‘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,’ replied Miss Havisham. ‘The worst you might expect from a romantic novel or domestic pot-boiler 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 five—’
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 five. Non-standard 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 six. 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 Cock”, “The Cuckold’s Revenge”, “The Maiden’s Wonderful Arse” and, most recendy, “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 Bowdlerisers 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 seven. Now this I regard as kind of serious, guys.’
He held up an old copy of the Bible.
‘In this 1631 printing of the Bible, 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 Bible here 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 humour, 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 Morlock.’
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 dishevelled, white-haired, whiskery gentleman in half-armour, ‘there has been a sighting of the Questing Beast in the back-story of Middlemarch.’
King Pellinore’s eyes opened wide; he muttered something that sounded like. ‘What, what, hey, hey?’, 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.’
‘What do we 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 back-story. Any questions?’
‘No,’ replied Miss Havisham. ‘Thursday?’
‘Er… no also,’ I replied.
‘Good,’ said the Bellman, signing a docket and tearing it off. ‘Take this to Wemmick in Stores.’
He left us and called to Foyle and the Red Queen about a missing person named Cass in Silas Marner.
‘Did you understand any of that?’ asked Miss Havisham kindly.
‘Not much.’
‘Good!’ Miss Havisham smiled. ‘Confused is exactly how all cadets to Jurisfiction should enter their first assignment!’