showed him into the old house’s library where a fire burned with inappropriate cheer, and a scattering of books about shadbolts suggested that at last Ralph’s intractable nephew was learning to do as he was told.
The other Monk’s portal opener sat on a low table, outwardly innocent, wholly repellent. He withdrew the object in its lead-lined box from the thick felt bag and put it on the same low table. Then he unhexed the box and flipped back the lid, revealing the object’s existence for the first time in years.
“Blimey,” said Monk Markham, peering down at it. “That thing’s got a kick to it.”
He nodded. “It has.”
Stepping back, Markham’s sister shivered. “I don’t like it, Sir Alec.”
He flicked a glance at her. “Nor should you, Miss Markham. This is a thaumaturgical abomination. Created by a man afflicted by… interesting ideas.”
As Monk Markham winced, the appalling bird tipped her head to one side. “Oh yes? In that case, sunshine, what’s it doing in our library?”
He’d often wondered just how much Mr. Dunwoody and his friends knew about the former Queen of Lalapinda. He had to believe-very little. For if they’d known what he knew they would hardly be so relaxed in her company. If he weren’t convinced she’d been hexed into comparative harmlessness he’d not be relaxed either.
Miss Cadwallader, as she so quaintly insisted she now be called, stood stiffly behind the wingback chair on which the bird perched. “I appreciate that in your profession, Sir Alec, a certain amount of circumspection is required. But really, given our current dilemma, I hardly think it’s appropriate.”
“In other words, ducky, get on with it,” said the bird. “In case you haven’t noticed, the sun’s about to rise.”
And that was true. With nowhere to sit he dropped to one knee beside the low table, and the box. “This device,” he said, tapping its lead-lined container, “is the only one of its kind. At least, as far as I know. I’ve never come across another and it’s my devout hope I never will.” He swept his gaze around their faces, slowly, and let them see what that meant. “Until this moment I was the only one who knew of its existence. The wizard who created it is long dead and while he lived he kept it a secret. In revealing it to you four now I imperil not only my own career and quite possibly my life, but yours as well.”
“Without asking?” said Miss Markham, frowning. “Thanks for nothing, Sir Alec.”
He nodded. “You’re welcome.”
“So this long dead wizard you nicked it from,” said the bird. “Killed him, did you?”
“Is that relevant?”
Her disconcertingly human eyes gleamed. “No. But it’s interesting.”
“It’s ancient history,” he said flatly, and looked again at Ralph’s inconveniently brilliant nephew. “Mr. Markham. There is a short time after death during which echoes of the deceased’s experiences remain imprinted on his or her etheretic aura. This device will allow you to read them.”
“Bloody hell!” said the bird. “No wonder you kept that thing under wraps. In the wrong hands it could do a bit of mischief.”
He gave her a thin smile. “Precisely.”
Monk Markham and his sister were staring at the object with oddly-alike expressions: shock mixed with a cautious and regrettable admiring excitement. The term “cut from the same cloth” might have been coined just for them.
Ralph, Ralph. Does your brother know about his children?
Miss Cadwallader folded her arms. “You want to read our visitor, don’t you?”
“Not… exactly,” he said. “I want Mr. Markham to read him.”
“Me? Why me?” said Ralph’s nephew, startled.
He shrugged. “Because much of the information gained through this device is, for want of a better word, intuitive. And given that you and he are the same man in many respects, it seems likely you’ve a better chance of connecting with his memories. Especially since he’s been dead for some time.”
“Fine,” said Miss Cadwallader. “Say our Monk connects. What do you intend to do with the information?”
“Whatever I must in order to avert disaster,” he replied, with another thin smile. “That is, after all, my job.”
Melissande Cadwallader was a perspicacious young woman, with a spirit forged in fires the heat of which thankfully few would ever know. She stared at him in silence, her green gaze measured and cold. One by one the others, even the bird, turned to look at her.
“Mel?” said Ralph’s nephew, a young man in love. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m not sure,” she said. “Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. Sir Alec… nobody official knows you’re here, do they?”
Ah. Very neatly, very deliberately, he clasped his hands on his bent knee. “No.”
“Do they know Gerald’s missing?”
“No.”
“Do they know about the other Monk?”
“No.”
“In other words, whatever you’re planning to do isn’t sanctioned.”
He nodded. “Correct.”
“And are you going to tell them? Your political masters?”
Political masters. Oh, how he disliked that term. “In my opinion this situation is too complicated for a politician to grasp. If we’re going to act we must act quickly, decisively, with a minumum of interference.”
“So, in other other words,” she said, still so cool and watchful, “you want to go on keeping your secrets.” She nodded at the lead-lined box and its contents. “Like that thing.”
“Yes. That is, if you’ve no objection, Miss Cadwallader.”
Her lips tightened. “Have you heard of the saying, Who watches the watchers?”
“We watch each other, Miss Cadwallader.”
“Ha!” scoffed the bird. “Then why weren’t you watching my Gerald?”
“Are you suggesting I should’ve anticipated the manner of Mr. Dunwoody’s disappearance?”
“He didn’t disappear, sunshine, he was kidnapped!” said the bird. “Right from under your sleeping nose!”
“Reg,” said Miss Cadwallader, and nudged the chair with her knee. “Be fair.”
The bird subsided. Interesting.
“Miss Cadwallader,” he said, “is there a point you’re trying to make? If so, please make it. Every minute we delay makes Mr. Markham’s task more difficult.”
“My point, Sir Alec,” she retorted, “is that you should stop treating us like children and instead spell out exactly what you’ve got in mind.”
“You tell him, ducky,” the bird snapped, and chattered her beak. “Bloody government stooges. They’re all alike and they never change.”
Mr. Markham cleared his throat uncomfortably, hands shoved deep into his pockets. “Look. Sir Alec. I know when it comes to your dealings with us the road so far’s been a bit bumpy. I know that one way or another we haven’t always followed the rules. At least, not as they’re written. But that doesn’t make us the enemy. We might be unorthodox but I promise, you can trust us.”
Sighing, he shook his head. “Mr. Markham, if I didn’t know that already then instead of remaining here in your comfortable house you and your sister and your unorthodox friends would be under lock and key in an undisclosed location.”
“Oh,” said Ralph’s nephew, blinking. “Right.”
The bird cackled. “So now that you’ve put us all at ease, Sir Watc h-Me-Throw-My-Weight-Around- Because-Intimidating-Civilians-Is-So-MuchFun, why don’t you cut to the chase and lay your dog-eared cards on this nice antique table?”
He looked at the bird and the bird looked back. Bright eyes, dull feathers, and deeds long behind her that would make these children weep.
Does she weep, I wonder, in the dark of night, with her memories?
