'Ah,' I said.

'The biggest problem,' added the Bellman, mopping his brow, 'is that if we give in to the nursery rhymsters everyone else will want to renegotiate their agreements – from the poeticals all the way through to nursery stories and even characters in jokes. Sometimes I'm glad I'm up for retirement – then someone like you can take over, Commander Bradshaw!'

'Not me!' he said grimly. 'I wouldn't be the Bellman again for all the Ts in Little Tim Tottle's twin sisters take time tittle-tattling in a tuttle-tuttle tree – twice.'

The Bellman laughed and we entered the ballroom of Norland Park.

'Have you heard?' said a young man who approached us with no small measure of urgency in his voice. 'The Red Queen had to have her leg amputated. Arterial thrombosis, the doctor told me.'

'Really?' I said. 'When?'

'Last week. And that's not all.'

He lowered his voice.

'The Bellman has gassed himself! '

'But we were just talking to him,' I replied.

'Oh,' said the young man, thinking hard, 'I meant Perkins has gassed himself.'

Miss Havisham joined us.

'Billy!' she said in a scolding tone. 'That's quite enough of that. Buzz off before I box your ears!'

The young man looked deflated for a moment then pulled himself up, announced haughtily that he had been asked to write additional dialogue for John Steinbeck and strode off. Miss Havisham shook her head sadly.

'If he ever says "good morning",' she said, 'don't believe him. All well, Trafford?'

'Top hole, Estella, old girl, top hole. I bumped into Tuesday here in the Well.'

'Not selling parts of your book, were you?' she asked mischievously.

'Good heavens, no!' replied Bradshaw, feigning shock and surprise. 'Goodness me,' he added, staring into the room for some form of escape, 'I must just speak to the Cheshire Cat. Good day!'

And, tipping his pith helmet politely, he was gone.

'Bradshaw, Bradshaw,' sighed Miss Havisham, shaking her head sadly, 'soon Bradshaw defies the Kaiser will have so many holes we could use it as a colander.'

'He wanted to buy a dress for Mrs Bradshaw,' I explained.

'Have you met her yet?'

'Not yet.'

'When you do, don't stare, will you? It's very rude.'

'Why would I—'

'Come along!' interrupted Miss Havisham. 'Almost time for roll-call!'

The ballroom of Norland Park had long since been used for nothing but Jurisfiction business. The floor space was covered with tables and filing cabinets, and the many desks were piled high with files tied up with ribbon. There was a table to one side with food upon it and waiting for us – or the Bellman, at least – were the staff at Jurisfiction. There were about thirty operatives on the active list, and since up to ten of them were busy on assignment and five or so active in their own books, there were never more than fifteen people in the office at any one time. Vernham Deane gave me a cheery wave as we entered. He was the resident cad and philanderer in a Daphne Farquitt novel entitled The Squire of High Potternews, but you would never know to talk to him – he had always been polite and courteous to me. Next to him was Harris Tweed, who had intervened back at the Slaughtered Lamb only the day before.