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“I was going to try the town. Aren’t you meant to be at Mr. Eshton’s?”
“I wanted to speak to you before I left. You will do all you can, won’t you?”
I assured him that I would do everything in my power and then set off for the town.
Millcote was a good-sized town. I made my way to the center, where I found a church, a stagecoach stop, three inns, a bank, two draper’s, a bagged-goods merchant and assorted other trades. It was market day and the town was busy. No one gave me a second glance as I walked through the stalls, which were piled high with winter produce and game. Apart from the faint odor of ink that pervaded the scene, it might have been real. The first hostelry I chanced across was The George. Since it was actually named in the book I supposed it might offer the best chance.
I entered and asked the innkeeper whether a man of large stature had taken a room at the inn that morning. The landlord proclaimed that he had not but added that his was not the only inn in the town. I thanked him and walked to the door, but was arrested by the incongruous sound of a camera shutter. I slowly turned around. Behind me was a Japanese couple, dressed in period costume but with one of them holding a large Nikon camera. The woman hastily tried to conceal the blatant anachronism and started to drag the man out of the door.
“Wait!”
They stopped and looked nervously at one other.
“What are you doing here?” I asked incredulously.
“Visiting from Osaka,” affirmed the woman, at which the man—he seemed not to speak English—nodded his head vigorously and started to consult a Brontë guidebook written in Japanese.
“How?—”
“My name is Mrs. Nakijima,” announced the woman, “and this is Mr. Suzuki.”
The man grinned at me and shook my hand excitedly.
“This is crazy!” I said angrily. “Are you trying to tell me that you two are tourists?”
“Indeed,” admitted Mrs. Nakijima, “I make the jump once a year and bring a visitor with me. We touch nothing and never speak to Miss Eyre. As you can see, we are dressed fittingly.”
“Japanese? In mid-nineteenth-century England?”
“Why not?”
Why not indeed.
“How do you manage it?”
The woman shrugged.
“I just can,” she answered simply. “I think hard, speak the lines and, well, here I am.”
I didn’t have time for this at all.
“Listen to me. My name is Thursday Next. I work with Victor Analogy at the Litera Tec office in Swindon. You heard about the theft of the manuscript?”
She nodded her head.
“There is a dark presence in this book but my plan to extract him is dependent on there being only one way in and one way out. He will stop at nothing to use you to get out if he can. I implore you to jump back home while you still can.”
Mrs. Nakijima consulted for some time with her client. She explained that Mr. Suzuki was hoping to see Jane if possible, but that if he were taken back now he would want a refund. I reiterated my position on the matter and they eventually agreed. I followed them to their room upstairs and waited while they packed. Mrs. Nakijima and Mr. Suzuki both shook me by the hand, held onto each other and evaporated. I shook my head sadly. It seemed there were very few places that the tourist business hadn’t touched.
I left the warmth of the inn for the chill exterior and made my way past a stall selling late root vegetables and onto The Millcote, where I inquired about any new guests.
“And who would be wanting to see Mr. Hedge?” inquired the innkeeper, spitting into and then polishing a crude beer mug.
“Tell him Miss Next is here to see him.”
The innkeeper vanished upstairs and returned presently.
“Room seven,” he replied shortly, and returned to his duties.
