The Well of Lost Plots (Thursday Next 3)

'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.