Japhet rushed out again. Gerald, staring, didn’t even feel the beaker slip from his grasp. Hardly flinched as it smashed to splinters on the scullery’s brick floor.
Oh, damn. This is my fault. I should’ve found a way to stop it.
He stepped over the shards of glass, dreamlike, and drifted out to the complex of laboratories.
The wizards of R amp;D were huddled around the lab wireless. Even Errol was listening. But was that to learn first-hand of his success or because-like everyone else-he was horrified and wanted to know what had happened?
Was this what that crystal ball communication was about? Did Rottlezinder call Errol for permission to proceed?
He didn’t know. He had to find out.
“- and details are scarce at this time,” the news announcer was saying. “ There is no word yet of casualties. We shall update as new information comes to hand. I repeat, there has been an accident at the Central Ott General Post Office Portal. No official statement has been released by the Department of Transport, as yet, and details are scarce at this time. There is no word-”
Turning blindly away from the huddle of wizards, from the ruthlessly unemotional voice emanating from the wireless, Gerald nearly smacked face-first into Ambrose Wycliffe. The company’s hapless owner stood in the wide aisle that separated the two long rows of laboratories, his jowly, whiskered face unhealthily flushed.
“What’s that? What’s going on? Why aren’t you men going about your work? You know the rule about the wireless, gentlemen, it’s only for-”
“There’s been another portal accident,” said Gerald. Sweat was tormenting its way down his spine. “In Central Ott. Mister Wycliffe-I’m sorry-I have to go down there. My-my mother-was coming in to town today. She always uses the Central Post Office Portal. Please, sir, I really, really need to-”
“What?” said Ambrose Wycliffe, and shook himself. Paid attention. “Your mother, Dunwoody? I’m sorry to hear it. Naturally you must go. But don’t forget to punch out. You’ll need to make up the lost time.”
Of course he would.
As he made his surreptitious way out of the R amp;D block Gerald looked back at Errol, still standing closest to the wireless, still listening to the repetitive droning of the plummy-voiced announcer. If his dismay was an act, he belonged on the stage. But then traitors had to be good actors, didn’t they?
Feeling himself watched, Errol glanced up. Seeing who stared at him, his face hardened and his eyes chilled as his expression shifted from shock to sneering contempt. Then it shifted again, to a dawning suspicion…
Bugger. Before Errol could challenge him Gerald ducked out of the side door. Ranged down the length of the R amp;D block was a collection of prototype scooters and velocipedes. Rubbish, Melissande had called them. And she was right: the first three scooters he tried to start just spluttered at him, protesting. The fourth one kicked over, but chugged so pathetically he feared it would expire altogether before he could cover the distance between Wycliffe’s and the Central General Post Office.
Put-put-puttering down the driveway that led to Wycliffe’s front gates, he heard a wild flapping of wings and looked up.
“ Reg? What are you doing?” he whispered, as she landed on the back of the scooter. He was chugging past the main office building, past window after window that could at any moment contain an inconvenient witness. “Go away. Someone might see you!”
“Not likely,” said Reg, flapping herself into a more comfortable and secure position, pillion on the scooter. “Any gel caught looking out of the window is summarily dismissed, sunshine. And it’s only gels working in there.”
“Yes, all right, fine, if you say so, but-”
“I was stretching my wings and I saw you making a desperate getaway,” she said. “What’s going on, Gerald? Don’t tell me that pillock Errol Haythwaite’s put the wind up you?”
He risked a glance over his shoulder at her. Felt the most enormous wave of relief wash over him. I’m not alone. I’m not alone. “ If only,” he said, and heard his voice shake. “There’s been another portal incident, Reg.”
“Bugger,” she said. “Anybody dead this time?”
“I don’t know. I’m going down there. I have to see-maybe I can help, maybe I can-” His throat closed. “Melissande was right.”
“No, she wasn’t,” said Reg, as they bumped over the gratings set between the front gates of the Wycliffe Airship Company. Above their heads the tethered, antiquated airship bobbed in the light breeze. “You know she wasn’t. She knows she wasn’t. And even if she was this wouldn’t be your fault. You’re not a miracle worker. Incidentally, why are you wearing bright pink rubber gloves?”
He looked at his hands as though he’d never seen them before. “Oh. Yes.” With a bit of precarious manoeuvring, he managed to get the gloves off and shove them in his pocket. “I was-” The scooter’s engine gurgled, threatening imminent expiration. “Oh, this useless, hopeless, rubbish piece of-”
“Then fix it,” said Reg. “Soup it up. What’s the matter with you, Gerald? You’re not a Third Grade wizard any more, sunshine. You’re just playing one!”
Oh. Yes. So he was. He’d forgotten…
The road outside Wycliffe’s wasn’t the busiest of thoroughfares, but there were a few cars, and some carriages, and even a handful of scooters. Not Wycliffe models, that he could tell. Even so, he should be all right. The slowest carriage was still moving too quickly to tell what he was doing on his pathetic little piece of Wycliffe machinery.
He switched off his shield-incant. Took a deep breath, feeling his rogue powers stir. Thought for a moment, sorting through his repertoire of incants, chose the good old reliable Speed-em-up hex, gave it a twist, then zapped the gasping engine to within a thaumicle of its life.
The scooter roared like a ravenous tiger.
“Blimey!” said Reg, startled. “Do you know what you’re doing?”
“Hold on,” he said grimly. “We’re about to go really, really fast.”
“Gerald-now Gerald-” said Reg, warbling with unease. “You’re not that Markham boy, remember, just you think about this-just you-GeraldGeraaaaaald! ”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
And you’re perfectly certain, are you, Miss Cadwallader, that these-these hexes of yours will do the trick?” said Permelia Wycliffe, coldly displeased behind her desk. “Because up to this point I cannot see that you’ve made any progress. Worse than that, I have just discovered that three more boxes of Buttle’s Best Assorted Cream Biscuits are missing from my executive cupboard.”
Melissande managed not to squirm. “Oh dear. I am so very sorry, Miss Wycliffe. Still. Biscuits. It could be worse, couldn’t it? I mean, all your Golden Whisks are still here.”
“It’s not the biscuits, it’s the principle!” snapped Permelia Wycliffe. “We continue to succour a thief in our midst! And you seem to have taken steps to apprehend this-this criminal only this morning!”
“Yes, well, as I explained, Miss Wycliffe, the hexes we’ve employed to identify your miscreant are extremely complicated and delicate. Moreover they are unique. My colleague Miss Markham has invented them specifically for your use. Hours and hours of work have gone into them. I assure you they will do the trick.”
Mention of Bibbie softened the severe pinching of Permelia Wycliffe’s lips. “Yes. Well,” she said, fractionally mollified. “No less could be expected of Antigone Markham’s great-niece. Nevertheless, Miss Cadwallader, I must insist that you-”
The telephone on Permelia Wycliffe’s desk buzzed, one long blurt of noise indicating an internal communication.
As Permelia Wycliffe answered the summons-it was her horrible brother, Ambrose-Melissande rested her gaze on that crowded wall of boastful photographs. Honestly, the more she thought about it the crazier it seemed. How was it possible that so many women around the world, important women-or at least women who were married to important men-could get so excited about baking cakes? Surely there was a better way of solving world
