She bumped Bibbie with her shoulder. “Never apologise for speaking the truth. You are a prodigy, just like Monk. Almost like Gerald. And I’m not.”
“No, you’re not. Far from it,” said Bibbie, with more honesty than tact. “But you’re a genius at being practical and organised and that’s nothing to sneeze at.”
Possibly not, but it hardly compared. Still. No point pining after the impossible. “The thing is, Bibbie,” she said firmly, “that I do wear trousers and I don’t get hauled off the street. Slowly but surely things are changing. So you’re not to lose heart, do you hear me? Married or not you will have a large life full of purpose. In fact it’s my belief you’re going to take life by the scruff of the neck and shake it into trembling submission. We both are. Starting with Witches Inc., which is going to be the most successful witching agency in the history of Ottosland. Agreed?”
Bibbie straightened out her slump. “Yes. All right. Agreed.”
The phone rang eight more times while they were dusting and rearranging and getting ready for Permelia Wycliffe’s arrival. Three of the callers were eager young men pretending to require assistance from Miss Markham. They were given short shrift. But the other five were genuine enquiries for agency help, and were duly noted in the appointment book. Bibbie managed to restrain herself from saying “I told you so,” but her eyes shone like blue stars and her lips remained curved in the faintest of smug smiles.
Melissande didn’t begrudge her. The more clients the merrier. And it’s always possible I’m making grapefruits out of lemons. Bibbie’s right: I am a worrier by nature… and Lional only made things worse. Perhaps I need to start looking on the bright side first instead of last.
At precisely ten o’clock Permelia Wycliffe arrived, this time without Eudora Telford in tow. “Good morning, Emmerabiblia,” she said grandly, sweeping into the office like a duchess on a goodwill tour. Her costly mourning attire was elegantly restrained, as before, her discreet sapphire necklace quietly expensive. “Miss Cadwallader,” she added, almost as an afterthought.
So… in the absence of Miss Telford’s staunch royalism she’d been emphatically demoted. Hiding her amusement, Melissande nodded. “Miss Wycliffe,” she murmured, and indicated the freshly plumped client’s armchair. “Please, do have a seat. Might I offer you some refreshment?”
Permelia Wycliffe thawed the merest fraction. “Thank you. Yes.”
Further relegated to the role of maidservant-a good thing Reg hadn’t come back or she’d be blue-faced on the floor with suppressed laughter, feathers and all-Melissande busied herself with brewing a pot of tea and setting out some freshly bought macaroons on their only unchipped plate. While she toiled, Bibbie and Miss Wycliffe exchanged animated reminiscences about late lamented Great-aunt Antigone. Clearly, as far as Permelia Wycliffe was concerned, Melissande Cadwallader didn’t exist.
But that doesn’t matter, Melissande reminded herself. It’s her money I’m after, not her undying friendship. An unflatteringly mercenary attitude, to be sure, but hearts-and-flowers didn’t pay the rent.
Once the tea and cakes had been served and consumed it was time to get down to business. Permelia Wycliffe withdrew from her gold-embroidered reticule a sealed envelope and gave it to Bibbie. “Payment for services rendered, Emmerabiblia, as agreed. Your performance yesterday on the Guild’s behalf was most impressive. So impressive that I have no qualms at all in entrusting to you an even more serious and sacred task.”
More sacred than the honour of the Baking and Pastry Guild? This was going to be something.
“It was our pleasure to be of service, Miss Wycliffe,” said Melissande, neatly plucking the envelope from Bibbie’s grasp. “And we’re gratified that you wish to trust us again.”
Permelia Wycliffe looked down her nose. “As you should be, Miss Cadwallader.” She turned again to Bibbie. “What I’m about to divulge to you, dear Emmerabiblia, is highly sensitive information. I must ask that you not repeat it to another soul.”
Seated on her own desk chair, pulled out for the occasion, Bibbie leaned forward and daringly patted Permelia Wycliffe’s gloved hand. “You have our solemn promise, Permelia. Client confidentiality is the Witches Inc. watchword.”
Permelia Wycliffe drew in a deep breath through pinched nostrils, her fingers fiercely interlaced in her lap. “Emmerabiblia… the Wycliffe Airship Company is nursing a viper in its bosom.” Incredibly, her voice broke on the last word, and her eyes glittered with emotion. “One of my gels is-is a thief.”
As Permelia groped in her reticule for a handkerchief, Melissande slid the envelope she’d given them into her desk drawer and exchanged a raised-eyebrow look with Bibbie, who pulled a face. Don’t just sit there, say something! She wasn’t very good with emotional crises, not her own or anyone else’s.
Pulling a face back at her, Melissande cleared her throat. “I’m very sorry to hear that, Miss Wycliffe. Can I offer you another cup of tea?”
With a shuddering effort, Permelia Wycliffe banished all unseemly hints of distress. “Oh. Yes,” she said, and thrust the hanky back in her reticule. “Thank you, Miss Cadwallader. Forgive me. That was most inappropriate.”
“Um… when you say your gels, Permelia,” said Bibbie. “Who exactly do you mean?”
“My gels,” said Permelia, as though everyone should know. “The gels who work in the Wycliffe Airship Company office. My busy little worker bees, industriously toiling to keep our beautiful airships afloat. Orders. Queries. Paperwork. The throbbing lifeblood of the business.”
“Ah,” said Bibbie. “I see. Those gels.” Her dimples appeared and disappeared, swiftly. “Witches Inc. has one of those, too. We call her Miss Cadwallader.”
Melissande looked up from filling a fresh teacup with fragrant Sweet Tangtang and frowned, but Bibbie wasn’t paying attention.
“So, you’re convinced one of the Wycliffe office staff has sticky fingers,” she said. “What is it that’s being stolen, Permelia? Money?”
“Oh no,” said Permelia Wycliffe, accepting the fresh cup of tea from Melissande. “I keep no money in the office, naturally. That would be far too great a temptation.” She sipped. “The gels, you understand, aren’t from Ottosland’s first families. Some of them aren’t from the city at all. Quite rustic, many of them. It would be unkind to keep money within their reach. After all, as this current crisis demonstrates, one can make a mistake in the hiring of staff. Why, just the other day I was forced to dismiss a gel.”
Standing by Bibbie’s desk, Melissande felt her fingernails dig into her palms and had to make a conscious effort to unclench her fingers. “Really? On what grounds?” Too rustic, was she?
Permelia Wycliffe’s lips thinned with distaste. “She cut off her hair, Miss Cadwallader. A bob, I believe it’s called. So unfeminine. Despite their unfortunate social position the gels who work for Wycliffe’s are young ladies- broadly speaking. I couldn’t have such a precedent set in my office.” Her gaze dropped to Melissande’s trousered legs. “We have the highest standards and I insist they are maintained.”
“Yes, yes, Permelia,” Bibbie said hastily. “We quite understand. So if it’s not money going missing…?”
“Biscuits,” said Permelia Wycliffe. “Pencils. Pencil sharpeners. Sugar. Various and sundry other office supplies. It was Miss Petterly who brought the matter to my attention, some three weeks ago. Miss Petterly is my office supervisor. Naturally, as a Wycliffe, I am in charge of the company’s administration but I’m far too busy to be bogged down in the day-to-day supervision of our gels.”
“Oh, naturally,” said Melissande. “We quite understand.” So many cakes to bake, so little time to care for your employees or your company.
“Miss Petterly agrees with me that one of the gels is our culprit,” said Permelia Wycliffe. “She and I have done our best to uncover for ourselves the identity of this ungrateful miscreant-laid many and various cunning little traps-but alas, we have failed. Whoever is doing this has even managed to infiltrate my private office, which is where the expensive biscuits are kept. Under lock and key, I might add! Which is why I am here today making public this dreadful state of affairs.” Her lower lip quivered, just for a moment. “I hope you appreciate how difficult it is.”
Melissande nodded. “Of course. Your courage is admirable, Miss Wycliffe. So if I can just clarify the situation: you want to hire us to find a biscuit thief?”
“And why not, Melissande?” said Bibbie swiftly. “I’m sure the last thing Miss Wycliffe wants is a formal police investigation. So insensitive. So-so not private.”
“Precisely, Emmerabiblia!” said Permelia Wycliffe, her lower lip quivering again. “To think of our shame being made known to the world-I can’t bear it. It is imperative that this matter be handled with the utmost
