“I’ll find it,” he said, then shook his head. “That is, when I can find time to visit him. Which won’t be tonight, or any night soon. Mel-”
“Say you’ll come or I’ll make a scene,” she said, dropping the napkin back in her lunchbox. Her lips were smiling, but her eyes were deadly serious. “Do you have any idea how worried Reg has been about you? She’s in such a state she’s practically moulting.”
A pang of guilt spiked through him. “Yes, well, I’m sorry about that, but-”
“Not as sorry as you’re going to be if you’re not at Monk’s place by nine,” she said, and stood. “Say you’ll be there. Go on. Say it.”
Oh, lord. Sir Alec was going to roast him alive. Or he will if he finds out. So I’d best make sure he never does. “ All right,” he snapped. Bloody woman. I must have been mad thinking I was pleased to see her. “ Nine o’clock. But don’t get your hopes up, thinking I’m going to give you chapter and verse about my assignment, because-”
“Well, Mister Dunwoody, thank you so much for the pleasant chat,” she said loudly in her best royal highness voice. Holding her lunchbox like a shield… or a weapon. “We must do it again sometime. Good day.”
Dumbfounded, he watched her mince out of the garden, collecting other black-clad gels along the way. Honestly, she was impossible. Hah. Miss Carstairs his-his arse. Melissande was born a princess, she’d die a princess, and live every damn day in between a princess.
Just like Reg.
Moulting? Reg had been so worried she was moulting? Oh no. She was so vain about her feathers…
Flayed with remorse, appetite ruined, he put his lunch back together and returned to the R amp;D complex. Three steps through the side door a hand clamped mercilessly around his upper arm.
“A moment, Dunwoody. I want a word with you.”
Gerald felt his heart plummet. Errol, Errol. Do we have to do this now? Making certain to keep his expression suitably chastened and subservient, to keep the surge of anger from showing in his eyes, he didn’t fight but let Errol drag him sideways into a convenient corner.
“Ah-Mister Haythwaite-I really am sorry about your staff,” he muttered, keeping his gaze lowered. “I’ll purchase you a new one, you have my word. It might take some time-my salary, you know-but-”
Errol, whose blistered hand had been bandaged, let go of him and leaned close. As always when he was displeased his immaculate accent had sharpened to a lethal edge. “What are you playing at, Dun-woody? What exactly are you doing here?”
Abruptly, he decided to drop a little of his Third Grade act. He’d never bowed and scraped to Errol at the Wizards’ Club and, assignment or no assignment, he saw no reason to completely humiliate himself.
“I’m earning a living,” he said, meeting Errol’s savage stare calmly. “Just like you.”
Errol ignored that. “What really happened in New Ottosland, Dunwoody? The truth. Because I don’t for a moment believe King Lional broke his neck hunting. Not if you were anywhere around.”
Damn. Trust Errol to let his petty vindictiveness spoil everything. They’d been doing such a good job of avoiding each other, too. And now the time had come for him to lie through his teeth.
Please, please, let me be a good liar.
“ I’m sorry you feel that way, Errol,” he said carefully. “But there’s nothing more I can tell you. King Lional’s death was a horrible accident. One in which I was not involved. And I’m back in Ottosland because the new king didn’t want a royal wizard. That’s the truth, but whether you choose to believe it or not is entirely up to you.”
Errol was staring at him, his contempt mixed with-with confusion? “There’s something… different about you, Dunnywood. I don’t know what-I can’t put my finger on it-but it’s there. I can feel it. And I’ll work out what it is, I promise you that.”
Oh, really damn. Errol wasn’t supposed to be able to sense anything through the anti-thaumic shield. He really is a bloody good wizard. “ I’m sorry, Errol. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Please, I need to get back to work.”
“ Work.” Errol fairly spat the word. “You’re a waste of space, Dunwoody. Truscott’s must have a screw loose, sending you somewhere like this.” He leaned close again. “Ambrose is too stupid to see that you’re a menace. A bloody great disaster waiting to happen. He won’t sack you. At least not yet. But until he does you stay away from me and my projects. I don’t want you so much as sharpening one of my pencils, is that clear? And if I catch you even looking at the next Mark VI prototype I will tear you limb from limb. Is that clear? Do you believe me? Gerald?”
Without waiting for an answer, Errol stalked away.
Gerald looked after him, shocked to realise he was actually shaken. Errol was positively overflowing with venomous hatred. He didn’t understand it.
At least he could wait till I’ve proven he’s the traitor Sir Alec’s looking for.
“ Mister Dunwoody!” called Robert Methven, standing beside a crowded lab bench. “If you’ve quite finished wasting Mister Wycliffe’s time, there are several pieces of apparatus here that need to be cleaned.”
Gerald closed his eyes, took a deep breath and rearranged his expression into the epitome of suitably Third Grade submission.
“Yes, Mister Methven,” he said. “Coming, Mister Methven.” And he hurried forward to do Robert Methven’s bidding.
This bloody assignment can’t end fast enough.
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.