Chapter 2
The next morning, Steed was speeding over to Whitehall, listening to the smooth precision of the Bentley's engine. He wanted to check the inventory of items that Blackpoole had in his possession when he died. It was possible that there were more clues than just an old book. He roared into the parking lot, barely pausing long enough to flash his ID to the guard, although he was recognized immediately from his car. Since he was generally undercover, trips in person to the Ministry were rare for him; but not so rare that the sight of the large green machine could be easily forgotten.
Steed slowly picked his way down a rear stairwell to a suite of rooms in the basement of the building. The department located there must have had an official name, but to everyone who used its services, it was simply referred to as 'Cleanup'.
The man working at the counter was young. Still, he understood what to do when Steed approached and simply spoke the word "Blackpoole." The young man vanished into a back room, returning shortly with a small box.
"Here you go, Mr. Steed."
Steed tried to hide his surprise at the use of his name. "You seem to have been expecting me."
"I have access to a large number of communication channels, sir." The young man offered no more explanation than this.
"I was told Blackpoole had a book in his possession when he was found," Steed ventured.
"Yes, sir. It was sent off for analysis."
"Is there anything in this box that you would recommend to my attention?"
"Yes. This item is very significant." The young man handed Steed a folded paper flier from the box.
"The LSWB?" Steed asked, reading the letters from the crest at the top of the page.
"The Literary Society of Wootton Bassett, sir," the young man answered politely. "Also known as 'The Bassett Bookhounds'."
"You've done a little research." Steed smiled at the initiative.
"They're a bit of an elite group," the young man explained. "Mostly academicians and researchers. They meet at a small private library just outside of Wootton Bassett; the address is on the flier. There's a meeting tonight at six o'clock, so you could make it out to Wiltshire in time. But I've heard they hardly ever let anyone join. Very snooty, apparently."
"Or secretive," Steed added. "What would I need to do to join?"
"Convince them you're an expert in nineteenth century literature, I suppose. Do you have a pair of spectacles in your disguise kit, Mr. Steed?"
"It wouldn't help. The only things I've read from the nineteenth century are Dickens and Disraeli. But I think I know someone who can pull it off. Can I keep this?" Steed indicated the flier.
"Certainly, sir. By the way, Forty-six says you should stop by the Armourer before you leave. They have some new gear they're rolling out."
"Thank you. You've been most helpful—?" Steed prompted him for a name.
"Thornton, sir."
"You've been most helpful, Thornton."
Steed strolled down the hall to the Armoury. He would have to hurry to make it out to Wootton Bassett. He passed through a large steel gate and down some stairs into a heavily-bricked subbasement. The constant hum of ventilation equipment filled the air.
An older man was fiddling with some sort of timer mechanism at a workbench. He looked up as he saw Steed approach.
"You have something for me?" Steed asked evenly.
The Armourer slid off his stool and went over to a storage locker. He pulled out a box filled with hats. Steed raised his eyebrow.
"These are the latest in steel-lined headgear," the Armourer began. "Strong and lightweight alloys, useful both for protection and as a projectile."
"I'm happy with the one I have," Steed remarked. "Must I?"
"Forty-Six would be cross with me if I let anyone out of here without one," the Armourer chided. "Look, how about a nice fedora, eh? Or a Scottish tam, just right for action in the Highlands," he added in an abysmal brogue.
"Just give me a bowler."
"You always take the bowler. How can you claim to be undercover when you always wear the same thing?" The Armourer checked the box, then sighed when he couldn't find one. He vanished into the back room and emerged shortly with a bowler in his hand.
"Here you go. The weight and balance are completely different than the last model, so you'll need to practice. Why don't you throw it at the target over there." It was an order, not a question.
"Forehand or backhand?" Steed asked roguishly.
"Backhand flip. Extend your arm fully to point at the target on your follow-through."
Steed's flip was instantaneous and effortless. The bowler whistled across the room and embedded in the cork wall within a quarter-inch of the bullseye.
"I see," the Armourer said curtly, "that practice is not necessary."
Steed walked over and retrieved the hat. "And how is this model better than the last?"
"You won't be able to dent this one, I promise you. We've made some breakthroughs in metallurgy."
"Then this is the last one I'll ever need," Steed smiled.
"Unless you lose it, so don't lose it. Oh, and don't forget this umbrella," the Armourer added.
"Sword in the handle?" Steed asked. He hoisted the umbrella to his shoulder and sighted down along its length. "Or perhaps a multi-fire carbide?"
"No." The Armourer was puzzled. "It looks like rain."
-oOo-
The reading room at the Ministry was unusually quiet for such a large room. A dozen or so researchers were intently poring over stacks of books. It would be a challenge to carry on a conversation here without creating a disturbance, particularly the difficult exchange that Steed anticipated.
Since the red Austin Mini had been missing from his flat that morning, he guessed that Miss Fox would be at work. A quick inquiry at the desk had confirmed her presence. Steed scanned the room and saw a splash of red hair at one of the study carrels. He quietly approached and addressed the woman sitting there.
"Ah, Miss Fox. Just the woman I was looking for."
"What do you want, Mr. Steed? I have a headache." She looked away peevishly.
"Just Steed. I need some help."
"I offered my help. You refused. You also got me drunk, and then forsook me," Rita answered angrily, trying to keep her voice down.
"Forsook?" Steed said in feigned astonishment, rolling the strange word around on his tongue. "Forsook? Nay, my lady, I but left you in the gentle and caring arms of Orpheus."
"Your considerable charms will not work on me, Mr. Steed. I'm an old friend of Mrs. Gale. She warned me about you, told me—"
"Nothing bad I hope!" Steed interrupted, with a devilish grin.
"Cathy told me," Rita continued sternly, "that any woman who lets John Steed get the better of her has no hope of getting back in control. I'm afraid that in our brief association I have already failed in that respect, and any further contact would be pointless."
"It's not the better of you I want," Steed crooned charmingly, his mouth close to her ear. "I want your best."
"What do you mean?" Rita asked with suspicion.
"Have you read Northanger Abbey? Wuthering Heights? Little Women?"
"Yes. What's your point?"
"I need a nineteenth century literature expert." Steed emphasized the last word in much the same way that Rita had during their first meeting.
"Don't you mean 'bookworm'?" she retorted.
"I need someone who can coach me to infiltrate an elite literary society."
"Absolutely not. I don't ever want to speak to you again."
"But I thought you were ordered to help me," Steed continued. "What did you tell the Head of Operations?"
Rita flushed visibly. "I haven't told him anything yet."
"Could be a touchy situation," Steed shook his head regretfully. "Young up-and-comer such as yourself, going against the home office."
"Somehow I think that if I mentioned the name 'Steed' to them, they would understand."
"But I need you," Steed pleaded earnestly. He looked deep into her brown eyes, and could see her melt a bit.
"You just need 'coaching'?" she asked reluctantly.
"Just the smallest scintilla of your vast knowledge," Steed confirmed smoothly. "You've probably spent most of your life dealing with people such as these."
Rita sighed. "Any work I do with you would have to be on completely different footing, by rules that I dictate."
"I wouldn't have it any other way," Steed smiled graciously. "Just teach me the protocols of participating in a literary society, give me a few tidbits of interesting nineteenth-century trivia to drop, and I'll handle the rest. You could do that for me, right?"
"I suppose," Rita answered grudgingly.
"Just spend the afternoon with me, and I won't take up any more of your time."
-oOo-
A few moments later, Steed was leading Rita down the steps of the government building to the Bentley parked at the curb.
"What's with the jalopy?"
"We may need to make a quick getaway," Steed answered cryptically.
"From where?" Rita asked, and then added, "In that old thing?"
"It's a Bentley, just like the LeMans winners in the '20s."
"That's all well and good, as long as our pursuers are also in forty-year-old vehicles."
Steed feigned a hurt expression. "I keep it immaculately maintained. Perfectly safe. You've been in it before, you know." He smiled. "You seemed especially fond of this blanket."
A dark look passed across Rita's face. She plopped into the passenger seat and folded her arms across her chest.
Soon the Bentley was roaring down the M4. The rain predicted by the Armourer had not materialized. It was late spring, and the air rushing past the windscreen was warm. Rita had given up trying to fight the wild gusts; she had removed the cloisonne clips and was desperately attempting to work her red tresses into a single braid over her right shoulder.
"You should try a braid on each side," Steed shouted over the wind noise. "You could look like Pippi Longstocking."
Rita shot him a withering glare.
"Where are we going, anyway?" she asked. "I thought we were going back to your flat."
"What, fancy another brandy?" Steed grinned.
The glare in Rita's eyes turned to fire.
"We're off to Swindon," Steed offered casually.
"Out to Wiltshire? What's out there?"
"Wootton Bassett."
"The Pocket Borough?"
"Haven't you heard, love? They cleaned it up a century ago. One man, one vote, that sort of thing. There's a library out there I want to check."
"There's plenty of perfectly good libraries in London," remarked Rita.
"Not like this one."
-oOo-
