Witches Incorporated (59 page)

“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 buttons 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 associates 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 snatched 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 blustered, 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 God. 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 identity 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.

S
ir 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 assignment. 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 assignment—sort of. With a lot of unauthorised assistance. And a great deal more fuss than he’d ever anticipated.

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 damned 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 bloody hell 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 assistants 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 bloody hands off him, you harpy.’ ”

Gerald touched his fingers to the tiny pinprick 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!”