Witches Incorporated Part 25

"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 to 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 j.a.phet Morgan, fellow Third Grade menial, wheeling yet another trolley-load of thaumaturgically-stained beakers and test tubes and etheretic containers into R&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, j.a.ph," he sighed. "Just leave them with the others."

j.a.phet 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, j.a.ph," he said wearily. "It was really me."

j.a.phet, 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 j.a.phet. "No. I didn't. And you should know better than to listen to gossip, Mister Morgan."

j.a.phet 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 j.a.phet, 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 bl.u.s.ter? 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 a.s.signment. Of course it'll be my first and last field a.s.signment 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.

a.s.suming 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, j.a.phet 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!"

j.a.phet 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, d.a.m.n. This is my fault. I should've found a way to stop it.

He stepped over the shards of gla.s.s, dreamlike, and drifted out to the complex of laboratories.

The wizards of R&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 surrept.i.tious way out of the R&D block Gerald looked back at Errol, still standing closest to the wireless, still listening to the repet.i.tive 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...

b.u.g.g.e.r. Before Errol could challenge him Gerald ducked out of the side door. Ranged down the length of the R&D block 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."

"b.u.g.g.e.r," 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 b.u.mped 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?"

He looked at his hands as though he'd never seen them before. "Oh. Yes." With a bit of precarious manoeuvring, he managed to get the gloves off and shove them in his pocket. "I was-" The scooter's engine gurgled, threatening imminent expiration. "Oh, this useless, hopeless, rubbish piece of-"

"Then fix it," said Reg. "Soup it up. What's the matter with you, Gerald? You're not a Third Grade wizard any more, sunshine. You're just playing one!"

Oh. Yes. So he was. He'd forgotten...

The road outside Wycliffe's wasn't the busiest of thoroughfares, but there were a few cars, and some carriages, and even a handful of scooters. Not Wycliffe models, that he could tell. Even so, he should be all right. The slowest carriage was still moving too quickly to tell what he was doing on his pathetic little piece of Wycliffe machinery.

He switched off his shield-incant. Took a deep breath, feeling his rogue powers stir. Thought for a moment, sorting through his repertoire of incants, chose the good old reliable Speed-em-up hex, gave it a twist, then zapped the gasping engine to within a thaumicle of its life.

The scooter roared like a ravenous tiger.

"Blimey!" said Reg, startled. "Do you know what you're doing?"

"Hold on," he said grimly. "We're about to go really, really fast."

"Gerald-now Gerald-" said Reg, warbling with unease. "You're not that Markham boy, remember, just you think about this-just you-Gerald-Geraaaaaald!"

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

And you're perfectly certain, are you, Miss Cadwallader, that these-these hexes of yours will do the trick?" said Permelia Wycliffe, coldly displeased behind her desk. "Because up to this point I cannot see that you've made any progress. Worse than that, I have just discovered that three more boxes of b.u.t.tle's Best a.s.sorted Cream Biscuits are missing from my executive cupboard."

Melissande managed not to squirm. "Oh dear. I am so very sorry, Miss Wycliffe. Still. Biscuits. It could be worse, couldn't it? I mean, all your Golden Whisks are still here."

"It's not the biscuits, it's the principle!" snapped Permelia Wycliffe. "We continue to succour a thief in our midst! And you seem to have taken steps to apprehend this-this criminal only this morning!"

"Yes, well, as I explained, Miss Wycliffe, the hexes we've employed to identify your miscreant are extremely complicated and delicate. Moreover they are unique. My colleague Miss Markham has invented them specifically for your use. Hours and hours of work have gone into them. I a.s.sure you they will do the trick."

Mention of Bibbie softened the severe pinching of Permelia Wycliffe's lips. "Yes. Well," she said, fractionally mollified. "No less could be expected of Antigone Markham's great-niece. Nevertheless, Miss Cadwallader, I must insist that you-"

The telephone on Permelia Wycliffe's desk buzzed, one long blurt of noise indicating an internal communication.

As Permelia Wycliffe answered the summons-it was her horrible brother, Ambrose-Melissande rested her gaze on that crowded wall of boastful photographs. Honestly, the more she thought about it the crazier it seemed. How was it possible that so many women around the world, important women-or at least women who were married to important men-could get so excited about baking cakes? Surely there was a better way of solving world hunger...

She realised then that Permelia Wycliffe had stopped talking. Had hung up the telephone. Was sitting behind her desk like a woman carved from meringue, sugar-white of face with a hectic dot of strawberry jam on each sunken cheek.

"Miss Wycliffe?" she said, alarmed. "Miss Wycliffe, are you all right?"

Permelia Wycliffe was breathing with such harsh restraint she seemed in danger of bursting a blood vessel. "There has been," she said, though her jaw was clenched to breaking point, "another portal incident, Miss Cadwallader. It is very distressing."

Melissande felt herself go cold. "Oh. Oh, no. Oh, that's awful. Has anyone been-"

"You must excuse me, Miss Cadwallader," said Permelia Wycliffe stiffly. "My brother will be joining me shortly. A confidential business meeting."

"Of course, Miss Wycliffe," said Melissande, standing. "I'll just-I'll leave you to-I'll go now. Thank you."

As she reached the office door, Permelia Wycliffe said, "Miss Cadwallader?"

She turned, desperately hoping her face wasn't betraying how close she was to tears. "Yes, Miss Wycliffe?"

"You must appreciate, given the current business climate, that the Wycliffe Airship Company cannot be expected to pay for your services indefinitely. Particularly when you seem unable to reach a satisfactory conclusion to your investigation. I believe the amount of your retainer covers one more day? Then you have one more day, Miss Cadwallader, to unmask the thief. After that your services shall no longer be required."

"Oh," she said faintly. "I see. Yes. Well. I'm sure Witches Inc. will do its utmost to provide satisfaction, Miss Wycliffe."

"I certainly hope so," said Permelia Wycliffe. "Because people do talk, Miss Cadwallader. It would be unfortunate if they were talking about you for all the wrong reasons."

"Yes, Miss Wycliffe," she said, and made her escape past horrible Miss Petterly, who looked at her with deep disfavour as she returned to her horrible little grey cubicle. Safely hidden she sat for a moment, willing the tears and nausea to subside, then mechanically reached for the next purchase order requiring her attention.

Another portal accident? So was last night a premonition? And was I wrong to let Gerald and Reg talk me into staying silent? Oh, Saint Snodgra.s.s, if anyone has perished...

The spectre of leaving Wycliffe's a failure paled before this latest dreadful news. Heart pounding, stomach churning, she tried to focus on the paperwork...

But all she could see were her dead and dying people sprawled on the palace forecourt, struck down by Lional, innocent in death...

Like fingernails down a cla.s.sroom blackboard, Miss Petterly's horrible handbell rang out. Melissande held her breath, knowing every gel in the office was doing the same.

"Miss Carstairs. Miss Carstairs. To me, if you please!"

Well... b.u.g.g.e.r. Biting her lip, she went to face Miss Petterly.

"What is the meaning of this, Miss Carstairs?" demanded Miss Petterly, brandishing a sheaf of paperwork. "You have been altering the customers' purchase orders!"

What? Oh, yes. Tantivy Tourist Extravaganza's order, from first thing that morning. "I'm sorry, Miss Petterly. I was just trying to help. They seem to have confused themselves and ordered the Gyrating Pandoscopic Side-mirror when what they really needed was the-"

Miss Petterly leapt to her feet. "Miss Carstairs. No gel under my supervision presumes to tell a customer he is confused! Are you trying to cost this company business?"

"Well, no, Miss Petterly, I was trying to-"

"Don't you talk back to me, young lady! No gel under my supervision shall-"