‘Edward—?’

‘Quite well, my young friend. Come, let me take you to a warmer part of the hotel.’

‘Will I see my Edward again?’

Hades smiled.

‘It rather depends on how valuable people think you are.’

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!’

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.