Witches Incorporated Part 17

"Pleased to hear it. So that's you taken care of. And tomorrow I'm going to see if I can make friends with some of the gels and find out who the wizards are at Wycliffe's. Which just leaves Reg."

Reg fluffed out her feathers. "I can take care of myself, madam, thank you very much."

"n.o.body said you couldn't, Reg," she retorted. "But it's going to take all three of us to solve this case and I'm the one of us on the inside so if you don't mind? Wycliffe's has an employee garden. Everybody except Permelia and her brother use it for lunch and sometimes tea break. It's the perfect place for you to eavesdrop. You never know what might be let slip while people are gossiping, especially if-as I suspect-we're dealing with more than one thief."

"What, me sit in a tree all day?" said Reg, staring down her beak.

"Well, yes. That's what birds do, isn't it? Sit in trees?"

"Birds, yes," said Reg. "But I'm not-"

"Going to say one more word," she said, glaring. "Because unless you can type thirty words a minute, do mathematics on an abacus and fill out purchase orders in triplicate you are going to sit in that garden until your tail feathers fall out, if that's what it takes to solve this case."

"Oh dear," said Bibbie. "I think somebody needs to go nighty-night."

Melissande rubbed her eyes. "Sorry. I can still hear the typewriters." Then she looked at Reg. "I know it won't be much fun sitting there all day, but the employee garden's the only place you can go where you won't be conspicuous and there's a chance to learn something useful from everyone."

"Everyone except the Wycliffes," Reg pointed out.

"Yes, except the Wycliffes, but since our clients aren't paying us to investigate them let's not get into an argument about that."

"Agreed," said Bibbie, before Reg could answer. "And now that we've got that settled, don't you want to know what I've been up to while you were slaving over a hot abacus?"

"Oh," she said, feeling guilty. "Sorry, Bibbie. Yes. Of course I do."

Bibbie looked at Reg and grinned. Reg couldn't grin exactly but her eyes went shiny, a sure sign she was pleased.

"Well, for a start I found Let.i.tia Martin's jewellery."

"Oh, well done!"

"And I cast three progressive horoscopes, booked in four more consultations and helped two clients who walked in off the street. The first one wanted to know if her young man was stepping out on her. So I looked and he was, the cad. Poor girl cried a river."

Alarmed, Melissande sat up. "Yes, but did she pay? I mean, you didn't feel sorry for her and give her the answer for free, did you?"

"She wanted to," said Reg, before Bibbie could answer. "So I looked at her and she changed her mind."

Bibbie threw a paperclip at her. "Traitor."

"No, she's a lifesaver," said Melissande, sagging. "What about the other client?"

"She's a Guild Invigilator," said Bibbie, still glowering at Reg. "Her daughter's about to have a baby and she wants me to put up some hexes in the nursery. You know, a lullaby incant so the baby sleeps through the night, something to help it smile a lot and not get colic." Mercurial as ever, she laughed. "I hate to say it, Mel, but I think we're going to have to send that Times photographer a box of chocolates."

"Only if they've been laced with a laxative," she muttered. Then she pulled a face. "Um... is it my imagination or is this frippery work, Bibbie? Millicent Grimwade. Permelia Wycliffe's purloined biscuits. Babies and horoscopes and cheating young men."

"Mel, we're witches," Bibbie sighed. "Females. Not wizards. As far as the wider world is concerned frippery is what we are, let alone what we're supposed to do."

"But doesn't that bother you? Because I'll tell you, Bibs, it bothers me."

"Are you kidding?" said Bibbie. "It kills me. But babies and cads and horoscopes are good bread-and-b.u.t.ter money."

"Which pays the rent," Reg added. "And that's nothing to sneeze at."

"Yes, I suppose so." She stifled an enormous yawn. "Saint Snodgra.s.s, I'm tired. Time for supper and bed, I think." She rummaged again in the carpetbag and this time pulled out what was now a lukewarm pork pie, wrapped in more waxed paper.

Bibbie looked horrified. "What's that?"

"I told you. Supper. I bought it from a barrow girl on the way home."

"It looks revolting!"

"Maybe, but it's cheap. And it's doing my part for barrow girls."

"Monk would feed you," said Bibbie, fanning herself. "There's no need to be a martyr."

Melissande felt a blush creep over her cheeks. "Monk hardly ever remembers to feed himself, even when someone puts the meal on the table in front of him. I'm fine. You should head home. Good work today. But tomorrow make sure you find out something about the gels. I don't want to be stuck in that place a minute longer than is necessary."

After Bibbie departed, Melissande ate her pork pie-more pastry than pork, but it could've been worse-then spent an hour carefully writing up the day's events for the Wycliffe case file. By then she could hardly keep her eyes open.

"Right. Now I am going to bed," she announced. "What about you, Reg?"

"I'm off hunting," said Reg.

Melissande held out her arm for Reg to hop on, then returned to the bedsit and stood by the open window. "Have fun. Be careful. I'll see you in the morning. Don't let me oversleep."

"Hmmph," said Reg, sleeking all her feathers. "I make no promises, madam. I'm a queen, not an alarm clock."

With a snap of her wings, she flew into the night.

Melissande changed into her nightgown and crawled into bed. "And I'm a princess, not a gel. But we do what we must in this cold, cruel world."

On which thought, as Boris draped himself over her knees, she promptly fell asleep.

The next morning, as she trudged through more grim piles of paperwork and resisted the urge to throw her abacus across the room, she jumped to find Permelia Wycliffe standing beside her cubicle.

"Miss Wycliffe!"

"Miss Carstairs," said Permelia Wycliffe, her tone indifferent. "As Miss Petterly has stepped away from her desk I wish you to take these files down to Mister Ambrose Wycliffe in Research and Development." She held out a sheaf of buff-coloured folders. "Each one must be perused and initialled and returned to me, in person."

Clever. Very clever. Wait for Petterly's morning tea break and pounce. She took the folders. "Yes, Miss Wycliffe. At once, Miss Wycliffe."

"Cor, aren't you lucky!" whispered Delphinia Thatcher, as soon as Permelia Wycliffe was safely out of earshot. "Getting to go downstairs, Molly. All those handsome wizards. Have fun!"

Melissande swallowed a smile, just in case one of the other gels was watching. She did like Delphinia. The young woman was a bit like Bibbie-relentlessly cheerful. Determined not to let life squash her.

Blimey, I hope she's not the thief. That would be awful.

"What's the matter?" said Delphinia. "You're not interested in handsome wizards?"

Melissande took a moment to make sure her blouse was tucked in and her hair tidy in its horrible bun. "Oh. Well. I wouldn't say that," she murmured, and left the office quickly before Miss Petterly returned.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

Well, Dunwoody? Are we set?"

Gerald looked up from the gauges on the etheretic quantifier and nodded. "Yes, Mister Methven. Gauges are reading at zero."

Robert Methven, First Grade wizard, thirty-six years of age, graduate of Tenlowe's Private School of Thaumaturgics, no criminal record, no question marks in his Department file, second most senior wizard at Wycliffe's, turned back to the model prototype Ambrose Airship Mark VI and raised his hand.

"Very well then, Dunwoody. On three. One-two-three!"

As Methven pressed his thumb to the remote control for the prototype airship, Gerald flicked the switch on the etheretic quantifier. As he watched, the model quivered and began to gently b.u.mp up and down in its cradle. A moment later the needles on the quantifier began to flicker, reflecting the thaumic resonance within the prototype's experimental engine chamber.

"Readings, Dunwoody!"

"Four thaums, Mister Methven. Five-eight-thirteen-oh, dear." He looked up. "Twenty thaums, Mister Methven. Perhaps we ought to-"

"No, no," said Methven, impatiently. "We're still within the tolerances. There's no point p.u.s.s.yfooting around, man. This is a test, not a tickle."

Third Grade wizards did not argue with their betters. Third Grade wizards were the equivalent of-of clerks, at Wycliffe's. They twiddled k.n.o.bs and filed reports and fetched mugs of coffee for their superiors. They didn't, if they wanted to keep their job, contradict a senior wizard. Not even when that wizard was making a very big mistake.

And especially not when they're only pretending to be a Third Grade wizard and shouldn't be able to sense the thaumic imbalance in the experimental engine's central chamber.

Gerald held his breath and closed his eyes. Any second now. Any second. Three... two... one...

"d.a.m.n!" cried Methven, as the lovingly constructed prototype of the Ambrose Airship Mark VI lurched free of its confining cradle and shot up to the rafters of the laboratory like a bullet.

"Yes, Mister Methven," said Gerald, staring at what surely was about to become a very expensive pile of useless spare parts. "Ah-is it supposed to be spinning like that, Mister Methven?"

The prototype Mark VI, all twelve shiny feet of it, had begun to revolve, bow chasing its stern, and was picking up speed even as they gaped.

"No," said Robert Methven, slowly. "No, I don't believe it is, Dunwoody."

The shiny silver airship was glowing like a lantern now, the thaumic emissions from the experimental engine spilling into its empty interior.

Gerald felt his skin crawling. The wretched thing was going to blow. It was going to spectacularly explode and take half the roof with it, and possibly half the laboratory as well. Which meant all of Gerald Dunwoody and Robert Methven, probably. Unless they made a run for it right now, or said Gerald Dun-woody dropped his etheretic shield and obliterated his carefully manufactured cover with a spectacular display of thaumaturgic skill not- "b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, Dunnywood! What have you done now?"

For the first time in his life Gerald was pleased to see Errol Haythwaite.

"Nothing, sir, nothing," he said, taking the opportunity to grab Robert Methven by the arm and drag him to the very back of the lab, which was as far as they could get from the Airship Mark VI without actually leaving. "I was only-"

"Looking to repeat your demolition of Stuttley's!" said Errol, flicking him a contemptuous glance. He was holding his gold-filigreed First Grade staff tightly against its jittery reaction to the airship engine's over-charged thaumic particles. "You b.l.o.o.d.y cretin. Methven, what did I tell you about letting this imbecile within fifty feet of anything important?"

Methven pulled his arm free, and took a prudent step sideways. "Ah-well-I needed someone to-"

"b.u.g.g.e.r up the test? Well, good job, Robert. You picked the perfect man!"

"Sorry, Haythwaite," muttered Methven, and took another step sideways.

"That's Mister Haythwaite to you, Methven," snarled Errol, glaring up at the wildly spinning model airship. "Now shut your trap while I save the day."

Gerald and Methven watched, hardly daring to blink, as Errol pointed his staff towards the madly gyrating airship.

"Good lord, what's he doing?" muttered Methven.

"Trying to siphon off the excess tetrathaumicles created as a by-product of the engine's overheating," said Gerald, without thinking. And when Methven goggled at him added, weakly, "Um. Isn't he?"

"Yes... yes, of course," said Methven. He was sweating, great damp patches staining the armpits of his white lab coat, beads of moisture rolling down his blanched face. He had a receding chin, and it was trembling. "That's exactly what he's trying to do. Yes."

And in fact not only trying, but succeeding. Amazing. There was so much randomly generated thaumic energy inside the airship now it was glowing like a brazier, angry and bright red. The gold filigree on Errol's staff was glowing too, hotter and hotter. It had to be almost too hot to hold, it had to be on the point of scorching him, surely, and he wasn't wearing gloves, but Errol didn't let go. Instead he was using an incredibly complicated and hard-to-balance etheretic-reversal incant to suck the excess thaumic energy out of the airship and into the staff where it could be stored temporarily.

Gerald shook his head. Errol was loathsome, an arrogant, insufferable, nasty piece of work... but there was no denying it. He was also a b.l.o.o.d.y brilliant wizard.

The experimental airship's spinning slowed. Slowed further. Its furious colour began to fade. Now sweat was pouring down Errol's face, which was twisting with the pain of his efforts and his blistering hand.

"I say, Errol!" shouted Methven, entirely forgetting his manners. "You ought to stop now, that staff is going to implode!"

"It's fine," Errol grunted, his chiselled jaw clenched. "I know what I'm doing. And that's Mister Haythwaite to you, pillock!"

Gerald held his breath again. Methven was right, not even the kind of First Grade staff the likes of Errol could afford was strong enough to absorb much more raw thaumic energy. Remembering what had happened at Stuttley's, remembering the catastrophic devastation caused by those overcharged First Grade staffs, he stepped forward and tentatively touched Errol on the sleeve.

"Errol-Mister Haythwaite-it can't take any more."

Errol wrenched his head round to glare at him with bloodshot eyes. "Did I ask for your opinion, you little maggot?"

"No, but that doesn't mean I'm wrong. The airship's stabilised, sir. Now get that staff out of here before it overloads!"

Cursing, Errol looked up at the vanquished Ambrose Mark VI prototype then stared at his staff. Its filigree was starting to melt, an ominous blue haze rising above the tracery.

"d.a.m.n you, Dunwoody," said Errol, and ran.

Methven bolted after him, and Gerald, first hastily deactivating the prototype altogether and leaving it to plunge w.i.l.l.y-nilly to the laboratory floor, hustled in their wake.

Wycliffe's lofty-ceilinged Research and Development laboratory was laid out like a horse-barn, two long rows of individual labs separated by a wide aisle, which was crammed full of desks and chairs and benches and sinks. At one end of the building was Mister Ambrose Wycliffe's office, and at its opposite end was the Emergency Pit, where thaumaturgically compromised articles were thrown for later, carefully supervised disposal.

Shouting at the top of his lungs Errol ran full pelt for the Pit, blue-hazed staff raised above his head.

"Get out of my way-shift your b.l.o.o.d.y a.r.s.e, you fool-move-move-move-move! Don't just stand there, get the Pit open, now!"

Startled wizards scattered before him. Someone made a dive for the Pit's double doors and hauled them open. Errol turned sideways as he ran... adopted the lanky, long-legged lope of a javelin thrower... threw back his head on a roar of pain... and speared his staff down into the Pit.