The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [250]
“It’s not that at all,” protested Tweed. “But what if she were here for another reason altogether?”
“I shall vouch for her!” said Miss Havisham in a thunderous tone. “I call for a show of hands. If there is a majority amongst you who think my judgment poor, then put your hands up now and I will banish her back to where she came from!”
She said it with such a show of fierce temper that I thought that no one would raise a hand; in the event, only one did— Tweed himself, who, after reading the situation, judged that good grace was the best way in which to retire. He gave a wan half-smile, bowed and said: “I withdraw all objections.”
I sighed a sigh of relief as Havisham nudged me in the ribs and gave me a wink.
“Good,” said the Bellman as Tweed returned to his desk. “As I was saying, we welcome Miss Next to Jurisfiction and we don’t want any of those silly practical jokes we usually play on new recruits—okay?”
He surveyed the room with a stern expression before returning to his list.
“Item two: There is an illegal PageRunner from Shakespeare, so this is a priority red. Perp’s name is Feste; worked as a jester in Twelfth Night. Took flight after a debauched night with Sir Toby. Who wants to go after him?”
A hand went up in the crowd.
“Fabien? Thanks. You may have to stand in for him for a while; take Falstaff with you, but please, Sir John—stay out of sight. You’ve been allowed to stay in Merry Wives, but don’t push your luck.”
Falstaff got up, bowed clumsily, burped, and sat down again.
“Item three: Interloper in the Sherlock Holmes series by the name of Mycroft—turns up quite unexpectedly in The Greek Interpreter and claims to be his brother. Anyone know anything about this?”
I shrank lower, hoping that no one would have enough knowledge of my world to know we were related. Sly old Fox! So he had rebuilt the Prose Portal. I covered my mouth to hide a smile.
“No?” went on the Bellman. “Well, Sherlock seems to think he is his brother, and so far there is no harm done—but I think this would be a good opportunity to open up a way into the Sherlock Holmes series. Suggestions, anyone?”
“How about through ‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue’?” suggested Tweed, to the accompaniment of laughter and catcalls from around the room.
“Order! Sensible suggestions, please. Poe is out of bounds and will remain so. It’s possible ‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue’ might open an avenue to all detective stories that came after it, but I won’t sanction the risk. Now—any other suggestions?”
“The Lost World?”
There were a few giggles, but they soon stopped; this time Tweed was serious.
“Conan Doyle’s other works might afford a link to the Sherlock Holmes series,” he added gravely. “I know we can get into The Lost World. I just need to find a way to move beyond that.”
There was an uncomfortable moment as the Jurisfiction agents muttered to one another.
“What’s the problem?” I whispered.
“Adventure stories always bring the highest risks to anyone establishing a new route,” hissed back Miss Havisham. “The worst you might expect from a romantic novel or domestic potboiler is a slapped face or a nasty burn from the Aga. Finding a way into King Solomon’s Mines cost two agents’ lives.”
The Bellman spoke again.
“The last booksplorer who went into The Lost World was shot by Lord Roxton.”
“Gomez was an amateur,” retorted Tweed. “I can take care of myself.”
The Bellman thought about this for a moment, weighed up the pros and cons and then sighed.
“Okay, you’re on. But I want reports every ten pages, understand? Okay. Item four—”
There was a noise from two younger members of the service who were laughing about something.
“Hey, listen up, guys. I’m not just talking for my health.”
They were quiet.
“Okay. Item four: nonstandard spelling. There have been some odd spellings reported in nineteenth- and twentieth-century texts, so keep your eyes open. It’s probably just texters having a bit of fun, but it just might be the mispeling vyrus coming back to