by K. E. Mills
Reg ruffled her feathers. “The bad news is that every single witness was bleating how they’d never travel by portal again,” she said. “And you can bet your warmest flannel long johns they won’t be the only ones. So if this is a big conspiracy to put the portal network out of business and usher in the Second Great Age of the Airship, whoever’s behind it is on a winning formula, sunshine.”
Damn. “I need to speak to Sir Alec,” he said, chewing the side of his thumb. “I’ve got more information for him which may or may not mean something.” He glanced through the small window in the Post Office’s grandiloquent front doors, to the bank of recently installed public telephones in the lobby. Glanced back at the street, where his small etheretic sleight-of-hand still kept the crowd and the policemen usefully preoccupied. Then he twitched his shoulder. “Stay out here, would you? And keep both eyes open in case someone looks like coming in.”
With a rattle of tail feathers Reg flapped up to perch precariously on a little bit of jutting stonework. “All right, but make it snappy,” she said. “I’m not being paid to help you out, sunshine. I’ve still got a job to do back at Wycliffe’s. Melissande’s all alone, getting into who-knows-what kind of mischief without me.”
He smiled, briefly. “You’re really enjoying this whole Witches Inc. adventure, aren’t you?”
“It’s something to pass the time,” she said, pretending indifference. In the gloom beneath the Post Office’s porticoed entrance her eyes gleamed.
“Yeah. You love it,” he said. “Okay. Sit tight. I won’t be long.”
The Post Office’s front doors surrendered to a particularly sneaky unlocking hex he’d learned during his training. Feeling a no-doubt reprehensible flicker of satisfaction, he slipped into the lobby and hurried to the nearest public telephone. He could have hexed that too but somehow the notion seemed wrong so he fished out a few coins from his pocket and called Sir Alec’s very private number.
“ What are you playing at, Mister Dunwoody?” Sir Alec demanded. His voice was so cold it was a wonder the telephone receiver didn’t freeze solid. “ Mister Dalby has already told me where you are. You are not supposed to be there, Mister Dunwoody. Your brief is simple: keep a close eye on Errol Haythwaite. ”
Dalby had noticed him? Damn. “ I’m sorry, Sir Alec,” he said. “I just-I had to-when I heard on the wireless about the new accident, I-”
“ Mister Dunwoody,” said Sir Alec, his icy voice warming the smallest fraction. “ You will not last five minutes in this business if you don’t learn how to find a proper distance-and follow explicit instructions imparted to you by your superiors. Do I make myself clear? ”
He leaned his forehead against the public telephone booth. “Yes, Sir Alec. Sorry. Ah-there was one thing I thought you might like to know.”
“ Yes?”
“Errol was contacted early this morning. I don’t know who by, but the conversation upset him.” Oh Mel, please be right about this. “He was angry and afraid, and that’s very out of character.”
“ I see. Anything else?”
“No, sir.”
“ Then return to Wycliffe’s at once, Mister Dunwoody, and make sure to keep both eyes on our quarry. Thanks to Mister Dalby the destructive hex was contained, and we’ve been able to ascertain without a doubt that it was authored by Haf Rottlezinder. It is now imperative that we either establish a link between him and Haythwaite or discount that avenue of investigation once and for all, thus freeing our resources.”
Thanks to Mister Dalby? Him? That stringy, bruised-looking chap had managed to foil a Rottlezinder hex? Gosh. Nothing about him had suggested that kind of power.
In other words, Gerald, books and covers. You shouldn’t need to be reminded of that.
“ That’s good news, sir.”
“ Indeed,” said Sir Alec. “ Now follow my instructions, Mister Dunwoody, and in future curb the temptation to meddle. I am not new to this tea party, which is why you should be less concerned with doing my job and more concerned with doing your own. ”
“Yes, Sir Alec,” he whispered, wincing. “I’ll-ah-I’ll get back to Wycliffe’s, then.”
“ Please do. And bear in mind that I did not supply you with this telephone number for the purpose of engaging in cosy chats.”
Gerald stared at the buzzing telephone receiver for a moment, then replaced it.
Gosh, that went well. I can just imagine how my first mission debrief is going to play out.
Especially when he told Sir Alec about his crowd dispersal techniques…
“So?” said Reg, flapping back down to his shoulder. “What now?”
“Now it’s back to Wycliffe’s,” he said, hiding in the shadows again. “Are you coming with me, or don’t you want to risk it?”
“I’ll risk it,” she said grudgingly. “I’m supposed to be on duty in the employee garden, and madam’ll go spare if I’ve missed any important gossip. But when this romp is over, sunshine, you and I are going to have a serious talk about finding you a few less mad-as-hatter friends!”
Thanks to the appallingly tyrannical Miss Petterly, Melissande was forced to work through nearly all of her lunchbreak, painstakingly uncorrecting all of Tantivy Tourist Extravaganza’s corrected orders. When the last mistake was re-made, certainly guaranteeing Wycliffe’s yet another massively dissatisfied customer, she dumped the pile of purchase orders on Miss Petterly’s empty desk.
Miss Petterly, of course, was indulging her own long lunchbreak, as she did every day.
As she rushed downstairs, lunch box in hand, determined to have at least five minutes in the fresh air to clear her head and stave off imminent starvation, she heard a familiar voice at the front reception desk. Instead of turning left, to leave the office block via the staff entrance at the back of the building, she turned right and hovered around the corner, straining to hear the conversation.
“Yes, that’s right, Eudora Telford,” said the familiar voice. “Here to see Miss Permelia Wycliffe on a personal matter of the utmost urgency. She sent for me, you know. Personally. I am Miss Permelia Wycliffe’s Baking and Pastry Guild secretary, you know. Highly trusted. Highly valuable. I am the person she calls upon when something important must be done.”
“Yes, Miss Telford,” said bored-sounding Miss Fisher, the receptionist. “Miss Wycliffe has just stepped out for a moment. If you’d care to wait…”
Melissande eased back from the corner before somebody saw her. What was so urgent that Permelia Wycliffe would send for a wet hen like Eudora Telford to take care of?
It’s probably nothing really important. That’s just Eudora puffing herself up. It’s definitely none of my business. But it’s certainly curious…
It was so late now the employee garden was empty of everyone save two of the R amp;D wizards, and they never deigned to speak to any of the gels. Just as she sat on a sun-soaked bench, desperate to devour her lunch, she heard a rattling of tail feathers in the garden’s bushiest ornamental fig-tree. Ignoring the wretched bird, she opened her lunch box. One mouthful, just one, and then she’d find out what Reg wanted.
“ Pssst. Pssst! Oy! Are you deaf?”
No, but very soon now she was going to starve to death. Abandoning her lunch, she stamped over to the nearby garden bed and bent over, pretending to admire the pansies. “ What? Can’t this wait? I am famished beyond your wildest imagination!”
“Never mind about that, ducky,” said Reg, almost hidden amongst the foliage. “Last time I looked you weren’t anywhere near skin-and-bone. Have you heard about the Central Ott portal?”
She felt her rumbling stomach lurch. “Yes.”
“Well, I’ve just come back from there and thought you might like to know there’s nobody been hurt. It’s all under control.”
She looked up, startled. “Oh, that’s wonderful, Reg. But what were you-”
“I went for a little look-see with Gerald. He was all het up about it, convinced you were right and he was responsible for more death a
nd destruction.” She sniffed. “You know, you really want to be a bit more careful, madam. My Gerald takes things very much to heart.”
“Sorry,” she mumbled. “I will. Listen-” She bent again to the pansies, just in case anyone was wondering why she was talking to an ornamental fig tree.
“What?”
“It’s probably nothing, probably I’m just being nosy, but how about you go perch on the sill of Permelia Wycliffe’s office window and see if you can hear what she and Eudora Telford are talking about? Eudora’s claiming Permelia’s sent for her, some desperately urgent and important errand that needs doing. I think I’d like to know what it is.”
“Hmm,” said Reg. “I thought we weren’t investigating our own clients?”
“Well, yes, but-that was before we found out about Gerald and why he’s here. I think it’s our duty to investigate anything that smells fishy. And I’ve already overheard a row between Permelia and Ambrose.” She stood up straight. “And d’you know, it was just after she found out about the latest portal accident.”
“Gerald said that Sir Alec said Ambrose Wycliffe wasn’t involved.”
“Sir Alec could be wrong,” she said. “Men have been known to be wrong from time to time, haven’t they?”
Reg snorted. “Not to hear them talk. All right. I’ll go and have a stickybeak into Permelia Wycliffe’s business.”
“Yes, do that. Only be careful, Reg! They both know who you are, remember?”
Another snort. “Good. Yes. Thanks for that, ducky. Are you finished? Or would you like to teach your grandmother how to suck eggs while you’re at it?”
Shaking her head, Melissande watched the wretched bird flap away. Then she returned to her lunch. Finally, finally, something to eat.
“Miss Carstairs! Miss Carstairs! What do you think you’re doing, Miss Carstairs? Lunchtime is over for gels, Miss Carstairs!”
Incredulous, she turned. And there was Miss Petterly standing at the employee garden’s entrance, a skinny black-clad scarecrow with her fists on her hips and a face like peevish thunder.
Her gurgling stomach rumbled a fresh protest.
If I throw my lunch at her she’ll make sure I’m fired… and that’ll be it for Witches Inc. Curtains. Coda. Dead in the water before we’ve barely begun swimming.
She let her chin drop to her chest. Swallowed her pride, which wasn’t anywhere near as satisfying as a ham and cheese sandwich.
“Yes, Miss Petterly,” she said, trudging towards the horrible woman. “I’m coming, Miss Petterly.”
And somehow, sometime, I’ll pay you back for this.
After returning to the R amp;D block, Gerald was hustled back into the scullery by a sneering Errol and only set foot out of it again to collect more trolley-loads of equipment to clean. It seemed he no longer even rated the likes of Japhet Morgan to give him a hand.
On his third trundle round the laboratory complex, feeling like a tea lady with his trolley and pink gloves, he caught sight of an arrival he wasn’t expecting: James Kirkby-Hackett. He stared, immediately curious. What was one of Errol’s revolting First Grade chums doing here? In person? Looking… perturbed.
Of course the worry in Kirkby-Hackett’s face was wiped away by incredulous delight upon seeing who it was trundling the dirty equipment trolley round the lab.
It doesn’t matter, Dunwoody. It really doesn’t matter. Who cares what Kirkby-Hackett thinks? You know what you are. You know what you’re doing here. Other people’s opinions mean nothing at all.
And still… and still… his belly burned with dull pain.
Philpott, Methven’s off-sider, went to fetch Errol, who came out of the Mark VI lab a moment later. Was it a trick of the light or did he-just for a heartbeat-seem monumentally displeased to see his friend?
Gerald hastily got busy restacking his trolley, just in case it became obvious he was sneakily eavesdropping.
“James! What a surprise,” said Errol, all cordial good-nature. “Fancy seeing you here. You should have called ahead, I’d have arranged a tour for you.” He laughed, the faintest of edges under his voice. “Well, of anything that’s not classified top secret of course.”
Kirkby-Hackett hesitated then shook Errol’s outstretched hand. “No. No. That’s quite all right, Errol. No need to go to any trouble for me. Fact is, just passing, thought I’d swing by and give you a nod.”
“A nod,” said Errol, his eyes narrowing. “Right. I see. Well, let’s go into my office, we can-”
“Office?” said Kirkby-Hackett. He was definitely jumpy. Ill at ease. Concerned. “Right. Yes. Only I thought we might have a quick word in the fresh air, Errol. You cooped up in here. Me cooped up at Masterly’s. Yes. Fresh air. Just the thing.”
“All right,” said Errol, after a moment. He didn’t sound at all pleased. “We’ll stroll around the staff garden a time or two.” He turned. “Dunwoody! What the hell are you doing? Can’t you even put beakers in a trolley without creating a catastrophe? Get on with it, man. I swear, if so much as one stage of one project is held up because we’ve run out of clean equipment-”
Hastily, Gerald backed up his trolley. “Sorry, Mister Haythwaite. Getting right on that, Mister Haythwaite.”
Kirkby-Hackett said something, his voice too low to carry. Errol laughed and Kirkby-Hackett laughed with him, despite his obvious worry.
“Oh, yes,” said Errol, clapping a hand to Kirkby-Hackett’s expensively suited shoulder. “That’s right. Found his true level at last, has our old chum Dunnywood.”
Gerald watched them saunter out of the building, furious that he couldn’t follow them. Desperate to know what had brought Kirkby-Hackett here, so patently uneasy.
Oh Reg, Reg, don’t fail me now. Be in the garden…
“ You’d better do as Mister Haythwaite says, Mister Dunwoody,” said Robert Methven, in passing. “There’s plenty of desperate Third Grade wizards in the world. Do you want to keep this job or don’t you?”
“Yes, Mister Methven,” he said, suitably chastened. “Right away, Mister Methven.”
He was just finishing up the latest load of stained lab equipment when Reg appeared without warning at the closed scullery window. He nearly dropped another beaker, which would have been a disaster. He’d already been lambasted by Errol for the one he’d smashed after hearing about the latest portal incident.
Reg banged her beak on the glass. “Don’t just stand there gawping, sunshine!” she shouted, her voice muffled. “Open it up! I’ve got something to tell you!”
Bloody hell. He looked over his shoulder through the open scullery door but nobody had heard her. Praise Saint Snodgrass for small mercies. Grabbing a trolley, he eased the door closed and barricaded it then rushed to open the window before Reg broke it.
“What? What? Reg, are you crazy? Are you trying to get me fired?”
“Put a sock in it and listen, Gerald,” she retorted. “Because I’ve just been doing your dirty work again. Do you know-”
Irritation disappeared in a flood of hope. “You overhead them? Errol and Kirkby-Hackett? Oh, Reg. That’s terrific. What did they-”
“ Do you know,” said Reg, glaring, “I’ve a good mind to send that Sir Alec a bill when this is over. All this wear and tear on my nerves! First I’m scouting for you, then I’m eavesdropping for madam, then I’m back eavesdropping for you again! And I’m only getting paid to help madam! You’re taking me for granted, Gerald Dunwoody, and I don’t like it. I’ll have you know my feelings are hurt.”
He snatched her off the windowsill, dropped a kiss on her head then put her back. “Sorry. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. What did Errol and Kirkby-Hackett talk about?”
Reg fluffed out all her feathers. “Have you got a stool in here? You should be sitting down for this. Haf Rottlezinder. Someone official was asking Kirkby-Hackett about him. Had they been in contact recently, old university chums catching up sort of thing. And did he know if Rottlezinder had been in touch with any other old university ch
ums, like, say, for instance, one Errol Haythwaite?” She cackled. “That pillock Errol turned fourteen different shades of puce when he heard that.”
Gerald frowned at the barricaded scullery door. He wouldn’t have much longer, surely, before someone tried to barge in. “And what did Errol say, once he was finished turning fourteen different shades of puce?”
Reg shrugged. “Said he hadn’t spoken to Rottlezinder in years. Said he didn’t want anything to do with him, something about rumours of unsavoury thaumaturgical practices. Said if Kirkby-Hackett had the brains of a gnat he’d not have anything to do with their old chum Haf, either. And then he sent Kirkby-Hackett on his way with a flea in his ear. Properly put out, he was, the poncy prat.”
“Do you think Errol was lying? Or was he telling the truth?”
“Hmm,” said Reg, and thoughtfully scratched her head. “That’s a good question. Wish I could answer it, sunshine, but the truth is-I couldn’t tell.”
Damn. “I’ll bet Sir Alec’s behind Kirkby-Hackett’s quizzing,” he murmured. “He’s stirring the pot a bit to give me a better chance of seeing what floats to the surface.” Snatching Reg up again he rested his cheek on her head, briefly. “You’re wonderful. You’re marvellous. I couldn’t do this without you.”
“Ha,” she said, trying hard not to show she was pleased. “Tell me something I don’t already know.”
“I’ve got to get back to work,” he said, still holding her. “Thanks. I’ll be in touch.” And he settled her gently back on the windowsill.
“Yes, all right,” she said, sleeking her feathers ready for flight. “But-look here, Gerald, just you be careful. I don’t care how much thaumaturgic power you’ve got at your fingertips these days, my boy-if I’ve told you once, I haven’t told you often enough. You’re not indestructible. And I can’t be in two places at the same time.”
And on that final trenchant note, she flapped away.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Gerald watched her out of sight, missing her so much, then hurriedly unbarricaded the scullery door and shoved his trolley back out into the lab for yet another round of hunt-the-dirty-beaker.