The Well of Lost Plots

'Has anyone tried to kill you recently?' I asked.

'Me?' replied Harris. 'No. Why, should they?'

I told him about the UltraWord™ connection.

'It's possible that there might be a link,' he mused, 'but I gave UltraWord™ the fullest test; it seemed to work extremely well no matter what I did! Do you have any idea what Perkins had discovered?'

'We don't know he found anything wrong at all,' said Havisham.

Harris thought for a moment.

'I think we should definitely keep this to ourselves,' he said at last, 'and take great care what we do. If Deane is about and had anything to do with Perkins' death, he might be after you or me next.'

Havisham agreed, told me to go and see Professor Plum to ascertain whether he could shed any more light on the failed Eject-O-Hat and vanished after telling me she had an urgent appointment to keep. When she had gone, Harris said to me:

'Keep an eye on the old girl, won't you?'

I promised I would and made my way back towards the elevators, deep in thought.

25 Havisham: the final bow

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Macbeth Retold for Yeast, translated by ../ / / / ../ / / ..

'Ah!' said Plum as I walked into his office. 'Miss Next — good news and bad news.'

'Better give me the bad news first.'

Plum took off his spectacles and polished them.

'The Eject-O-Hat. I've pulled the records and traced the manufacturing process all the way back to the original milliner; it seems that over a hundred people have been involved in its manufacture, modification and overhaul schedules. Fifteen years is a long service life for an Eject-O-Hat. Add the people with the know-how and we've got a short list of about six hundred.'

'A broad net.'

'I'm afraid so.'

I went to the window and looked out. Two peacocks were strutting across the lawn.

'What was the good news?'

'You know Miss Scarlett at Records?'

'Yes?'

'We're getting married on Tuesday.'

' Congratulations.'

'Thank you. Was there anything else?'

'I don't think so,' I replied, walking to the door. 'Thanks for your help, Plum.'

'My pleasure!' he replied kindly. 'Tell Miss Havisham she should get a new Eject-O-Hat — this one is quite beyond repair.'

'It wasn't Havisham's,' I told him, 'it was mine.'

He raised his eyebrows.

'You're mistaken,' he said after a pause. 'Look.'

He pulled the battered Homburg from his desk and showed me Havisham's name etched on the sweatband with a number, manufacturing details and size.

'But,' I said slowly, 'I was wearing this hat in—'

The awful truth dawned. There must have been a mix-up with the hats. They hadn't been trying to kill me that day — they had been after Miss Havisham!

'Problems?' said Plum.

'Of the worst sort,' I muttered. 'Can I use your footnoterphone?'

I didn't wait for a reply; I picked up the brass horn and asked for Miss Havisham. She wasn't in the Well, nor Great Expectations. I replaced the speaking horn and jumped to the lobby of the Great Library where the general stores were situated; if anyone knew what Havisham was up to, it would be Wemmick.

Mr Wemmick wasn't busy; he was reading a newspaper with his feet on the counter.

'Miss Next!' he said happily, getting up to shake me warmly by the hand. 'What can I do for you?'

'Miss Havisham,' I blurted out, 'do you know where she is?'

W'emmick squirmed inwardly.

'I'm not sure she'd like me to tell—'

'Wemmick!' I cried. 'Someone tried to kill Miss Havisham and they may try again!'

He looked shocked and bit his lip.

'I don't know where she is,' he said slowly, 'but I know what she's doing.'

My heart sank.

'It's another land speed attempt, isn't it?'

He nodded miserably.

'Where?'

'I don't know. She said the Higham wasn't powerful enough. She signed out for the Bluebird, a twin-engined, 2,500-horsepower brute of a car — it almost didn't fit in the storeroom.'

'Do you have any idea where she's going to drive it?'

'None at all.'

'Damn!' I yelled, slamming my hand against the counter. 'Think, Thursday, think!'

I had an idea. I grasped the footnoterphone and asked to be put through to Mr Toad from Wind in the Willows. He wasn't in but Ratty was; and after I had explained who I was and what I wanted, he gave me the information I needed. Havisham and Mr Toad were racing on Pendine Sands, in the Socialist Republic of Wales.

I ran up the stairs and to the works of Dylan Thomas, picked up a slim volume of poetry and concentrated on my exit point in the Outland. To my delight it worked and I was catapulted out of fiction and into an untidy heap in a small bookshop in Laugharne, Thomas's old village in South Wales. Now a shrine for Welsh and non-Welsh visitors alike, the bookshop was one of eight in the village selling nothing but Welsh literature and Thomas memorabilia.

There was a scream from a startled book-buyer as I appeared and I stepped backwards in alarm only to fall over a pile of Welsh cookery books. I got up and ran from the shop as a car screeched to a halt in front of me. Pendine Sands with its ten miles of flat beach was down the coast from Laugharne and I would need transport to get me there.

I showed the driver my Jurisfiction badge, which looked official even if it meant nothing, and said, in my very best Welsh:

'Esgipysgod fi ond ble mae bws i Pendine?'

She got the message and drove me along the road towards Pendine. Before we arrived I could see Bluebird on the sands, together with Mr Toad's car and a small group of people. The tide was out and a broad expanse of inviting smooth sand greeted Miss Havisham; as I watched, my pulse racing, two plumes of black smoke erupted from the back of the record-breaker as the engines fired up. Even through the window I could hear the guttural cry of the engines.

'Dewch ymlaen!' I urged the driver, and we swerved on to the car park just near the statue of John Parry Thomas. I ran down on to the beach, waving my arms and yelling, but no one heard me above the roar of the engines, and even if they had, there was little reason for them to take any notice.

'Hi!' I shouted. 'Miss Havisham!'

I ran as fast as I could but only exhausted myself so that I ran more slowly with every passing step.

'Stop!' I yelled, getting weaker and breathless. 'For pity's sake—!'

But it was too late. With another deep growl the car moved off and started to gather speed across the sand. I stopped and dropped to my knees, trying to gulp deep lungfuls of air, my heart racing. The car hurtled away from me, the engine roar fading as Miss Havisham tore along the hard sand. I watched it go at medium speed to the far end of the beach, then turn in a large arc for the first of her two runs. The engine growled again, rising to a high scream as the car gathered speed, the driving wheels throwing a shower of sand and pebbles far behind it. I willed her to be safe and for nothing to happen, and indeed, nothing did until she was decelerating after the first run. I was breathing a sigh of relief when one of the front wheels broke loose and was dragged beneath the car, throwing it up into the air. The front edge of the bodywork dug into the sand and the car swerved violently sideways. I heard a cry of fear from the small crowd and a series of sickening thuds as the car rolled end over end down the beach, the engine screaming out of control as the wheels gripped nothing but air. It came to rest right way up not five hundred yards from me, and I ran towards it. I was three hundred yards away when the petrol tank ignited in a mushroom of fire that lifted the three-ton car from the sand. When I got there I found that by some miracle she had survived. Perhaps it would have been better if she hadn't — Miss Havisham was horribly burned.