'Then let me educate you, Mr Bellman,' said Tweed, sitting on the corner of a table. 'I've been making a few enquiries. Even discounting Godot, there is more than enough evidence of Next's perfidy.'

'Evidence?' I scoffed. 'Such as what?'

'Does the code word sapphire mean anything to you?'

'Of course.'

'Only eight Jurisfiction agents had access to The Sword of the Zenobians,' said Tweed, 'and four of them are dead.'

'It's hardly a smoking gun, now, is it?'

'Not on its own,' replied Tweed carefully, 'but when we add other facts it starts to make sense. Bradshaw and Havisham eject from Zenobians leaving you alone with Snell — they arrive a few minutes later and he is mortally mispeled. Very neat, very clever.'

'Why?' I asked. 'Why would I kill Miss Havisham? Why would I want to kill any of these people?'

'You killed Havisham because she knew you cheated at your Jurisfiction multiple choice exam. Do you know how we know?'

'Surprise me.'

'Question fifty: Who wrote: “Toad of Toad Hall‘?:

'A.A. Milne.' I replied.

'Correct,' returned Tweed, 'but no one ever gets that. No one. Not even Miss Havisham. Not once in the last fifty years. They all say Kenneth Grahame. Swear blind on it, in fact. You've been using Jurisfiction as a springboard to feed your own burning ambition. It is a dangerous thing to possess. Ambition will sustain for a while — and then it kills indiscriminately.'

'What ambition? All I want to do is to have my child and go home.'

'The Bellman's job,' announced Tweed, as if producing a hidden tramp. 'You knew he was retiring, didn't you?'

'Everyone does.'

'As an Outlander you have seniority, but only after Bradshaw, Havisham, Perkins, Deane — and me. Bradshaw has been the Bellman already so that rules him out — were you going to kill me next?'

'I have no ambition to be the Bellman and didn't kill Miss Havisham,' I muttered, trying to think of a plan of action.

'Macbeth denied his ambition too,' said Tweed, leaning closer.

'What's Macbeth got to do with it?'

'Perhaps you don't know it but the three witches have to log all their prophecies. They don't like to do it, but they have to — no paperwork, no licence to read chicken entrails. Simple as that.'

He pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket.

'The day after you arrived they filed a report for a prophecy given to one "Thursday Next". It says: "Prophecy one: You shall be a citizen of Swindon. Prophecy two: You shall be a full member of Jurisfiction. Prophecy three: Thou shalt be Bellman thereafter" '

He placed the paper on the table and slid it across to me.

'Do you deny this?'

'No,' I said glumly.

'We call it Macbeth’s syndrome,' said the Bellman sadly. 'An insane desire to fulfil your own prophecies. It's nearly always fatal. Sadly, not only for the sufferer. Were you going to kill me or could you have waited long enough for me to resign?'

'I'm not a Macbeth sufferer, Mr Bellman, and even if I am, shouldn't even the smallest error in UltraWord™ be looked at?'

'There aren't any errors,' put in Tweed. 'UltraWord™ is the finest piece of technology we have ever devised — foolproof, stable and totally without error. Tell me the problem — I'm sure there is a satisfactory explanation.'

I stopped. I knew the Bellman was still an honest man. Should I tell him about the thrice read problem and risk Tweed covering his tracks even more? On reflection, probably not. The more I dug, the more would be found against me. I needed breathing space — I needed to escape.

'What's to become of me?'

'Permanent expulsion from the BookWorld,' replied Tweed. 'We don't have enough evidence to convict but we do have enough to have you banned from fiction for ever. There is no appeals procedure. I only have to ratify it with the Bellman.'

'Well,' said the Bellman, tingling his bell sadly, 'I must concur with Tweed's recommendation. Search her for any BookWorld accessories before we send her back.'

'You're making a mistake, Mr Bellman,' I said angrily, 'a very—'

'Oooh!' said Heep, who had been rummaging in my pockets and trying to feel my breasts again. 'Look what I've found!'

It was the Suddenly a Shot Rang Out plot device Snell had given me at the Slaughtered Lamb

'A plot device, Miss Next?' said Tweed, taking the small glass globe from Heep. 'Do you have any paperwork for this?'

'No. It's evidence. I just forgot to sign it in.'

'Carriage of all Narrative Turning Devices is strictly illegal. Are you a dealer? Who's your source? Peddle this sort of garbage in teenage fiction?'

'Blow it out of your arse, Tweed.'

'What did you say?'

'You heard me.'

He went crimson and might have hit me, but all I wanted was for him to move close enough for me to kick him — or his hand, at least.

'You piece of crap,' he sneered, 'I've known you were no good from the moment I saw you. Think you're something special, Miss SpecOps Outlander supremo?'

'At least I don't work for the Skyrail, Tweed. Inside fiction you're a big cheese but out in the real world you're less than a nobody!'

It had the desired effect. He took a step closer and I kicked out, connected with his hand and the small glass globe went sailing into the air, high above our heads. Heep, coward that he was, dived for cover, but Tweed and the Red Queen, wary of a Narrative Turning Device going off in a confined area, tried to catch it. They might have been successful but as it was they collided with a grunt and the small glass globe fell to the floor and shattered as they looked on helplessly.

Suddenly, a shot rang out. I didn't see where it came from but felt its full effect; the bullet hit the chain that was holding me to the anvils, shattering it neatly. I didn't pause for breath; I was off and running towards the door. I didn't know where I was heading; without my TravelBook I was trapped and Sense and Sensibility was not that big. Tweed and Heep were soon on their feet only to hit the floor again as a second volley followed the first. I ducked through the door and came upon … Vernham Deane, pistol in hand. Heep and Tweed returned fire as Deane holstered his pistol and took both my hands.

'Hold tight,' he said, 'and empty your mind. We're going to go abstract.'

I cleared my mind as much as I could and—[23]

'How odd!' said Tweed, walking to the place where he had last seen Thursday. He knew she couldn't jump without her book but something was wrong. She had vanished — not with the fade out of a standard bookjump, but an instantaneous departure.

Heep and the Bellman joined him, Keep with a bookhound on a leash which sniffed the ground and whimpered and yelped noisily, chops slobbering.

'No scent?' said the Bellman in a puzzled tone. 'No destination signature? Harris, what's going on?'

'I don't know, sir. With your permission I'd like to set up textual sieves on every floor of the Great Library. Heep will be your personal bodyguard from now on; Next is quite clearly insane and will try to kill you — I have no doubt about that. Do I have your permission to apply for an "Extremely Prejudicial Termination" order from the Council of Genres?'

'No, that is one step I am not prepared to take. Order the death of an Outlander? Not I.'

Tweed made to move off but the Bellman called him back.

'Tweed,' he began, 'Thursday said there was a problem with Ultra Word™; do you think we should contact Text Grand Central and delay its release?'

'You mean you take all this seriously, sir?' exclaimed Tweed in a shocked tone. 'Excuse me for being so blunt but Next is a murderer and a liar — how many more people does she have to kill before she is stopped?'