bird to scream about.”
Uncomfortably aware that time wasn’t on their side, Melissande took a cab almost the whole way to the old Wycliffe estate on the outskirts of West Ott, where the family company did its business. After paying the driver, hiding her wince behind a polite smile, she half-walked, half-jogged along the quiet road, through the open gates with their enormous “W”s and decorative ironwork airships, under the not-quite-life-sized tethered model airship and up the long tree-lined driveway towards the administration office.
According to her watch it was a few minutes after half-past six. The early autumn air had a nip to it, and the birds were yet to finish their rousing dawn chorus. Somewhere over to the left, behind a carefully cultivated swathe of greenery, Permelia was hopefully still abed in the family mansion. Ambrose, too. Unlike Monk, he’d been able to persuade his unwed sister to run his household for him.
Holding her breath, praying this wasn’t the one morning that Permelia or Ambrose decided to greet the dawn in person, or that one of Ambrose’s wizards hadn’t succumbed to a fit of dedication-or worse, that officious Miss Petterly wasn’t doing some investigating of her own-she crept to the administration office’s front door, fished Bibbie’s highly suspect confounder out of the carpetbag and squirted some hex over the front door’s lock. There was a subdued hum, a discreet flash of green light, and the handle turned without resistance.
“Oh, Bibbie,” she whispered. “Promise you’ll only ever use your powers for good!”
Biting her lip with nerves, she let herself in to the ground-floor reception area. It was hushed and empty, thank Saint Snodgrass. Miss Fisher, the receptionist, never arrived before eight. Climbing the stairs up to the office as quickly and quietly as she could, uncomfortably aware of her heart thudding against her ribs, she clutched the carpetbag in one hand, the confounder in the other and begged the muse of good luck not to desert her.
The door into the administration office was also locked. Melissande pressed her ear against it but couldn’t hear a sound. Bibbie’s confounder took care of that minor impediment and she found herself alone in the grey, cubicle-crammed dimness.
Oh, lord. Where to start, where to start…
Permelia’s office seemed the logical place. Closing the door behind her, she put down the carpetbag then made her way through the gloom to the curtained window behind Permelia’s desk. After letting in the morning light, she unlocked Permelia’s private supply cupboard, put on the gloves she’d stuffed into the carpetbag and quickly hexed everything she could think of that the office thief might decide to pinch.
That done, she took a moment to inspect the crowded wall of framed photographs. Permelia starred in each one, the collection seeming to span at least three decades. There was Permelia at around Bibbie’s age, standing beside a younger and slightly less flinty Orville Wycliffe than the one in the portrait. Behind them hovered an enormous tethered airship-the Ambrose. There didn’t seem to be a corresponding photo of an airship called the Permelia. Sad, but perhaps not entirely unexpected. After all, Permelia was only a gel.
Other Permelias, gradually aging, proudly posed with various cakes and pies, each one adorned with either a ribbon or a cup or, in sixteen repetitive cases, a Golden Whisk. The award’s design hadn’t changed a whit over the years. Many of the photographs showed Permelia with an assortment of apparently important and exotically- attired women from around the world: given the cake-themed badges pinned to their breasts it seemed reasonable to assume they were international sister-Guild members.
And lastly there was a very recent photo indeed: Permelia clutching her most controversial and hard-won seventeenth Golden Whisk.
“Blimey,” she muttered. “That didn’t take you long, Permelia.”
Although really, could she blame the woman for surrounding herself with the trappings of her success? At least in the Baking and Pastry Guild Permelia was someone of influence and importance. In the Guild she wasn’t treated like a housekeeper. In the Guild she wasn’t a gel. Or if she was, at least she was the head gel.
I suppose it makes up for not having an airship named after you. Or being banned from setting foot in your own research laboratory.
Again, she was aware of that inconvenient tug of sympathy-but she thrust it aside, quickly, because time was marching on and she still had an entire office to hex.
First she took care of the contents of Miss Petterly’s jealously guarded office supply cupboard. Then she hexed everything locked in the staff tea room’s cupboard: packets of plain biscuits and sugar and all the teacups, just in case. After that she hexed the portable items on each cubicle’s grim, impersonal desk: typewriter, abacus, pens and pencils, rulers.
Bibbie was right about going to Monk for help, drat her. Without his friend in the Births, Deaths and Marriages Bureau we’d never learn a thing about these girls. Honestly, would one little picture bring productivity screaming to a halt?
Last of all she hexed the windows and the door. Then, task finally accomplished, she bolted back downstairs and out to the employee garden.
“Well?” said Reg from her camouflaged position in the bushiest fig tree. “Any trouble?”
“Of course not,” she said, shoving the carpetbag and her plain, work purse under a handy low-growing shrub. “Why would there be?”
Reg snorted. “Why does flypaper attract flies, ducky?”
Charming. “Everything’s fine,” she said. “Now all we have to do is wait.”
“You can wait if you like,” said Reg. “Me, I’m going back to sleep.”
Yes, well, it was all right for Reg. “Fine,” she said, feeling grumpy. “And I’m going for a walk.”
As she left the garden she saw a posh silver car glide down the driveway towards the hallowed Research and Development complex, which was strategically distant from the administration building in case of unfortunate thaumaturgical accidents. As it passed she caught a glimpse of the driver: none other than that handsome plonker Errol Haythwaite.
She looked at her watch, pinned tidily to her ghastly black blouse. Just gone half-past seven. Goodness, Errol started work early, didn’t he? All the better to hide his treachery, perhaps? Curiosity piqued, she started down the long, hedge-trimmed driveway towards the sprawling R amp;D building.
Errol’s flash car was the only vehicle in the staff car park adjacent to the main R amp;D laboratory. Squished against the hedge, peering through a straggly patch, Melissande watched him unfold himself from its sleek interior, retrieve an expensive-looking briefcase and even more expensive-looking staff from the passenger seat, secure the car and make his way to the laboratory. A touch of the staff to a brass plate beside the doors unlocked them, and he went in.
“Rats,” she said, under her breath. “If only I could follow him inside. Saint Snodgrass knows what he’s getting up to in there.”
On impulse she scuttled across the almost empty car park and over to the imposing laboratory complex. There were no windows along the front, but perhaps along the back? Hardly daring to breathe, she crept around the corner of the building and peered along its rear length. She was in luck. There was indeed a scattering of windows. None of them was open but not all were screened by curtains. And one of them, it turned out, belonged to Errol Haythwaite’s office.
Nose pressed against the narrow width of uncurtained glass, quaking in fear that he’d look up and see her, Melissande held her breath again and spied on Gerald’s nemesis and number one suspect.
Tall, lean and indisputably dazzling, Errol stood in front of a large drawing-desk, a series of blueprints spread out before him. Even though he was facing the window, he didn’t notice he was being stared at, so intently was he focused upon his work. He’d taken off his expensive suit-coat and hung it on the back of his closed office door. His white shirt shone with a definite silkish shimmer, and his tiepin looked like solid gold. Definitely he wasn’t short of dosh.
Melissande glared. Come on, you rich plonker, do something incriminating. You’re owed such a smacking for the way you spoke to Gerald.
Errol, unobliging, picked up a wax pen and began to scribble all over his blueprints. Every so often he paused and stood back to consider his handiwork. Sometimes he smiled, which made him even more handsome.
On the desk behind him, his crystal ball pulsed red. Irritated, Errol turned and glared at it. Almost ignored it… and then changed his mind. Tossing down the wax pen he answered his incoming call.
“Rats,” said Melissande. She could see his lips move, but she couldn’t hear a thing. “I wonder if Bibbie’s invented an eavesdropping-hex too…”
