Witches Incorporated

by K. E. Mills

  “I wish I could,” said Melissande. “I know you’re frightened, Eudora. But you mustn’t be. Everything will work out for the best, you’ll see. Now, what I need you to do for me is change out of your wet skirt so that one of my factotums can escort you to see—to see—”

  “Sir Ralph Markham,” said Bibbie. “My uncle. Antigone’s nephew, as it happens. Only don’t mention pastry to him. It’s a bit of a sore point. But he will want to hear everything else you’ve got to say.”

  “Oh gracious,” said Eudora. “Are you quite sure this is the right thing to do?”

  “Positive,” said Melissande and Bibbie together.

  “Blimey!” said Reg, after Eudora Telford had tottered from the parlour. “If that woman was any wetter she’d be a registered weather system!”

  “Don’t be horrible, Reg,” Melissande snapped. “Gerald, sorry, I didn’t mean to take over but—”

  “Ha!” said Reg. “Pull the other one, ducky, it plays nursery rhymes!”

  “Reg,” said Gerald, and twitched his shoulder again. Then he looked at Melissande. “It’s fine. You’re right, she does have to speak to the authorities. And Sir Ralph’s as good a place to start as any. If Sir Alec needs to get involved, Sir Ralph will bring him in.”

  “Just make sure you remind her about the pastry thing,” said Bibbie. “I wasn’t kidding about that—was I, Monk?”

  Monk was inspecting the occasional table under the parlour window, looking at the forest of framed photographs Eudora had planted there.

  “Hmm? What?” he said absently. “No. It’s no joke. Antigone single-handedly gave Uncle Ralph a pastry phobia. Insisted on him helping her bake fairy-cakes. In an apron. With frills. When he was twenty.”

  Reg shook her head, then looked at Melissande. “Do you remember our conversation about the children, ducky?”

  “What?” said Melissande, frowning. “No.”

  “Offspring,” said Reg. “Sprogs. Yours and his.”

  Melissande blushed. “Oh. That. Reg—”

  “Only the more I learn about this Markham boy’s family,” Reg continued, undaunted, “the more I start to wonder if paddling in his gene pool is really—”

  “Reg, shut up!”

  “Mind you,” said Reg, oblivious, staring around Eudora Telford’s fussy, frilly, knick-knack crowded parlour. “Things could be worse. You could end up living like this. All I can say is it’s a wonder the place isn’t crawling with cats.” She sniffed. “Unmarried women tend to break out in cats, I’ve noticed.” She gave Melissande a pointed look. “You’d best be careful, ducky. You’ve already got one toe in that manky pond.”

  “And to think I ever wondered why your husband hexed you!” said Bibbie, very pink. “If you don’t mind, you deranged feather duster, that’s my brother and my family you’re—”

  “Don’t, Bibbie,” said Melissande. “Really. You’ll only encourage her.” As Reg chortled and Bibbie spluttered she looked at Monk. “Can you see that Eudora gets to your uncle safely? Obviously Bibbie and I can’t be officially involved in any of this. Besides, with the portal sabotage case practically solved we really have to focus on our case now or Permelia Wycliffe is going to fire us and sue us for breach of contract.”

  “Not necessarily,” said Reg. “It’s a bit hard to sue someone when you’re behind bars yourself. Don’t forget she’s up to her eyeballs in this portal business.”

  “Good point,” said Melissande. “But I hope you’re wrong, because I’d like us to get paid the rest of our retainer and keep our growing reputation intact.”

  “So what’s our next move?” said Bibbie.

  “Well,” said Reg, “while that Markham boy’s taking the tropical depression in to see your Uncle Ralph, you and I and Princess Pushy and Gerald are going to—”

  “Oh, Your Highness,” said Eudora Telford, returning to the parlour, dressed now in cheerful primrose-yellow silk. “So sorry to have kept you waiting, I—” She saw Monk at the occasional table and blushed. “Oh, I see you’ve noticed my—my—oh dear—” She cleared her throat. “My little bragging table.”

  “I’m sorry. Your bragging table?” said Melissande, advancing on the collection of photos.

  “Yes,” said Eudora, fluttering after her. “Mementos of my years in the Baking and Pastry Guild. Photographs of Permelia and myself with some of the illustrious women it’s been our pleasure to meet. Quite a few of them are terribly important, you know.”

  Monk, playing his role of servile factotum to the hilt, tugged his forelock and backed off as Melissande and Eudora reached the table.

  “Oh,” said Melissande. “Yes. I’ve seen these photos before, I think. On Permelia’s wall.” She frowned. “Did you say you’re in them, Eudora?”

  “Oh yes,” said Eudora Telford, and snatched up the nearest framed photograph. “See?” She thrust it under Melissande’s nose. “This is me—and Permelia—with the wife of the Kalif of Ninifar. That was at the year-before-last’s Golden Whisk.”

  Melissande considered the photo. “Well, I see Permelia and the Kalifa but—I’m sorry, I don’t quite—”

  “There! That’s me!” said Eudora Telford, pointing. “That’s my elbow, and the edge of my purple silk dress.”

  “Blimey,” Reg muttered. “Her elbow? I take it back, Gerald. She’s not a tropical depression, she’s a candidate for the asylum.”

  “Hush,” he hissed at her under his breath.

  “And this one—this one, you see?” said Eudora Telford. “Here I am with the Mogul of Fandawandi’s forty-third wife, and Permelia, at the opening of the Ott Homeland District’s annual fair. Four years ago.”

  Melissande peered. “Ah. Yes. I take it this is your foot, Eudora?”

  “That’s right,” said Eudora Telford. “I’m afraid I’m rather hopeless in photographs,” she confided. “Always moving at the wrong moment, or sneezing.”

  “Yes, having your photograph taken is terribly tedious I know,” said Melissande, staring fixedly at one framed photo in particular.

  “Hello,” said Reg. “What’s madam seen now?”

  Gerald couldn’t tell. But from the look on her face…

  “This lady here,” said Melissande, picking up the photograph. “She looks familiar for some reason. Do you know who she is?”

  Eudora looked. “Yes. Of course. That’s me—well, the back of my head—and Permelia with the Prime Minister of Jandria’s wife. Madam Manawa Tambotan. That one was taken not quite two months ago, at the Annual Baking and Pastry Guild Charity Ball. Madam Tambotan was this year’s charity patron. She and Permelia were great chums at school, you know. And of course she’s the president of Jandria’s Baking and Pastry Guild.”

  “Bloody hell,” Reg muttered. “Gerald…”

  But he didn’t need Reg’s alarm tickling in his ear. He didn’t need Melissande’s startled expression, or Bibbie’s wide-eyed stare, or the swiftly-extinguished flare in Monk’s etheretic aura.

  Jandria.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Gerald felt his heart hammering at his ribs. Permelia was the connection between Errol and Jandria? But how could that be? She never set foot in Ambrose’s jealously guarded lab.

  He realised then that something was nudging him… a thought… a memory… something important…

  “Um,” said Melissande. “So Permelia and the prime minister’s wife—you’re saying they’re still good friends?”

  “Oh yes, indeed,” said Eudora. “They’re always exchanging letters. They even talk on the telephone, though the calls are so expensive.” Her expression dimmed a little. “Doubtless there are things only two presidents can discuss.”

  Gerald felt the nudging, niggling thought sharpen into a jabbing realisation. Permelia.

  “Oy!” Reg muttered. “What’s wrong?”

  Ignoring Reg, he cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Your Highness, excuse me, Your Highness.”

  Melissande gave him her snootiest look. “What?”

&nb
sp; “We should—ah—the jalopy, Your Highness. We should warm it up before you and the ladies get into it. Me and—um—him.” He jerked his thumb at Monk, who was staring at him as though he’d gone mad. “Um. Can we? Please?”

  Melissande heaved a sigh. “I suppose so. If you must. But don’t take all day. We’ll be joining you shortly.”

  “What the hell are you going on about, Gerald?” said Monk, once they’d escaped Eudora Telford’s bungalow. “The jalopy doesn’t need warming up.”

  “I know,” he said. “But I had to talk to you about Permelia Wycliffe.”

  “Ah,” said Monk. “Yeah. She and Errol must be in cahoots. Him passing his work to her so she can pass it on to Jandria through her good chum the prime minister’s wife. Could be he’s the one behind the faked gemstones, too, which means sorry, mate, he also lied to you about not being involved with the portal sabotage.”

  “You think so?” he demanded. “So you detected Errol’s thaumic signature on those fake jewels, did you?”

  Monk frowned. “Well, no, but—”

  “But nothing. I’m telling you, Monk, Errol didn’t make them. And he’s not passing his work to Jandria through Permelia Wycliffe either.”

  Still anchored to his shoulder, Reg rattled her tail feathers. “Gerald, what’s going on? What is this obsession with Errol Haythwaite’s innocence?”

  “This isn’t about Errol,” he snapped. “It’s about the principle of protecting the unjustly accused.” He plucked Reg off his shoulder, set her down on the roof of the jalopy and stared into her worried eyes. “The Janitorial Department—Sir Alec—me—we’ve got an awful lot of power, Reg. You don’t know how much. You don’t know the kind of incants they’ve given me or what I’ve learned to do in the last six months.”

  “Then tell me,” she said. “Secrets aren’t healthy, Gerald.”

  He shook his head. “I can’t. There’s no time.”

  “Not at the moment, no,” she agreed. “But when this is done you can make time. That is, if you want to.”

  “Reg,” Monk said quietly. “Don’t nag him, all right?”

  Her feathers flattened. “I see.” She sniffed. “I suppose you know all about it, do you?”

  And now her feelings were hurt. Gerald laid his hands flat on either side of her and touched his chin lightly to the top of her head. “Don’t be angry,” he whispered. “I’m dangerous now. I have to be careful. I can’t ever let myself be too convinced that I’m right.” Stepping back, he looked at Monk. “Eudora Telford’s not the only one with a voice in her head… and right now mine’s screaming.”

  “All right, mate, all right,” said Monk, glancing at the bungalow. “Calm down. What is it screaming?”

  Calm down. It was good advice. His heart was still racing, his thoughts tumbled and jumbled. Just as Melissande predicted, the pieces of the jigsaw were falling into place.

  “Last night,” he said slowly, “after I’d faked the laboratory explosion and Wycliffe’s was crawling with inspectors, Ambrose and Permelia turned up… and something odd happened. I didn’t pay much attention at the time, but now I realise how important it was. When I was explaining to Ambrose what had happened—”

  “Ha,” said Reg, eyes bright with sardonic amusement. “When you were lying through your teeth, you mean.”

  “Yes, all right, when I was lying through my teeth,” he said, impatient, “I told them Errol and I had been working in the lab all night without a break.”

  Monk frowned at him. “So?”

  “So when Permelia Wycliffe heard that she nearly swallowed her tongue. I’m telling you, Monk, she couldn’t believe her ears. Ambrose assumed it was because she didn’t think we were dedicated enough to work back late, but I think it was more than that.”

  “You mean she knew it was a lie?” said Monk. “But how would she know? Unless—”

  He nodded. “Exactly. Unless she’d already been to the lab that night, sometime between when Errol and I left and when we got back. Permelia has no business setting foot in the place. R&D’s out of bounds for her and her gels.”

  Monk’s face screwed up in a sceptical frown. “You’re thinking she snuck in there and stole some of Errol’s blueprints while you were both in South Ott? But how could she? Errol used to ward his school pencil box so we couldn’t nick his eraser. There’s no way that woman could get past one of his anti-theft hexes.” He shook his head. “Sorry, Gerald, but I think you’re stretching the facts a bit thin.”

  Maybe, but what choice did he have? “The blueprints that ended up in Jandria were copies,” he said. “So maybe whatever black market thaumaturgist Permelia found to make her the fake jewels put together a recording incant and a hex-breaker, too.”

  Reg rattled her tail feathers. “That’s not a bad theory.”

  “It’s not a bad theory if you believe Errol’s innocent,” Monk said slowly.

  “And I do,” said Gerald. “In fact I know he is. Please Monk, you have to trust me. I was there. I saw his face. He begged me to—to—” He blew out a hard breath. “Take my word for it, Errol’s not involved.”

  “All right,” said Monk. “I’ll take your word for it.”

  “Great,” said Gerald, giddy with relief. “In that case, how do you feel about selling my theory to Sir Alec?”

  “What?” said Monk. “Me? After you told him what I said about the delerioso? Bloody hell, Gerald. Are you trying to get me sacked?”

  He pulled an apologetic face. “Yeah. I know. Sorry. But he was going to bollocks you over that anyway. At least if you’ve got some good news on the investigation you might distract him. And someone’s got to take Eudora Telford in so they can interview her.”

  “What, skip Uncle Ralph altogether, you mean?” Monk brightened. “Take her straight to your people? I could do that.”

  “Yeah. Look, I’m sorry to dump this on you, Monk. It’s just that I don’t want the girls going back to Wycliffe’s alone. And anyway, I need to get into Errol’s office. If Permelia did pinch more of his work last night there might still be some thaumic signature traces I can read.”

  “Good idea,” said Monk, and fished in his pocket. “Here—take these. I palmed them when I was ever-so-helpfully picking up Eudora’s spilled booty.”

  Gerald grinned at the fake diamonds Monk gave him. “Thanks,” he said, slipping the imposters into his own pocket. “If the thaumic signatures match that’ll be one more nail in somebody’s coffin. Y’know, anyone’d think you were a genius or something.”

  Reg cleared her throat ominously. “Just so you don’t think I’m not paying attention, the girls are perfectly capable of handling themselves in Wycliffe’s, or anywhere else you care to name.”

  “Sorry,” he sighed. “Of course you are. I just—”

  “I mean,” she said, “we pretty well solved this case for you, sunshine. Without Witches Inc. you’d still be staggering around the lab, wouldn’t you, blowing up prototype airships?”

  “I didn’t blow up the Ambrose Mark VI!” he protested. “Errol got the etheretic intermix balance wrong.”

  “Yes, well, you can throw all the syllables around that you like, sunshine,” said Reg, sniffing, “it doesn’t alter the fact that without our connection to that wet hen Eudora Telford—”

  “Who’s coming out of her bungalow right now,” said Monk. “So put a sock in it. Gerald—”

  “You take her to Sir Alec in the jalopy,” he said quickly. “We’ll get a taxi to Wycliffe’s. Tell Sir Alec I’ll call him as soon as I’ve got the proof of Permelia’s tampering so he can send in Dalby and his team.”

  “Will do.”

  He turned to Reg. “Quick, flap on over to Melissande. Make a big fuss of her.”

  “What do you mean, make a big fuss of her?” said Reg. “I don’t go around making big fusses. That girl’s problem is she’s already too big for her britches—and I’m not just talking about her buttocks, either.”

  He stared nose to beak at the wretched bird.
“What?”

  “Don’t ask,” said Monk, resigned. “Really. Just don’t.”

  “Reg, I need you to tell her what the plan is,” he hissed, as Melissande and Bibbie prepared to escort Eudora Telford down the pathway to her front gate. “Tell her she’s decided this business is so urgent that they’ve got to go over Sir Ralph’s head to his superior, Sir Alec.”

  Reg sniffed. “Tell her yourself. I’m not your social secretary, sunshine.”

  “How can I?” he demanded in an urgent undertone. “I’m just a factotum, aren’t I? Please, Reg. Hurry.”

  “Blimey,” she said, and ruffled her feathers. “What would you do without me, that’s what I want to know.”

  And she launched herself into air, towards Melissande.

  “Good question,” said Monk, watching Reg land on Melissande, making enough fuss for three birds twice her size. “You ever think about that? About not having her around?”

  Gerald felt a cold shiver run through him. “No. Not if I can help it. Now shut up and look obsequious. Their Royal Highnesses approach.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  When Gerald returned to the noisy, bustling Wycliffe R&D laboratory complex, every wizard stopped what he was doing: stopped talking, experimenting, surreptitiously eating, clandestinely drinking, sweeping, scrubbing, filing and skiving off… and stared at him.

  It was like walking into a wall of silence.

  “Um,” he said carefully. “Hello, chaps.”

  Robert Methven broke the hostile stillness, pushing his way through the collection of wizards. “What the hell are you doing here, Dunwoody? You’re supposed to be…” His face twisted. “On leave.”

  He’d worked out his cover story during the taxi ride from Eudora Telford’s bungalow. “Ah, well, Mister Methven, I know. And I am. But I’ve come to do a favour for Mister Haythwaite. He asked me especially.”

  Robert Methven looked down his nose. “Really? Mister Haythwaite asked you for a favour? That’s odd. I heard you nearly got him killed last night. Again.”