Something Rotten (Thursday Next 4)

'Sometimes,' said Gran, holding up the cover of the Swindon Evening Globe, 'the facts are all in front of us - we just have to get them in the right order.'

I took the picture and stared at it. It had been taken a few seconds after the piano stool fell on Cindy. I hadn't realised how far the wreckage of the Steinway had scattered. A little way down the road the lonely figure of Zvlkx was still lying on the pavement, abandoned in the drama.

'Can I keep this?'

'Of course. Be careful, my dear — remember that your father can't warn you of every single one of your potential demises — invulnerability is reserved only for superheroes. The croquet final is far from won and anything can happen in the next twenty-four hours.'

I thanked her for her kind words, plumped up her pillows for her and then departed.

'A Neanderthal defence?' repeated Aubrey and Alf when I found them taking 'pegging out' practice at the croquet stadium. They had threatened to fire me if I didn't tell them what I was up to.

'Of course, any team would spend millions trying to get a Neanderthal on the side - but they just won't do it.'

'I've already got them. You can't pay them and I really don't know how they will work as a team with humans - I get the feeling that they'll be a team of their own within your team.'

'I don't care,' said Aubrey, leaning on his mallet and sweeping a hand in the direction of the squad. 'I was fooling myself. Biffo's too old, Smudger has a drink problem and Snake is mentally unstable. George is okay and I can handle myself but a fresh crop of talent has infused the Whackers' team. They'll be fielding people like "Bonecrusher" McSneed.'

He wasn't kidding. A mysterious benefactor - probably Goliath — had given a vast amount of money to the Whackers. Enough for them to buy almost anyone they wanted. Goliath were taking no chances that the seventh Revealment would be fulfilled.

'So we're still in the game with five Thais?'

'Yes,' said Aubrey with a smile, 'we're still in the game.'

I dropped in to see Mum on the way home, ostensibly to take Hamlet and the dodos round to Landen's place. I found my mother in the kitchen with Bismarck, who seemed to be in the middle of telling her a joke.

'. . . and then the white horse he says: "What, Erich?'"

'Oh, Herr B!' said my mother, giggling and slapping him on the shoulder. 'You are a wag!'

She noticed me standing there.

'Thursday! Are you okay? I heard on the radio there was some sort of accident involving a piano . . .'

'I'm fine, Mum, really.' I stared coldly at the Prussian Chancellor, who, I had decided, was taking liberties with my mother's affections. 'Good afternoon, Herr Bismarck. So, you haven't sorted out the Schleswig-Holstein question yet?'

'I am waiting still for the Danish prime minister,' replied Bismarck, rising to greet me, 'but I am growing impatient.'

'I expect him very soon, Herr Bismarck,' said my mother, putting the kettle on the stove. 'Would you like a cup of tea while you're waiting?'

He bowed politely again.

'Only if Battenberg cake we will be having.'

'I'm sure there's a bit left over if that naughty Mr Hamlet hasn't eaten it!' Her face dropped when she discovered that, indeed, naughty Mr Hamlet had eaten it. 'Oh dear! Would you like an almond slice instead?'

Bismarck's eyebrows twitched angrily.

'Everywhere I turn the Danish are mocking my person and the German confederation,' he intoned angrily, smacking his fist into his open palm. 'The incorporation of the Duchy of Schleswig into the Danish state overlooked I might have, but personal Battenberg insult I will not. It is war!'

'Hang on a minute, Otto,' said my mother, who, having brought up a large family almost single-handed, was well placed to sort out the whole Battenberg-Schleswig-Holstein issue, 'I thought we'd agreed that you weren't going to invade Denmark?'

'That was then, this is now,' muttered the Chancellor, puffing out his chest so aggressively that one of his brass buttons shot across the room and struck Pickwick a glancing blow on the back of the head. 'Choice: Mr Hamlet for his behaviour apologises on behalf of Danish people, or we go to war!'

'He's talking to that nice conflict resolution man at the moment,' replied my mother in an anxious tone.

'Then it is war,' announced Bismarck, sitting down at the table and having an almond slice anyway. 'More talk is pointless. Return I wish to 1863.'

But then the door opened. It was Hamlet. He stared at us all and looked, well, different.