“Please, Errol,” he said. “Sit. Don’t make me make you.”
Errol sat jerkily, like a puppet with faulty strings.
“The Jandrians are building a fleet of military airships using your designs,” he said flatly. “Would you care to explain how that’s come about?”
“I’m sorry?” said Errol, after another long silence. His voice was faint. Uncertain. “I don’t-I don’t understand.”
He leaned forward across the table. “I think you do, Errol. You’re not deaf, or stupid. The Jandrian government has broken the armistice. The Jandrians are dreaming of war again. And you’re helping them. I don’t understand. Why would you do that? Betray your country, most likely to its death?”
“But I didn’t,” said Errol. “I would never — ” He shook his head, stunned. “The Jandrians? You think I’d crawl into bed with those filthy scum? My God, they’re barely one rung up the ladder from animals.”
“Perhaps,” said Gerald, shrugging, and sat back. “But they’re wealthy, Errol. And you have expensive tastes. Perhaps you lied to Rottlezinder about not needing money. Perhaps your trust fund has run dry.”
He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting from Errol, once the accusation of treason was made. Fury. Wild denials. Possibly even a physical or thaumaturgical attack. He was braced for all of that.
What he wasn’t prepared for was… anguish.
Errol leaned forward, his hands splayed flat and hard on the table. “No. No. You must believe me. On my wizard’s oath, I did not do this. I haven’t betrayed Ottosland to Jandria.” He swallowed convulsively, a terrible desperation in his eyes. “I swear it.”
“Then how do you explain copies of your airship designs being found there?”
A bead of sweat trickled down Errol’s blanched cheek. “I can’t. All my work is triple-warded and kept in my office at Wycliffe’s. I don’t let anybody touch it, not even Ambrose.”
He shrugged, feigning indifference. “Then like I said, Errol. You’re in very hot water.”
“Oh, God,” said Errol. It was almost a sob. “This can’t be happening.” On a gasp he pressed his hands flat to his face, then let them drop. “You have to help me, Gerald. Whatever you are, whatever freakish powers you possess, use them. Winnow my memories. Break my mind, if you have to. I don’t care. I am not a traitor. And I’m asking you… I’m begging you… help me to prove it.”
Sighing, Gerald stood up. Looked to the ceiling, where he suspected the scrying crystals were concealed. “Sir Alec? If you know anything about Errol, you know what asking that cost him. He’s telling the truth. You need to look for your traitor somewhere else. And now, if you don’t mind, it’s been a long night. I’m going home.”
And he walked out, closing the interrogation room door very gently behind him.
But the idea of returning to his rented bedsit, which was hardly better than that horrible attic room in the Wizards’ Club, depressed him beyond bearing. Besides. After everything that had happened… he didn’t want to be alone.
Monk answered his front door wearing the harassed, distracted expression that meant he’d just been talking to his sister.
“ Gerald? Blimey, you look like death dragged backwards,” he said. “Come on in. Amuse yourself for a moment, I’m on the telephone with Bibbie.”
As Monk muttered his way down the corridor, Gerald pushed the front door closed behind him and heaved a deep sigh. Lord, he was so tired. He was also, technically, in possession of stolen property, having ridden his pilfered, souped-up Wycliffe scooter straight here from Nettleworth. He’d have to take it back to the airship company sooner or later, but now all he could think about was sitting down before he fell down.
Monk’s voice drifted into the corridor from the parlour. “-was Gerald.-Yes, he just got here.-No, I don’t know what’s going on. Didn’t I say he just got here? Blimey.-Well yes, I think you should come round right away. I want my jalopy back.-No, I didn’t say you could keep it indefinitely, I said you could borrow it for one night and-Bibbie. Bibbie. Bibbie, I swear, if you don’t bring my jalopy back I will tell the folks about the time you and Tiffany Mc- Sweeney-yes, I do know what you did.-It doesn’t matter how I know. I know.-Yes. Good. I’ll see you soon.”
Gerald leaned against the parlour’s open doorway, frowning muzzily. “Everything all right?”
Monk stopped glaring at the telephone. “Sisters! You can’t say no to ’em and you can’t kill ’em. Doesn’t leave much else, does it?”
“I’ll take your word on that.”
“She’s bringing my car back,” said Monk. “And it goes without saying she’ll have Mel and Reg with her. Are you feeling strong enough to face them? Or would you rather escape while there’s still time?”
He managed a smile. “I’d love to, but after what happened last night I need to talk to them.”
Monk paled. “Why? What happened last night?”
“I ran into them while they were gallivanting about South Ott.”
Monk stared. “ What? They were gallivanting where?”
“In South Ott. In the old factory district. I can’t believe you let them go there, Monk. It’s a dreadful part of town!”
“Hey, it’s not my fault!” Monk protested. “I had no idea where they were headed!”
Unbelievable. “You mean you lent those three maniacs your jalopy and you didn’t know what they had in mind? What the hell is wrong with you, Monk?”
“Well-well-I tried to stop them,” Monk said feebly. “But you know what women are like. You know what those three are like, especially.”
“Yes! They’re maniacs!” he retorted. “And they nearly ended up getting themselves blown to bits. All because you lent them your jalopy, you idiot.”
“Blown to bits?” Monk said, his voice faint with horror. “What are you talking about, blown to bits?”
“You haven’t listened to the wireless this morning?”
“Come on, Gerald. You know I never listen to the wireless.”
There seemed little point now in slavishly following Department protocols. That boat had not only sailed, it had sunk. “I suppose Reg will have already told the girls,” he sighed. “So. An abandoned boot factory blew up in South Ott last night.”
Monk stared at him, lips twitching. “Don’t tell me. Let me guess. Son of Stuttley’s?”
He raised a warning finger. “Don’t. Just don’t, all right? Not this morning, Markham. I’m not in the mood.”
“Yeah,” said Monk, sobering, and looked him up and down. “Yeah, I can see that. Maybe you’d better sit down, mate, before you fall down.”
“Funny. I was just thinking the same thing.” He weaved his way across the parlour’s dingy, thread-bare carpet and collapsed onto the two-seater sofa. “Monk, I could murder a cup of tea. And some toast. And some scrambled eggs.”
“And after that sleep for a week, it looks like,” Monk added. He held out his hand. “Here. Give me that staff and I’ll put it somewhere safe.”
Vaguely surprised, Gerald looked down at the gold-filigreed First Grade staff still clutched in his right hand. “Oh. Yes. I forgot about this.”
“Right,” said Monk carefully. “Okay. So maybe you shouldn’t be making any sudden moves.” He grabbed the staff and lifted it out of the way. “Just… sit there. Don’t think about the girls, or my jalopy, or South Ott, or exploding factories. Think-think happy thoughts, Gerald. You can do it if you try, I know you can.”
He stared at his friend, bemused. “Monk, what are you going on about? I’m fine. I’m tired and starving, but aside from that I’m fine.”
“Really?” said Monk. “Then you and I have very different definitions of ‘fine’, mate. Look-you relax. I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”
“I wasn’t planning to,” he said, around a jaw-cracking yawn. “Bloody hell, Monk. You won’t believe what’s been going on. Exploding factories is just the beginning.”
“I’ll believe anything if you’re mixed up in it,” said Monk. “I should’ve known what I’d be in for after you turned that mad king’s bloody cat into a lion.”
Monk was only joking, he was trying to play the fool, like he always did… but suddenly nothing felt funny any more. “Give it a rest, Monk,” he said, appalled to hear the little quaver in his voice. “Can you?”
“Oh, God,” said Monk, equally appalled. “Who died?”
“Haf Rottlezinder.”
