The well of lost plots (38 page)

“I share your grief for Miss Havisham,” murmured Beatrice when I arrived at Norland Park.

“Thank you.”

“Rotten luck,” said Falstaff as I walked past. “There were the remains of a fine woman about Havisham.”

“Thank you.”

“Miss Next?” It was the Bellman. “Can I have a word?”

I walked over with him to his office and he shut the door.

“So, tell me, how do you feel about joining us permanently?”

“I can stay for a year, but I have a husband back in the real world who doesn’t exist and needs me.”

“Ah. Well, I’m sorry to hear that. Shame.” He scratched his nose nervously. Something was going on that I didn’t know about. “Anyway, irrespective of your plans, I will be moving you to less demanding duties. Miss Havisham’s death shook us all up and I’m not risking your future health by hurrying you back onto the active list.”

“I’m fine, really.”

“I’m sure you are — but since you have only recently qualified and are without a mentor, we felt it was better if you were taken off the active list for a while.”

“ ‘We’?”

He picked up his clipboard, which had beeped at him. Havisham had told me that he never actually placed any papers in the all-important clipboard — the words were beamed directly there from Text Grand Central.

“The Council of Genres have taken a personal interest in your case,” he said after reading the clipboard. “I think they felt you were too valuable to lose through stress — an Outlander in Jurisfiction is quite a coup, as you know. You have powers of self-determination that we can only dream of. Take it in the good spirit it is meant, won’t you?”

“So I don’t get to take Havisham’s place at Jurisfiction?”

“I’m afraid not. Perhaps when the dust has settled. Who knows? In the BookWorld, anything is possible.”

He handed me a scrap of paper. “Report to Solomon on the twenty-sixth floor. Good luck!”

I got up, thanked the Bellman and left his office. There was silence as I walked back past the other agents, who looked at me apologetically. I had been canned through no fault of my own, and everyone knew it. I sat down at Havisham’s desk and looked at all her stuff. She had been replaced by a Generic in
Expectations
, and although they would look almost identical, it could never be the same person. The Havisham that I had known had been lost at Pendine sands. I sighed. Perhaps demotion was a good thing. After all, I did have a lot to learn, and working with the C of G for a bit probably had its merits.

“Miss Next?”

It was Commander Bradshaw.

“Hello, sir.”

He smiled and raised his hat. “Would you care to have tea with me on the veranda?”

“I’d be delighted.”

He smiled, took me by the arm and jumped us both into
Bradshaw Hunts Big Game
. I had never been to East Africa, either in our world or this, but it was as beautiful as I had imagined it from the many images I had grown up with. Bradshaw’s house was a low colonial building with a veranda facing the setting sun; the land around the house was wild scrub and whistling thorns. Herds of wildebeests and zebras wandered across in a desultory manner, their hooves kicking up red dust as they moved.

“Quite beautiful, wouldn’t you say?”

“Extraordinary,” I replied, staring at the scenery.

“Isn’t it just?” He grinned. “Appreciate a woman who knows beauty when she sees it.”

His voice lowered a tone. “Havisham was one of the finest, a little too fast for me, but a good egg in a scrap. She was very fond of you.”

“And I of her. Mr. Bradshaw—”

“Trafford. Call me Trafford.”

“Trafford, do you think it
was
an accident?”

“Well, it looked like one,” he said after thinking for a moment, “but then a real one and a written one are pretty similar, even to an expert eye. Mr. Toad was pretty cut up about it and got into a helluva pickle for visiting the Outland without permission. Why, are you still suspicious?”

I shrugged. “It’s in my nature. Someone wants me off the active list and it isn’t the Bellman. Did Havisham confide in you about Perkins?”

“Only that she thought he’d been murdered.”

“Had he?”

“Who knows?” Bradshaw took off his hat and fanned himself with it. “The office think it’s Deane, but we’ll never know for sure until we arrest him. Have you met the memsahib? My darling, this is Thursday Next — a colleague from work.”

I looked up and jumped slightly because Mrs. Bradshaw was, in fact, a gorilla. She was large and hairy and was dressed only in a floral-patterned pinafore.

“Good evening,” I said, slightly taken aback, “a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Bradshaw.”

“Good evening,” replied the gorilla politely, “would you like some cake with your tea? Alphonse has made an excellent lemon sponge.”

“That would be nice, thank you,” I spluttered as Mrs. Bradshaw stared at me with her dark, deep-set eyes.

“Excellent! I’ll be out in a jiffy to join you. Feet, Trafford.”

“What? Oh!” said Bradshaw, taking his boots off the chair opposite. When Mrs. Bradshaw had left, he turned and said to me in a serious whisper, “Tell me, did you notice anything odd about the memsahib?”

“Er,” I began, not wanting to hurt his feelings, “not really.”

“Think, it’s important. Is there anything about her that strikes you as a little out of the ordinary?”

“Well, she’s only wearing a pinafore,” I managed to say.

“Does that bother you?” he asked in all seriousness. “Whenever male visitors attend, I always have her cover up. She’s a fine-looking gal, wouldn’t you agree? Drive any man wild, wouldn’t you say?”

“Very fine.”

He shuffled in his chair and drew closer. “Anything else?” he said, staring at me intently. “Anything at all. I won’t be upset.”

“Well,” I began slowly, “I couldn’t help noticing that she was . . .”

“Yes?”

“. . . a gorilla.”

“Hmm,” he said, leaning back, “our little subterfuge didn’t fool you, then?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Melanie!” he shouted. “Please come and join us.”

Mrs. Bradshaw lumbered back onto the veranda and sat in one of the club armchairs, which creaked under her weight.

“She knows, my love.”

“Oh!” said Mrs. Bradshaw, producing a fan and hiding her face. “However did you find out?”

A servant appeared with a tray of teas, left them on the table, bowed and withdrew.

“Is it the hair?” she asked, delicately pouring the tea with her feet.

“Partly,” I admitted.

“I told you the powder wouldn’t cover it up,” she said to Bradshaw in a scolding tone, “and I’m
not
shaving. It makes one itch so. One lump or two?”

“One please,” I replied. “Is it a problem?”

“It’s no problem
here
,” said Mrs. Bradshaw. “I often feature in my husband’s books and nowhere does it specify precisely that I am anything but human.”

“We’ve been married for over fifty years,” added Bradshaw. “The problem is that we’ve had an invitation to the Bookies next week and Melanie here is a little awkward in public.”

“To hell with them all,” I replied. “Anyone who can’t accept that the woman you love is a gorilla isn’t worth counting as a friend!”

“Do you know,” said Mrs. Bradshaw, “I think she’s right. Trafford?”

“Right also!” He grinned. “Appreciate a woman who knows when to call a wife a gorilla. Hoorah! Lemon sponge, anyone?”

I took the elevator to the twenty-sixth floor and walked out into the lobby of the Council of Genres, clasping the orders that the Bellman had given me.

“Excuse me,” I said to the receptionist, who was busy fielding calls on a footnoterphone, “I have to report to Mr. Solomon.”

“Seventh door on the left,” she said without looking up. I walked down the corridor amongst the thronging mass of bureaucrats walking briskly hither and thither clasping buff files as though their lives and existence depended on it, which they probably did.

I found the correct door. It opened onto a large waiting room full of bored people who all clutched numbered tickets and stared vacantly at the ceiling. At a door at the far end was a desk manned by a single receptionist. He stared at my sheet when I presented it, sniffed and said, “How did you know I was single?”

“When?”

“Just then, in your description of me.”

“I meant
single
as in
solitary
.”

“Ah. You’re late. I’ll wait ten minutes for you and ‘His Lordship’ to get acquainted, then send the first lot in. Okay?”

“I guess.”

I opened the door to reveal another long room, this time with a single table at the far end of it. Sitting at the desk was an elderly, bewhiskered man dressed in long robes, who was dictating a letter to a stenographer. The walls of the room were covered with copies of letters from satisfied clients; he obviously took himself very seriously.

“Thank you for your letter dated the seventh of this month,” said the elderly man as I walked closer. “I am sorry to inform you that this office no longer deals with problems arising with or appertaining to junkfootnoterphones. I suggest you direct your anger towards the FNP’s complaints department. Yours very cordially, Solomon. That should do it. Yes?”

“Thursday Next reporting for duty.”

“Ah!” he said, rising and giving me a hand to shake. “The
Outlander
. Is it true that — out there — two or more people can talk
at the same time
?”

“In the Outland it happens all the time.”

“And do cats do anything else but sleep?”

“Not really.”

“I see. And what do you make of this?”

He lifted a small traffic cone onto his desk and presented it with a dramatic flourish.

“It’s . . . it’s a traffic cone.”

“Something of a rarity, yes?”

I chose my words carefully. “In many areas of the Outland they are completely unknown.”

“I collect Outlandish objects,” he said with a great deal of pride. “You must come and see my novelty-teapot collection.”

“I’d be delighted.”

He sat down and indicated for me to take a chair. “I was sorry to hear about Miss Havisham; she was one of the best operatives Jurisfiction ever had. Will there be a memorial?”

“Tuesday.”

“I’ll be sure to send flowers. Welcome to The Judgment of Solomon
^®
. It’s arbitration, mainly, a bit of licensing. We need someone to look after the crowds outside. It can get a bit impassioned sometimes.”

“You’re King Solomon?”

The old man laughed. “Me? You must be joking! There aren’t enough minutes in the day for one Solomon — as soon as he did that ‘divide the baby in two’ thing, everyone and his uncle wanted him to arbitrate — from corporate takeovers to playground disputes. So he did what any right-thinking businessman would do: he franchised. How else do you think he could afford the temple and the chariots and the navy and whatnot? The land he sold to Hiram of Tyre? Give me a break! My real name’s Kenneth.”

I looked a little doubtful.

“I know what you’re thinking. ‘The Judgment of Kenneth’
does
sound a bit daft — that’s why we are licensed to give judgments under his name. All aboveboard, I assure you. You have to purchase the cloak and grow a beard and go on the training course, but it works out very well. The
real
Solomon works from home, but he sticks only to the ultimate riddles of existence these days.”

“What if a franchisee makes a dishonest judgment?”

“Very simple.” Kenneth smiled. “The offender will be smitten from on high and forced to spend a painful eternity being tortured mercilessly by sadistic demons from the fieriest depths of hell. Solomon’s very strict about
that
.”

“I see.”

“Good. Let’s see the first punter.”

I went to the door and asked for ticket holder number 32. A small man with a briefcase walked with me up to Kenneth’s table. His knees became quite weak by the time he arrived, but he managed to contain himself.

“Name?”

“Mr. Toves from Text Grand Central, Your Eminence.”

“Reason?”

“I need to ask for more exemptions from the ‘
I
before
E
except after
C
’ rule.”

“More?”

“It’s part of the upgrade to Ultra Word™, Your Honor.”

“Very well, go ahead.”

“Feisty.”

“Approved.”

“Feigned.”

“Approved.”

“Weighty.”

“Approved.”

“Believe.”

“
Not
approved.”

“Reigate.”

“Approved.”

“That’s it for the moment,” said the small man, passing his papers across for Kenneth to sign.

“It is The Judgment of Solomon
^®
,” said Kenneth slowly, “that these words be exempt from Rule 7b of the arbitrary spelling code as ratified by the Council of Genres.”

He stamped the paper and the small man scurried off.

“What’s next?”

But I was thinking. Although I had been told repeatedly to ignore the three witches, their premonition about
Reigate
being exempted from the “
I
before
E
except after
C
” rule had just come true. Come to think of it, they had
all
come true. The “blinded dog” — the real Shadow —
had
barked, the “hedgepig” — Mrs. Tiggy-winkle —
had
ironed, and Mrs. Passerby from
Shadow the Sheepdog had
cried, “ ’Tis time, ’tis time!” There must be something in it. But there were two
other
prophecies. One, I was to be the Bellman, which seemed unlikely in the extreme, and two, I was to beware the “thrice-read rule.” What the hell did that mean?

“I’m a busy man,” said Kenneth, glaring at me, “I don’t need daydreamers!”

“I’m sorry, I was thinking of something the three witches told me.”

“Charlatans! And worse — the
competition
.”

“Sorry. What do you know of the
thrice-read
rule?”

“Is this a professional consultation?” he asked, sitting back and twiddling his thumbs.

“Staff freebie?” I asked hopefully.