“And I do,” said Gerald. “In fact I know he is. Please Monk, you have to trust me. I was there. I saw his face. He begged me to-to-” He blew out a hard breath. “Take my word for it, Errol’s not involved.”
“All right,” said Monk. “I’ll take your word for it.”
“Great,” said Gerald, giddy with relief. “In that case, how do you feel about selling my theory to Sir Alec?”
“What?” said Monk. “ Me? After you told him what I said about the delerioso? Bloody hell, Gerald. Are you trying to get me sacked?”
He pulled an apologetic face. “Yeah. I know. Sorry. But he was going to bollocks you over that anyway. At least if you’ve got some good news on the investigation you might distract him. And someone’s got to take Eudora Telford in so they can interview her.”
“What, skip Uncle Ralph altogether, you mean?” Monk brightened. “Take her straight to your people? I could do that.”
“Yeah. Look, I’m sorry to dump this on you, Monk. It’s just that I don’t want the girls going back to Wycliffe’s alone. And anyway, I need to get into Errol’s office. If Permelia did pinch more of his work last night there might still be some thaumic signature traces I can read.”
“Good idea,” said Monk, and fished in his pocket. “Here-take these. I palmed them when I was ever-so- helpfully picking up Eudora’s spilled booty.”
Gerald grinned at the fake diamonds Monk gave him. “Thanks,” he said, slipping the imposters into his own pocket. “If the thaumic signatures match that’ll be one more nail in somebody’s coffin. Y’know, anyone’d think you were a genius or something.”
Reg cleared her throat ominously. “Just so you don’t think I’m not paying attention, the girls are perfectly capable of handling themselves in Wycliffe’s, or anywhere else you care to name.”
“Sorry,” he sighed. “Of course you are. I just-”
“I mean,” she said, “we pretty well solved this case for you, sunshine. Without Witches Inc. you’d still be staggering around the lab, wouldn’t you, blowing up prototype airships?”
“I didn’t blow up the Ambrose Mark VI!” he protested. “Errol got the etheretic intermix balance wrong.”
“Yes, well, you can throw all the syllables around that you like, sunshine,” said Reg, sniffing, “it doesn’t alter the fact that without our connection to that wet hen Eudora Telford-”
“Who’s coming out of her bungalow right now,” said Monk. “So put a sock in it. Gerald-”
“You take her to Sir Alec in the jalopy,” he said quickly. “We’ll get a taxi to Wycliffe’s. Tell Sir Alec I’ll call him as soon as I’ve got the proof of Permelia’s tampering so he can send in Dalby and his team.”
“Will do.”
He turned to Reg. “Quick, flap on over to Melissande. Make a big fuss of her.”
“What do you mean, make a big fuss of her?” said Reg. “I don’t go around making big fusses. That girl’s problem is she’s already too big for her britches-and I’m not just talking about her buttocks, either.”
He stared nose to beak at the wretched bird. “ What?”
“Don’t ask,” said Monk, resigned. “Really. Just don’t.”
“Reg, I need you to tell her what the plan is,” he hissed, as Melissande and Bibbie prepared to escort Eudora Telford down the pathway to her front gate. “Tell her she’s decided this business is so urgent that they’ve got to go over Sir Ralph’s head to his superior, Sir Alec.”
Reg sniffed. “Tell her yourself. I’m not your social secretary, sunshine.”
“How can I?” he demanded in an urgent undertone. “I’m just a factotum, aren’t I? Please, Reg. Hurry.”
“Blimey,” she said, and ruffled her feathers. “What would you do without me, that’s what I want to know.”
And she launched herself into air, towards Melissande.
“Good question,” said Monk, watching Reg land on Melissande, making enough fuss for three birds twice her size. “You ever think about that? About not having her around?”
Gerald felt a cold shiver run through him. “No. Not if I can help it. Now shut up and look obsequious. Their Royal Highnesses approach.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
W hen Gerald returned to the noisy, bustling Wycliffe R amp;D laboratory complex, every wizard stopped what he was doing: stopped talking, experimenting, surreptitiously eating, clandestinely drinking, sweeping, scrubbing, filing and skiving off… and stared at him.
It was like walking into a wall of silence.
“Um,” he said carefully. “Hello, chaps.”
Robert Methven broke the hostile stillness, pushing his way through the collection of wizards. “What the hell are you doing here, Dunwoody? You’re supposed to be…” His face twisted. “ On leave.”
He’d worked out his cover story during the taxi ride from Eudora Telford’s bungalow. “Ah, well, Mister Methven, I know. And I am. But I’ve come to do a favour for Mister Haythwaite. He asked me especially.”
Robert Methven looked down his nose. “Really? Mister Haythwaite asked you for a favour? That’s odd. I heard you nearly got him killed last night. Again.”
A mutter of comments ran through the watching wizards. Keeping a cautious eye on them, Gerald manufactured a suitably shocked expression. “What? Oh, no. That’s not right, Mister Methven. Who told you that?”
“Mister Wycliffe,” said Robert Methven. “Are you calling him a liar?”
Well… damn. He looked past Methven, down to the far end of the lab complex towards Ambrose’s office. Its door was closed. “A liar? Oh, no, Mister Methven. Not at all. Either Mister Wycliffe-ah-misunderstood what Mister Haythwaite said, or else he’s teasing. Yes. I’m sure he’s just teasing. Perhaps if you asked him to step out of his office for a moment, we could-”
“Mister Wycliffe isn’t here,” said Robert Methven. “In Mister Haythwaite’s absence, I am in charge of this facility until Mister Wycliffe’s return.”
Oh. Well, it could be worse. “I see,” he said humbly. “In that case, Mister Methven, I’m sure you’ll have no trouble letting me into Mister Haythwaite’s office, just for a few moments? You see, when I visited Mister Haythwaite this morning he asked me to stop by and fetch something for him. It might be a bit uncomfortable if I have to say I couldn’t perform this small errand for him because Mister Methven wouldn’t let me.”
Around the laboratory, the other wizards were gradually, grudgingly, returning to work. Robert Methven made a strangled sound in his throat, clearly torn between doing down the accident-prone, unpopular Third Grader and not getting on the bad side of the Wycliffe’s senior thaumaturgist. Just like Sir Alec, Errol cast a long shadow. Trying not to look as though he cared very much one way or another, Gerald shoved his hands in his pockets and crossed his fingers. Because if Methven decided to be an idiot about this, life was about to get very, very complicated…
“ Fine,” Methven grunted, and jerked his head towards Errol’s office. “Go on, then, Dunnywood. But make it quick. You’re a bloody jinx, you are. You’re thaumaturgical quicksand, and the sooner you’re out of here the better I’ll like it.” He grimaced. “Truscott’s must have taken leave of their senses, sending you here.”
“Yes, Mister Methven,” he said, backing away. “Thank you, Mister Methven. I’ll be as quick as I can, I promise, Mister Methven. You won’t even know I’m around, you’ll see.”
With a withering stare of utter contempt, Robert Methven turned on his heel and stalked away. Acutely aware that he was still being surreptitiously stared at by his former colleagues, Gerald hid his relief, showing only the kind of servile gratitude expected of a Third Grader, and headed for Errol’s office before Robert Methven changed his mind. Passing the Mark VI lab, he noticed it was warded shut, with a big red warning poster pasted onto the explosion-buckled door. Its forbidding black lettering read: No Admittance, by strict order of the Ottosland Department of Thaumaturgy.
Well. Sir Alec wasn’t messing about, was he?
Easing Errol’s office door closed, but not latched, he took a moment to breathe deeply, subduing nerves, and let his gaze roam around the room. It was immaculately tidy, which was a help. On the desk a blotter, a crystal
