If I end up having to send her to visit Rupert he will never, ever, in a million years forgive me. No wonder she's never been in contention for the Golden Whisk. She wouldn't be considered for an old tin teaspoon. Not even if it was the consolation prize and she was the only contestant!

Realising that silence was another rejection, Eudora Telford took a step back.

"I'd love another macaroon, Miss Telford," said Bibbie, as the end of the wretched woman's nose turned an emotional pink. "I can eat anything."

"And never gain an ounce," Melissande added quickly. "Alas, if I could only say the same."

"Oh," said Miss Telford, marginally cheered. "Yes. Well." She put down the teapot and offered the plate of macaroons to Bibbie. "Have as many as you like, Miss Markham. It's a great honour for my little cakes to win the acclaim of Antigone Markham's great-niece."

As Bibbie got in some practice on her skills at deception, praising Eudora Telford's dreadful macaroons, Melissande stared out of the horribly knick-knacked parlour window. Still no sign of Reg. Where was the dratted bird? More than an hour they'd been stuck here with Eudora, listening to her prattle on and on and on, and all she had to show for it was indigestion, a full bladder, and the sinking feeling there was no way she could extricate Rupert from a life-threatening encounter with the silly woman's horrendous cooking.

Oh dear. Nature could not be ignored a moment longer. She leapt up. "I'm so sorry, Miss Telford. Might you excuse me to the-the powder room?"

Eudora Telford's plump cheeks coloured. "Why certainly, Your Highness. Let me show you-"

"No, no, just point me in the right direction," she said. "I don't want to put you to trouble. Besides, now that we've heard all about your exciting life in the Guild, I'm sure there are some stirring tales of Antigone Markham my colleague's just dying to share with you."

"Oh!" said Eudora Telford, hands clasped to her bosom. "Oh, Miss Markham, would you? I didn't like to ask... I didn't want to-to thrust myself forward-but I must confess to you, Antigone Markham has been a lifelong heroine of mine. Any story you could share-any snippet of information to shed light on her ill.u.s.trious career..."

Melissande winced as Bibbie shot her a look that would've scalded a burned cake tin clean. But the smile she gave Eudora was as sweet as plum pie. "Well, I think I can oblige you, Miss Telford. Only you must promise never to breathe a word to another soul. Antigone never liked to boast, you know."

Eudora Telford dropped to the edge of the sofa, which was antimaca.s.sared to within an inch of its upholstery. "Not a word... not a syllable... I swear it, Miss Markham." Then, remembering, she looked up. "Through the parlour door, Your Highness, turn right, up the little staircase, second door on your left."

Melissande smiled. "Thank you, Miss Telford."

Coming back downstairs again afterwards, half-an-ear tuned to Bibbie's enthusiastic retelling of some notorious Pastry Guild scandal of the past, she caught sight of Eudora Telford's reticule on the hall stand... and stopped. The most appalling thought had occurred.

Upon their return to Miss Telford's bungalow, the sad little woman had begged them to come indoors to partake of tea and cakes and perhaps a little conversation. Of course she and Bibbie agreed. Not only did they need to find out what Eudora had been up to in South Ott, there was also the danger she might think better of abandoning her errand for Permelia Wycliffe and call another cab to go back there... where all she could do was get herself in terrible trouble.

So they'd accompanied Eudora Telford into her little home, and paid for their dedication with ghastly tea and worse cakes. Upon entering her residence, Eudora placed her reticule on the hall stand... and clearly hadn't gone back to it since.

Like Boris at a mouse hole, Melissande stared at the fussily beaded purse.

I shouldn't. I really shouldn't. It would be dreadfully uncivil. A brute violation of the laws of decent society, common courtesy and the debt one owes one's hostess.

On the other hand, she was one third of Witches Inc. An investigator of the unusual and the odd. And after Lional she had sworn a solemn, private oath never to shirk a difficult duty again.

b.u.g.g.e.r it.

She s.n.a.t.c.hed up Eudora Telford's reticule, loosened its drawstrings and stuck her hand inside. Her fingers closed around a soft pouch, which felt heavy and full of suspiciously small, hard items.

She glanced over her shoulder at the almost-closed parlour door. Bibbie was still regaling Eudora with saucy Guild stories. Keeping her spellbound. Good girl, Bibs. Don't run out of inspiration now, whatever you do. Holding her breath she pulled the pouch out of Eudora's reticule, loosened its drawstrings and looked inside.

Gemstones flashed in the hall's mellow lamplight: diamonds, rubies, sapphires and emeralds. Enough jewels for a king's ransom, surely.

Good grief. Where did Permelia Wycliffe get her hands on these?

She fished in the reticule again, and this time came up with a folded sc.r.a.p of paper. Heart racing, she unfolded it.

Haf Rottlezinder. The old boot factory, Laceup Lane, South Ott. After dark. Enter from b.u.t.ton Street. Approach only on foot.

The last instruction was heavily underlined. The entire note was written in Permelia Wycliffe's unembellished hand.

Melissande stared at it, horrified. So Permelia was mixed up with the portal saboteur. But how? Why? She couldn't be the one behind the attacks, could she? It had to be her horrible brother Ambrose, didn't it?

Or am I letting Lional get in the way? Am I making the fatal mistake of a.s.suming that because Ambrose is horrible it also follows that he's evil?

Surely, as an intelligent woman, an investigator, a staunch advocate of women's suffrage, she had to accept the possibility that Permelia Wycliffe was the mastermind behind the portal sabotage? That somehow she'd suborned Errol Haythwaite to her cause and used him as a conduit between herself and Haf Rottlezinder? After all, she did love-excessively-the company her father had built. And no-one could deny that Permelia was ambitious, and ruthless.

Or it could be both of them, Permelia and Ambrose. They might not care for each other the way she and Rupert cared, but that didn't mean they'd not join forces to save the family business from bankruptcy and ruin. If politics made strange bed-fellows, money had the power to join enemies at the hip.

Rats. I really don't want Permelia to be guilty. I want it to be Ambrose, because he's such an old frog. But I have to face facts: the note. The gemstones. Eudora Telford. One way or another, Permelia's involved.

With another glance at the not-quite-closed parlour door, heart pounding harder than ever, Melissande stuffed the note and the gemstones back inside Eudora Telford's reticule and replaced it on the hall stand exactly as she'd found it.

Then she took a deep breath, poked a stray hairpin into her bun and sailed back into the parlour as though nothing whatsoever out of the ordinary had just occurred.

"-and that," Bibbie was saying, "is the true story of what happened at the Coconut Cookoff of 1884. But I warn you, Miss Telford, you did not hear it from me."

Eudora Telford clapped her hands together, delighted. "Oh, Miss Markham, I shall never breathe a word, I promise. Not even to Permelia, and she is my dearest bosom friend, you know."

Melissande cleared her throat. "Miss Telford, it's been truly delightful having this wonderful opportunity to get to know you better. His Majesty is going to be so excited when I tell him about this charming interlude. I'm sure he won't know what to do with himself until you and he meet in person." She flicked a glance at Bibbie. "But I'm afraid we'll have to leave you now. It's getting rather late, and there's something we have to tidy up back at the agency."

"Oh," said Eudora Telford, woeful again. "Yes, of course, Your Highness. You've been too gracious. Too kind."

"And speaking of Miss Wycliffe," she added, "we've not forgotten the errand you were to perform on her behalf this evening."

Eudora Telford blushed. "You know?"

"We guessed, Eudora," she said gently. "I can't imagine there's anyone else for whom you'd have braved the streets of South Ott."

"Please, Your Highness," Eudora whispered. "You mustn't tell a soul. I promised Permelia I'd take her secret to my grave." She sobbed. "Just as I promised I'd help her, but I haven't. I've let her down."

"No, you haven't," said Melissande. "Miss Markham and I shall return tomorrow morning, promptly at ten, and escort you back to South Ott, so you can keep your word to Permelia."

"Oh, no, I couldn't impose, Your Highness," gasped Eudora. "I couldn't possibly-"

"Oh, but we insist, Miss Telford," said Bibbie, smoothly taking her cue. "It's the least we can do. Besides, I have so many more stories about Antigone to tell you."

Fl.u.s.tered and flattered, Eudora Telford surrendered. "Well, as long as you don't consider it a dreadful inconvenience. Only, the thing is-if you'd not mind-" Her blush deepened. "You must promise not to mention it," she said beseechingly. "Permelia would be so displeased with me if she were to discover-"

"Miss Telford," said Melissande, "we shan't breathe a word. The last thing we want is for Permelia Wycliffe to know that we know anything about your errand to South Ott."

"Oh thank you," said Eudora Telford, and showed them out with a fervent promise to be ready for them again in the morning.

"Gemstones?" said Bibbie in shocked disbelief, once she'd heard what was hidden in Eudora Telford's reticule. She fired up the jalopy's engine. "Are you sure?"

"Trust me," said Melissande. "If there's one thing I know about it's jewels. I had to sell off most of ours to pay the palace gardeners towards the end."

Bibbie whistled. "Gemstones and Haf Rottlezinder. Gosh. Things aren't looking too good for Permelia, are they?"

"No," she said shortly. "But let's not jump to conclusions, Bibbie. We need to meet with Gerald and see what he found out. Let's get back to the office, shall we? Fingers crossed Reg is waiting there for us, and she can fill in at least some of the blanks."

It nearly killed him, but Gerald finally got Errol safely back to Wycliffe's.

He came up with his plan of action during the mildly precarious journey to Errol's parked car. Precarious not because the docilianti compulsion was in danger of wearing off, but because scant minutes after they left the ruined boot factory various civilian and government folk began descending on the area. Having paused to retrieve his staff from the vacant lot, he'd been forced to drag Errol further into the smelly shadows to avoid them being noticed. He'd stared anxiously at each pa.s.sing vehicle but hadn't-praise Saint Snodgra.s.s-caught sight of Sir Alec. He did see Dalby, though, and thought his heart would stop altogether. But Dalby couldn't see him this time... which meant he could start breathing again.

Once it was safe to get moving, he hauled Errol into an awkward dog-trot and hustled him as fast as he dared back to the wizard's silver Orion. The old boot factory's destruction had enticed quite a few people out of their homes, which was helpful. He and Errol lost themselves in the general excitement and reached the car without incident. It was still there, of course, its don't-steal-me hex glowing a bold red warning on the windscreen.

"Unhex it, Errol. We have to get out of here."

Dreamily, Errol did as he was told then let himself be bundled into the driver's seat.

"Right," he said, stowing his staff in the back and clambering into the pa.s.senger seat. "To Wycliffe's, Errol. Slowly. Don't draw any attention to us, whatever you do."

Still trammelled in the docilianti, all the mean, superior sharpness in his face smoothed away, leaving it peculiarly pleasant, Errol obeyed. And as they glided through the advancing night in a car that cost more money than Gerald knew he could hope to earn in ten years, he ran through his plan again, looking for any holes that Sir Alec might poke in it. And then, when he couldn't find any, hunched in the pa.s.senger seat and worked very hard at not thinking about anything... most especially what had just happened back there at the factory.

Wycliffe's front gates were locked, but he took care of that with a touch of his staff. Still beautifully obedient, Errol drove them round to the R&D block. Gerald had to admit it: while he didn't at all care for the docilianti, or having to use it, he couldn't deny it was coming in handy.

As he and Errol got out of the car a winged shadow swooped down from one of the nearby tall and spindly balibob trees.

"Reg?" he said, then shook his head. Surprise, surprise. Nothing changes. "What are you doing here?"

"What does it look like, sunshine?" she said, landing on his outstretched arm. "I'm waiting for you."

"But-but how did you know-"

"I didn't," she said, shrugging. "Not for sure. But it seemed like a safe bet. When I saw you and Mister Puppet, here, weren't blown to smithereens along with that boot factory, I-"

"Reg! You were there? But I told you to-"

"Yes, well," she said, insufferably complacent, her eyes gleaming sardonically in the meagre light from his newly-kindled illuminato. "I don't take orders from you, Gerald. I might, every now and then, adopt a politely worded suggestion, but-"

"So you saw what happened?"

She sniffed. "I saw you save Errol, here. I saw the factory blow itself to matchsticks-you're making a bit of a habit of that, aren't you?-and then when I saw all the bigwigs rolling in, I scarpered. So what happened?"

Briefly, he told her.

"Well, well," she said when he was done. "You're turning lucky escapes into an art form, aren't you?" Considering him closely, she tipped her head to one side. "Gerald..."

He roused himself from unpleasant memory. "What?"

"It's not your fault if that Rottlezinder's dead."

"If he's dead? Come on, Reg. That explosion spread him across half of South Ott."

"Half?" She snorted. "You do exaggerate, Gerald. I'd say a quarter, if you're lucky."

"Reg!"

"Oh, don't start," she snapped. "If you could've saved Rottlezinder too, you would have. But you had to choose, and you chose pillocking Errol Haythwaite. Though why-"

"Because he's innocent."

"Innocent?" Incredulous, Reg stared at him. "Errol Haythwaite?"

"Yes. He went to see Rottlezinder to make him stop the portal sabotage. And he tipped off the authorities about today's attack."

"Blimey!" she said. "I don't mind admitting I never saw that coming." Feathers ruffled with surprise, she hopped from his arm onto Errol's head. Obligingly docile, Errol said nothing. He barely flinched. Seemed hardly aware he was wearing a bird for a hat. Reg's gaze sharpened. "All right, Gerald. What have you done to him?"

He turned back to the car and fished out his staff. "Nothing permanent," he muttered. "Just encouraged his co-operation."

"Oh, yes? Using one of Sir Alec's dirty tricks, I take it?"

"Please, Reg," he sighed. "Not now."

Relenting, she chattered her beak thoughtfully. "I'll say this much. Dirty trick or not, the incant works a treat." Suddenly her eyes gleamed with wicked mischief. "What d'you think? I mean, this chance won't come again, Gerald. I could pretend I'm a pigeon and Errol's a statue."

Despite everything, he grinned. "I think I don't have time for this," he said, trying to sound severe. "I have to get him inside and make it look like there's been a laboratory accident."

"Hmm," she said. "Well, as cover stories go I suppose I've heard worse. Are you sure it'll hold?"

"It'll have to. At least long enough for me to do what needs to be done." He pulled a face. "After that he can be Sir Alec's problem. I've had enough of Errol Haythwaite to last me a lifetime."

"And you're quite sure he's innocent?" said Reg, wistful.

He frowned, remembering the cryptic comments he'd overheard about sealed records and youthful indiscretions. "Of the portal sabotage? Yes."

"b.u.g.g.e.r." She rattled her tail feathers. "And there was me looking forward to him being publicly disgraced."

He pushed Errol's car door closed again. "Reg, that's not very nice."

"Yes, well, neither is Errol," she retorted. "All right then, so if he's in the clear then who hired that bounder Rottlezinder?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. Not yet. Now please, Reg, you need to leave. Again. And I mean really leave this time. The girls must be going spare, wondering what's happened to you."

"No they're not, Gerald. They know I'd never leave you in the lurch." She sleeked her feathers, getting ready to fly off. "You know, sunshine," she added, abruptly serious. "That was some pretty fancy thaumaturgy you managed tonight. I'm talking about getting past Rottlezinder's warding hexes. If I were you, I might be a bit... careful... about what I said in my report to that Sir Alec. After all, he's a very busy man. Probably he doesn't need to know every little pettifogging detail. Broad brush-strokes. Big picture. That's what you should be focusing on."

In silence they looked at each other. Then he nodded. "Thanks for everything, Reg. Tell the girls I'll be in touch. I still need to know what part Eudora Telford played in this-if any."

As she flapped away, he took hold of Errol's sleeve. "All right, you. Come along. Let's make this look good, shall we?"

The laboratory complex was dark and deserted, just the way they'd left it. Still pa.s.sively compliant, Errol deactivated the warding hexes on the side door and they slipped inside. It didn't take long to set up the latest Ambrose Mark VI prototype for destruction. A fiddle here... a tweak there... a clumsy adjustment or three to the thaumic regulation chamber...

When he was done, Gerald looked at Errol. In the bright laboratory lights all his sc.r.a.pes, b.u.mps and bruises from the factory explosion were starkly revealed. The damage to his expensive coat was equally impressive.

"Haythwaite," he said, and put one hand on Errol's shoulder. Snapped the fingers of his other hand in front of Errol's face, reinvigorating the docilianti. Priming Errol for what was to come. Thrusting aside any nasty, niggling qualms.