The Eyre Affair (Thursday Next 1)

“How do you rate the Baconian theory?”

“Not much. Like many people I’m pretty sure there is more to Shakespeare than just Shakespeare. But Sir Francis Bacon using a little-known actor as a front? I just don’t buy it.”

“He was a trained lawyer,” asserted Bowden. “Many of the plays have legal parlance to them.”

“It means nothing,” I replied, “Greene, Nashe and especially Ben Jonson use legal phraseology; none of them had legal training. And don’t even get me started on the so-called codes.”

“No need to worry about that,” replied Bowden. “I won’t. I’m no Baconian either. He didn’t write them.”

“And what would make you so sure?”

“If you read his De Augmentis Scientarium you’ll find Bacon actually criticizing popular drama. Furthermore, when the troupe Shakespeare belonged to applied to the king to form a theater, they were referred to the commissioner for suits. Guess who was on that panel and most vociferously opposed the application?”

“Francis Bacon?” I asked.

“Exactly. Whoever wrote the plays, it wasn’t Bacon. I’ve formulated a few theories of my own over the years. Have you ever heard of Edward De Vere, the seventeenth Earl of Oxford?”

“Vaguely.”

“There is some proof that, unlike Bacon, he could actually write and write quite well—hang on.”

Lottie had brought a phone to the table. It was for Bowden. He wiped his mouth with a napkin.

“Yes?”

He looked up at me.

“Yes, she is. We’ll be right over. Thanks.”

“Problems?”

“It’s your aunt and uncle. I don’t know how to say this but . . . they’ve been kidnapped!”

There were several police and SpecOps cars clustered around the entrance to my mother’s house when we pulled up. A small crowd had assembled and was peering over the fence. The dodos had gathered on the other side and were staring back, wondering what the fuss was all about. I showed my badge to the officer on duty.

“Litera Tec?” he said scornfully. “Can’t let you in, ma’am. Police and SpecOps-9 only.”

“He’s my uncle!—” I said angrily, and the officer reluctantly let me through. Swindon was the same as London: A Litera Tec’s badge held about as much authority as a bus pass. I found my mother in the living room surrounded by damp Kleenex. I sat beside her and asked her what had happened.

She blew her nose noisily.

“I called them in for dinner at one. It was snorkers, Mycroft’s favorite. There was no answer so I went down to his workshop. They were both gone and the double doors wide open. Mycroft wouldn’t have gone out without saying anything.”

This was true. Mycroft never left the house unless it was absolutely necessary; since Owens had been meringued Polly did all his running around.

“Anything stolen?” I asked a SpecOps-9 operative who stared at me coldly. He didn’t relish being asked questions by a Litera Tec.

“Who knows?” he replied with little emotion. “I understand you’d been in his workshop recently?”

“Yesterday evening.”

“Then perhaps you can have a look around and tell us if there is anything missing?”

I was escorted to Mycroft’s workshop. The rear doors had been forced and I looked around carefully. The table where Mycroft had kept all his bookworms had been cleared; all I could see was the massive two-pronged power lead that would have slotted into the back of the Prose Portal.

“There was something right here. Several goldfish bowls full up with small worms and a large book a bit like a medieval church Bible—”

“Can you draw it?” asked a familiar voice. I turned to see Jack Schitt lurking in the shadows, smoking a small cigarette and overseeing a Goliath technician who was passing a humming sensor over the ground.