The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [302]
He shivered in the cold and looked at the young DS again.
“Mary Jones, eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What have you found out so far?”
She dug in her pocket for a notebook, couldn’t find it, so counted the points off on her fingers instead.
“Deceased’s name is Sonny DeFablio.”
“What else?”
“Your wife phoned.”
“She . . . did?”
“Yes. Said it was important.”
“I’ll drop by this evening.”
“She said it was very urgent,” stressed Jones.
“Hold the fort for me, would you?”
“Certainly, sir.”
Jack walked from the crime scene leaving Jones with Dr. Singh.
“Right,” said Mary. “What have we got?”
We ran the scene together, Dr. Singh telling me all the information that she was more used to relating to Jack. She went into a huge amount of detail regarding the time of death and a more-than-graphic explanation of how she thought it had happened. Ballistics, trajectory, blood-splatter patterns, you name it. I was really quite glad when she finished and the chapter moved off to Jack’s improvised meeting with his ex-wife.
As soon as we were done, Dr. Singh turned to me and said in an anxious tone, “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“Not a clue.”
“Me neither,” replied the quasi pathologist. “You know that long speech I made just now about postmortem bruising, angles of bullet entry and discoloration of body tissues?”
“Yes?”
She leaned closer. “Didn’t understand a word. Eight pages of technical dialogue and haven’t the foggiest what I’m talking about. I only trained at Generic college as a mother figure in domestic potboilers. If I’d known I was to be drafted to this, I would have spent a few hours in a Cornwell. Do you have any clues as to what I’m actually meant to do?”
I rummaged in her bag and brought out a large thermometer.
“Try this.”
“What do I do with it?”
I pointed.
“You’re kidding me,” replied Dr. Singh, aghast.
3.
Three Witches, Multiple Choice and Sarcasm
Jurisfiction is the name given to the policing agency that works inside books. Under a remit from the Council of Genres and working with the intelligence-gathering capabilities of Text Grand Central, the Prose Resource Operatives at Jurisfiction comprise a mixed bag of characters, most drawn from the ranks of fiction but some, like Harris Tweed and myself, from the real world. Problems in fiction are noticed by “spotters” employed at Text Grand Central, and from there relayed to the Bellman, a ten-yearly elected figure who runs Jurisfiction under strict guidelines laid down by the Council of Genres. Jurisfiction has its own code of conduct, technical department, canteen and resident washerwoman.
THURSDAY NEXT,
The Jurisfiction Chronicles
DR. SINGH DIDN’T waste the opportunity, and she gathered together several other trainee pathologists she knew from the Well. They all sat spellbound as I recounted the limited information I possessed. Exhausted, I managed to escape four hours later. It was evening when I finally got home. I opened the door to the flying boat and kicked off my shoes. Pickwick rushed up to greet me and tugged excitedly at my trouser leg. I followed her through to the living room and then had to wait while she remembered where she had left her egg. We finally found it rolled behind the hi-fi and I congratulated her, despite there being no change in its appearance.
I returned to the kitchen. ibb and obb had been studying Mrs. Beeton’s all day, and ibb was attempting steak diane with french fries. Landen used to cook that for me and I suddenly felt lonesome and small, so far from home I might well be on Pluto. obb was making the final touches to a fully decorated four-tier wedding cake.
“Hello, ibb,” I said, “how’s it going?”
“How’s what going?” replied the Generic in that annoying literal way that they spoke. “And I’m obb.”
“Sorry—obb.”
“Why are you sorry? Have you done something?”
“Never mind.”
I sat down at the table and opened a package that had arrived. It was from Miss Havisham and contained the Jurisfiction Standard Entrance Exam. I had joined Jurisfiction almost by accident—I had wanted