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‘We have a reader who has taken it upon himself for the last twenty years to read every line of the journal to check it for errors. It’s become a kind of primaeval duel between him and Ben and Marcia.
    ‘On a good week a letter comes saying, “ten out of ten”. When there are errors, they come listed and with references. It makes it more piquant that no one knows who the fellow is: the letters are anonymous. And he picks up factual errors as well, which are also Marcia and Ben’s responsibility. Sadly, the dear things cope badly with failure.’
    He stopped. ‘Now let me think. Who’s next? Oh yes. I almost forgot.’ He doubled back on his tracks. ‘Here is Phoebe Somerfield’s lair.’
    Located between Potbury’s palatial room and Ben and Marcia’s spacious midden, Miss Somerfield’s office was tiny, but tidy and apparently well organized, with rows of books, neatly stacked magazines and files, and a cabinet that was not bursting at its seams. The lady herself was in her early fifties, small, spare and bespectacled, and her typewriter was clacking busily. ‘Moonlighting again, Phoebe?’ enquired Lambie Crump genially.
    ‘Just something for the World Service,’ she said crisply. ‘Do you mind if I get on with it?’
    ‘Just wanted to introduce our new management wallah, Robert Amiss.’
    She looked at Amiss without interest, but nodded politely and recommenced typing. Lambie Crump closed the door behind them. ‘Bit of a martinet, Phoebe, really. Doesn’t think of anything except work.’
    ‘What’s her job exactly?’
    ‘She edits the letters page, writes articles and leaders. Has done for donkey’s years.’
    ‘On what?’
    ‘On most things. It cannot be denied that Phoebe is versatile and industrious. But she doesn’t get out and about enough. If she’s not doing her job here she’s hammering out freelance book reviews and scripts and that sort of thing. Good girl, Phoebe. And one would miss her. But not really one of us. Doesn’t move in the places one would wish her to. Depressingly austere. And brisk.
    ‘Now to the administrators,’ he said as they went down the stairs.
    ‘Didn’t you mention an assistant editor?’
    Lambie Crump’s lips compressed. ‘Winterton is not with us at present and is not expected back for a week.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Scudmore almost certainly isn’t around either.’ He opened a door and nodded as he closed it again. ‘Advertising chappie. Has to have luncheons and all that.’ Trying the room next door, he found it also empty. This time he looked annoyed, stalked over to the desk and dialled zero. ‘Miss Mercatroid, is Mr Naggiar not about?’ His face took on a look of irritation. ‘Thank you,’ he said as he replaced the receiver. ‘Naggiar is our circulation manager, Robert. You will find that he is infrequently on the premises.’
    Amiss raised an interrogative eyebrow. ‘Running around drumming up business?’
    Lambie Crump’s neigh sounded bitter. ‘As no doubt you will find out, he is rather preoccupied with matters medical.’
    ‘He’s ill?’
    ‘Let us say one gathers that he has a multiplicity of conditions.’ He stopped again. ‘Now let me formally introduce you to your assailant.’ He threw open the door at the end of the corridor and revealed a vision of Dickensian squalor.

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    ‘And here is Josiah Ricketts, with whom you will be working closely.’
    Amiss stifled the words, ‘In here??!!’ and tried to keep his facial expression steady. Windowless, the office was lit by fluorescent light. Had it instead been candlelit, it would have borne a close resemblance to what the unreconstructed Scrooge thought appropriate quarters for Bob Cratchit: airless, dark, cramped and very ugly. The walls were lined with shelves of ledgers and the tiny, wizened old man was writing in another at a wooden table, using a long steel pen to produce perfect, copperplate handwriting.
    As he saw his visitors, he blotted his