Witches incorporated ra-2

by K. E. Mills

  That was sadly true. “So, what-you decided to exact revenge by stealing Permelia’s biscuits?”

  “Not just biscuits,” said Miss Petterly, with a touch of watery pride. “I took everything. The pencils, the pens and the erasers. And I always had three lumps of sugar in my tea when we’re only supposed to have one.” Her chin wobbled again. “And now I suppose you’re going to arrest me.”

  “Actually, I don’t have the power of arrest,” said Melissande. “My job was to tell Miss Wycliffe who the thief was and let her handle it from there. But that could prove to be a bit difficult now.”

  “Something’s happened, hasn’t it?” said Miss Petterly.

  “Yes. You could say that.”

  Miss Petterly frowned. “So… what now, Miss Car-Cadwallader?”

  Melissande looked around the horrible office. “Now, Miss Petterly, if I were you, I’d take those cartons of biscuits and make myself scarce. I doubt very much if Miss Wycliffe will notice… and all in all-after four endless days in this place-I’d say you earned them. Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to call myself a cab.”

  And leaving Miss Petterly to stare at her, dumb-founded, she marched into Permelia Wycliffe’s office to use the telephone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Sir Alec made him wait in an interrogation room. For hours.

  Gerald didn’t think it was funny.

  But then he was too tired to have much of a sense of humour left. If he wasn’t so tired, he might have been… nervous. Apprehensive. Be feeling some concern about what must be his uncertain future. After all, he had played fast and loose with the rules on this, his very first official janitorial assignment. It had been a watching brief, but instead of sedately watching he’d been running around doing. And now there were two dead bodies, an exploded boot factory and an entire labful of wizards who’d heard things they doubtless were never meant to hear. There was Errol, who now knew the truth about him. And Eudora Telford, discreet as a goose.

  There were Monk and Melissande and Emmerabiblia and Reg.

  True, there was also Permelia, but from what he could tell she’d come more or less unhinged, so who knew how much use she was going to be in foiling the Jandrians and their nefarious plans?

  That’ll be a job for some other janitor. Maybe the one who’s still in Jandria, looking over his shoulder. Risking his life.

  But that didn’t answer what was going to happen to him, now that he’d completed his first assignment-sort of. With a lot of unauthorised assistance. And a great deal more fuss than he’d ever anticipated.

  He tried to feel sorry that Ambrose was dead, and couldn’t. That worried him a bit. Yes, Ambrose had been a criminal. Very nearly a murderer. And Haf Rottlezinder was dead because he’d worked with Ambrose. Although, really, Haf Rottlezinder had been bound to end up dead sooner or later. Haf Rottlezinder had lived that kind of life. But Ambrose hadn’t been evil, not like that. He’d been selfish and misguided and driven to a desperate act. In a way, Ambrose Wycliffe was a man to be pitied.

  Yes, he’d definitely be happier if he could feel sad about Ambrose.

  I’m sure I’ll feel sad when I’m not quite so tired.

  One of the interrogation room’s two doors opened, and Sir Alec walked in. “Mister Dunwoody.”

  Probably the polite thing to do would be to stand, because Sir Alec was a “sir,” after all, and older, and his superior, but he was just too damned tired for standing. Besides. He was sitting in an interrogation room, and really, honestly, he’d done nothing wrong.

  Well. Nothing illegal.

  “Sir Alec,” he said, and stayed where he was.

  Sir Alec considered him for a moment, then quietly closed the interrogation room door. Crossed to the table. Sat down in the other chair. Clasped his hands in his lap and stared in silence with those cool, pale, unfathomable eyes. Gerald stared back, too tired to be intimidated.

  “Well, Mister Dunwoody,” said Sir Alec at last. “And what the bloody hell am I supposed to do with you?”

  He shrugged. “Pat me on the head and send me home for a good night’s sleep?”

  Sir Alec’s cool eyes flared with unexpected temper. “You think this is funny? You think this is a joking matter, Mister Dunwoody? You think Department protocols, our secrecy, are things you need never be concerned with? You think the rules don’t apply to you?”

  He sat a little straighter. The interrogation room’s air had taken on a nasty taste. In the invisible ether, fury was burning… “No, Sir Alec. Of course I don’t.”

  “Really?” said Sir Alec. “Given the evidence at hand I find that hard to believe.”

  “Sir Alec-”

  “You will be silent, Mister Dunwoody. I am speaking,” snapped Sir Alec. “It occurs to me, sir, that you, by virtue of your-unusual-status, feel you can flout all propriety with complete impunity. In short, Mister Dunwoody, you appear to be labouring under the impression that you are untouchable. Unstoppable. A law unto yourself. That your rogue thaumaturgic capabilities release you from the restrictions and obligations endured by other, lesser mortals. Well?”

  He was so tired. And he wasn’t in the mood for being scolded, like a child. Perhaps his methods had been unorthodox, perhaps it was true that in the end their victory owed more to Witches Inc. than Gerald Dunwoody-but did that really matter? Surely only the outcome was important. And the outcome had been good, this time.

  He folded him arms, feeling reckless. Defiant. “Oh. I can speak now, can I?”

  Sir Alec placed his hands on the table and leaned forward. “Do not attempt to cross swords with me, Mister Dunwoody. I am warning you: do not.”

  Gerald met Sir Alec’s pitiless gaze and held it… but it was hard. On the inside, he was shaking. “The answer to your question is no. I don’t consider myself any of those things.”

  “Do you recall,” said Sir Alec, sitting back again, “what I said to you at our first meeting, in New Ottosland?”

  “You said a lot of things, Sir Alec.” He swallowed. “You said there were people who thought the world would be a better place if I… didn’t exist.”

  Sir Alec’s lips thinned. “Essentially, yes. I did say that, though perhaps not quite as melodramatically. And you should know, Mister Dunwoody, that those people have not changed their opinion. And you should also know that recent events will do nothing to persuade them that their opinion is erroneous.”

  Oh. Well. That could prove… inconvenient, couldn’t it? In which case perhaps antagonising Sir Alec wasn’t the smartest of strategies. Perhaps the smart thing right now would be to keep the man on side.

  “I’m sorry, Sir Alec,” he said, discarding all defensiveness. “I never meant to cause the Department trouble.”

  “I’m sure you didn’t,” Sir Alec retorted, “and yet trouble there is. The extent of Witches Inc.’s involvement-and Mister Markham’s-in our business is causing no little excitement, Mister Dunwoody.”

  Oh, lord. Monk. The girls. No. Just no. I can’t have them punished for being my friends. “ Sir Alec, you have to know that without help from Monk and Her Highness and Miss Markham we would never — ”

  “I’m sorry,” said Sir Alec, eyebrows raised. “Aren’t you forgetting someone? I believe your list of extracurricular assistants is short one queen in a feathered headdress.”

  Gerald felt some heat touch his face. “Oh. Yes. Reg. Actually, Reg was a lifesaver.”

  “Literally, as I understand it,” said Sir Alec. “Mister Dalby is having some little trouble convincing the former R amp;D wizards at Wycliffe’s that they did not, in actual fact, hear a bird scream: ‘ Get your bloody hands off him, you harpy.’ ”

  Gerald touched his fingers to the tiny pinprick in his throat. “Is that what she said? I couldn’t really hear her, I was too busy thinking a hexed hairpin was about to be plunged into my carotid artery.”

  “ Mister Dunwoody — ”

  “Look,” he said, as the stresses and strains of the past days cau
ght up with him in one fell and blinding swoop. “Sir Alec. You have to believe me, I never meant for it to happen like this, all right? Things just sort of-got away from me. I mean, it wasn’t my fault the girls ended up at Wycliffe’s at the same time I was there!”

  “I never said it was, Mister Dunwoody.”

  Encouraged, he plunged on. “And I had nothing to do with them working for Permelia. But if you know the story already-if you’ve already bullied it out of Monk-or the girls-then you know it was bloody lucky they were there. Because if Reg hadn’t overheard Errol and Kirkby-Hackett, if she hadn’t overheard Permelia and Ambrose, if Melissande and Bibbie hadn’t followed Eudora Telford all the way to South Ott, if Melissande hadn’t been able to-to princess that foolish old lady into telling us the truth and giving us those fake gemstones and Permelia’s note to Haf Rottlezinder-well, for starters you’d still be looking at Errol for this and you’d be bloody well wrong, wouldn’t you?”

  Sir Alec’s stare was unblinking. “It’s possible.”

  It was more than bloody possible, but he didn’t press the point. “Well, then. As it stands the case is all wrapped up, the right people are arrested, and the day’s been saved. Again. All right, maybe I should’ve been the one to save it-but I wasn’t. And if that’s embarrassed you or the Department, Sir Alec, then I’m very sorry. Really. I am.”

  There was a long and uncomfortable silence. Then Sir Alec nodded, the merest, miserly tip of his head. “I concede your points, Mister Dunwoody. All things considered, events have not fallen out… unpleasantly. But you had no way of knowing that, did you? When you disobeyed my instructions? When you confided in Monk Markham? When you recklessly disregarded our most basic principles and involved two inexperienced young women in this case? And as for the bird-” His lips pinched thin again. “To be frank, I don’t know what to say about her.”

  “Yes, well, Reg often has that effect on people, sir,” he murmured. “If it’s any consolation, you get used to it… eventually.”

  “Really?” said Sir Alec, so dry. “How comforting.”

  He swallowed. “Sir… what about Witches Inc? What is the Department going to do? And Monk? What are you going to do about him?”

  “What we must, Mister Dunwoody,” said Sir Alec. Once again the air was full of icicles. “Which is all I’m prepared to say on the matter.”

  Have I ruined them? Has knowing me destroyed their lives? “ Sir Alec-”

  “That’s enough,” said Sir Alec sharply. “The subject is closed, do I make myself clear?”

  Miserable, he nodded. “Yes, Sir Alec.” He cleared his throat. “But-what about Errol? Since he’s been cleared of treason, what-”

  “Nor is Mister Haythwaite any of your concern,” said Sir Alec, still frosty. “He has already been dealt with.”

  Dealt with? Dealt with? What the hell did that mean? But one look at Sir Alec’s face told him he wasn’t going to get an answer to that question, so he didn’t bother asking it aloud.

  “And you, Mister Dunwoody,” Sir Alec added, still ice-cold, “will under no circumstances make contact with him. That is an absolute directive-the ignoring of which will, I promise you, lead to a severe lack of future.”

  Chilled to the marrow, Gerald nodded. “Understood, Sir Alec. But what if he and I-”

  “Rest assured, Mister Dunwoody,” said Sir Alec. “Your paths are unlikely to cross again.”

  And if that didn’t sound sinister, he had no idea what did.

  Abruptly, Sir Alec stood. “Go home, Mister Dun-woody.”

  “I’m sorry-what-” He stared. “Go home?”

  “Yes,” said Sir Alec. “You are suspended, Mister Dunwoody. Pending further investigation into this case. Since you have contributed more than enough mayhem to the situation, your continued assistance will not be required.”

  Feeling numb, Gerald pushed to his feet. “Suspended,” he murmured. “For how long?”

  “Until I tell you otherwise, of course.” Sir Alec raised an eyebrow. “I’m sorry. Did you think because the case was solved in our favour that there would be no repercussions? How terribly naive of you. I will tell you a third time, but not for a fourth. Go home, Mister Dunwoody, and wait for my call.”

  Gerald nodded. “Yes, Sir Alec. Oh-my staff-”

  “Is quite safe,” said Sir Alec. “I think it can remain here, for the time being.”

  In other words, they didn’t trust him with it. But it’s mine. Not theirs. Resentment curdled through his sluggish blood. “I’m sorry, I don’t think-”

  Sir Alec’s expression altered… and he changed his mind about arguing any more.

  “Right,” he muttered. “Go home, Gerald.”

  But at the interrogation room’s door he hesitated, and turned back.

  Sir Alec’s glare was blighting. “ Yes, Mister Dun-woody? What is it now?”

  “I was just wondering, Sir Alec-do we know anything about the black market wizard Permelia Wycliffe went to? Has she given him up? Because that hexed hairpin she used to kill her brother… that was a very nasty incant. The mind that dreamt it up-it has to be pretty bloody twisted.”

  Shadows shifted deep in Sir Alec’s guarded eyes. “The matter is under investigation.”

  He nodded. “It’s a problem, isn’t it? Black market thaumaturgy. First that business with Millicent Grimwade-and now this. I didn’t realise…”

  “Yes. It’s a problem,” said Sir Alec curtly. “But not your problem, Mister Dunwoody.”

  In other words, bugger off. Get lost. You’re not wanted around here.

  “No, Sir Alec,” he said, subdued, and escaped while he still could.

  On his way out of the Department’s nondescript Nettleworth headquarters, he saw Dalby in an office off the ground floor corridor, banging typewriter keys as he made out his report. He hesitated in the open doorway, wanting to say something-say thank you — but the look Dalby gave him was so furiously unfriendly that he hurriedly retreated before the senior janitor surrendered to temptation and hexed him.

  It wasn’t until he stood outside the Department’s headquarters, under a fading sky, that he realised he had no idea how he was going to get home.

  And then he heard a honking car horn… and saw Monk in his jalopy, parked a little way down the grey, dreary street.

  So weary he felt like he was floating, he wandered along the pavement and got into the car. “Oh, lord,” he said, looking at his friend. “Not you too?”

  “Yeah,” said Monk, his grin so sharkish and anarchic. “Me too. Again.”

  Bloody hell. “I’m sorry,” he said, contrition choking his voice. “I’m so sorry, Monk. I never meant-”

  “I know you didn’t,” said Monk, and fired up the jalopy. “And anyway, it’s not your fault. You didn’t twist my arm, did you? You didn’t threaten to turn me into a toad if I wouldn’t help you. I did what I did with my eyes wide open, mate.”

  “Well, yes, I know,” he said unhappily. “But still, Monk, I-”

  “Hey,” said Monk, and pulled into the street. “It could be worse, Gerald. At least they don’t know about my interdimensional portal opener!” And he laughed, the crazy bugger, as though he didn’t have a care in the world. “So,” he added. “The girls are back at my place. What do you say we pick up some Yok Tok take-away and have ourselves a bloody feast?”

  Gerald laughed. He couldn’t help it. “Yeah. Okay. Why not?”

  “Only you’re paying, right?” said Monk. “Because I’ve changed my mind. All of this is your bloody fault, Dunnywood!”

  The knock on his closed office door came late, when all sane men were at home in bed. Of course, some would say that sanity was vastly overrated. Or at least not a requirement in his line of work. Perhaps it could even be considered a (“hindrance”).

  Certainly there are days, like this one, when insanity helps.

  Sighing, he put down his pen and said, “Come.”

  “Alec,” said Ralph, and closed the door behind him. “Burning
the midnight oil, I see.”

  “While you’re out and about for a healthy constitutional?” he countered.

  Ralph shrugged out of his overcoat, slung it over a low bookcase then dropped into the chair on the other side of the desk. “What else?” he enquired, his hooded eyes sardonic.

  “In Nettleworth?” He pushed away from his desk, crossed to his discreet drinks cabinet and poured them each a modest finger of malt whiskey. Then, after placing one glass in Ralph’s outstretched hand, he shifted to his office’s uncurtained window and rested his shoulder against the wall. Beyond the dusty glass, the night was clear and cold and pricked with distant stars. “You must be desperate.”

  “No more desperate than you,” said Ralph, eyeing his emptied glass appreciatively. “You only break out the good stuff when you’re feeling particularly pressed.”

  “Control that bloody nephew of yours, Ralph, and I promise my nerves will be markedly less agitated.”

  “If only I could control him, Alec,” said Ralph, with a sigh. “But alas, it’s years too late for that. I blame my brother, of course. Wolfgang has encouraged Monk’s waywardness from the moment of his birth. I tried to tell him, but he never listens to me. Thank your lucky stars you’re an only child, old boy. I promise you it makes for a far less complicated life.”

  True. “And is Wolfgang also responsible for your gifted, wayward niece?”

  Ralph groaned. “It’s a tragedy we’ve done away with convents, that’s all I can say. In the good old days I could’ve locked her behind high stone walls, comforted by the knowledge the world would remain safe from the gel. But instead…”

  Despite his weariness, and the burdens that made his neck ache, he smiled. “Don’t be too hard on Emmerabiblia, Ralph. Or on Monk.” He returned to his chair and sat down again, bones creaking. “Without their assistance we might be having a very different conversation altogether.”

  “Yes, well,” Ralph muttered. “Be that as it may… I’m still appalled that you’ve tripped over Monk again. And now his sister, too. You’re more forgiving than I am, Alec.”