One of Our Thursdays Is Missing (Thursday Next 6)

“You mean you’re leaving?” I asked.

“Repack my knee bearings,” he explained. “With grease. Knees, despite much design work, continue to be the Duplex-5’s Achilles’ heel.”

And leaving us all to muse upon his odd choice of words, he departed.

“At least try to be nice to him,” I said to Mrs. Malaprop when he had gone. “And I want you to order some oils of varying grades to make him feel welcome—and make sure all the clocks are kept wound. Cog-based life-forms take great offense at stopped clocks.”

“As madam washes,” replied Mrs. Malaprop, which was her way of telling me to get stuffed.

“If you don’t need us, we’re going to go and rehearse Acheron’s death scene on the roof of Thornfield Hall,” said Carmine.

“You’ll need to unlock Bertha,” I replied, handing her the key. “And don’t forget to put the bite mask on her.”

I watched them go with an odd feeling that I couldn’t describe. Despite my being the protagonist, most of the characters were already here when I took over, and few of them were happy with my interpretation of Thursday, even though it was the one that Thursday herself had approved. They had all preferred the sex-and-violence Thursday who’d turned a blind eye to the many scams they had had cooking. Because of this, I hadn’t really gotten on with any of them. In fact, the out-of-book relationship with the rest of the cast could best be described as barely cordial. Carmine seemed to get on with them a lot better. I shouldn’t have minded, but I did.

“She’s going to be trouble, that one,” said Pickwick, who was doing the crossword while perched on the dresser.

“All she has to be is a good Thursday,” I murmured. “Everything else is immaterial. Mrs. Malaprop?”

“Yes, madam?”

“Did you put anything in my pocket this morning? For a joke, perhaps?”

“Joke, madam?” she inquired in a shocked tone. “Malaprops always keep well clear of potentially hummus situations.”

“I didn’t think so. I’ll be in my study. Will you have Sprockett bring in some tea?”

“Very good, madam.”

“Pickwick? I need the paper.”

“You’ll have to wait,” she said without looking up. “I’m doing the crossword.”

I didn’t have time for this, so I simply took the paper, ripped off the crossword section and handed it back to her. I ignored her expression of outrage and walked into my study and shut the door.

I moved quietly to the French windows and stepped out into the garden to release the Lost Positives that the Lady of Shalott had given me. She had a soft spot for the orphaned prefixless words and thought they had more chance to thrive in Fiction than in Poetry. I let the defatigable scamps out of their box. They were kempt and sheveled but their behavior was peccable if not mildly gruntled. They started acting petuously and ran around in circles in a very toward manner.

I then returned to my study and spent twenty minutes staring at Thursday’s shield. The only way it could have gotten into my pocket was via the red-haired gentleman sitting next to me on the tram. And if that was the case, he had been in contact with Thursday quite recently—or at least sometime in the past week. It didn’t prove she was missing in the BookWorld any more than it proved she was missing in the RealWorld. I had only a telephone note, a husband’s tears and the word of a murderer.

“Your tea and shortbread, ma’am,” said Sprockett, placing the tray upon my desk. “A very comfortable house you have. I must confess that in a weak moment, and quite against your advice, I lent that odd-looking bird twenty pounds for her kidney operation.”

“I warned you about Pickwick,” I said with a sigh. “She doesn’t need a kidney operation, and her mother isn’t in ‘dire straits,’ no matter what she says.”

“Ah,” replied Sprockett. “Do you think I might be able to get my money back?”

“Not without a lot of squawking. Is Mrs. Malaprop causing you any trouble, by the way?”

“No, ma’am. We agreed to arm-wrestle for seniority in the house, and even though she attempted to cheat, I believe that we are all square now.”

“I was given this by someone on a tram,” I said, passing the real Thursday’s shield across to Sprockett.

His eyebrow pointed to “Puzzled,” then “Thinking,” then “Worried.”

“That would explain the ease by which I escaped the stoning in Conspiracy.”

“And later, getting out of Poetry.”

“I don’t recall that.”