“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.”