After returning to the R amp;D block, Gerald was hustled back into the scullery by a sneering Errol and only set foot out of it again to collect more trolley-loads of equipment to clean. It seemed he no longer even rated the likes of Japhet Morgan to give him a hand.
On his third trundle round the laboratory complex, feeling like a tea lady with his trolley and pink gloves, he caught sight of an arrival he wasn’t expecting: James Kirkby-Hackett. He stared, immediately curious. What was one of Errol’s revolting First Grade chums doing here? In person? Looking… perturbed.
Of course the worry in Kirkby-Hackett’s face was wiped away by incredulous delight upon seeing who it was trundling the dirty equipment trolley round the lab.
It doesn’t matter, Dunwoody. It really doesn’t matter. Who cares what Kirkby-Hackett thinks? You know what you are. You know what you’re doing here. Other people’s opinions mean nothing at all.
And still… and still… his belly burned with dull pain.
Philpott, Methven’s off-sider, went to fetch Errol, who came out of the Mark VI lab a moment later. Was it a trick of the light or did he-just for a heartbeat-seem monumentally displeased to see his friend?
Gerald hastily got busy restacking his trolley, just in case it became obvious he was sneakily eavesdropping.
“James! What a surprise,” said Errol, all cordial good-nature. “Fancy seeing you here. You should have called ahead, I’d have arranged a tour for you.” He laughed, the faintest of edges under his voice. “Well, of anything that’s not classified top secret of course.”
Kirkby-Hackett hesitated then shook Errol’s outstretched hand. “No. No. That’s quite all right, Errol. No need to go to any trouble for me. Fact is, just passing, thought I’d swing by and give you a nod.”
“A nod,” said Errol, his eyes narrowing. “Right. I see. Well, let’s go into my office, we can-”
“Office?” said Kirkby-Hackett. He was definitely jumpy. Ill at ease. Concerned. “Right. Yes. Only I thought we might have a quick word in the fresh air, Errol. You cooped up in here. Me cooped up at Masterly’s. Yes. Fresh air. Just the thing.”
“All right,” said Errol, after a moment. He didn’t sound at all pleased. “We’ll stroll around the staff garden a time or two.” He turned. “Dunwoody! What the hell are you doing? Can’t you even put beakers in a trolley without creating a catastrophe? Get on with it, man. I swear, if so much as one stage of one project is held up because we’ve run out of clean equipment-”
Hastily, Gerald backed up his trolley. “Sorry, Mister Haythwaite. Getting right on that, Mister Haythwaite.”
Kirkby-Hackett said something, his voice too low to carry. Errol laughed and Kirkby-Hackett laughed with him, despite his obvious worry.
“Oh, yes,” said Errol, clapping a hand to Kirkby-Hackett’s expensively suited shoulder. “That’s right. Found his true level at last, has our old chum Dunnywood.”
Gerald watched them saunter out of the building, furious that he couldn’t follow them. Desperate to know what had brought Kirkby-Hackett here, so patently uneasy.
Oh Reg, Reg, don’t fail me now. Be in the garden…
“ You’d better do as Mister Haythwaite says, Mister Dunwoody,” said Robert Methven, in passing. “There’s plenty of desperate Third Grade wizards in the world. Do you want to keep this job or don’t you?”
“Yes, Mister Methven,” he said, suitably chastened. “Right away, Mister Methven.”
He was just finishing up the latest load of stained lab equipment when Reg appeared without warning at the closed scullery window. He nearly dropped another beaker, which would have been a disaster. He’d already been lambasted by Errol for the one he’d smashed after hearing about the latest portal incident.
Reg banged her beak on the glass. “Don’t just stand there gawping, sunshine!” she shouted, her voice muffled. “Open it up! I’ve got something to tell you!”
Bloody hell. He looked over his shoulder through the open scullery door but nobody had heard her. Praise Saint Snodgrass for small mercies. Grabbing a trolley, he eased the door closed and barricaded it then rushed to open the window before Reg broke it.
“What? What? Reg, are you crazy? Are you trying to get me fired?”
“Put a sock in it and listen, Gerald,” she retorted. “Because I’ve just been doing your dirty work again. Do you know-”
Irritation disappeared in a flood of hope. “You overhead them? Errol and Kirkby-Hackett? Oh, Reg. That’s terrific. What did they-”
“ Do you know,” said Reg, glaring, “I’ve a good mind to send that Sir Alec a bill when this is over. All this wear and tear on my nerves! First I’m scouting for you, then I’m eavesdropping for madam, then I’m back eavesdropping for you again! And I’m only getting paid to help madam! You’re taking me for granted, Gerald Dunwoody, and I don’t like it. I’ll have you know my feelings are hurt.”
He snatched her off the windowsill, dropped a kiss on her head then put her back. “Sorry. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. What did Errol and Kirkby-Hackett talk about?”
Reg fluffed out all her feathers. “Have you got a stool in here? You should be sitting down for this. Haf Rottlezinder. Someone official was asking Kirkby-Hackett about him. Had they been in contact recently, old university chums catching up sort of thing. And did he know if Rottlezinder had been in touch with any other old university chums, like, say, for instance, one Errol Haythwaite?” She cackled. “That pillock Errol turned fourteen different shades of puce when he heard that.”
Gerald frowned at the barricaded scullery door. He wouldn’t have much longer, surely, before someone tried to barge in. “And what did Errol say, once he was finished turning fourteen different shades of puce?”
Reg shrugged. “Said he hadn’t spoken to Rottlezinder in years. Said he didn’t want anything to do with him, something about rumours of unsavoury thaumaturgical practices. Said if Kirkby-Hackett had the brains of a gnat he’d not have anything to do with their old chum Haf, either. And then he sent Kirkby-Hackett on his way with a flea in his ear. Properly put out, he was, the poncy prat.”
“Do you think Errol was lying? Or was he telling the truth?”
“Hmm,” said Reg, and thoughtfully scratched her head. “That’s a good question. Wish I could answer it, sunshine, but the truth is-I couldn’t tell.”
Damn. “I’ll bet Sir Alec’s behind Kirkby-Hackett’s quizzing,” he murmured. “He’s stirring the pot a bit to give me a better chance of seeing what floats to the surface.” Snatching Reg up again he rested his cheek on her head, briefly. “You’re wonderful. You’re marvellous. I couldn’t do this without you.”
“Ha,” she said, trying hard not to show she was pleased. “Tell me something I don’t already know.”
“I’ve got to get back to work,” he said, still holding her. “Thanks. I’ll be in touch.” And he settled her gently back on the windowsill.
“Yes, all right,” she said, sleeking her feathers ready for flight. “But-look here, Gerald, just you be careful. I don’t care how much thaumaturgic power you’ve got at your fingertips these days, my boy-if I’ve told you once, I haven’t told you often enough. You’re not indestructible. And I can’t be in two places at the same time.”
And on that final trenchant note, she flapped away.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Gerald watched her out of sight, missing her so much, then hurriedly unbarricaded the scullery door and shoved his trolley back out into the lab for yet another round of hunt-the-dirty-beaker.
He didn’t see Errol again, but he heard him inside the Mark VI lab, shouting at some unfortunate inferior or other. Even for Errol, the vitriol was vicious. Look after wary look was exchanged around the complex. Heads ducked lower, shoulders hunched. Even the other First Graders tried to make themselves inconspicuous, just in case Errol stormed out of his lab in search of fresh prey.
At length, Robert Methven came out of the Mark VI lab, looking alarmingly close to tears.
Gerald put his head down and got on with his beaker-hunting. Sir Alec had stirred the pot all right: Errol was as rattled as he’d ever seen him. In fact, he’d never seen Errol rattled like this. It certainly was… suggestive.
The work-day dragged to its eventual conclusion. One by one Wycliffe’s wizards began to go home. First Japhet Morgan and his two fellow Third Graders. Then Robert Methven, set-faced and silent, followed soon after
