The Woman Who Died a Lot

“There weren’t any, were there?”

“Not one,” said Phoebe, “but we’ll resolve that soon enough. Now, this is SO-27 jurisdiction. The debrief, Next.”

“It’s our jurisdiction,” I said simply.

“How do you figure that?” she demanded, her mood angrier by the second. “Scriptorium, theft,thirteenth-century codices— what could be more Literary Detective about it?”

“We’ve given the Lobsterhood book collection Wessex Library status,” I said. “This library and all within comes under our control. The Special Library Services troops are legally empowered to shoot to kill. I can ask SO-27 for assistance, but that’s as far as it goes.”

Phoebe Smalls looked at me, then at Mother Daisy, who nodded agreement. Smalls could have carried on in a dopey rant, but she was smart enough to know that yelling would be pointless and degrading, plus there was a better-than-good chance I knew what I was doing.

“Very well,” she said at last. “SO-27 offers every assistance to the library in this matter. But I’d like to be kept in the loop,” she added in a softer tone, “simply as a professional courtesy.”

“Okay,” I replied, “here it is: Thieves of unknown origin with an unknown motive destroyed a single leaf from a book with marginal value, literary merits or rarity.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. But,” I added, “there might be a Goliath angle to this, and if someone is monkeying around with thirteenth-century codices for no reason, all antiquarian suppliers, dealers and collectors need to be informed so they can increase security. You can do that better than I.”

“It might not be the first time this has happened,” said Phoebe thoughtfully. “I’ll run through reports of any unexplained vandalism in the lucrative and highly buoyant seriously-ancientcodex market.”

It wasn’t a good idea—it was a great idea. So great that I should have been the one making it.

“Goes without saying,” I said, and she flashed me a quizzical look.

“I’m glad to see we can work together,” she said. “I’ll have my staff make it happen. When I get staff. Shit. I’ll be doing it.” She paused. “What sort of Goliath angle?”

“I don’t know,” I replied. “They have lots of angles. It shouldn’t be too hard to find two dozen. We can narrow it down from there.”

“Right. May I ask a favor in return?”

“Sure.”

“Would you have a word with Bowden Cable? I need a good deputy, and he’d be pretty much perfect.”

“He’s very happy working at Acme Carpets,” I said, “but I’ll ask him.”

She nodded, placed her armed police under the command of Colonel Wexler, then departed. If she couldn’t get any staff to work for her—SpecOps was always voluntary—then the department could be closed as quickly as it had been reopened. It wouldn’t affect Braxton’s wasteful-budget policy, as there were plenty other SpecOps departments in which to squander money.

Finisterre vented some steam from the condensers before winding the craft up to liftoff power.

“All right back there?” he asked.

Sister Megan was with Sister Henrietta, whose kneecap had been placed back in position and then covered with bandages. The blood was already seeping through. We asked for an expedited transit of the Salisbury range and were at the Lola Vavoom Discount Sofa Warehouse See Press for Details Memorial Hospital less than twenty minutes later.

“Are you sure you don’t want to be checked over?” asked Finisterre after we had offloaded the recently renamed Brother Henry. “Bruised and sore, but I’ll be fine,” I told him. “Despite being pretty much useless, I actually enjoyed myself.”

“Don’t get too used to it. You’re chief librarian now: less running around waving a pistol and more in charge of policy and procurement, appointments and budget responsibility.”

“I am, aren’t I?”

If I had clout, it was time to use it. I called the office to tell Duffy that I needed to see Swindon’s Goliath representative in my office first thing in the morning “as a matter of the utmost urgency.”

Duffy said he would take care of it, then asked me what time I wanted to be picked up in my car in the morning and whether I had any “dietary considerations” as regarding lunch. I was going to tell him I didn’t need a car, but since I couldn’t drive myself and it wasn’t fair to use Landen as a taxi service, I told him 9:00 A.M. and that I ate most things except okra and marzipan.

“James?” I said as soon as I had rung off.

“Yes?” he replied, scooting low across Liddington Castle as he made the short hop to Aldbourne.

“Why did we only find Crabbe’s descender?”

We had been to look at Jack and Crabbe’s escape route before Smalls had arrived. The rope was still there, and the descender used by Crabbe—but no sign of Jack’s.

“Logic would dictate that he escaped using another method. Not sure how, though—a BASE jump would be the only other way out, but there was no evidence of a parachute either. Unless you have any bright ideas?”

I didn’t, which raised the question: If Jack didn’t parachute out and didn’t go down the rope, how did he escape?

19. Tuesday: Home