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writing in the “Any Questions?”
page of New Splicer magazine
BOWDEN AND Victor were out when I arrived at the office; I poured myself some coffee and sat down at my desk. I called Landen’s number but it was engaged; I tried a few minutes later but without any luck. Sergeant Ross called from the front desk and said that he was sending someone up who wanted to see a Litera Tec. I twiddled my thumbs for a bit, and had failed to reach Landen a third time when a small, academic-looking man with an overpowering aura of untidiness shambled into the office. He wore a small bowler hat and a herringbone-pattern shooting jacket pulled hastily over what looked like his pajama top. His briefcase had papers protruding from where he had caught them in the lid and the laces of both his shoes were tied in reef knots. He stared up at me. It was a two-minute walk from the front desk and he was still fumbling with his visitor’s pass.
“Allow me,” I said.
The academic stood impassively as I clipped his pass on and then thanked me absently, looking around as he tried to determine where he was.
“You’re looking for me and you’re on the right floor,” I said, glad that I had had plenty of experience of academics in the past.
“I am?” he said with great surprise, as though he had long ago accepted that he would always end up in the wrong place.
“Special Operative Thursday Next,” I said, holding out a hand for him to shake. He shook it weakly and tried to raise his hat with the hand that was holding the briefcase. He gave up and tipped his head instead.
“Er . .. thank you, Miss Next. My name is Dr. Runcible Spoon, Professor of English Literature at Swindon University. I expect you’ve heard of me?”
“I’m sure it was only a matter of time, Dr. Spoon. Would you care to sit down?”
Dr. Spoon thanked me and followed me across to my desk, pausing every now and then as a rare book caught his eye. I had to stop and wait a number of times before I had him safely ensconced in Bowden’s chair. I fetched him a cup of coffee.
“So, how can I be of assistance, Dr. Spoon?”
“Perhaps I should show you, Miss Next.”
Spoon rummaged through his case for a minute, taking out some unmarked students’ work and a paisley-patterned sock before finally finding and handing me a heavy blue-bound volume.
“Martin Chuzzlewit,” explained Dr. Spoon, pushing all the papers back into his case and wondering why they had expanded since he took them out.
“Chapter nine, page one eighty-seven. It is marked.”
I turned to where Spoon had left his bus pass and scanned the page.
“See what I mean?”
“I’m sorry, Dr. Spoon. I haven’t read Chuzzlewit since I was in my teens. You’re going to have to enlighten me.”
Spoon looked at me suspiciously, wondering if I was, perhaps, an impostor.
“A student pointed it out to me early this morning. I came out as quickly as I could. On the bottom of page one eighty-seven there was a short paragraph outlining one of the curious characters who frequent Todger’s, the boarding house. A certain Mr. Quaverley by name. He is an amusing character who only converses on subjects that he knows nothing about. If you scan the lines I think you will agree with me that he has vanished.”
I read the page with growing consternation. The name of Quaverley did ring a bell, but of his short paragraph there appeared to be no sign.
“He doesn’t appear later?”
“No, Officer. My student and I have been through it several times. There is no doubt about it. Mr. Quaverley has inexplicably been excised from the book. It is as if he had never been written.”
“Could it be a printing error?” I asked with a growing sense of unease.
“On the contrary. I have checked seven different copies and they all read exactly the same. Mr. Quaverley is no longer with us.”
“It doesn’t seem possible,” I murmured.
“I agree.”
I felt uneasy about the whole thing, and several links between Hades, Jack Schitt and the Chuzzlewit manuscript started to form in unpleasant ways in my mind.
The phone rang. It was Victor. He was at the morgue and requested me to come over straight away; they had discovered a body.
