Witches incorporated

CHAPTER TEN

And here,” said Miss Petterly, “is your cubicle, Miss Carstairs.”

Melissande looked. Cubicle? More like a shoebox. Designed to house a shoe for a very small dwarf. If she sneezed in here she’d give herself concussion against the dull grey wall.

“Wycliffe’s is a very particular firm, Miss Carstairs,” said Miss Petterly, a desiccated old stick with a voice like a disapproving nanny-goat. “Miss Wycliffe insists upon the gels keeping their work-places neat, tidy and unobtrusive. That means no personal mementoes, cards, photographs, knickknacks, paraphernalia or frivolous nosegays from bold young men.”

Beyond the wall of her shoebox-cubicle-someone snorted. Miss Petterly’s narrow nostrils flared. “I heard that, Delphinia Thatcher. I shall tell Miss Wycliffe if I hear it again.”

“Sorry, Miss Petterly,” said an unrepentant voice. “I swallowed a fly.”

“There are no flies in Wycliffe’s, Delphinia Thatcher. Wycliffe’s is a very hygienic firm.”

“Yes, Miss Petterly,” said the unseen Delphinia Thatcher.

Miss Petterly plucked a sharpened pencil from the breast-pocket of her high-necked black blouse and used it as a pointer. “Your desk, Miss Carstairs, and your chair. They are not to be moved for any reason. Your typewriter, Miss Carstairs. There is a daily allowance of blank order sheets and paper, which has been carefully determined by me. If you exceed that allowance the cost of the extra shall be deducted from your weekly wage. There are your pens, pencils and ink, Miss Carstairs. You have been supplied with enough to last you a month. Should you remain with us that long, and exceed that supply, the cost of the extra shall be deducted from your weekly wage. Here is your abacus, Miss Carstairs, for swift and accurate mathematical calculations. Should you exceed a rate of one error per transaction a penalty shall be deducted from your weekly wage. Here is your in-tray, Miss Carstairs, which periodically shall be filled with customer orders. This must be emptied at least twice every hour into your out-tray there, Miss Carstairs. Failure to do so shall also incur a penalty which shall be deducted-”

“From my weekly wage, yes,” said Melissande. “I think I’m getting the picture, Miss Petterly.”

And the next time I see that wretched photographer I’m going to kidnap him. And then I’m going to steal Monk’s interdimensional portal opener and send that photographer on a one-way holiday to sprite-land!

Miss Petterly’s nostrils flared again. “Miss Carstairs! Wycliffe’s gels are renowned for their courtesy. I shall overlook your interruption this time, but should you interrupt me again-” Miss Petterly smiled, revealing small, even teeth. “I shall have you shown the door. Is that perfectly clear?”

Melissande hooked a finger between the high-necked collar of her own hideous, brand-new black blouse and eased the material away from her throat. Slow strangulation, what a way to die.

“Yes, Miss Petterly.”

“Excellent,” said Miss Petterly, with another fierce smile. “Once your workday commences, Miss Carstairs, you do not arise from your desk for any reason other than your ten minute morning tea-break and your thirty minute lunchbreak. The office-boy-”

“Ah-” She raised an apologetic finger. “Sorry. I don’t mean to interrupt, Miss Petterly, but what if-that’s to say-is it permissible to leave one’s cubicle if-you know-one is required to answer a call of nature?”

Miss Petterly’s sallow cheeks tinged with pink. “What a singularly indelicate question, Miss Carstairs. I do hope Miss Wycliffe hasn’t-” On a deep breath, she regained her self-control. “Unauthorised absences from your desk will not be tolerated. At the first infraction a deduction shall be made from your weekly wage. A second infraction shall result in immediate dismissal.”

Melissande blinked. In which case I’d best start imitating one of Zazoor’s camels. “ I see, Miss Petterly.”

“The office boy,” Miss Petterly continued, still pink-cheeked, “is responsible for bringing you your fresh orders, and taking away such paperwork as has been correctly completed. As you can see-” She pointed her pencil at the pile of papers overflowing the in-tray. “-your first orders are awaiting your attention. A list of instructions as to how they are processed is pinned there.” Another pencil stab, this time at a sheet of paper tacked to the wall. “Should you require assistance you shall call for me.” Her pencil tapped a little silver handbell which had been fixed to the cubicle wall above the desk. “You shall not engage in gossip with any other Wycliffe gel, nor ask for their assistance, nor render assistance if it is asked of you. In theory, Miss Carstairs, your workday ends at six, but naturally no Wycliffe gel would dream of departing before every last order or query is dealt with. Wycliffe gels are dedicated and true.”

Well, all except one, apparently. “Yes, Miss Petterly,” said Melissande, dulcetly obedient. If Monk could hear her now he’d have a fit.

Miss Petterly consulted the fob-watch pinned to her lacklustre bosom. “Miss Wycliffe will see you in precisely ten minutes, Miss Carstairs. Do not be late. Wycliffe gels are always punctual.”

Melissande stared after the woman as she stalked away, her long black skirt sweeping the office floor. Blimey, as Reg would say. What an old misery-guts.

Still. At least I don’t have to endure her for long, not like the other girls in this horrible place. Lord. I didn’t treat my palace staff like this, did I?

Appalled by the notion, she slid into her cubicle’s wooden chair and snatched up the top sheet of paper from her in-tray. It was an order for replacement machine parts. Perusing it she frowned, attention suddenly focused. Velocipede spokes? Whatever was Wycliffe’s doing selling veloci “Hello,” said a cheerful voice, hushed to a whisper. “I’m Delphinia Thatcher, prisoner number twenty-two. Welcome to Wycliffe’s, prisoner twenty-three.”

Turning, Melissande saw a plump and freckled girl grinning at her from round the side of her cubicle. “Molly Carstairs,” she replied, keeping her own voice low. “Pleased to meet you. What do you mean, prisoner twenty-three?”

“This place,” said Delphinia, wrinkling her nose. “And its twenty-five cubicles. Little prison cells, they are, each one containing a gel, slaving away for the fading glory of Wycliffe’s. How they manage to keep on paying everyone’s wages I’ll never know.”

Melissande flicked a glance in Miss Petterly’s direction but the ghastly woman had returned to her desk and was bent over a ledger. Hiding behind her own cubicle’s wall, she leaned a little closer to Delphinia Thatcher and softened her voice to the merest breath.

“I’m sorry, are you saying that Wycliffe’s is-ah-”

The girl pressed a finger to her lips. “I’m not saying anything, Miss Carstairs.”

“Oh, please, call me Molly.”

“I’d love to,” said Delphinia, “only Wycliffe gels are never familiar. If I get caught it’s a fine and I’ve had so many wage deductions already this week I’m going to end up owing the company money.” She smiled, derisive. “Probably that’s how they can afford to keep paying us.”

So the company was struggling? Well, this was interesting. This was something Bibbie would need to look into. “That’s… a little alarming.”

“Miss Carstairs, you have no idea,” said Delphinia, and returned to her work before someone noticed she was chatting illegally.

Killing time before her interview with Permelia Wycliffe, Melissande hunted through the in-tray. How puzzling: most of the orders were for velocipede and car parts. Hardly any were for airships. How could that be, if this was an airship company? Something odd was happening here. But she’d have to think about it later, because her ten minutes were up and it was time to chat with Permelia.

Standing, she patted her pocket to make sure her secret weapon was safe then made her way through the crowded ranks of identical cubicles to the far end of the room. Her not-quite-floor-length black serge skirt dragged at her, annoyingly, threatening to tangle around her legs and trip her face-first to the floor.

Little steps, little steps, mince, don’t stride. You’re a Wycliffe gel now, Melissande, remember?

She came to a polite halt before Miss Petterly’s knick-knack and memento-cluttered desk, which sat like a sentry box before Permelia Wycliffe’s closed office door.

“Hmmph,” said Miss Petterly, by way of greeting, and put down her pen.

Melissande waited while the dreadful woman got up from her chair, tapped on Permelia Wycliffe’s door, cracked it open and engaged in a low-voiced conversation then stepped back.

“Miss Wycliffe will see you now,” Miss Petterly said grudgingly, as though the idea of sharing Permelia was more than she could bear.

Another Eudora Telford? Please no, I couldn’t bear it. “ Thank you, Miss Petterly,” she said, squeezed past her into Permelia’s office and closed its door emphatically in the ghastly woman’s offended face.

Permelia Wycliffe finished shoving something into her desk drawer, banged it shut and looked up. “Miss Cadwallader,” she said, eyebrows lifted. “Do have a seat.”

“Thank you, Miss Wycliffe,” she said, but took her time getting settled in the visitor’s chair so she could have a good look around at her client’s well-guarded domain.

The first thing she noticed was the enormous painting on the pale yellow wall behind Permelia’s imposing mahogany desk. It featured a daunting, dignified and prosperous gentleman wearing a sober black three-piece suit, top hat and extravagant ginger whiskers. Age and family resemblance suggested its subject was her father; the notion was confirmed by the large brass plaque attached to the heavy timber frame.

Orville Wycliffe, Esquire.

Melissande, considering the portrait, felt the smallest unwelcome twinge of sympathy for Permelia. Just like her own father, Orville didn’t strike her as the cuddly kind of Papa.

The office’s left-hand wall was plastered with sketches and blueprints of airships, each and every one the pride and joy of the Wycliffe Airship Company, while the right-hand wall was almost completely covered in framed photographs. A pity she wasn’t close enough to snoop at them. The section of wall not crowded with photographs was filled by a large, immaculately dusted bookcase crammed with the seventeen Golden Whisks Permelia had won down the years. They might be ridiculous, pointless trophies but still-they were an impressive sight. A testament to Permelia Wycliffe’s dogged pursuit of excellence in the culinary arts.

“ Well?” said Permelia, hands folded neatly on her desk’s blotter. “What are your first impressions of Wycliffe’s, Miss Cadwallader?”

“Well, I’m not really sure,” she said incautiously, as she sat. “I’ve only been here an hour. Of course-” she added, with haste, noticing the ominous flush mounting in Permelia Wycliffe’s cheeks, “it doesn’t take long to see you’ve created a fine family establishment, Miss Wycliffe. The office is just full of hardworking, dedicated Wycliffe gels. And I’m sure I’ll find the same kind of dedication in the laboratory and the-”

“It won’t be necessary for you to go further than the office, Miss Cadwallader,” said Permelia Wycliffe. “As I indicated yesterday, you should focus your attention upon the gels.”

“Is that why you only sent us their details for checking?”

“Correct.”

“Um…” Melissande smoothed her horrible serge skirt over her knees. “Forgive me, but I don’t think I can put this politely. Miss Wycliffe, I’m afraid you don’t know what you’re talking about. If I understood Miss Petterly correctly, most of the company’s Research and Development staff are wizards. And when it comes to wizards even a half-witted Third Grader would have no trouble thieving from anywhere on the premises-even this office. In fact, now that I’ve seen how your department operates, it seems less and less likely that one of the gels could be responsible. Or if she is, she’s most likely in cahoots with someone. Which means that if you’re serious about stopping this theft I need complete access to everywhere in Wycliffe’s. No department can be off limits.”

“I see,” said Permelia Wycliffe, lips pinched. “And isn’t that likely to prove disruptive?”

“It might,” she admitted. “Of course I’d try my best not to be a distraction but in the end that could prove unavoidable.”

Permelia Wycliffe bridled. “I find your answer unacceptable, Miss Cadwallader. You’ve been hired to take care of an administrative matter, not set the cat among my brother’s wizardly pigeons.”

Melissande considered her, eyes narrowed. What was she not saying? The woman was hiding something… ha. “You haven’t told him, have you? Your brother, I mean. He has no idea one or more of your employees is a thief.”

“Mister Wycliffe and I have quite clearly delineated duties,” said Permelia Wycliffe, her cheeks flushing again as she fiddled with her elaborately carved jet hairpins. “There is no need to bother him with trivial office affairs.”

So, this mystery thief was trivial now? Or was it just that Permelia was afraid to admit the problem to her brother? And what did that mean? Was Ambrose Wycliffe a bully…?

Rats. If that’s the case I am going to start sympathising with her and I really don’t want to. The woman’s a cow.

“ Really, Miss Cadwallader,” Permelia Wycliffe continued, aggrieved, “I thought you’d be able to resolve this problem as swiftly as you took care of Millicent Grimwade. I anticipated that you and Miss Markham would be able to-to whip up some kind of truth-compulsion incant that would have the culprit confessing her guilt within moments.”

That had been Bibbie’s inevitable thought too, last night. And of course, being Monk’s sister, she was perfectly capable of fudging together some kind of hex that would do the trick. Of course the fact they’d be breaking quite a few iron-clad rules along the way didn’t perturb her. Just like Monk, she had a… flexible… approach to authority. There’d been quite an argument about it in the end. But with Reg weighing in, making it two against one, the hair-raising idea had finally been discarded.

Of course, trust Permelia to come up with the same plan. Basted with the same pastry brush, the pair of them.

Forever mindful that she was the plain, freckled face of Witches Inc., Melissande offered up a sympathetic smile. “I wish it were that easy, Miss Wycliffe, but the kind of incant you’re talking about is highly restricted. Government use only. And the penalties for unsanctioned thaumaturgical activities are extremely severe… as Millicent Grimwade is currently learning first-hand.”

Permelia Wycliffe stiffened. “Obviously I cannot be associated with anything illegal, Miss Cadwallader. That would hardly be appropriate for a firm of our prestigious reputation.”

“I agree,” she agreed promptly. “And it goes without saying that Witches Inc. is perfectly capable of resolving your dilemma without resorting to questionable tactics. Only without our clients’ full co-operation, well… success is likely to prove elusive.”

Permelia Wycliffe stared down her nose. “Are you implying I would be anything less than-”

Rats. “No, no, not at all. It’s just… there’s no way around it, Miss Wycliffe. In order to solve your problem I need my freedom. I can’t be restricted to my cubicle from eight till six every day.”

Not and stay sane, anyway, never mind cracking the case.

“ You’re convinced of this?”

“Absolutely,” said Melissande. “I’m sorry. In this instance you need to trust my expertise.”

Permelia Wycliffe frowned at her clasped hands. “Naturally, Miss Cadwallader, I don’t presume to do your job for you. I am, after all, paying a handsome fee for your services.” She looked up, her gaze penetrating. “And you think it ridiculous that I’d do so, don’t you? You think this a lot of nonsense. So much fuss over something so petty as… missing biscuits.”

Caught out, Melissande felt herself blush. “No, of course not. Anyway, it’s none of my business.”

“Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps it is silly,” said Permelia, shrugging. “But as I said yesterday, nothing is more important to me than protecting this company. Even if that means I must look a trifle foolish pursuing the theft of a few lead pencils and shortbread creams.”

Shifting in her chair, she stared reverently at her father’s portrait.

“My dear Papa dreamed that one day Wycliffe’s would be the premier airship company of the world. He loved airships, you know. Their grace. Their beauty. The way they glide through the sky like giant silver swans. He died a year ago, before seeing his dream realised, and on his deathbed I vowed to carry on his legacy. Since that dreadful day I have kept my word in the face of many difficulties and crushing disappointments. So surely you see, Miss Cadwallader, that I cannot stand by and allow some-some biscuit-pincher to tarnish his life’s work! To jeopardise the reputation of the company Papa lived for!”

There was no doubting the woman’s passionate sincerity. Melissande, watching Permelia closely, felt that inconvenient tug of sympathy strengthen. The woman’s loyalty to Orville and his company… her own loyalty to Rupert and the kingdom of New Ottosland… she and Permelia Wycliffe stood on common ground there, united by the need to protect from all harm what they loved the most.

Rats.

“ I understand, Miss Wycliffe,” she said with a sigh. “And you mustn’t fret. Miss Markham and I will do whatever it takes to keep your father’s legacy safe.”

Permelia Wycliffe turned, her expression easing towards hope. “Truly, Miss Cadwallader?”

“My word as a Royal Highness,” she replied. “Oh-except I’m not one, remember? And I’m not Miss Cadwallader either. I’m Molly Carstairs.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” said Permelia Wycliffe. “Although, if I might ask, why are you so determined not to be a Royal Highness? I’d have thought it would be something of an advantage in your line of work.” Her high-arched nose wrinkled. “The world is full of Eudora Telfords.”

It was none of the wretched woman’s business, but… “Because I love my brother, Miss Wycliffe,” Melissande said quietly. “And while His Majesty fully supports my desire to be an independent woman of means, his enlightened attitude isn’t shared by all his subjects. So while I forge my way in the world I try to remain inconspicuous, for his sake.”

Permelia Wycliffe smiled. “I understand. And let me say how much I admire you for taking such a bold stance in the face of what must be daunting opposition.”

Melissande felt herself smiling back, for the first time liking Permelia Wycliffe… which came as a surprise. “It would only be daunting if I gave a turnip what the old tossers thought,” she said. “But since I don’t…”

“Oh dear,” said Permelia Wycliffe, her lips twitching. “You mustn’t make me laugh. Miss Petterly will think I’m having a spasm.” She took a moment to rearrange her pens and pencils, then looked up. “Very well, Miss-Carstairs. As soon as I can contrive it I’ll see that you set foot beyond the office. In the meantime I presume you’ll continue to search for this thief among the gels.”

It was her cue to leave, so Melissande stood. “That seems like an excellent plan, Miss Wycliffe. And of course I shall keep you discreetly apprised of the investigation’s progress.”

Miss Petterly gave her a gimlet stare as she left Permelia Wycliffe’s office. “Your in-tray is full, Miss Carstairs. Did I mention that should it not be emptied in a timely fashion a penalty shall be deducted from your weekly wage?”

Melissande bobbed a curtsy in passing. I swear, before this is over I’m going to deduct you, Miss Petterly. “Yes, Miss Petterly. I’ll get right to it, Miss Petterly. Thank you, Miss Petterly.”

She minced back to her horrible little grey cubicle, passing all the other horrible little cubicles where gels clad head-to-toe in sober black bent over their abacuses and their typewriters and their paperwork, striving not to earn a deduction from their weekly wage. Not a single gel looked up as she passed, and the air beneath the high ceiling smelled ever so faintly of an anxious tedium. Clack-clack-clack went all those typewriter keys. Click-click-click went the wooden abacus counters. The office boy dragged his little cart up and down the aisles between the cubicles, its wheels creaking a protest. He never once looked up or smiled.

Probably there’s a penalty for smiling.

Even though this was fieldwork, even though this was a job, one that might well lead to other jobs and the saving of Witches Inc., Melissande shuddered.

Is this what it’s going to be like, then? From the ridiculous to the depressing? Exploding cakes one day, a grim office the next? Sliding in and out of other people’s lives, in and out of their unhappiness and stifled dreams and stunted ambitions, knowing that when I’m done I can leave but they can’t?

Maybe. But that came with the territory, didn’t it? No job was perfect. She just had to remember she’d opened the agency for a reason, to help people who needed helping. All right, so this assignment promised to be dreary. But dreary or not, she was helping Permelia Wycliffe protect her family’s business from a person-or people-who didn’t care who they hurt just so long as they got whatever they wanted. Yes, all right, biscuits… but even so. The principle was noble. This was a calling of which she could be proud. That was worth a little boredom and discomfort.

And let’s face it, Melissande. Life can’t all be interdimensional sprites and exploding chocolate logs.

As promised, her in-tray was now full to the point of overflowing. Swallowing a sigh she slid into her chair, selected a pencil, lined up her abacus and got to work.

Melissande returned to the agency after seven that evening, tired and hungry.

“Well?” Reg demanded from her ram skull. “What happened? Who’s guilty? How soon do we get paid?”

With a groan, still clutching her carpetbag, she dropped into the client armchair. “Too much paperwork, I don’t know yet, and just as soon as I do.”

“Was it awful?” said Bibbie, sympathetically, glamorous as ever behind her desk.

“Yes.”

“And what did you find out?”

She grimaced. “Not much.”

“You don’t even have an inkling of who might be the thief?” said Bibbie, patently disappointed.

“I told you. No. I didn’t have a chance to do any actual investigating. I was too busy processing orders for jalopy door-handles and velocipede tyres.”

“What?” said Bibbie, astonished. “But I thought-”

“It seems Wycliffe’s is diversifying,” she said, and swallowed a yawn. “Where’s Boris?”

“Who knows? Who cares?” said Reg, sniffing. Then she stared down her beak. “You look like a crow in that getup, madam. I almost think I prefer the bustle.”

With another groan Melissande levered herself out of the client chair, took the cat’s dinner out of her carpetbag and staggered towards her adjoining bedsit. “Yes. Thank you, Reg. That’s what I need after today-one of your trenchant fashion critiques.”

“Honestly, Reg,” said Bibbie. “That’s not very nice. The least you could say is that she looks like a royal crow.”

Melissande slammed the bedsit door behind her.

After stripping out of the hideous black blouse and skirt and carefully hanging them up so she could look like a royal crow again tomorrow, she pulled on her beloved tweed trousers and a pale pink blouse then hung out of the tiny window calling for the cat.

Just as she was beginning to despair, Boris leapt lightly through the open bedsit window, all long lean nonchalance, tail flicking, whiskers bristling, and butted her under the chin once or twice to say he was sorry. She unwrapped his fresh fish and put it on the floor, using the waxed wrapping paper as a plate. Then she returned to the office where Reg was sulking on her ram skull and Bibbie was making her share of the office paperclips dance like silver butterflies above the desk.

“I don’t know, Mel,” she said, looking up. “Maybe I should’ve taken the chance and gone to Wycliffe’s. I’d have tracked down the thief by lunchtime. Betcha.”

Melissande dropped again into the client armchair. “No, you would’ve tried to turn the office supervisor into a nanny-goat, which is just what she sounds like and richly deserves.”

Bibbie grinned. “Oooh! Can I?”

“No.”

“Have I ever mentioned you’re a spoilsport, Mel?” said Bibbie, pretending to pout. With a snap of her fingers she dropped the floating paperclips back in their tin dish. “All right, so you were too busy to snoop. What about the hex detector? Did it locate any incriminating sleight-of-hand incants by any chance?”

Drat. Melissande got out of the chair, trudged back to the bedsit, fished the hex detector out of her skirt pocket, trudged back to the office and dropped it onto Bibbie’s desk. “None. Thanks to Wycliffe’s Research and Development laboratory there’s so much ambient thaumaturgical energy in that place your hex detector whimpered and gave up.”

“Hmm,” said Bibbie, staring at the murky orange crystal. “That’s disappointing. What a shame you didn’t stumble across one of the gels shoving packets of biscuits down her knickers.”

She stared. “Yes, I was just thinking that. Oh well. There’s always tomorrow.”

“The answer’s obvious, ducky,” said Reg on her ram skull, rousing from her sulk. “We need a better hex detector. And something thaumaturgical to help us identify our thief. Which is right up Mad Miss Markham’s alley.”

“I was thinking that, too,” said Melissande, nodding. “What about it, Bibbie? Can you come up with something strong enough to swamp Wycliffe’s etheretic atmosphere?”

“You have to ask?” said Bibbie, mildly offended. “Just leave it to me.”

“Gladly. And speaking of leaving things to you, how did you go checking up on the office staff?”

“I left a message with Monk to call me pronto. He knows people who know everything about everyone.”

“Oh,” she said, frowning. “You know, Bibbie, I’m not entirely certain I’m comfortable with that.”

“Relax, Mel,” said Bibbie. “It’s called exploiting our resources. Besides, he’d come running to us fast enough if he needed to know something about witches.”

“Well, possibly,” she admitted reluctantly. “Only-”

“Only nothing. Trust me, Mel,” said Bibbie, offended again. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Pleased to hear it. So that’s you taken care of. And tomorrow I’m going to see if I can make friends with some of the gels and find out who the wizards are at Wycliffe’s. Which just leaves Reg.”

Reg fluffed out her feathers. “I can take care of myself, madam, thank you very much.”

“Nobody said you couldn’t, Reg,” she retorted. “But it’s going to take all three of us to solve this case and I’m the one of us on the inside so if you don’t mind? Wycliffe’s has an employee garden. Everybody except Permelia and her brother use it for lunch and sometimes tea break. It’s the perfect place for you to eavesdrop. You never know what might be let slip while people are gossiping, especially if-as I suspect-we’re dealing with more than one thief.”

“What, me sit in a tree all day?” said Reg, staring down her beak.

“Well, yes. That’s what birds do, isn’t it? Sit in trees?”

“ Birds, yes,” said Reg. “But I’m not-”

“Going to say one more word,” she said, glaring. “Because unless you can type thirty words a minute, do mathematics on an abacus and fill out purchase orders in triplicate you are going to sit in that garden until your tail feathers fall out, if that’s what it takes to solve this case.”

“Oh dear,” said Bibbie. “I think somebody needs to go nighty-night.”

Melissande rubbed her eyes. “Sorry. I can still hear the typewriters.” Then she looked at Reg. “I know it won’t be much fun sitting there all day, but the employee garden’s the only place you can go where you won’t be conspicuous and there’s a chance to learn something useful from everyone.”

“Everyone except the Wycliffes,” Reg pointed out.

“Yes, except the Wycliffes, but since our clients aren’t paying us to investigate them let’s not get into an argument about that.”

“Agreed,” said Bibbie, before Reg could answer. “And now that we’ve got that settled, don’t you want to know what I’ve been up to while you were slaving over a hot abacus?”

“Oh,” she said, feeling guilty. “Sorry, Bibbie. Yes. Of course I do.”

Bibbie looked at Reg and grinned. Reg couldn’t grin exactly but her eyes went shiny, a sure sign she was pleased.

“Well, for a start I found Letitia Martin’s jewellery.”

“Oh, well done!”

“And I cast three progressive horoscopes, booked in four more consultations and helped two clients who walked in off the street. The first one wanted to know if her young man was stepping out on her. So I looked and he was, the cad. Poor girl cried a river.”

Alarmed, Melissande sat up. “Yes, but did she pay? I mean, you didn’t feel sorry for her and give her the answer for free, did you?”

“She wanted to,” said Reg, before Bibbie could answer. “So I looked at her and she changed her mind.”

Bibbie threw a paperclip at her. “Traitor.”

“No, she’s a lifesaver,” said Melissande, sagging. “What about the other client?”

“She’s a Guild Invigilator,” said Bibbie, still glowering at Reg. “Her daughter’s about to have a baby and she wants me to put up some hexes in the nursery. You know, a lullaby incant so the baby sleeps through the night, something to help it smile a lot and not get colic.” Mercurial as ever, she laughed. “I hate to say it, Mel, but I think we’re going to have to send that Times photographer a box of chocolates.”

“Only if they’ve been laced with a laxative,” she muttered. Then she pulled a face. “Um… is it my imagination or is this frippery work, Bibbie? Millicent Grimwade. Permelia Wycliffe’s purloined biscuits. Babies and horoscopes and cheating young men.”

“Mel, we’re witches,” Bibbie sighed. “Females. Not wizards. As far as the wider world is concerned frippery is what we are, let alone what we’re supposed to do.”

“But doesn’t that bother you? Because I’ll tell you, Bibs, it bothers me.”

“Are you kidding?” said Bibbie. “It kills me. But babies and cads and horoscopes are good bread-and-butter money.”

“Which pays the rent,” Reg added. “And that’s nothing to sneeze at.”

“Yes, I suppose so.” She stifled an enormous yawn. “Saint Snodgrass, I’m tired. Time for supper and bed, I think.” She rummaged again in the carpetbag and this time pulled out what was now a lukewarm pork pie, wrapped in more waxed paper.

Bibbie looked horrified. “What’s that?”

“I told you. Supper. I bought it from a barrow girl on the way home.”

“It looks revolting!”

“Maybe, but it’s cheap. And it’s doing my part for barrow girls.”

“Monk would feed you,” said Bibbie, fanning herself. “There’s no need to be a martyr.”

Melissande felt a blush creep over her cheeks. “Monk hardly ever remembers to feed himself, even when someone puts the meal on the table in front of him. I’m fine. You should head home. Good work today. But tomorrow make sure you find out something about the gels. I don’t want to be stuck in that place a minute longer than is necessary.”

After Bibbie departed, Melissande ate her pork pie-more pastry than pork, but it could’ve been worse-then spent an hour carefully writing up the day’s events for the Wycliffe case file. By then she could hardly keep her eyes open.

“Right. Now I am going to bed,” she announced. “What about you, Reg?”

“I’m off hunting,” said Reg.

Melissande held out her arm for Reg to hop on, then returned to the bedsit and stood by the open window. “Have fun. Be careful. I’ll see you in the morning. Don’t let me oversleep.”

“Hmmph,” said Reg, sleeking all her feathers. “I make no promises, madam. I’m a queen, not an alarm clock.”

With a snap of her wings, she flew into the night.

Melissande changed into her nightgown and crawled into bed. “And I’m a princess, not a gel. But we do what we must in this cold, cruel world.”

On which thought, as Boris draped himself over her knees, she promptly fell asleep.

The next morning, as she trudged through more grim piles of paperwork and resisted the urge to throw her abacus across the room, she jumped to find Permelia Wycliffe standing beside her cubicle.

“Miss Wycliffe!”

“Miss Carstairs,” said Permelia Wycliffe, her tone indifferent. “As Miss Petterly has stepped away from her desk I wish you to take these files down to Mister Ambrose Wycliffe in Research and Development.” She held out a sheaf of buff-coloured folders. “Each one must be perused and initialled and returned to me, in person.”

Clever. Very clever. Wait for Petterly’s morning tea break and pounce. She took the folders. “Yes, Miss Wycliffe. At once, Miss Wycliffe.”

“Cor, aren’t you lucky!” whispered Delphinia Thatcher, as soon as Permelia Wycliffe was safely out of earshot. “Getting to go downstairs, Molly. All those handsome wizards. Have fun!”

Melissande swallowed a smile, just in case one of the other gels was watching. She did like Delphinia. The young woman was a bit like Bibbie-relentlessly cheerful. Determined not to let life squash her.

Blimey, I hope she’s not the thief. That would be awful.

“ What’s the matter?” said Delphinia. “You’re not interested in handsome wizards?”

Melissande took a moment to make sure her blouse was tucked in and her hair tidy in its horrible bun. “Oh. Well. I wouldn’t say that,” she murmured, and left the office quickly before Miss Petterly returned.