by K. E. Mills
Well, all except one, apparently. “Yes, Miss Petterly,” said Melissande, dulcetly obedient. If Monk could hear her now he’d have a fit.
Miss Petterly consulted the fob-watch pinned to her lacklustre bosom. “Miss Wycliffe will see you in precisely ten minutes, Miss Carstairs. Do not be late. Wycliffe gels are always punctual.”
Melissande stared after the woman as she stalked away, her long black skirt sweeping the office floor. Blimey, as Reg would say. What an old misery-guts.
Still. At least I don’t have to endure her for long, not like the other girls in this horrible place. Lord. I didn’t treat my palace staff like this, did I?
Appalled by the notion, she slid into her cubicle’s wooden chair and snatched up the top sheet of paper from her in-tray. It was an order for replacement machine parts. Perusing it she frowned, attention suddenly focused. Velocipede spokes? Whatever was Wycliffe’s doing selling veloci “Hello,” said a cheerful voice, hushed to a whisper. “I’m Delphinia Thatcher, prisoner number twenty-two. Welcome to Wycliffe’s, prisoner twenty-three.”
Turning, Melissande saw a plump and freckled girl grinning at her from round the side of her cubicle. “Molly Carstairs,” she replied, keeping her own voice low. “Pleased to meet you. What do you mean, prisoner twenty-three?”
“This place,” said Delphinia, wrinkling her nose. “And its twenty-five cubicles. Little prison cells, they are, each one containing a gel, slaving away for the fading glory of Wycliffe’s. How they manage to keep on paying everyone’s wages I’ll never know.”
Melissande flicked a glance in Miss Petterly’s direction but the ghastly woman had returned to her desk and was bent over a ledger. Hiding behind her own cubicle’s wall, she leaned a little closer to Delphinia Thatcher and softened her voice to the merest breath.
“I’m sorry, are you saying that Wycliffe’s is-ah-”
The girl pressed a finger to her lips. “I’m not saying anything, Miss Carstairs.”
“Oh, please, call me Molly.”
“I’d love to,” said Delphinia, “only Wycliffe gels are never familiar. If I get caught it’s a fine and I’ve had so many wage deductions already this week I’m going to end up owing the company money.” She smiled, derisive. “Probably that’s how they can afford to keep paying us.”
So the company was struggling? Well, this was interesting. This was something Bibbie would need to look into. “That’s… a little alarming.”
“Miss Carstairs, you have no idea,” said Delphinia, and returned to her work before someone noticed she was chatting illegally.
Killing time before her interview with Permelia Wycliffe, Melissande hunted through the in-tray. How puzzling: most of the orders were for velocipede and car parts. Hardly any were for airships. How could that be, if this was an airship company? Something odd was happening here. But she’d have to think about it later, because her ten minutes were up and it was time to chat with Permelia.
Standing, she patted her pocket to make sure her secret weapon was safe then made her way through the crowded ranks of identical cubicles to the far end of the room. Her not-quite-floor-length black serge skirt dragged at her, annoyingly, threatening to tangle around her legs and trip her face-first to the floor.
Little steps, little steps, mince, don’t stride. You’re a Wycliffe gel now, Melissande, remember?
She came to a polite halt before Miss Petterly’s knick-knack and memento-cluttered desk, which sat like a sentry box before Permelia Wycliffe’s closed office door.
“Hmmph,” said Miss Petterly, by way of greeting, and put down her pen.
Melissande waited while the dreadful woman got up from her chair, tapped on Permelia Wycliffe’s door, cracked it open and engaged in a low-voiced conversation then stepped back.
“Miss Wycliffe will see you now,” Miss Petterly said grudgingly, as though the idea of sharing Permelia was more than she could bear.
Another Eudora Telford? Please no, I couldn’t bear it. “ Thank you, Miss Petterly,” she said, squeezed past her into Permelia’s office and closed its door emphatically in the ghastly woman’s offended face.
Permelia Wycliffe finished shoving something into her desk drawer, banged it shut and looked up. “Miss Cadwallader,” she said, eyebrows lifted. “Do have a seat.”
“Thank you, Miss Wycliffe,” she said, but took her time getting settled in the visitor’s chair so she could have a good look around at her client’s well-guarded domain.
The first thing she noticed was the enormous painting on the pale yellow wall behind Permelia’s imposing mahogany desk. It featured a daunting, dignified and prosperous gentleman wearing a sober black three-piece suit, top hat and extravagant ginger whiskers. Age and family resemblance suggested its subject was her father; the notion was confirmed by the large brass plaque attached to the heavy timber frame.
Orville Wycliffe, Esquire.
Melissande, considering the portrait, felt the smallest unwelcome twinge of sympathy for Permelia. Just like her own father, Orville didn’t strike her as the cuddly kind of Papa.
The office’s left-hand wall was plastered with sketches and blueprints of airships, each and every one the pride and joy of the Wycliffe Airship Company, while the right-hand wall was almost completely covered in framed photographs. A pity she wasn’t close enough to snoop at them. The section of wall not crowded with photographs was filled by a large, immaculately dusted bookcase crammed with the seventeen Golden Whisks Permelia had won down the years. They might be ridiculous, pointless trophies but still-they were an impressive sight. A testament to Permelia Wycliffe’s dogged pursuit of excellence in the culinary arts.
“ Well?” said Permelia, hands folded neatly on her desk’s blotter. “What are your first impressions of Wycliffe’s, Miss Cadwallader?”
“Well, I’m not really sure,” she said incautiously, as she sat. “I’ve only been here an hour. Of course-” she added, with haste, noticing the ominous flush mounting in Permelia Wycliffe’s cheeks, “it doesn’t take long to see you’ve created a fine family establishment, Miss Wycliffe. The office is just full of hardworking, dedicated Wycliffe gels. And I’m sure I’ll find the same kind of dedication in the laboratory and the-”
“It won’t be necessary for you to go further than the office, Miss Cadwallader,” said Permelia Wycliffe. “As I indicated yesterday, you should focus your attention upon the gels.”
“Is that why you only sent us their details for checking?”
“Correct.”
“Um…” Melissande smoothed her horrible serge skirt over her knees. “Forgive me, but I don’t think I can put this politely. Miss Wycliffe, I’m afraid you don’t know what you’re talking about. If I understood Miss Petterly correctly, most of the company’s Research and Development staff are wizards. And when it comes to wizards even a half-witted Third Grader would have no trouble thieving from anywhere on the premises-even this office. In fact, now that I’ve seen how your department operates, it seems less and less likely that one of the gels could be responsible. Or if she is, she’s most likely in cahoots with someone. Which means that if you’re serious about stopping this theft I need complete access to everywhere in Wycliffe’s. No department can be off limits.”
“I see,” said Permelia Wycliffe, lips pinched. “And isn’t that likely to prove disruptive?”
“It might,” she admitted. “Of course I’d try my best not to be a distraction but in the end that could prove unavoidable.”
Permelia Wycliffe bridled. “I find your answer unacceptable, Miss Cadwallader. You’ve been hired to take care of an administrative matter, not set the cat among my brother’s wizardly pigeons.”
Melissande considered her, eyes narrowed. What was she not saying? The woman was hiding something… ha. “You haven’t told him, have you? Your brother, I mean. He has no idea one or more of your employees is a thief.”
“Mister Wycliffe and I have quite clearly delineated duties,” said Permelia Wycliffe, her chee
ks flushing again as she fiddled with her elaborately carved jet hairpins. “There is no need to bother him with trivial office affairs.”
So, this mystery thief was trivial now? Or was it just that Permelia was afraid to admit the problem to her brother? And what did that mean? Was Ambrose Wycliffe a bully…?
Rats. If that’s the case I am going to start sympathising with her and I really don’t want to. The woman’s a cow.
“ Really, Miss Cadwallader,” Permelia Wycliffe continued, aggrieved, “I thought you’d be able to resolve this problem as swiftly as you took care of Millicent Grimwade. I anticipated that you and Miss Markham would be able to-to whip up some kind of truth-compulsion incant that would have the culprit confessing her guilt within moments.”
That had been Bibbie’s inevitable thought too, last night. And of course, being Monk’s sister, she was perfectly capable of fudging together some kind of hex that would do the trick. Of course the fact they’d be breaking quite a few iron-clad rules along the way didn’t perturb her. Just like Monk, she had a… flexible… approach to authority. There’d been quite an argument about it in the end. But with Reg weighing in, making it two against one, the hair-raising idea had finally been discarded.
Of course, trust Permelia to come up with the same plan. Basted with the same pastry brush, the pair of them.
Forever mindful that she was the plain, freckled face of Witches Inc., Melissande offered up a sympathetic smile. “I wish it were that easy, Miss Wycliffe, but the kind of incant you’re talking about is highly restricted. Government use only. And the penalties for unsanctioned thaumaturgical activities are extremely severe… as Millicent Grimwade is currently learning first-hand.”
Permelia Wycliffe stiffened. “Obviously I cannot be associated with anything illegal, Miss Cadwallader. That would hardly be appropriate for a firm of our prestigious reputation.”
“I agree,” she agreed promptly. “And it goes without saying that Witches Inc. is perfectly capable of resolving your dilemma without resorting to questionable tactics. Only without our clients’ full co-operation, well… success is likely to prove elusive.”
Permelia Wycliffe stared down her nose. “Are you implying I would be anything less than-”
Rats. “No, no, not at all. It’s just… there’s no way around it, Miss Wycliffe. In order to solve your problem I need my freedom. I can’t be restricted to my cubicle from eight till six every day.”
Not and stay sane, anyway, never mind cracking the case.
“ You’re convinced of this?”
“Absolutely,” said Melissande. “I’m sorry. In this instance you need to trust my expertise.”
Permelia Wycliffe frowned at her clasped hands. “Naturally, Miss Cadwallader, I don’t presume to do your job for you. I am, after all, paying a handsome fee for your services.” She looked up, her gaze penetrating. “And you think it ridiculous that I’d do so, don’t you? You think this a lot of nonsense. So much fuss over something so petty as… missing biscuits.”
Caught out, Melissande felt herself blush. “No, of course not. Anyway, it’s none of my business.”
“Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps it is silly,” said Permelia, shrugging. “But as I said yesterday, nothing is more important to me than protecting this company. Even if that means I must look a trifle foolish pursuing the theft of a few lead pencils and shortbread creams.”
Shifting in her chair, she stared reverently at her father’s portrait.
“My dear Papa dreamed that one day Wycliffe’s would be the premier airship company of the world. He loved airships, you know. Their grace. Their beauty. The way they glide through the sky like giant silver swans. He died a year ago, before seeing his dream realised, and on his deathbed I vowed to carry on his legacy. Since that dreadful day I have kept my word in the face of many difficulties and crushing disappointments. So surely you see, Miss Cadwallader, that I cannot stand by and allow some-some biscuit-pincher to tarnish his life’s work! To jeopardise the reputation of the company Papa lived for!”
There was no doubting the woman’s passionate sincerity. Melissande, watching Permelia closely, felt that inconvenient tug of sympathy strengthen. The woman’s loyalty to Orville and his company… her own loyalty to Rupert and the kingdom of New Ottosland… she and Permelia Wycliffe stood on common ground there, united by the need to protect from all harm what they loved the most.
Rats.
“ I understand, Miss Wycliffe,” she said with a sigh. “And you mustn’t fret. Miss Markham and I will do whatever it takes to keep your father’s legacy safe.”
Permelia Wycliffe turned, her expression easing towards hope. “Truly, Miss Cadwallader?”
“My word as a Royal Highness,” she replied. “Oh-except I’m not one, remember? And I’m not Miss Cadwallader either. I’m Molly Carstairs.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” said Permelia Wycliffe. “Although, if I might ask, why are you so determined not to be a Royal Highness? I’d have thought it would be something of an advantage in your line of work.” Her high-arched nose wrinkled. “The world is full of Eudora Telfords.”
It was none of the wretched woman’s business, but… “Because I love my brother, Miss Wycliffe,” Melissande said quietly. “And while His Majesty fully supports my desire to be an independent woman of means, his enlightened attitude isn’t shared by all his subjects. So while I forge my way in the world I try to remain inconspicuous, for his sake.”
Permelia Wycliffe smiled. “I understand. And let me say how much I admire you for taking such a bold stance in the face of what must be daunting opposition.”
Melissande felt herself smiling back, for the first time liking Permelia Wycliffe… which came as a surprise. “It would only be daunting if I gave a turnip what the old tossers thought,” she said. “But since I don’t…”
“Oh dear,” said Permelia Wycliffe, her lips twitching. “You mustn’t make me laugh. Miss Petterly will think I’m having a spasm.” She took a moment to rearrange her pens and pencils, then looked up. “Very well, Miss-Carstairs. As soon as I can contrive it I’ll see that you set foot beyond the office. In the meantime I presume you’ll continue to search for this thief among the gels.”
It was her cue to leave, so Melissande stood. “That seems like an excellent plan, Miss Wycliffe. And of course I shall keep you discreetly apprised of the investigation’s progress.”
Miss Petterly gave her a gimlet stare as she left Permelia Wycliffe’s office. “Your in-tray is full, Miss Carstairs. Did I mention that should it not be emptied in a timely fashion a penalty shall be deducted from your weekly wage?”
Melissande bobbed a curtsy in passing. I swear, before this is over I’m going to deduct you, Miss Petterly. “Yes, Miss Petterly. I’ll get right to it, Miss Petterly. Thank you, Miss Petterly.”
She minced back to her horrible little grey cubicle, passing all the other horrible little cubicles where gels clad head-to-toe in sober black bent over their abacuses and their typewriters and their paperwork, striving not to earn a deduction from their weekly wage. Not a single gel looked up as she passed, and the air beneath the high ceiling smelled ever so faintly of an anxious tedium. Clack-clack-clack went all those typewriter keys. Click-click-click went the wooden abacus counters. The office boy dragged his little cart up and down the aisles between the cubicles, its wheels creaking a protest. He never once looked up or smiled.
Probably there’s a penalty for smiling.
Even though this was fieldwork, even though this was a job, one that might well lead to other jobs and the saving of Witches Inc., Melissande shuddered.
Is this what it’s going to be like, then? From the ridiculous to the depressing? Exploding cakes one day, a grim office the next? Sliding in and out of other people’s lives, in and out of their unhappiness and stifled dreams and stunted ambitions, knowing that when I’m done I can leave but they can’t?
Maybe. But that came with the territory, didn’t it? No job was perfect.
She just had to remember she’d opened the agency for a reason, to help people who needed helping. All right, so this assignment promised to be dreary. But dreary or not, she was helping Permelia Wycliffe protect her family’s business from a person-or people-who didn’t care who they hurt just so long as they got whatever they wanted. Yes, all right, biscuits… but even so. The principle was noble. This was a calling of which she could be proud. That was worth a little boredom and discomfort.
And let’s face it, Melissande. Life can’t all be interdimensional sprites and exploding chocolate logs.
As promised, her in-tray was now full to the point of overflowing. Swallowing a sigh she slid into her chair, selected a pencil, lined up her abacus and got to work.
Melissande returned to the agency after seven that evening, tired and hungry.
“Well?” Reg demanded from her ram skull. “What happened? Who’s guilty? How soon do we get paid?”
With a groan, still clutching her carpetbag, she dropped into the client armchair. “Too much paperwork, I don’t know yet, and just as soon as I do.”
“Was it awful?” said Bibbie, sympathetically, glamorous as ever behind her desk.
“Yes.”
“And what did you find out?”
She grimaced. “Not much.”
“You don’t even have an inkling of who might be the thief?” said Bibbie, patently disappointed.
“I told you. No. I didn’t have a chance to do any actual investigating. I was too busy processing orders for jalopy door-handles and velocipede tyres.”
“What?” said Bibbie, astonished. “But I thought-”
“It seems Wycliffe’s is diversifying,” she said, and swallowed a yawn. “Where’s Boris?”