fawning over the man and his growing list of misdeeds, you could spare a little of your vaunted genius for catching him.”
Stunned to silence, the whole family gaped. One supercilious eyebrow raised, Aylesbury smiled, sardonic.
“Oh, come on, Uncle Ralph. Surely you didn’t think you could keep this nefarious wizard’s exploits under wraps forever? I might not be in the government’s employ, but I am still a Markham. And while I don’t pretend to be Monk, neither am I a cabbage.”
“Now then, Aylesbury, I don’t recall anyone ever calling you a cabbage,” said Uncle Ralph, shockingly subdued. “Your aptitude scores are nothing to wink at.”
Aylesbury sneered. “So I am right? When it comes to these odd deaths and thaumaturgical mishaps, the authorities know they’re not random? Someone is standing behind the curtain, pulling the strings?”
“Hmmph.” Uncle Ralph ran a finger round the inside around the edge of his collar. “Well. Since I know I can speak freely beneath a Markham roof… yes. But as for this damned black marketeer and his filthy hexes, while I can’t go into details, for obvious reasons, I will assure you the Department is doing all in its power to bring the man down.”
“We know you’ll catch him,” said Monk, as his parents exchanged looks and held hands under the table. Funny how they always thought nobody would notice. “Word around the Department is that Gaylord’s got his best agents on the hunt.”
“What?” Uncle Ralph’s eyes bulged alarmingly. “D’you mean to tell me, Monk, that you and the rest of Research and Development’s ramshackle collection of reprobates spend the day gossiping about highly sensitive government matters that are none of your bloody business?”
“No-no, of course we don’t,” he said, leaning away from his irate uncle. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to-that’s to say, I wasn’t- look, forget I mentioned it. My lips are sealed. I don’t know a thing.”
“Actually, Uncle Ralph,” said Bibbie, heroically rushing to the rescue, “I think it’s a bit insulting, the way you keep on referring to Ottosland’s mystery criminal as he. For all you know, your evil mastermind is a witch. I mean, when it comes to committing heinous thaumaturgical acts, you must agree that a witch is perfectly capable of being every bit as dreadful as a wizard.”
Their mother turned. “Wolfgang, darling, I don’t understand. Where did we go wrong?”
“Steady on, Mama,” said Monk, as Bibbie’s eyes widened with hurt outrage. “That’s not fair, y’know. Bibs-”
Ignoring him, their mother added, “I’ll tell you one thing, Wolfgang. Emmerabiblia’s zaniness does not come from my side of the family! She’s a Markham throwback, which means you’ll have to deal with her!”
“Thanks ever so, Mother, but I don’t feel like being dealt with,” Bibbie snapped. “I feel like going home. Monk, I’m off to warm up the jalopy. If you’re not sitting in the passenger seat by the time it’s toasty, you can walk back to Chatterly Crescent.”
And in the highest of dudgeons, she flounced out of the small dining room.
“Lord,” said Aylesbury, laughing. “I do love our family dinners. They save me from buying a ticket to the theatre.” He stood. “But even the best of entertainments must come to an end. I’ve a conference in Aframbigi tomorrow and a mountain of papers to read through before I leave. Good night, Mama.” He kissed their mother’s powdered cheek. “Good night, Father.” A perfunctory hand-shake. “Good night, Uncle Ralph.” A reserved nod of his head.
Their mother sighed. “Aylesbury dear…”
Aylesbury dear grimaced. “Monk.”
Monk waggled his fingers. “Aylesbury.”
“Really, Monk, you should try harder to get along with him,” his mother scolded, once his brother was gone. “Poor Aylesbury. He might not be a cabbage, but I’m afraid there’s no escaping the fact that next to you he is a trifle leafy.”
He shot his mother a sly look. “Perhaps he’s a throwback on the Thackeray side.”
“Really!” his mother said, then glanced at the dining room door and sighed again. “Oh dear. I suppose I should go and mend fences with your impossible sister. You know, Monk, it’s very poor of you to encourage her. I’m not at all sure it was the right thing to do, letting her live with you in Uncle Throgmorton’s house. Not after saying she could start that little witching business with that princess of yours. A great many eyebrows were raised both times, and I’m still waiting for most of them to come down.”
“Now, now, Sofilia,” said his father, taking her elbow before she could launch into a proper tirade. “You’re going to need some help, mending that fence. Give us a few minutes, Monk. And if you’ve some time in the next few days, you should drop back round. I’ve developed a new etheretic combinant meter, and I’d like your assessment.”
Monk grinned. Wolfgang Markham, world-renowned thaumaturgist, was an easy man for a son to admire… but sometimes hard to live up to.
But not now. Now being his son is the easiest thing in the world.
“Of course, sir. I’m free the night after next, if that suits.”
“Good,” said his father, and stood. “Come along, Sofilia.”
As his parents withdrew, Monk looked at Uncle Ralph. “Honestly, sir, you’ve got the wrong end of the stick. The other lads and I don’t-”
“I know,” his uncle said heavily. “You’ve faults aplenty, but idle tongue-flapping’s not one of ’em. Don’t mind me, my boy. It’s been a long day.”
It was strange, really, being related to one of the most important government men in Ottosland. There was such a sharp line they had to draw, between their encounters at the Department, and then at family gatherings like this. Even stranger was being privy to things that by rights Ralph Markham should know, but didn’t, because him finding out would lead to terrible repercussions. Not an idle tongue-flapper?
Bloody hell, sir. You don’t know the half of it.
Uncle Ralph drummed his fingers on the tablecloth. “That friend of yours. Dunwoody. Seen him today, have you?”
Monk felt a frisson of unease stir the hairs on the back of his neck. “No, actually. Ah… why?”
Instead of answering, Uncle Ralph seemed to debate with himself. Then he pulled a face. “He’s undergone a classified and slightly dangerous procedure, Monk. It means he might not be feeling quite himself, so be sure to look in on him when you get home.”
His mouth sucked cinders-dry. Bloody hell. The grimoire extraction. That was today? Why the hell didn’t Gerald tell me? “Yes, sir.”
“I can see from the look on your face you know what I’m talking about,” Uncle Ralph added, resigned. “So you know what it means. If you’re not satisfied with Dunwoody’s appearance, raise the alarm. But discreetly. Understand?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Good lad,” said Uncle Ralph.
It was one of the most startling things he’d ever uttered.
Driving home with Bibbie, too preoccupied to pay much attention to her fuming complaints about overbearing, old-fashioned mothers, too numb to feel his usual terror at her recklessly extravagant driving, Monk gnawed at his bottom lip and wished he’d not eaten that third helping of roast beef.
Why hadn’t Gerald told him about the procedure? Was his silence another symptom of their ailing friendship? Doused in misery, as Bibbie rambled on he nodded in what he hoped were all the right places, offered an encouraging grunt every now and then, and felt his belly churn more and more nervously the closer they got to home.
Leaving his sister to garage the jalopy, he had her let him out by the gate. As he reached the bottom of the steps at the end of the path, he heard a familiar rustle of feathers.
“Evening, sunshine.”
Reg. She was perched on the big flowerpot by the front door, light from the window limning her long, sharp beak and making her eyes gleam.
“Evening,” he said, stopping. “What are you doing out here?”
Her tail feathers rattled. “Enjoying a little peace and quiet.”
