Witches Incorporated

by K. E. Mills

  “Ah—no, Mister Wycliffe, that’s not true,” said Gerald, as an ugly murmuring ran through the circle of wizards. “I was sent here by Truscott’s, remember? You were short a Third Grade wizard, I’m a Third Grade wizard, so they—”

  “Poppycock!” shouted Ambrose. “You’re a spy, I know it. Who sent you? Was it Boswell? Is Boswell trying to resurrect his business again? Well, you can tell him from me he’s an idiot! Wycliffe’s buried Boswell once and we’ll bury him again. We’ll dance on his inferior company’s grave a second time. A third time! As many times as it takes, I can promise you that!”

  Gerald raised placating hands. Melissande couldn’t tell if he’d noticed her and Bibbie, still as mice inside the laboratory complex door, or Reg, perched high above the spectacle on one of the light-fittings… but if he had, he gave absolutely no sign of it.

  Oh, Saint Snodgrass preserve us. Please don’t let this go kablooey.

  “Mister Wycliffe,” he said, his voice so meek and subservient, sounding nothing like the man who’d defeated a dragon, “I’m terribly sorry, but I think there’s been a dreadful mistake.”

  Ambrose took a threatening step forward. “My oath there’s been a mistake! You set foot in my lab, Dunwoody, that was a mistake. Your first mistake. And then you started sabotaging my airships. Well, Mister Incompetent Third Grade wizard, we don’t take too kindly to sabotage around here. Especially sabotage that lands our head designer in hospital and puts our brand-new flagship Ambrose Mark VI prototype on the scrap heap—twice.”

  More ugly murmuring. The staring wizards tightened their ranks.

  “Bloody hell,” muttered Bibbie. “This is getting ugly. Any second now there’s going to be real trouble.”

  Alarmed, Melissande stared at her. “Why? What’s happening?”

  “Can’t you feel it?” said Bibbie. “They’re stirring up the ether.”

  She sighed. “Bibbie—”

  “Oh. Sorry.” Bibbie pulled a face. “Mel, this lot aren’t the best bunch of wizards I’ve ever come across but they’ve got more than enough juice to do Gerald a mischief. They’re getting angry, and he’s thaumaturgically outnumbered.”

  “Yes, but they can’t hurt him, Bibbie. He’s—he’s Gerald.”

  “Not here, he isn’t,” Bibbie muttered. “He’s nobody here, remember? And he can’t afford to show his true colours either. This was supposed to be a watching brief, remember?”

  Oh. So it was. Which meant what… that he’d just stand there and let a bunch of wizards led by a portal saboteur—and Ambrose has the hide to complain about industrial sabotage?—rough him up?

  Well, that’s wrong. And silly. I’m certainly not going to stand here and watch these noddies hurt the man who saved my kingdom.

  She looked up to see Reg wildly waving one wing. It wasn’t hard to translate the body language: Don’t just stand there, ducky! Do something!

  Gerald, still with his hands lifted, was warily eyeing his erstwhile colleagues. Turning back to Ambrose he cleared his throat. “Um—please, Mister Wycliffe, you really must believe me. I’m not a spy. Not for Boswell’s, or anyone else. This is a rather unfortunate misunderstanding, that’s all. And I’m sure it could be cleared up very easily if we could go somewhere quiet to discuss things. Say, into your office? Just you and me? Employer to employee? I think we have a lot to talk about.”

  “No,” said Permelia Wycliffe, stepping forward. Hectic spots of colour burned in her pale, sunken cheeks. “Ambrose, don’t listen to him. I’m sorry, I was wrong and you were right. He’s a menace. Some kind of—of imposter. A danger to everything you and I have been working towards. If you listen to him, Ambrose, Wycliffe’s will be destroyed.”

  Melissande swallowed a curse. “Damn. I don’t know how, but she’s onto Gerald.”

  “What?” said Bibbie, startled. “How can she be? And how can you tell?”

  “I don’t know, but look at her face. She knows Gerald knows there’s something going on. And he knows she knows he knows. Look at his face.”

  “Oh,” whispered Bibbie. “Rats, Mel. I think you’re right. What are we going to do? We can’t let Gerald’s true identity be revealed and we can’t let the Wycliffes get away with their crimes!”

  “You can say that again,” she said grimly. “All right. Here goes nothing. Bibbie, stay back. Consider yourself my last resort.”

  And before Bibbie could stop her, she leapt into the fray. “Excuse me! Excuse me, can I have everyone’s attention? Excuse me, excuse me. Sir, if you don’t mind, get out of my way.”

  Startled, Wycliffe’s wizards parted to let her through into the centre of their circle. Acutely aware of Gerald’s consternation, and Bibbie’s, of Reg still semaphoring wildly above her head, of all the wizards staring as though she were some kind of never-before-seen exotic creature, she halted before Ambrose Wycliffe and planted her hands on her hips.

  “You’re making a very big mistake, Mister Wycliffe. Things are already looking shaky for you. I strongly suggest you go no further in accusing an innocent man.”

  As Ambrose Wycliffe gobbled at her, incoherent, Permelia Wycliffe recovered her wits.

  “Miss Cadwallader! I don’t know what you think you’re doing but I thought I made myself perfectly clear: your sojourn at Wycliffe’s is ended. You have failed to discharge the task with which you were assigned and your dubious services are no longer required!”

  She pinned Permelia with a haughty glare. “It’s true I failed to find your biscuit thief, Permelia. But that’s not the same as saying I failed to uncover a crime. In fact I uncovered several crimes in your company, and none of them had anything to do with this dolt.”

  “What?” said Gerald. His voice and expression were outraged, but the tiniest gleam of appreciation lurked deep in his good eye. “I’m not a dolt, Miss. And I’m sorry, but who are you? I thought you said your name was Carstars.”

  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 o
f 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!”