The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [57]
“Yes, yes and yes. But you forgot murderer. Forty-two times a murderer, my friend. The first one is always the hardest. After that it doesn’t really matter, they can only hang you once. It’s a bit like eating a packet of shortbread; you can never just have one piece.” He laughed again. “I had a run-in with your niece, you know. She survived, although,” he added, in case Mycroft erroneously believed there was a vestige of goodness in his dark soul, “that wasn’t the way I had planned it.”
“Why are you doing this?” asked Mycroft.
“Why?” repeated Acheron. “Why? Why, for fame, of course!” he boomed. “You see, gentlemen?—” The others nodded obediently. “Fame!” he repeated. “And you can share that fame!—”
He ushered Mycroft over to his desk and dug out a file of press clippings.
“Look what the papers say about me!”
He held up a cutting proudly.
HADES 74 WEEKS AT TOP OF
“MOST-WANTED” LIST
“Impressive, eh?” he said proudly. “How about this one?”
TOAD READERS VOTE HADES
“LEAST FAVORITE PERSON”
“The Owl said that execution was too good for me and The Mole wanted Parliament to reintroduce breaking on the wheel.”
He showed the snippet to Mycroft.
“What do you think?”
“I think,” began Mycroft, “that you could have used your vast intellect far more usefully by serving mankind instead of stealing from it.”
Acheron looked hurt.
“Where’s the fun in that? Goodness is weakness, pleasantness is poisonous, serenity is mediocrity and kindness is for losers. The best reason for committing loathsome and detestable acts—and let’s face it, I am considered something of an expert in this field—is purely for their own sake. Monetary gain is all very well, but it dilutes the taste of wickedness to a lower level that is obtainable by almost anyone with an overdeveloped sense of avarice. True and baseless evil is as rare as the purest good—”
“I’d like to go home.”
“Of course!” said Acheron, smiling. “Hobbes, open the door.”
The man nearest the door opened it and stepped aside. The large door led to the lobby of the old hotel.
“I don’t speak Welsh,” murmured Mycroft.
Hobbes shut the door and rebolted it.
“Bit of a drawback in Merthyr, old boy,” said Acheron, smiling. “You’d not get far without it.”
Mycroft looked at Hades uneasily.
“But Polly!—”
“Ah, yes!” replied Hades. “Your delightful wife.” He pulled out the copy of “I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud” and produced a large gold lighter, which he ignited with a flourish.
“No!—” cried Mycroft, taking several steps forward. Acheron arched an eyebrow, the flame nearly touching the paper.
“I’ll stay and help you,” said Mycroft wearily.
A broad grin broke out on Hades’s features. He put the poem back in his pocket.
“Stout fellow! You won’t regret this.”
He thought for a moment.
“Actually, you probably will.”
Mycroft sat unsteadily on a handy chair.
“By the by,” went on Hades, “have I introduced you to all my fiendish compatriots?”
Mycroft shook his head sadly.
“No? Most remiss. The man with the gun over there is Mr. Delamare. His obedience is matched only by his stupidity. He does everything I say and would die for me if necessary. A sort of human red setter, if you will. He has an IQ below that of a Neanderthal and believes only what he reads in The Gad-fly. Mr. Delamare, my friend, have you committed your wicked act today?”
“Yes, Mr. Hades. I drove at seventy-three miles per hour.”
Hades frowned.
“That doesn’t sound very wicked.”
Delamare chuckled.
“Through the mall?”
Hades wagged an approving finger and smiled a wicked smile.
“Very good.”
“Thank you, Mr. Hades.”
“Over there is Mr. Hobbes. He is an actor of some distinction whose talents the English Shakespeare Company foolishly decides to ignore. We will try and rectify that fault; is that not so, Mr. Hobbes?”
“It is, sire,” responded Mr. Hobbes, bowing low with a flourish. He was dressed in tights, a leather jerkin and codpiece. He had been passed over for every major part with the ESC for ten years, relegated to walk-ons and understudying. He had become so dangerously unstable that even