A Thursday Next Digital Collection: Novels 1-5 (63 page)

“The Balfours!” we all repeated. Then, heads bowed, we stood in silence. After a minute ticked by, the Bellman spoke again.

“Now, I don't want to sound disrespectful, but what we learn from this is that we must
always
sign the outings book so we know where you are—
particularly
if you are exploring new routes. Don't forget the ISBN numbers either—they weren't introduced
just
for cataloguing, now were they? Mr. Bradshaw's maps might have a traditionalist's charm about them—”

“Who's Bradshaw?” I whispered.

“
Commander
Bradshaw,” explained Havisham. “Retired now but a wonderful character—did most of the booksploring in the early days.”

“—but they are old and full of errors,” continued the
Bellman. “New technology is here to be used, guys. Anyone who wants to attend a training course on how ISBN numbers relate to transbook travel, see the Cat for details.”

The Bellman looked around the room as if to reinforce the order, then unfolded a sheet of paper and adjusted his glasses.

“Right. Item two. New recruit. Thursday Next. Where are you?”

The assembled Prose Resource Operatives looked around the room before I waved a hand to get their attention.

“There you are. Thursday is apprenticed to Miss Havisham; I'm sure you'll all join me in welcoming her to our little band.”

“Didn't like the way
Jane Eyre
turned out?” said someone in a hostile tone from the back. Everyone watched as a middle-aged man stood up and walked up to the Bellman's dais. There was silence.

“Who's that?” I hissed.

“Harris Tweed,” replied Havisham. “Dangerous and arrogant but
quite
brilliant—for a man.”

“Who approved her application?” asked Tweed.

“She didn't apply, Harris,” replied the Bellman. “Her appointment was forshadowed long ago. Besides, her work within
Jane Eyre
ridding the book of the loathsome Hades is good enough testimonial for me.”

“But she
altered
the book!” cried Tweed angrily. “Who's to say she wouldn't do the same again?”

“I did what I did for the best,” I said in a loud voice, feeling I had to defend myself against Tweed. This startled him—I got the feeling no one really stood up to him.

“If it wasn't for Thursday we wouldn't
have
a book,” said the Bellman. “A full book with a different ending is better than half a book without.”

“That's not what the rules say, Bellman.”

To my great relief, Miss Havisham spoke up.

“
Truly
competent Literary Detectives are as rare as truthful men, Mr. Tweed—you can see her potential as clearly as I can. Frightened of someone stealing your thunder, perhaps?”

“It's not that at all,” protested Tweed. “But what if she were here for another reason altogether?”

“I shall vouch for her!” said Miss Havisham in a thunderous tone. “I call for a show of hands. If there is a majority amongst you who think my judgment poor, then put your hands up now and I will banish her back to where she came from!”

She said it with such a show of fierce temper that I thought that no one would raise a hand; in the event, only one did— Tweed himself, who, after reading the situation, judged that good grace was the best way in which to retire. He gave a wan half-smile, bowed and said: “I withdraw all objections.”

I sighed a sigh of relief as Havisham nudged me in the ribs and gave me a wink.

“Good,” said the Bellman as Tweed returned to his desk. “As I was saying, we welcome Miss Next to Jurisfiction and we don't want any of those silly practical jokes we usually play on new recruits—okay?”

He surveyed the room with a stern expression before returning to his list.

“Item two: There is an illegal PageRunner from Shakespeare, so this is a priority red. Perp's name is Feste; worked as a jester in
Twelfth Night.
Took flight after a debauched night with Sir Toby. Who wants to go after him?”

A hand went up in the crowd.

“Fabien? Thanks. You may have to stand in for him for a while; take Falstaff with you, but please, Sir John—stay out of sight. You've been allowed to stay in
Merry Wives,
but don't push your luck.”

Falstaff got up, bowed clumsily, burped, and sat down again.

“Item three: Interloper in the Sherlock Holmes series by the
name of Mycroft—turns up quite unexpectedly in
The Greek Interpreter
and claims to be his brother. Anyone know anything about this?”

I shrank lower, hoping that no one would have enough knowledge of my world to know we were related. Sly old Fox! So he
had
rebuilt the Prose Portal. I covered my mouth to hide a smile.

“No?” went on the Bellman. “Well, Sherlock seems to think he
is
his brother, and so far there is no harm done—but I think this would be a good opportunity to open up a way into the Sherlock Holmes series. Suggestions, anyone?”

“How about through ‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue'?” suggested Tweed, to the accompaniment of laughter and catcalls from around the room.

“Order!
Sensible
suggestions, please. Poe is out of bounds and will remain so. It's possible ‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue' might open an avenue to
all
detective stories that came after it, but I won't sanction the risk. Now—any other suggestions?”

“
The Lost World
?”

There were a few giggles, but they soon stopped; this time Tweed was serious.

“Conan Doyle's other works might afford a link to the Sherlock Holmes series,” he added gravely. “I know we can get into
The Lost World.
I just need to find a way to move beyond that.”

There was an uncomfortable moment as the Jurisfiction agents muttered to one another.

“What's the problem?” I whispered.

“Adventure stories always bring the highest risks to anyone establishing a new route,” hissed back Miss Havisham. “The worst you might expect from a romantic novel or domestic potboiler is a slapped face or a nasty burn from the Aga. Finding a way into
King Solomon's Mines
cost two agents' lives.”

The Bellman spoke again.

“The last booksplorer who went into
The Lost World
was shot by Lord Roxton.”

“Gomez was an amateur,” retorted Tweed. “I can take care of myself.”

The Bellman thought about this for a moment, weighed up the pros and cons and then sighed.

“Okay, you're on. But I want reports every ten pages, understand? Okay. Item four—”

There was a noise from two younger members of the service who were laughing about something.

“Hey, listen up, guys. I'm not just talking for my health.”

They were quiet.

“Okay. Item four: nonstandard spelling. There have been some odd spellings reported in nineteenth- and twentieth-century texts, so keep your eyes open. It's probably just texters having a bit of fun, but it just
might
be the mispeling vyrus coming back to life.”

There was a groan from the assembled agents.

“Okay, okay, keep your hair on—I only said ‘might.' Samuel Johnson's dictionary cured it after the 1744 outbreak and Lavinia-Webster and the
OED
keep it all in check, but we have to be careful of any new strains. I know this is boring, but I want
every
misspelling you come across reported and given to the Cat. He'll pass it on to Agent Libris at Text Grand Central.”

He paused for effect and looked at us sternly.

“We can't let this get out of hand, people. Okay. Item five: There are thirty-one pilgrims in Chaucer's
Canterbury Tales
but only twenty-four stories. Mrs. Cavendish, weren't you keeping an eye on this?”

“We've been watching
Canterbury Tales
all week,” said a woman dressed in the most fabulously outrageous clothes, “and every time we look away, another story gets boojummed. Someone's getting in there and erasing the story from within.”

“Deane? Any idea who's behind all this?”

Daphne Farquitt's romantic lead stood up and consulted a list.

“I think I can see a pattern beginning to emerge,” he said. “
The Merchant's Wife
was the first to go, followed by
The Milliner's Tale, The Pedlar's Cok, The Cuckold's Revenge, The Maiden's Wonderful Arse
and, most recently,
The Contest of Farts. The Cook's Tale
is already half gone—it looks as though whoever is doing this has a problem with the healthy vulgarity of Chaucerian texts.”

“In that case,” said the Bellman with a grave expression, “it looks like we have an active cell of Bowdlerizers at work again.
The Miller's Tale
will be the next to go. I want twenty-four-hour surveillance, and we should get someone on the inside. Volunteers?”

“I'll go,” said Deane. “I'll take the place of the host—he won't mind.”

“Good. Keep me informed of your progress.”

“I say!” said Akrid Snell, putting up his hand.

“What is it, Snell?”

“If you're going to be the host, Deane, can you get Chaucer to cool it a bit on the Sir Topaz story? He's issued a writ for libel, and not to put too fine a point on it, I think we could lose our trousers over this one.”

Deane nodded, and the Bellman returned to his notes.

“Item six: Now
this
I regard as kind of serious, guys.”

He held up an old copy of the Bible.

“In this 1631 printing, the seventh commandment reads:
Thou shalt commit adultery.
”

There was a mixture of shock and stifled giggles from the small gathering.

“I don't know who did this, but it's just not funny. Fooling around with internal Text Operating Systems might have a sort
of mischievous appeal to it, but it's not big and it's not clever. The occasional bout of high spirits I might overlook, but this isn't an isolated incident. I've also got a 1716 edition that urges the faithful to
sin on more,
and a Cambridge printing from 1653 which tells us that
The unrighteous shall inherit the Kingdom of God.
Now listen, I don't want to be accused of having no sense of humor, but this is something that I
will not tolerate.
If I find out the joker who has been doing this, it'll be a month's enforced holiday inside
Ant & Bee.
”

“Marlowe!”
said Tweed, making it sound like a cough.

“What was that?”

“Nothing. Bad cough—
sorry
.”

The Bellman stared at Tweed for a moment, laid down the offending Bible and looked at his watch.

“Okay, that's it for now. I'll be doing individual briefings in a few minutes. We thank Mrs. Dashwood for her hospitality, and Perkins—it's your turn to feed the Minotaur.”

There was a groan from Perkins. The group started to wander off and talk to one another. The Bellman had to raise his voice to be heard.

“We go off shift in eight bells, and listen up—!”

The assembled Jurisfiction staff stopped for a moment.

“Let's be
careful
out there.”

The Bellman paused, tingled his bell and everyone returned to their tasks. I caught Tweed's eye; he smiled, made a pistol out of his hand and pointed it at me. I did the same back and he laughed.

“King Pellinore,” said the Bellman to a disheveled white-haired whiskery gentleman in half-armor, “there has been a sighting of the Questing Beast in the backstory of
Middlemarch.
”

King Pellinore's eyes opened wide; he muttered something that sounded like “What what, hey hey?,” then drew himself up to his full height, picked a helmet from a nearby table and
clanked from the room. The Bellman ticked his list, consulted the next entry and turned to us.

“Next and Havisham,” he said. “Something easy to begin with. Bloophole needs closing. It's in
Great Expectations,
Miss Havisham, so you can go straight home afterwards.”

“Good,” she exclaimed. “What do we have to do?”

“Page two,” explained the Bellman, consulting his clipboard. “Abel Magwitch escapes—swims, one assumes—from a prison hulk with a ‘great iron' on his leg. He'd sink like a stone. No Magwitch, no escape, no career in Australia, no cash to give to Pip, no ‘expectations,' no story. He's got to have the shackles still on him when he reaches the shore so Pip can fetch a file to release him, so you're going to have to footle with the backstory. Any questions?”

“No,” replied Miss Havisham. “Thursday?”

“Er—no also,” I replied, my head still spinning after the Bellman's speech. I was just going to walk in Miss Havisham's shadow for a bit—which was, on reflection, a very good place to be.