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 Airship 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 bloody 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—”
“Poppycock!” 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 Snodgrass 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 airships. 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 flagship Ambrose Mark VI prototype on the scrap heap—
twice
.”
More ugly murmuring. The staring wizards tightened their ranks.
“Bloody hell,” 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 nobody 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. “Damn. 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 identity 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 assigned 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.
I
beg
your pardon?” Permelia gasped. “How
dare
you take that tone with me?”
Melissande bared her teeth in a fierce smile. “I’ll be the pot if you’ll be the kettle, Permelia. How dare
you
steal Errol Haythwaite’s airship designs and sell them to a foreign power?”
The spectating circle of wizards gasped. Ambrose Wycliffe made a choked, strangled sound. Permelia stepped back a pace, her face drained dead white, her eyes glittering with terror.
“You’re mad, you silly woman. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh come on, ducky,” she retorted, scathing. “Give up the act. It’s not like you’re fooling anyone, you know.”
“Permelia,” croaked Ambrose Wycliffe. His florid face had paled to pink, and his extravagant ginger whiskers trembled. “Permelia, what is this gel talking about?”
“Oh, do
listen
for once in your life, Ambrose!” snapped Permelia. “I have no idea. The woman is deranged. Call the police. I want to see her thrown in prison.”
Melissande turned on him. “Yes, that’s a good idea, Ambrose. Call the police. I’m sure they’ll be very interested to hear all about your sister’s treason.”
“You—you
hussy
!” Permelia hissed. “Just you hold your meddlesome tongue. Nobody’s interested in what you have to say.”
“I am,” said Ambrose, some of the florid colour flooding back to his face. “I’m
very
interested. How do you know she’s been stealing Errol’s designs? What do you have to do with any of this? Who sent you here, Miss—Miss—
gel
?”
Gel?
Again
? Melissande gritted her teeth.
I wonder what the legal fine print says about justifiable grievous bodily harm? “
Who sent me here, Ambrose? If you really want to know, Errol Haythwaite sent me. In—in a strange, serendipitous coincidence, just as your sister hired me to unmask her office thief, Errol Haythwaite approached my agency to—to—help him discover who was stealing his work. He knew it had to be somebody at Wycliffe’s, for only somebody at Wycliffe’s had access to his office. And so I began my clandestine investigation and it led me down many a torturous path… right to your sister’s door, Ambrose. She’s been stealing my client’s airship designs for months and passing them along to—to—” Out of the corner of her eye she caught Gerald’s tiny shake of his head. Oh. So no spilling the beans on who the foreign power was. “To someone I am not at liberty to reveal,” she finished grandly.
“It’s a
lie
!” cried Permelia. “Not a
word
of it is true. I haven’t stolen anything. Go to Mister Haythwaite’s office, check through his designs. See if any are missing! I have no doubt every last one of them is there!”
Melissande flicked Gerald another glance. He rubbed his nose, disguising a nod.
Bugger. So if Permelia had stolen the designs—but they were still in Errol’s office—
“Ah—yes—” she said. “Well. I can explain that.”
“Then explain it,” said Ambrose, his voice a dangerous growl. “Or I
will
have you and this buffoon thrown off the premises! And then thrown into prison for good measure!”
Oh. Dear. Bugger. Um…
“
She can’t explain it!” cried Permelia, triumphant. “Her outrageous claim is a tissue of lies from beginning to end, a deliberate attempt to smear me because she couldn’t succeed in finding one tawdry biscuit thief! She can’t explain it, I tell you, and so—”
“Maybe Miss Cadwallader can’t,” said Bibbie, strolling into the centre of the circle. She was holding a large, rolled-up sheet of paper. “But
I
can, Miss Wycliffe. Or should I say,
Permelia
?”
Melissande stared, horrified.
Bibbie, what are you doing?
She looked at Gerald, who raised an eyebrow, the closest he dared come to a shrug.