He switched off his shield-incant. Took a deep breath, feeling his rogue powers stir. Thought for a moment, sorting through his repertoire of incants, chose the good old reliable Speed-em-up hex, gave it a twist, then zapped the gasping engine to within a thaumicle of its life.
The scooter roared like a ravenous tiger.
“Blimey!” said Reg, startled. “Do you know what you’re doing?”
“Hold on,” he said grimly. “We’re about to go really, really fast.”
“Gerald-now Gerald-” said Reg, warbling with unease. “You’re not that Markham boy, remember, just you think about this-just you-GeraldGeraaaaaald! ”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
And you’re perfectly certain, are you, Miss Cadwallader, that these-these hexes of yours will do the trick?” said Permelia Wycliffe, coldly displeased behind her desk. “Because up to this point I cannot see that you’ve made any progress. Worse than that, I have just discovered that three more boxes of Buttle’s Best Assorted Cream Biscuits are missing from my executive cupboard.”
Melissande managed not to squirm. “Oh dear. I am so very sorry, Miss Wycliffe. Still. Biscuits. It could be worse, couldn’t it? I mean, all your Golden Whisks are still here.”
“It’s not the biscuits, it’s the principle!” snapped Permelia Wycliffe. “We continue to succour a thief in our midst! And you seem to have taken steps to apprehend this-this criminal only this morning!”
“Yes, well, as I explained, Miss Wycliffe, the hexes we’ve employed to identify your miscreant are extremely complicated and delicate. Moreover they are unique. My colleague Miss Markham has invented them specifically for your use. Hours and hours of work have gone into them. I assure you they will do the trick.”
Mention of Bibbie softened the severe pinching of Permelia Wycliffe’s lips. “Yes. Well,” she said, fractionally mollified. “No less could be expected of Antigone Markham’s great-niece. Nevertheless, Miss Cadwallader, I must insist that you-”
The telephone on Permelia Wycliffe’s desk buzzed, one long blurt of noise indicating an internal communication.
As Permelia Wycliffe answered the summons-it was her horrible brother, Ambrose-Melissande rested her gaze on that crowded wall of boastful photographs. Honestly, the more she thought about it the crazier it seemed. How was it possible that so many women around the world, important women-or at least women who were married to important men-could get so excited about baking cakes? Surely there was a better way of solving world hunger…
She realised then that Permelia Wycliffe had stopped talking. Had hung up the telephone. Was sitting behind her desk like a woman carved from meringue, sugar-white of face with a hectic dot of strawberry jam on each sunken cheek.
“Miss Wycliffe?” she said, alarmed. “Miss Wycliffe, are you all right?”
Permelia Wycliffe was breathing with such harsh restraint she seemed in danger of bursting a blood vessel. “There has been,” she said, though her jaw was clenched to breaking point, “another portal incident, Miss Cadwallader. It is very distressing.”
Melissande felt herself go cold. “Oh. Oh, no. Oh, that’s awful. Has anyone been-”
“You must excuse me, Miss Cadwallader,” said Permelia Wycliffe stiffly. “My brother will be joining me shortly. A confidential business meeting.”
“Of course, Miss Wycliffe,” said Melissande, standing. “I’ll just-I’ll leave you to-I’ll go now. Thank you.”
As she reached the office door, Permelia Wycliffe said, “Miss Cadwallader?”
She turned, desperately hoping her face wasn’t betraying how close she was to tears. “Yes, Miss Wycliffe?”
“You must appreciate, given the current business climate, that the Wycliffe Airship Company cannot be expected to pay for your services indefinitely. Particularly when you seem unable to reach a satisfactory conclusion to your investigation. I believe the amount of your retainer covers one more day? Then you have one more day, Miss Cadwallader, to unmask the thief. After that your services shall no longer be required.”
“Oh,” she said faintly. “I see. Yes. Well. I’m sure Witches Inc. will do its utmost to provide satisfaction, Miss Wycliffe.”
“I certainly hope so,” said Permelia Wycliffe. “Because people do talk, Miss Cadwallader. It would be unfortunate if they were talking about you for all the wrong reasons.”
“Yes, Miss Wycliffe,” she said, and made her escape past horrible Miss Petterly, who looked at her with deep disfavour as she returned to her horrible little grey cubicle. Safely hidden she sat for a moment, willing the tears and nausea to subside, then mechanically reached for the next purchase order requiring her attention.
Another portal accident? So was last night a premonition? And was I wrong to let Gerald and Reg talk me into staying silent? Oh, Saint Snodgrass, if anyone has perished…
The spectre of leaving Wycliffe’s a failure paled before this latest dreadful news. Heart pounding, stomach churning, she tried to focus on the paperwork…
But all she could see were her dead and dying people sprawled on the palace forecourt, struck down by Lional, innocent in death…
Like fingernails down a classroom blackboard, Miss Petterly’s horrible handbell rang out. Melissande held her breath, knowing every gel in the office was doing the same.
“Miss Carstairs. Miss Carstairs. To me, if you please!”
Well… bugger. Biting her lip, she went to face Miss Petterly.
“What is the meaning of this, Miss Carstairs?” demanded Miss Petterly, brandishing a sheaf of paperwork. “You have been altering the customers’ purchase orders!”
What? Oh, yes. Tantivy Tourist Extravaganza’s order, from first thing that morning. “I’m sorry, Miss Petterly. I was just trying to help. They seem to have confused themselves and ordered the Gyrating Pandoscopic Side-mirror when what they really needed was the-”
Miss Petterly leapt to her feet. “ Miss Carstairs. No gel under my supervision presumes to tell a customer he is confused! Are you trying to cost this company business?”
“Well, no, Miss Petterly, I was trying to-”
“Don’t you talk back to me, young lady! No gel under my supervision shall-”
At the other end of the office, somebody’s silver handbell tinkled.
“Wait here,” said Miss Petterly coldly. “This conversation is not concluded.”
Miss Petterly stalked off to make someone else’s life miserable. Melissande pulled a face at her retreating back, then took the blue hex-detector from her black skirt pocket and surreptitiously waved it over the horrible woman’s desk. Sadly there was no reaction.
Bugger. How wonderful it would be if Miss Petterly was the thief.
In Permelia Wycliffe’s office, behind Miss Petterly’s guard-dog desk, Permelia Wycliffe and her useless brother Ambrose were deep in private consultation. Although the door was closed and the curtains before the internal window were almost completely drawn, she caught a snatch of raised voices.
“- I would take care of it, Ambrose! You must be mad to… such a foolish decision… quite despair! If Father were alive, he’d… clearly up to me to save the company. So this is what you’re…”
She didn’t catch the end of the sentence.
Trying to be nonchalant, trying not to attract unwelcome attention, Melissande inched her way around Miss Petterly’s desk, to see if she could overhear anything else.
“… not the success we’d hoped for, but… my fault I had to buy inferior equipment. There is a market for… need better quality wizards, Permelia… purse strings… had to do something!.. You haven’t saved us… shall prevail!”
And that was brother Ambrose, sounding petulant and henpecked. Probably Permelia was complaining about the awfulness of the latest Wycliffe City Scooter. If the number of purchase orders coming in were any indication, it was a lemon to outshine any previous citrus product Wycliffe’s had managed to produce so far.
“ Miss Carstairs! Do you mind?” demanded Miss Petterly, marching towards her. “No gel under my supervision stands on my side of the desk!”