Witches incorporated

CHAPTER TWELVE

Blimey,” said Monk, standing at his open front door. “ Gerald?”

“Oy,” said Gerald, glancing over his shoulder at the late night emptiness of Chatterly Crescent. “Not so loud. Voices carry. Can I come in?”

“Come in?” said Monk, still staring. “Oh! Of course, mate. Sorry.”

As Monk retreated he stepped over the dilapidated but still stately house’s threshold into the old-fashioned vestibule, which was-to put it very kindly-sadly shabby.

“What are you doing, Markham, answering your own door?” he demanded. “Isn’t a place like this meant to come with a butler?”

“It did, but-well. Long story,” said Monk, pushing the front door closed again. “And anyway, I don’t really need ancient retainers hobbling about the place. They just get in the way. Gerald, I can’t believe you’re standing in my vestibule.”

Grinning, he accepted Monk’s back-slapping embrace. “Neither can I. Mind you, I can’t believe you’ve got a vestibule. Two vestibules. Greedy sod.”

“How did you hear about that?” said Monk, stepping back. His eyes widened in alarm. “Gerald, are you telling me Sir Alec’s got-”

‘Don’t be stupid. Melissande told me.”

Monk frowned. “Melissande? When did you run into Melissande?”

“She hasn’t said?”

“I haven’t seen her. Or heard from her,” said Monk. “She, Bibs and Reg are up to their eyeballs in a job.”

He pulled a face. “I know. At the Wycliffe Airship Company. That’s where we bumped into each other.”

“ You’re at Wycliffe’s?” said Monk, eyebrows shooting up. “Since when?”

“Look, I’ll tell you what I can,” he said, shrugging out of his overcoat, “but isn’t there somewhere we can talk in comfort?”

“Sure, sure,” said Monk, then took the coat and slung it onto the vestibule’s coat stand. “Sorry. Come into the parlour.”

Gerald followed Monk down the creaky-floorboarded hallway into another shabby room made cheerfully warm by a leaping fire in the fireplace. A laden drinks trolley stood beside the curtained window and a lopsided table took up half of one wall. Two overstuffed armchairs were angled to take comfortable advantage of the warmth. The armchairs were both so elderly their leather had crazed and cracked, leaving tufts of horsehair stuffing poking out like bristles on a caterpillar. A faded, cosy two-seater sofa completed the room’s furnishings.

“What?” he said, looking around. “No experiments all over the floor? Don’t tell me you’ve reformed.”

Grinning, Monk collapsed into the nearest armchair. “Who, me? Perish the thought. No, they’re all over the attic.”

He grinned back at his friend and sat himself in the matching chair. “Of course they are.” Typical Markham. “It’s good to see you, Monk.”

“And you. I notice that colour-incant’s worn off. How’s it working out?”

He rubbed his silver eye. “Good. It’s good. I had to tweak it a bit-I’m putting in a ten-hour at Wycliffe’s. Can’t afford it fading at an embarrassing moment.”

Monk sat up. “You what? You tweaked one of my incants? Oooh, Gerald, you shouldn’t have done that. You might explode your eyeball.”

“Ah… no,” he said, gently smiling. “I don’t think so.”

“Oh,” said Monk, slumping again. “You know, for a moment there I forgot.” He shook his head, bemused. “Huh. You tweaked one of my incants. There’s a turn-up for the books.”

Was he jealous? No. Not Monk. There wasn’t a jealous bone in his friend’s lanky body. He was just… adjusting.

And he isn’t the only one. I’m still not used to it and I’ve spent the last six months finding out what I can do.

“ It’d be good if you could tweak it a bit more, though,” he added. “Whatever I did to it makes my eye itch.”

“Sure,” said Monk. “Remind me to take care of it before you leave. So. If you’re at Wycliffe’s, that means…”

“Yeah. I’m in the field. My first assignment.”

A slow smile spread over Monk’s thin, anarchic face. “You passed the final test.”

“Well, I didn’t fail.”

“Eh? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You tell me and we’ll both know,” he said wryly. “Hey, I don’t suppose the bar’s open, is it?”

“Been one of those days?” said Monk, sympathetic.

“You have no idea.”

Monk uncoiled from his armchair. “Brandy all right?”

“Bless you, my son,” he said, letting his head fall back. “Brandy is perfect.”

Monk frowned as he sloshed a generous amount of liquor into the first of two balloon glasses. “Wycliffe’s,” he murmured. “Hang on… hang on…” His eyebrows shot up, and he stared. “Errol Haythwaite’s working for Wycliffe’s. Very smartly turned down the Aframbigi post and… oh. Oh, Gerald. Tell me you’re not.”

Trust Monk to leap to the right conclusion. “Not what?”

“Tell me you’re not investigating Errol Haythwaite!”

Careful now, careful. “I’m not investigating him specifically.”

Monk poured the second brandy, brought both glasses back to the armchairs and held one out. “But…”

He took the brandy and swallowed a generous mouthful. The smooth bite of fermented apple flamed across his tongue and down his throat, and he smiled.

“That’s good stuff.”

“Yeah, well, Great-uncle Throgmorton was a cranky old sod but he kept a good cellar,” said Monk, sitting again. “ Gerald. What’s going on?”

“Look, I’m not trying to be coy, honestly,” he said, “but can we wait till the girls get here before I spill the beans?”

Monk frowned. “The girls?”

Terrific. “They didn’t warn you?”

“Warn me about what?”

“That we’d all be meeting here tonight. At nine.”

“No,” Monk sighed. “They didn’t.”

“Probably they wanted it to be a surprise.”

“Or Mel was just being regal again.” Monk grinned. “She does that, you know.”

“I had noticed,” he said. “So… you and Melissande… you’re still…”

“Yes, Gerald,” Monk said primly. “We are still-what’s the word? Courting?”

“I think so. Though when it comes to Melissande it must be like courting disaster.”

“It has its moments,” Monk admitted. “I’m busy. She’s busy. And she’s the next in line to a throne, at least until Rupert marries and has a sprog. She’s genuine working royalty, mate. That kind of complicates things.”

“Only if you let it, Monk. Unless, of course, you’re looking for an excuse.”

“An excuse?” said Monk, startled. “To do what-exit stage left? No. No. I just-I don’t know-I’m not good at this, Gerald.”

“Not good at what?”

“You know. Romance,” said Monk, harassed. “I don’t think I know what women want. What do they want?”

He swallowed laughter, along with more brandy. “How would I know? Ask Reg. She’ll tell you-at length.”

“Yeah…” Monk half-drained his glass. “So. How are you? What’s it like being a janitor? Answering to Sir Alec? Is he as tricky as everyone says?”

Instead of replying, Gerald stared into his brandy balloon. He shouldn’t answer. In fact, he should leave. He’d been told, point blank, not to make contact with his friends.

And I didn’t. I tripped over them, which is hardly my fault. The damage-if there is damage-is done, so there’s no point in me leaving. Besides, I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t find out what Melissande and Reg are up to at Wycliffe’s.

As for Monk, well, he wasn’t just anybody. He was the best friend who’d risked everything for him in New Ottosland and had come damn close to losing his career on the strength of it. Monk Markham knew the same secrets as he did. Which meant, in his book, they were practically the same person.

Which means the rules don’t apply.

Besides, he really needed someone to talk to about… stuff. And he had questions that only Monk could answer.

He looked up. “Remember in New Ottosland when you said to me, ‘ Don’t do it ’. Not unless I really wanted to? You meant the janitoring, right?”

Monk considered him warily. “Yeah. Right.”

“So what did you know that you weren’t telling me?”

“Gerald…” Monk shoved out of his armchair and returned to the drinks trolley, sloshed more apple brandy into his glass and brought the bottle back with him.

He held out his own glass. In the fireplace the flames crackled merrily, devouring wood. “Don’t mess me about, Monk. I really need to know.”

His expression derisive, Monk topped up the brandy balloon. “That was fast. I thought it’d take longer.”

“Thought what would take longer?”

“For Sir Alec to mess with your head. Seven months? That must be some kind of record. From what I hear, most agents are good for a couple of years at least.” He sat down again and plonked the bottle of brandy by his feet. “So. What happened?”

Gerald put down his drink. “In a minute. First tell me why you tried to warn me off.”

“Why d’you think?” Monk muttered, brooding into his glass. “Because I’m your friend.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Monk took a much bigger mouthful of brandy, swallowed, spluttered and made a big production out of coughing and wheezing and banging his chest. Playing for time. Trying to avoid the truth.

“ Monk…”

Monk sighed and gave up. “I had a cousin. On my mum’s side of the family. Mordecai Thackeray. He was a fair bit older than me, and he was an agent too. Not for your lot. He worked for a different Department. Same business, though. Dirty tricks. Investigations. Swimming in the political sewers. Domestic, not international. Though sometimes the two spheres… well, they crossed paths. They still do from time to time.”

Gerald nodded. He’d been fully briefed on the government’s other thaumaturgical investigative branch. Been made blisteringly aware of their not-always-cordial relationship and warned he was never to tread on their toes. Not unless it couldn’t be helped. The last thing Sir Alec wanted was junior janitors muddying already murky waters.

“And this Mordecai,” he said. “What happened to him?”

Shifting in his armchair, Monk glowered at the fire’s leaping flames. “Short answer? He died.”

Oh. “And the long answer?” Not that he was sure he wanted to hear it. Not with a look like that on Monk’s face. Monk was the most resilient, the most stubbornly uncrushable man he knew. For him to look stricken…

But if I’m going to be this-this person, this agent, then I have to know. I never want to be taken unawares again.

“ I don’t have a long answer,” said Monk eventually. “At least, not one I can swear to. I was only a nipper when we lost Mordy. Bibbie was still in nap-pies. And the folks never talk about it.” He brooded into his glass of brandy. “I think Aylesbury knows something. I think he overheard something he wasn’t meant to hear-but you know Aylesbury. If I asked he’d know it mattered, so he’d let himself be torn apart by wild dogs before telling.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Tell me again how sad it is I’m an only child.”

Monk smiled, but his amusement was brief. “The official story,” he continued, looking up after another long pause, “is that Mordy contracted Assowary Fever and didn’t run to the nearest hospital because he thought it was only a bad cold. By the time he realised he was wrong it was too late.”

“And un officially?”

“Unofficially-from what I’ve been able to glean and ferret and snoop and fossick-he was involved in a case that went spectacularly wrong. Good people died, another agent included. He blamed himself. And… he didn’t want to live any more.” Monk shrugged. “But none of that’s official. It’s just me leaping to conclusions.”

Gerald rubbed a finger over the shiny spot on the knee of his trousers. “Yeah. But you’re good at that. So, what? You think that could be me one day?” A charming thought. But Monk was wrong. He’d never do it. Not to his parents. Not to Reg.

Monk swallowed more brandy, avoiding his gaze. “Didn’t say that.”

“ Monk.”

“It’s just, you remind me of him a bit, right?” said Monk, goaded. “Like I said, I was only a nipper but I never forgot him. Mordy was a good man. He cared about things. About right and wrong and helping people who needed to be helped, no matter what it cost him. Looking back, I can see there was something sad about him. Something driven.”

Gerald felt his jaw drop. “And you think that’s me? You think I’m sad and driven? Bloody hell, Monk. Don’t beat around the bush-you think I’m pathetic!”

“Not pathetic,” Monk protested. “You just… take things to heart. Like Mordy did.” He got up again and crossed to the fire. Stared down into the mesmerising flames. “And if you are feeling a bit… down… no-one could blame you. Not after what you’ve been through.”

Gerald reached for his glass and knocked back the remains of his brandy in one swallow. “Well, I’m not down. Right? I’m fine. I mean, I’m sorry about your uncle, but I’m not him.”

“No?” Monk swung round. “Then what’s the problem? And don’t tell me there isn’t one, mate, because I’ve still got two good eyes.”

Brought to it, suddenly he wasn’t sure what to say.

“Hey,” said Monk. “If you’re worried I’m going to let something slip…”

“No. Lord, no.” He shrugged. “It’s just hard to explain.”

“Explain what?”

“The final test.”

“What about it?”

“It was bloody peculiar, that’s what!” he replied, flooded once more with baffled unease. “Even now, Monk, I’m not sure how much of it actually happened. I mean, I know I got on a train in Central Ott. I know I got off the train in Finkley Meadows and a cart took me into the countryside and left me at the front gates of an obscure Department property. And I know I ended up drinking tea with Sir Alec and driving back to Nettleworth with him in a car. But everything that happened in between?” Another shrug. “I can’t explain it. It felt real. Too real. But I don’t think it was real.”

Monk frowned at the hearth. “How do you mean, not real?”

“It felt like a dream,” he said. “Things happening that make sense at the time, even while a part of you knows they’re impossible. You know?”

“Mmm,” said Monk, and gulped some brandy. “Maybe. Did you, ah, ask Sir Alec?”

“Of course I asked Sir Alec! Sir Alec said it wasn’t Department policy to discuss testing with agents.”

“Ah,” said Monk. Suddenly he was looking… uncomfortable. No, more than uncomfortable. He was looking guilty.

Gerald put down his empty glass. “Monk? What’s going on? Do you know something? If you do you’d better tell me.”

“Mmm,” said Monk. “Well. This is bloody awkward.” He stood. “Awkward? What do you mean awkward?” Now Monk’s face was a picture of woe. “I’m sorry, Gerald. I had no idea they’d use it. At least, not on you. They said they were exploring some new ideas. They said they were considering its application, maybe, sometime in the future. Once the kinks were ironed out.”

“ They said?”

Monk winced. “He said. Sir Alec.”

Sir Alec. Again, and at every turn. “And what is it?”

“The delerioso incant,” Monk mumbled.

“Never heard of it.”

“No. Well, you wouldn’t have,” said Monk, still mumbling. “It’s on the proscribed list.”

“The proscribed list?” He stared. “Then how the hell did you-”

Monk rubbed his nose. “I invented it.”

“Of course you did,” he said, dazed, and sat down again. “Enlighten me, Monk, before I punch you. Or worse.”

On a deep sigh Monk dropped cross-legged onto the fireplace’s cindery hearth. “What can I say? It was a stupid university prank. Something I dreamed up in second year. Back when I was smart enough to do that kind of thing but too stupid to realise it might backfire.”

“Oh, well, it’s good to know things have changed,” he said, giving sarcasm full rein.

“Bloody hell, Gerald,” Monk muttered. “I said I was sorry, didn’t I? I’m telling you I didn’t know.”

“Never mind the grovelling,” he retorted. “You can save that for later. What the hell is a delerioso incant?”

“It was meant to be a bit of harmless fun,” said Monk. “Good for a giggle, and embarrassing people you don’t like.” His sharkish grin flashed, irrepressible. “Worked a treat on Errol. He didn’t show his face for a week after, stupid git.”

“ Monk.”

“Oh. Yeah. Right.” Monk cleared his throat. “The delerioso tickles the subconscious. Gets you reliving a dream, or a memory, as vividly as if it’s happening right in that moment. You know, you think you’re dancing with some bird on the last night of school but in reality you’re making a fool of yourself in the quad waltzing with a broom. Stuff like that.” Monk couldn’t help himself: he grinned again. “So anyway, I tried it on Errol and he re-lived the time his mother dressed him in a sailor suit and it all got very ugly. The upshot was I got sent down for three weeks… and noticed by the Department of Thaumaturgy. They recruited me on the spot. Well, I say recruited but it was more like being strong-armed.”

“Like me,” said Gerald, slowly. “How come you never mentioned this before?”

“Water under the bridge, mate,” said Monk simply. “Turns out it was the right choice. I’m happy where I am. I do good work.”

“I don’t know about good,” he said, feeling bitter. “It’s bloody effective, I’ll give you that. Although…” He frowned. “I was doing more than re-living memories. I was experiencing new things as though they were real.”

“Yeah. Sorry about that,” said Monk, wincing. “They-he-Sir Alec-got me to kind of-you know-soup up the original incant. He said they were thinking of using the delerioso as an interrogation tool. A way of tricking villains into giving up vital information without having to-to-”

“Make them uncomfortable?” he suggested, with a savage delicacy.

“Well… yeah,” Monk admitted, thoroughly miserable now. “Something like that. I thought it was a good idea. We find out what we need to know and nobody gets hurt in the process.”

“Yes, it’s all very noble, really. So… what? I was your guinea pig?”

Monk rubbed his nose again. “I suppose. Sir Alec’s guinea pig, anyway.”

Bloody Sir Alec. Gerald reached for the brandy bottle beside Monk’s chair. Someone remind me to have words with him the next time we meet. Not bothering with his glass, he swallowed deeply.

“I really am sorry, Gerald,” Monk said quietly. “You know that, right?”

He shook his head. “It’s funny. I should’ve twigged you had something to do with it. There was this hex I had to break. Your fingerprints were all over it. Yours, and a bunch of other wizards.”

“They put that in?” said Monk, surprised. “Huh.”

“Something else you were playing at?”

“Ah…” Monk’s face coloured. “Yeah. The hex Lional used to lock Mel in her palace apartments. Remember? I kind of… borrowed it, and gave it the old Markham touch.”

He swallowed from the bottle a second time then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Speaking of Lional, he and I had an interesting conversation-courtesy of your delerioso incant. Congratulations. Your souping up efforts are a spectacular success.”

“Hell’s bells,” said Monk, and dropped his head into his hands. “Gerald, I’m sorry. I swear I didn’t know what Sir Alec had planned.”

With exacting precision Gerald put down the brandy bottle, temper bubbling beneath the warm apple glow. “And when I finished chatting with Lional I tortured someone to make them talk,” he added, feeling ruthless. The horror of those moments still hadn’t receded. “At least I thought I did.”

“ What?” said Monk, his head snapping up. “Gerald, I never — ”

“His name was William. Sir Alec told me people were going to die if he didn’t tell us what we needed to know. And because I thought it was real, I started to dismantle the shadbolt that was keeping him quiet. But he screamed and I couldn’t finish. I walked out. And instead of failing me, Sir Alec offered me tea and sent me to Wycliffe’s.”

The fire crackled merrily into the silence.

“It must’ve been the only test they could think of,” Monk murmured. “Using your own strength, your own memories, against you. I mean, if you could break those gate-hexes… you did break them, didn’t you?”

Gerald nodded, remembering the delight he’d felt at outwitting the great Monk Markham. “Oh, yes. I broke them.”

“No-one at the Department could crack them, you know. The best First Graders in the country couldn’t make a dent. Bloody hell, Gerald. You’re good.” And then Monk shook his head. “I can’t believe they used my delerioso against you. That’s-that’s bloody wrong, that is. They know we’re friends. We’re on the same side. You don’t use team mates against each other.”

He felt his lips tug in a small, sardonic smile. “Don’t look now but the game’s changed, Monk-and we’d better keep up. And don’t forget… it’s all for the greater good.”

“Yeah, well, to hell with the greater good!” said Monk, bouncing to his feet. “First thing in the morning, first bloody thing, I’m going to-”

“No, you’re not,” he said tiredly, his bubble of temper abruptly burst by Monk’s genuine distress. “You’re not saying a word about this to anyone. I’m not even supposed to be here. I wasn’t supposed to breathe a syllable of what happened in Finkley Meadows. It’s janitor business.” Picking up the brandy bottle again, this time he splashed a little into his glass. “I just… I didn’t know… I wasn’t sure…” He sighed. “Well. At least I know it wasn’t real. I didn’t actually — ”

“Gerald, you’re not the villain here,” Monk insisted. “Like you said, that wasn’t real. It was a hypothetical situation. And nobody got hurt.”

“This time,” he whispered, and drained his glass. “But what about next time, Monk? What happens when there really is a William, and a shadbolt, and innocent lives on the line? What do I do then?”

Before Monk could answer they heard a loud banging on the front door-just as the clock on the mantel struck nine.

Gerald pulled a face. “That’ll be the girls. We’d better let them in before they kick down the door.”

Monk, his expression still deeply troubled, didn’t move. “Hey, Gerald. You believe me, don’t you? That I didn’t know what Sir Alec wanted that incant for? That I had no idea he was going to-”

“Don’t be stupid, Monk,” he said, and put aside his empty glass. “Come on. They really are going to kick their way in.”

But Monk just stood there, hands shoved in his pockets, his frowning gaze fixed on the past.

“Well, it’s about time, Gerald!” grumbled Melissande, marching into the vestibule with Reg perched piratically on her right shoulder. She’d changed out of the hideous black blouse and skirt into her familiar tweed trousers and a pale yellow blouse with a sensible coat on top. Not hideous, but not terribly flattering either. Just quintessentially Melissande. Her rust-red hair hung down her back in a plait. “Bibbie was about to blast the door into matchsticks.”

Bibbie. Emmerabiblia. Closing her brother’s front door behind her, Gerald felt his heart stutter. Lord, she was so incredibly, blindingly beautiful. Every time he saw her it was like being struck with a hammer.

She gave him a cheeky, dimpled smile. “Hello, Gerald.”

“Yes, hello again,” said Melissande, looking him up and down. “I have to say I’m a bit surprised you came. You didn’t look at all a sure thing when I left you in the employee garden.”

He couldn’t help smiling. She was so tart, like the best lemons. “It’d take a braver man than me to refuse your gracious royal command,” he said, then shifted his gaze. “Hello, Reg.”

Reg looked at the ceiling. “I’m not speaking to you.”

“ Reg…”

Monk stuck his head through the open parlour door. “In here, everyone. If you two are going to fight you might as well do it in comfort.”

They trooped into the parlour, and Monk closed the door to keep the heat in. Melissande twitched her shoulder so Reg could flap to the back of the sofa, then graciously allowed Monk to slip off her coat and hang it on the door hook. Bibbie tossed her own coat on the floor then collapsed in one armchair, swivelling till she could dangle both legs over its arm. Very unladylike, and totally Bibbie. Melissande joined Reg on the sofa and Monk sat beside her, gently taking her hand in his. They hadn’t spoken a word to each other but the look they exchanged was eloquent.

Gerald, hiding a smile, stood with his back to the fire. So. Monk’s really smitten, eh? I think this time he might be in trouble…

“ I hope you appreciate all the effort we’re going to, Gerald,” said Melissande. “Meeting late so no-one will see you. I start at Wycliffe’s at the crack of dawn, practically. I’m giving up precious sleep to be here.”

“You didn’t have to,” he pointed out. “You could’ve told me at lunch what you’re doing at Wycliffe’s.”

“With all those people around?” she retorted. “Nonsense. We have to thrash this out properly, Gerald. For all I know we’re working on the same case and I’m not going to have Witches Inc. shoved aside by the Ottish government.”

“The same case, Mel?” said Bibbie, sounding amused. “Oh, I don’t think-”

Melissande tilted her chin. “It’s possible! Stranger things have happened-and frequently to me.”

“I wouldn’t worry,” he said dryly. “I very much doubt Witches Inc. would be retained to investigate my case.”

“Oy!” said Reg. “That’s enough patriarchal superiority from you, sunshine. Witches are perfectly capable of solving mysteries of international significance, just like any common-or-garden, backstabbing, inconsiderate, selfish wizard you care to think of.”

Ouch. “I thought you weren’t speaking to me?”

“I’m not,” she snapped. “I’m making a general observation to the room at large.”

Oh, Reg. “You knew I’d be gone for a while,” he said quietly. “You knew I wouldn’t be able to contact you.”

“While you were off training, yes,” she retorted. “But you’re not training now, are you? You’re janitoring. You’re back in town and you never told us.”

“Because I wasn’t allowed to, Reg.” He looked at all of them, his three dearest friends and Bibbie. Whom he knew a bit, through Monk… and would very much like to know better. “Strict instructions from Sir Alec. If he finds out I’ve spoken to you he won’t be happy.” Which is putting it mildly. “ And he really won’t be happy when he finds out you three are investigating at Wycliffe’s. What in the name of Saint Snodgrass are you doing there?”

“We could ask you the same question,” said Melissande. “In fact, I think I will.”

“I asked first.”

She looked at him over the top of her glasses. “ That is a particularly childish answer, Gerald.”

“Melissande, please. This is important. Just-tell me what’s going on, all right?”

He was immediately treated to a tangled three-way tale of sprites and cheating pastry cooks and public unmaskings and exploding gooseberry sponges and a mystery thief with a penchant for nicking biscuits and sundry office equipment. When the riotous tale was told, and the girls finally stopped shouting over the top of each other, contradicting and complaining, he looked at Monk and shook his head.

“An interdimensional portal opener?” he said. “Bloody hell, Markham. Only you.”

Monk tried to look penitent and failed, abjectly. “What can I say? It was an accident.”

It was an accident. They’re going to be his last words, I just know it. “ I take it you haven’t told anyone… official?”

“Not yet,” said Monk, shaking his head. “To be honest I don’t know if I will. Once I calmed down and thought about it, I wondered if an interdimensional portal opener might not be a bit dangerous to have around.”

Melissande rolled her eyes. “ Now it occurs to him. After he’s let the interdimensional sprite loose on the world.”

“Hey,” said Monk. “It got your agency out of financial hot water, didn’t it?”

“But Monk,” said Bibbie, “if you keep the IPO under wraps that means you won’t get another article in The Golden Staff.”

“He’ll survive,” said Gerald. “And I’ll forget I even heard about it… if you promise to forget it exists, Monk.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Monk sighed. “I know the drill. Stop being such an old mother hen, mate.”

Reg nipped him on the ear. “Oy. That’s enough disparaging of mature female birds, thank you. And anyway, what you did was daft and you know it.”

“Ow,” said Monk. “Fine. Sorry. The point is, Gerald, there’s no need to fuss. I learned my lesson. No more interdimensional portal opening for me.”

“Okay,” he said, relieved. Monk might be a raving nutter, but once he gave his word that was that. “Good.”

“And now,” said Melissande, “it’s your turn, Gerald. Why are you skulking at Wycliffe’s?”

Damn. “If I tell you on my honour, cross my heart and hope to get haemorrhoids that I’m not on the trail of a rascally biscuit thief, will you believe me and let it go? Please?”

Melissande looked at Reg, then Bibbie. “Sorry,” she said, stubborn to the last. “For all you know our biscuit thief could be-could be-”

“Diversifying,” said Bibbie brightly. “They’ve gone so long without being caught they’ve been emboldened, and now they’re-they’re-”

“Upping the ante,” said Reg.

He sighed. “No, girls. Trust me. They’re really not.”

“You don’t know that,” said Melissande, with another belligerent lift of her chin. “How can you know that?”

“Because it’s my job,” he said, striving for patience. “Secret government agent now, remember?”

“That just makes you badly paid,” said Bibbie. “Not infallible.”

“So, Gerald, what are you doing at Wycliffe’s?” said Melissande. “It’s the dullest place imaginable. And it’s well on the road to insolvency, if I’m any judge. And as a former prime minister of a practically bankrupt kingdom you’d best believe I am. These scooters and velocipedes and what-have-yous they’re trying to flog are rubbish.”

He shook his head. “Sorry. I can’t tell you.”

Reg rattled her tail feathers ominously. “Sauce for the goose, sunshine. If you don’t give us chapter and verse about what you’re up to, well, this Markham boy’s still got his interdimensional portal opener around here somewhere. Fancy a little jaunt to the twelfth dimension, do you? With an extra helping of sprites?”

Gerald stared at them, feeling his frustration churn. “Look, girls, I know you think I’m being a spoilsport but I’m only trying to protect you. In fact…” He took a deep breath. “For your own safety, I think you should tell Permelia Wycliffe you can’t solve the case and get out of there while you still can. Because if you keep on poking around in that place you might accidentally poke the person I’m after… and that could be dangerous.”

“Turn tail and run, you mean?” said Bibbie. “Absolutely not! We’re witches, not shrinking violets.”

Gerald shoved his hands in his pockets. “That’s not quite accurate. You’re a witch, Bibbie, but as for your colleagues… well, Melissande’s a born organiser and Reg is a bird. Trust me, that’s not enough this time. We’re not talking hexed cakes. We’re talking big trouble. And I don’t want you three anywhere near it.”

Now they were all glaring at him. “You-you-insufferable prig!” spluttered Melissande. “Is that what they taught you on your Department training course? How to be an insufferable prig?”

“Steady on, Mel,” Monk murmured. “He’s only-”

She snatched her hand free of his. “Don’t you dare defend him to me, Monk Markham! Patting me on the head and telling me to sit in the corner like a good little girl? After Lional?”

Monk pulled a face, hands raised. “Sorry, mate. You’re on your own.”

Wonderful. He couldn’t be handling this worse if he’d planned it. “Look, that’s not what I meant. I know you’re brave, Melissande. You’re ridiculously brave. You and Reg are the bravest women I’ve ever met. And Bibbie, you’d be just as brave if you had to be, I’m sure.”

Reg’s eyes were glinting dangerously. “That’s right, sunshine. Keep on digging. Graves are generally six feet deep.”

He stared at them, despairing. “Why won’t you trust me when I say you shouldn’t be there? I’m the one with the inside information. I’m the one working for the secret government Department that knows things. If anybody’s being priggish here it’s you, dismissing my expertise out of hand.”

The girls looked at each other. Then Bibbie shrugged. “I hate to admit it but he’s got a point.”

“Fine,” said Melissande, and folded her arms. “All right, Gerald. You tell us why it’s too dangerous for Witches Inc. to continue investigating at Wycliffe’s… and we’ll consider leaving.”