He stopped and looked around for a moment, then pointed out a man in his early twenties who was walking towards us. He was dressed in a long riding jacket and carried a battered leather suitcase emblazoned with the names of books and plays he had visited in his trade.

“Yes?”

“He’s an artisan—a holesmith.”

“He’s a plasterer?”

“No; he fills narrative holes—plot and expositional anomalies—bloopholes. If a writer said something like ‘The daffodils bloomed in summer’ or ‘They checked the ballistics report on the shotgun,’ then artisans like him are there to sort it out. It’s one of the final stages of construction just before the grammatacists, echolocators and spellcheckers move in to smooth everything over.”

The young man had drawn level with us by this time.

“Hello, Mr. Starboard,” said Bradshaw to the holesmith, who gave a wan smile of recognition.

“Commander Bradshaw,” he muttered slightly hesitantly, “what a truly delightful honor it is to meet you again, sir. Mrs. Bradshaw quite well?”

“Quite well, thank you. This is Miss Next—new at the department. I’m showing her the ropes.”

The holesmith shook my hand and made welcoming noises.

“I closed a hole in Great Expectations the other day,” I told him. “Was that one of your books?”

“Goodness me, no!” exclaimed the young man, smiling for the first time. “Holestitching has come a long way since Dickens. You won’t find a holesmith worth his thread trying the old ‘door opens and in comes the missing aunt/father/business associate/friend, et cetera,’ all ready to explain where they’ve been since mysteriously dropping out of the narrative two hundred pages previously. The methodology we choose these days is to just go back and patch the hole, or more simply, to camouflage it.”

“I see.”

“Indeed,” carried on the young man, becoming more flamboyant in the light of my perceived interest, “I’m working on a system that hides holes by highlighting them to the reader, that just says, ‘Ho! I’m a hole, don’t think about it!’ but it’s a little cutting-edge. I think,” added the young man airily, “that you will not find a more experienced holesmith anywhere in the Well; I’ve been doing it for more than forty years.”

“When did you start?” I asked, looking at the youth curiously. “As a baby?”

The young man aged, grayed and sagged before my eyes until he was in his seventies and then announced, arms outstretched and with a flourish:

“Da-daaaa!”

“No one likes a show-off, Llyster,” said Bradshaw, looking at his watch. “I don’t want to hurry you, Tuesday, old girl, but we should be getting over to Norland Park for the roll call.”

He gallantly offered me an elbow to hold and I hooked my arm in his.

“Thank you, Commander.”

“Stouter than stout!” Bradshaw said, laughing, and read us both into Sense and Sensibility.

10.
Jurisfiction Session No. 40319