“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.