by K. E. Mills
And lastly there was a very recent photo indeed: Permelia clutching her most controversial and hard-won seventeenth Golden Whisk.
“Blimey,” she muttered. “That didn’t take you long, Permelia.”
Although really, could she blame the woman for surrounding herself with the trappings of her success? At least in the Baking and Pastry Guild Permelia was someone of influence and importance. In the Guild she wasn’t treated like a housekeeper. In the Guild she wasn’t a gel. Or if she was, at least she was the head gel.
I suppose it makes up for not having an airship named after you. Or being banned from setting foot in your own research laboratory.
Again, she was aware of that inconvenient tug of sympathy-but she thrust it aside, quickly, because time was marching on and she still had an entire office to hex.
First she took care of the contents of Miss Petterly’s jealously guarded office supply cupboard. Then she hexed everything locked in the staff tea room’s cupboard: packets of plain biscuits and sugar and all the teacups, just in case. After that she hexed the portable items on each cubicle’s grim, impersonal desk: typewriter, abacus, pens and pencils, rulers.
Bibbie was right about going to Monk for help, drat her. Without his friend in the Births, Deaths and Marriages Bureau we’d never learn a thing about these girls. Honestly, would one little picture bring productivity screaming to a halt?
Last of all she hexed the windows and the door. Then, task finally accomplished, she bolted back downstairs and out to the employee garden.
“Well?” said Reg from her camouflaged position in the bushiest fig tree. “Any trouble?”
“Of course not,” she said, shoving the carpetbag and her plain, work purse under a handy low-growing shrub. “Why would there be?”
Reg snorted. “Why does flypaper attract flies, ducky?”
Charming. “Everything’s fine,” she said. “Now all we have to do is wait.”
“You can wait if you like,” said Reg. “Me, I’m going back to sleep.”
Yes, well, it was all right for Reg. “Fine,” she said, feeling grumpy. “And I’m going for a walk.”
As she left the garden she saw a posh silver car glide down the driveway towards the hallowed Research and Development complex, which was strategically distant from the administration building in case of unfortunate thaumaturgical accidents. As it passed she caught a glimpse of the driver: none other than that handsome plonker Errol Haythwaite.
She looked at her watch, pinned tidily to her ghastly black blouse. Just gone half-past seven. Goodness, Errol started work early, didn’t he? All the better to hide his treachery, perhaps? Curiosity piqued, she started down the long, hedge-trimmed driveway towards the sprawling R amp;D building.
Errol’s flash car was the only vehicle in the staff car park adjacent to the main R amp;D laboratory. Squished against the hedge, peering through a straggly patch, Melissande watched him unfold himself from its sleek interior, retrieve an expensive-looking briefcase and even more expensive-looking staff from the passenger seat, secure the car and make his way to the laboratory. A touch of the staff to a brass plate beside the doors unlocked them, and he went in.
“Rats,” she said, under her breath. “If only I could follow him inside. Saint Snodgrass knows what he’s getting up to in there.”
On impulse she scuttled across the almost empty car park and over to the imposing laboratory complex. There were no windows along the front, but perhaps along the back? Hardly daring to breathe, she crept around the corner of the building and peered along its rear length. She was in luck. There was indeed a scattering of windows. None of them was open but not all were screened by curtains. And one of them, it turned out, belonged to Errol Haythwaite’s office.
Nose pressed against the narrow width of uncurtained glass, quaking in fear that he’d look up and see her, Melissande held her breath again and spied on Gerald’s nemesis and number one suspect.
Tall, lean and indisputably dazzling, Errol stood in front of a large drawing-desk, a series of blueprints spread out before him. Even though he was facing the window, he didn’t notice he was being stared at, so intently was he focused upon his work. He’d taken off his expensive suit-coat and hung it on the back of his closed office door. His white shirt shone with a definite silkish shimmer, and his tiepin looked like solid gold. Definitely he wasn’t short of dosh.
Melissande glared. Come on, you rich plonker, do something incriminating. You’re owed such a smacking for the way you spoke to Gerald.
Errol, unobliging, picked up a wax pen and began to scribble all over his blueprints. Every so often he paused and stood back to consider his handiwork. Sometimes he smiled, which made him even more handsome.
On the desk behind him, his crystal ball pulsed red. Irritated, Errol turned and glared at it. Almost ignored it… and then changed his mind. Tossing down the wax pen he answered his incoming call.
“Rats,” said Melissande. She could see his lips move, but she couldn’t hear a thing. “I wonder if Bibbie’s invented an eavesdropping-hex too…”
Whatever was being said to Errol by his mystery caller, one thing was clear: he didn’t like it. Not at all. Now he was pacing his small, tidy office, hands fisted on his hips, and as he strode in and out of view Melissande saw his face was contracted in a scowl. But even angry and upset he was still shockingly handsome.
Just like Lional. Don’t let his looks fool you…
With Errol moving around so much it was far more likely he’d catch sight of her at his window. Time to go… especially since according to her watch it was nearly a quarter to eight and she still had to make her way back to the office.
She met up with Gerald on the way.
“Melissande!” he said, looking suitably Third Grade in a worn brown suit, a limp white shirt and slightly threadbare blue tie. His gaze narrowed suspiciously. “What have you been doing?”
Trust him to notice. “Doing, Gerald? I don’t know what you mean.”
With a quick look around to make sure no-one was coming, he took her elbow and tugged her against the hedge. “You know perfectly well what I mean. The only thing at the end of this driveway is the R amp;D lab. Melissande, please, stay out of my case. I know you’re only trying to help, but you can’t.”
“No?” she said, tugging her elbow free.
“No.”
“Does that mean you’re not interested in what I just saw?”
A riot of emotions chased over his face. “ Melissande…”
She patted his cheek. “I’ll tell you if you’d like to know. I’ll even waive my regular fee as a professional courtesy.”
He closed his eyes. “Yes. I’d like to know.”
“Say please.”
“ Please.”
Two more wizards were walking down the driveway. As much as she enjoyed teasing Gerald, she’d have to make this fast. “Someone contacted Errol,” she said quickly. “Through his crystal ball. Whoever it was made him very angry.”
Gerald took her arm again, his eyes intent, his grip veering towards painful. “Who was it? What did they talk about?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I couldn’t hear, I could only see. Gerald-”
Abruptly aware of himself, he let go of her arm. “Sorry. I’m sorry. Of course you couldn’t hear him, Errol’s got his office thaumaturgically sound-proofed. But did you see anything else?”
“No,” she said, resisting the urge to rub where his fingers had gripped her. “Well… except I don’t think he was just angry. I think he was afraid, too.”
Gerald laughed, unamused. “Errol? Afraid? That doesn’t seem likely.”
She shrugged. “Maybe not, but he was.”
The other wizards were much closer now, their shoes scrunching the driveway’s loose gravel. Gerald glanced over his shoulder. “We shouldn’t be seen together. Melissande-” He shook his head. “Thank you. That might be important. But please, I’m begging you-stay out of my way. If anything happened t
o you, or Reg, or Bibbie…”
This was only the third time she’d seen him since New Ottosland, and Lional. Even so-she could tell that he’d changed. That tentative, sweet man she’d met his first day in the palace was gone. Vanished, as though he’d never lived. And in his place stood this quietly haunted man, with one good eye that showed her dreadful things.
I wonder what he can see that’s different in me.
“ You mustn’t worry,” she said gently. “Nothing’s going to happen. Have a good day, Gerald. I expect we’ll talk again quite soon.”
With a nod and a smile she walked away, heading back to the employee garden so she could retrieve her reticule. She could feel Gerald stare after her, his gaze heavy between her shoulder-blades.
When she was clear of the two approaching wizards she broke into an unladylike jog. If she wasn’t careful she was going to be late… and getting fired was the last thing she needed.
“Here you go, Gerald,” said Japhet Morgan, fellow Third Grade menial, wheeling yet another trolley-load of thaumaturgically-stained beakers and test tubes and etheretic containers into R amp;D’s industrialsized scullery. “Compliments of Mister Haythwaite.”
Gerald looked round, and managed-just-to keep his face blank. That made five trolley-loads washed and six waiting for his attention. He’d been at this for nearly four hours now with no sign of a reprieve. So much for spying on Errol. And with what Melissande had told him this morning, he really, really needed to spy.
“Fine, Japh,” he sighed. “Just leave them with the others.”
Japhet parked the trolley, then lingered. “So. It was really you who blew up Stuttley’s?”
Was there any point in yet again protesting his innocence? No. People believed what they wanted to believe. Especially when someone like Errol was telling the tale.
“Yes, Japh,” he said wearily. “It was really me.”
Japhet, young and pimpled and easily awed, whistled soundlessly. “Gosh. No wonder Mister Haythwaite hates your guts. He says that staff of his you ruined cost thousands.”
“Does he?” He reached for another manky beaker. “Then I guess it did.”
“He says everywhere you go, disaster follows. He says you probably got a king killed. You didn’t, did you?”
What? He put down the scrubbing brush and turned to face Japhet. “No. I didn’t. And you should know better than to listen to gossip, Mister Morgan.”
Japhet flushed. “It’s not gossip. It’s what Mister Haythwaite says.”
Gerald turned back to the sink. “Yes, well, Mister Haythwaite’s going to say a lot more than that if he catches you in here idling. So you’d best leave me to my scrubbing and get back to work.”
“Right. Yes,” said Japhet, suitably cowed. “Sorry, Gerald. It’s only what Mister Haythwaite says.”
Alone again, Gerald rinsed the beaker and stacked it with the other twelve on the draining board. Outrage at Errol tangled with his ongoing remorse for blabbing to Monk and the girls about his true purpose here at Wycliffe’s. Reaching for yet another beaker, plunging it into the sink’s scalding, soapy water, he throttled the urgent desire to run out to the lab and beat Errol about the head with his brand new First Grade staff.
Stupid, stupid, mingy pillock. He’s trying to turn everyone here against me. He’s trying to get me fired. Does he know I’ve got my eye on him? Has he guessed? Did I give myself away somehow? He said he could sense there was something different about me. What if he really can? What if that wasn’t just bluster? Oh lord. If he gets me fired Sir Alec will be furious.
He scrubbed and scrubbed at the dirty beaker, feeling his shoulders ache. Feeling the heat of the scalding water. Even wearing rubber gloves he was developing dishpan hands. He could feel his fingers shrivelling; a few more hours of this and he’d have no fingers left.
But I’d better get used to it. If I let Errol get me fired this’ll be my first and last field assignment. Of course it’ll be my first and last field assignment anyway if Sir Alec finds out I spilled the beans on the investigation…
He wouldn’t feel so bad about it if he’d managed to convince the girls to give up working for Permelia Wycliffe. But he’d been mad to think he could talk them out of it by telling them the truth.
If anything, he’d actually made things worse. Melissande spying on Errol? The stupid girl had lost her mind. Maybe if he put a call through to Rupert…
I can’t. Melissande would never forgive me. Besides, Rupert would tell Sir Alec and that’d be that.
He’d just have to trust that, between them, Melissande and Reg would be able to find their biscuit thief. Maybe he could help them. Solving their stupid case would get them out of the way and he could breathe easily again. Focus on finding the link between Errol and Haf Rottlezinder.
Assuming there is one. I really want there to be one. I suppose that makes me a bad person. But he’s telling people I killed a king! All right, I did. But that’s not the point! And anyway, he was a bad king. The point is His disjointed train of thought was derailed by a commotion beyond the scullery’s open door. As he turned, half-cleaned beaker in hand, Japhet Morgan rushed back in.
“You’ll never guess!” he panted. “There’s been another portal accident! It’s all over the wireless. Quick, come and listen!”
Japhet rushed out again. Gerald, staring, didn’t even feel the beaker slip from his grasp. Hardly flinched as it smashed to splinters on the scullery’s brick floor.
Oh, damn. This is my fault. I should’ve found a way to stop it.
He stepped over the shards of glass, dreamlike, and drifted out to the complex of laboratories.
The wizards of R amp;D were huddled around the lab wireless. Even Errol was listening. But was that to learn first-hand of his success or because-like everyone else-he was horrified and wanted to know what had happened?
Was this what that crystal ball communication was about? Did Rottlezinder call Errol for permission to proceed?
He didn’t know. He had to find out.
“- and details are scarce at this time,” the news announcer was saying. “ There is no word yet of casualties. We shall update as new information comes to hand. I repeat, there has been an accident at the Central Ott General Post Office Portal. No official statement has been released by the Department of Transport, as yet, and details are scarce at this time. There is no word-”
Turning blindly away from the huddle of wizards, from the ruthlessly unemotional voice emanating from the wireless, Gerald nearly smacked face-first into Ambrose Wycliffe. The company’s hapless owner stood in the wide aisle that separated the two long rows of laboratories, his jowly, whiskered face unhealthily flushed.
“What’s that? What’s going on? Why aren’t you men going about your work? You know the rule about the wireless, gentlemen, it’s only for-”
“There’s been another portal accident,” said Gerald. Sweat was tormenting its way down his spine. “In Central Ott. Mister Wycliffe-I’m sorry-I have to go down there. My-my mother-was coming in to town today. She always uses the Central Post Office Portal. Please, sir, I really, really need to-”
“What?” said Ambrose Wycliffe, and shook himself. Paid attention. “Your mother, Dunwoody? I’m sorry to hear it. Naturally you must go. But don’t forget to punch out. You’ll need to make up the lost time.”
Of course he would.
As he made his surreptitious way out of the R amp;D block Gerald looked back at Errol, still standing closest to the wireless, still listening to the repetitive droning of the plummy-voiced announcer. If his dismay was an act, he belonged on the stage. But then traitors had to be good actors, didn’t they?
Feeling himself watched, Errol glanced up. Seeing who stared at him, his face hardened and his eyes chilled as his expression shifted from shock to sneering contempt. Then it shifted again, to a dawning suspicion…
Bugger. Before Errol could challenge him Gerald ducked out of the side door. Ranged down the length of the R amp;D blo
ck was a collection of prototype scooters and velocipedes. Rubbish, Melissande had called them. And she was right: the first three scooters he tried to start just spluttered at him, protesting. The fourth one kicked over, but chugged so pathetically he feared it would expire altogether before he could cover the distance between Wycliffe’s and the Central General Post Office.
Put-put-puttering down the driveway that led to Wycliffe’s front gates, he heard a wild flapping of wings and looked up.
“ Reg? What are you doing?” he whispered, as she landed on the back of the scooter. He was chugging past the main office building, past window after window that could at any moment contain an inconvenient witness. “Go away. Someone might see you!”
“Not likely,” said Reg, flapping herself into a more comfortable and secure position, pillion on the scooter. “Any gel caught looking out of the window is summarily dismissed, sunshine. And it’s only gels working in there.”
“Yes, all right, fine, if you say so, but-”
“I was stretching my wings and I saw you making a desperate getaway,” she said. “What’s going on, Gerald? Don’t tell me that pillock Errol Haythwaite’s put the wind up you?”
He risked a glance over his shoulder at her. Felt the most enormous wave of relief wash over him. I’m not alone. I’m not alone. “ If only,” he said, and heard his voice shake. “There’s been another portal incident, Reg.”
“Bugger,” she said. “Anybody dead this time?”
“I don’t know. I’m going down there. I have to see-maybe I can help, maybe I can-” His throat closed. “Melissande was right.”
“No, she wasn’t,” said Reg, as they bumped over the gratings set between the front gates of the Wycliffe Airship Company. Above their heads the tethered, antiquated airship bobbed in the light breeze. “You know she wasn’t. She knows she wasn’t. And even if she was this wouldn’t be your fault. You’re not a miracle worker. Incidentally, why are you wearing bright pink rubber gloves?”
