“Is botany boring?” Thursday asked.
“I suspect that it isn’t, ma’am, given there is an entire island committed to little else.”
The next door was for “Sir James Lyell, Politician.”
“Boring, ma’am?” inquired Sprockett.
“Politicians’ lives are never boring,” I assured him, and we moved to the next.
“‘Sir Charles Lyell, Geologist,’” I read. “Is geology more or less boring than politics or botany?”
Sprockett’s pointer flicked to “Bingo.”
“I believe, ma’am, that as regards boring, geology is less to do with tediousness and more to do with . . . drilling.”
“Genius,” I remarked, mildly annoyed that I hadn’t thought of it myself. Sir Charles Lyell was the father of modern geology. If Thursday had come to him, she was after the finest geological advice available in the BookWorld. I knocked on the door in a state of some excitement, and when I heard a shrill “Enter,” we walked in.
The room was a spacious paneled study, the walls covered with bookcases and a large walnut desk in the center. It was not tidy; papers were strewn everywhere, and a chair was overturned. The pictures were crooked, and a plant pot lay on its side. The wall safe, usually hidden behind a painting of a rock, was open and empty.
A man of considerable presence was standing in the middle of the chaos. He had a high-domed head, white sideburns and somewhat small eyes that seemed to glisten slightly with inner thoughts of a distracting nature.
“Thursday?” he said when he saw me. “I have to confess I am not pleased.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. You told me that my assignment with you would be of the utmost secrecy. Look at my study—ransacked!”
“Ah,” I said, glancing around, “I am most dreadfully sorry, Sir Charles. This was done after we came back from . . . ?”
“An afterlifetime’s work ruined,” he said in a much-aggrieved tone. “I am most displeased. Good Lord. Who is that mechanical man with the curiously emotive eyebrow?”
“My butler, Sir Charles. You have no objection?”
He stared at Sprockett curiously. “When I was alive, I pursued the advancement of scientific truth with all passion—I am afraid to say that I am at odds to explain Fiction, which often seems to have no basis in logic at all.”
“Some enjoy it precisely for that reason.”
“You may be right. Can he tidy?”
“We can both tidy, Sir Charles.”
And we started to pick up the papers.
“It is most unfortunate,” remarked Sir Charles, “after we had done all that work together. Most unfortunate.”
I suddenly felt worried. “Our work together?”
“The report!” he muttered. “All the maps, notes, core samples, graphs, analysis—stolen!”
“Sir Charles,” I said, “this might seem an odd request, but can you go over what was in the report?”
“Again?”
“Again.”
He blinked owlishly at me. “Over tea, Miss Next. First we must . . . tidy.”
“Sir Charles,” I said in a more emphatic tone, “you must tell me what was in the report, and now!”