The Well of Lost Plots

The Bellman laughed and we entered the ballroom of Norland Park.

'Have you heard?' said a young man who approached us with no small measure of urgency in his voice. 'The Red Queen had to have her leg amputated. Arterial thrombosis, the doctor told me.'

'Really?' I said. 'When?'

'Last week. And that's not all.'

He lowered his voice.

'The Bellman has gassed himself! '

'But we were just talking to him,' I replied.

'Oh,' said the young man, thinking hard, 'I meant Perkins has gassed himself.'

Miss Havisham joined us.

'Billy!' she said in a scolding tone. 'That's quite enough of that. Buzz off before I box your ears!'

The young man looked deflated for a moment then pulled himself up, announced haughtily that he had been asked to write additional dialogue for John Steinbeck and strode off. Miss Havisham shook her head sadly.

'If he ever says "good morning",' she said, 'don't believe him. All well, Trafford?'

'Top hole, Estella, old girl, top hole. I bumped into Tuesday here in the Well.'

'Not selling parts of your book, were you?' she asked mischievously.

'Good heavens, no!' replied Bradshaw, feigning shock and surprise. 'Goodness me,' he added, staring into the room for some form of escape, 'I must just speak to the Cheshire Cat. Good day!'

And, tipping his pith helmet politely, he was gone.

'Bradshaw, Bradshaw,' sighed Miss Havisham, shaking her head sadly, 'soon Bradshaw defies the Kaiser will have so many holes we could use it as a colander.'

'He wanted to buy a dress for Mrs Bradshaw,' I explained.

'Have you met her yet?'

'Not yet.'

'When you do, don't stare, will you? It's very rude.'

'Why would I�'

'Come along!' interrupted Miss Havisham. 'Almost time for roll-call!'

The ballroom of Norland Park had long since been used for nothing but Jurisfiction business. The floor space was covered with tables and filing cabinets, and the many desks were piled high with files tied up with ribbon. There was a table to one side with food upon it and waiting for us � or the Bellman, at least � were the staff at Jurisfiction. There were about thirty operatives on the active list, and since up to ten of them were busy on assignment and five or so active in their own books, there were never more than fifteen people in the office at any one time. Vernham Deane gave me a cheery wave as we entered. He was the resident cad and philanderer in a Daphne Farquitt novel entitled The Squire of High Potternews, but you would never know to talk to him � he had always been polite and courteous to me. Next to him was Harris Tweed, who had intervened back at the Slaughtered Lamb only the day before.

'Miss Havisham!' he exclaimed, walking over and handing us both a plain envelope. 'I've got your bounty for those grammasites you killed; I split it equally, yes?'

He winked at me, then left before Havisham could say anything.

'Thursday!' said Akrid Snell. 'Sorry to dash off like that yesterday. Hello, Miss Havisham � I heard you got swarmed by a few grammasites; no one's ever shot six Verbisoids in one go before!'

'Piece of cake,' I replied. 'And Akrid, I've still got that � er � thing you bought.'

'Thing? What thing?'

'You remember,' I urged, knowing that trying to influence his own narrative was strictly forbidden, 'the thing. In a bag. You know.'

'Oh! Ah � ah, yes,' he said, finally realising what I was talking about. 'The thing thing. I'll pick it up after work, yes?'

'Snell insider-trading again?' asked Havisham quietly as soon as he had left.

'I'm afraid so.'

'I'd do the same if my book was as bad as his.'

I looked around to see who else had turned up. Sir John Falstaff was there, as was King Pellinore, Deane, Lady Cavendish, Mrs Tiggy-winkle with Emperor Zhark in attendance, Gully Foyle, and Perkins.

'Who are they?' I asked Havisham, pointing to two agents I didn't recognise.

'Ichabod Crane is the one on the left holding the pumpkin,' she explained. 'Beatrice is the other. A bit loud for my liking, but good at her job.'

I thanked her and looked around for the Red Queen, whose open hostility to Havisham was Jurisfiction's least well-kept secret; she was nowhere to be seen.

'Hail, Miss Next!' rumbled Falstaff, waddling up and staring at me unsteadily from within a cloud of alcohol fumes. He had drunk, stolen and womanised throughout Henry IV Parts I and II then inveigled himself into The Merry Wives of Windsor. Some saw him as a likeable rogue; I saw him as just plain revolting � although he was the blueprint of likeable debauchers in fiction everywhere, so I thought I should try to cut him a bit of slack.

'Good morning, Sir John,' I said, trying to be polite.

'Good morning to you, sweet maid,' he exclaimed happily. 'Do you ride?'

'A little.'

'Then perhaps you might like to take a ride up and down the length of my merry England? I could take you places and show you things�'

'I must politely decline, Sir John.'

He laughed noisily in my face. I felt a flush of anger rise within me but luckily the Bellman, unwilling to waste any more time, had stepped up to his small dais and tingled his bell.

'Sorry to keep you all waiting,' he muttered. 'As you have seen, things are a little fraught outside. But I am delighted to see so many of you here. Is there anyone still to come?'

'Shall we wait for Godot?' enquired Deane.

'Anyone know where he is?' asked the Bellman. 'Beatrice, weren't you working with him?'

'Not I,' replied the young woman. 'You might enquire this of Benedict if he troubles to attend but you would as well speak to a goat � a stupid goat, mark me.'

'The sweet lady's tongue does abuse to our ears,' said Benedict, who had been seated out of our view but now rose to glare at Beatrice. 'Were the fountain of your mind clear again, that I might water an ass at it.'

'Ah!' retorted Beatrice with a laugh. 'Look, he's winding up the watch of his wit; by and by it will strike!'

'Dear Beatrice,' returned Benedict, bowing low, 'I was looking for a fool when I found you.'

'You, Benedict, who has not so much brain as ear-wax?'

They narrowed their eyes at one another and then smiled with polite enmity.

'All right, all right,' interrupted the Bellman. 'Calm down, you two. Do you know where Agent Godot is or not?'

Beatrice answered that she didn't.

'Right,' announced the Bellman. 'Let's get on. Jurisfiction meeting number 40319 is now in session.'

He tingled his bell again, coughed and consulted his clipboard.

'Item one. Our congratulations go to Deane and Lady Cavendish for foiling the Bowdlerisers in Chaucer.'

There were a few words of encouragement and back-slapping.

'There has been damage done but it's got no worse, so let's just try and keep an eye out in the future. Item two.'

He put down his clipboard and leaned on the lectern.

'Remember that craze a few years back in the BookWorld for sending chain letters? Receive a letter and send one on to ten friends? Well, someone has been over-enthusiastic with the letter "U". I've got a report here from the Text Sea Environmental Protection Agency saying that reserves of the letter "U" have reached dangerously low levels � we need to decrease consumption until stocks are brought back up. Any suggestions?'

'How about using a lower-case "N" upside down?' said Benedict.

'We tried that with "M" and "W" during the Great "M" Migration of '62; it never worked.'

'How about respelling what, what?' suggested King Pellinore, stroking his large white moustache. 'Any word with the "our" ending could be spelt "or", dontchaknow.'

'Like neighbor instead of neighbour?