Melissande managed not to squirm. “Oh dear. I am so very sorry, Miss Wycliffe. Still. Biscuits. It could be worse, couldn’t it? I mean, all your Golden Whisks are still here.”
“It’s not the biscuits, it’s the principle!” snapped Permelia Wycliffe. “We continue to succour a thief in our midst! And you seem to have taken steps to apprehend this—this criminal only this morning!”
“Yes, well, as I explained, Miss Wycliffe, the hexes we’ve employed to identify your miscreant are extremely complicated and delicate. Moreover they are unique. My colleague Miss Markham has invented them specifically for your use. Hours and hours of work have gone into them. I assure you they will do the trick.”
Mention of Bibbie softened the severe pinching of Permelia Wycliffe’s lips. “Yes. Well,” she said, fractionally mollified. “No less could be expected of Antigone Markham’s great-niece. Nevertheless, Miss Cadwallader, I must insist that you—”
The telephone on Permelia Wycliffe’s desk buzzed, one long blurt of noise indicating an internal communication.
As Permelia Wycliffe answered the summons—it was her horrible brother, Ambrose—Melissande rested her gaze on that crowded wall of boastful photographs. Honestly, the more she thought about it the crazier it seemed. How was it possible that so many women around the world, important women—or at least women who were married to important men—could get so excited about baking cakes? Surely there was a better way of solving world hunger…
She realised then that Permelia Wycliffe had stopped talking. Had hung up the telephone. Was sitting behind her desk like a woman carved from meringue, sugar-white of face with a hectic dot of strawberry jam on each sunken cheek.
“Miss Wycliffe?” she said, alarmed. “Miss Wycliffe, are you all right?”
Permelia Wycliffe was breathing with such harsh restraint she seemed in danger of bursting a blood vessel. “There has been,” she said, though her jaw was clenched to breaking point, “another portal incident, Miss Cadwallader. It is
very
distressing.”
Melissande felt herself go cold. “Oh. Oh, no. Oh, that’s awful. Has anyone been—”
“You must excuse me, Miss Cadwallader,” said Permelia Wycliffe stiffly. “My brother will be joining me shortly. A confidential business meeting.”
“Of course, Miss Wycliffe,” said Melissande, standing. “I’ll just—I’ll leave you to—I’ll go now. Thank you.”
As she reached the office door, Permelia Wycliffe said, “Miss Cadwallader?”
She turned, desperately hoping her face wasn’t betraying how close she was to tears. “Yes, Miss Wycliffe?”
“You must appreciate, given the current business climate, that the Wycliffe Airship Company cannot be expected to pay for your services indefinitely. Particularly when you seem unable to reach a satisfactory conclusion to your investigation. I believe the amount of your retainer covers one more day? Then you have one more day, Miss Cadwallader, to unmask the thief. After that your services shall no longer be required.”
“Oh,” she said faintly. “I see. Yes. Well. I’m sure Witches Inc. will do its utmost to provide satisfaction, Miss Wycliffe.”
“I certainly hope so,” said Permelia Wycliffe. “Because people do talk, Miss Cadwallader. It would be unfortunate if they were talking about you for all the wrong reasons.”
“Yes, Miss Wycliffe,” she said, and made her escape past horrible Miss Petterly, who looked at her with deep disfavour as she returned to her horrible little grey cubicle. Safely hidden she sat for a moment, willing the tears and nausea to subside, then mechanically reached for the next purchase order requiring her attention.
Another portal accident? So was last night a premonition? And was I wrong to let Gerald and Reg talk me into staying silent? Oh, Saint Snodgrass, if anyone has perished…
The spectre of leaving Wycliffe’s a failure paled before this latest dreadful news. Heart pounding, stomach churning, she tried to focus on the paperwork…
But all she could see were her dead and dying people sprawled on the palace forecourt, struck down by Lional, innocent in death…
Like fingernails down a classroom blackboard, Miss Petterly’s horrible handbell rang out. Melissande held her breath, knowing every gel in the office was doing the same.
“Miss Carstairs.
Miss Carstairs
. To me, if you please!”
Well…
bugger
. Biting her lip, she went to face Miss Petterly.
“What is the meaning of this, Miss Carstairs?” demanded Miss Petterly, brandishing a sheaf of paperwork. “You have been
altering
the customers’
purchase orders
!”
What? Oh, yes. Tantivy Tourist Extravaganza’s order, from first thing that morning. “I’m sorry, Miss Petterly. I was just trying to help. They seem to have confused themselves and ordered the Gyrating Pandoscopic Side-mirror when what they really needed was the—”
Miss Petterly leapt to her feet. “
Miss Carstairs
. No gel under
my
supervision presumes to tell a
customer
he is
confused
! Are you
trying
to cost this company
business
?”
“Well, no, Miss Petterly, I was trying to—”
“Don’t you talk back to me, young lady! No gel under
my
supervision shall—”
At the other end of the office, somebody’s silver handbell tinkled.
“Wait here,” said Miss Petterly coldly. “This conversation is
not
concluded.”
Miss Petterly stalked off to make someone else’s life miserable. Melissande pulled a face at her retreating back, then took the blue hex-detector from her black skirt pocket and surreptitiously waved it over the horrible woman’s desk. Sadly there was no reaction.
Bugger. How wonderful it would be if Miss Petterly was the thief
.
In Permelia Wycliffe’s office, behind Miss Petterly’s guard-dog desk, Permelia Wycliffe and her useless brother Ambrose were deep in private consultation. Although the door was closed and the curtains before the internal window were almost completely drawn, she caught a snatch of raised voices.
“—
I
would take care of it, Ambrose! You must be
mad
to… such a foolish decision… quite
despair
! If Father were alive, he’d… clearly up to
me
to save the company. So this is what you’re…”
She didn’t catch the end of the sentence.
Trying to be nonchalant, trying not to attract unwelcome attention, Melissande inched her way around Miss Petterly’s desk, to see if she could overhear anything else.
“… not the success we’d hoped for, but…
my
fault I had to buy inferior equipment. There
is
a market for… need better quality wizards, Permelia… purse strings… had to do
something
!… You haven’t saved us… shall prevail!”
And that was brother Ambrose, sounding petulant and henpecked. Probably Permelia was complaining about the awfulness of the latest Wycliffe City Scooter. If the number of purchase orders coming in were any indication, it was a lemon to outshine any previous citrus product Wycliffe’s had managed to produce so far.
“
Miss Carstairs
! Do you
mind
?” demanded Miss Petterly, marching towards her. “No gel under
my
supervision stands on
my
side of the desk!”
Rats. She really wanted to know what Permelia and Ambrose were arguing about. “Sorry, Miss Petterly,” she murmured, leaping back to her proper place.
“Indeed,” said Miss Petterly, taking her seat. “I should think so.
Never
let me have to tell you again.
Now
, Miss Carstairs. Regarding these altered purchase orders…”
There was so much traffic snarled on the approach to the Central Ott General Post Office that Gerald had to abandon the souped-up scooter with a don’t-steal-me hex on it, and walk the last half a mile. Reg rode on his shoulder, scolding without bothering, it seemed, to take any breaths at all.
“—practically turned my feathers inside out, you raving
nutter
! If this is what being a rogue wizard has done for you, Gerald, all I can say is it’s a great pity you ever learned the truth of your condition! You are officially worse than that Markham boy and I never thought the day would come when I’d say
that
with a straight face! Well? Well? Aren’t you even going to apologise?”
“Not right now,” he said, scarcely paying her attention. The Central Ott streets were clogged with gawkers and police, so much shouting and whistle-blowing and shoving and pushing and clanging alarm bells. He was being poked by elbows, prodded by parasols: if one more person trod on his feet he was going to break down and
cry
. “Reg… we’re there. Can you please fly around a bit? See what you can see? Chances are they won’t let me get much closer than this.”
“
Well
!” she spluttered. “If you aren’t the most
impossible
, the most
outrageous
, the most—”
“Thanks, Reg,” he said, and heaved her off his shoulder with one enormous shrug.
Swearing a blue streak she took to the air. Good thing there was so much noise and mayhem or somebody would have heard her, and that might have been awkward.
He put his head down and tried to forge his way through the wall of gathered onlookers, to get to the front of the crowd so he would at least have some hope of seeing what was going on.
No luck. The human wall refused to budge. Thwarted, Gerald let out a hard breath.
This is important. This is government business. I’m a government agent. If people won’t get out of my way I’ll just have to… nudge them. A bit. Not hard. Just enough.
He hadn’t switched his etheretic shield back on. Another breach of protocol, but by now who was counting? With a pang of guilt he whispered a hex beneath his breath, and heated a thin layer of air around him. Agitated the ether, making its thaumicles dance.
Without even knowing why, the crowd parted for him then closed up behind. Like a fish in water he swam to the edge of the street… and got his first look at the Central Ott Portal.
It was intact. At least, from the outside it looked intact. For a moment he was so giddy with relief he thought he might fall over. If there weren’t so many people in the crowd around him, practically propping him up, he probably would have.
Blotting sweat from his forehead with his sleeve, he stared past the imposing line of policemen who’d been posted to keep the milling spectators at a safe distance. A row of ambulances was lined up at the portal entrance, but the drivers were just lounging about, chatting. No frantic scramble to haul out the injured or—or the dead. He caught sight of a couple of Government-looking types, with bright purple badges fixed to their coat lapels. Officials from the Department of Transport, they were. Deep in solemn conversation but not looking panicked. Looking
cheerful
, if anything. So did that mean there really
weren’t
any casualties this time?
Oh please, oh please…
Off to one side of the portal entrance a huddle of regular townsfolk were in animated discussion with more men from the Department of Transport. Portal passengers, then? Witnesses to whatever had happened? He caught sight of Reg, bless her, perched on top of a street sign announcing the portal’s entrance, almost on top of them, flagrantly eavesdropping for all she was worth.
All around him the crowd was muttering and agitating and speculating. “
Heard it was just a breakdown, not like the other times… I don’t know, they tell us all these thaumaturgics are safe, Harry, but I don’t think I’m going to trust them any more… new airships, did you see that advertisement? Yes, they might be slower but they’re safer, you can’t deny they’re safer… are we quite certain no-one got hurt this time?
…
”
He nearly turned to see who’d said
that
. It was disgusting, the speaker had sounded positively
disappointed
. But his attention was caught by more movement at the portal entrance. Someone was coming out.
Lord, it was
Dalby
, the senior janitor with the inexplicable fondness for stewed tea. Gerald held his breath and stared at the cobbled street in front of him, willing the rumpled, bruised-looking agent not to see him, not to feel so much of a skerrick of his presence. He didn’t dare switch his shield back on in case Dalby felt the etheretic disturbance and came to investigate what had caused it.
He risked a glance up, just in time to see Dalby nod to one of the Department of Transport officials, get into a small, nondescript car parked a little way past the ambulances and drive off.
Gerald, lungs aching, let out an enormously relieved rush of air.
The Department of Transport officials said something to the idling ambulance drivers. They nodded and touched their caps, then returned to their emergency vehicles. One by one they drove away too. A few moments later an empty bus pulled up in the space left by the ambulances, and the people who’d been eagerly talking to the Department of Transport officials loaded onto it.
Reg bounced up and down on top of the street sign, flipping her wing towards the grand Central Ott Post Office building with its imposing colonnaded entrance and carved sandstone cherubim and gargoyles, half a block down from the portal station.