“How sweet! My cousin Arnold had a great auk once called Beany—he was Version 1.4 so didn’t live long. I understand they’re a lot better these days. I’ll reserve your little friend a place. Enjoy your stay. I hope you have an interest in seventeenth-century lyrical poets.”

“Only professionally.”

“Lecturer?”

“Litera Tec.”

“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.