Gerald took him by the elbow and tugged. “I’m sorry, Errol. I really am.” Then he sighed. “Come on. Let’s go.”
“More tea, Your Highness?” said Eudora Telford, hopefully brandishing the pot. It was covered in a badly- knitted puce and mustard yellow cosy, with a bobble on top.
Melissande shook her head. One more mouthful of tea and her bladder was going to explode. “No, thank you, Miss Telford.”
Eudora Telford’s face fell. “Oh.” Then she brightened. “Then perhaps another macaroon?”
Saint Snodgrass save her. Another crumb of Eudora Telford’s macaroons and the chair she was sitting on was going to collapse. They were so lumpen they could easily be used to weight sacks full of unwanted kittens, for the drowning thereof. Or scuttle an entire fleet of the Ottosland Navy’s battleships.
If I end up having to send her to visit Rupert he will never, ever, in a million years forgive me. No wonder she’s never been in contention for the Golden Whisk. She wouldn’t be considered for an old tin teaspoon. Not even if it was the consolation prize and she was the only contestant!
Realising that silence was another rejection, Eudora Telford took a step back.
“I’d love another macaroon, Miss Telford,” said Bibbie, as the end of the wretched woman’s nose turned an emotional pink. “I can eat anything.”
“And never gain an ounce,” Melissande added quickly. “Alas, if I could only say the same.”
“Oh,” said Miss Telford, marginally cheered. “Yes. Well.” She put down the teapot and offered the plate of macaroons to Bibbie. “Have as many as you like, Miss Markham. It’s a great honour for my little cakes to win the acclaim of Antigone Markham’s great-niece.”
As Bibbie got in some practice on her skills at deception, praising Eudora Telford’s dreadful macaroons, Melissande stared out of the horribly knick-knacked parlour window. Still no sign of Reg. Where was the dratted bird? More than an hour they’d been stuck here with Eudora, listening to her prattle on and on and on, and all she had to show for it was indigestion, a full bladder, and the sinking feeling there was no way she could extricate Rupert from a life-threatening encounter with the silly woman’s horrendous cooking.
Oh dear. Nature could not be ignored a moment longer. She leapt up. “I’m so sorry, Miss Telford. Might you excuse me to the-the powder room?”
Eudora Telford’s plump cheeks coloured. “Why certainly, Your Highness. Let me show you-”
“No, no, just point me in the right direction,” she said. “I don’t want to put you to trouble. Besides, now that we’ve heard all about your exciting life in the Guild, I’m sure there are some stirring tales of Antigone Markham my colleague’s just dying to share with you.”
“Oh!” said Eudora Telford, hands clasped to her bosom. “Oh, Miss Markham, would you? I didn’t like to ask… I didn’t want to-to thrust myself forward-but I must confess to you, Antigone Markham has been a lifelong heroine of mine. Any story you could share- any snippet of information to shed light on her illustrious career…”
Melissande winced as Bibbie shot her a look that would’ve scalded a burned cake tin clean. But the smile she gave Eudora was as sweet as plum pie. “Well, I think I can oblige you, Miss Telford. Only you must promise never to breathe a word to another soul. Antigone never liked to boast, you know.”
Eudora Telford dropped to the edge of the sofa, which was antimacassared to within an inch of its upholstery. “Not a word… not a syllable… I swear it, Miss Markham.” Then, remembering, she looked up. “Through the parlour door, Your Highness, turn right, up the little staircase, second door on your left.”
Melissande smiled. “Thank you, Miss Telford.”
Coming back downstairs again afterwards, half-an-ear tuned to Bibbie’s enthusiastic retelling of some notorious Pastry Guild scandal of the past, she caught sight of Eudora Telford’s reticule on the hall stand… and stopped. The most appalling thought had occurred.
Upon their return to Miss Telford’s bungalow, the sad little woman had begged them to come indoors to partake of tea and cakes and perhaps a little conversation. Of course she and Bibbie agreed. Not only did they need to find out what Eudora had been up to in South Ott, there was also the danger she might think better of abandoning her errand for Permelia Wycliffe and call another cab to go back there… where all she could do was get herself in terrible trouble.
So they’d accompanied Eudora Telford into her little home, and paid for their dedication with ghastly tea and worse cakes. Upon entering her residence, Eudora placed her reticule on the hall stand… and clearly hadn’t gone back to it since.
Like Boris at a mouse hole, Melissande stared at the fussily beaded purse.
I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t. It would be dreadfully uncivil. A brute violation of the laws of decent society, common courtesy and the debt one owes one’s hostess.
On the other hand, she was one third of Witches Inc. An investigator of the unusual and the odd. And after Lional she had sworn a solemn, private oath never to shirk a difficult duty again.
Bugger it.
She snatched up Eudora Telford’s reticule, loosened its drawstrings and stuck her hand inside. Her fingers closed around a soft pouch, which felt heavy and full of suspiciously small, hard items.
She glanced over her shoulder at the almost-closed parlour door. Bibbie was still regaling Eudora with saucy Guild stories. Keeping her spellbound. Good girl, Bibs. Don’t run out of inspiration now, whatever you do. Holding her breath she pulled the pouch out of Eudora’s reticule, loosened its drawstrings and looked inside.
Gemstones flashed in the hall’s mellow lamplight: diamonds, rubies, sapphires and emeralds. Enough jewels for a king’s ransom, surely.
Good grief. Where did Permelia Wycliffe get her hands on these?
She fished in the reticule again, and this time came up with a folded scrap of paper. Heart racing, she unfolded it.
Haf Rottlezinder. The old boot factory, Laceup Lane, South Ott. After dark. Enter from Button Street. Approach only on foot.
The last instruction was heavily underlined. The entire note was written in Permelia Wycliffe’s unembellished hand.
Melissande stared at it, horrified. So Permelia was mixed up with the portal saboteur. But how? Why? She couldn’t be the one behind the attacks, could she? It had to be her horrible brother Ambrose, didn’t it?
Or am I letting Lional get in the way? Am I making the fatal mistake of assuming that because Ambrose is horrible it also follows that he’s evil?
Surely, as an intelligent woman, an investigator, a staunch advocate of women’s suffrage, she had to accept the possibility that Permelia Wycliffe was the mastermind behind the portal sabotage? That somehow she’d suborned Errol Haythwaite to her cause and used him as a conduit between herself and Haf Rottlezinder? After all, she did love-excessively-the company her father had built. And no-one could deny that Permelia was ambitious, and ruthless.
Or it could be both of them, Permelia and Ambrose. They might not care for each other the way she and Rupert cared, but that didn’t mean they’d not join forces to save the family business from bankruptcy and ruin. If politics made strange bed-fellows, money had the power to join enemies at the hip.
Rats. I really don’t want Permelia to be guilty. I want it to be Ambrose, because he’s such an old frog. But I have to face facts: the note. The gemstones. Eudora Telford. One way or another, Permelia’s involved.
With another glance at the not-quite-closed parlour door, heart pounding harder than ever, Melissande stuffed the note and the gemstones back inside Eudora Telford’s reticule and replaced it on the hall stand exactly as she’d found it.
Then she took a deep breath, poked a stray hairpin into her bun and sailed back into the parlour as though nothing whatsoever out of the ordinary had just occurred.
“-and that,” Bibbie was saying, “is the true story of what happened at the Coconut Cookoff of 1884. But I warn you, Miss Telford, you did not hear it from me.”
Eudora Telford clapped her hands together, delighted. “Oh, Miss Markham, I shall never breathe a word, I promise. Not even to Permelia, and she is my dearest bosom friend, you know.”
Melissande cleared her throat. “Miss Telford, it’s been truly delightful having this wonderful opportunity to get to know you better. His Majesty is going to be so excited when I tell him about this charming interlude. I’m sure he won’t know what to do with himself until you and he meet in person.” She flicked a glance at Bibbie. “But I’m afraid we’ll have to leave you now. It’s getting rather late, and there’s something we have to tidy up back at
