The Eyre Affair (Thursday Next 1)

“And the proof?”

“Hall and Marston—both Elizabethan satirists—were firmly of the belief that Bacon was the true author of Venus and Adonis and The Rape of Lucrece. I have a pamphlet here which goes into the matter further. More details are available at our monthly gatherings; we used to meet at the town hall but the radical wing of the New Marlovians fire-bombed us last week. I don’t know where we will meet next. But if I can take your name and number, we can be in touch.”

His face was earnest and smug; he thought he had me. I decided to play my trump card.

“What about the will?”

“The will?” he echoed, slightly nervously. He was obviously hoping I wasn’t going to mention it.

“Yes,” I continued. “If Shakespeare were truly two people, then why would the Shakespeare in Stratford mention the London Shakespeare’s theater colleagues Condell, Heming and Burbage in his will?”

The Baconian’s face fell.

“I was hoping you wouldn’t ask.” He sighed. “I’m wasting my time, aren’t I?”

“I’m afraid you are.”

He muttered something under his breath and moved on. As I threw the bolt I could hear the Baconian knocking at the next door to ours. Perhaps he’d have better luck down the corridor.

“What is a Litera Tec doing here anyway, Next?” asked Buckett as we returned to the kitchen.

“I’m here,” I answered slowly, “because I know what he looks like; I’m not permanent in the least. As soon as I’ve fingered his man, Tamworth will transfer me back again.”

I poured some yogurty milk down the sink and rinsed out the container.

“Might be a blessing.”

“I don’t see it that way. What about you? How did you get in with Tamworth?”

“I’m antiterrorist usually. SO-9. But Tamworth has trouble with recruitment. He took a cavalry saber for me. I owe him.”

He dropped his eyes and fiddled with his tie for a moment. I peered cautiously into a cupboard for a dishcloth, discovered something nasty and then closed it quickly.

Buckett took out his wallet and showed me a picture of a dribbling infant that looked like every other dribbling infant I had ever seen.

“I’m married now so Tamworth knows I can’t stay; one’s needs change, you know.”

“Good-looking kid.”

“Thank you.” He put the picture away. “You married?”

“Not for want of trying,” I replied as I filled the kettle. Buckett nodded and brought out a copy of Fast Horse.

“Do you ever flutter on the gee-gees? I’ve had an unusual tip on Malabar.”

“I don’t. Sorry.”

Buckett nodded. His conversation had pretty much dried up.

I brought in some coffee a few minutes later. Snood and Buckett were discussing the outcome of the Cheltenham Gold Stakes Handicap.

“So you know what he looks like, Miss Next?” asked the ancient Snood without looking up from the binoculars.

“He was a lecturer of mine when I was at college. He’s tricky to describe, though.”

“Average build?”

“When I last saw him.”