Part 41 (1/2)
”Miss Carstairs! Miss Carstairs!” Miss Petterly screamed.
”Not Carstairs! Cadwallader!” Melissande shouted back, then looked around the office. ”Of Witches Inc., Ottosland's premier witching loc.u.m agency. No task too small, discretion guaranteed. And if I were you, gels, I'd start looking for different employment! Wycliffe's is about to go down in flames!”
Leaving a hubbub behind her she ran down the stairs and out to reception, where Bibbie-who'd insisted on coming to Wycliffe's with her in the dubious guise of a young gel looking for work-was failing spectacularly to look plain and rustic and eminently employable.
”What's going on?” she said, leaping to her feet.
Ignoring shocked Miss Fisher, Melissande grabbed her by one blue muslin sleeve and tugged her towards the door. ”I don't know, exactly, but it sounds like Gerald's in trouble. Come on, we've got to get to him, quickly, before this whole case goes kablooey in our faces.”
They hustled out of the administration building and onto the path leading to the Research and Development block. Reg immediately launched herself into the air and flapped ahead.
The main door to the laboratory complex stood uncharacteristically open. Inside, Ambrose Wycliffe was shouting. As Reg glided into the building, staying high to avoid detection, Melissande grabbed Bibbie's arm again then pressed a finger to her lips.
”Not a sound, all right?” she breathed. ”Tiptoe and hold your breath! With any luck they won't notice us. Especially if Ambrose keeps on bellowing like that.”
Bibbie nodded vigorously, and they crept their way into the Wycliffe Airs.h.i.+p Company's raging thaumic heart.
All of Ambrose's wizards were gathered in a nervous, ragged circle, as though they had a wild animal trapped and weren't precisely sure what to do with it. Gerald, very tense, was staring at Ambrose Wycliffe, who stood inside the ragged circle with him. And Ambrose Wycliffe, scarlet-faced and practically frothing at the mouth, very nearly demented with fury, looked in danger of having a stroke. Permelia hovered behind her brother, her panicked gaze darting from Ambrose to Gerald and back again.
”-since you got here, Dunwoody!” Ambrose's meaty hands were clenched to fists. He looked like he wanted to pummel Gerald to a b.l.o.o.d.y pulp. ”At first I thought it was just Truscott's, slipping up, but do you know what I think now, sir? I think you're an imposter. I think you're a spy! I think you've been sent here to destroy my company!”
”Ah-no, Mister Wycliffe, that's not true,” said Gerald, as an ugly murmuring ran through the circle of wizards. ”I was sent here by Truscott's, remember? You were short a Third Grade wizard, I'm a Third Grade wizard, so they-”
”Poppyc.o.c.k!” shouted Ambrose. ”You're a spy, I know it. Who sent you? Was it Boswell? Is Boswell trying to resurrect his business again? Well, you can tell him from me he's an idiot! Wycliffe's buried Boswell once and we'll bury him again. We'll dance on his inferior company's grave a second time. A third time! As many times as it takes, I can promise you that!”
Gerald raised placating hands. Melissande couldn't tell if he'd noticed her and Bibbie, still as mice inside the laboratory complex door, or Reg, perched high above the spectacle on one of the light-fittings... but if he had, he gave absolutely no sign of it.
Oh, Saint Snodgra.s.s preserve us. Please don't let this go kablooey.
”Mister Wycliffe,” he said, his voice so meek and subservient, sounding nothing like the man who'd defeated a dragon, ”I'm terribly sorry, but I think there's been a dreadful mistake.”
Ambrose took a threatening step forward. ”My oath there's been a mistake! You set foot in my lab, Dunwoody, that was a mistake. Your first mistake. And then you started sabotaging my airs.h.i.+ps. Well, Mister Incompetent Third Grade wizard, we don't take too kindly to sabotage around here. Especially sabotage that lands our head designer in hospital and puts our brand-new flags.h.i.+p Ambrose Mark VI prototype on the sc.r.a.p heap-twice.”
More ugly murmuring. The staring wizards tightened their ranks.
”b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l,” muttered Bibbie. ”This is getting ugly. Any second now there's going to be real trouble.”
Alarmed, Melissande stared at her. ”Why? What's happening?”
”Can't you feel it?” said Bibbie. ”They're stirring up the ether.”
She sighed. ”Bibbie-”
”Oh. Sorry.” Bibbie pulled a face. ”Mel, this lot aren't the best bunch of wizards I've ever come across but they've got more than enough juice to do Gerald a mischief. They're getting angry, and he's thaumaturgically outnumbered.”
”Yes, but they can't hurt him, Bibbie. He's-he's Gerald.”
”Not here, he isn't,” Bibbie muttered. ”He's n.o.body here, remember? And he can't afford to show his true colours either. This was supposed to be a watching brief, remember?”
Oh. So it was. Which meant what... that he'd just stand there and let a bunch of wizards led by a portal saboteur-and Ambrose has the hide to complain about industrial sabotage?-rough him up?
Well, that's wrong. And silly. I'm certainly not going to stand here and watch these noddies hurt the man who saved my kingdom.
She looked up to see Reg wildly waving one wing. It wasn't hard to translate the body language: Don't just stand there, ducky! Do something!
Gerald, still with his hands lifted, was warily eyeing his erstwhile colleagues. Turning back to Ambrose he cleared his throat. ”Um-please, Mister Wycliffe, you really must believe me. I'm not a spy. Not for Boswell's, or anyone else. This is a rather unfortunate misunderstanding, that's all. And I'm sure it could be cleared up very easily if we could go somewhere quiet to discuss things. Say, into your office? Just you and me? Employer to employee? I think we have a lot to talk about.”
”No,” said Permelia Wycliffe, stepping forward. Hectic spots of colour burned in her pale, sunken cheeks. ”Ambrose, don't listen to him. I'm sorry, I was wrong and you were right. He's a menace. Some kind of-of imposter. A danger to everything you and I have been working towards. If you listen to him, Ambrose, Wycliffe's will be destroyed.”
Melissande swallowed a curse. ”d.a.m.n. I don't know how, but she's onto Gerald.”
”What?” said Bibbie, startled. ”How can she be? And how can you tell?”
”I don't know, but look at her face. She knows Gerald knows there's something going on. And he knows she knows he knows. Look at his face.”
”Oh,” whispered Bibbie. ”Rats, Mel. I think you're right. What are we going to do? We can't let Gerald's true ident.i.ty be revealed and we can't let the Wycliffes get away with their crimes!”
”You can say that again,” she said grimly. ”All right. Here goes nothing. Bibbie, stay back. Consider yourself my last resort.”
And before Bibbie could stop her, she leapt into the fray. ”Excuse me! Excuse me, can I have everyone's attention? Excuse me, excuse me. Sir, if you don't mind, get out of my way.”
Startled, Wycliffe's wizards parted to let her through into the centre of their circle. Acutely aware of Gerald's consternation, and Bibbie's, of Reg still semaphoring wildly above her head, of all the wizards staring as though she were some kind of never-before-seen exotic creature, she halted before Ambrose Wycliffe and planted her hands on her hips.
”You're making a very big mistake, Mister Wycliffe. Things are already looking shaky for you. I strongly suggest you go no further in accusing an innocent man.”
As Ambrose Wycliffe gobbled at her, incoherent, Permelia Wycliffe recovered her wits.
”Miss Cadwallader! I don't know what you think you're doing but I thought I made myself perfectly clear: your sojourn at Wycliffe's is ended. You have failed to discharge the task with which you were a.s.signed and your dubious services are no longer required!”
She pinned Permelia with a haughty glare. ”It's true I failed to find your biscuit thief, Permelia. But that's not the same as saying I failed to uncover a crime. In fact I uncovered several crimes in your company, and none of them had anything to do with this dolt.”
”What?” said Gerald. His voice and expression were outraged, but the tiniest gleam of appreciation lurked deep in his good eye. ”I'm not a dolt, Miss. And I'm sorry, but who are you? I thought you said your name was Carstars.”
Acutely aware of the other Wycliffe wizards, who were goggling in rapt, attentive silence, Melissande turned on him. ”Are you deaf as well as incompetent, sir? I am Miss Cadwallader. And you are a dolt. Errol Haythwaite has signed an affidavit to that very effect. Errol Haythwaite has lodged a formal complaint against you with the Department of Thaumaturgy, citing gross incompetence and-and-a stultifying lack of any thaumaturgical talent whatsoever. He wants your certification revoked. So I advise you to be quiet. You're in enough trouble as it is.”
And that should be sufficient to reduce Gerald to insignificance. Now for the Wycliffes. Gosh, I hope that mysterious Sir Alec's sending us loads of help...
As the watching wizards muttered and swallowed derisive laughter and poked each other with their elbows, Ambrose gaped at his disconcerted sister. ”This is one of your gels, Permelia. Isn't this one of your gels? She looks like one of your gels. She's dressed like an undertaker so she must be one of your gels. What is one your gels doing in my laboratory? You know they're not supposed to set foot over my threshold!”
”Miss Cadwallader is not one of my gels, Ambrose!” Permelia retorted. ”She, like your Third Grade wizard there, was a mistake. One I shall make her pay for, I promise. Now I suggest we throw both of them off the premises and-”
”Not so fast, Permelia,” said Melissande. ”I haven't finished with you.” She flicked a glance at Gerald, who tightened his lips at her and twitched one finger, ever so slightly.
What does that mean? Does that mean stop? Or does it mean keeping going, stall them, help is definitely on the way?
Taking a deep, shaky breath, she chose Door B.