Witches Incorporated Part 43

Blank-faced, Dalby looked at her. "Who?"

"Oh, don't be stupid," she sighed. "You know very well who. And if Sir Alec did tell you about us, you know that we know too."

Mister Dalby smiled. "Sorry, ladies. You're not important enough to ask about him." He nodded. "Good day."

They glared after him as he left. "D'you know," said Bibbie, "I don't care if it is illegal. I'm going to find someone to teach me martial thaumaturgy and I'm going to track that man down and then I'm going to-"

"No, you're not," said Melissande, suddenly exhausted.

"But-"

She raised a warning finger. "Trust me, Bibbie, you're really not. Now come on. Let's get out of here."

As they stood outside the lab complex, taking a moment to appreciate the fresh air and sunshine, Reg flapped down from a nearby tree.

"Girls," she said, landing on Melissande's shoulder. "We have to rescue Gerald. That government stooge Sir Alec is going to make his life h.e.l.l for this."

Melissande heaved another sigh. "Yes. I know. Just let me go and fetch my reticule. It's still in the administration office. I'll call for a cab while I'm up there, and then we can go and straighten out this mess with Gerald. I'll meet you outside the door to reception." She pointed down the left-hand path. "That's the fastest way."

"Excuse me?" said Reg, hopping across to Bibbie's shoulder. "Do I need you to tell me how to find my way? Me, with my bird's-eye view of everything? No, I don't think I do, madam. Incidentally, just who was that short streak of misery that turned up earlier? I didn't like the look of him. Was he unkind to Gerald? I'll pluck out his b.l.o.o.d.y eyeb.a.l.l.s and wear them for earrings if that b.u.g.g.e.r was mean to-"

"Now you're talking, Reg," said Bibbie, with a wink. "Come on. I'll tell you all about Mister Dalby while we're waiting for Mel. Hey-" They started off down the path. "I don't suppose you know any good martial thaumaturgy..."

So weary she could drop, Melissande defiantly undid the top two b.u.t.tons of her hideous black Wycliffe blouse then made her way back to the administration block. Reception was deserted. Miss Fisher, sensible woman, must've read the writing on the wall. She climbed the stairs, pushed open the door into the office... and saw that the gels, and Pip the office boy, had wisely taken her advice and scarpered.

Either that, or one of Mister Dalby's a.s.sociates had stopped by to send them all home.

She took a moment to look around the deserted office. At the horrible grey cubicles and the narrow aisles and the never-ending piles of paperwork. And even though she'd been part of Gerald's investigation, an important part, even though she and Bibbie and Reg had helped avert not one, but two, major disasters, she was aware of a definite sense of melancholy. Because despite all that, she hadn't managed to solve the case she came here for in the first place: the Case of the Mystery Biscuit Pilferer.

Oh well. I don't suppose we can win them all.

She heard a sound, then, coming from Permelia Wycliffe's office. So someone was still here? As she moved forward to investigate she saw an enormous pile of cartons wearing a skirt walk out of the office-just as her own skirt pocket began to buzz.

What?

She clapped her hand to her side and felt the shape of Bibbie's thief-detector crystal. Felt its vibrations running through her fingers. She s.n.a.t.c.hed the crystal out of her pocket, stared at it, then looked up.

"Hey! You! You there! Thief! Stop!"

With a startled cry the red-handed pilferer dropped the enormous pile of biscuit boxes.

Melissande gaped. "Miss Petterly? It's you?"

Miss Petterly went white, then flushed bright red. "What? What's me? What are you talking about? What are you doing here, Miss Carstairs-Cadwallader-whatever your name is? You've been terminated. I heard Miss Wycliffe say so herself."

Melissande, shaking her head, sauntered across the office floor. "I don't believe it," she said. "Miss Petterly, how could you?" Reaching the silent, mortified woman, she ran Bibbie's thief-detecting crystal over the woman from head to toe. The crystal flashed so fast it looked like it might explode.

She shoved it back in her skirt pocket, just to be on the safe side.

"How could I what? I don't know what you're talking about," Miss Petterly bl.u.s.tered, her hunted gaze darting left and right. "You shouldn't be in here. You're not wanted in here. You never belonged here. You were never a true Wycliffe gel."

Melissande looked at the scattered cartons of biscuits. "Well, no, Miss Petterly," she said. "I wasn't. Thank G.o.d. And clearly you aren't either. Not if being a true Wycliffe gel means you're also a thief." She shook her head. "You should know, Miss Petterly, that my name is Miss Cadwallader. I'm part of an agency called Witches Inc. We... investigate things, I suppose you could say. We solve mysteries. We uncover crimes. Miss Wycliffe hired us to discover the ident.i.ty of the Wycliffe Airship Company pilferer. I will say this: I never once suspected you." Then she sighed. "At least not for long, and not for want of wanting it to be you. You did a very good job of hiding your tracks."

"Of course I did," Miss Petterly sneered. "I am an extremely competent woman, Miss Car-Cadwallader."

She shrugged. "An extremely competent con-woman, I'll grant you. Permelia didn't suspect you for a heartbeat."

Incredibly, Miss Petterly preened herself a little. "Yes, well, Miss Wycliffe trusted me implicitly."

Horrible cow. "Which was a big mistake, it seems," she said. "I don't understand, Miss Petterly. Why would you do this?"

Miss Petterly's pebbly eyes flushed pink around the rims, then slowly filled with tears. Her chin wobbled, and her lips. She said something, incoherently, her voice clogged with emotion.

"What?" said Melissande. "I didn't quite catch that."

"I said," Miss Petterly gulped, "she wouldn't approve my membership of the Baking and Pastry Guild. Permelia. Miss Wycliffe. She said-she said-she said my apple-and-walnut log wasn't-wasn't up to snuff. She let that-that ridiculous Eudora Telford join, kept her as a secretary, let her run around with her everywhere, but she wouldn't let me in. Eudora Telford. That-that-bean. Have you tasted her cooking? Her date scones sink ducks! I've seen it! They're a disgrace. She ought to be had up for cruelty to water fowl!"

That was sadly true. "So, what-you decided to exact revenge by stealing Permelia's biscuits?"

"Not just biscuits," said Miss Petterly, with a touch of watery pride. "I took everything. The pencils, the pens and the erasers. And I always had three lumps of sugar in my tea when we're only supposed to have one." Her chin wobbled again. "And now I suppose you're going to arrest me."

"Actually, I don't have the power of arrest," said Melissande. "My job was to tell Miss Wycliffe who the thief was and let her handle it from there. But that could prove to be a bit difficult now."

"Something's happened, hasn't it?" said Miss Petterly.

"Yes. You could say that."

Miss Petterly frowned. "So... what now, Miss Car-Cadwallader?"

Melissande looked around the horrible office. "Now, Miss Petterly, if I were you, I'd take those cartons of biscuits and make myself scarce. I doubt very much if Miss Wycliffe will notice... and all in all-after four endless days in this place-I'd say you earned them. Now if you don't mind, I'm going to call myself a cab."

And leaving Miss Petterly to stare at her, dumb-founded, she marched into Permelia Wycliffe's office to use the telephone.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE.

Sir Alec made him wait in an interrogation room. For hours.

Gerald didn't think it was funny.

But then he was too tired to have much of a sense of humour left. If he wasn't so tired, he might have been... nervous. Apprehensive. Be feeling some concern about what must be his uncertain future. After all, he had played fast and loose with the rules on this, his very first official janitorial a.s.signment. It had been a watching brief, but instead of sedately watching he'd been running around doing. And now there were two dead bodies, an exploded boot factory and an entire labful of wizards who'd heard things they doubtless were never meant to hear. There was Errol, who now knew the truth about him. And Eudora Telford, discreet as a goose.

There were Monk and Melissande and Emmerabiblia and Reg.

True, there was also Permelia, but from what he could tell she'd come more or less unhinged, so who knew how much use she was going to be in foiling the Jandrians and their nefarious plans?

That'll be a job for some other janitor. Maybe the one who's still in Jandria, looking over his shoulder. Risking his life.

But that didn't answer what was going to happen to him, now that he'd completed his first a.s.signment-sort of. With a lot of unauthorised a.s.sistance. And a great deal more fuss than he'd ever antic.i.p.ated.

He tried to feel sorry that Ambrose was dead, and couldn't. That worried him a bit. Yes, Ambrose had been a criminal. Very nearly a murderer. And Haf Rottlezinder was dead because he'd worked with Ambrose. Although, really, Haf Rottlezinder had been bound to end up dead sooner or later. Haf Rottlezinder had lived that kind of life. But Ambrose hadn't been evil, not like that. He'd been selfish and misguided and driven to a desperate act. In a way, Ambrose Wycliffe was a man to be pitied.

Yes, he'd definitely be happier if he could feel sad about Ambrose.

I'm sure I'll feel sad when I'm not quite so tired.

One of the interrogation room's two doors opened, and Sir Alec walked in. "Mister Dunwoody."

Probably the polite thing to do would be to stand, because Sir Alec was a "sir," after all, and older, and his superior, but he was just too d.a.m.ned tired for standing. Besides. He was sitting in an interrogation room, and really, honestly, he'd done nothing wrong.

Well. Nothing illegal.

"Sir Alec," he said, and stayed where he was.

Sir Alec considered him for a moment, then quietly closed the interrogation room door. Crossed to the table. Sat down in the other chair. Clasped his hands in his lap and stared in silence with those cool, pale, unfathomable eyes. Gerald stared back, too tired to be intimidated.

"Well, Mister Dunwoody," said Sir Alec at last. "And what the b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l am I supposed to do with you?"

He shrugged. "Pat me on the head and send me home for a good night's sleep?"

Sir Alec's cool eyes flared with unexpected temper. "You think this is funny? You think this is a joking matter, Mister Dunwoody? You think Department protocols, our secrecy, are things you need never be concerned with? You think the rules don't apply to you?"

He sat a little straighter. The interrogation room's air had taken on a nasty taste. In the invisible ether, fury was burning... "No, Sir Alec. Of course I don't."

"Really?" said Sir Alec. "Given the evidence at hand I find that hard to believe."

"Sir Alec-"

"You will be silent, Mister Dunwoody. I am speaking," snapped Sir Alec. "It occurs to me, sir, that you, by virtue of your-unusual-status, feel you can flout all propriety with complete impunity. In short, Mister Dunwoody, you appear to be labouring under the impression that you are untouchable. Unstoppable. A law unto yourself. That your rogue thaumaturgic capabilities release you from the restrictions and obligations endured by other, lesser mortals. Well?"

He was so tired. And he wasn't in the mood for being scolded, like a child. Perhaps his methods had been unorthodox, perhaps it was true that in the end their victory owed more to Witches Inc. than Gerald Dunwoody-but did that really matter? Surely only the outcome was important. And the outcome had been good, this time.

He folded him arms, feeling reckless. Defiant. "Oh. I can speak now, can I?"

Sir Alec placed his hands on the table and leaned forward. "Do not attempt to cross swords with me, Mister Dunwoody. I am warning you: do not."

Gerald met Sir Alec's pitiless gaze and held it... but it was hard. On the inside, he was shaking. "The answer to your question is no. I don't consider myself any of those things."

"Do you recall," said Sir Alec, sitting back again, "what I said to you at our first meeting, in New Ottosland?"

"You said a lot of things, Sir Alec." He swallowed. "You said there were people who thought the world would be a better place if I... didn't exist."

Sir Alec's lips thinned. "Essentially, yes. I did say that, though perhaps not quite as melodramatically. And you should know, Mister Dunwoody, that those people have not changed their opinion. And you should also know that recent events will do nothing to persuade them that their opinion is erroneous."

Oh. Well. That could prove... inconvenient, couldn't it? In which case perhaps antagonising Sir Alec wasn't the smartest of strategies. Perhaps the smart thing right now would be to keep the man on side.

"I'm sorry, Sir Alec," he said, discarding all defensiveness. "I never meant to cause the Department trouble."

"I'm sure you didn't," Sir Alec retorted, "and yet trouble there is. The extent of Witches Inc.'s involvement-and Mister Markham's-in our business is causing no little excitement, Mister Dunwoody."

Oh, lord. Monk. The girls. No. Just no. I can't have them punished for being my friends. "Sir Alec, you have to know that without help from Monk and Her Highness and Miss Markham we would never-"

"I'm sorry," said Sir Alec, eyebrows raised. "Aren't you forgetting someone? I believe your list of extracurricular a.s.sistants is short one queen in a feathered headdress."

Gerald felt some heat touch his face. "Oh. Yes. Reg. Actually, Reg was a lifesaver."

"Literally, as I understand it," said Sir Alec. "Mister Dalby is having some little trouble convincing the former R&D wizards at Wycliffe's that they did not, in actual fact, hear a bird scream: 'Get your b.l.o.o.d.y hands off him, you harpy.' "

Gerald touched his fingers to the tiny pinp.r.i.c.k in his throat. "Is that what she said? I couldn't really hear her, I was too busy thinking a hexed hairpin was about to be plunged into my carotid artery."

"Mister Dunwoody-"

"Look," he said, as the stresses and strains of the past days caught up with him in one fell and blinding swoop. "Sir Alec. You have to believe me, I never meant for it to happen like this, all right? Things just sort of-got away from me. I mean, it wasn't my fault the girls ended up at Wycliffe's at the same time I was there!"

"I never said it was, Mister Dunwoody."

Encouraged, he plunged on. "And I had nothing to do with them working for Permelia. But if you know the story already-if you've already bullied it out of Monk-or the girls-then you know it was b.l.o.o.d.y lucky they were there. Because if Reg hadn't overheard Errol and Kirkby-Hackett, if she hadn't overheard Permelia and Ambrose, if Melissande and Bibbie hadn't followed Eudora Telford all the way to South Ott, if Melissande hadn't been able to-to princess that foolish old lady into telling us the truth and giving us those fake gemstones and Permelia's note to Haf Rottlezinder-well, for starters you'd still be looking at Errol for this and you'd be b.l.o.o.d.y well wrong, wouldn't you?"

Sir Alec's stare was unblinking. "It's possible."

It was more than b.l.o.o.d.y possible, but he didn't press the point. "Well, then. As it stands the case is all wrapped up, the right people are arrested, and the day's been saved. Again. All right, maybe I should've been the one to save it-but I wasn't. And if that's embarra.s.sed you or the Department, Sir Alec, then I'm very sorry. Really. I am."

There was a long and uncomfortable silence. Then Sir Alec nodded, the merest, miserly tip of his head. "I concede your points, Mister Dunwoody. All things considered, events have not fallen out... unpleasantly. But you had no way of knowing that, did you? When you disobeyed my instructions? When you confided in Monk Markham? When you recklessly disregarded our most basic principles and involved two inexperienced young women in this case? And as for the bird-" His lips pinched thin again. "To be frank, I don't know what to say about her."

"Yes, well, Reg often has that effect on people, sir," he murmured. "If it's any consolation, you get used to it... eventually."

"Really?" said Sir Alec, so dry. "How comforting."

He swallowed. "Sir... what about Witches Inc? What is the Department going to do? And Monk? What are you going to do about him?"

"What we must, Mister Dunwoody," said Sir Alec. Once again the air was full of icicles. "Which is all I'm prepared to say on the matter."

Have I ruined them? Has knowing me destroyed their lives? "Sir Alec-"

"That's enough," said Sir Alec sharply. "The subject is closed, do I make myself clear?"

Miserable, he nodded. "Yes, Sir Alec." He cleared his throat. "But-what about Errol? Since he's been cleared of treason, what-"

"Nor is Mister Haythwaite any of your concern," said Sir Alec, still frosty. "He has already been dealt with."

Dealt with? Dealt with? What the h.e.l.l did that mean? But one look at Sir Alec's face told him he wasn't going to get an answer to that question, so he didn't bother asking it aloud.