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'I withdraw all objections.'
'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 looked sternly around the room before returning to his list.
'Item three: 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 four. Interloper in Sherlock Holmes 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,' replied Miss Havisham. 'The worst you might expect from a romantic novel or domestic pot-boiler 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 five—'
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 five. Non-standard 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 life.'
There was a groan from the assembled agents.
'Okay, okay, keep your hair on – I only said "might". Samuel Johnson's dictionary cured it after the 1744 outbreak and Lavinia-Webster and the OED keep it all in check, but we have to be careful of any new strains. I know this is boring but I want every misspelling you come across reported and given to the cat. He'll pass it on to Agent Libris at Text Grand Central.'
He paused for effect and looked at us sternly.
