Something rotten Read Online Free PDF Page B

Hamilton’s in the spare room and that nice Mr. Bismarck is in the attic, so he can have the box room.”
    My mother grasped Hamlet’s hand and shook it heartily. “How are you, Mr. Hamlet? Where did you say you were the prince of again?”
    “Denmark.”
    “Ah! No visitors after seven P.M. and breakfast stops at nine A.M. prompt. I do expect guests to make their own beds and if you need washing done you can put it in the wicker basket on the landing. Pleased to meet you. I’m Mrs. Next, Thursday’s mother.”
    “I have a mother,” replied Hamlet gloomily as he bowed politely and kissed my mother’s hand. “She shares my uncle’s bed.”
    “They should buy another one, in that case,” she replied, practical as ever. “They do a very good deal at IKEA, I’m told. Don’t use it myself because I don’t like all that self-assembly—I mean, what’s the point of paying for something you have to build yourself? But it’s popular with men for exactly that same reason. Do you like Battenberg?”
    “Wittenberg?”
    “No, no. Battenberg. ”
    “On the river Eder?” asked Hamlet, confused over my mother’s conversational leap from self-assembly furniture to cake.
    “No, silly, on a doily—covered with marzipan.”
    Hamlet leaned closer to me. “I think your mother may be insane—and I should know.”
    “You’ll get the hang of what she’s talking about,” I said, giving him a reassuring pat on the arm.
    We walked through the hall to the living room, where, after managing to extract Friday’s fingers from Mum’s beads, we managed to sit down.
    “So tell me all your news!” she exclaimed as my eyes flicked around the room, trying to take in all the many potential hazards for a two-year-old.
    “Where do you want me to begin?” I asked, removing the vase of flowers from the top of the TV before Friday had a chance to pull them over on himself. “I had a flurry of things to do before I left. Two days ago I was in Camelot trying to sort out some marital strife, and the day before—sweetheart, don’t touch that—I was negotiating a pay dispute with the Union of Orcs.”
    “Goodness!” replied my mother. “You must be simply dying for a cup of tea.”
    “Please. The BookWorld might be the cat’s pajamas for characterization and explosive narrative, but you can’t get a decent cup of tea for all the bourbon in Hemingway.”
    “I’ll do it!” said Joffy. “C’mon, Hamlet, tell me about yourself. Got a girlfriend?”
    “Yes—but she’s bonkers.”
    “In a good way or a bad way?”
    Hamlet shrugged. “Neither—just bonkers. But her brother—hell’s teeth! Talk about sprung-loaded . . . !”
    Their conversation faded as they disappeared into the kitchen.
    “Don’t forget the Battenberg,” my mother called after them.
    I opened my suitcase and took out a few rattly toys Mrs. Bradshaw had given me. Melanie had looked after Friday a lot, as she and Commander Bradshaw had no children of their own, what with Melanie’s being a mountain gorilla, so she had doted on Friday. It had its upsides: he always ate his greens and loved fruit, but I had my suspicions that they climbed on the furniture when I wasn’t about, and once I found Friday trying to peel a banana with his feet.
    “How’s life treating you?” I asked.
    “Better for seeing you. It’s quite lonely with Mycroft and Polly away at the Fourteenth Annual Mad Scientists’ Conference. If it wasn’t for Joffy and his partner Miles popping round every day, Bismarck and Emma, Mrs. Beatty next door, Eradications Anonymous, my auto-body work class and that frightful Mrs. Daniels, I’d be completely alone. Should Friday be in that cupboard?”
    I turned, jumped up and grabbed Friday by the straps of his dungarees and gently took the two crystal wineglasses from his inquisitive grasp. I showed him his toys and sat him down in the middle of the room. He stayed put for about three seconds before tottering off in the direction of DH-82,