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“Ah.”
The receptionist leaned closer and lowered her voice.
“To tell you the truth, Miss Next, I hate Milton. His early stuff is okay, I suppose, but he disappeared up his own arse after Charlie got his head lopped off. Goes to show what too much republicanism does for you.”
“Quite.”
“I almost forgot. These are for you.”
She produced a bunch of flowers from under the desk as if in a conjuring trick.
“From a Mr. Landen Parke-Laine—”
Blast. Rumbled.
“—and there are two gentlemen waiting in the Cheshire Cat for you.”
“The Cheshire Cat?”
“It’s our fully stocked and lively bar. Tended to by professional and helpful bar staff, it is a warm and welcoming area in which to relax.”
“Who are they?”
“The bar staff?”
“No, the two gentlemen.”
“They didn’t give any names.”
“Thank you, Miss?—”
“Barrett-Browning,” said the receptionist, “Liz Barrett-Browning.”
“Well, Liz, keep the flowers. Make your boyfriend jealous. If Mr. Parke-Laine calls again, tell him I died of hemorrhagic fever or something.”
I pushed my way through the throng of Miltons and onto the Cheshire Cat. It was easy to find. Above the door was a large red neon cat on a green neon tree. Every couple of minutes the red neon flickered and went out, leaving the cat’s grin on its own in the tree. The sound of a jazz band reached my ears from the bar as I walked across the lobby, and a smile crossed my lips as I heard the unmistakable piano of Holroyd Wilson. He was a Swindon man, born and bred. He could have played any bar in Europe with one phone call, but he had chosen to remain in Swindon. The bar was busy but not packed, the clientele mostly Miltons, who were sitting around drinking and joking, lamenting the Restoration and referring to each other as John.
I went up to the bar. It was happy hour in the Cheshire Cat, any drink for 52.5 p.
“Good evening,” said the barman. “Why is a raven like a writing desk?”
“Because Poe wrote on both?”
“Very good.” He laughed. “What’s it to be?”
“A half of Vorpal’s special, please. The name’s Next. Anyone waiting for me?”
The barman, who was dressed like a hatter, indicated a booth on the other side of the room in which two men were sitting, partially obscured by shadows. I took my drink and walked over. The room was too full for anyone to start any trouble. As I drew closer I could see the two men more clearly.
The elder of the two was a gray-haired gentleman in his mid-seventies. He had large mutton-chop sideburns and was dressed in a neat tweed suit with a silk bow tie. His hands were holding a pair of brown gloves on top of his walking stick and I could see a deerstalker hat on the seat next to him. His face had a ruddy appearance, and as I approached he threw back his head and laughed like a seal at something the younger man had said.
The man opposite him was aged about thirty. He sat on the front of his seat in a slightly nervous manner. He sipped at a tonic water and wore a pinstripe suit that was expensive but had seen better days. I knew I had seen him before somewhere but couldn’t think where.
“You gentlemen looking for me?”
They both got up together. The elder of the two spoke first.
“Miss Next? Delighted to make your acquaintance. The name’s Analogy. Victor Analogy. Head of Swindon LiteraTecs. We spoke on the phone.”
