Shades of Grey by Jasper Fforde Page A

Jane, who put the kettle back on the gas without comment.
    “Did you see any sign of Riffraff on the journey in?” I heard Mr. Turquoise ask as I walked back in.
    “None at all. Do you have them this far west?”
    “One can never be too careful. Two years ago some rail passengers were subjected to an intolerable barrage of jeers and obscene gestures about twenty miles up the line. A posse from Bluetown found an encampment a month later, but happily, they had by then all succumbed to the Rot. Riffraff in these parts seem particularly susceptible to Mildew. I think it’s the damp.”
    “To be honest,” remarked Sally Gamboge, “it’s the best thing for them.”
    “We have some monochrome fundamentalists down our way,” said Dad, “attacking color feedpipes, that sort of thing. But they haven’t been active for a while.”
    “Killjoys,” murmured Yewberry.
    “Frightful business,” remarked my father, “Ochre’s fatal self-misdiagnosis.”
    “It was indeed,” replied deMauve in a sober tone. “The loss of a swatchman is always regretful, and misdiagnosis is a tragic waste. But it might have been for the best.”
    The other prefects appeared uneasy, and I frowned. There was something strange going on.
    “For the best?” echoed Dad. “How is that possible?”
    Turquoise chose his words carefully.
    “There were . . . irregularities regarding the village’s swatch,” replied Turquoise, referring to the large quantities of healing colors stored in the Colorium. A Chromaticologist’s Long Swatch might hold up to a thousand individual shades—well beyond the small traveling set my father carried.
    Dad asked what sort of “irregularities,” but deMauve suggested only that they should “meet at the Colorium to discuss it” after tea.
    “It’s a situation of the utmost delicacy,” added Mr. Turquoise.
    “Did you see our crackletrap as you came in?” asked Gamboge, expertly changing the subject as deMauve helped himself to his third scone.
    “One could hardly miss it,” replied my father in a distracted manner. “ Most impressive.”
    “We have a lot of lightning down this way,” she continued. “Drills are carried out regularly. You’ll find full instructions on the back of the kitchen door.”
    There was a pause.
    “I understand,” said deMauve, staring at my father intently, “that you were witness to an incident at the National Color outlet this morning?”
    “News travels fast.”
    “We were telegrammed by Vermillion’s Yellow prefect.”
    Dad replied that this was indeed so, and outlined what had happened in the Paint Shop while the prefects listened intently.
    “I see,” said deMauve as soon as Dad had finished. “It seems the Grey who committed the outrage of wrongspottedness succumbed to the Mildew soon after he was transferred to their Colorium. They wondered if perhaps you knew anything that could shed light on his identity.”
    Jane had returned with a fresh pot of tea and extra cups, and was doing everything extra slowly so she could listen to the conversation.
    “He was an LD2,” said Dad after thinking for a moment.
    “There are eighty-two LD2s on the national register,” remarked Gamboge, “and it will take a while to trace them all. None of our twelve match the age and description. Purples are quite rightly not asked for verification, so they don’t know when he arrived, or from where.”
    “Then I’m sorry I can’t help you,” replied Dad.
    “No other clues?” asked Gamboge. “Something you might like to volunteer? Either of you?”
    “No,” said my father.
    I glanced at Jane, who was looking at me carefully. She knew I was aware of her connection with the wrongspot, and if she’d been anyone else, I would have told. Despite what Dad said about Russetts not snitching, I needed every merit I could lay my hands on if I was to have a chance with Constance. She liked chocolates, and they were expensive—especially ones with colorized centers. Snitching on