One of Our Thursdays Is Missing (Thursday Next 6)

“But so blatantly? And in a poem to describe the failure of a motorcycle-manufacturing cooperative?” exclaimed Pickwick. “What kind of nut would try something like that?”

“We still need to find out what the book was called,” I said as we walked back into the house. “We need an ISBN. Did we check the thumb we found for fingerprints?”

“Not a single one.”

“That’s annoying. Those severed hands we found a few weeks ago had fingerprints all over them.”

“What about DNA evidence?” asked Sprockett.

“DNA fingerprinting is still under a blanket ban,” I explained. “Forensic Procedural is allowed to use it, but you know how tight the Crime genre can be.”

Sadly, this was true. The Guild of Detectives had argued that although DNA fingerprinting had a use in the RealWorld, such annoyingly precise and utterly noncerebral detection methods really had no place in Fiction. And because the Crime lobby represented such a huge part of Fiction, the Council of Genres had reluctantly agreed. Mind you, detection rates hadn’t suffered as a result, so everyone was happy.

I looked up at the Read-O-Meter. There were twelve simultaneous readings going on, and Carmine hadn’t hit the panic button, so she was doing fine. I had a look at the clock and then went upstairs to have a bath and change. Despite all that was going on, what with sabotaged books, worms and missing Jurisfiction agents, I still had a date with Whitby Jett. I tried a call to Jurisfiction myself and was told that Thursday Next was still unavailable. I dried, then tried on several dresses but didn’t like any of them. I had just dismissed the sixth and was rummaging in the bureau for a yellow top I remembered buying last time I was in Chick Lit, when I came across a photograph. It was one I had wanted to throw away but had pushed to the back of a drawer instead. It was a backstory snap of me and Landen, taken when we were in the Crimea, before Landen had lost a leg and I’d los

t a brother. Happy days. I stared at it for a long time, then rang for Sprockett.

“Ma’am?”

“Is Whitby downstairs?”

“Yes, ma’am. He’s waiting in the kitchen with a bunch of flowers the size of the Amazonian Basin.”

“Would you send him my apologies and ask him to leave? Politely, of course.”

“Ma’am?”

“I need to keep an eye on Carmine. It’s her first day, and I need to stand by in case of mishaps.”

“Miss Carmine is doing very well, by all accounts, ma’am, and Mr. Jett seems happily effusive over the prospect of an evening with you. I believe that his conduct has all the hallmarks of . . . love, ma’am.”

“Sprockett,” I said, “ just do this for me, would you? Tell him I’m busy and I’ll meet him for lunch tomorrow.”

“Very good, ma’am. Where shall I say you will be meeting him?”

“I’ll call him.”

I came downstairs twenty minutes later to find the flowers on the hall table. I sighed at my own foolishness, then walked into the book and found Carmine about to play the croquet match in The Well of Lost Plots. I told her my date was canceled and that I’d take over from her. I think she was secretly relieved.

“Don’t forget there’s a party tonight at Castle of Skeddan Jiarg,” I told her. “The queen said to drop in anytime.”

“I think I might just do that,” she said with a smile. “I could get hyphenated, let my hair down and chat up a goblin or something.”

I didn’t like the sound of this.

“I don’t mean to seem judgmental. Actually, come to think of it,” I said, changing my mind, “I do mean to seem judgmental. You mustn’t bring goblins home. Quite apart from the hygiene and theft issues, Pickwick can be a real prude. She’ll be plocking on about it for months, and frankly, I could do without her endless complaints.”

She winked.

“I will be most discreet. Why don’t you join me when you’re done? I know goblins aren’t everyone’s cup of tea, but what they lack in physical beauty they make up for in endurance.”

I told her I didn’t really feel like going to a party or dancing all night, and she gave me a hug before skipping off.

Reading-wise, it wasn’t such a bad evening. The Ph.D. student gave up pretty soon to watch Deal or No Deal, a popular woodworking program in the Outland, and the new readers were for the most part forgiving, with only a few of them requiring extra attention to get them over some of the more wayward plot points. As for the rereads, they pretty much looked after themselves and added a useful amount of feedback, too—the curtains had never looked brighter, and Pickwick positively shone.

11.

Plot Thickens