by K. E. Mills
“Gerald, you’re not the villain here,” Monk insisted. “Like you said, that wasn’t real. It was a hypothetical situation. And nobody got hurt.”
“This time,” he whispered, and drained his glass. “But what about next time, Monk? What happens when there really is a William, and a shadbolt, and innocent lives on the line? What do I do then?”
Before Monk could answer they heard a loud banging on the front door—just as the clock on the mantel struck nine.
Gerald pulled a face. “That’ll be the girls. We’d better let them in before they kick down the door.”
Monk, his expression still deeply troubled, didn’t move. “Hey, Gerald. You believe me, don’t you? That I didn’t know what Sir Alec wanted that incant for? That I had no idea he was going to—”
“Don’t be stupid, Monk,” he said, and put aside his empty glass. “Come on. They really are going to kick their way in.”
But Monk just stood there, hands shoved in his pockets, his frowning gaze fixed on the past.
“Well, it’s about time, Gerald!” grumbled Melissande, marching into the vestibule with Reg perched piratically on her right shoulder. She’d changed out of the hideous black blouse and skirt into her familiar tweed trousers and a pale yellow blouse with a sensible coat on top. Not hideous, but not terribly flattering either. Just quintessentially Melissande. Her rust-red hair hung down her back in a plait. “Bibbie was about to blast the door into matchsticks.”
Bibbie. Emmerabiblia. Closing her brother’s front door behind her, Gerald felt his heart stutter. Lord, she was so incredibly, blindingly beautiful. Every time he saw her it was like being struck with a hammer.
She gave him a cheeky, dimpled smile. “Hello, Gerald.”
“Yes, hello again,” said Melissande, looking him up and down. “I have to say I’m a bit surprised you came. You didn’t look at all a sure thing when I left you in the employee garden.”
He couldn’t help smiling. She was so tart, like the best lemons. “It’d take a braver man than me to refuse your gracious royal command,” he said, then shifted his gaze. “Hello, Reg.”
Reg looked at the ceiling. “I’m not speaking to you.”
“Reg…”
Monk stuck his head through the open parlour door. “In here, everyone. If you two are going to fight you might as well do it in comfort.”
They trooped into the parlour, and Monk closed the door to keep the heat in. Melissande twitched her shoulder so Reg could flap to the back of the sofa, then graciously allowed Monk to slip off her coat and hang it on the door hook. Bibbie tossed her own coat on the floor then collapsed in one armchair, swivelling till she could dangle both legs over its arm. Very unladylike, and totally Bibbie. Melissande joined Reg on the sofa and Monk sat beside her, gently taking her hand in his. They hadn’t spoken a word to each other but the look they exchanged was eloquent.
Gerald, hiding a smile, stood with his back to the fire. So. Monk’s really smitten, eh? I think this time he might be in trouble…
“I hope you appreciate all the effort we’re going to, Gerald,” said Melissande. “Meeting late so no-one will see you. I start at Wycliffe’s at the crack of dawn, practically. I’m giving up precious sleep to be here.”
“You didn’t have to,” he pointed out. “You could’ve told me at lunch what you’re doing at Wycliffe’s.”
“With all those people around?” she retorted. “Nonsense. We have to thrash this out properly, Gerald. For all I know we’re working on the same case and I’m not going to have Witches Inc. shoved aside by the Ottish government.”
“The same case, Mel?” said Bibbie, sounding amused. “Oh, I don’t think—”
Melissande tilted her chin. “It’s possible! Stranger things have happened—and frequently to me.”
“I wouldn’t worry,” he said dryly. “I very much doubt Witches Inc. would be retained to investigate my case.”
“Oy!” said Reg. “That’s enough patriarchal superiority from you, sunshine. Witches are perfectly capable of solving mysteries of international significance, just like any common-or-garden, backstabbing, inconsiderate, selfish wizard you care to think of.”
Ouch. “I thought you weren’t speaking to me?”
“I’m not,” she snapped. “I’m making a general observation to the room at large.”
Oh, Reg. “You knew I’d be gone for a while,” he said quietly. “You knew I wouldn’t be able to contact you.”
“While you were off training, yes,” she retorted. “But you’re not training now, are you? You’re janitoring. You’re back in town and you never told us.”
“Because I wasn’t allowed to, Reg.” He looked at all of them, his three dearest friends and Bibbie. Whom he knew a bit, through Monk… and would very much like to know better. “Strict instructions from Sir Alec. If he finds out I’ve spoken to you he won’t be happy.” Which is putting it mildly. “And he really won’t be happy when he finds out you three are investigating at Wycliffe’s. What in the name of Saint Snodgrass are you doing there?”
“We could ask you the same question,” said Melissande. “In fact, I think I will.”
“I asked first.”
She looked at him over the top of her glasses. “That is a particularly childish answer, Gerald.”
“Melissande, please. This is important. Just—tell me what’s going on, all right?”
He was immediately treated to a tangled three-way tale of sprites and cheating pastry cooks and public unmaskings and exploding gooseberry sponges and a mystery thief with a penchant for nicking biscuits and sundry office equipment. When the riotous tale was told, and the girls finally stopped shouting over the top of each other, contradicting and complaining, he looked at Monk and shook his head.
“An interdimensional portal opener?” he said. “Bloody hell, Markham. Only you.”
Monk tried to look penitent and failed, abjectly. “What can I say? It was an accident.”
It was an accident. They’re going to be his last words, I just know it. “I take it you haven’t told anyone… official?”
“Not yet,” said Monk, shaking his head. “To be honest I don’t know if I will. Once I calmed down and thought about it, I wondered if an interdimensional portal opener might not be a bit dangerous to have around.”
Melissande rolled her eyes. “Now it occurs to him. After he’s let the interdimensional sprite loose on the world.”
“Hey,” said Monk. “It got your agency out of financial hot water, didn’t it?”
“But Monk,” said Bibbie, “if you keep the IPO under wraps that means you won’t get another article in The Golden Staff.”
“He’ll survive,” said Gerald. “And I’ll forget I even heard about it… if you promise to forget it exists, Monk.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Monk sighed. “I know the drill. Stop being such an old mother hen, mate.”
Reg nipped him on the ear. “Oy. That’s enough disparaging of mature female birds, thank you. And anyway, what you did was daft and you know it.”
“Ow,” said Monk. “Fine. Sorry. The point is, Gerald, there’s no need to fuss. I learned my lesson. No more interdimensional portal opening for me.”
“Okay,” he said, relieved. Monk might be a raving nutter, but once he gave his word that was that. “Good.”
“And now,” said Melissande, “it’s your turn, Gerald. Why are you skulking at Wycliffe’s?”
Damn. “If I tell you on my honour, cross my heart and hope to get haemorrhoids that I’m not on the trail of a rascally biscuit thief, will you believe me and let it go? Please?”
Melissande looked at Reg, then Bibbie. “Sorry,” she said, stubborn to the last. “For all you know our biscuit thief could be—could be—”
“Diversifying,” said Bibbie brightly. “They’ve gone so long without being caught they’ve been emboldened, and now they’re—they’re—”
“Upping the ante,” said Reg.
He sighed. “No, girls. Trust me.
They’re really not.”
“You don’t know that,” said Melissande, with another belligerent lift of her chin. “How can you know that?”
“Because it’s my job,” he said, striving for patience. “Secret government agent now, remember?”
“That just makes you badly paid,” said Bibbie. “Not infallible.”
“So, Gerald, what are you doing at Wycliffe’s?” said Melissande. “It’s the dullest place imaginable. And it’s well on the road to insolvency, if I’m any judge. And as a former prime minister of a practically bankrupt kingdom you’d best believe I am. These scooters and velocipedes and what-have-yous they’re trying to flog are rubbish.”
He shook his head. “Sorry. I can’t tell you.”
Reg rattled her tail feathers ominously. “Sauce for the goose, sunshine. If you don’t give us chapter and verse about what you’re up to, well, this Markham boy’s still got his interdimensional portal opener around here somewhere. Fancy a little jaunt to the twelfth dimension, do you? With an extra helping of sprites?”
Gerald stared at them, feeling his frustration churn. “Look, girls, I know you think I’m being a spoilsport but I’m only trying to protect you. In fact…” He took a deep breath. “For your own safety, I think you should tell Permelia Wycliffe you can’t solve the case and get out of there while you still can. Because if you keep on poking around in that place you might accidentally poke the person I’m after… and that could be dangerous.”
“Turn tail and run, you mean?” said Bibbie. “Absolutely not! We’re witches, not shrinking violets.”
Gerald shoved his hands in his pockets. “That’s not quite accurate. You’re a witch, Bibbie, but as for your colleagues… well, Melissande’s a born organiser and Reg is a bird. Trust me, that’s not enough this time. We’re not talking hexed cakes. We’re talking big trouble. And I don’t want you three anywhere near it.”
Now they were all glaring at him. “You—you—insufferable prig!” spluttered Melissande. “Is that what they taught you on your Department training course? How to be an insufferable prig?”
“Steady on, Mel,” Monk murmured. “He’s only—”
She snatched her hand free of his. “Don’t you dare defend him to me, Monk Markham! Patting me on the head and telling me to sit in the corner like a good little girl? After Lional?”
Monk pulled a face, hands raised. “Sorry, mate. You’re on your own.”
Wonderful. He couldn’t be handling this worse if he’d planned it. “Look, that’s not what I meant. I know you’re brave, Melissande. You’re ridiculously brave. You and Reg are the bravest women I’ve ever met. And Bibbie, you’d be just as brave if you had to be, I’m sure.”
Reg’s eyes were glinting dangerously. “That’s right, sunshine. Keep on digging. Graves are generally six feet deep.”
He stared at them, despairing. “Why won’t you trust me when I say you shouldn’t be there? I’m the one with the inside information. I’m the one working for the secret government Department that knows things. If anybody’s being priggish here it’s you, dismissing my expertise out of hand.”
The girls looked at each other. Then Bibbie shrugged. “I hate to admit it but he’s got a point.”
“Fine,” said Melissande, and folded her arms. “All right, Gerald. You tell us why it’s too dangerous for Witches Inc. to continue investigating at Wycliffe’s… and we’ll consider leaving.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Gerald stared at her, silenced. Why me? “Melissande, aren’t you listening? I’m not allowed to tell you why.”
She sniffed. “Then we’ll just have to make sure we’re on different lunchbreaks, won’t we?”
“Don’t look at me, mate,” said Monk, reprehensibly grinning. “I want to know what’s going on as badly as they do.”
“Oh, thank you very much,” he said bitterly. “You’re a big help, you are.”
“Hey,” said Monk. “Whatever you tell us won’t go beyond these four walls.”
“I know that,” he said, close to shouting. “This isn’t about me not trusting you, it’s about the fact I’m working on something huge. If somehow I manage to mess things up by telling you about it, the consequences could be catastrophic.” He felt like tearing his hair out. “Damn, this is a bloody disaster. With the girls involved suddenly everything’s getting complicated—and you know what that means.”
“The girls are sitting right here, Gerald, in case you’ve suddenly gone blind in your other eye,” said Melissande. “And they don’t appreciate being treated like three pieces of furniture.”
“I don’t care! I wish you were three pieces of furniture!” he retorted. “Because then I could put you under lock and key and not have to worry about you getting in the way!”
She leapt to her feet. “Gerald Dunwoody—I am not a foot stool! Who the hell do you think you are, to stand there telling me what I can and can’t—”
“Oh, put a sock in it, ducky,” said Reg, with a sigh. “You won’t get anywhere browbeating him. And all your shouting is giving me a headache.”
Surprised, Gerald blinked at her. “Thanks, Reg. It’s nice to know I’m forgiven.”
Reg looked down her beak at him. “Did I say you were forgiven? Trust me, you’re not.”
Of course he wasn’t. It couldn’t possibly be that easy. He frowned at the threadbare carpet, marshalling his thoughts. Trying to work out how much he could tell them… what was safe… what wasn’t… and came to a depressing conclusion. He either told them everything or nothing at all. And if he decided to tell them nothing, if he turned around and walked out of Monk’s house right now, Melissande and Bibbie and Reg might end up paying the ultimate price. Because they wouldn’t give up investigating at Wycliffe’s. They wouldn’t back down. They didn’t know how.
Of course I could always just tip this into Sir Alec’s lap. Leave him to deal with it. Sure, I could do that… and lose their friendship forever.
Because Sir Alec really would put Witches Inc. under lock and key—most likely metaphorically but possibly in a literal sense. Either way they’d be shoved to one side. Treated like gels. Even though Reg hadn’t been a gel for centuries, and Melissande… well, Melissande had never been a gel. But Sir Alec would make no allowances for that, despite knowing the kind of women they were. Knowing they’d already proven beyond doubt they could be trusted.
And then there was Bibbie. She wasn’t like Melissande and Reg. Hell, she might well be a genius, like Monk, but she was practically a slip of a girl. Not part of the New Ottosland mess, she’d never had to face the things that slithered beneath the world’s stones, and feasted.
And I don’t want her to face them. At least not while she’s still so young. So innocent. Bibbie’s why I’m doing this. Aren’t I supposed to keep her—and everyone like her—safe?
But Reg would say that wasn’t his decision. Reg would say it was Bibbie’s choice, her right to risk herself if she wanted to. Hell, Monk would say the same thing and he was her brother. And what did that mean? That he was indifferent? Or that he cared so much for Bibbie that he was prepared to treat her exactly as he treated himself, and let her take the risks he took without a second thought?
Gerald sighed and looked at his friends. He could protect them or he could lose them… but he couldn’t do both. Rightly or wrongly they weren’t going to let him. And rightly or wrongly he wasn’t prepared to give them up.
Oh lord. Sir Alec is going to kill me…
“Well,” he said slowly, “it all started with the portal accidents.”
As Melissande sank back onto the sofa, Monk pulled a face. “They weren’t accidents.”
Sometimes I don’t know why I bother. “How do you know that? Have you been listening at the wrong keyholes again?”
“No,” said Monk, suspiciously self-righteous. “I worked it out, that’s all. Well, me and Macklewhite and Barkett worked it out. We were just tossing ideas around. Speculating, after the second incident, that
maybe someone was messing with the portal matrixes. We even set up a couple of experiments to see if we could do it. You know. In our spare time.”
Fascinated, Gerald stared at him. “In your spare time,” he murmured. I wonder if Sir Alec has any idea… “And?”
“Oh, we managed it,” Monk said cheerfully. “Wasn’t easy, mind you. They’ve built about forty levels of security and redundancy and failsafes into the portal system, Gerald. Not only would you have to be bloody good, you’d have to bloody lucky to actually splotz one.”
“Well, someone was both,” he said. “More’s the pity.”
“But—but that’s just wicked,” said Bibbie, eyes wide. “I mean, people have been hurt. Badly hurt. Why would someone do an awful thing like that?”
“Ha,” said Reg, still perched on the back of the sofa. “That’s easy. First question any good investigator asks is Who benefits?”
“Or,” said Gerald, his brain newly stuffed with all that training, “Who loses?”
“You mean who’s been hurt by the growing popularity of portal travel?” said Melissande.
“Smart girl I’ve got here,” said Monk, and kissed her hand. Melissande blushed: seemingly Monk wasn’t the only one smitten.
Gerald nodded. “Yes. In the three years since it was introduced, portal travel’s become commonplace and very popular. It’s had a major impact on the way people get around.”
“Fewer cars and carriages,” said Bibbie. “Reduced rail services. And—”
“Hardly any airships,” said Reg. “There was a time I couldn’t fly a mile without bumping into one. Mind you, they did come in useful when I felt like resting my wings. Except of course then I could never find one going my way. Typical. I remember once—”
“Reg,” said Gerald, and pulled an apologetic face. “If we could just stick to the topic…?”
She sniffed. “Yes. Well. What I was about to say is I’m guessing that once the public realised they wouldn’t go up in a puff of smoke if they used a portal, the bottom fell out of the airship business. Am I right? Of course I’m right. And while fashions change, people don’t. I remember when steerable hot-air balloons first came in—all the carriage and wagon-makers went into a decline. There were riots, you know.” Another sniff. “Bit before your time, of course.”