agency to-to-help him discover who was stealing his work. He knew it had to be somebody at Wycliffe’s, for only somebody at Wycliffe’s had access to his office. And so I began my clandestine investigation and it led me down many a torturous path… right to your sister’s door, Ambrose. She’s been stealing my client’s airship designs for months and passing them along to-to-” Out of the corner of her eye she caught Gerald’s tiny shake of his head. Oh. So no spilling the beans on who the foreign power was. “To someone I am not at liberty to reveal,” she finished grandly.
“It’s a lie!” cried Permelia. “Not a word of it is true. I haven’t stolen anything. Go to Mister Haythwaite’s office, check through his designs. See if any are missing! I have no doubt every last one of them is there!”
Melissande flicked Gerald another glance. He rubbed his nose, disguising a nod.
Bugger. So if Permelia had stolen the designs-but they were still in Errol’s office “Ah-yes-” she said. “Well. I can explain that.”
“Then explain it,” said Ambrose, his voice a dangerous growl. “Or I will have you and this buffoon thrown off the premises! And then thrown into prison for good measure!”
Oh. Dear. Bugger. Um…
“ She can’t explain it!” cried Permelia, triumphant. “Her outrageous claim is a tissue of lies from beginning to end, a deliberate attempt to smear me because she couldn’t succeed in finding one tawdry biscuit thief! She can’t explain it, I tell you, and so-”
“Maybe Miss Cadwallader can’t,” said Bibbie, strolling into the centre of the circle. She was holding a large, rolled-up sheet of paper. “But I can, Miss Wycliffe. Or should I say, Permelia?”
Melissande stared, horrified. Bibbie, what are you doing? She looked at Gerald, who raised an eyebrow, the closest he dared come to a shrug.
Oh, how wonderful. We’re at the mercy of Mad Miss Markham.
All the Wycliffe wizards were gaping at Bibbie as though she were a celestial vision. And, really, since it was Bibbie, they weren’t too far off the mark. She was looking particularly beautiful this morning, wearing a shade of blue that exactly matched her sparkling eyes. Danger and mayhem appeared to agree with her.
A pity they’re so smitten they can’t see she’s actually a beautiful sword.
Ambrose Wycliffe cleared his throat, his chest swelling. A leering light gleamed in his eyes. “Well. Good gracious. And who might this charming young gel be, eh? Got a name, have you, m’dear? Come, come, don’t be shy.”
Melissande swallowed a groan. Oh, lord. Any second now he’s going to try and pinch her cheek… and she’s going to pitch him through the nearest window.
Bibbie looked Ambrose up and down with distaste, as though he were something unfortunate Boris had dragged in and left on the privy carpet.
“I am Miss Cadwallader’s associate,” she said coldly. “My name’s not important. What’s important, Ambrose — ” She unrolled the rolled-up paper with a snap. “-is that this is one of our client Mister Haythwaite’s airship designs, and it’s positively stinking of black market thaumaturgy.”
The leering light in Ambrose’s eyes died. “And how would you know?” he demanded. “You’re a gel.”
“Not quite, Ambrose,” said mercurial Bibbie, this time with a dazzling smile. Several of the watching wizards loosened their ties. “I’m sorry, did I forget to mention I’m a witch?”
Ambrose’s expression congealed. “Oh. I see. But still. A gel.”
Sighing, Bibbie turned her back on Ambrose and held out the unrolled airship blueprint to one of the wide- eyed, watching wizards. “You. You’re a moderately powerful First Grader, aren’t you? What’s your name?”
“Methven, Miss,” the wizard said huskily. “Robert Methven.”
Bibbie nearly knocked him unconscious with another smile. “Well then, Robert, take a look at this. I think it’s been tampered with.” She wrinkled her nose, delightfully. “ Robert. Isn’t that just a lovely name? Robert, I think someone’s used a black market thaumaturgical device to take a copy of this drawing. I can still feel its thaumaturgical vibrations on the paper. Can’t you?”
Dazed, Robert Methven took the outstretched plan and inspected it. A shadow of doubt raced across his stunned face. “Yes. Yes, I can.”
“And funnily enough,” said Bibbie, reaching into the reticule dangling from her left wrist, “the vibration matches- exactly, I might add-the thaumic vibrations that can be felt in these.”
And she held up the black leather pouch full of fake gemstones.
Melissande looked at Permelia, whose drawn face now glistened with sweat. Then she let her gaze slide over to Gerald. He dropped one eyelid in a brief, reassuring wink, and let his lips twitch once in what might’ve been a sort of smile.
“Robert,” said Bibbie, and tossed him the pouch. “What do you think? Am I right? By the way, be careful with that. In my line of work we call it evidence.”
Robert Methven was clearly now Bibbie’s adoring slave. The other wizards were glaring at him, pettishly jealous. He tucked the airship blueprint under his arm and carefully tipped the contents of the pouch into his hand. His watching colleagues gasped as the glittering stream of fake gemstones poured from the leather bag in an intoxicating stream of false promises and lies.
Robert Methven closed his fingers round them, closed his eyes and concentrated. After a moment he looked at Bibbie, surprise and respect mingled.
“Yes, yes you’re right again. It’s the same thaumic signature.” He frowned. “But I’m awfully sorry, I don’t know whose it is.”
“Of course you don’t, Robert,” said Bibbie, gently chiding. “You’re not a vile criminal. How could anyone expect you to know? But I’ll bet Permelia knows.” She turned. “ Don’t you, Permelia? ”
“Permelia?” said Ambrose, his voice almost unrecognisable. “Permelia, what’s the meaning of this? How can that gel have those gemstones? You said they were for Haf. To pay him off and make him go away. I didn’t want to but you said-”
“Oh, Haf’s gone away all right, Ambrose,” said Melissande, stepping forward. Time to wrap this up, while Permelia and Ambrose are still off-balance. “ Not to put too fine a point on it, he’s dead. Got himself blown up last night. Didn’t you listen to the wireless this morning? There was a big explosion in South Ott. An old, abandoned boot factory got blown to tiny bits-and Haf blew up with it.”
“What?” Permelia whispered. She sounded as awful as Ambrose. “But-but-” Her gaze fell on the pouch of gemstones, still in Robert Methven’s hand. “I don’t understand. How did you come by those?”
“Well,” she said, perfectly prepared to twist the knife in horrible Permelia, just for a moment, “it’s possible I took them from Eudora Telford’s lifeless hand after she got blown up along with Haf Rottlezinder.”
Permelia gasped, staggering. “No-no-”
“No?” Melissande smiled. “Then perhaps I took them from her cold, lifeless hand after a brutal, cowardly thief assaulted her on the dark streets of South Ott.”
“I don’t believe you,” whispered Permelia, her voice ragged. “Eudora’s not dead. She can’t be dead.”
“Oh please, Permelia,” she said, and gave her scorn free rein. “Do you honestly expect us to believe you care two hoots what happens to Eudora Telford? If you cared you never would’ve sent her out to do your dirty work, would you? You used that poor silly woman, Permelia, and now she’s paid a heavy price.”
Oblivious to the wizards staring at her with shock and dawning disgust, ignoring Ambrose’s rising ire, Permelia took one unbalanced step forward. “No. No. I won’t believe you,” she said, a thread of hysteria sounding in her voice. “Eudora’s not dead. This is a trick. You’re trying to trick me.”
“If there’s any tricking going on here, Permelia, you’re the one doing it!” shouted Ambrose. “And now look what’s happened! You’ve ruined everything!”
“ I’ve ruined everything? I have?” shrieked Permelia, rounding on him. “How can you even suggest such a thing?”
“Easily!” he snapped. “If you’d done a better job of running the office you wouldn’t have hired a petty thief and you’d not have had to invite this-this interfering Cadwallader gel into our midst! And if you’d minded your own business and let me worry about the company we’d be back on the road to solvency by now!”
“The company is my business!” said Permelia, hands clenched into unladylike fists. The stern, haughty president of the Baking and Pastry Guild was nowhere to be seen. “I’m its last hope of survival, Ambrose!”
He laughed. “ You?”
“Yes, me!” Permelia panted. “Am I the one who’s run Wycliffe’s practically into receivership? Am I the one
