[Except for Giovanni Jacopo Casanova (1725—1798), famed amoutist and litterateur, who revealed in volume 12 of his
On the kitchen table was a roughly rectangular, leather-bound cinder. He could just make out the words 'Ni a and Ace' on the charred cover. What a difference a day made, he thought. It turns you from the ultimate reference book to a mere barbecue briquette.
Now, then. How, exactly, had they got it? He recalled a man who smelled of smoke and wore sunglasses even in darkness. And there was other stuff, all running together… boys on bikes… an unpleasant buzzing… a small, grubby, staring face… It all hung around in his mind, not exactly forgotten but forever hanging on the cusp of recollection, a memory of things that hadn't happened. How could you have that?
[And there was the matter of Dick Turpin. It looked like the same car, except that forever afterwards it seemed able to do 250 miles on a gallon of petrol, ran so quietly that you practically had to put your mouth over the exhaust pipe to see if the engine was firing, and issued its voice-synthesized warnings in a series of exquisite and perfectly-phrased haikus, each one original and apt…
…it would say. And,
]
He sat staring at the wall until a knock at the door brought him back to earth.
There was a small dapper man in a black raincoat standing on the doorstep. He was holding a cardboard box and he gave Newt a bright smile.
"Mr."—he consulted a piece of paper in one hand—"Pulzifer?"
"Pulsifer," said Newt. "It's a hard
"I'm ever so sorry," said the man. "I've only ever seen it written down. Er. Well, then. It would appear that this is for you and Mrs. Pulsifer."
Newt gave him a blank look.
"There is no Mrs. Pulsifer," he said coldly.
The man removed his bowler hat.
"Oh, I'm terribly sorry," he said.
"I mean that… well, there's my mother," said Newt. "But she's not dead, she's just in Dorking. I'm not married."
"How odd. The letter is quite, er, specific."
"Who are you?" said Newt. He was wearing only his trousers, and it was chilly on the doorstep.
The man balanced the box awkwardly and fished out a card from an inner pocket. He handed it to Newt.
It read:
"Yes?" he said politely. "And what can I do for you, Mr. Baddicombe?"
"You could let me in," said Mr. Baddicombe.
"You're not serving a writ or anything, are you?" said Newt. The events of last night hung in his memory like a cloud, constantly changing whenever he thought he could make out a picture, but he was vaguely aware of damaging things and had been expecting retribution in some form.
"No," said Mr. Baddicombe, looking slightly hurt. "We have people for that sort of thing."
He wandered past Newt and put the box down on the table.
"To be honest," he said, "we're all very interested in this. Mr. Bychance nearly came down himself, but he doesn't travel well these days."
"Look," said Newt, "I really haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about."
"This," said Mr. Baddicombe, proffering the box and beaming like Aziraphale about to attempt a conjuring trick, "is yours. Someone wanted you to have it. They were very specific."
"A present?" said Newt. He eyed the taped cardboard cautiously, and then rummaged in the kitchen drawer for a sharp knife.
"I think more a bequest," said Mr. Baddicombe. "You see, we've had it for three hundred years. Sorry. Was it something I said? Hold it under the tap, I should."
"What the hell is this all about?" said Newt, but a certain icy suspicion was creeping over him. He sucked at the cut.
"It's a funny story—do you mind if I sit down?—and of course I don't know the full details because I joined the firm only fifteen years ago, but…"