The Well of Lost Plots (Thursday Next 3)

Miss Havisham pointed out a book entitled The Curious Experience of the Patterson Family on the Island of Uffa and told me to open it. We were soon inside, on the foreshore of a Scottish island in the late spring.

'What do you mean?' asked Lucy, looking around her as her earlier confidence evaporated to be replaced by growing panic. 'What is this place?'

'It is a prison, Miss Deane.'

'A prison?' she replied. 'A prison for whom?'

'For them,' said Havisham, indicating several identically youthful and fair-complexioned Lucy Deanes, who had broken cover and were staring in our direction. Our Lucy Deane looked at us, then at her identical sisters, then back to us again.

'I'm sorry!' she said, dropping to her knees. 'Give me another chance – please!'

'Take heart from the fact that this doesn't make you a bad person,' said Miss Havisham. 'You just have a repetitive character disorder. You are a serial ad-libber and the 796th Lucy we have had to imprison here. In less civilised times you would have been reduced to text. Good day.'

And we vanished back to the corridors of the Great Library.

'And to think she was the most pleasant person in Floss!' I said, shaking my head sadly.

'You'll find that the most righteous characters are the first ones to go loco down here. The average life of a Lucy Deane is about a thousand readings; self-righteous indignation kicks in after that. No one could believe it when David Copperfield killed his first wife, either. Good day, Chesh.'

The Cheshire Cat had appeared on a high shelf, grinning to us, itself, and anything else in view.

'Well!' said the Cat. 'Next and Havisham! Problems with Lucy Deane?'

'The usual. Can you get the Well to send in the replacement as soon as possible?'

The Cat assured us he would as soon as possible, seemed crestfallen that I hadn't bought him any Moggilicious cat food and vanished again.

'We need to find anything unusual about Perkins' death', said Miss Havisham. 'Will you help?'

'Of course!' I enthused.

Miss Havisham smiled a rare smile.

'You remind me of myself, all those years ago, before that rat Compeyson brought my happiness to an end.'

She moved closer and narrowed her eyes.

'We keep this to ourselves. Knowledge can be a dangerous thing. Start poking around in the workings of Jurisfiction and you may find more than you bargained for – just remember that.'

She fell silent for a few moments.

'But first, we need to get you fully licensed as a Jurisfiction agent – there's a limit to what you can do as an apprentice. Did you finish the multiple choice?'

I nodded.

'Good. Then you can do your practical exam today. I'll go and organise it while you take your Eject-O-Hat to JurisTech.'

She melted into the air about me and I walked off down the Library corridor towards the elevators. I passed Falstaff, who invited me to 'dance around his maypole'. I told him to sod off, of course, and pressed the elevator 'call' button. The doors opened a minute later and I stepped in. But it wasn't empty. With me were Emperor Zhark and Mrs Tiggy-winkle.

'Which floor?' asked Zhark.

'First, please.'

He pressed the button with a long and finely manicured finger and continued his conversation with Mrs Tiggy-winkle.

'… and that was when the rebels destroyed the third of my battle stations,' said the emperor sorrowfully.

'Have you any idea how much these things cost?'