He handed me the bag of pinkish goo attached to a report from the SpecOps forensic labs. I thanked him and read the analysis of the slime Dad had given me with interest and confusion in equal measures.
‘…sugar, fatty animal protein, calcium, sodium, maltodextrin, carboxy-methyl-cellulose, phenylalnine, complex hydrocarbon compounds and traces of chlorophyll.’
I flicked to the back of the report but was none the wiser. Forensics had faithfully interpreted my request for analysis—but it told me nothing new.
‘What does it mean, Bowd?’
‘Search me, Thursday. They’re trying to match the profile to known chemical compounds, but so far nothing. Perhaps if you told us where you got it?’
‘I don’t think that would be safe. I’ll drop the Cardenio report in to Volescamper—I’m keen to avoid Cordelia. Tell forensics that the future of the planet depends on them—that should help. I have to know what this pink stuff is.’
I saw Cordelia waiting for me in the lobby with her guest, who had a Finis Hotel carrier bag in one hand and a young daughter in the other. Unluckily for him Spike Stoker had been passing and Cordelia, eager to do something to amuse her competition winner, had obviously asked him to say a few words. The look of frozen, jaw-dropping horror on her guest’s face said it all. I hid my face behind the Cardenio report and left Cordelia to it.
I blagged a ride in a squad car up to the crumbling Vole Towers. The house had changed a lot since I was last there. The mansion was besieged by the news stations, all keen to report any details regarding the discovery of Cardenio. Two dozen outside broadcast trucks were parked on the weed-infested gravel, all humming with activity. Dishes were trained into the afternoon sky, transmitting the pictures to an airship repeater station that had been routed in to bounce the stories live to the world’s eager viewers. For security, SpecOps 14 had been drafted in and operatives stood languidly about, idly chatting to one another. Mostly, it seemed, about Aubrey Jambe’s apparent indiscretion with the chimp.
‘Hello, Thursday!’ said a handsome young SO-14 agent at the front door. It was annoying; I didn’t recognise him. People I couldn’t remember hailing me as friends was something that had happened a lot since Landen’s eradication; I supposed I would get used to it.
‘Hello!’ I replied to the stranger in an equally friendly tone. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Yorrick Kaine is giving a press conference.’
‘Really? What’s Cardenio got to do with him?’
‘Hadn’t you heard? Lord Volescamper has given the play to Yorrick Kaine and the Whig party!’
‘Why would Volescamper have anything to do with a minor right-wing pro-Crimean Welsh-hater like Kaine?’
‘Because he’s a lord and wants to reclaim some lost power?’
At that moment two other SpecOps operatives walked past and one of them nodded to the young agent at the door and said: ‘All well, Miles?’
The dashing young SO-14 agent said that all was well, but he was wrong—all was not well, at least it wasn’t for me. I thought I might bump into Miles eventually but not unprepared, like this. I stared at him, hoping my shock and surprise wouldn’t show. He had spent time in my flat and knew me a lot better than I knew him. My heart thumped inside my chest and I tried to say something intelligent and witty but it came out more like:
‘Asterfobulongus?’
‘I’m sorry, what was that?’
‘Nothing.’
Miles looked to left and right and leaned a little closer.
‘You seemed a bit upset when I called, Thursday. Is there a problem with our arrangement?’
I stared at him for a few seconds in numbed silence before mumbling:
‘No—no, not at all.’
‘Good!’ he said. ‘We must fix a date or two.’
‘Yes,’ I said, running on auto-fear, ‘yes, we must Gottogo—bye.’
I trotted off before he could say anything else. I paused for breath outside the door to the library. Sooner or later I was going to have to ask him straight out. I decided on the face of it that later suited me better than sooner, so walked through the heavy steel doors and into the library. Yorrick Kaine and Lord Volescamper were sitting behind a table, and beyond them was Mr Swaike and two security guards who were standing either side of the play itself, proudly displayed behind a sheet of bullet-proof glass. The press conference was halfway through, and I tapped Lydia Startright—who happened to be standing quite near—on the arm.
‘Hey, Lyds!’ I said in a low whisper.
‘Hey, Thursday,’ replied the reporter. ‘I heard you did the initial authentication. How good is it?’
‘Very good,’ I replied. ‘Somewhere on a par with The Tempest. What’s happening here?’
‘Volescamper has just officially announced he is giving the play to Yorrick Kaine and the Whigs.’
‘Why?’
‘Who knows? Hang on, I want to ask a question.’
Lydia stood up and raised her hand. Kaine pointed at her.
‘What do you propose to do with the play, Mr Kaine? We understand that there has been talk of offers in the region of a hundred million pounds.’
‘Good question,’ replied Yorrick Kaine, getting to his feet. ‘We in the Whig party thank Lord Volescamper for his kind generosity. I am of the opinion that Cardenio is not for one person or group to exploit, so we in the Whig party propose offering free licences to perform the play to anyone who wishes to do so.’
There was an excited babbling from the attendant journalists as they took this in. It was an act of unprecedented generosity, especially from Kaine, but more than that, it was the right thing to do, and the press suddenly warmed to Yorrick. It was as if Kaine had never suggested the invasion of Wales two years earlier or the reduction of the right to vote the year before; I was instantly suspicious.
There were several more questions about the play and a lot of well-practised answers from Kaine, who seemed to have reinvented himself as a caring and sharing patriarch and not the extremist of yore. After the press conference had ended, I made my way to the front and approached Volescamper who looked at me oddly for a moment.
‘The Spoon report,’ I told him, handing him the buff-coloured file, ‘about the authentication… we thought you might want to see it.’
‘What? Of course?’
Volescamper took the report and glanced at it in a cursory manner before passing it to Kaine who seemed to show more interest. Kaine didn’t even look at me but since I obviously wasn’t going to leave like some message-girl, Volescamper introduced me.
‘Oh yes! Mr Kaine, this is Thursday Next, SpecOps-27.’
Kaine looked up from the report. His manner abruptly changed to one of charm and gushing friendship.
‘Ms Next, delighted!’ he enthused. ‘I read of your exploits with great interest and, believe me, your intervention improved the narrative of Jane Eyre considerably!’
I wasn’t impressed by him or his faux charm.
‘Think you can change the Whig party’s fortunes, Mr Kaine?’
‘The party is undergoing something of a restructuring at present,’ replied Kaine, fixing me with a serious stare. ‘Old ideology has been retired and the party now looks forward to a fresh look at England’s political future. Rule by informed patriarch and voting restricted to responsible property owners is the future, Miss Next—ruling by committee has been the death of common sense for far too long.’
‘And Wales?’ I asked. ‘Where do you stand on Wales these days?’
‘Wales is historically part of the greater Britain,’ announced Kaine in a slightly more guarded manner. ‘The Welsh have been flooding the English market with cheap goods and this has to stop—but I have no plans whatsoever for forced unification.’
I stared at him for a moment.
‘You have to get into power first, Mr Kaine.’