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It was evening by the time I escaped from the precinct station. I hurried off to the nearest transit tube entrance - just down the street - and dived through the arch. I dodged casually several of the passers-by, made to step into the transit tube itself, then at the last second changed my mind and made my way back to street level via another exit. Nobody appeared to be following me. I wasn't necessarily confident that I would be able to spot them, bur I was certainly making it hard. And I intended to make it even more so. An hour and a half of ducking and diving later, I approached one of the entrances to the rather nondescript block which houses my office, itself located in a particularly low-rent part of the Lower Realms. I wasn't planning on using the front door. One of the reasons I selected this particular location all those years ago was that it had rather more than the usual number of exits and, more recently, the opportunity to add a couple of secret entrances of my own. This particular route took me through a tunnel in the basement, the mouth of which emerged behind the door marked "Janitor" - a statement never challenged even though the cleaning services staff were actually based in another room behind the lift shaft on the ground floor. I made my way up the stairs and, acting almost automatically, I visited the mail boxes conveniently located in a discreet part of the foyer well away from prying eyes. My particular box opened at my touch - I had long ago keyed a cheap protection glamour to my fingerprints - and I pulled out the collection of envelopes that lay within. I was expecting nothing more that the usual collection of overdue bills and circulars advertising services I did not want or need or, in some cases, even understand. To my surprise, at the bottom of the box, my fingers alighted on a heavy package very neatly wrapped up in brown paper bound with string, the knots sealing with red sealing wax and sporting an old-fashioned seal I didn't recognise. I did instantly recognise the handwriting on the address label. Suddenly imbued with much more urgency, I took the stairs three at a time to get to my office with package and envelopes clutched in my hands. I threw the packets and the assortment of other mail on the worn leather surface of my desk. Then I rummaged urgently in the desk drawers for a pair of scissors, cut the string and tore open the brown paper. It was Lady Strowan's missing manuscript, the latest - and unexpectedly final - chapter of her autobiography. I collapsed in the squeaky swivel chair behind my desk, dropped my hat on the stained dragonhide and settled down to read. It was the recollections of an old lady, sharply recalled and described in an amusing style, written in slightly rambling and over-explained text which cried out to be tightly edited by a professional. In general, though, it was riveting stuff. I had to agree with Methven's assessment: this would sell like hot cakes. I reluctantly set down the manuscript. My eye was caught by a single sheet of paper in a smaller size which had been packed along with the half-ream. I picked it up. It was a note, written on a small sheet of very good quality notepaper, and carefully executed in Tibbermore's old-fashioned copper-plate hand, the same hand which had laboured over the words which must have come tumbling out of her Ladyship's mouth late into the evening. "I came across this manuscript as I was sorting through the documents in my desk," the note read, "It had slipped my mind and I had omitted to send it on to the publisher's agent." That would be Methven, I imagined. He would be the right person to represent Strowan's interests and sort out all the grubby commercial details - including a suitable fee for himself, of course. "It occurred to me that her Ladyship's memoirs might contain a clue" - I could almost see Tibbermore sneering at the word as he wrote it - "and I thought it best to send it to you first, so that you might inspect it. Please let me have it back at your earliest convenience." The note closed in an old-fashioned formal style: "I remain, as ever, your humble servant, Tibbermore." That was the old retainer in a nutshell, I thought sadly. "Your humble servant."
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Part 55