“I’m not bossing you, I’m saving you!” Monk retorted, scrambling to his feet. “You came within a whisker of getting yourself blown to bits last night, you-you-gawking great gossoon of a girl!”
Under cover of yet another Markham sibling squabble, Gerald looked at Melissande. “This might take a while. Care to conference?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Melissande grinned. “Good idea, Gerald. We can discuss what your Sir Alec’s going to pay us for practically solving the Department’s portal case single-handed.”
Oh, lord. When he finds out how deeply Witches Inc. is involved in this… and he is going to find out. I’ll have no choice but to tell him. “Ah, well, I wouldn’t presume to speak for Sir Alec. Tell me, how’s your own case coming along?”
Monk and Bibbie were still squabbling hammer and tongs. Melissande pulled a face at them, then smoothed the front of her primrose-yellow blouse. “Oh. That. I’m afraid it’s hit a dead end. The office is hexed to the eyeballs but nothing’s been set off, and Bibbie’s investigations into the gels’ backgrounds haven’t helped us a bit. Whoever’s been pinching Permelia’s assorted creams is a lot sneakier and more accomplished than I anticipated, I’m afraid.”
Now Bibbie was jabbing Monk in the chest with a particularly pointed finger, and Monk was waving his arms around… a solid gold sign he’d reached the end of his tether.
Wonderful. As if I haven’t had enough explosions for one lifetime.
With an effort he turned his attention back to Melissande. “I’m sorry. That must be very aggravating.”
A look of surprise crossed her face. “D’you know, it is. Our case might not be as important as portal sabotage but even so, my professional pride is at stake. The thought of being outsmarted by a biscuit thief…”
“Don’t give up hope,” he said. “I know things look bad for Permelia, but she’s not been proven guilty yet. There’s still a chance you’ll get to unmask Wycliffe’s dastardly petty pilferer.”
“Huh,” said Melissande gloomily. “Don’t bet on it. Our retainer runs out today, and without a culprit to wave under Permelia’s nose we’re fired.”
“Tell you what, Gerald,” said Reg, hopping from the arm of the sofa to Melissande’s shoulder. “Since it looks like we’re solving your case for you, once your portal saboteur’s nabbed you can show your gratitude by returning the favour.”
He looked at her. “And how am I supposed to do that, Reg?”
“How? How?” She rattled her tail feathers. “How should I know, Gerald? You’re the rogue wizard, you think of a way. Blimey. I don’t see why I should be expected to do everything.”
He was exhausted, all his bangs and bruises hurting. Haf Rottlezinder was dead and innocent Errol Haythwaite faced an uncertain future. Somewhere in Ottosland a venal man or woman plotted more indiscriminate destruction.
And for reasons I don’t begin to understand, I’m the one who’s expected to make everything all right.
Consumed by their own nonsensical fight, Monk and Bibbie hurled more insults at each other.
Honestly, you two. Enough is enough.
Taking a deep breath he snapped his fingers twice. The ether leapt to his command, cracking like thunder above Monk and Bibbie’s heads. “Oy, you raving tossers! Put a bloody sock in it!”
Mouths open, they gaped at him.
“Monk,” he said as the ether trembled, “if you are going to call in sick do it now.” He turned. “What about you, Melissande? Aren’t you supposed to be at Wycliffe’s?”
“Yes, but they can do without me for the morning,” she said. “Let Miss Petterly take my place. It’s about time she did an honest day’s work.”
“Fine. Then let’s go. Monk, you can drive us to Eudora Telford’s place. And after we’ve heard what she has to say we’ll make a decision as to what to do next.”
“Right,” said Monk faintly. “So, Gerald-this is you being a janitor, is it?”
He bared his teeth in a savage smile. “No, Monk. This is me being tired and cranky. When I’m being a janitor, buildings tend to explode. I take it you’re getting quite fond of this house?”
Things happened with satisfying speed after that.
With Monk behind the wheel, himself and his First Grade staff in the passenger seat and Reg, Melissande and Bibbie squashed in the back, the jalopy chugged its way to shabby-genteel North Ott.
“There,” said Melissande, pointing to a low-roofed bungalow painted the most confronting shade of cupcake-icing pink. Its trim was a blinding shade of blue. “That’s the place, Monk. Pull up out the front.”
“Blimey,” said Reg. “If she cooks like she decorates, old Rupes better have the royal physician on standby.”
“Unfortunately she does,” said Melissande glumly. “Rupert is never going to forgive me.”
As Monk coasted the jalopy to a halt and switched off the engine, Melissande leaned forward. “Right, you two. Listen carefully. For the purposes of this exercise I’m not Miss Cadwallader, is that clear? I’m Her Royal Highness Princess Melissande. So don’t speak unless you’re spoken to, the more obsequious grovelling the better, and whatever you do, don’t you dare laugh.”
Gerald stared at Monk, who was staring at him. “Don’t look at me,” he said. “She’s not my young lady.”
“Yeah,” said Monk. “Ah-Gerald? Your eye’s turned silver again.”
He sighed. “Of course it has. Hang on-”
“Allow me,” said Monk, and with a sizzle of thaumic energy he rejuiced the eye-colour incant. “There you go, mate. Good as new.”
“Excuse me?” said Melissande. “If you two have quite finished with the male bonding rituals, can we go?”
Head held high, as snooty as she’d ever been in New Ottosland, she led the way to Eudora Telford’s front door and rapped on it with a consummate authority. Gerald, bringing up the rear with Reg ensconced comfortably, familiarly, on his right shoulder, tried to imagine what Sir Alec would say if he could see this… and nearly turned tail and ran.
Reg nipped his ear affectionately. “Just like old times, sunshine,” she whispered. “Only they’ve got a bit more crowded.”
Smiling, he stroked her wing with one finger. “I do miss you, you know.”
She sniffed. “Miss my brilliant deductive reasoning, my rapier wit and wing speed more like it.”
“Well yes,” he said. “Them too.”
Before she could nip him again, less than affectionately, the bungalow’s front door opened, revealing a plump, middle-aged lady dressed in unbecoming puce, with mildly myopic eyes and a permanently apologetic expression.
“Oh!” she said, flustered. “Your Highness! It’s not-it can’t be-is it ten o’clock already? I thought the clock said-but perhaps it’s wrong-although-”
“No, no, Miss Telford, I expect your clock is quite correct,” said Melissande, her vowels so plummy she sounded like an orchard. “I’m afraid we’re early. Something rather important has arisen and it was urgent that we speak with you at once.”
Miss Telford looked past Melissande, her brow furrowing in a frown. “All of you?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so,” said Melissande grandly. “May we come in? This isn’t the sort of conversation one conducts on a doorstep.”
“Oh-oh yes, of course,” said Miss Telford, and backed away from the door. “Do come in, Your Highness. Miss Markham. Go directly to the parlour. And-oh dear-these gentlemen are…?”
“This is my factotum, Miss Telford,” said Melissande, flicking her fingers at Monk. “And the other one is my factotum’s factotum. They aren’t important enough to have names. They barely have faces. Pay them no attention. I never do. It only gives them ideas.”
“Oh,” said Miss Telford, as they tramped into her small home. “I see. A factotum with a factotum. How very unusual.”
