think?
Joseph stared out at the green countryside, where a bulldozer was methodically destroying a hedgerow eleven centuries old.
Lewis’s jaw dropped. He put the car on autopilot a moment while he went through the motions of opening out the audio case for a leisurely inspection of its contents. He selected one disc at last, a symphonic piece by Ian Anderson, and slipped it into the music system. Only then did he place both hands firmly back on the wheel and ask,
Are you saying the Company had you strip the bodies?
Joseph gave a barely perceptible shrug.
Something like that. You know how much future collectors will pay for authentic relics of the lost legion? With the old IX Hispania insignia?
I can imagine
, Lewis said. He drove on, pale and shaken, as a flute melody of haunting sweetness wafted out of the Austin’s speakers. At last he shook his head.
You know—I’ve been thinking, lately, that all this paranoia and strong-arm work was something new for the Company, some reaction perhaps to the fact that we’re nearing the year of the Silence. I assumed that Dr. Zeus used to operate in a more civilized and humane manner
.
Nope
.
North and north the car sped on, along the well-metaled road.
They went west on the A635 and meandered westward for a while to the A629, past Denby Dale, past Kirkburton, through Huddersfield and Halifax, and at last Lewis announced brightly, “Well, we’re almost there. Stop one of our Yorkshire literary tour. We’ll see the famous parsonage at Haworth, where the ill-fated but creative Brontë family lived, loved, and died to the last member. You’ve read the novels, of course?”
“I’ve seen the movies,” Joseph said. “I worked at MGM when they were making the
Wuthering Heights
with Larry Olivier.”
“So you’ve never read the novels?” Lewis’s lips thinned slightly.
“I might have scanned them in school.” Joseph shrugged, refusing to admit to anything. “Real men don’t read
Jane Eyre
. Unless you’re a Literature Specialist, I guess,” he added soothingly.
“Thank you.” Lewis downshifted with a bit more force than was required. “Well, you’re going to enjoy this anyway, damn it. Look at these heathery moors! Look at the wild and lonely prospects! Imagine those fantastically talented and sickly children in their claustrophobic little parsonage, growing up into doomed, brilliant youth. Not a one of them made it into their forties, did you know that? They burnt out like flares. Is it any wonder they were able to produce masterworks of savage passion and searing romance?”
“Jane Eyre
, that was the one with the governess, right?” Joseph yawned.
“You know perfectly well it was. Look, there’s the parsonage museum.” Lewis turned off and steered for the car park.
“Do they have a souvenir stand?” asked Joseph.
They stopped and got out. There for their edification was the little church with its parsonage, islands in a sea of tombstones, and the moors rolling down on the back of the parsonage like a never-breaking wave. There were a few other cars in the park, but no tourists visible. The two immortals strolled toward the parsonage.
Is this going to help you at all in your investigation?
Not really. We need to go farther north. Still, it’s a good blind. We’ll see the sights, buy a couple of souvenirs, and move on, okay?
How very cloak-and-dagger
.
As they came around the corner, they saw an impressive conveyance, a long wagon with a team of six coal-black draft horses in its traces. It was an omnibus of some kind, fitted with rows of seats and roofed over by an awning. A man in nineteenth-century coachman’s dress waited, immobile as a waxwork figure by the horses. Joseph and Lewis halted, staring at the moment out of time.
Before either of them could comment, the door of the parsonage opened, and out filed a line of persons, also in nineteenth-century costume in varying funereal shades, all looking rather self-conscious except for the
Joseph stared out at the green countryside, where a bulldozer was methodically destroying a hedgerow eleven centuries old.
Lewis’s jaw dropped. He put the car on autopilot a moment while he went through the motions of opening out the audio case for a leisurely inspection of its contents. He selected one disc at last, a symphonic piece by Ian Anderson, and slipped it into the music system. Only then did he place both hands firmly back on the wheel and ask,
Are you saying the Company had you strip the bodies?
Joseph gave a barely perceptible shrug.
Something like that. You know how much future collectors will pay for authentic relics of the lost legion? With the old IX Hispania insignia?
I can imagine
, Lewis said. He drove on, pale and shaken, as a flute melody of haunting sweetness wafted out of the Austin’s speakers. At last he shook his head.
You know—I’ve been thinking, lately, that all this paranoia and strong-arm work was something new for the Company, some reaction perhaps to the fact that we’re nearing the year of the Silence. I assumed that Dr. Zeus used to operate in a more civilized and humane manner
.
Nope
.
North and north the car sped on, along the well-metaled road.
They went west on the A635 and meandered westward for a while to the A629, past Denby Dale, past Kirkburton, through Huddersfield and Halifax, and at last Lewis announced brightly, “Well, we’re almost there. Stop one of our Yorkshire literary tour. We’ll see the famous parsonage at Haworth, where the ill-fated but creative Brontë family lived, loved, and died to the last member. You’ve read the novels, of course?”
“I’ve seen the movies,” Joseph said. “I worked at MGM when they were making the
Wuthering Heights
with Larry Olivier.”
“So you’ve never read the novels?” Lewis’s lips thinned slightly.
“I might have scanned them in school.” Joseph shrugged, refusing to admit to anything. “Real men don’t read
Jane Eyre
. Unless you’re a Literature Specialist, I guess,” he added soothingly.
“Thank you.” Lewis downshifted with a bit more force than was required. “Well, you’re going to enjoy this anyway, damn it. Look at these heathery moors! Look at the wild and lonely prospects! Imagine those fantastically talented and sickly children in their claustrophobic little parsonage, growing up into doomed, brilliant youth. Not a one of them made it into their forties, did you know that? They burnt out like flares. Is it any wonder they were able to produce masterworks of savage passion and searing romance?”
“Jane Eyre
, that was the one with the governess, right?” Joseph yawned.
“You know perfectly well it was. Look, there’s the parsonage museum.” Lewis turned off and steered for the car park.
“Do they have a souvenir stand?” asked Joseph.
They stopped and got out. There for their edification was the little church with its parsonage, islands in a sea of tombstones, and the moors rolling down on the back of the parsonage like a never-breaking wave. There were a few other cars in the park, but no tourists visible. The two immortals strolled toward the parsonage.
Is this going to help you at all in your investigation?
Not really. We need to go farther north. Still, it’s a good blind. We’ll see the sights, buy a couple of souvenirs, and move on, okay?
How very cloak-and-dagger
.
As they came around the corner, they saw an impressive conveyance, a long wagon with a team of six coal-black draft horses in its traces. It was an omnibus of some kind, fitted with rows of seats and roofed over by an awning. A man in nineteenth-century coachman’s dress waited, immobile as a waxwork figure by the horses. Joseph and Lewis halted, staring at the moment out of time.
Before either of them could comment, the door of the parsonage opened, and out filed a line of persons, also in nineteenth-century costume in varying funereal shades, all looking rather self-conscious except for the
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