Stupid bloody politics. Stupid old men. “Sir-Monk’s a genius.”
“I know, Mr. Dunwoody. That would be the problem.”
They drove some twenty-five more miles in silence. Around them the countryside grew markedly more full of sheep. At last Sir Alec slowed almost to stopping, then guided the car down a long narrow private road. It took them all the way around to the back of a seemingly deserted farmhouse, where a straggle of outbuildings sagged under the sunny sky. The surrounding silence was profound.
“Right,” said Sir Alec, and stopped the car. “Here we are.”
And here was in the middle of nowhere. Clambering out of the car, overnight bag clutched in one hand, Gerald looked around, perplexed. “Ah-Sir Alec? What-”
“With me,” said Sir Alec, infuriatingly calm, and led the way into the nearest slatternly barn.
Instead of cows, or even sheep, the barn contained a portal.
“It’s unregistered,” said Sir Alec, answering his unspoken question. “One of a handful we use for little jobs like this. Perfectly safe, of course. Just-off the national grid. All right, in you hop.”
Secret portals? The Department operated secret portals? What else didn’t he know? Feeling stupid, Gerald stared at his superior. “You’re a licensed portal operator?”
For once, Sir Alec’s brief smile was almost warm. “Mr. Dunwoody, over time you’ll find I’m licensed for a great many things.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small copper disc and tossed it. “Use that for your return journey. It’ll shoot you through to a different unregistered portal. We don’t like to use the same one twice in any mission. There’ll be a phone so you can call the Department for a lift back to Nettleworth. And don’t worry. The travel token has a falsified destination signature. The Grande Splotze portal operator will be none the wiser. Now-have a safe trip and I’ll see you again soon.”
Gerald slipped the return travel token into his pocket. “Yes, sir.”
And with nothing else to say, he stepped into the portal and vanished.
“Y’know,” said Reg, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, sunshine.”
Holding a finger steady on a precariously balanced thaumic constrictor, Monk blew his hair out of his eyes. “Well, you’re not me, are you, Reg?”
Reg cackled. “And if you think I don’t give daily thanks for that, Mr. Markham, you’ve got cockroaches in your undershorts.”
He looked at Melissande. “Have I told you today how grateful I am that you took her with you so she’s not living with me?”
“I wouldn’t live with you if you paid me in rubies,” said Reg, offended. “Cheeky bugger.”
They were up in the attic, fiddling with experimental thaumaturgics. Well. Drinking brandy and fiddling. And more the former than the latter. Sort of. What he really wanted to do was have at his multi-dimensional etheretic wavelength expander, except… well, it was still pretty unstable and Gerald wasn’t here. So instead, he and Bibbie were working on her ridiculous ethergenics project with Melissande taking copious notes and Reg making a nuisance of herself on one of the stationary pushbikes. It was all terribly domestic.
“I think,” said Bibbie slowly, emerging from one of her trances, “that what we need to do next is cross-wire the thaumic constrictor with the etheretic enhancer, and feed the feedback pulse back through a compromising subharmonic Bodley prism.”
“Say that again, ducky,” said Reg. “Backwards. I dare you.”
Bibbie flapped a hand at her. “Shut up, you silly woman. Monk, what do you think?”
I think Melissande looks adorable with ink smudges on her nose. “Um-really? A Bodley prism? You don’t want to use a Crumpshott?”
“No,” said Bibbie, decisively. “Any fool can split the harmonics with a Crumpshott.”
“And by any fool,” said Reg, amused, “she means Demelza Sopwith.”
“Hey!” said Bibbie. “I thought we agreed that name was never to be spoken.”
Reg rattled her tail feathers. “Sorry. Perhaps if I had some brandy I could remember things like that.”
“ Forget it! ” Melissande and Bibbie shouted together.
“Remember what happened the last time you got your beak into brandy?” Melissande added. “I refuse to go through that again.”
Reg subsided, sulky. “Well, at least I didn’t climb into a fountain and crush innocent goldfish to death down my decolletage.”
“You don’t have a decolletage, Reg,” said Melissande, teeth gritted. “Not any more. But I do. So shut up or I’ll pretend you’re a goldfish.”
“I need more brandy,” Monk announced, and scrambled to his feet. “Lots of it.” The girls ignored him, they were too busy squabbling. Leaving them to it, he took the stairs two at a time down to the parlor where the drinks trolley lived. Suitably fortified he headed back upstairs, only to be halted midway by a banging on the front door.
“What the hell?”
It was late. They weren’t expecting anyone. And if it was Gerald returned from his mission he’d let himself in. Bugger. He didn’t want visitors. Mildly grumpy, he turned around, thudded back down the stairs and padded along the hallway to the hexed front door. Tucked the bottle of Broadbent under his arm, canceled the hex and swung the door wide.
“Yes? What is it? What do you-”
The man on the doorstep wore the same face he looked at in the mirror every morning.
“Markham!” the man gasped. “Monk Markham! Let me in, for God’s sake! We have to talk!”
Monk banged the door shut in the man’s face-his face-reset the hex and climbed back up to the attic.
“Um-girls?” he said, halting in the doorway, and was amazed he sounded so unperturbed. “If I could just have your attention?”
They looked at him inquiringly: Melissande, Bibbie and Reg.
“Um-girls-am I drunk?”
“Well, drunk’s a relative term when it comes to you,” said Bibbie, considering him. “But on balance no. I wouldn’t say so. Why?”
He cleared his throat. “Because I just answered the front door and I’m standing on the doorstep. I don’t suppose you’d like to come downstairs and see?”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Bloody hell,” said Reg, peering down from Melissande’s shoulder at the figure collapsed on their doorstep. “I thought you were joking.”
Monk spared her a look. “About something like this?”
“Oh, for the love of Saint Snodgrass, don’t you two start,” said Bibbie, and shoved everyone aside. “Whoever he is, however he got here, he’s in trouble, can’t you see? Help me get him inside. MonkMonk — don’t just stand there, you idiot. Help.”
“The parlor’s probably the best place for now,” said Melissande. She sounded terribly self-contained, and looking at her face he couldn’t tell what she was thinking or feeling. “I’ll jolly up the fire.”
“Good idea,” he said. “Ah-Melissande-”
She waved aside his concern. “I’m fine. Bibbie’s right. We should get him inside before somebody sees him.”
As she and Reg retreated, he helped his sister haul-haul Me? Can I say me? Or is it not-me? I must be drunk. Or dreaming. Is this real? It can’t be real. Can it?
— him over the threshold and into the house. The man was a dead weight, stuporous and groaning. No luggage. No handy name tag. No anything to suggest who he was, where he’d come from or what the devil he was doing here in Ott. In Chatterly Crescent.
On my doorstep.
“Get the door,” Bibbie grunted, the man half-draped over her shoulder. “And double-hex it. No, better make that a triple. The last thing we need tonight is any more visitors.”
