by K. E. Mills
“Just a bit, yes,” he said, grinning. “But the point’s sound. Three years ago Wycliffe’s was Ottosland’s premier airship company, having put the other two out of business. People who know about these things fully expected them to make it to world number one within a couple of years. And then came the major breakthrough in portal thaumaturgics, our government patented the incants and sold them internationally… and overnight, everything changed.”
“Permelia Wycliffe said they’d endured some crushing disappointments,” said Melissande, frowning. “I suppose this is what she was talking about. The collapse of their domestic and foreign markets.”
“So what you’re saying is, Gerald, someone at Wycliffe’s is trying to scare people away from using the portal system?” Monk chewed his lip. “By unravelling the matrixes? That’s a bit bloody drastic, don’t you think?”
Very drastic. But—“Desperate people do desperate things, Monk.”
“Well, yeah, obviously, but why now? Like you said, public portals have been around for three years.”
“Maybe whoever’s doing this thought portals would be a passing fad,” said Bibbie. “Maybe they thought there would be accidents and then people would go back to using airships. Maybe they kept hoping they wouldn’t have to do something so awful as wrecking portals and hurting people. And they kept putting it off, and putting it off, and hoping things would go back to the way they were. And they didn’t.”
She really was a very sweet girl. Mad as a hatter, just like her brother, but sweet. Gerald smiled at her. “I suppose that’s as good an explanation as any.”
“Wait a minute,” said Melissande, sitting up. “Orville Wycliffe, the company’s founder, died a year ago.”
Gerald nodded. “And his son Ambrose took over the firm. We know.”
“Huh,” said Melissande, scowling. “Ambrose. I tell you, Gerald, he’s bloody lucky I’m not Bibbie or I’d have fried him where he stood today. “Gels interfere with the thaumaturgical ether.” I’ll give him ether, the insulting old frog.”
He had to smile. “Yes, well, Ambrose is a bit old-fashioned.”
“Old-fashioned and incompetent,” she said. “Ever since he got control of the company he’s tried to diversify it, with spectacularly unimpressive results. From what I can tell its scooters and velocipedes and jalopies are hopeless. They practically fall apart if you sneeze on them. If Ambrose thought he was going to save the business that way he was sadly mistaken.”
“Then it’s obvious, isn’t it?” said Monk. “Ambrose Wycliffe’s your villain. He’s trying to get his company back in the air by sabotaging the portal network.”
Gerald shook his head. “I wish it was that straightforward, but it’s not. We looked at Wycliffe’s financials and, yes, they are shaky, but business incompetence isn’t proof of a crime. We also looked at Ambrose himself, very hard, but he’s squeaky clean. There’s not a shred of evidence connecting him to the portal accidents. If there was then trust me, we’d have found it.”
Melissande cleared her throat. “What about Permelia?”
“Permelia?” Gerald stared. “No. It’s not her, either. And yes, we did look into the possibility,” he added as she opened her mouth to argue. “The Department is perfectly aware that women can be criminals too. But she’s as squeaky clean as her fiscally inept brother.”
“So really,” said Monk, “all you’ve got against Wycliffe’s is a suspicious-looking coincidence. As far as you and Sir Alec know the portals are being sabotaged by some anti-thaumaturgic nutter out to save the world from the dangers of meddling with etheretic particles. And that’s even if it is sabotage. I mean, me and Macklewhite and Barkett could’ve been wrong.”
“No, you’re not wrong,” Gerald sighed. “There were some trace thaumic signatures left after the last incident that can’t be explained away by the existing portal matrixes or as a by-product of the random thaumic fluctuations caused by normal portal operations. It looks like some very powerful hexes were used to pull the portals apart.”
“In that case,” said Bibbie, “can’t Monk also be right about who’s responsible? Everyone knows what those anti-thaumaturgical people are like. Quite dotty, the lot of them. Or jealous because they can’t hex themselves out of a wet paper bag.”
“I wish he was right,” he said. “Because then this would be over. But we know for a fact that nobody in the anti-thaumic movement is behind the portal sabotage.”
“Ah,” said Monk. “You’ve got agents on the inside?”
He pulled a face. “All I can tell you is there’s only a handful of wizards worldwide capable of using the kind of thaumaturgy we’re dealing with… and shady enough to try.”
“And none of them belongs to an anti-thaumic group?”
“No,” said Gerald. “That’s another dead end, I’m afraid.”
Monk drummed his fingers on the arm of the sofa. “This shady wizard. You’ve got a name, haven’t you?”
“There’s someone we’re looking at, yes,” he admitted.
Monk’s eyes widened. “Errol?”
Bibbie sat up. “Really? Really Errol?” She clapped her hands. “Oh, that would be too perfect!”
“Who’s Errol?” said Melissande.
Bibbie made a rude noise. “Errol Haythwaite. Tall, dark and handsome, yes, but such a plonker.”
“Did you say Haythwaite?” said Melissande. “I know that name. Gerald, does she mean that horrible wizard today who—”
He nodded. “Yes. Him.”
“You’ve met Errol?” said Bibbie, surprised.
“No. At least, we’ve not been introduced,” said Melissande, with fastidious distaste. “But I caught him in action at Wycliffe’s this afternoon. As you say, Bibbie, the man’s an utter plonker.”
“Worse,” said Bibbie. “He’s the kind of First Grade wizard who thinks Third Graders should be rounded up and set adrift on barges in the middle of the nearest ocean. Rich, of course. His sort always are.” She wrinkled her nose. “Whenever we meet at swanky parties he always tries to look down my dress. I think he thinks I should be swooning all over him. I know he’d like to marry me because of the important people Father knows.”
Monk was staring at her, his mouth open. “What? He tries to look down your dress? How come you never—”
“Because I’m perfectly capable of squashing a bug like Errol Haythwaite without assistance,” said Bibbie airily. “Besides, he and Aylesbury are chummy and you know what Aylesbury’s like. Honestly, Monk,” she added, seeing he was still upset. “Errol knows better than to push his luck with me.”
“All right, Bibs. If you say so.” He turned. “But Gerald—look, fine, so Errol’s a plonker. You’ll get no argument from me about that. But it doesn’t mean he’s behind the sabotaged portals.”
Gerald shrugged. “We think he’s connected. Through another wizard, whose thaumic signature has a few things in common with the one we found at the last accident site. He’s already raised a few eyebrows in the past. Nothing’s been proven, it’s just… suspicions, but smoke and fire. You know how it goes. Given what’s at stake we can’t afford to ignore the possibility. So Sir Alec put me into Wycliffe’s on a watching brief.”
“And have you seen anything?”
He shook his head. “Not yet.”
“What about this eyebrow-raising wizard? Has he got a name?”
“Haf Rottlezinder.”
Monk’s jaw dropped again. “Rottlezinder? Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Blimey,” Monk muttered. “I knew a Haf Rottlezinder. Third year at university. He came over from West Uphantica as an exchange student. He was generally touted as a thaumaturgical prodigy. Stayed with—”
“Yes. We know, Monk,” said Gerald, meeting his friend’s gaze steadily. “With Errol. And from what we’ve been able to learn, he and Haf got to be very good friends.”
“And that’s your connection?” said Monk, incredulous. “I got to be friendly with Rottlezinde
r too. Does that mean you’re looking sideways at me?”
He tried to smile. “Come on, Monk. Sir Alec’s been looking sideways at you for years.”
But Monk ignored that. Beside him, Melissande tightened her hold on his hand. “Sorry, Gerald, it’s got to be a stupid coincidence. Errol’s a tick, but he’s not—not—”
“Not what, Monk? A saboteur? An attempted murderer? Or at the very least mixed up with one?” He felt his temper stir. “Why not? Because his family’s rich and influential and he’s a wizard Grand Master? Because even though you loathe him you went through university together and that means you belong to some kind of wizardly brotherhood? Because he’s one of us?”
“Don’t be a bloody idiot,” Monk retorted. “That’s got nothing to do with it. It’s just I know Errol and I’m telling you, Gerald, this isn’t his style. He’s got no reason to—”
“Actually, he does,” he replied. “Errol’s got a lot invested in Wycliffe’s. He’s head of Research and Development and this new project he’s working on, the Ambrose Mark VI, could put his name up in lights on the international stage. But only if the public loses confidence in portal travel, bringing back the age of the airship.”
“You have to admit, Monk,” Melissande said softly. “It does make sense.”
Monk tugged his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know, Gerald. It sounds pretty far-fetched to me, Errol and Haf Rottlezinder in cahoots to bring down Ottosland’s portal system and return Wycliffe’s to its glory days. I mean, what’s in it for Haf?”
“Money,” he said. “Errol’s rich enough to make it more than worth Rottlezinder’s while.”
“True,” Monk admitted reluctantly. “All right then—where’s your evidence? Besides the fact they knew each other at university?”
Trust Monk to find the weak spots in the Department’s argument. “We haven’t found any yet. But that doesn’t mean we won’t.”
“I don’t understand,” said Melissande. “If you’re so sure this Haf Rottlezinder is behind the portal incidents, why don’t you bring him in for questioning?”
What a shame Melissande was no less astute than Monk. “We can’t.”
“Because he’s in West Uphantica? But I thought your Department had all kinds of international extradition arrangements?”
Abruptly tired of standing, Gerald dropped into the other armchair. “We do.”
“Hang on,” said Monk. “Is Rottlezinder in West Uphantica?”
“He was.”
“But he’s not now? You mean you lost him?”
“Well done,” said Reg. “That’s the kind of competence we’re looking for in a secret government Department.”
“No, he’s not lost,” he said, giving Reg a look. “We just don’t have a definite location for him at the moment.”
“Gerald, that means you lost him,” said Bibbie. “How terribly careless of you.”
“So what happened?” said Monk. “I’m guessing nothing good.”
Gerald frowned at his interlaced fingers, remembering the look in Sir Alec’s eyes when he’d come to this part of the mission briefing. “One of our best men was sent in to extract Rottlezinder, quickly and quietly. It… didn’t work out. Rottlezinder had already gone—and he left a nasty little surprise behind him.”
“The fatal kind?” said Monk.
Looking up, he nodded. “I’m afraid so.”
Now Monk gave Bibbie a vaguely disquieted glance. As though he were having sudden second thoughts about his little sister getting mixed up with this kind of ugliness.
“Forget it, Monk,” Bibbie snapped, glaring. “I’m staying. Try and push me aside and I’ll tell Uncle Ralph about the Mushtarkan diplomat’s cousin and the—”
“Hey!” said Monk, sitting bolt upright. “You can’t do that! We had an agreement, remember?”
Gerald looked at Melissande. The Mushtarkan diplomat’s cousin and the what? She shrugged; either she didn’t know or she was protecting Monk.
“I remember everything,” said Bibbie, smiling dangerously now. “I especially remember how you promised you wouldn’t interfere in any of my cases.”
“But this isn’t your case,” he retorted. “It’s Gerald’s.”
“And Gerald is perfectly happy for me to stay.” She turned. “Aren’t you, Gerald?”
Oh, thank you so very much, Emmerabiblia. He looked at Monk, apologetic. “I think it’s a bit late to get cold feet now.”
Monk knew when he was beaten. “Fine,” he muttered. “But if you stub your toe, Bibbie, don’t come crying to me afterwards.”
“Look, I’m sure it’s very sad this agent died,” said Melissande, as the Markhams exchanged incendiary glares. “And I hope he didn’t have a family that’s grieving for him. But, Gerald, his death doesn’t actually prove what you’re saying, does it?”
He shook his head. “Unfortunately not. And the incant Rottlezinder used to cover his tracks was comprehensive. All it left behind was a great big smoking hole in the ground. If there was evidence connecting him and Errol, it went up in flames along with everything else. And no. Crawford didn’t have a family. Just… us.”
It felt odd saying that. Those two words suddenly seemed to put him on the other side of a line. Them and us. You and us. He didn’t like it. It made him feel horribly… alone.
“Hey,” said Monk, noticing. “There’s more than one kind of us in the world, mate. Don’t you go forgetting that.”
Sometimes it was quite alarming, how well Monk could tell what he was thinking.
“I know,” he said, dredging up a smile. “Would I be telling you lot any of this if I didn’t?”
“Why’s your Department involved anyway?” said Monk, fingers drumming again. “It’s a domestic matter, isn’t it? Shouldn’t Mordy’s old outfit be handling the investigation?”
“Ah,” said Gerald, wincing. “That’s a bit of a sore spot actually. They looked at the first incident and ruled out any hanky-panky. Turned the case over to the Transport Department’s safety committee. But Sir Alec had a feeling so he reached out to an old chum who kept him apprised, and when Rottlezinder’s name came up he grabbed the case with both hands. Of course now the other mob’s screaming blue murder, accusing us of breaching jurisdiction.”
“Well, they would, wouldn’t they?” said Monk, derisive. “All that egg on their faces. Stupid bastards. As if jurisdiction matters when lives are at stake.”
“Yeah, well, try telling them that.”
“So,” said Monk. “Rottlezinder’s the saboteur, Errol’s the brains behind the scheme, and you’re at Wycliffe’s to find the evidence to prove it. Is that it?”
“That’s the theory,” he agreed.
Monk nodded slowly. “Well, it’s a reasonable working hypothesis, I suppose. If you accept Errol’s that far gone. But Gerald—why did Sir Alec pick you for the Wycliffe job? No offence, mate, but you’re so wet behind the ears you’re practically dripping. And given one agent’s been murdered already, wouldn’t they want an experienced man behind the wheel?”
He shrugged. “Sir Alec couldn’t get anyone else into Wycliffe’s at such short notice. There weren’t any vacancies for a First or Second Grader in the R&D lab. But Ambrose goes through Third Graders like shaving cream because the work’s so bloody stultifying… and Errol makes our lives hell.”
“Poor Gerald,” said Bibbie, scowling, and reached over to pat him on the arm. “Having to take orders from the likes of Errol Haythwaite when you can run rings around him as a wizard.”
“Oh, it’s not so bad,” he said. “And it’s not as if being treated like something you’d scrape off your shoe is a novel experience. Actually, being a Third Grader is coming in quite handy. I mean, it’s true I don’t get to work on any important projects but I do get to poke my nose in pretty well everywhere, even if it’s only to play canary in the coal mine and clean up after the important work gets done. And that gives me plenty of scope for snooping. It’s like being a housemaid. Nobody
notices the poor bugger stuck cleaning out the test tubes.”
Despite all his concerns, Monk unleashed another of his anarchic grins. “Errol can’t be too happy about it. Having you peering over his shoulder must be getting right up his sinuses.”
He remembered the look on Errol’s face after the failure of the Mark VI’s experimental engine. Remembered the way Errol had gripped his arm, so furious. “You could say that.”
“Hmm,” said Monk, thoughtful. “Maybe that’s another reason why Sir Alec sent you in there. To rattle Errol.”
“Why would Sir Alec think that strategy could work?” said Melissande.
“Because what he doesn’t know about people isn’t worth knowing,” said Monk. “And he’ll use anything or anyone to get what he wants. I’ll bet he knows Errol used to like using Gerald as a verbal dartboard. And that Errol was furious about losing his precious custom-designed First Grade staff when Stuttley’s went up. I’ll bet he’s betting that if Gerald can throw Errol far enough off-stride he might make a mistake.”
“If he’s in cahoots with this Haf Rottlezinder,” said Reg. “That’s not been proven. Your precious Sir Alec doesn’t even know where that bounder’s stashed himself.”
“No, but we’ll find him,” said Gerald. “We have to. The Department of Transport’s keeping things low-key, not blabbing to the press, but it seems the sabotage is working. People are going back to airships for domestic and international travel. Who knows? A few more ‘accidents’ and the public might lose all confidence in the portal network. It could easily collapse.”
“Which means Wycliffe’s would be saved,” said Melissande. “Which brings us back to who benefits?”
“And there’s no denying that’s Errol,” said Bibbie. “It all fits.”
They looked at each other as the clock on the mantel ticked slowly towards midnight and the logs in the fireplace collapsed into glowing coals.
