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Bowden spoke up.
“What were his precise words?”
“He said ‘Guess,’ then repeated it but it turned into a yell— he was in grave pain at the time. The conversation was recorded but there is about as much chance as getting hold of that as—”
“Maybe he meant something else.”
“Like what, Bowden?”
“I really only speak tourist Welsh but ‘Gwesty’ means hotel.”
“Oh my God,” said Victor.
“Victor?” I queried, but he was busy rummaging in a large pile of maps we had accumulated; each of them had a Pen-deryn of some sort marked on it. He spread a large street plan of Merthyr Tydfil out on the table and pointed at a place just between the Palace of justice and Government House. We craned to see where his finger was pointing but the location was unmarked.
“The Penderyn Hotel,” announced Victor grimly. “I spent my honeymoon there. Once the equal of the Adelphi or Raffles, it’s been empty since the sixties. If I wanted a safe haven—”
“He’s there,” I announced, looking at the map of the Welsh capital city uneasily. “That’s where we’ll find him.”
“And how do you suppose we’ll manage to enter Wales undetected, make our way into a heavily guarded area, snatch My-croft and the manuscript and get out in one piece?” asked Bowden. “It takes a month to even get a visa!”
“We’ll find a way in,” I said slowly.
“You’re crazy!” said Victor. “Braxton would never allow it!”
“That’s where you come in.”
“Me? Braxton doesn’t listen to me.”
“I think he’s about to start.”
29.
Jane Eyre
Jane Eyre was published in 1847 under the pseudonym Currer Bell, a suitably neuter name that disguised Charlotte Brontë’s sex. It was a great success; William Thackeray described the novel as “The master work of a great genius.” Not that the book was without its critics: G. H. Lewes suggested that Charlotte should study Austen’s work and “correct her shortcomings in the light of that great artist’s practice.” Charlotte replied that Miss Austen’s work was barely—in the light of what she wanted to do—a novel at all. She referred to it as “a highly cultivated garden with no open country.” The jury is still out.
W.H.H.F.RENOUF
—The Brontës
HOBBES SHOOK his head in the relative unfamiliarity of the corridors of Rochester’s home, Thornfield Hall. It was night and a deathly hush had descended on the house. The corridor was dark and he fumbled for his torch. A glimmer of orange light stabbed the darkness as he walked slowly along the upstairs hall. Ahead of him he could see a door which was slightly ajar, through which showed a thin glimmer of candlelight. He paused by the door and peered around the corner. Within he could see a woman dressed in tatters and with wild unkempt hair pouring oil from a lantern onto the covers under which Rochester lay asleep. Hobbes got his bearings; he knew that Jane would soon be in to put out the fire, but from which door he had no way of knowing. He turned back into the corridor and nearly leaped out of his skin as he came face to face with a large, florid-looking woman. She smelled strongly of drink, had an aggressive countenance and glared at him with thinly disguised contempt. They stood staring at each other for some moments, Hobbes wondering what to do and the woman wavering slightly, her eyes never leaving his. Hobbes panicked and went for his gun, but with wholly unlikely speed the woman caught his arm and held it pinched so tightly that it was all he could do to stop yelling out in pain.
“What are you doing here?” she hissed, one eyebrow twitching.
“Who in Christ’s name are you?” asked Hobbes.
She smacked him hard across the face; he staggered before recovering.
“My name is Grace Poole,” said Grace Poole. “In service I might be, but you have no right to utter the Lord’s name in vain. I can see by your attire that you do not belong here. What do you want?”
“I’m, um, with Mr. Mason,” he stammered.
“Rubbish,” she replied, staring at him dangerously.
“I want Jane Eyre,” he stammered.
“So does Mr. Rochester,” she replied in a matter-of-fact tone. “But he doesn’t even kiss her until page one hundred and eighty-one.”
