“Blood magic? Mister Dunwoody, are you sure?”
“I threw up four times following the blood trail Bestwick left behind him,” said Gerald. “And I’ve still got a splitting headache. So, yes. I’m pretty sure.”
“ I take it you’ve no idea of Bestwick’s current location?”
“No, sir. The trail went cold a mile or so from Voblinz Lane. Either he managed to stop the bleeding or he found transport out of the area.”
“Or his attackers caught up with him. Or — ”
“Yes,” Gerald said heavily. “Or he died, and his body’s either not been discovered or it’s lying unclaimed in the Grande Splotze morgue. But if he is still alive, sir, then he could be anywhere by now. I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault,” said Sir Alec. “By the time I — ”
The rest of his reply was lost in a sparkly etheretic snowstorm. When it cleared a few moments later, Sir Alec’s voice was uncharacteristically alarmed.
“- hear me, Mister Dunwoody?”
“Yes, sir, you’re back,” said Gerald. “But I don’t know for how long.”
“ When do you leave on the wedding tour?”
“The day after tomorrow. I’ll keep looking for Bestwick between now and then.”
“Without raising suspicions?” said Sir Alec, skeptical. “Algernon Rowbotham has no good reason to be poking about the Grande Splotze morgue.”
“I have to do something. I can’t just-”
“Yes, you can, Mister Dunwoody. Right now we’re playing a waiting game. Overplay your hand and this will end in tears.”
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Gerald came to terms with harsh reality. “Yes, sir. Sir, blood magic hexery isn’t what you’d call common-or legal. Have you got someone who can start nosing out any wizards capable of supplying it?”
In the crystal ball, Sir Alec’s face broke apart, then reformed. “I’ll task Mister Dalby. It’s not like he has anything better to do.”
His weary scorn was hurtful to hear.
“Ask Monk,” Gerald suggested. “He’s a dab hand at solving thaumaturgical puzzles.”
“I’ll see,” said Sir Alec, unenthusiastic. “At the moment Mister Markham is — ”
Another burst of etheretic static. It took longer to clear this time.
“Sir, this connection’s about to clap out for good,” Gerald said quickly, then tugged a small square of bloodstained carpet from his inside coat pocket. “I’ve got a sample of the hex. I’ll send it to Uncle Frederick tomorrow.”
“Good,” said Sir Alec. “And in the meantime, keep me informed of-”
“Uncle Frederick?” said Bibbie, once they’d given up hoping the connection to Sir Alec would re-establish. “That’s a secret Department address, I suppose?”
Nodding, Gerald shoved his ghastly souvenir back inside his patchily stained tweed coat. “Yes. I don’t want a portal record of anything going directly to Nettleworth.”
“No,” said Bibbie. Then she shivered. “Blood magic. Gerald, whoever’s behind this… they really mean trouble, don’t they?”
He gave her a look. “Did you think the threat would turn out to be a prank?”
“I hoped it might. Because now it means other people really could get hurt.”
“People like you and Melissande,” he said, frowning. “Hell. I wish you hadn’t come.”
As Bibbie took a breath, ready to argue, Melissande put a warning hand on her arm. “But we did, Gerald, so that’s that. Look-” She cleared her throat. “Are you all right? I don’t mean to fuss, but you’ve gone rather green about the gills.”
Gerald dragged a hand over his disordered hair. “I’m fine. Tracking Bestwick took it out of me, that’s all. That blood magic, it’s filthy. Five minutes to catch my breath and I’ll be right as rain.”
Frowning at him, she wasn’t so sure of that, but this wasn’t the time to argue. “Yes, well, I’m afraid five minutes is all you’ve got. So you’d best hurry back to your own room. It’s almost time to go downstairs, and you can’t escort Bibbie to the Servant’s Ball looking like a goat-herder.”
With a tired smile, Gerald clicked his heels. “Yes, Your Highness. Your wish is my command.”
“I don’t like this, Mel,” said Bibbie, as the door closed behind him. “He’s not telling us everything. I can feel it.”
“Probably he isn’t,” she agreed, “but whatever you do, Bibbie, you mustn’t nag. Right now Gerald’s not our friend, he’s Sir Alec’s secret agent, and he can’t afford to be distracted.”
Distressed, Bibbie was shaking her head. “But-”
“No, Bibbie. No buts,” she said, in her best royal highness voice. “Now come along. It’s time to get dressed.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The house on Chatterly Crescent felt horribly empty without Bibbie, Melissande and Gerald for company. To Monk, it didn’t matter that Melissande didn’t actually live there. The point was, she’d long since fallen into the pleasant habit of dropping by three or four times a week, so it felt like she lived there, and now there was a great big Melissande-shaped hole beneath the old mansion’s roof.
“Blimey,” said Reg, perched on the back of a kitchen chair. “It’s a bit bloody quiet around here, isn’t it?”
Half-heartedly smiling, he looked up from the range, where he was trying not to fry eggs and bacon into lumps of greasy charcoal.
“You’re reading my mind, Reg.”
The bird rattled her tail feathers, then balanced on one foot so she could scratch the side of her head. “And there was me thinking I could do without all the domestic drama.” She sniffed. “Fancy being wrong at my time of life. It’s enough to bring on a case of the dropsicals.”
“I didn’t think birds could contract the dropsicals.”
“Ha! Rumours of my aviosity have been greatly exaggerated.” A moment’s brooding silence, then Reg shuffled a bit. “That manky Sir Alec of yours. He’ll tell us if Splotze goes pear-shaped, will he?”
Wonderful. Trust Reg to stick her beak right into his imagination’s sore spot. Moodily, Monk poked at his crisping bacon. “Of course.”
“Because I wouldn’t put it past that bugger to keep his trap shut. His kind swallow secrets the way toddlers guzzle gumdrops.”
“You’re wrong, Reg,” he insisted, then prodded his frying eggs so hard he breached their wobbling yellow yolks. Damn. “But he won’t have to. Splotze won’t go pear-shaped. Not with Gerald on the job. And the girls.”
“’Course not,” said Reg, being valiant. “I don’t doubt it for a moment.”
Except she did, and so did he. Feeling cross and put upon, he fetched a plate and tipped his messy bacon and eggs onto it. Then he fetched Reg’s minced beef from the larder ice box and placed both suppers on the comfortably scarred kitchen table, which was supposed to have three more places set at it-and didn’t.
“Brandy?” said Reg hopefully, hopping down from the chair.
Monk thought about it, tempted, then shook his head. “Not with bacon and eggs. Or raw mince, for that matter. Besides…” He slid into his own chair and picked up his knife and fork. “Between you and me and the wine cellar, I think we’ve all of us been imbibing a bit too freely of late.”
“Ha!” said Reg, with an indignant ruffling of feathers. “Speak for yourself!”
“Look, Reg,” he said, sighing. “I know you’re feeling frazzled. I am, too. But brandy won’t help. We just need to be patient.”
“If I’m frazzled,” Reg said, glaring at her minced beef, “you can blame that manky Sir Alec. He should’ve let me go with them.”
With an effort Melissande would’ve admired, Monk restrained himself from throwing the salt cellar at the damned bird.
