The Eyre Affair (Thursday Next 1)

“Some things have to be kept secret for operational purposes,” I recited parrot fashion. “Secrecy is our biggest weapon.”

“I read in The Mole that SpecOps is riddled with secret societies. The Wombats in particular,” murmured Mycroft, placing his completed equation in his jacket pocket. “Is this true?”

I shrugged.

“No more than in any other walk of life, I suppose. I’ve not noticed it myself, but then as a woman I wouldn’t be approached by the Wombats anyway.”

“Seems a bit unfair to me,” said Polly in a tut-tutting voice. “I’m fully in support of secret societies—the more the better— but I think they should be open to everyone, men and women.”

“Men are welcome to it,” I replied. “It means that at least half the population won’t have to make complete idiots of themselves. It surprises me that you haven’t been approached to join, Uncle.”

Mycroft grunted.

“I used to be one at Oxford many years ago. Waste of time. It was all a bit silly; the pouch used to chafe something awful and all that gnawing played hell with my overbite.”

There was a pause.

“Major Phelps is in town,” I said, changing the subject. “I met him on the airship. He’s a colonel now but is still blasting the same old line.”

By an unwritten rule, no one ever spoke of the Crimea or Anton in the house. There was an icy hush.

“Really?” replied my mother with seemingly no emotion.

“Joffy has a parish up at Wanborough these days,” announced Polly, hoping to change the subject. “He’s opened the first GSD church in Wessex. I spoke to him last week; he says that it has been quite popular.”

Joffy was my other brother. He had taken to the faith at an early age and tried all sorts of religions before settling for the GSD.

“GSD?” murmured Mycroft. “What in heaven’s name is that?”

“Global Standard Deity,” answered Polly. “It’s a mixture of all the religions. I think it’s meant to stop religious wars.”

Mycroft grunted again.

“Religion isn’t the cause of wars, it’s the excuse. What’s the melting point of beryllium?”

“180.57 degrees centigrade,” murmured Polly without even thinking. “I think Joffy is doing a grand job. You should call him, Thursday.”

“Maybe.”

Joffy and I had never been close. He had called me Doofus and smacked me on the back of my head every day for fifteen years. I had to break his nose to make him stop.

“If you are calling people why don’t you call—”

“Mother!”

“He’s quite successful now, I understand, Thursday. It might be good for you to see him again.”

“Landen and I are finished, Mum. Besides, I have a boyfriend.”

This, to my mother, was extremely good news. It had been of considerable anguish to her that I wasn’t spending more time with swollen ankles, hemorrhoids and a bad back, popping out grandchildren and naming them after obscure relatives. Joffy wasn’t the sort of person who had children, which kind of left it up to me. In all honesty I wasn’t against the idea of kids, it was just that I wasn’t going to have them on my own. And Landen had been the last man to have remotely interested me as a possible life partner.

“A boyfriend? What’s his name?”

I said the first name that popped into my head.

“Snood. Filbert Snood.”

“Nice name.” My mother smiled.