Witches Incorporated Part 15

Pulling a face back at her, Melissande cleared her throat. "I'm very sorry to hear that, Miss Wycliffe. Can I offer you another cup of tea?"

With a shuddering effort, Permelia Wycliffe banished all unseemly hints of distress. "Oh. Yes," she said, and thrust the hanky back in her reticule. "Thank you, Miss Cadwallader. Forgive me. That was most inappropriate."

"Um... when you say your gels, Permelia," said Bibbie. "Who exactly do you mean?"

"My gels," said Permelia, as though everyone should know. "The gels who work in the Wycliffe Airship Company office. My busy little worker bees, industriously toiling to keep our beautiful airships afloat. Orders. Queries. Paperwork. The throbbing lifeblood of the business."

"Ah," said Bibbie. "I see. Those gels." Her dimples appeared and disappeared, swiftly. "Witches Inc. has one of those, too. We call her Miss Cadwallader."

Melissande looked up from filling a fresh teacup with fragrant Sweet Tangtang and frowned, but Bibbie wasn't paying attention.

"So, you're convinced one of the Wycliffe office staff has sticky fingers," she said. "What is it that's being stolen, Permelia? Money?"

"Oh no," said Permelia Wycliffe, accepting the fresh cup of tea from Melissande. "I keep no money in the office, naturally. That would be far too great a temptation." She sipped. "The gels, you understand, aren't from Ottosland's first families. Some of them aren't from the city at all. Quite rustic, many of them. It would be unkind to keep money within their reach. After all, as this current crisis demonstrates, one can make a mistake in the hiring of staff. Why, just the other day I was forced to dismiss a gel."

Standing by Bibbie's desk, Melissande felt her fingernails dig into her palms and had to make a conscious effort to unclench her fingers. "Really? On what grounds?" Too rustic, was she?

Permelia Wycliffe's lips thinned with distaste. "She cut off her hair, Miss Cadwallader. A bob, I believe it's called. So unfeminine. Despite their unfortunate social position the gels who work for Wycliffe's are young ladies-broadly speaking. I couldn't have such a precedent set in my office." Her gaze dropped to Melissande's trousered legs. "We have the highest standards and I insist they are maintained."

"Yes, yes, Permelia," Bibbie said hastily. "We quite understand. So if it's not money going missing...?"

"Biscuits," said Permelia Wycliffe. "Pencils. Pencil sharpeners. Sugar. Various and sundry other office supplies. It was Miss Petterly who brought the matter to my attention, some three weeks ago. Miss Petterly is my office supervisor. Naturally, as a Wycliffe, I am in charge of the company's administration but I'm far too busy to be bogged down in the day-to-day supervision of our gels."

"Oh, naturally," said Melissande. "We quite understand." So many cakes to bake, so little time to care for your employees or your company.

"Miss Petterly agrees with me that one of the gels is our culprit," said Permelia Wycliffe. "She and I have done our best to uncover for ourselves the ident.i.ty of this ungrateful miscreant-laid many and various cunning little traps-but alas, we have failed. Whoever is doing this has even managed to infiltrate my private office, which is where the expensive biscuits are kept. Under lock and key, I might add! Which is why I am here today making public this dreadful state of affairs." Her lower lip quivered, just for a moment. "I hope you appreciate how difficult it is."

Melissande nodded. "Of course. Your courage is admirable, Miss Wycliffe. So if I can just clarify the situation: you want to hire us to find a biscuit thief?"

"And why not, Melissande?" said Bibbie swiftly. "I'm sure the last thing Miss Wycliffe wants is a formal police investigation. So insensitive. So-so not private."

"Precisely, Emmerabiblia!" said Permelia Wycliffe, her lower lip quivering again. "To think of our shame being made known to the world-I can't bear it. It is imperative that this matter be handled with the utmost discretion, which is why I have come to you."

"Well, we certainly appreciate your patronage, Miss Wycliffe," said Melissande. "And your confidence. Tell me, as well as laying many and various cunning traps, have you tried confronting the ge-your staff-with the facts of this regrettable affair?"

"No," said Permelia Wycliffe, taken aback. "I couldn't possibly trust the innocent not to gossip about our crisis with undesirable persons. Miss Cadwallader, I thought I'd made myself understood: this dreadful business cannot become public knowledge. Nothing is more important than the protection of our good name."

"Oh, we do understand, Permelia," Bibbie said hastily. "I think what my colleague means is that sometimes, when a miscreant is caught off-guard, they can reveal themselves. You know. A guilty thing surprised?"

Permelia Wycliffe shook her head emphatically. "No. I won't hear of it. The risk is simply too great. Besides. While I'm sure all but one of my gels is not a thief, I don't wish to give any of them ideas."

Ideas? Melissande choked back her outrage. Honestly, this b.l.o.o.d.y woman makes Lord Billingsly look like a champion of workers' rights. "And you are absolutely certain your thief is one of Wycliffe's office staff?"

Permelia Wycliffe looked at her as though she were a particularly dim-witted servant. "Who else could it be, Miss Cadwallader? The young men who work in the Wycliffe Research and Development laboratory have no business upstairs in the office. They are the purview of my brother Ambrose, and rarely set foot out of his domain. I'm sure I couldn't tell you even one of their names."

Bibbie nodded understandingly. "And why would you, Permelia? Really, Melissande," she added, with a look, "I do think we must trust that Miss Wycliffe knows her situation."

Oh, doubtless she did, as thoroughly as she knew how to be an unbearable sn.o.b. "Of course. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply otherwise," she replied. "And what you've told us is very useful information, Miss Wycliffe. Armed with your insights, no doubt we'll crack the case in a trice."

"So you'll seek out this miscreant for me, my dear Emmerabiblia?" said Permelia Wycliffe. She sounded ever so slightly breathless, as though that banished emotion was still close at hand. "You'll apprehend this dread viper in my-that is to say, the Wycliffe Airship Company's bosom?"

Bibbie nodded soothingly. "Absolutely, Permelia. You can rest a.s.sured that Witches Inc. will leave no stone unturned to-"

"No, no, not Witches Inc., Emmerabiblia," said Permelia Wycliffe. "You. I want you to handle this matter personally. I've already given it a great deal of thought. Since I currently have a staff vacancy you could join my little family and investigate this travesty on site."

Bibbie blinked. "Work in the office, you mean? As a gel?"

"Yes! Precisely!" said Permelia Wycliffe. "I think it's the perfect solution, don't you? For this is so important, Emmerabiblia-and you are the great-niece of the incomparable Antigone Markham. Greatness flows unhampered through your veins!" Her gaze flicked sideways, doubtful and disparaging. "Of course, I'm sure Miss Cadwallader is perfectly competent, but-"

The phone rang again. Melissande, who was closest to it, s.n.a.t.c.hed up the receiver. "Good morning, this is Witches Inc. No thauma-" The male voice on the other end of the conversation buzzed in her ear. "No, I'm sorry, Miss Markham is currently unavai-" More buzzing, a little agitated this time. Her heart sank, and she shot a dire look at Bibbie. "Yes, indeed, sir, she did save the Golden Whisk. But as I say, she-" Buzz buzz buzz. My, this one was persistent. "Perhaps, sir, if you'd care to explain your difficulty I could-" Buzz buzz buzz buzz. "Oh, really! Go away, you silly man!"

She slammed down the receiver and glowered at Monk's troublesome sister.

"That was another one of your would-be admirers. I told you your photo in the paper would be trouble."

"And you were right," said Bibbie, suspiciously contrite. Turning to Permelia Wycliffe, she clasped the horrible woman's hand. "I'm so sorry, Permelia. It appears I've been plunged into a whirlwind of notoriety, thanks to that dastardly photographer from the Times. I'm afraid I don't dare show my face at your office for fear I'd be recognised and my purpose there discovered. However, all is not lost. Miss Cadwallader remains incognito. And I give you my word, as Antigone Markham's great-niece, she's an absolute demon for paperwork. Seriously. She used to be a prime minister, you know."

Permelia Wycliffe was looking bewildered. "But-but-"

"And of course I'll be here at Witches Inc. headquarters, slaving away on your behalf, following up on all the leads that she is bound to discover." Bending, Bibbie gently but inexorably drew Permelia Wycliffe to her feet. "I'm as heartbroken as you, Permelia, honestly, but we must put aside our personal feelings-for the good of the Wycliffe Airship Company."

"Oh... well, yes," said Permelia Wycliffe faintly. "Of course. Undoubtedly. The Company must always come first. No sacrifice can be too great."

"Exactly, Permelia!" said Bibbie. "I knew you'd understand." She turned. "Isn't she wonderful, Melissande?"

Melissande summoned a smile. "Inspirational."

"We'll start work on your case tomorrow, Permelia," said Bibbie. "What time would you like Melissande to report for duty?"

With a visible effort, Permelia Wycliffe thrust aside the lingering remnants of her disappointment. "You should present herself to Miss Petterly at a quarter to eight, Miss Cadwallader."

Oh, joy. That meant rising at the crack of dawn knowing that Bibbie was still tucked up warm and comfortable in her bed. "Certainly, Miss Wycliffe," she said, forcing a smile.

Permelia Wycliffe looked her up and down. "I would point out, Miss Cadwallader, that Wycliffe gels are the very embodiment of sartorial discretion. They wear black from head to toe. Skirts and blouses, naturally. Not... male attire."

Of course they did. "That won't be a problem, Miss Wycliffe."

"Then I shall see you in the morning, Miss Cadwallader." A thin, unenthusiastic smile. "In the hope that our goal might be swiftly reached."

"Why don't we make that Carstairs?" she suggested. "I realise I'm eminently forgettable, especially when I'm not wearing my bustle, but as my photograph also appeared in the Times, to be on the safe side I think I need a different name. Molly Carstairs. That's got a nice rustic ring to it, I think. Don't you?"

"Lovely!" said Bibbie, brightly. "Perfect. Didn't I tell you she's a marvel, Permelia? She thinks of everything."

"Including the contract," added Melissande. She returned to her desk, opened a drawer and pulled out one of the boiler-plate contracts she'd had drawn up. "If you'd care to read this, Miss Wycliffe, and affix to it your signature?"

"I shall take it with me," said Permelia Wycliffe, holding out her hand. "For a leisurely perusal. One should never sign a binding legal doc.u.ment in haste."

Ha. So, even with all the cake and biscuit nonsense, Permelia Wycliffe wasn't a fool. "In which case," she replied, "perhaps you'd care to call when it's ready to be collected. We'll send a messenger. And if you could be so kind as to include with it the agreed retainer, as specified, and a complete list of your company's employees? They should be independently investigated. References, sadly, can be forged."

"Indeed," said Miss Wycliffe. "But I shall only pay in advance half your retainer. My late father placed great faith in financial incentives."

No, she most definitely wasn't a fool. Melissande swallowed. "Half. Yes. All right. But only this once."

"Excellent," said Permelia Wycliffe, and allowed Bibbie to shepherd her to the door.

"Emmerabiblia Markham!" said Melissande, as Bibbie closed it behind their client.

"What?" said Bibbie, with spurious innocence.

"You know perfectly well what!" she retorted, and advanced, pointed finger jabbing. "You're a sneaky, conniving, opportunistic-"

"Oh, come on, Mel," said Bibbie. "Do I look like a Wycliffe gel to you?"

"I'll tell you what you look like! You look like a sneaky, conniving, opportunistic-"

"Put a sock in it, ducky," said Reg, hopping onto the open office window's sill. "Unless you want to explain all that half our retainer nonsense. Mad Miss Markham's outfoxed you, and that's all there is to it." She flapped herself across to the back of the client's armchair and tilted her head. "Very neatly, too. Nice work. Well done."

She spun round. "You were listening?"

Reg fluffed out her feathers. "Of course."

"And you're defending her? Reg!"

"Now, now, don't you start Regging me," said the bird. "Facts are facts. She's no more credible as a Wycliffe gel than I am and you know it. Besides, we'll need her on the outside pulling the thaumaturgical strings. And taking care of any other business that comes our way."

Because it, too, might require the talents of a real witch. Feeling her eyes p.r.i.c.kle, Melissande blinked hard. "Fine. Wonderful. I'm a Wycliffe gel. I get it."

"Sorry, Mel," said Bibbie, trying to look apologetic. Unfortunately a grin kept breaking through. "But I'd be hopeless, you know I would. You, on the other hand, will be perfectly wonderful."

"In a black skirt and blouse," she muttered. "Oh, yes. I can hardly wait." She heaved a sigh. "Fine. And now, if you've quite finished being sneaky, conniving and opportunistic, perhaps we can get ready for our next appointment!'

CHAPTER TEN.

And here," said Miss Petterly, "is your cubicle, Miss Carstairs."

Melissande looked. Cubicle? More like a s...o...b..x. Designed to house a shoe for a very small dwarf. If she sneezed in here she'd give herself concussion against the dull grey wall.

"Wycliffe's is a very particular firm, Miss Carstairs," said Miss Petterly, a desiccated old stick with a voice like a disapproving nanny-goat. "Miss Wycliffe insists upon the gels keeping their work-places neat, tidy and un.o.btrusive. That means no personal mementoes, cards, photographs, knickknacks, paraphernalia or frivolous nosegays from bold young men."

Beyond the wall of her s...o...b..x-cubicle-someone snorted. Miss Petterly's narrow nostrils flared. "I heard that, Delphinia Thatcher. I shall tell Miss Wycliffe if I hear it again."

"Sorry, Miss Petterly," said an unrepentant voice. "I swallowed a fly."

"There are no flies in Wycliffe's, Delphinia Thatcher. Wycliffe's is a very hygienic firm."

"Yes, Miss Petterly," said the unseen Delphinia Thatcher.

Miss Petterly plucked a sharpened pencil from the breast-pocket of her high-necked black blouse and used it as a pointer. "Your desk, Miss Carstairs, and your chair. They are not to be moved for any reason. Your typewriter, Miss Carstairs. There is a daily allowance of blank order sheets and paper, which has been carefully determined by me. If you exceed that allowance the cost of the extra shall be deducted from your weekly wage. There are your pens, pencils and ink, Miss Carstairs. You have been supplied with enough to last you a month. Should you remain with us that long, and exceed that supply, the cost of the extra shall be deducted from your weekly wage. Here is your abacus, Miss Carstairs, for swift and accurate mathematical calculations. Should you exceed a rate of one error per transaction a penalty shall be deducted from your weekly wage. Here is your in-tray, Miss Carstairs, which periodically shall be filled with customer orders. This must be emptied at least twice every hour into your out-tray there, Miss Carstairs. Failure to do so shall also incur a penalty which shall be deducted-"

"From my weekly wage, yes," said Melissande. "I think I'm getting the picture, Miss Petterly."

And the next time I see that wretched photographer I'm going to kidnap him. And then I'm going to steal Monk's interdimensional portal opener and send that photographer on a one-way holiday to sprite-land!

Miss Petterly's nostrils flared again. "Miss Carstairs! Wycliffe's gels are renowned for their courtesy. I shall overlook your interruption this time, but should you interrupt me again-" Miss Petterly smiled, revealing small, even teeth. "I shall have you shown the door. Is that perfectly clear?"

Melissande hooked a finger between the high-necked collar of her own hideous, brand-new black blouse and eased the material away from her throat. Slow strangulation, what a way to die.

"Yes, Miss Petterly."

"Excellent," said Miss Petterly, with another fierce smile. "Once your workday commences, Miss Carstairs, you do not arise from your desk for any reason other than your ten minute morning tea-break and your thirty minute lunchbreak. The office-boy-"

"Ah-" She raised an apologetic finger. "Sorry. I don't mean to interrupt, Miss Petterly, but what if-that's to say-is it permissible to leave one's cubicle if-you know-one is required to answer a call of nature?"

Miss Petterly's sallow cheeks tinged with pink. "What a singularly indelicate question, Miss Carstairs. I do hope Miss Wycliffe hasn't-" On a deep breath, she regained her self-control. "Unauthorised absences from your desk will not be tolerated. At the first infraction a deduction shall be made from your weekly wage. A second infraction shall result in immediate dismissal."

Melissande blinked. In which case I'd best start imitating one of Zazoor's camels. "I see, Miss Petterly."

"The office boy," Miss Petterly continued, still pink-cheeked, "is responsible for bringing you your fresh orders, and taking away such paperwork as has been correctly completed. As you can see-" She pointed her pencil at the pile of papers overflowing the in-tray. "-your first orders are awaiting your attention. A list of instructions as to how they are processed is pinned there." Another pencil stab, this time at a sheet of paper tacked to the wall. "Should you require a.s.sistance you shall call for me." Her pencil tapped a little silver handbell which had been fixed to the cubicle wall above the desk. "You shall not engage in gossip with any other Wycliffe gel, nor ask for their a.s.sistance, nor render a.s.sistance if it is asked of you. In theory, Miss Carstairs, your workday ends at six, but naturally no Wycliffe gel would dream of departing before every last order or query is dealt with. Wycliffe gels are dedicated and true."

Well, all except one, apparently. "Yes, Miss Petterly," said Melissande, dulcetly obedient. If Monk could hear her now he'd have a fit.

Miss Petterly consulted the fob-watch pinned to her lackl.u.s.tre bosom. "Miss Wycliffe will see you in precisely ten minutes, Miss Carstairs. Do not be late. Wycliffe gels are always punctual."

Melissande stared after the woman as she stalked away, her long black skirt sweeping the office floor. Blimey, as Reg would say. What an old misery-guts.

Still. At least I don't have to endure her for long, not like the other girls in this horrible place. Lord. I didn't treat my palace staff like this, did I?

Appalled by the notion, she slid into her cubicle's wooden chair and s.n.a.t.c.hed up the top sheet of paper from her in-tray. It was an order for replacement machine parts. Perusing it she frowned, attention suddenly focused. Velocipede spokes? Whatever was Wycliffe's doing selling veloci- "h.e.l.lo," said a cheerful voice, hushed to a whisper. "I'm Delphinia Thatcher, prisoner number twenty-two. Welcome to Wycliffe's, prisoner twenty-three."

Turning, Melissande saw a plump and freckled girl grinning at her from round the side of her cubicle. "Molly Carstairs," she replied, keeping her own voice low. "Pleased to meet you. What do you mean, prisoner twenty-three?"

"This place," said Delphinia, wrinkling her nose. "And its twenty-five cubicles. Little prison cells, they are, each one containing a gel, slaving away for the fading glory of Wycliffe's. How they manage to keep on paying everyone's wages I'll never know."

Melissande flicked a glance in Miss Petterly's direction but the ghastly woman had returned to her desk and was bent over a ledger. Hiding behind her own cubicle's wall, she leaned a little closer to Delphinia Thatcher and softened her voice to the merest breath.

"I'm sorry, are you saying that Wycliffe's is-ah-"

The girl pressed a finger to her lips. "I'm not saying anything, Miss Carstairs."

"Oh, please, call me Molly."