More ugly murmuring. The staring wizards tightened their ranks.
“Bloody hell,” muttered Bibbie. “This is getting ugly. Any second now there’s going to be real trouble.”
Alarmed, Melissande stared at her. “Why? What’s happening?”
“Can’t you feel it?” said Bibbie. “They’re stirring up the ether.”
She sighed. “ Bibbie — ”
“Oh. Sorry.” Bibbie pulled a face. “Mel, this lot aren’t the best bunch of wizards I’ve ever come across but they’ve got more than enough juice to do Gerald a mischief. They’re getting angry, and he’s thaumaturgically outnumbered.”
“Yes, but they can’t hurt him, Bibbie. He’s-he’s Gerald.”
“Not here, he isn’t,” Bibbie muttered. “He’s nobody here, remember? And he can’t afford to show his true colours either. This was supposed to be a watching brief, remember?”
Oh. So it was. Which meant what… that he’d just stand there and let a bunch of wizards led by a portal saboteur- and Ambrose has the hide to complain about industrial sabotage? — rough him up?
Well, that’s wrong. And silly. I’m certainly not going to stand here and watch these noddies hurt the man who saved my kingdom.
She looked up to see Reg wildly waving one wing. It wasn’t hard to translate the body language: Don’t just stand there, ducky! Do something!
Gerald, still with his hands lifted, was warily eyeing his erstwhile colleagues. Turning back to Ambrose he cleared his throat. “Um-please, Mister Wycliffe, you really must believe me. I’m not a spy. Not for Boswell’s, or anyone else. This is a rather unfortunate misunderstanding, that’s all. And I’m sure it could be cleared up very easily if we could go somewhere quiet to discuss things. Say, into your office? Just you and me? Employer to employee? I think we have a lot to talk about.”
“ No,” said Permelia Wycliffe, stepping forward. Hectic spots of colour burned in her pale, sunken cheeks. “Ambrose, don’t listen to him. I’m sorry, I was wrong and you were right. He’s a menace. Some kind of-of imposter. A danger to everything you and I have been working towards. If you listen to him, Ambrose, Wycliffe’s will be destroyed.”
Melissande swallowed a curse. “Damn. I don’t know how, but she’s onto Gerald.”
“What?” said Bibbie, startled. “How can she be? And how can you tell?”
“I don’t know, but look at her face. She knows Gerald knows there’s something going on. And he knows she knows he knows. Look at his face.”
“Oh,” whispered Bibbie. “Rats, Mel. I think you’re right. What are we going to do? We can’t let Gerald’s true identity be revealed and we can’t let the Wycliffes get away with their crimes!”
“You can say that again,” she said grimly. “All right. Here goes nothing. Bibbie, stay back. Consider yourself my last resort.”
And before Bibbie could stop her, she leapt into the fray. “Excuse me! Excuse me, can I have everyone’s attention? Excuse me, excuse me. Sir, if you don’t mind, get out of my way.”
Startled, Wycliffe’s wizards parted to let her through into the centre of their circle. Acutely aware of Gerald’s consternation, and Bibbie’s, of Reg still semaphoring wildly above her head, of all the wizards staring as though she were some kind of never-before-seen exotic creature, she halted before Ambrose Wycliffe and planted her hands on her hips.
“You’re making a very big mistake, Mister Wycliffe. Things are already looking shaky for you. I strongly suggest you go no further in accusing an innocent man.”
As Ambrose Wycliffe gobbled at her, incoherent, Permelia Wycliffe recovered her wits.
“Miss Cadwallader! I don’t know what you think you’re doing but I thought I made myself perfectly clear: your sojourn at Wycliffe’s is ended. You have failed to discharge the task with which you were assigned and your dubious services are no longer required!”
She pinned Permelia with a haughty glare. “It’s true I failed to find your biscuit thief, Permelia. But that’s not the same as saying I failed to uncover a crime. In fact I uncovered several crimes in your company, and none of them had anything to do with this dolt.”
“What?” said Gerald. His voice and expression were outraged, but the tiniest gleam of appreciation lurked deep in his good eye. “I’m not a dolt, Miss. And I’m sorry, but who are you? I thought you said your name was Carstars.”
Acutely aware of the other Wycliffe wizards, who were goggling in rapt, attentive silence, Melissande turned on him. “Are you deaf as well as incompetent, sir? I am Miss Cadwallader. And you are a dolt. Errol Haythwaite has signed an affidavit to that very effect. Errol Haythwaite has lodged a formal complaint against you with the Department of Thaumaturgy, citing gross incompetence and-and-a stultifying lack of any thaumaturgical talent whatsoever. He wants your certification revoked. So I advise you to be quiet. You’re in enough trouble as it is.”
And that should be sufficient to reduce Gerald to insignificance. Now for the Wycliffes. Gosh, I hope that mysterious Sir Alec’s sending us loads of help…
As the watching wizards muttered and swallowed derisive laughter and poked each other with their elbows, Ambrose gaped at his disconcerted sister. “This is one of your gels, Permelia. Isn’t this one of your gels? She looks like one of your gels. She’s dressed like an undertaker so she must be one of your gels. What is one your gels doing in my laboratory? You know they’re not supposed to set foot over my threshold!”
“Miss Cadwallader is not one of my gels, Ambrose!” Permelia retorted. “She, like your Third Grade wizard there, was a mistake. One I shall make her pay for, I promise. Now I suggest we throw both of them off the premises and-”
“Not so fast, Permelia,” said Melissande. “I haven’t finished with you.” She flicked a glance at Gerald, who tightened his lips at her and twitched one finger, ever so slightly.
What does that mean? Does that mean stop? Or does it mean keeping going, stall them, help is definitely on the way?
Taking a deep, shaky breath, she chose Door B.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
I beg your pardon?” Permelia gasped. “How dare you take that tone with me?”
Melissande bared her teeth in a fierce smile. “I’ll be the pot if you’ll be the kettle, Permelia. How dare you steal Errol Haythwaite’s airship designs and sell them to a foreign power?”
The spectating circle of wizards gasped. Ambrose Wycliffe made a choked, strangled sound. Permelia stepped back a pace, her face drained dead white, her eyes glittering with terror.
“You’re mad, you silly woman. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh come on, ducky,” she retorted, scathing. “Give up the act. It’s not like you’re fooling anyone, you know.”
“Permelia,” croaked Ambrose Wycliffe. His florid face had paled to pink, and his extravagant ginger whiskers trembled. “Permelia, what is this gel talking about?”
“Oh, do listen for once in your life, Ambrose!” snapped Permelia. “I have no idea. The woman is deranged. Call the police. I want to see her thrown in prison.”
Melissande turned on him. “Yes, that’s a good idea, Ambrose. Call the police. I’m sure they’ll be very interested to hear all about your sister’s treason.”
“You-you hussy!” Permelia hissed. “Just you hold your meddlesome tongue. Nobody’s interested in what you have to say.”
“I am,” said Ambrose, some of the florid colour flooding back to his face. “I’m very interested. How do you know she’s been stealing Errol’s designs? What do you have to do with any of this? Who sent you here, Miss-Miss- gel?”
Gel? Again? Melissande gritted her teeth. I wonder what the legal fine print says about justifiable grievous bodily harm? “ Who sent me here, Ambrose? If you really want to know, Errol Haythwaite sent me. In-in a strange, serendipitous coincidence, just as your sister hired me to unmask her office thief, Errol Haythwaite approached my
