“I never said it was, Mister Dunwoody.”
Encouraged, he plunged on. “And I had
nothing
to do with them working for Permelia. But if you know the story already—if you’ve already bullied it out of Monk—or the girls—then you
know
it was bloody lucky they
were
there. Because if Reg hadn’t overheard Errol and Kirkby-Hackett, if she hadn’t overheard Permelia and Ambrose, if Melissande and Bibbie hadn’t followed Eudora Telford all the way to South Ott, if Melissande hadn’t been able to—to princess that foolish old lady into telling us the truth and giving us those fake gemstones and Permelia’s note to Haf Rottlezinder—well, for starters you’d
still
be looking at Errol for this and you’d be bloody well
wrong
, wouldn’t you?”
Sir Alec’s stare was unblinking. “It’s possible.”
It was more than bloody possible, but he didn’t press the point. “Well, then. As it stands the case is all wrapped up, the right people are arrested, and the day’s been saved. Again. All right, maybe I
should’ve
been the one to save it—but I wasn’t. And if that’s embarrassed you or the Department, Sir Alec, then I’m very sorry. Really. I am.”
There was a long and uncomfortable silence. Then Sir Alec nodded, the merest, miserly tip of his head. “I concede your points, Mister Dunwoody. All things considered, events have not fallen out… unpleasantly. But you had no way of knowing that, did you? When you disobeyed my instructions? When you confided in Monk Markham? When you recklessly disregarded our most basic principles and involved two inexperienced young women in this case? And as for the bird—” His lips pinched thin again. “To be frank, I don’t know
what
to say about her.”
“Yes, well, Reg often has that effect on people, sir,” he murmured. “If it’s any consolation, you get used to it… eventually.”
“Really?” said Sir Alec, so dry. “How comforting.”
He swallowed. “Sir… what about Witches Inc? What is the Department going to do? And Monk? What are you going to do about him?”
“What we must, Mister Dunwoody,” said Sir Alec. Once again the air was full of icicles. “Which is all I’m prepared to say on the matter.”
Have I ruined them? Has knowing me destroyed their lives? “
Sir Alec—”
“That’s enough,” said Sir Alec sharply. “The subject is closed, do I make myself clear?”
Miserable, he nodded. “Yes, Sir Alec.” He cleared his throat. “But—what about Errol? Since he’s been cleared of treason, what—”
“Nor is Mister Haythwaite any of your concern,” said Sir Alec, still frosty. “He has already been dealt with.”
Dealt with?
Dealt
with? What the hell did
that
mean? But one look at Sir Alec’s face told him he wasn’t going to get an answer to that question, so he didn’t bother asking it aloud.
“And
you
, Mister Dunwoody,” Sir Alec added, still ice-cold, “will under
no circumstances
make contact with him.
That
is an
absolute
directive—the ignoring of which will, I promise you, lead to a severe lack of future.”
Chilled to the marrow, Gerald nodded. “Understood, Sir Alec. But what if he and I—”
“Rest assured, Mister Dunwoody,” said Sir Alec. “Your paths are unlikely to cross again.”
And if that didn’t sound sinister, he had no idea what did.
Abruptly, Sir Alec stood. “Go home, Mister Dun-woody.”
“I’m sorry—what—” He stared. “Go home?”
“Yes,” said Sir Alec. “You are suspended, Mister Dunwoody. Pending further investigation into this case. Since you have contributed more than enough mayhem to the situation, your continued assistance will not be required.”
Feeling numb, Gerald pushed to his feet. “Suspended,” he murmured. “For how long?”
“Until I tell you otherwise, of course.” Sir Alec raised an eyebrow. “I’m sorry. Did you think because the case was solved in our favour that there would be no repercussions? How terribly naïve of you. I will tell you a third time, but not for a fourth.
Go home,
Mister Dunwoody, and wait for my call.”
Gerald nodded. “Yes, Sir Alec. Oh—my staff—”
“Is quite safe,” said Sir Alec. “I think it can remain here, for the time being.”
In other words, they didn’t trust him with it.
But it’s mine. Not theirs.
Resentment curdled through his sluggish blood. “I’m sorry, I don’t think—”
Sir Alec’s expression altered… and he changed his mind about arguing any more.
“Right,” he muttered. “Go home, Gerald.”
But at the interrogation room’s door he hesitated, and turned back.
Sir Alec’s glare was blighting. “
Yes
, Mister Dun-woody? What is it
now
?”
“I was just wondering, Sir Alec—do we know anything about the black market wizard Permelia Wycliffe went to? Has she given him up? Because that hexed hairpin she used to kill her brother… that was a very nasty incant. The mind that dreamt it up—it has to be pretty bloody twisted.”
Shadows shifted deep in Sir Alec’s guarded eyes. “The matter is under investigation.”
He nodded. “It’s a problem, isn’t it? Black market thaumaturgy. First that business with Millicent Grimwade—and now this. I didn’t realise…”
“Yes. It’s a problem,” said Sir Alec curtly. “But not
your
problem, Mister Dunwoody.”
In other words, bugger off. Get lost. You’re not wanted around here.
“No, Sir Alec,” he said, subdued, and escaped while he still could.
On his way out of the Department’s nondescript Nettleworth headquarters, he saw Dalby in an office off the ground floor corridor, banging typewriter keys as he made out his report. He hesitated in the open doorway, wanting to say something—say thank you—
—but the look Dalby gave him was so furiously unfriendly that he hurriedly retreated before the senior janitor surrendered to temptation and hexed him.
It wasn’t until he stood outside the Department’s headquarters, under a fading sky, that he realised he had no idea how he was going to get home.
And then he heard a honking car horn… and saw Monk in his jalopy, parked a little way down the grey, dreary street.
So weary he felt like he was floating, he wandered along the pavement and got into the car. “Oh, lord,” he said, looking at his friend. “Not you too?”
“Yeah,” said Monk, his grin so sharkish and anarchic. “Me too. Again.”
Bloody hell
. “I’m sorry,” he said, contrition choking his voice. “I’m so sorry, Monk. I never meant—”
“I know you didn’t,” said Monk, and fired up the jalopy. “And anyway, it’s not your fault. You didn’t twist my arm, did you? You didn’t threaten to turn me into a toad if I wouldn’t help you. I did what I did with my eyes wide open, mate.”
“Well, yes, I know,” he said unhappily. “But still, Monk, I—”
“Hey,” said Monk, and pulled into the street. “It could be worse, Gerald. At least they don’t know about my interdimensional portal opener!” And he laughed, the crazy bugger, as though he didn’t have a care in the world. “So,” he added. “The girls are back at my place. What do you say we pick up some Yok Tok take-away and have ourselves a bloody feast?”
Gerald laughed. He couldn’t help it. “Yeah. Okay. Why not?”
“Only you’re paying, right?” said Monk. “Because I’ve changed my mind. All of this
is
your bloody fault, Dunnywood!”
The knock on his closed office door came late, when all sane men were at home in bed. Of course, some would say that sanity was vastly overrated. Or at least not a requirement in his line of work. Perhaps it could even be considered a (“hindrance”).
Certainly there are days, like this one, when insanity helps.
Sighing, he put down his pen and said, “Come.”
“Alec,” said Ralph, and closed the door behind him. “Burning the midnight oil, I see.”
“While you’re out and about for a healthy constitutional?” he countered.
Ralph shrugged out of his overcoat, slung it over a low bookcase then dropped into the chair on the other side of the desk. “What else?” he enquired, his hooded eyes sardonic.
“In Nettleworth?” He pushed away from his desk, crossed to his discreet drinks cabinet and poured them each a modest finger of malt whiskey. Then, after placing one glass in Ralph’s outstretched hand, he shifted to his office’s uncurtained window and rested his shoulder against the wall. Beyond the dusty glass, the night was clear and cold and pricked with distant stars. “You must be desperate.”
“No more desperate than you,” said Ralph, eyeing his emptied glass appreciatively. “You only break out the good stuff when you’re feeling particularly pressed.”
“Control that bloody nephew of yours, Ralph, and I promise my nerves will be markedly less agitated.”
“If only I could control him, Alec,” said Ralph, with a sigh. “But alas, it’s years too late for that. I blame my brother, of course. Wolfgang has encouraged Monk’s waywardness from the moment of his birth. I tried to tell him, but he never listens to me. Thank your lucky stars you’re an only child, old boy. I promise you it makes for a far less complicated life.”
True. “And is Wolfgang also responsible for your gifted, wayward niece?”
Ralph groaned. “It’s a tragedy we’ve done away with convents, that’s all I can say. In the good old days I could’ve locked her behind high stone walls, comforted by the knowledge the world would remain safe from the gel. But instead…”
Despite his weariness, and the burdens that made his neck ache, he smiled. “Don’t be too hard on Emmerabiblia, Ralph. Or on Monk.” He returned to his chair and sat down again, bones creaking. “Without their assistance we might be having a very different conversation altogether.”
“Yes, well,” Ralph muttered. “Be that as it may… I’m still appalled that you’ve tripped over Monk
again
. And now his sister, too. You’re more forgiving than I am, Alec.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” he replied, still nursing his own drink. “I’ve just had bigger fish to fry.”
Silence. Then Ralph let out a slow, heavy sigh. “So. What are we going to do about him, Alec? I’m not ashamed to confess it: he scares me half to death.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Only half, Ralph?”
Ralph put his emptied glass on the corner of the desk. “I don’t suppose there’s a chance Dunwoody was exaggerating, is there? About how he got through Rottlezinder’s wards?”
He shook his head, smiling gently. “No. Gerald’s failings are many, but self-aggrandisement’s not one of them. And if it’s any consolation, Ralph, I think he scares himself as much—if not more—than either of us.”
Ralph drummed restless fingers on one knee. “And you think we should be satisfied with that? Trust in that to save us? Bad enough he’s a rogue, Alec. But if he should
go
rogue—if he should succumb to the power of his
potentia
…” Ralph shivered. “Are you strong enough to stop him? I know I’m not.”
“And
I
know I’m not prepared to countenance drastic measures,” he replied. “Gerald’s young, and misguided, but there’s no malice in him, Ralph. He’s not a Lional of New Ottosland, or another Haf Rottlezinder. He’s not even an Errol Haythwaite. He’s the son of an honest hardworking tailor from an obscure rural backwater, and he’s doing his best to make sense of this gift. This curse. This power he never asked for.”
Eyes narrowed, speculating, Ralph stared at him gravely. “You like him, don’t you?”
He shrugged. “That’s hardly relevant.”
“It’s relevant if you’re wrong about him, Alec,” Ralph retorted, leaning over the desk. “It’s relevant if one day he decides the rules really
don’t
apply to him and we’ve let ourselves get so attached we’re not able to do what must be done for the greater good.”
He snorted. “You mean
me
, not
we
.”
“Yes. All right. You,” said Ralph, frowning, and sat back. “He is in your Department, after all.”
He and Ralph had known each other a very long time. They shared memories and secrets and bitter regrets. A few small triumphs, to offset the many losses. Ralph Markham wasn’t a… comfortable… man.
But then neither am I.
“
That’s right, Ralph,” he said quietly. “He is in my Department. And until such time as Dunwoody’s… reassigned… I’ll be the one who decides what’s done with him. All right?”
Ralph looked aside. “Fine. Have it your way. I just hope you know what you’re doing, Alec.”
So do I, Ralph. Believe me, so do I.
But he wasn’t about to admit any doubts. Not even to this man, who in an odd way was his friend. “There’s no question Gerald exceeded his assignment mandate but I’m not entirely displeased with him, nevertheless. As first assignments go, the outcome could’ve been far less satisfactory.”
“True,” said Ralph grudgingly. “But even so, we’ve got a mess on our hands, haven’t we?”
A mess. Well, that was one way of putting it. Monk Markham. His sister. Princess Melissande. That bloody bird. And unpredictable, potentially lethal Gerald Dunwoody’s stubborn friendship with all of them. The young wizard was right about one thing: together they’d solved this difficult case. Without Witches Inc., and Ralph’s uncontrollable nephew cheering on the sidelines and playing at chauffeur, the government could well be looking at more wrecked portals… or worse.