Witches Incorporated Part 19

Really? "A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Carstairs. Perhaps you'd care to join me for lunch?"

"That would be very pleasant," said Melissande, dropping to the bench. "Reg is all right?" she added softly.

"She's fine. Cross as two sticks, but fine," he replied, equally softly. "Melissande... what are you doing here?"

"Molly. And I was about to ask you the same question."

"I'm on an a.s.signment for the Department."

She smiled, a very chilly curve of her lips, just in case they were being watched. "Fancy that. I'm on an a.s.signment for the agency."

He stared. "Who hired you?"

"Permelia Wycliffe. Who hired you?"

"n.o.body." In case anyone was watching, he pulled his fish-paste sandwich out of his lunch sack and took a bite. "I can't talk about it."

"You can't talk about it here," she said, opening her lunch box and taking out her own sandwich. It was ham and tomato, and looked singularly unappetising. The tomato had turned the bread all pink and soggy. "But you are going to talk about it, Gerald. There's a very good chance you and I could help each other."

"I doubt it," he replied, and laughed as though she'd just said something amusing. "In fact, I think you should forget all about your job for the agency. Things around here might get a little... tricky... soon."

"You mean you might try and blow something up?" she replied, and put her soggy sandwich back in the lunch box with a refined shudder. "That would have all the charm of novelty."

He turned his shoulder to the rest of the garden and squinted his blind eye meaningfully. "I'm not joking, Melissande. You've no idea what's brewing around this place."

"Not right now, no," she agreed. "But I will as soon as you tell me. And Reg, and Bibbie. Tonight. At Monk's new establishment. Nine o'clock sharp. Don't be late."

What? "Monk's what? What are you talking about?"

She reached into his lunch sack and took out the cupcake. The icing was luridly green: it had been the only one left in the baker's that morning. "You haven't heard? Great-uncle Throgmorton died and left him two houses," she said around a mouthful. "He's living behind the Old Barracks in Central Ott. Twenty-four Chatterly Crescent." She finished the cupcake, pulled a napkin from her lunchbox and daintily dabbed her lips clean. "You know where that is?"

"I'll find it," he said, then shook his head. "That is, when I can find time to visit him. Which won't be tonight, or any night soon. Mel-"

"Say you'll come or I'll make a scene," she said, dropping the napkin back in her lunchbox. Her lips were smiling, but her eyes were deadly serious. "Do you have any idea how worried Reg has been about you? She's in such a state she's practically moulting."

A pang of guilt spiked through him. "Yes, well, I'm sorry about that, but-"

"Not as sorry as you're going to be if you're not at Monk's place by nine," she said, and stood. "Say you'll be there. Go on. Say it."

Oh, lord. Sir Alec was going to roast him alive. Or he will if he finds out. So I'd best make sure he never does. "All right," he snapped. b.l.o.o.d.y woman. I must have been mad thinking I was pleased to see her. "Nine o'clock. But don't get your hopes up, thinking I'm going to give you chapter and verse about my a.s.signment, because-"

"Well, Mister Dunwoody, thank you so much for the pleasant chat," she said loudly in her best royal highness voice. Holding her lunchbox like a shield... or a weapon. "We must do it again sometime. Good day."

Dumbfounded, he watched her mince out of the garden, collecting other black-clad gels along the way. Honestly, she was impossible. Hah. Miss Carstairs his-his a.r.s.e. Melissande was born a princess, she'd die a princess, and live every d.a.m.n day in between a princess.

Just like Reg.

Moulting? Reg had been so worried she was moulting? Oh no. She was so vain about her feathers...

Flayed with remorse, appet.i.te ruined, he put his lunch back together and returned to the R&D complex. Three steps through the side door a hand clamped mercilessly around his upper arm.

"A moment, Dunwoody. I want a word with you."

Gerald felt his heart plummet. Errol, Errol. Do we have to do this now? Making certain to keep his expression suitably chastened and subservient, to keep the surge of anger from showing in his eyes, he didn't fight but let Errol drag him sideways into a convenient corner.

"Ah-Mister Haythwaite-I really am sorry about your staff," he muttered, keeping his gaze lowered. "I'll purchase you a new one, you have my word. It might take some time-my salary, you know-but-"

Errol, whose blistered hand had been bandaged, let go of him and leaned close. As always when he was displeased his immaculate accent had sharpened to a lethal edge. "What are you playing at, Dun-woody? What exactly are you doing here?"

Abruptly, he decided to drop a little of his Third Grade act. He'd never bowed and sc.r.a.ped to Errol at the Wizards' Club and, a.s.signment or no a.s.signment, he saw no reason to completely humiliate himself.

"I'm earning a living," he said, meeting Errol's savage stare calmly. "Just like you."

Errol ignored that. "What really happened in New Ottosland, Dunwoody? The truth. Because I don't for a moment believe King Lional broke his neck hunting. Not if you were anywhere around."

d.a.m.n. Trust Errol to let his petty vindictiveness spoil everything. They'd been doing such a good job of avoiding each other, too. And now the time had come for him to lie through his teeth.

Please, please, let me be a good liar.

"I'm sorry you feel that way, Errol," he said carefully. "But there's nothing more I can tell you. King Lional's death was a horrible accident. One in which I was not involved. And I'm back in Ottosland because the new king didn't want a royal wizard. That's the truth, but whether you choose to believe it or not is entirely up to you."

Errol was staring at him, his contempt mixed with-with confusion? "There's something... different about you, Dunnywood. I don't know what-I can't put my finger on it-but it's there. I can feel it. And I'll work out what it is, I promise you that."

Oh, really d.a.m.n. Errol wasn't supposed to be able to sense anything through the anti-thaumic shield. He really is a b.l.o.o.d.y good wizard. "I'm sorry, Errol. I don't know what you're talking about. Please, I need to get back to work."

"Work." Errol fairly spat the word. "You're a waste of s.p.a.ce, Dunwoody. Truscott's must have a screw loose, sending you somewhere like this." He leaned close again. "Ambrose is too stupid to see that you're a menace. A b.l.o.o.d.y great disaster waiting to happen. He won't sack you. At least not yet. But until he does you stay away from me and my projects. I don't want you so much as sharpening one of my pencils, is that clear? And if I catch you even looking at the next Mark VI prototype I will tear you limb from limb. Is that clear? Do you believe me? Gerald?"

Without waiting for an answer, Errol stalked away.

Gerald looked after him, shocked to realise he was actually shaken. Errol was positively overflowing with venomous hatred. He didn't understand it.

At least he could wait till I've proven he's the traitor Sir Alec's looking for.

"Mister Dunwoody!" called Robert Methven, standing beside a crowded lab bench. "If you've quite finished wasting Mister Wycliffe's time, there are several pieces of apparatus here that need to be cleaned."

Gerald closed his eyes, took a deep breath and rearranged his expression into the epitome of suitably Third Grade submission.

"Yes, Mister Methven," he said. "Coming, Mister Methven." And he hurried forward to do Robert Methven's bidding.

This b.l.o.o.d.y a.s.signment can't end fast enough.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

Blimey," said Monk, standing at his open front door. "Gerald?"

"Oy," said Gerald, glancing over his shoulder at the late night emptiness of Chatterly Crescent. "Not so loud. Voices carry. Can I come in?"

"Come in?" said Monk, still staring. "Oh! Of course, mate. Sorry."

As Monk retreated he stepped over the dilapidated but still stately house's threshold into the old-fashioned vestibule, which was-to put it very kindly-sadly shabby.

"What are you doing, Markham, answering your own door?" he demanded. "Isn't a place like this meant to come with a butler?"

"It did, but-well. Long story," said Monk, pushing the front door closed again. "And anyway, I don't really need ancient retainers hobbling about the place. They just get in the way. Gerald, I can't believe you're standing in my vestibule."

Grinning, he accepted Monk's back-slapping embrace. "Neither can I. Mind you, I can't believe you've got a vestibule. Two vestibules. Greedy sod."

"How did you hear about that?" said Monk, stepping back. His eyes widened in alarm. "Gerald, are you telling me Sir Alec's got-"

'Don't be stupid. Melissande told me."

Monk frowned. "Melissande? When did you run into Melissande?"

"She hasn't said?"

"I haven't seen her. Or heard from her," said Monk. "She, Bibs and Reg are up to their eyeb.a.l.l.s in a job."

He pulled a face. "I know. At the Wycliffe Airship Company. That's where we b.u.mped into each other."

"You're at Wycliffe's?" said Monk, eyebrows shooting up. "Since when?"

"Look, I'll tell you what I can," he said, shrugging out of his overcoat, "but isn't there somewhere we can talk in comfort?"

"Sure, sure," said Monk, then took the coat and slung it onto the vestibule's coat stand. "Sorry. Come into the parlour."

Gerald followed Monk down the creaky-floorboarded hallway into another shabby room made cheerfully warm by a leaping fire in the fireplace. A laden drinks trolley stood beside the curtained window and a lopsided table took up half of one wall. Two overstuffed armchairs were angled to take comfortable advantage of the warmth. The armchairs were both so elderly their leather had crazed and cracked, leaving tufts of horsehair stuffing poking out like bristles on a caterpillar. A faded, cosy two-seater sofa completed the room's furnishings.

"What?" he said, looking around. "No experiments all over the floor? Don't tell me you've reformed."

Grinning, Monk collapsed into the nearest armchair. "Who, me? Perish the thought. No, they're all over the attic."

He grinned back at his friend and sat himself in the matching chair. "Of course they are." Typical Markham. "It's good to see you, Monk."

"And you. I notice that colour-incant's worn off. How's it working out?"

He rubbed his silver eye. "Good. It's good. I had to tweak it a bit-I'm putting in a ten-hour at Wycliffe's. Can't afford it fading at an embarra.s.sing moment."

Monk sat up. "You what? You tweaked one of my incants? Oooh, Gerald, you shouldn't have done that. You might explode your eyeball."

"Ah... no," he said, gently smiling. "I don't think so."

"Oh," said Monk, slumping again. "You know, for a moment there I forgot." He shook his head, bemused. "Huh. You tweaked one of my incants. There's a turn-up for the books."

Was he jealous? No. Not Monk. There wasn't a jealous bone in his friend's lanky body. He was just... adjusting.

And he isn't the only one. I'm still not used to it and I've spent the last six months finding out what I can do.

"It'd be good if you could tweak it a bit more, though," he added. "Whatever I did to it makes my eye itch."

"Sure," said Monk. "Remind me to take care of it before you leave. So. If you're at Wycliffe's, that means..."

"Yeah. I'm in the field. My first a.s.signment."

A slow smile spread over Monk's thin, anarchic face. "You pa.s.sed the final test."

"Well, I didn't fail."

"Eh? What's that supposed to mean?"

"You tell me and we'll both know," he said wryly. "Hey, I don't suppose the bar's open, is it?"

"Been one of those days?" said Monk, sympathetic.

"You have no idea."

Monk uncoiled from his armchair. "Brandy all right?"

"Bless you, my son," he said, letting his head fall back. "Brandy is perfect."

Monk frowned as he sloshed a generous amount of liquor into the first of two balloon gla.s.ses. "Wycliffe's," he murmured. "Hang on... hang on..." His eyebrows shot up, and he stared. "Errol Haythwaite's working for Wycliffe's. Very smartly turned down the Aframbigi post and... oh. Oh, Gerald. Tell me you're not."

Trust Monk to leap to the right conclusion. "Not what?"

"Tell me you're not investigating Errol Haythwaite!"

Careful now, careful. "I'm not investigating him specifically."

Monk poured the second brandy, brought both gla.s.ses back to the armchairs and held one out. "But..."

He took the brandy and swallowed a generous mouthful. The smooth bite of fermented apple flamed across his tongue and down his throat, and he smiled.

"That's good stuff."

"Yeah, well, Great-uncle Throgmorton was a cranky old sod but he kept a good cellar," said Monk, sitting again. "Gerald. What's going on?"

"Look, I'm not trying to be coy, honestly," he said, "but can we wait till the girls get here before I spill the beans?"

Monk frowned. "The girls?"

Terrific. "They didn't warn you?"