“As sure as I can be,” said his most promising and problematical janitor. “The thinking is that the crab puffs are the culprits. The head cook’s been off his game ever since Bestwick disappeared.”
Bestwick. A possible connection, then? “This cook. You don’t think-”
“No, sir, he’s not involved. At least, not on purpose. He just about collapsed when he was brought up from the kitchens and saw what had happened. Burst into floods of tears at the thought of his precious crab puffs ruined.” A snort. “Not to mention his reputation.”
“Tears, Mister Dunwoody, are not a foolproof indicator of innocence.”
“No, sir. But I made sure to read him, and I couldn’t sense anything to suggest he’d mucked about with dubious magics.”
“And you’re confident you’ve not been misled?”
Even with the unreliable etheretic connection, he could see something shift behind Dunwoody’s eyes. Honed instincts stirred, and he leaned forward.
“Mister Dunwoody?”
“Yes, sir, I’m confident. The cook’s not involved.”
A flat statement, lacking room for doubt. Still…
Disquiet not eased, he decided to let the moment pass. For now. “And you have no other suspects?”
“There was one,” said Dunwoody. “The palace secretary. But I’ve ruled him out too.”
“So where does that leave us, Mister Dunwoody? Was the food poisoning accidental, or a deliberate attempt to sabotage the wedding?”
“Sorry, sir,” Dunwoody said, shrugging. “ I can’t say yet. The investigative waters are a bit muddy. Turns out the cook’s been helping himself to the good stuff in the palace wine cellar. He’s hazy about the last couple of days.”
Just what he needed. “In other words, he could have allowed tainted crab meat into his kitchens, or tainted it himself through drunken carelessness.”
“Exactly, sir. And if it was tainted when it got here the next question is, did someone deliberately taint it beforehand? But if it was fine when it arrived, and the cook’s habits aren’t to blame, then that points to someone in the palace taking advantage of his drinking to tamper with the crab.”
Sir Alec pinched the bridge of his nose. Another thundering headache was brewing. “And how likely is that, d’you think?”
“ Well, sir, I suppose anything’s possible,” Dunwoody said. “But honestly? It all seems too complicated to me. That kind of plot’s got so many moving parts. An awful lot can go wrong with it.”
Very true. “A more immediate interference, then?
“Possibly,” Dunwoody said, sounding doubtful. “Only I couldn’t detect any leftover thaumaturgics in the State Dining room. And when Bib — I mean, Miss Markham — inspected the kitchen, she couldn’t sense anything out of place either.”
That sat him upright, a muscle spasming beside his left eye. “I’m sorry? Mister Dunwoody, are you telling me you’ve made Miss Markham an active part of this investigation?”
Dunwoody stared out of the fogged crystal ball, his slightly distorted expression defensive. “No, sir. At least, not exactly. It just made sense to let her look. I mean, she has had experience with thaumaturgical food tampering, remember?”
As if he could forget the cooking competition debacle. “That isn’t the point. The point, Mister Dunwoody, is that-”
Gerald Dunwoody held up his hands. “Sir, sir, I know what you’re going to say. But I can explain. Y’see, the thing is, Bibbie — Miss Markham, I mean — at the Servants’ Ball, she made friends with a kitchen maid who knows Bestwick. A very useful connection, sir. I’d have missed it. Anyway, it gave her an excuse to go down to the kitchens, sir, to see if this Mitzie was all right. And while she was down there, well, she had a little poke around, thaumaturgically speaking.”
“And was this her idea, Dunwoody, or yours?”
Dunwoody swallowed. “Hers. But Mel — I mean, Miss Cadwallader — she thought it was a good idea too. So. You know. I was outnumbered.”
“Outnumbered?” Astonished, Sir Alec stared at his man in Splotze. “Mister Dunwoody, you are an agent of the Ottosland government. You outrank them. Act like it!”
“All due respect, sir, but that’s easy for you to say,” Gerald Dunwoody retorted. “You’re in Nettleworth. Besides, it would’ve looked very odd, me wandering about the palace kitchens. But nobody questioned one maid comforting another.”
Unfortunately, Dunwoody had a point there. “Granted,” he said grudgingly. “However, do let me make myself perfectly clear. This is the first and last time Miss Markham insinuates herself into this investigation. She and Miss Cadwallader are useful bystanders. They are not participants.”
“ Yes, well, I’m sorry, Sir, Alex but I’d like to see you keep a lid on Miss Markham,” Dunwoody muttered. “ Or Miss Cadwallader, for that matter. She’s taking this personally, sir, and I can’t say I blame her. She was dreadfully sick, y’know.”
High-handed princesses taking things personally. Catastrophically talented witches poking about in kitchens. Pinching his nose again, he had to wonder if at last, in sending those two unconventional young women into the field, he’d not managed to outsmart himself.
He frowned at his agent. “You said this kitchen maid was friendly with Bestwick? How friendly, exactly?”
Dunwoody cleared his throat. “Friendlier than you’d like. Sir.”
Damn. He could already hear Frank Dalby’s cursing. “I see.”
“It’s hard to blame him,” Dunwoody added. “Four years is a long time to spend in a pantry. ”
“Bestwick wasn’t sent to Splotze to cavort with kitchen maids!” he snapped. “And if you can so easily forgive his lapse of good judgement, Mister Dunwoody, perhaps you’re not the right man for the job either!”
Silence, as Dunwoody blinked at him. “Sorry, sir.”
“Miss Cadwallader,” he said abruptly, angrily aware that weariness and frustration were betraying him into an unproductive shortness of temper. “How is she faring now?”
“She’s recovering, sir. Everyone is, who’s been sick.”
“Which begs the obvious question: who hasn’t been sick?”
Gerald Dunwoody’s misted, wavering expression darkened. “The Lanruvians. They didn’t touch the crab puffs.”
Of course the Lanruvians. Everywhere he turned, the elusive bloody Lanruvians. “Who else?”
“Leopold Gertz, Splotze’s Secretary of State. The Marquis of Harenstein, but it seems that’s because he has a cast iron constitution. According to Miss Cadwallader he was eating everything he could lay his hands on. A few political nobodies. Nearly everyone was afflicted, sir.” He grimaced. “It was a real mess.”
Sir Alec drummed his fingers on the desk. “So then, to sum up: we’re no closer to uncovering the source of the plot against the wedding than we were when you left.”
“No, sir.”
“And the Lanruvians have done nothing at all to make you suspicious?”
“They’re bloody unsettling, sir, but that’s hardly a crime.”
“Granted. But keep a close eye on them, Mister Dunwoody. They are not to be trusted.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And the wedding tour. Does it continue as planned?”
Dunwoody almost smiled. “It does, thanks to Dowager Queen Erminium’s bullying. I don’t think there’s much that old battleaxe wouldn’t do to make sure the nuptials go ahead.”
“Then, Mister Dunwoody, I advise you to remain vigilant. Next time there’s an incident-and we must assume there will be a next time-we can’t expect to get off so lightly. You’re to use any and all means at your disposal to ensure the success of the Splotze-Borovnik wedding.”
In the foggy crystal ball, Gerald Dunwoody frowned. “Including what’s left of the grimoire magic?”
Careful, now. Careful. “If you must.”
Even the etheretic uncertainty couldn’t hide Dunwoody’s displeasure. “Really? So let me see if I understand you, sir. It’s too dangerous for Bibbie and Melissande to help me, but using the most lethal thaumaturgics we’ve ever met is fine and dandy?”