The well of lost plots Read Online Free PDF

of cards!”
    “Then start small, change
yourself
first. If that works, you can try to bend the plot slightly.”
    “Y-esss,” said Jack slowly, “what did you have in mind?”
    “Give up the booze.”
    “How did you know about my drink problem?”
    “All maverick, loner detectives with domestic strife have drinking problems. Give up the liquor and go home to your wife.”
    “That’s not how I’ve been written,” replied Jack slowly. “I just can’t do it — it would be going against type — the readers — !”
    “Jack, there are no readers. And if you don’t at least try what I suggest, there
never
will be any readers — or any Jack Spratt. But if things go well, you might even be in . . . a sequel.”
    “A sequel?” repeated Jack with a sort of dreamy look in his eyes. “You mean — a Jack Spratt
series
?”
    “Who knows” — I shrugged — “maybe even one day — a boxed set.”
    His eyes gleamed and he stood up. “A boxed set,” he whispered, staring into the middle distance. “It’s up to me, isn’t it?” he said in a slow voice.
    “Yes. Change yourself, change the book — and soon, before it’s too late — make the novel into something the Book Inspectorate will
want
to read.”
    “Okay,” he said at last, “beginning with the next chapter. Instead of arguing with Briggs about letting a suspect go without charging them, I’ll take my ex-wife out to lunch.”
    “No.”
    “No?”
    “No,” I affirmed. “Not tomorrow or next chapter or even next page or paragraph — you’re going to change
now
.”
    “We can’t! There are at least nine more pages while you and I discuss the state of the body with Dr. Singh and go through all that boring forensic stuff.”
    “Leave it to me. We’ll jump back a paragraph or two. Ready?”
    He nodded and we moved to the top of the previous page, just as Briggs was leaving.
    Jack did indeed get it and Briggs departed.
    He shivered in the cold and looked at the young DS again.
    “Mary Jones, eh?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “What have you found out so far?”
    She dug in her pocket for a notebook, couldn’t find it, so counted the points off on her fingers instead.
    “Deceased’s name is Sonny DeFablio.”
    “What else?”
    “Your wife phoned.”
    “She . . . did?”
    “Yes. Said it was important.”
    “I’ll drop by this evening.”
    “She said it was
very
urgent,” stressed Jones.
    “Hold the fort for me, would you?”
    “Certainly, sir.”
    Jack walked from the crime scene leaving Jones with Dr. Singh.
    “Right,” said Mary. “What have we got?”
    We ran the scene together, Dr. Singh telling me all the information that she was more used to relating to Jack. She went into a huge amount of detail regarding the time of death and a more-than-graphic explanation of how she thought it had happened. Ballistics, trajectory, blood-splatter patterns, you name it. I was really quite glad when she finished and the chapter moved off to Jack’s improvised meeting with his ex-wife.
    As soon as we were done, Dr. Singh turned to me and said in an anxious tone, “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
    “Not a clue.”
    “Me neither,” replied the quasi pathologist. “You know that long speech I made just now about postmortem bruising, angles of bullet entry and discoloration of body tissues?”
    “Yes?”
    She leaned closer. “Didn’t understand a word. Eight pages of technical dialogue and haven’t the foggiest what I’m talking about. I only trained at Generic college as a mother figure in domestic potboilers. If I’d known I was to be drafted to
this
, I would have spent a few hours in a Cornwell. Do you have any clues as to what I’m actually meant to do?”
    I rummaged in her bag and brought out a large thermometer.
    “Try this.”
    “What do I do with it?”
    I pointed.
    “You’re
kidding
me,” replied Dr. Singh, aghast.
     
3.
Three Witches, Multiple Choice and Sarcasm
     
Jurisfiction
is the name given to the