'Let's see.'

I pressed the starter button and the prop slowly started to move. Randolph pumped the primer and there was a cough as the engine fired; then another, this time accompanied by a large puff of black smoke from the exhaust. A few waders that were poking around in the shallows took flight as the engine appeared to die, then caught again and started to fire more regularly, the loud detonations transmitting through the airframe as a series of rumbles, growls and squeaks. I released the start button and Randolph stopped priming. The engine smoothed out, I switched to auto-Rich and the oil pressure started to rise. I throttled back and smiled at Randolph, who grinned at me.

'Are you seeing anyone?' I asked him.

'No.'

He looked at me with his large eyes and his face fell. When we first met he had been an empty husk; a blank face with no personality or features to call his own. Now he was a man of fifty but with the emotional insecurity of a fifteen-year-old.

'I can't imagine life without her, Thursday!'

'So tell her.'

'And make myself look an idiot? She'd tell everyone at Tabularasa's — I'd be the laughing stock of them all!'

'Who cares? Dr Fnorp tells me it's affecting your work; do you want to end up as a walk-on part somewhere?'

'I really don't care,' he said sadly. 'Without Lola there isn't much of a future.'

'There'll be other Generics!'

'Not like her. Always laughing and joking. When she's around the sun shines and the birds sing.' He stopped and coughed, embarrassed at his admission. 'You won't tell anyone I said all that stuff, will you?'

He was smitten good and proper.

'Randolph,' I said slowly, 'you have to tell her your feelings, if only for your own sake. This will prey on your mind for years!'

'What if she laughs at me?'

'What if she doesn't? There's a good chance she actually quite likes you!'

Randolph's shoulders slumped.

'I'll speak to her as soon as she gets back.'

'Good.' I looked at my watch. 'I've got roll-call in twenty minutes. Let the engine run for ten minutes and then shut her down. I'll see you tonight.'

'Who are we waiting for?' asked the Bellman.

'Godot,' replied Benedict.

'Absent again. Anybody know where he is?'

There was a mass shaking of heads.

The Bellman made a note in his book, tingled his bell and cleared his throat.

'Jurisfiction session number 40320 is now in session,' he said in a voice tinged with emotion. 'Item one. Perkins and Snell. Fine operatives who made the ultimate sacrifice for duty. Their names will be carved into the Boojumorial to live for ever as inspiration for those who come after us. I call now for two minutes’ silence. Perkins and Snell!'

'Perkins and Snell,' we all repeated, and stood in silent memory of those lost.

'Thank you,' said the Bellman after two minutes had ticked by. 'Commander Bradshaw will be taking over the bestiary. Mathias’ mare has been contacted and asked me to say thank you to all those who sent tributes. The Perkins & Snell detective series will be taken over by B-2 clones from the tribute book, and I know you will join me in wishing them the very best in their new venture.'

He paused and took a deep breath.

'These losses are a great shock to us all, and the lessons to be learned must not be ignored. We can never be too careful. Okay, item two.'

He turned over a page on his clipboard.

'Investigation of Perkins' death. Commander Bradshaw, doesn't this come under your remit?'

'Investigations are proceeding,' replied Bradshaw slowly. 'There is no reason to suppose that their deaths were anything other than an accident.'

'So what stops you closing the case?'

'Because,' replied Bradshaw, trying to think up an excuse quickly, 'because — um — we still want to speak to Vernham Deane.'

'Deane is somehow involved?' asked the Bellman.

'Yes — perhaps.'

'Interesting turn of events,' said the Bellman, 'which brings us neatly on to item three. I'm sorry to announce that Vernham Deane has been placed on the PageRunners list.'

There was a sharp intake of breath. To be classed as a PageRunner meant only one thing: illegal activities.

'We've known Vern since he was written, guys, and hard as it might be, we think he's done something pretty bad. Tweed, haven't you got something to say about this?'

Harris Tweed stood up and cleared his throat.

'Vernham Deane is familiar to all of us. As the resident cad in The Squire of High Potternews, he was well known for his cruelty towards the maidservant who he ravages and then casts from the house. The maid returns eight chapters later but three days ago — the morning following Perkins' death, I might add — she didn't.'

He placed a picture of an attractive dark-haired woman on the board.

'She's a C-3 Generic by the name of Mimi. Twenty years old, identification code: CDT/2511922.'

'What did Deane say about her disappearance?'

'That's just it,' replied Tweed grimly, 'he vanished at the same time. The Squire of High Potternews has been suspended pending further enquiries. It's been removed to the Well and will stay there until Deane returns. If he returns.'

'Aren't you leaping to conclusions just a little bit early?' asked Havisham, obviously concerned by the lack of objectivity in Tweed's report. 'Do we even have a motive?'

'We all liked Vern,' said Tweed, 'me included. Despite being a villain in Potternews, he never gave us any cause for alarm. I was surprised by what I found, and you might be too.'

He pulled a piece of paper from his top pocket and unfolded it.

'This is a copy of a refusal by the Council of Genres narrative realignment subcommittee to agree to Deane's application for an Internal Plot Adjustment.'

He pinned it to the board next to the picture of the maidservant.

'In it he requests that the maidservant die in childbirth, thus saving his character from the traumatic scene at the end of chapter twenty-eight when the maidservant turns up with the infant, now aged six, to his wedding to Ellen O'Shaugnessy, the wealthy mill-owner's daughter. With the maidservant out of the way he can marry O'Shaugnessy and not suffer the degrading slide into alcoholism and death that awaits him in chapter thirty-two. I'm sorry to say that he had motive, Miss Havisham. He also had the opportunity — and the Jurisfiction skills to cover his tracks.'

There was silence as everyone took in the awful possibility of a Jurisfiction agent gone bad. The only time it had happened before was when David Copperfield murdered Dora Spenlow so he could marry Agnes Wickfield.

'Did you search his book?' asked Falstaff.

'Yes. We subjected The Squire of High Potternews to a word-by-word search and we found only one person who was not meant to be there — a stowaway from Farquitt's previous book, Canon of Love, hiding in a cupboard in Potternews Hall. She was evicted back to the Well.'

'Have you tried the bookhounds?' enquired the Red Queen, running a cleaner through the barrel of her pistol. 'Once they get on to a scent, there's no stopping them.'

'We lost them at the fence-painting sequence in The Adventures of Tom Sawyer.'

'Tell them about the Perkins connection, Harris.'

'I think that is assumption, Bellman, if you please,' answered Tweed.

'Tell them,' repeated the Bellman, his shoulders sagging. 'I think everyone needs to know the full facts if we are to hunt Deane down.'

'Very well,' replied Tweed, upending a box and depositing a huge quantity of full stops, commas and semicolons on to the table.

'We found these hidden at the back of Deane's locker. We had them analysed and found traces of Guinness.'