The Woman Who Died a Lot: A Thursday Next Novel (23 page)

“Do I have to talk to insane people?”

“You’re a librarian now. I’m afraid it’s mandatory.” 

“Hmm. Okay, Smalls first, then Goliath, then Hilly, then Bunty.”

Duffy nodded, made a note on his clipboard and opened the door to admit Phoebe. I smiled agreeably. I didn’t much care for her, but we needed to get along.

“Detective Smalls,” I said, rising to welcome her.

“Chief Librarian Next,” she replied, shaking my hand. I gestured her to the sofas.

“That’s a bit of a mouthful,” I said. “Better call me Thursday.”

“Then you must call me Phoebe. You’ve recovered well from the attack at the Lobsterhood yesterday.”

“I got lucky. One of the hinges from the trapdoor embedded itself into an Aeschylus only inches above my head. Coffee?” 

“Thank you.”

Duffy took the cue and moved silently to the coffee machine while Phoebe looked around her.

“This is very plush.”

“Libraries have been monstrously overfunded these past thirteen years,” I said. “The librarians had to take industrial action when the city council threatened to have gold taps put in the washrooms. Mind you, that will all change. I think you’re getting some of our funding.”

“Fifty million that I know of,” she said.

I raised an eyebrow. Fifty million was a third of our budget. “But we have to fund the Special Library Services out of that,” she added.

This made it a lot easier—Wexler’s team was expensive. 

“Tell me,” she continued, “do you think Colonel Wexler is mad?”

“Yes, but in a good way. Got anyone on your staff yet?” 

“A few trigger-happy nutters who were too mentally unstable even for SO-5. I told them to sod off—I want to keep gratuitous violence
inside
books, where it belongs.”

“Very wise. Your watch is slow.”

She looked at me oddly and pulled up her sleeve. The watch was a Reverso—the face was hidden. She flipped it over. “You’re right. How did you know?”

“I can hear it tick. And it’s ticking slowly. Not important. Anything on the ‘stolen thirteenth-century codex’ question?” 

She pulled out a small pocketbook and turned to a page marked with a rubber band. “Possibly. Out of the eighty-three reported bibliothefts over the past month, only two had the same modus operandi. One in Bath and another in Lancaster. Exactly the same. Torn-out pages, then destroyed, but with the rest of the book left untouched.”

“Both by St. Zvlkx?”

“Bingo. The first a gazetteer of taverns in the Oxford area that give credit and the second a list of credible excuses to give your bishop if he thinks you’re misappropriating church funds— neither of them valuable nor particularly rare.”

“That links the books,” I said, wondering if Jack Schitt had been there on each occasion. “What are your thoughts?” 

“I did some research into St. Zvlkx, and I was struck by a recurring theme in his life.”

“You mean his stealing, debauchery, embezzlement, drunkenness and the total absence of pastoral care or moral rectitude?” 

“I was thinking more of his
meanness
. St. Zvlkx was notoriously tight-fisted. It was said that Augustus IV, the ‘Bouncing Bishop’ of Salisbury, joked that his idea of eternity would be dinner with St. Zvlkx and Kevin of Kent, waiting for one of them to pick up the tab.”

“So?”

“Zvlkx would
never
have used fresh vellum in his books, because it would cut into his drinking funds. He probably used secondhand books, dismantled them, scraped the vellum clean and then reused them. It’s only a guess, but I think the thief was looking for palimpsests.”

I could see what she was getting at. A palimpsest was the ghostly image of the original writing that was just still visible on the reused sheet of vellum. If the writing was from a long-lost book, it would be of inestimable value.

“Good thought,” I murmured.

“There’s more.”

She reached into her bag and brought out a thirteenth-century book wrapped in acid-free paper. She placed it on the coffee table and donned a pair of latex gloves to unwrap it. “This is Lord Volescamper’s copy of St. Zvlkx’s
Book of Revealments.
It wasn’t one of the books that was vandalized by our mystery book damagers. I had a look under UV light, and I can just see the original text beneath St. Zvlkx’s prophecies. I’m thinking that
all
St. Zvlkx’s original works were written on recycled vellum.”

“Any idea of the source book?”

She smiled. “Let’s see how good you are, Chief Librarian.” She opened the book at a marked page and pushed it across.

I looked closely. There was some text written sideways beneath St. Zvlkx’s Second Revealment, the one predicting the Spanish Armada, or, as he called it the “Sail of the Century.” 

“It looks like a copy of the Venerable Keith’s
Principia Accounticia.
” I murmured, and Phoebe was suitably impressed. The Venerable Keith had been a contemporary of St. Zvlkx’s and also the accountant for the bishop of Swindon between 1276 and 1294. The
Evadum,
as it was known, explained the new science of utilizing loss-making companies to offset tax liability against profit. Monks couldn’t hand-copy them fast enough.

“There were lots of copies,” I said, “which was probably why St. Zvlkx could buy them up cheap to scrape clean and rebind in order to peddle his own rubbish.”

“I agree,” said Phoebe, producing another book, this time Zvlkx’s treatise on herbal remedies for “unwonted flaccidity,”
A Short Historie of Thyme.

I stared at the two books. It still didn’t tell us why Jack Schitt and Goliath were destroying parts of worthless thirteen century books, even if they
did
have palimpsests of almost equally banal titles beneath them. Still, I was seeing the Goliath rep next, so it was possible I could rattle that tree a bit and see what fell out.

“I know,” said Phoebe, sensing my confusion. “Doesn’t make much sense, does it?”

I picked up the phone, punched a button and asked to be put through to Finisterre.

“You’re right, it makes no sense at all,” I said to Phoebe. “But at least we know what they’re after. . . . James? Thursday. I’ve got Detective Smalls here, and she’s found a link between the vandalizations. . . .
St. Zvlkx books.
There have been three including the one at the Lobsterhood. Place the library’s copies under armed guard.”

I put the phone down, and Smalls got up.

“I hope I’ve been candid,” she said.

“Very.”

“In that case perhaps you can tell me who was in the scriptorium yesterday? I think you’re not telling me everything you know.”

So I did, which wasn’t much, but Jack Schitt’s presence clearly implicated Goliath, which she didn’t like the sound of. Few people did. Tangling with the Goliath Corporation generally left you in one of two places: inside a wooden box with a grieving family outside or inside a wooden box under six feet of soil with family wondering where you were. The former was if they didn’t hold a grudge. I’d probably be the latter.

“Ready for the Goliath rep?” asked Duffy as soon as Phoebe had left.

My cell phone rang. It was Millon.

“Give me two minutes,” I said to Duffy. “Millon?”

“I’m outside the hotel,” he said, “and you were right. The Goliath cleanup squad has just left. Took everything in the back of a van.”

Millon had tracked Krantz down to the seedy Substation Hotel at three that morning. He’d found Krantz facedown on the floor of Room 27, stone dead and looking pretty dreadful, even for a corpse at the Substation. A quick examination confirmed what Landen had thought—the corpse wasn’t Krantz but his Day Player. Next to him was an empty Tupperware sarcophagus and no sign of any others. He had come here, activated a new Day Player, waited until he was transferred, then left. The room left few clues. We still had no idea what he was doing. But we did know that Krantz had another couple days of life left in him and would be stronger, smarter and fitter. He would be harder to find, too, and, when found, harder to tackle. Still, at least we didn’t have to worry about reporting any of this to the authorities. The Goliath cleaners would have removed all trace of Krantz and, since they were experts, left intact the crusty mat of human hair, spilled beer and dried body fluids that the Substation impudently referred to as “carpet.”

I thanked Millon, told him to keep looking for the New Krantz and rang off.

I turned back to Duffy. “Listen, this may sound seriously weird, but I might turn up and not be myself one day, and if that happens, I need you to call my husband on this number and tell him that his wife isn’t who she thinks she is.”

“You’re wrong.”

“About what?”

“It’s not seriously weird, it’s
obscenely
weird. How can you not be you, and how am I supposed to know anyway?”

“Easily. See this tattoo? It’s to remind ourselves that Jenny is a mindworm. Not mine, of course, but my husband’s. I’ll explain about Aornis one day, and if you’re wondering why I have the tattoo on
my
hand and not Landen’s, I meant to find out this morning but forgot to drop in to Image Ink—again.”

Duffy stared at me, single eyebrow raised. “What tattoo?”

“This one—”

But he was right. I didn’t have one.
Damn.
Replaced again.

“I
thought
it was weird that I could hear Phoebe’s watch ticking slowly,” I muttered.

I thought quickly—which fortunately I was now able to do— and worked my movements backward. I’d struggled to get into the Daimler at the Substation Hotel, so I was real me then. I could remember arriving at the secure entrance at the near of the library, then walking through the building to the front office and riding up the elevators. Real Me was somewhere between those places—in a store cupboard, I hoped, and more comfortable this time. I called Landen and told him what had happened.

“It wasn’t unexpected,” he said after a moment or two of reflection. “Do you want me to come and kill you again?”

“That’s very sweet of you, darling, but I need to make sure real me is safe. The password was ‘has to be there overnight’ after you say, ‘When it absolutely, positively.’”

Landen was silent for a moment. “You didn’t have to tell me you’d been replaced, did you?”

“I needed you to know you could trust me.”

“Okay, now I trust you—whatever body you happen to be in.”

“Thank you, pumpkin. Have the car in the loading bay at lunchtime so we can bundle Real Me in the back. And, Landen?”

“Yes?”

“I’m having those feelings again.”

“There’s nothing you can do about them, so just think of something else until we put an end to you and we can have you back.”

“I’m not going to get rid of this me. Not yet.”

There was another long silence from Landen. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“I hope so, too, but I’m not offering any guarantees.”

“That’s my girl.”

He rang off, and I turned to Duffy, who had the largest frown I have ever seen etched in the forehead of anyone, before or since.

“Okay,” he said in a resigned manner, “
now
are we ready for the Goliath rep?”

I jumped up and glanced in the mirror behind the desk. I looked sickeningly well, and I wanted Lupton to think I was the real, damaged me. He knew about the contents of the Tupperware sarcophagus, and his knowing I was a Thursday Day Player was the sort of interest I didn’t want right now.

“I’m going to need a walking stick, a red felt marker and a box of Band-Aids—and you’re going to have to be quick.”

“Certainly, ma’am. But I must say I’m concerned. Your behavior seems somewhat . . .
erratic.
”

“Ha!” I said with a grin. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”

22.

Wednesday: Goliath

All cities had a representative from the Goliath Corporation to guide and lobby for the company’s interests, of which it had many. Because Goliath catered for everything from the cradle to the grave, it was hard to find a decision in which the corporation’s representative would not have some sort of opinion. Councils loved them. They were like a trade union, management consultancy, retailers’ association and consumer association all in one. You could, in fact, talk to one person about almost everything— except impartiality.

Milton Tablitt,
A Guide to the Goliath Corporation

D
uffy nodded to the Goliath representative who entered my office. He was immaculately turned out in a dark blue suit and carried with him the unmistakable air of supreme confidence that only connection to the planet’s dominant corporate enterprise could supply.

“Hello, Thursday.”

I should have been surprised, but I wasn’t. It was Jack Schitt. “Well, well,” I said, “do I call you Jack Schitt or Adrian Dorset?”

“Either,” he replied, as the less polite epithet was the name by which he had become known in the ghostwritten Thursday books—to guard against lawsuits, apparently. I thought quickly. He would know that I had seen an empty Tupperware box at the Finis, but that would be all he could be sure about. I would have to be careful.

“Most people call me Jack these days. I think it’s a form of ironic humor. Can we speak alone?”

I nodded to Duffy, who went out and closed the door behind him. I heaved myself to my feet in a clumsy manner using the stick that Duffy had provided. I could see Jack looking at me with interest. My gait, my hand where I had drawn the tattoo on with a felt-tip, and the Band-Aids I had placed on my face— precisely in the places Real Me had been cut during the fight at the Lobsterhood. I lumbered to the coffee machine and poured him a cup.

“So where’s the usual rep?” I asked, offering him a seat on the sofa.

“Representative Cornball is engaged on . . . other duties. I’m taking over for a few days.”

“We’re honored,” I said, setting the coffee in front of him and then clumsily sitting down myself—a sort of controlled descent for two-thirds of the way, then a drop onto the cushions from there. If he was suspicious, he didn’t show it.