleader and he has something that we want,’ asserted Schitt.

‘Hades?’

‘Hades is dead, Miss Next.’

‘Horseshit, Schitt. You know as well as I do that Hades is alive and well. What Hades has belongs to my uncle. And if I know my uncle, he would sooner destroy it for ever than sell out to Goliath.’

‘Goliath don’t buy, Next. They appropriate. If your uncle has developed a machine that can help in the defence of his country, then it is his duty to share it.’

‘Is it worth the life of two officers?’

‘Most certainly. SpecOps officers die pointlessly every day. If we can, we should try our best to make those deaths worthwhile.’

‘If Mycroft dies through your negligence, I swear to God—!’

Jack Schitt was unimpressed. ‘You really have no idea who you are talking to, do you, Next?’

‘I’m talking to someone whose ambition has throttled his morality.’

‘Wrong. You’re talking to Goliath, a company that has the welfare of England foremost in its heart; everything that you see about you has been given to this country by the benevolence of Goliath. Is it little wonder that the Corporation should expect a small amount of gratitude in return?’

‘If Goliath is as selfless as you suggest, Mr Schitt, then they should expect nothing in return.’