The Woman Who Died a Lot

“Well,” said Finisterre, who was in no doubt as to the unique value of the library, “I’d like to catalog all this in situ, then take the books to my team of conservators to be copied and—”

He stopped because there was a sharp report far below in the convent.

“What was that?”

“A shot,” I said, “but then we are in the middle of a firing range.”

“Range fire is softened by distance,” replied Daisy expertly. “closer ones are a crack— and that was a crack. Sister Henrietta, close the scriptorium door and defend the library to the death.”

“We use a similar oath in the Wessex Library Service,” murmured Finisterre. “Thursday, do you still carry two pistols?”

“On my right ankle—but you’ll have to get it. I can’t bend that far. Landen has to put on my socks these days.”

“Isn’t he just the perfect husband?” murmured Daisy sarcastically. She was herself searching through the folds of her habit and produced a very ancient-looking Colt.

“How do I fire this thing?” she asked, showing it to me.

“Pull back the hammer, push this lever down,” I said, “and, to fire, squeeze the grip safety and trigger. The bullets come out here.”

“Cow.”

“Moo.”

I drew my own automatic, released the safety, and we all stood facing the stairway entrance.

“Is there another way in?” I asked.

“The roof,” said Daisy, “next floor up. But don’t worry—it’s bolted from the inside and can’t be reached from the ground.”

As she spoke, there was a muffled detonation from somewhere far below us. We all looked at one another.

“Word has gotten out the treasures within our walls,” said Mother Daisy. “I fear for my library.”

I thought quickly. If I were planning a raid on the library, I would use a diversion and attack from where it was least expected.

“You stay here and open fire at anything that comes up the stairs that isn’t in black and white. I’m going to keep an eye on the entrance to the roof.”

I didn’t wait for a reply, as sporadic gunfire was now ringing out downstairs, along with shouts and cries as the nuns returned fire. I limped up the steps to the next floor, which was a similar room to the one below—made of stone, lined with books and smelling of damp and birds’ nests. Above me in the ceiling was a large wooden hatch that was bolted from the inside. I took up station behind a stone pillar and waited. The windows gave little light and were too narrow to climb through. If an attack were forthcoming, this was where it would come from.

I raised my pistol in readiness as with eerie predictability the hatch blew inward with an almighty concussion. I was vaguely conscious of firing off one shot, probably by accident, and the next moment I was lying on my back among shards of wood, cobwebs and dust. Ears ringing, I struggled to sit up. I even halfheartedly raised my pistol, only to have it removed from my hand by a smiling face that I recognized. It was Jack Schitt.

We’d crossed swords many times in the past, and I kind of thought we had reached something of a truce when his wife died and I returned her locket to him. In fact, the last I heard, he was retired. But the odd thing about this was that Goliath wasn’t really into violent assaults on libraries—they always favored stealing stuff by persuasive arguments “for the greater good” and, when that failed, veiled threats, legal action and sneaky behavior. This wasn’t their style, and, to be honest, Jack was getting a bit long in the tooth for fieldwork—as was I.

“Shit and ballocks,” I said, more through frustration than anger.

“Language, Thursday.”

Jack dropped the magazine from my pistol, pulled back the slide to eject the unfired round and tossed the empty weapon to the other side of the room. He paused to bolt the door to the lower levels of the scriptorium and then looked thoughtfully about the room. He didn’t seem to be in much of a hurry.

“We’ve not even begun to catalog it yet,” I said. “I hope you’ve got some time on your hands.”

He ignored me and moved past the shelves, his fingertips brushing the spines of the books. He wasn’t choosing a book by reading the spines; indeed, there was nothing written on many of them. It appeared that he was sensing the book he was searching for, and after a moment he stopped, paused and drew out a volume.

“Goliath stealing antiquarian books?” I said. “Bit of a comedown, isn’t it?”

He had opened the book and answered without looking at me. “What are you doing here, Next?”

“Playing silly buggers,” I told him, slowly crawling into a position from where I might be able to get to my feet.

“I meant in particular,” he said with a smile, “not in general.”

There was more gunfire from the floor below. It looked as though the diversionary attack had been utterly successful—in that it was diversionary. I got to my feet and staggered across the room to where he had thrown my pistol. He saw what I was doing but didn’t seem that put out by it. I picked up the weapon, then glanced around to see where he had thrown the clip.