One of Our Thursdays Is Missing - Jasper Fforde [34]
“You seem perturbed,” remarked Sprockett. “Is anything the matter?”
“I have reason to believe that the real Thursday Next might be missing,” I replied guardedly. “And that’s not good for all sorts of reasons.”
“Has she gone missing before?” asked Sprockett.
“Many times.”
“Then it’s probably one of those . . . again.”
I hoped he was right, but even if he wasn’t, I wasn’t quite sure what could be done about it. I was an underread A-8 character with no power and less influence. Besides, Jurisfiction was doubtless onto it. Commander Bradshaw, the head of Jurisfiction, was one of Thursday’s closest friends.
There was a knock on the door, and Mrs. Malaprop came in.
“Miss Next? There awesome gentlemen to see you.”
“Who are they?”
“They didn’t give their gnomes.”
The visitors didn’t wait either, and strode in. They weren’t the sort of people I wanted to see, but their presence might well reinforce my theories about Thursday. They were the Men in Plaid.
Several things seemed to happen at once. Sprockett’s eyebrow quivered at Mrs. Malaprop, who got his meaning and knocked over an ornamental vase, which fell to the floor with a crash. The Men in Plaid turned to see what was going on, and at that very moment Sprockett grabbed Thursday’s shield from the desk and threw it hard into the ceiling, where it stuck in the plasterboard. By the time the Men in Plaid looked back towards us, Sprockett was tidying my papers on the desk.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” I said in a friendly tone. “What can I do for you?”
Like trousers, pear pips, twins and bookends, MiP always came in pairs. They were without emotion and designed to ensure that no personal ambiguity would muddy their operating parameters. MiP were designed to do what they were told to do, and nothing else.
“So,” said the Man in Plaid, “you are Thursday Next A8-V-67987-FP?”
“Yes.”
“Date of composure?”
“Third June, 2006. What is this about?”
“Routine, Miss Next,” said the second MiP. “We are looking for some property stolen from a leading Jurisfiction agent, and we thought you might be able to help us. I won’t mince my words. We think you have it.”
I resisted the temptation to look up. The shield was in plain sight, embedded in the ceiling. “Do you want me to try to guess what you’re after, or are you going to tell me?”
The MiP exchanged glances.
“It has come to our attention,” said the taller of the two,
“that someone’s been waving the real Thursday Next’s Jurisfiction shield around. That person used it to get out of Poetry an hour ago. Were you in Poetry today, Miss Next?”
I wasn’t supposed to be there, so the answer had to be no. “No.”
They stared at me. “The officers involved told us that someone of your description had a robotic butler in the trunk of a taxi. Do you still deny this?”
I looked at Sprockett, who stared impassively ahead.
“There are probably hundreds of robotic manservants in Fiction,” I replied, “and all of them are technically luggage. But since automatons are incapable of misstatements, why don’t you ask him yourself?”
They did, and Sprockett could answer without lying that he had absolutely no knowledge of the trip at all.
“Perhaps it was Thursday herself,” I suggested. “Have you asked her?”
There was, perhaps, a subtle change in the Plaids’ demeanor. But if she was missing, as I supposed, they weren’t going to let on.
“How about Conspiracy?” asked the smaller Plaid. “We have a report from Elvis561 that someone looking a lot like Thursday and holding her Jurisfiction shield rescued a mechanical man from stoning.”
“That was definitely me,” I said. “I was on JAID business.”
They both stared at me. It was highly uncomfortable.
“Then you did have her shield?”
“I used my JAID shield. Here.”
I passed it across, and they stared at it. It was nothing like a Jurisfiction shield.
“The Elvis must have been mistaken,” I continued. “There is a certain degree of inbuilt hyperbole