by K. E. Mills
Acutely aware of the other Wycliffe wizards, who were goggling in rapt, attentive silence, Melissande turned on him. “Are you deaf as well as incompetent, sir? I am Miss Cadwallader. And you are a dolt. Errol Haythwaite has signed an affidavit to that very effect. Errol Haythwaite has lodged a formal complaint against you with the Department of Thaumaturgy, citing gross incompetence and-and-a stultifying lack of any thaumaturgical talent whatsoever. He wants your certification revoked. So I advise you to be quiet. You’re in enough trouble as it is.”
And that should be sufficient to reduce Gerald to insignificance. Now for the Wycliffes. Gosh, I hope that mysterious Sir Alec’s sending us loads of help…
As the watching wizards muttered and swallowed derisive laughter and poked each other with their elbows, Ambrose gaped at his disconcerted sister. “This is one of your gels, Permelia. Isn’t this one of your gels? She looks like one of your gels. She’s dressed like an undertaker so she must be one of your gels. What is one your gels doing in my laboratory? You know they’re not supposed to set foot over my threshold!”
“Miss Cadwallader is not one of my gels, Ambrose!” Permelia retorted. “She, like your Third Grade wizard there, was a mistake. One I shall make her pay for, I promise. Now I suggest we throw both of them off the premises and-”
“Not so fast, Permelia,” said Melissande. “I haven’t finished with you.” She flicked a glance at Gerald, who tightened his lips at her and twitched one finger, ever so slightly.
What does that mean? Does that mean stop? Or does it mean keeping going, stall them, help is definitely on the way?
Taking a deep, shaky breath, she chose Door B.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
I beg your pardon?” Permelia gasped. “How dare you take that tone with me?”
Melissande bared her teeth in a fierce smile. “I’ll be the pot if you’ll be the kettle, Permelia. How dare you steal Errol Haythwaite’s airship designs and sell them to a foreign power?”
The spectating circle of wizards gasped. Ambrose Wycliffe made a choked, strangled sound. Permelia stepped back a pace, her face drained dead white, her eyes glittering with terror.
“You’re mad, you silly woman. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh come on, ducky,” she retorted, scathing. “Give up the act. It’s not like you’re fooling anyone, you know.”
“Permelia,” croaked Ambrose Wycliffe. His florid face had paled to pink, and his extravagant ginger whiskers trembled. “Permelia, what is this gel talking about?”
“Oh, do listen for once in your life, Ambrose!” snapped Permelia. “I have no idea. The woman is deranged. Call the police. I want to see her thrown in prison.”
Melissande turned on him. “Yes, that’s a good idea, Ambrose. Call the police. I’m sure they’ll be very interested to hear all about your sister’s treason.”
“You-you hussy!” Permelia hissed. “Just you hold your meddlesome tongue. Nobody’s interested in what you have to say.”
“I am,” said Ambrose, some of the florid colour flooding back to his face. “I’m very interested. How do you know she’s been stealing Errol’s designs? What do you have to do with any of this? Who sent you here, Miss-Miss- gel?”
Gel? Again? Melissande gritted her teeth. I wonder what the legal fine print says about justifiable grievous bodily harm? “ Who sent me here, Ambrose? If you really want to know, Errol Haythwaite sent me. In-in a strange, serendipitous coincidence, just as your sister hired me to unmask her office thief, Errol Haythwaite approached my agency to-to-help him discover who was stealing his work. He knew it had to be somebody at Wycliffe’s, for only somebody at Wycliffe’s had access to his office. And so I began my clandestine investigation and it led me down many a torturous path… right to your sister’s door, Ambrose. She’s been stealing my client’s airship designs for months and passing them along to-to-” Out of the corner of her eye she caught Gerald’s tiny shake of his head. Oh. So no spilling the beans on who the foreign power was. “To someone I am not at liberty to reveal,” she finished grandly.
“It’s a lie!” cried Permelia. “Not a word of it is true. I haven’t stolen anything. Go to Mister Haythwaite’s office, check through his designs. See if any are missing! I have no doubt every last one of them is there!”
Melissande flicked Gerald another glance. He rubbed his nose, disguising a nod.
Bugger. So if Permelia had stolen the designs-but they were still in Errol’s office “Ah-yes-” she said. “Well. I can explain that.”
“Then explain it,” said Ambrose, his voice a dangerous growl. “Or I will have you and this buffoon thrown off the premises! And then thrown into prison for good measure!”
Oh. Dear. Bugger. Um…
“ She can’t explain it!” cried Permelia, triumphant. “Her outrageous claim is a tissue of lies from beginning to end, a deliberate attempt to smear me because she couldn’t succeed in finding one tawdry biscuit thief! She can’t explain it, I tell you, and so-”
“Maybe Miss Cadwallader can’t,” said Bibbie, strolling into the centre of the circle. She was holding a large, rolled-up sheet of paper. “But I can, Miss Wycliffe. Or should I say, Permelia?”
Melissande stared, horrified. Bibbie, what are you doing? She looked at Gerald, who raised an eyebrow, the closest he dared come to a shrug.
Oh, how wonderful. We’re at the mercy of Mad Miss Markham.
All the Wycliffe wizards were gaping at Bibbie as though she were a celestial vision. And, really, since it was Bibbie, they weren’t too far off the mark. She was looking particularly beautiful this morning, wearing a shade of blue that exactly matched her sparkling eyes. Danger and mayhem appeared to agree with her.
A pity they’re so smitten they can’t see she’s actually a beautiful sword.
Ambrose Wycliffe cleared his throat, his chest swelling. A leering light gleamed in his eyes. “Well. Good gracious. And who might this charming young gel be, eh? Got a name, have you, m’dear? Come, come, don’t be shy.”
Melissande swallowed a groan. Oh, lord. Any second now he’s going to try and pinch her cheek… and she’s going to pitch him through the nearest window.
Bibbie looked Ambrose up and down with distaste, as though he were something unfortunate Boris had dragged in and left on the privy carpet.
“I am Miss Cadwallader’s associate,” she said coldly. “My name’s not important. What’s important, Ambrose — ” She unrolled the rolled-up paper with a snap. “-is that this is one of our client Mister Haythwaite’s airship designs, and it’s positively stinking of black market thaumaturgy.”
The leering light in Ambrose’s eyes died. “And how would you know?” he demanded. “You’re a gel.”
“Not quite, Ambrose,” said mercurial Bibbie, this time with a dazzling smile. Several of the watching wizards loosened their ties. “I’m sorry, did I forget to mention I’m a witch?”
Ambrose’s expression congealed. “Oh. I see. But still. A gel.”
Sighing, Bibbie turned her back on Ambrose and held out the unrolled airship blueprint to one of the wide-eyed, watching wizards. “You. You’re a moderately powerful First Grader, aren’t you? What’s your name?”
“Methven, Miss,” the wizard said huskily. “Robert Methven.”
Bibbie nearly knocked him unconscious with another smile. “Well then, Robert, take a look at this. I think it’s been tampered with.” She wrinkled her nose, delightfully. “ Robert. Isn’t that just a lovely name? Robert, I think someone’s used a black market thaumaturgical device to take a copy of this drawing. I can still feel its thaumaturgical vibrations on the paper. Can’t you?”
Dazed, Robert Methven took the outstretched plan and inspected it. A shadow of doubt raced across his stunned face. “Yes. Yes, I can.”
“And funnily enough,” said Bibbie, reaching into the reticule dangling from her left wrist, “the vibration matches- exactly, I might add-the thaumic vibrations that can be felt in these.”
And she held up the black leather pouch full of fake gemstones.
Melissande looked at Permelia, whose drawn face now glistened with sweat. Then she let her gaze slide over to Gerald. He dropped one eyelid in a brief, reassuring wink, and let his lips twitch once in what might’ve been a sort of smile.
“Robert,” said Bibbie, and tossed him the pouch. “What do you think? Am I right? By the way, be careful with that. In my line of work we call it evidence.”
Robert Methven was clearly now Bibbie’s adoring slave. The other wizards were glaring at him, pettishly jealous. He tucked the airship blueprint under his arm and carefully tipped the contents of the pouch into his hand. His watching colleagues gasped as the glittering stream of fake gemstones poured from the leather bag in an intoxicating stream of false promises and lies.
Robert Methven closed his fingers round them, closed his eyes and concentrated. After a moment he looked at Bibbie, surprise and respect mingled.
“Yes, yes you’re right again. It’s the same thaumic signature.” He frowned. “But I’m awfully sorry, I don’t know whose it is.”
“Of course you don’t, Robert,” said Bibbie, gently chiding. “You’re not a vile criminal. How could anyone expect you to know? But I’ll bet Permelia knows.” She turned. “ Don’t you, Permelia? ”
“Permelia?” said Ambrose, his voice almost unrecognisable. “Permelia, what’s the meaning of this? How can that gel have those gemstones? You said they were for Haf. To pay him off and make him go away. I didn’t want to but you said-”
“Oh, Haf’s gone away all right, Ambrose,” said Melissande, stepping forward. Time to wrap this up, while Permelia and Ambrose are still off-balance. “ Not to put too fine a point on it, he’s dead. Got himself blown up last night. Didn’t you listen to the wireless this morning? There was a big explosion in South Ott. An old, abandoned boot factory got blown to tiny bits-and Haf blew up with it.”
“What?” Permelia whispered. She sounded as awful as Ambrose. “But-but-” Her gaze fell on the pouch of gemstones, still in Robert Methven’s hand. “I don’t understand. How did you come by those?”
“Well,” she said, perfectly prepared to twist the knife in horrible Permelia, just for a moment, “it’s possible I took them from Eudora Telford’s lifeless hand after she got blown up along with Haf Rottlezinder.”
Permelia gasped, staggering. “No-no-”
“No?” Melissande smiled. “Then perhaps I took them from her cold, lifeless hand after a brutal, cowardly thief assaulted her on the dark streets of South Ott.”
“I don’t believe you,” whispered Permelia, her voice ragged. “Eudora’s not dead. She can’t be dead.”
“Oh please, Permelia,” she said, and gave her scorn free rein. “Do you honestly expect us to believe you care two hoots what happens to Eudora Telford? If you cared you never would’ve sent her out to do your dirty work, would you? You used that poor silly woman, Permelia, and now she’s paid a heavy price.”
Oblivious to the wizards staring at her with shock and dawning disgust, ignoring Ambrose’s rising ire, Permelia took one unbalanced step forward. “No. No. I won’t believe you,” she said, a thread of hysteria sounding in her voice. “Eudora’s not dead. This is a trick. You’re trying to trick me.”
“If there’s any tricking going on here, Permelia, you’re the one doing it!” shouted Ambrose. “And now look what’s happened! You’ve ruined everything!”
“ I’ve ruined everything? I have?” shrieked Permelia, rounding on him. “How can you even suggest such a thing?”
“Easily!” he snapped. “If you’d done a better job of running the office you wouldn’t have hired a petty thief and you’d not have had to invite this-this interfering Cadwallader gel into our midst! And if you’d minded your own business and let me worry about the company we’d be back on the road to solvency by now!”
“The company is my business!” said Permelia, hands clenched into unladylike fists. The stern, haughty president of the Baking and Pastry Guild was nowhere to be seen. “I’m its last hope of survival, Ambrose!”
He laughed. “ You?”
“Yes, me!” Permelia panted. “Am I the one who’s run Wycliffe’s practically into receivership? Am I the one who’s virtually bankrupted Father’s legacy by insisting on all those ridiculous scooters and velocipedes and cut-rate cars that can’t drive three miles without falling apart? Was that me? Were those my ideas, Ambrose?”
“No, they were mine!” he retorted, spittled with fury. “And they were good ideas, Permelia, ideas that would have tided us over, but you’d never get behind them, you’d never let me spend the kind of money I needed to spend to make them work properly! Always bossing me, always throwing your weight around, just because you’re two years older than me!”
“Ambrose, I am a hundred years older than you,” snarled Permelia. “At least if we were counting time by common sense. Those stupid inferior vehicles were never going to work properly! Nor should they have. We do not truck with such inferior modes of transportation, you fool. This is the Wycliffe Airship Company! We sail through the skies, we don’t grub along on the ground.”
“Yes! Yes! I know!” Ambrose retorted. “You’re not the only one who loves airships, Permelia! The cars and the velocipedes were to be a stopgap. Just a stopgap. I was doing everything in my power to save the company-and what were you doing? Getting in my way and-and-bleating about your stupid Golden Whisk and how to bake the perfect pumpkin scone!”
Permelia Wycliffe clutched at her ruthlessly styled hair, dislodging several jet-tipped hairpins. To Melissande it was clear that she and her brother were suddenly oblivious to their surroundings, oblivious to herself and Bibbie, and Gerald, to all the gaping, incredulous wizards. Were tumbled instead into some poisonous sibling nightmare where the rest of the world had simply… ceased to exist.
The ragged circle of wizards was broken apart now. They were too stunned to do anything but watch their employer and his sister with dropped jaws and wide eyes. Bibbie and Reg were watching too, the pair of them reprehensibly entertained, and Gerald-Gerald Melissande saw that he’d ever-so-unobtrusively eased himself out of the way, to stand just far enough back so he might be nondescriptly overlooked.
Lurching forward, Permelia slapped her brother’s face. “I was not bleating, Ambrose, I was taking care of Father’s legacy.”
“And so was I!” Ambrose shouted, clutching at his red-blotched cheek. “A damned sight better than you ever have, my gel!”
“ How, you fat buffoon?” Permelia taunted with shrivelling contempt. “By digging through Father’s old papers and finding the very worst possible wizard he’d ever refused to hire and then hiring him yourself? By paying him to wreck the portal system? Because nobody in the Government would notice? And you have the nerve to say you possess superior judgement, Ambrose? You don’t possess the judgement of a flea!”
“Oh? Oh?” choked Ambrose Wycliffe. “And I suppose your decision to pass company secrets to a foreign power demonstrates your superior reasoning skills?”
Permelia shoved him hard in the chest. “I had to, Ambrose! You gave me no choice! It was only a matter of time before someone died in one of those portal accidents, you blithering dunderhead! I had to save the company from your imbecilic solution. It was my duty to Father!”
“But you haven’t saved it, have you?” Ambrose demanded. “Instead you’ve managed to get a man killed and implicate us in high treason to boot! They’ll throw us in prison for the rest of our lives, Permelia. We’ll never breathe free air again.” Seizing his sister’s shoulders, he hauled her nose-to-nose with him. “Was it worth it, sister? How much did your foreign friends pay you, eh? How much money will you never have the chance to spend?”
“ Fool,” she spat at him. “I didn’t do it for money. I did it for the chance to take control of the company. The company that always should’ve been mine, that would’ve been mine, if Father hadn’t been so stupidly short-sig
hted about gels. You’re just like him, Ambrose. Narrow-minded and bigoted, puffed up with self-conceit. I had to stop you any way I could. And Manawa was only too happy to help me. She understands about women and power. We hatched the whole scheme between us. Let Wycliffe’s go out of business, just another casualty of the thaumaturgic revolution, and in return for a few stupid airship drawings she’d arrange to buy the company-through a third party, of course-and then you’d be thrown out on the scrapheap where you belong and I would be installed as the new company director. I would see Wycliffe’s attain its true potential! A task for which you are eminently unsuited!”
Ambrose let go of her and fell back, his mouth opening and closing with outraged disbelief. “You’re-you’re raving, Permelia. You’re utterly deranged! You stupid-stupid gel! If somehow you escape arrest I’m going to have you committed to an asylum! You stole Wycliffe’s best airship designs and gave them to the wife of the-”
“ Don’t say it!” shouted Melissande, as Gerald’s eyebrows shot up in alarm. “In fact, don’t either of you say another word! I think you’ve both said quite enough already!”
“I want her taken into custody!” cried Ambrose Wycliffe, spinning round. “She’s mad, I tell you, utterly mad! She should be locked away. I’ll have her locked away. Just don’t blame me, I had nothing to do with this! I had nothing to do with anything! I’m an innocent man. This is all Permelia, the stupid gel. Father was right-women aren’t to be trusted. I’m the victim here, I tell you!”
“Innocent, Ambrose? Innocent?” Permelia laughed wildly, a horrible, howling cackle. “The only thing you’re innocent of is having the smallest amount of entrepreneurial vision! You’re a moron, an idiot, and you always have been! Put me in an asylum? I’ll see you dead first!”
And then everything went horribly wrong.
With an infuriated roar, Ambrose whirled and grabbed Permelia around the throat and started choking, his already florid face suffused tomato-red. They overbalanced and fell sideways across the nearest laboratory bench. As Permelia coughed and gasped, and the watching wizards dithered like hens in a thunderstorm, Melissande turned to Bibbie.