concede your points, Mister Dunwoody. All things considered, events have not fallen out… unpleasantly. But you had no way of knowing that, did you? When you disobeyed my instructions? When you confided in Monk Markham? When you recklessly disregarded our most basic principles and involved two inexperienced young women in this case? And as for the bird-” His lips pinched thin again. “To be frank, I don’t know what to say about her.”
“Yes, well, Reg often has that effect on people, sir,” he murmured. “If it’s any consolation, you get used to it… eventually.”
“Really?” said Sir Alec, so dry. “How comforting.”
He swallowed. “Sir… what about Witches Inc? What is the Department going to do? And Monk? What are you going to do about him?”
“What we must, Mister Dunwoody,” said Sir Alec. Once again the air was full of icicles. “Which is all I’m prepared to say on the matter.”
Have I ruined them? Has knowing me destroyed their lives? “ Sir Alec-”
“That’s enough,” said Sir Alec sharply. “The subject is closed, do I make myself clear?”
Miserable, he nodded. “Yes, Sir Alec.” He cleared his throat. “But-what about Errol? Since he’s been cleared of treason, what-”
“Nor is Mister Haythwaite any of your concern,” said Sir Alec, still frosty. “He has already been dealt with.”
Dealt with? Dealt with? What the hell did that mean? But one look at Sir Alec’s face told him he wasn’t going to get an answer to that question, so he didn’t bother asking it aloud.
“And you, Mister Dunwoody,” Sir Alec added, still ice-cold, “will under no circumstances make contact with him. That is an absolute directive-the ignoring of which will, I promise you, lead to a severe lack of future.”
Chilled to the marrow, Gerald nodded. “Understood, Sir Alec. But what if he and I-”
“Rest assured, Mister Dunwoody,” said Sir Alec. “Your paths are unlikely to cross again.”
And if that didn’t sound sinister, he had no idea what did.
Abruptly, Sir Alec stood. “Go home, Mister Dun-woody.”
“I’m sorry-what-” He stared. “Go home?”
“Yes,” said Sir Alec. “You are suspended, Mister Dunwoody. Pending further investigation into this case. Since you have contributed more than enough mayhem to the situation, your continued assistance will not be required.”
Feeling numb, Gerald pushed to his feet. “Suspended,” he murmured. “For how long?”
“Until I tell you otherwise, of course.” Sir Alec raised an eyebrow. “I’m sorry. Did you think because the case was solved in our favour that there would be no repercussions? How terribly naive of you. I will tell you a third time, but not for a fourth. Go home, Mister Dunwoody, and wait for my call.”
Gerald nodded. “Yes, Sir Alec. Oh-my staff-”
“Is quite safe,” said Sir Alec. “I think it can remain here, for the time being.”
In other words, they didn’t trust him with it. But it’s mine. Not theirs. Resentment curdled through his sluggish blood. “I’m sorry, I don’t think-”
Sir Alec’s expression altered… and he changed his mind about arguing any more.
“Right,” he muttered. “Go home, Gerald.”
But at the interrogation room’s door he hesitated, and turned back.
Sir Alec’s glare was blighting. “ Yes, Mister Dun-woody? What is it now?”
“I was just wondering, Sir Alec-do we know anything about the black market wizard Permelia Wycliffe went to? Has she given him up? Because that hexed hairpin she used to kill her brother… that was a very nasty incant. The mind that dreamt it up-it has to be pretty bloody twisted.”
Shadows shifted deep in Sir Alec’s guarded eyes. “The matter is under investigation.”
He nodded. “It’s a problem, isn’t it? Black market thaumaturgy. First that business with Millicent Grimwade- and now this. I didn’t realise…”
“Yes. It’s a problem,” said Sir Alec curtly. “But not your problem, Mister Dunwoody.”
In other words, bugger off. Get lost. You’re not wanted around here.
“No, Sir Alec,” he said, subdued, and escaped while he still could.
On his way out of the Department’s nondescript Nettleworth headquarters, he saw Dalby in an office off the ground floor corridor, banging typewriter keys as he made out his report. He hesitated in the open doorway, wanting to say something-say thank you — but the look Dalby gave him was so furiously unfriendly that he hurriedly retreated before the senior janitor surrendered to temptation and hexed him.
It wasn’t until he stood outside the Department’s headquarters, under a fading sky, that he realised he had no idea how he was going to get home.
And then he heard a honking car horn… and saw Monk in his jalopy, parked a little way down the grey, dreary street.
So weary he felt like he was floating, he wandered along the pavement and got into the car. “Oh, lord,” he said, looking at his friend. “Not you too?”
“Yeah,” said Monk, his grin so sharkish and anarchic. “Me too. Again.”
Bloody hell. “I’m sorry,” he said, contrition choking his voice. “I’m so sorry, Monk. I never meant-”
“I know you didn’t,” said Monk, and fired up the jalopy. “And anyway, it’s not your fault. You didn’t twist my arm, did you? You didn’t threaten to turn me into a toad if I wouldn’t help you. I did what I did with my eyes wide open, mate.”
“Well, yes, I know,” he said unhappily. “But still, Monk, I-”
“Hey,” said Monk, and pulled into the street. “It could be worse, Gerald. At least they don’t know about my interdimensional portal opener!” And he laughed, the crazy bugger, as though he didn’t have a care in the world. “So,” he added. “The girls are back at my place. What do you say we pick up some Yok Tok take-away and have ourselves a bloody feast?”
Gerald laughed. He couldn’t help it. “Yeah. Okay. Why not?”
“Only you’re paying, right?” said Monk. “Because I’ve changed my mind. All of this is your bloody fault, Dunnywood!”
The knock on his closed office door came late, when all sane men were at home in bed. Of course, some would say that sanity was vastly overrated. Or at least not a requirement in his line of work. Perhaps it could even be considered a (“hindrance”).
Certainly there are days, like this one, when insanity helps.
Sighing, he put down his pen and said, “Come.”
“Alec,” said Ralph, and closed the door behind him. “Burning the midnight oil, I see.”
“While you’re out and about for a healthy constitutional?” he countered.
Ralph shrugged out of his overcoat, slung it over a low bookcase then dropped into the chair on the other side of the desk. “What else?” he enquired, his hooded eyes sardonic.
“In Nettleworth?” He pushed away from his desk, crossed to his discreet drinks cabinet and poured them each a modest finger of malt whiskey. Then, after placing one glass in Ralph’s outstretched hand, he shifted to his office’s uncurtained window and rested his shoulder against the wall. Beyond the dusty glass, the night was clear and cold and pricked with distant stars. “You must be desperate.”
“No more desperate than you,” said Ralph, eyeing his emptied glass appreciatively. “You only break out the good stuff when you’re feeling particularly pressed.”
“Control that bloody nephew of yours, Ralph, and I promise my nerves will be markedly less agitated.”
“If only I could control him, Alec,” said Ralph, with a sigh. “But alas, it’s years too late for that. I blame my brother, of course. Wolfgang has encouraged Monk’s waywardness from the moment of his birth. I tried to tell him, but he never listens to me. Thank your lucky stars you’re an only child, old boy. I promise you it makes for a far less complicated life.”
True. “And is Wolfgang also responsible for your gifted, wayward niece?”
Ralph groaned. “It’s a tragedy we’ve done away with convents, that’s all I can say. In the good old days I could’ve locked her behind high stone walls, comforted by the knowledge the world would remain safe from the gel. But instead…”
Despite his weariness, and the burdens that made his neck ache, he smiled. “Don’t be too hard on Emmerabiblia, Ralph. Or on Monk.” He returned to his chair and sat down again, bones creaking. “Without their
