‘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.