The Well of Lost Plots (Thursday Next 3)

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'The Bellman lived in a grace-and-favour apartment at Norland Park when he wasn't working in The Hunting of the Snark. He had been head of Jurisfiction for twenty years and was required, under Council of Genres mandate, to stand down. The Bellman, oddly enough, had always been called the Bellman – it was no more than coincidence that he had actually been a Bellman himself. The previous Bellman had been Bradshaw and, before him, Virginia Woolf. Under Woolf, Jurisfiction roll-calls tended to last several hours.'

THE BELLMAN – The Hardest Job in Fiction

I walked into the Jurisfiction offices an hour later and tingled the Bellman's bell. It was a signal for the immediate attention of the Bellman, and within a few moments he had appeared, still with a napkin stuck in his collar from lunch. I sat down and explained what had happened. When he heard, he needed to sit down, too.

'Where is the Bluebird now?' he asked.

'Back at the stores,' I replied. 'I've ordered an investigation; it looks as though the stub axle failed through metal fatigue.'

'An accident?'

I nodded my head. They hadn't got to her after all. Despite all that had happened, I still had less than nothing suspicious to pin on her death, and only a misplaced key on Perkins'. Motor racing has its own share of dangers, and Havisham knew that more than most.

'How long has she got?'

'They're improvising her death scene in Expectations as we speak. The doctor said a chapter at most – as long as we can keep references or appearances to a minimum.'

He patted me on the shoulder.

'We'll have to get an A-grade Generic trained to take her place,' he said softly. 'Expectations won't be demolished.'

He turned to me.

'You're off the active list for a few days, Miss Next. Take it easy at home and we'll get some quiet jobs for you to do until you're ready to return to full duties.'

Tweed appeared.

'What's going on?' he demanded. 'They told me—'

The Bellman took him by the arm and explained what had happened as I thought about Havisham and life without her. Tweed approached and laid a hand upon my shoulder.

'I'm sorry, Thursday. Havisham was one of the best; we all thought the world of her.'

I thanked him.

'You might be interested in these copies of reports from Text Grand Central.'

'What are they?'

He placed them on the table in front of me.

'They are the UltraWord™ reports written by Perkins, Deane and Miss Havisham. They all give it the thumbs-up. If Perkins was murdered, it wasn't because of UltraWord™.'

'The Ultimate Reading Experience?'

'Looks like it. A modern system like this needs people like you to police it, Next. I want you to consider a permanent post here inside fiction.'

I looked up at him. This seemed to me like rather a good idea. After all, there was no one waiting for me back at Swindon.

'Sounds good, Tweed. Can I sleep on it?'

He smiled.

'Take as long as you want.'

I went back to Mary's flying boat and read over what Miss Havisham had done with her final scene in Great Expectations. A professional to the last, she had enacted her own death with a sensitivity and fallibility that I had never seen her exhibit in life. I found a bottle of wine, poured myself a large glass and drank it gratefully. Oddly I thought there was a reason why perhaps I shouldn't be drinking, but couldn't think what it was. I looked at my hand where there had been a name written that morning. Havisham had instructed me to scrub it out, and I had – but even so I was intrigued and tried to figure out from the small marks still visible what had been written there.