Monk’s eyes nearly started out of his head. “ Really? Someone died? You’re not joking?”
He gave Monk his most jaundiced look. “Is this my joking face, Markham? Is it?”
“You don’t have a joking face, Gerald.”
“Then take the hint.”
“Bloody hell,” Monk muttered. “Rottlezinder’s really dead?”
“Yes. He’s really dead.” Very dead. Comprehensively dead. Unmistakably, unreservedly dead. Every time he closed his eyes he heard the annihilating boom of the factory exploding. Smelled the tinny thaumic discharge. Imagined himself enveloped in a fine red mist…
Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. What’s done is done.
Monk cleared his throat. “Did you-you didn’t-bloody hell, Gerald-”
With a grating effort, he dragged his eyelids open. “If you mean did I actually, personally kill him, then no. Not exactly. He was killed by his own unstable hex. But I had to choose between saving him and saving Errol.”
“Blimey,” said Monk. “Rather you than me, mate.” Then he winced. “Sorry.”
He shrugged. “Yeah. That makes two of us.”
“Look, I want to hear all about it, but-let me get you some breakfast first.”
“I don’t want to make you late for work. I can-”
“I’ll call in sick,” said Monk. “Or late. Or something. Don’t worry about that. You just-take some deep breaths. Cultivate your appetite. I’ll be right back.”
The remains of Monk’s breakfast were sitting on the parlour table. He’d buttered his bread roll but hadn’t eaten it. Perhaps the telephone call from Bibbie had distracted him. With a heartfelt groan, Gerald staggered off the sofa, snatched the bread roll off its plate and devoured it. Then he fell onto the sofa again and enjoyed the sensation of being still and quiet. Could eyelashes ache? He rather thought that they could.
Time meandered by. He didn’t quite fall asleep, but he did drift into a kind of aimless doze. The room was pleasantly warm, with a cheerful little fire crackling in the fireplace. It was like being in a shabby cocoon…
“Here you go,” said Monk, returning to the parlour with a mug of tea and a plate of scrambled eggs, only slightly charred bacon and four thick slices of butter-dripping toast. Bless him and the camel he rode in on. “Wrap your laughing gear around this, mate. You’ll feel like a new man, afterwards. And while you’re eating you can fill me in on the rest.”
So he did. When both breakfast and tale were finished he sat back, replete, the worst of his dizziness subsiding. Looked at Monk, who was staring at him with dazed fascination.
“Bloody hell, Gerald.”
“Yeah,” he sighed. “I know.”
“So what’s going to happen to Errol?”
He shrugged. “Don’t know. Don’t much care. He’s Sir Alec’s problem now.”
“But you’re convinced he didn’t sell his work to the Jandrians?”
“You’re the one who didn’t believe he’d sabotage the portal network. Does Errol selling secrets to an enemy government sound likely to you?”
Monk shook his head. “No. I said from the start he’s a pillock, not a traitor.”
Which reminded him… “So which Haythwaite was it then, who did the dirty on Ottosland?”
“What are you talking about?”
“It was something Sir Alec said. About Errol maybe not being the first treacherous Haythwaite.”
“Dunno,” said Monk, his interest piqued. “I’ll ask Uncle Ralph. He’ll know for sure. He’s got closets full of other people’s skeletons and he hates the Haythwaites as much as we do.” Monk shook his head again, this time with a tinge of admiration. “I can’t believe you read the riot act to Sir Alec. And I really can’t believe he didn’t skin you for it!”
Oh. Yes. Damn. He cleared his throat. “Ah, Monk? There is one more thing. In the course of the mission debrief I, well, I sort of lost my temper a bit and-well, frankly, I got a trifle carried away and, um, I let it slip that I knew where he got the delerioso incant.”
“Oh,” said Monk, after a moment’s horrified silence.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. But I swear you won’t hear a word about it,” he said quickly. “Sir Alec and I came to a definite understanding.”
“Yeah,” Monk said slowly. “And by a definite understanding, did you actually hear him say, I will not string Monk Markham up by his short and curlies for blabbing about his super-secret hex? ”
“Well, no,” he said. “I mean, not in so many words. You could say the understanding was definite, but not… articulated.”
“Right,” said Monk, his expression glum. “In other words it’s back to Probationville for me-if I’m lucky.”
He shook his head. “No. Not this time. Not on my account. Not again.”
Monk sighed. “You say that, Gerald, and I know you mean it, but-”
They both turned their heads at a loud banging on the front door.
“This has an eerily familiar feel to it,” said Monk. “All right. I’ll let them in, but after that you’re on your own.” He took a deep breath and blew it out, hard. “Brace yourself, mate.”
Reg flapped into the parlour first to circle under the ceiling, closely followed by Melissande and Bibbie, their long skirts swishing. All three of them were talking a mile a minute. On his feet to greet them, Gerald waited till Monk came in and closed the door behind them, then raised both hands.
“ Put a sock in it, all of you!” he said loudly. “ I mean it!” And to show them he was serious, he stirred the ether with a short, sharp breeze. The flames in the fireplace leapt up, roaring. The heavy curtains swayed, creaking the old timber curtain rods. The girls’ skirts whipped around their legs and Reg’s feathers fluttered wildly.
“Oy!” said Reg, gliding down to the arm of the sofa. “Do you mind?”
“Sorry,” he said, and settled the ether. “But I know what you three are like when you’re in full spate.”
“Monk Markham, you wipe that grin off your face right this instant,” said Melissande, without turning her head. “Or there will be blood on the carpet and I promise it won’t be mine.”
“Sorry,” said Monk, hastily sobering.
“Gerald,” said Bibbie, “you look dreadful.”
“I’m fine,” he said, trying hard not to be distracted by her. Really, she was so beautiful it was ridiculous. She was so beautiful she made Ambrose’s ban on gels in the laboratory almost seem reasonable.
“He looks like he’s been blown up,” said Reg. “I told you, didn’t I?”
“Yes, but you’ve been known to exaggerate,” said Bibbie, and shook her head. “Really, Gerald? Really, you blew up another factory? I mean, I heard about the explosion on the boarding house wireless, but-”
“Yes, Bibbie,” he sighed. “Another one. Son of Stuttley’s and so forth and et cetera and so on.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Son of Stuttley’s? That’s a silly thing to say-” Her gaze shifted sideways. “ Monk.”
“Oh, find a sock and swallow it, ducky,” said Reg. “Then put your bum in the nearest chair. Gerald needs to know what we know and vice versa.”
Grumbling under their breaths, Melissande and Bibbie sat, taking an armchair each. Monk stood in front of the dwindling fire, one elbow propped on the mantel. When everyone was settled, Gerald sat on the sofa again and looked at the girls.
“All right,” he said. “Tell me everything.”
“In a minute,” said Melissande. “First, is what Reg told us true? Have you stopped suspecting Errol Haythwaite?”
“For the portal sabotage? Yes,” he said, with a warning glance at Monk. “It’s true. Your turn.”
“We found out what Eudora Telford was doing in South Ott last night. She was taking a fortune in gemstones to Haf Rottlezinder.”
He stared at her. “I’m sorry-she was what?”
“On Permelia Wycliffe’s behalf,” Reg added. “Which you never would’ve found out if it hadn’t been for us.” She sniffed. “A nice bit of grovelling wouldn’t go astray right about now, sunshine.”
Sometimes the only way to survive Reg was to ignore her. “Permelia Wycliffe was paying Haf Rottlezinder?” he echoed. If that’s the case, Sir Alec’s going to go spare. “ Are you quite certain?”
“Of course we are, Gerald,” said Bibbie. “When Mel and I took that silly Eudora Telford back to her bungalow
