Part 37 (1/2)

”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, suns.h.i.+ne, 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 airs.h.i.+p 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 airs.h.i.+ps 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 airs.h.i.+p 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.”