The Well of Lost Plots (Thursday Next 3)

I leaned closer.

'UltraWord™ has a "thrice only" read capability.'

'Good Lord!' exclaimed Tweed. 'Anything else?'

'Not yet. I was hoping to find out what Snell said before he died. It was badly mispeled but I thought perhaps I could unmispel it by repeating it close to a mispeling source.'

'Good thought,' replied Tweed, 'but we must take care – too much exposure to this stuff and you could be permanently mispeled.'

He donned a pair of DictoSafe gloves.

'Sit here and repeat Snell's words,' he told me, placing a chair not a yard from the pile of dictionaries. 'I'll remove the OEDs one at a time and we'll see what happens.'

'Wode – Cone, udder whirled – doughnut Trieste' I recited as Tweed pulled a single dictionary from the large pile that covered the vyrus.

'Wode – Cone, ulder whirled – dougnut Trieste,' I repeated.

'Who else knows about this?' he asked. 'If what you say is true, this knowledge is dangerous enough to have killed three times – I hate to say it but I think we have a rotten apple at Jurisfiction.'

'I tolled no-wun at Jurizfaction,' I assured him. 'Wede – Caine, ulder whorled – dogn’ut Triuste.'

Harris carefully removed another dictionary. I could see the faint purple glow from within the stacked books.

'We don't know who we can trust,' he said sombrely. 'Who did you tell, precisely? It's important, I need to know.'

He removed another dictionary.

'Twede – Caine, ulter whorled – dogn't Truste.'

My heart went cold. Twede. Could that be Tweed? I tried to look normal and glanced across at him, trying to figure out whether he had heard me. I had good reason to be concerned; there he was, controlling a strong source of mispeling vyrus. If he removed one too many dictionaries I could be fatally mispeled into a Thirsty Neck or something – and nobody knew I was here.

'I cane right you a liszt if it wood yelp,' I said, trying to sound as normal as I could.

'Why not just tell me,' he said, still smiling. 'Who was it? Some of those Generics at Caversham Heights?

'I tolled the bell, man.'

The smile dropped from his face.

'Now I know you're lying.'

We stared at one another. Tweed was no fool; he knew his cover was blown.

'Tweed,' I said, the unmispeling now

complete. 'Kaine – UltraWord – Don’t trust!'

I jumped aside as soon as I had said it. I was only just in time – Tweed yanked out three dictionaries near the bottom and the DictoSafe partially collapsed.

I sprawled on the ground as the heavy glow, emanating in one direction from the disrupted pile of dictionaries, instantly turned the hospital bed behind me into an hospitable ted, a furry stuffed bear who waved his paw cheerfully and told me to pop round for dinner any day of the week – and to bring a friend.

I threw myself at Tweed, who was not as quick as I, my speech returning to normal almost immediately.

'Snell and Perkins?!' I yelled, pinning him to the ground. 'Who else? Havisham?'

'It's not important,' he cried as I took his gun and forced his chin into the carpet.

'You're wrong!' I told him angrily. 'What's the problem with UltraWord™?'