Monk frowned as he sloshed a generous amount of liquor into the first of two balloon glasses. “Wycliffe’s,” he murmured. “Hang on… hang on…” His eyebrows shot up, and he stared. “Errol Haythwaite’s working for Wycliffe’s. Very smartly turned down the Aframbigi post and… oh. Oh, Gerald. Tell me you’re not.”
Trust Monk to leap to the right conclusion. “Not what?”
“Tell me you’re not investigating Errol Haythwaite!”
Careful now, careful. “I’m not investigating him specifically.”
Monk poured the second brandy, brought both glasses back to the armchairs and held one out. “But…”
He took the brandy and swallowed a generous mouthful. The smooth bite of fermented apple flamed across his tongue and down his throat, and he smiled.
“That’s good stuff.”
“Yeah, well, Great-uncle Throgmorton was a cranky old sod but he kept a good cellar,” said Monk, sitting again. “ Gerald. What’s going on?”
“Look, I’m not trying to be coy, honestly,” he said, “but can we wait till the girls get here before I spill the beans?”
Monk frowned. “The girls?”
Terrific. “They didn’t warn you?”
“Warn me about what?”
“That we’d all be meeting here tonight. At nine.”
“No,” Monk sighed. “They didn’t.”
“Probably they wanted it to be a surprise.”
“Or Mel was just being regal again.” Monk grinned. “She does that, you know.”
“I had noticed,” he said. “So… you and Melissande… you’re still…”
“Yes, Gerald,” Monk said primly. “We are still-what’s the word? Courting?”
“I think so. Though when it comes to Melissande it must be like courting disaster.”
“It has its moments,” Monk admitted. “I’m busy. She’s busy. And she’s the next in line to a throne, at least until Rupert marries and has a sprog. She’s genuine working royalty, mate. That kind of complicates things.”
“Only if you let it, Monk. Unless, of course, you’re looking for an excuse.”
“An excuse?” said Monk, startled. “To do what-exit stage left? No. No. I just-I don’t know-I’m not good at this, Gerald.”
“Not good at what?”
“You know. Romance,” said Monk, harassed. “I don’t think I know what women want. What do they want?”
He swallowed laughter, along with more brandy. “How would I know? Ask Reg. She’ll tell you-at length.”
“Yeah…” Monk half-drained his glass. “So. How are you? What’s it like being a janitor? Answering to Sir Alec? Is he as tricky as everyone says?”
Instead of replying, Gerald stared into his brandy balloon. He shouldn’t answer. In fact, he should leave. He’d been told, point blank, not to make contact with his friends.
And I didn’t. I tripped over them, which is hardly my fault. The damage-if there is damage-is done, so there’s no point in me leaving. Besides, I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t find out what Melissande and Reg are up to at Wycliffe’s.
As for Monk, well, he wasn’t just anybody. He was the best friend who’d risked everything for him in New Ottosland and had come damn close to losing his career on the strength of it. Monk Markham knew the same secrets as he did. Which meant, in his book, they were practically the same person.
Which means the rules don’t apply.
Besides, he really needed someone to talk to about… stuff. And he had questions that only Monk could answer.
He looked up. “Remember in New Ottosland when you said to me, ‘ Don’t do it ’. Not unless I really wanted to? You meant the janitoring, right?”
Monk considered him warily. “Yeah. Right.”
“So what did you know that you weren’t telling me?”
“Gerald…” Monk shoved out of his armchair and returned to the drinks trolley, sloshed more apple brandy into his glass and brought the bottle back with him.
He held out his own glass. In the fireplace the flames crackled merrily, devouring wood. “Don’t mess me about, Monk. I really need to know.”
His expression derisive, Monk topped up the brandy balloon. “That was fast. I thought it’d take longer.”
“Thought what would take longer?”
“For Sir Alec to mess with your head. Seven months? That must be some kind of record. From what I hear, most agents are good for a couple of years at least.” He sat down again and plonked the bottle of brandy by his feet. “So. What happened?”
Gerald put down his drink. “In a minute. First tell me why you tried to warn me off.”
“Why d’you think?” Monk muttered, brooding into his glass. “Because I’m your friend.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Monk took a much bigger mouthful of brandy, swallowed, spluttered and made a big production out of coughing and wheezing and banging his chest. Playing for time. Trying to avoid the truth.
“ Monk…”
Monk sighed and gave up. “I had a cousin. On my mum’s side of the family. Mordecai Thackeray. He was a fair bit older than me, and he was an agent too. Not for your lot. He worked for a different Department. Same business, though. Dirty tricks. Investigations. Swimming in the political sewers. Domestic, not international. Though sometimes the two spheres… well, they crossed paths. They still do from time to time.”
Gerald nodded. He’d been fully briefed on the government’s other thaumaturgical investigative branch. Been made blisteringly aware of their not-always-cordial relationship and warned he was never to tread on their toes. Not unless it couldn’t be helped. The last thing Sir Alec wanted was junior janitors muddying already murky waters.
“And this Mordecai,” he said. “What happened to him?”
Shifting in his armchair, Monk glowered at the fire’s leaping flames. “Short answer? He died.”
Oh. “And the long answer?” Not that he was sure he wanted to hear it. Not with a look like that on Monk’s face. Monk was the most resilient, the most stubbornly uncrushable man he knew. For him to look stricken…
But if I’m going to be this-this person, this agent, then I have to know. I never want to be taken unawares again.
“ I don’t have a long answer,” said Monk eventually. “At least, not one I can swear to. I was only a nipper when we lost Mordy. Bibbie was still in nap-pies. And the folks never talk about it.” He brooded into his glass of brandy. “I think Aylesbury knows something. I think he overheard something he wasn’t meant to hear-but you know Aylesbury. If I asked he’d know it mattered, so he’d let himself be torn apart by wild dogs before telling.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Tell me again how sad it is I’m an only child.”
Monk smiled, but his amusement was brief. “The official story,” he continued, looking up after another long pause, “is that Mordy contracted Assowary Fever and didn’t run to the nearest hospital because he thought it was only a bad cold. By the time he realised he was wrong it was too late.”
“And un officially?”
“Unofficially-from what I’ve been able to glean and ferret and snoop and fossick-he was involved in a case that went spectacularly wrong. Good people died, another agent included. He blamed himself. And… he didn’t want to live any more.” Monk shrugged. “But none of that’s official. It’s just me leaping to conclusions.”
Gerald rubbed a finger over the shiny spot on the knee of his trousers. “Yeah. But you’re good at that. So, what? You think that could be me one day?” A charming thought. But Monk was wrong. He’d never do it. Not to his parents. Not to Reg.
Monk swallowed more brandy, avoiding his gaze. “Didn’t say that.”
“ Monk.”
“It’s just, you remind me of him a bit, right?” said Monk, goaded. “Like I said, I was only a nipper but I never
