Witches Incorporated Part 37

"What?" said Melissande. "Reg, what's wrong?"

Feeling Reg's narrowed gaze on him, Gerald closed his eyes. How had he forgotten that she, like Monk, could read him like a book written in crayon with very big letters?

d.a.m.n. I'm even more tired than I thought.

"What's wrong," Reg said snippily, "is that we've not been told the whole story, ducky. Come on, Gerald. I know that look. What have you ever-so-slightly neglected to mention?"

He sighed. "Nothing that has anything to do with Permelia."

"How would you know?" Reg retorted. "You lot wrote Permelia off as pure as the driven snow. You're just lucky we're around, sunshine, or there'd be egg all over your face about now."

Regrettably, he couldn't argue with that.

"Tell them, Gerald," said Monk, reprehensibly amused. "You'll get no peace until you do."

And he couldn't argue with that, either. "Something else has come up," he muttered. "A question of treason. Errol's in Department custody, helping Sir Alec with his enquiries. And it looks like I'm the only person who still thinks he's innocent."

"Blimey," said Reg. "You're defending that plonker now? Cor." She let loose a cackle of laughter. "That has to be giving you piles."

"Right now the only thing I've got is a headache," he said, "and that's because people keep on interrupting."

"Someone's been pa.s.sing Errol's airship designs to the Jandrians," said Monk. "The Department thinks that someone is Errol."

"Don't tell me, let me guess," said Reg. "The Jandrians are building military airships under the bed." She shook her head. "Those b.u.g.g.e.rs. Twisty as a corkscrew, the b.l.o.o.d.y lot of 'em. Always have been, for as long as I can remember."

"But-but-they can't do that," said Bibbie. "The treaty of 1846 expressly forbids them from rebuilding their military capabilities. Their airship fleet is limited to five civilian carriers, and the routes are restricted and monitored."

Melissande blinked at her. "How do you know these things?"

"Uncle Ralph was a junior clerk during the post-war tribunals," said Bibbie, shrugging. "Every time he's had one whiskey too many he bangs on about how he was present at the making of history. Silly old turtle. It was boring the first time he told the story."

Melissande looked at Monk. "What isn't your family connected to in this country?"

Monk and Bibbie exchanged resigned looks. "Not much," he said. "Sorry."

"So if Errol's not selling us out, who is?" said Reg. "And how are you going to find this villain?"

Gerald sighed. Good question. "I'm not. Sir Alec's looking into that. Officially I'm still a.s.signed to the portal sabotage case. Which I have to crack, fast, because there's the risk that once our mystery villain realises Rottlezinder's dead, he'll find himself another bent wizard and keep on attacking the portal network."

"In that case, Gerald," said Melissande, standing, "you'll have to come with us to see Eudora Telford and help us to convince her it's her patriotic duty to sell Permelia down the river. Once we've got the gemstones and Permelia's handwritten note, the rest of this crazy jigsaw should fall into place."

It wasn't a bad idea, actually. There was only one small problem. "Melissande, n.o.body's supposed to know that I work for the government."

Melissande smiled, and behind her gla.s.ses her eyes sparkled wickedly. "Don't worry. Eudora won't have the first idea."

Before he could explore that alarming answer further, completely not trusting the gleam in her eyes, Bibbie scrambled out of her own chair. "I think that's an excellent plan, Mel." She turned to her brother. "Monk, Mel, Reg and I need to-"

"No," said Monk, and folded his arms. "Absolutely not. I am never lending you my jalopy again. If you want to go somewhere I'll drive you, but I'm not letting you loose on the streets of Ott unsupervised. Not after last night. Not until you've turned fifty. Or possibly sixty. Ott's not a perfect city, not by a long shot, but it hasn't done anything bad enough to deserve you."

Bibbie flushed pink with temper. "Monk Debinger Aloysius Markham, don't you dare try to boss me around like you're Father!"

"I'm not bossing you, I'm saving you!" Monk retorted, scrambling to his feet. "You came within a whisker of getting yourself blown to bits last night, you-you-gawking great gossoon of a girl!"

Under cover of yet another Markham sibling squabble, Gerald looked at Melissande. "This might take a while. Care to conference?"

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE.

Melissande grinned. "Good idea, Gerald. We can discuss what your Sir Alec's going to pay us for practically solving the Department's portal case single-handed."

Oh, lord. When he finds out how deeply Witches Inc. is involved in this... and he is going to find out. I'll have no choice but to tell him. "Ah, well, I wouldn't presume to speak for Sir Alec. Tell me, how's your own case coming along?"

Monk and Bibbie were still squabbling hammer and tongs. Melissande pulled a face at them, then smoothed the front of her primrose-yellow blouse. "Oh. That. I'm afraid it's. .h.i.t a dead end. The office is hexed to the eyeb.a.l.l.s but nothing's been set off, and Bibbie's investigations into the gels' backgrounds haven't helped us a bit. Whoever's been pinching Permelia's a.s.sorted creams is a lot sneakier and more accomplished than I antic.i.p.ated, I'm afraid."

Now Bibbie was jabbing Monk in the chest with a particularly pointed finger, and Monk was waving his arms around... a solid gold sign he'd reached the end of his tether.

Wonderful. As if I haven't had enough explosions for one lifetime.

With an effort he turned his attention back to Melissande. "I'm sorry. That must be very aggravating."

A look of surprise crossed her face. "D'you know, it is. Our case might not be as important as portal sabotage but even so, my professional pride is at stake. The thought of being outsmarted by a biscuit thief..."

"Don't give up hope," he said. "I know things look bad for Permelia, but she's not been proven guilty yet. There's still a chance you'll get to unmask Wycliffe's dastardly petty pilferer."

"Huh," said Melissande gloomily. "Don't bet on it. Our retainer runs out today, and without a culprit to wave under Permelia's nose we're fired."

"Tell you what, Gerald," said Reg, hopping from the arm of the sofa to Melissande's shoulder. "Since it looks like we're solving your case for you, once your portal saboteur's nabbed you can show your grat.i.tude by returning the favour."

He looked at her. "And how am I supposed to do that, Reg?"

"How? How?" She rattled her tail feathers. "How should I know, Gerald? You're the rogue wizard, you think of a way. Blimey. I don't see why I should be expected to do everything."

He was exhausted, all his bangs and bruises hurting. Haf Rottlezinder was dead and innocent Errol Haythwaite faced an uncertain future. Somewhere in Ottosland a venal man or woman plotted more indiscriminate destruction.

And for reasons I don't begin to understand, I'm the one who's expected to make everything all right.

Consumed by their own nonsensical fight, Monk and Bibbie hurled more insults at each other.

Honestly, you two. Enough is enough.

Taking a deep breath he snapped his fingers twice. The ether leapt to his command, cracking like thunder above Monk and Bibbie's heads. "Oy, you raving t.o.s.s.e.rs! Put a b.l.o.o.d.y sock in it!"

Mouths open, they gaped at him.

"Monk," he said as the ether trembled, "if you are going to call in sick do it now." He turned. "What about you, Melissande? Aren't you supposed to be at Wycliffe's?"

"Yes, but they can do without me for the morning," she said. "Let Miss Petterly take my place. It's about time she did an honest day's work."

"Fine. Then let's go. Monk, you can drive us to Eudora Telford's place. And after we've heard what she has to say we'll make a decision as to what to do next."

"Right," said Monk faintly. "So, Gerald-this is you being a janitor, is it?"

He bared his teeth in a savage smile. "No, Monk. This is me being tired and cranky. When I'm being a janitor, buildings tend to explode. I take it you're getting quite fond of this house?"

Things happened with satisfying speed after that.

With Monk behind the wheel, himself and his First Grade staff in the pa.s.senger seat and Reg, Melissande and Bibbie squashed in the back, the jalopy chugged its way to shabby-genteel North Ott.

"There," said Melissande, pointing to a low-roofed bungalow painted the most confronting shade of cupcake-icing pink. Its trim was a blinding shade of blue. "That's the place, Monk. Pull up out the front."

"Blimey," said Reg. "If she cooks like she decorates, old Rupes better have the royal physician on standby."

"Unfortunately she does," said Melissande glumly. "Rupert is never going to forgive me."

As Monk coasted the jalopy to a halt and switched off the engine, Melissande leaned forward. "Right, you two. Listen carefully. For the purposes of this exercise I'm not Miss Cadwallader, is that clear? I'm Her Royal Highness Princess Melissande. So don't speak unless you're spoken to, the more obsequious grovelling the better, and whatever you do, don't you dare laugh."

Gerald stared at Monk, who was staring at him. "Don't look at me," he said. "She's not my young lady."

"Yeah," said Monk. "Ah-Gerald? Your eye's turned silver again."

He sighed. "Of course it has. Hang on-"

"Allow me," said Monk, and with a sizzle of thaumic energy he rejuiced the eye-colour incant. "There you go, mate. Good as new."

"Excuse me?" said Melissande. "If you two have quite finished with the male bonding rituals, can we go?"

Head held high, as snooty as she'd ever been in New Ottosland, she led the way to Eudora Telford's front door and rapped on it with a consummate authority. Gerald, bringing up the rear with Reg ensconced comfortably, familiarly, on his right shoulder, tried to imagine what Sir Alec would say if he could see this... and nearly turned tail and ran.

Reg nipped his ear affectionately. "Just like old times, sunshine," she whispered. "Only they've got a bit more crowded."

Smiling, he stroked her wing with one finger. "I do miss you, you know."

She sniffed. "Miss my brilliant deductive reasoning, my rapier wit and wing speed more like it."

"Well yes," he said. "Them too."

Before she could nip him again, less than affectionately, the bungalow's front door opened, revealing a plump, middle-aged lady dressed in unbecoming puce, with mildly myopic eyes and a permanently apologetic expression.

"Oh!" she said, fl.u.s.tered. "Your Highness! It's not-it can't be-is it ten o'clock already? I thought the clock said-but perhaps it's wrong-although-"

"No, no, Miss Telford, I expect your clock is quite correct," said Melissande, her vowels so plummy she sounded like an orchard. "I'm afraid we're early. Something rather important has arisen and it was urgent that we speak with you at once."

Miss Telford looked past Melissande, her brow furrowing in a frown. "All of you?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so," said Melissande grandly. "May we come in? This isn't the sort of conversation one conducts on a doorstep."

"Oh-oh yes, of course," said Miss Telford, and backed away from the door. "Do come in, Your Highness. Miss Markham. Go directly to the parlour. And-oh dear-these gentlemen are...?"

"This is my factotum, Miss Telford," said Melissande, flicking her fingers at Monk. "And the other one is my factotum's factotum. They aren't important enough to have names. They barely have faces. Pay them no attention. I never do. It only gives them ideas."

"Oh," said Miss Telford, as they tramped into her small home. "I see. A factotum with a factotum. How very unusual."

"Not in New Ottosland, Miss Telford," said Melissande, leading the way into the parlour. "In New Ottosland, royalty is accustomed to an extensive entourage."

Having shut the front door, Miss Telford joined them in the now uncomfortably crowded parlour. "I see, Your Highness," she said. "Except-I thought you wanted to remain incog-"

"Oh, I did," said Melissande. "I mean, I do. But of course you know my secret, Miss Telford. So it's all right. I can surround myself with all the facto-tums I want."

"Yes, yes," said Miss Telford. She was eyeing Reg with a nervous air. "And I see you brought your bird."

"But not just any bird, remember?" said Bibbie, anarchically dimpling. "She's the National Bird of New Ottosland and figures prominently on the kingdom's coat of arms. I'm sure King Rupert will be thrilled when you tell him you've entertained his national symbol in your very own home."

Miss Telford brightened. "Really? He will?"

"Certainly," said Melissande, with a repressive look at Bibbie. "But let's not tease ourselves with the prospect of delights to come. I'm afraid, Miss Telford, that we must discuss a considerably more serious matter."

"Oh," said Miss Telford, wilting slightly. "Then please, Your Highness, do have a seat."

"Thank you," said Melissande. "Miss Markham and I shall gladly sit. And you, of course, Miss Telford. Factotums don't sit. Factotums stand and wait for royal commands."

"Blimey," Reg muttered in Gerald's ear. "Princess Pushy's off and running now. Let's hope for all our sakes she doesn't sprain a b.l.o.o.d.y ankle."

Moving to stand before the fireplace, whose mantel was crowded with spinsterly knick-knacks, he nodded. Let's hope indeed. He'd just have to trust that Melissande knew what she was doing. Or at least had sense enough to know when it was time to let him step in. He flicked a glance at Monk, who rolled his eyes and took an un.o.btrusive position by the parlour's curtained window.

"Miss Telford," said Melissande, perched on the edge of the ugliest looking armchair he'd ever seen. "I'm afraid that what I'm about to say might well shock you. It will doubtless distress you, and quite possibly alarm you. Of course I'm sorry about that, but-well-as a royal princess I have always done my duty."

"Your duty?" said Eudora Telford, who'd chosen an equally ugly armchair to sit in. She plucked a lace-edged hanky from her sleeve and pressed it to her lips. "Are you saying it's your duty to shock, distress and alarm me?"

"Miss Telford," said Bibbie, who was seated on a hideous sofa, "she is. And speaking as the great-niece of Antigone Markham, the greatest president in the history of Ottosland's Baking and Pastry Guild, I'd like you to accept my apologies also. You are a credit to the sisterhood, Eudora. More than that, you're a credit to your country. And your poor country needs you now. Will you be brave? Will you be bold and resolute? Will you bear up under the burden Her Royal Highness is about to place upon your frail, womanly shoulders?"

Miss Telford was pressed so far back in her armchair it was in danger of tipping over. "Oh dear," she whispered. "How terribly unexpected. I-I really don't know."

Melissande leaned forward and reached for Eudora Telford's hand. "If you were anyone else, Eudora, I would quail at the thought of what I'm about to reveal. But I know the stuff you're made of and I believe I can trust you'll do the right thing, though it may be hard. Though it may break your kind and generous heart. Have I misjudged you, Eudora? Or can I now trust you with this dread secret?"

Eudora Telford nodded, mute as a swan.

Reg was gurgling into his ear. "Mad as mice, her and that Bibbie! And that gormless guppy Eudora's twice as bad. Falling for that load of melodramatic poppyc.o.c.k? She's a disgrace to the sisterhood, that's what she is!"

"Eudora," said Melissande gravely, "something very wrong is going on at Wycliffe's Airship Company. Something that's endangering a great many lives."

"What?" said Eudora Telford, stiffening. "Oh, no, Your Highness, you must be-"