Volescamper sat down on a handy chair and looked bewildered.
‘You mean…’ he stammered incredulously. ‘Look here, Kaine was—?’
‘Entirely fictional—yes,’ I replied, laying a hand on his shoulder.
‘You mean Cardenio didn’t belong to my grandfather’s library after all?’ he asked, his confusion giving way to sadness.
‘I’m sorry, Volescamper,’ I told him. ‘Kaine stole the manuscript. He used your library as a front.’
‘And if I were you,’ added Tweed in a less kindly aside, ‘I should just go upstairs and pretend you slept all through this. You never saw us, never heard us, you know nothing of what happened here.’
‘Bingo!’ cried Raffles as the handle on the safe turned, shattering the frozen lock inside and creaking open. Raffles handed me the manuscript before he and Bunny vanished back to their own book with only the thanks of Jurisfiction to show for the night’s efforts—a valuable commodity on their side of the law.
I passed Cardenio to Tweed. He rested a reverential hand on the returned play and smiled a rare smile.
‘An undedicated dialogue trap, Next—quick thinking. Who knows, we might make a Jurisfiction agent of you yet!’
‘Well, thank—’
‘—Cat!’ bellowed Tweed again. ‘Where’s that blasted bookhound?’ [27]
A large and sad-looking bloodhound appeared from nowhere, looked at us both lugubriously, made a sort of hopeless doggy-sigh and then started to sniff the books scattered on the floor in a professional manner. Tweed snapped a lead on the dog’s collar.
‘If I was the sort of person to apologise—’ he conceded, straining at the leash of the bookhound which had locked on to the scent of one of Kaine’s expletives, ‘—I would. Join me in the hunt for Kaine?’
It was tempting but I remembered Dad’s prediction.
‘I have to save the world tomorrow,’ I announced, surprising myself by just how matter-of-fact I sounded. Tweed didn’t seem in the least surprised.
‘Oh!’ he said. ‘Well, another time, then. On, sir, seek, away!’
The bookhound gave an excited bark and leaped forward; Tweed hung grimly on to the leash and they both disappeared into fine mist and the smell of hot paper.
‘I suppose,’ said Lord Volescamper, interrupting the silence in a glum voice, ‘that this means I won’t be in Kaine’s government after all?’
‘Politics is overrated,’ I told him.
‘Perhaps you’re right,’ he agreed, getting up. ‘Well, goodnight, Miss Next. I didn’t see anything, didn’t hear anything, is that right?’
‘Nothing at all.’
Volescamper sighed and looked at the shattered remains of the interior of his house. He picked his way to the twisted steel door and turned to face me.
‘Always was a heavy sleeper. Look here, pop round for tea and scones one day, why don’t you?’
‘Thank you, sir. I shall. Goodnight.’
Volescamper gave me a desultory wave and was soon out of sight. I smiled to myself at the revelation of Kaine’s fictional identity; I reckoned that not being a real person had to present a pretty good obstacle to being Prime Minister, but I couldn’t help wondering just how much power he did wield within the world of fiction—and whether I had heard the last of him—after all, the Whig party was still in existence, with or without their leader. Still, Tweed was a professional, and I had other things to deal with.
I looked down the corridor, past the twisted doors. The front of Vole Towers was virtually destroyed; the ceiling had collapsed and rubble lay strewn around where the Glatisant had fought the very finest of SO-14. I picked my way through the twisted door and down the corridor where deep gouges had been scraped in the floor and walls by the leaden hide of the beast. The remaining SpecOps 14 operatives had all pulled back to regroup and I slipped out in the confusion. Nine good men fell to the Questing Beast that night. The officers would all be awarded the SpecOps Star for ‘Conspicuous bravery in the face of Other’.
As I walked along the gravel drive away from what remained of Vole Towers I could see a white charger galloping towards me, the warrior on its back holding a sharpened lance while behind him a dog barked excitedly. I waved King Pellinore to a halt.
‘Ah!’ he said, raising his visor and peering down at me. ‘The Next girl! Seen the Questin’ Beast, what, what?’
‘You’ve missed it,’ I explained. ‘Sorry.’
‘Dem shame,’ announced Pellinore sadly, parking the lance in his stirrup. ‘Dem shame indeed, eh? I’ll find it, you know. It is the lot of the Pellinores, to go a-mollocking for the beastly beast. Come, sir—away!’
He spurred his steed and galloped off across the parkland of Vole Towers, the horse’s hooves throwing great divots of grass high in the air, the large white dog running behind them, barking furiously
I returned to my apartment after giving an anonymous tip-off to The Mole, suggesting that they confirm the ongoing existence of Cardenio. The fact that I still had the apartment verified once and for all that Landen hadn’t been returned. I had been a fool to think that Goliath would honour their part of the deal. I sat in the dark for a while but even fools need rest, so I went to sleep under the bed as a precaution, which was just as well—at 3 a.m. Goliath turned up, had a good look around and then left. I stayed hidden as a further precaution and was glad of this also because SpecOps turned up at 4 a.m. and did exactly the same. Confident now of no further interruptions, I crawled out from my hiding place and climbed into bed, sleeping heavily until ten the next morning.
31. Dream Topping
‘Ever since calories and “sugar intake” were discovered the realm of the pudding has suffered intensely. There was a day when one could honestly and innocently enjoy the sheer pleasure of a good sticky toffee pudding; when ice cream was nice cream and Bakewell tart really was baked well. Tastes change, though, and the world of the sweet has often been sour, having to go through some dramatic overhaulage in order to keep pace. Whilst a straightforward sausage and a common kedgeree maintain their hold on the nation’s culinary choices, the pudding has to stay on its toes to tantalise our taste buds. From low fat through to no fat, from sugar free through to taste free; what the next stage is we can only wait and see…’
I peered cautiously from the window as I ate my breakfast and could see a black SpecOps Packard on the street corner, doubtless waiting for me to make an appearance. Across the road from them was another car, this time the unmistakable deep blue of Goliath; Mr Cheese leaned against the bonnet, smoking. I switched on the telly and caught the news. The break-in at Vole Towers had been heavily censored but it was reported that an unknown ‘agency’ had gained entrance to the building, killed a number of SO-14 agents and made off with Cardenio. Lord Volescamper had been interviewed and maintained that he had been ‘sound asleep’ and knew nothing. Yorrick Kaine was reported as ‘missing’ and early exit polls from the day’s election had shown that Kaine and the Whigs had not lived up to expectations. Without Cardenio, the powerful Shakespeare lobby had returned their allegiances to the current administration, who had promised to postpone, with the help of the ChronoGuard, the eighteenth-century demolition of Shakespeare’s old Stratford home.