Witches Incorporated

by K. E. Mills

  He stared at her. “I’m sorry—she was what?”

  “On Permelia Wycliffe’s behalf,” Reg added. “Which you never would’ve found out if it hadn’t been for us.” She sniffed. “A nice bit of grovelling wouldn’t go astray right about now, sunshine.”

  Sometimes the only way to survive Reg was to ignore her. “Permelia Wycliffe was paying Haf Rottlezinder?” he echoed. If that’s the case, Sir Alec’s going to go spare. “Are you quite certain?”

  “Of course we are, Gerald,” said Bibbie. “When Mel and I took that silly Eudora Telford back to her bungalow we ended up staying for cakes and tea. Mel snooped in Eudora’s purse and found a fortune in sparkly stones. And a note in Permelia Wycliffe’s handwriting, directing Eudora to Haf Rottlezinder in the old boot factory that you blew up.”

  “Actually,” he said, “for the record? I didn’t blow it up. Rottlezinder did. I was just… there.”

  “Oh, who cares?” said Reg, fluffing out her feathers. “It was abandoned. No-one was using it.”

  “No-one except Haf Rottlezinder,” he said quietly.

  “Yes, well, he was a rotter and he blew himself to smithereens so good riddance to him,” said Reg. “What matters, Gerald, is we’ve solved your case.”

  He considered her blankly. “No, you haven’t.”

  “Yes, we have,” said Melissande. “Gerald, we caught Permelia red-handed, paying off the wizard who blew up the portals!”

  Monk cleared his throat. “Except that you didn’t, Mel. Permelia Wycliffe was nowhere near South Ott last night.”

  “But—”

  “Melissande,” said Gerald, as kindly as he could. “Look. I know you’re trying to help, but Monk’s right. Have you got the gemstones? Have you got this note you think was written by Permelia? Have you got anything connecting her to Haf Rottlezinder?”

  “I told you,” said Melissande, rolling her eyes. “I overheard Permelia and Ambrose arguing about saving the company, and Reg overhead Permelia asking Eudora for a favour and—”

  “In other words, no. You’ve got no proof at all.”

  Reg, Melissande and Bibbie looked at each other. Then Bibbie shrugged. “Well… we’ve got Eudora Telford.”

  “What?” said Monk, alarmed. “What do you mean you’ve got Eudora Telford? Do you mean you’ve actually got her? Are you telling me there’s some old bat trussed up and—and stuffed in the boot of my jalopy?”

  “No, Monk, you idiot,” said Melissande, throwing a cushion at him. “Honestly. She’s at her place, waiting for me and Bibbie to pick her up and take her out to South Ott so she can honour her promise to Permelia Wycliffe and deliver the gemstones to Haf Rottlezinder.”

  “Which of course she can’t do now, because he’s blown himself to smithereens,” said Bibbie. She pulled a thoughtful face. “It’s a funny word that, isn’t it? Smithereens. How big is a smithereen, do you suppose? Do you think it’s smaller than a—”

  “One more word out of you, ducky,” said Reg, “and I’ll blow you to smithereens myself and you can investigate the mystery personally.”

  Bibbie stared at her. “What did I say?”

  “I’ll explain later,” said Monk, and threw the cushion at his offended sister.

  “What Bibbie means,” said Melissande, with teeth-gritted restraint, “is that we’ve established quite a cosy little rapport with Eudora Telford. She—ah—she thinks she’s got an invitation to visit Rupert and cook pastries for him.”

  Gerald raised an eyebrow. “Really? And whatever gave her that idea?”

  “Ah,” said Melissande, her freckles disappearing in a tide of pink. “Well. I might have… you know… um…”

  “Told her a big fat lie? Got her to trust you under false pretences?” He had to grin, even though he was so tired. “Oh, Melissande. Can this Telford woman even cook?”

  “Only very, very badly,” she said. “But I’m trying hard not to think about that.”

  “Good idea,” said Reg. “So—forgetting New Ottosland’s Butterfly King and his future digestive dilemmas for a moment—let’s agree, shall we, that Mad Miss Markham’s right for once and Eudora Telford’s our gold-plated key. Because with that pillock Errol Haythwaite ruled out of the guilty picture it’s obvious that Permelia and her brother are—are—” She chattered her beak. “Gerald…?”

  “What?” said Melissande. “Reg, what’s wrong?”

  Feeling Reg’s narrowed gaze on him, Gerald closed his eyes. How had he forgotten that she, like Monk, could read him like a book written in crayon with very big letters?

  Damn. I’m even more tired than I thought.

  “What’s wrong,” Reg said snippily, “is that we’ve not been told the whole story, ducky. Come on, Gerald. I know that look. What have you ever-so-slightly neglected to mention?”

  He sighed. “Nothing that has anything to do with Permelia.”

  “How would you know?” Reg retorted. “You lot wrote Permelia off as pure as the driven snow. You’re just lucky we’re around, sunshine, or there’d be egg all over your face about now.”

  Regrettably, he couldn’t argue with that.

  “Tell them, Gerald,” said Monk, reprehensibly amused. “You’ll get no peace until you do.”

  And he couldn’t argue with that, either. “Something else has come up,” he muttered. “A question of treason. Errol’s in Department custody, helping Sir Alec with his enquiries. And it looks like I’m the only person who still thinks he’s innocent.”

  “Blimey,” said Reg. “You’re defending that plonker now? Cor.” She let loose a cackle of laughter. “That has to be giving you piles.”

  “Right now the only thing I’ve got is a headache,” he said, “and that’s because people keep on interrupting.”

  “Someone’s been passing Errol’s airship designs to the Jandrians,” said Monk. “The Department thinks that someone is Errol.”

  “Don’t tell me, let me guess,” said Reg. “The Jandrians are building military airships under the bed.” She shook her head. “Those buggers. Twisty as a corkscrew, the bloody lot of ’em. Always have been, for as long as I can remember.”

  “But—but—they can’t do that,” said Bibbie. “The treaty of 1846 expressly forbids them from rebuilding their military capabilities. Their airship fleet is limited to five civilian carriers, and the routes are restricted and monitored.”

  Melissande blinked at her. “How do you know these things?”

  “Uncle Ralph was a junior clerk during the post-war tribunals,” said Bibbie, shrugging. “Every time he’s had one whiskey too many he bangs on about how he was present at the making of history. Silly old turtle. It was boring the first time he told the story.”

  Melissande looked at Monk. “What isn’t your family connected to in this country?”

  Monk and Bibbie exchanged resigned looks. “Not much,” he said. “Sorry.”

  “So if Errol’s not selling us out, who is?” said Reg. “And how are you going to find this villain?”

  Gerald sighed. Good question. “I’m not. Sir Alec’s looking into that. Officially I’m still assigned to the portal sabotage case. Which I have to crack, fast, because there’s the risk that once our mystery villain realises Rottlezinder’s dead, he’ll find himself another bent wizard and keep on attacking the portal network.”

  “In that case, Gerald,” said Melissande, standing, “you’ll have to come with us to see Eudora Telford and help us to convince her it’s her patriotic duty to sell Permelia down the river. Once we’ve got the gemstones and Permelia’s handwritten note, the rest of this crazy jigsaw should fall into place.”

  It wasn’t a bad idea, actually. There was only one small problem. “Melissande, nobody’s supposed to know that I work for the government.”

  Melissande smiled, and behind her glasses her eyes sparkled wickedly. “Don’t worry. Eudora won’t have the first idea.”

  Before he could explore that alarming answer further, completely not trusting the gleam in h
er eyes, Bibbie scrambled out of her own chair. “I think that’s an excellent plan, Mel.” She turned to her brother. “Monk, Mel, Reg and I need to—”

  “No,” said Monk, and folded his arms. “Absolutely not. I am never lending you my jalopy again. If you want to go somewhere I’ll drive you, but I’m not letting you loose on the streets of Ott unsupervised. Not after last night. Not until you’ve turned fifty. Or possibly sixty. Ott’s not a perfect city, not by a long shot, but it hasn’t done anything bad enough to deserve you.”

  Bibbie flushed pink with temper. “Monk Debinger Aloysius Markham, don’t you dare try to boss me around like you’re Father!”

  “I’m not bossing you, I’m saving you!” Monk retorted, scrambling to his feet. “You came within a whisker of getting yourself blown to bits last night, you—you—gawking great gossoon of a girl!”

  Under cover of yet another Markham sibling squabble, Gerald looked at Melissande. “This might take a while. Care to conference?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Melissande grinned. “Good idea, Gerald. We can discuss what your Sir Alec’s going to pay us for practically solving the Department’s portal case single-handed.”

  Oh, lord. When he finds out how deeply Witches Inc. is involved in this… and he is going to find out. I’ll have no choice but to tell him. “Ah, well, I wouldn’t presume to speak for Sir Alec. Tell me, how’s your own case coming along?”

  Monk and Bibbie were still squabbling hammer and tongs. Melissande pulled a face at them, then smoothed the front of her primrose-yellow blouse. “Oh. That. I’m afraid it’s hit a dead end. The office is hexed to the eyeballs but nothing’s been set off, and Bibbie’s investigations into the gels’ backgrounds haven’t helped us a bit. Whoever’s been pinching Permelia’s assorted creams is a lot sneakier and more accomplished than I anticipated, I’m afraid.”

  Now Bibbie was jabbing Monk in the chest with a particularly pointed finger, and Monk was waving his arms around… a solid gold sign he’d reached the end of his tether.

  Wonderful. As if I haven’t had enough explosions for one lifetime.

  With an effort he turned his attention back to Melissande. “I’m sorry. That must be very aggravating.”

  A look of surprise crossed her face. “D’you know, it is. Our case might not be as important as portal sabotage but even so, my professional pride is at stake. The thought of being outsmarted by a biscuit thief…”

  “Don’t give up hope,” he said. “I know things look bad for Permelia, but she’s not been proven guilty yet. There’s still a chance you’ll get to unmask Wycliffe’s dastardly petty pilferer.”

  “Huh,” said Melissande gloomily. “Don’t bet on it. Our retainer runs out today, and without a culprit to wave under Permelia’s nose we’re fired.”

  “Tell you what, Gerald,” said Reg, hopping from the arm of the sofa to Melissande’s shoulder. “Since it looks like we’re solving your case for you, once your portal saboteur’s nabbed you can show your gratitude by returning the favour.”

  He looked at her. “And how am I supposed to do that, Reg?”

  “How? How?” She rattled her tail feathers. “How should I know, Gerald? You’re the rogue wizard, you think of a way. Blimey. I don’t see why I should be expected to do everything.”

  He was exhausted, all his bangs and bruises hurting. Haf Rottlezinder was dead and innocent Errol Haythwaite faced an uncertain future. Somewhere in Ottosland a venal man or woman plotted more indiscriminate destruction.

  And for reasons I don’t begin to understand, I’m the one who’s expected to make everything all right.

  Consumed by their own nonsensical fight, Monk and Bibbie hurled more insults at each other.

  Honestly, you two. Enough is enough.

  Taking a deep breath he snapped his fingers twice. The ether leapt to his command, cracking like thunder above Monk and Bibbie’s heads. “Oy, you raving tossers! Put a bloody sock in it!”

  Mouths open, they gaped at him.

  “Monk,” he said as the ether trembled, “if you are going to call in sick do it now.” He turned. “What about you, Melissande? Aren’t you supposed to be at Wycliffe’s?”

  “Yes, but they can do without me for the morning,” she said. “Let Miss Petterly take my place. It’s about time she did an honest day’s work.”

  “Fine. Then let’s go. Monk, you can drive us to Eudora Telford’s place. And after we’ve heard what she has to say we’ll make a decision as to what to do next.”

  “Right,” said Monk faintly. “So, Gerald—this is you being a janitor, is it?”

  He bared his teeth in a savage smile. “No, Monk. This is me being tired and cranky. When I’m being a janitor, buildings tend to explode. I take it you’re getting quite fond of this house?”

  Things happened with satisfying speed after that.

  With Monk behind the wheel, himself and his First Grade staff in the passenger seat and Reg, Melissande and Bibbie squashed in the back, the jalopy chugged its way to shabby-genteel North Ott.

  “There,” said Melissande, pointing to a low-roofed bungalow painted the most confronting shade of cupcake-icing pink. Its trim was a blinding shade of blue. “That’s the place, Monk. Pull up out the front.”

  “Blimey,” said Reg. “If she cooks like she decorates, old Rupes better have the royal physician on standby.”

  “Unfortunately she does,” said Melissande glumly. “Rupert is never going to forgive me.”

  As Monk coasted the jalopy to a halt and switched off the engine, Melissande leaned forward. “Right, you two. Listen carefully. For the purposes of this exercise I’m not Miss Cadwallader, is that clear? I’m Her Royal Highness Princess Melissande. So don’t speak unless you’re spoken to, the more obsequious grovelling the better, and whatever you do, don’t you dare laugh.”

  Gerald stared at Monk, who was staring at him. “Don’t look at me,” he said. “She’s not my young lady.”

  “Yeah,” said Monk. “Ah—Gerald? Your eye’s turned silver again.”

  He sighed. “Of course it has. Hang on—”

  “Allow me,” said Monk, and with a sizzle of thaumic energy he rejuiced the eye-colour incant. “There you go, mate. Good as new.”

  “Excuse me?” said Melissande. “If you two have quite finished with the male bonding rituals, can we go?”

  Head held high, as snooty as she’d ever been in New Ottosland, she led the way to Eudora Telford’s front door and rapped on it with a consummate authority. Gerald, bringing up the rear with Reg ensconced comfortably, familiarly, on his right shoulder, tried to imagine what Sir Alec would say if he could see this… and nearly turned tail and ran.

  Reg nipped his ear affectionately. “Just like old times, sunshine,” she whispered. “Only they’ve got a bit more crowded.”

  Smiling, he stroked her wing with one finger. “I do miss you, you know.”

  She sniffed. “Miss my brilliant deductive reasoning, my rapier wit and wing speed more like it.”

  “Well yes,” he said. “Them too.”

  Before she could nip him again, less than affectionately, the bungalow’s front door opened, revealing a plump, middle-aged lady dressed in unbecoming puce, with mildly myopic eyes and a permanently apologetic expression.

  “Oh!” she said, flustered. “Your Highness! It’s not—it can’t be—is it ten o’clock already? I thought the clock said—but perhaps it’s wrong—although—”

  “No, no, Miss Telford, I expect your clock is quite correct,” said Melissande, her vowels so plummy she sounded like an orchard. “I’m afraid we’re early. Something rather important has arisen and it was urgent that we speak with you at once.”

  Miss Telford looked past Melissande, her brow furrowing in a frown. “All of you?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so,” said Melissande grandly. “May we come in? This isn’t the sort of conversation one conducts on a doorstep.”

  “Oh—oh yes, of course,” said Miss Telford, and
backed away from the door. “Do come in, Your Highness. Miss Markham. Go directly to the parlour. And—oh dear—these gentlemen are…?”

  “This is my factotum, Miss Telford,” said Melissande, flicking her fingers at Monk. “And the other one is my factotum’s factotum. They aren’t important enough to have names. They barely have faces. Pay them no attention. I never do. It only gives them ideas.”

  “Oh,” said Miss Telford, as they tramped into her small home. “I see. A factotum with a factotum. How very unusual.”

  “Not in New Ottosland, Miss Telford,” said Melissande, leading the way into the parlour. “In New Ottosland, royalty is accustomed to an extensive entourage.”

  Having shut the front door, Miss Telford joined them in the now uncomfortably crowded parlour. “I see, Your Highness,” she said. “Except—I thought you wanted to remain incog—”

  “Oh, I did,” said Melissande. “I mean, I do. But of course you know my secret, Miss Telford. So it’s all right. I can surround myself with all the facto-tums I want.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Miss Telford. She was eyeing Reg with a nervous air. “And I see you brought your bird.”

  “But not just any bird, remember?” said Bibbie, anarchically dimpling. “She’s the National Bird of New Ottosland and figures prominently on the kingdom’s coat of arms. I’m sure King Rupert will be thrilled when you tell him you’ve entertained his national symbol in your very own home.”

  Miss Telford brightened. “Really? He will?”

  “Certainly,” said Melissande, with a repressive look at Bibbie. “But let’s not tease ourselves with the prospect of delights to come. I’m afraid, Miss Telford, that we must discuss a considerably more serious matter.”

  “Oh,” said Miss Telford, wilting slightly. “Then please, Your Highness, do have a seat.”

  “Thank you,” said Melissande. “Miss Markham and I shall gladly sit. And you, of course, Miss Telford. Factotums don’t sit. Factotums stand and wait for royal commands.”

  “Blimey,” Reg muttered in Gerald’s ear. “Princess Pushy’s off and running now. Let’s hope for all our sakes she doesn’t sprain a bloody ankle.”