There seemed little point now in slavishly following Department protocols. That boat had not only sailed, it had sunk. "I suppose Reg will have already told the girls," he sighed. "So. An abandoned boot factory blew up in South Ott last night."

Monk stared at him, lips twitching. "Don't tell me. Let me guess. Son of Stuttley's?"

He raised a warning finger. "Don't. Just don't, all right? Not this morning, Markham. I'm not in the mood."

"Yeah," said Monk, sobering, and looked him up and down. "Yeah, I can see that. Maybe you'd better sit down, mate, before you fall down."

"Funny. I was just thinking the same thing." He weaved his way across the parlour's dingy, thread-bare carpet and collapsed onto the two-seater sofa. "Monk, I could murder a cup of tea. And some toast. And some scrambled eggs."

"And after that sleep for a week, it looks like," Monk added. He held out his hand. "Here. Give me that staff and I'll put it somewhere safe."

Vaguely surprised, Gerald looked down at the gold-filigreed First Grade staff still clutched in his right hand. "Oh. Yes. I forgot about this."

"Right," said Monk carefully. "Okay. So maybe you shouldn't be making any sudden moves." He grabbed the staff and lifted it out of the way. "Just... sit there. Don't think about the girls, or my jalopy, or South Ott, or exploding factories. Think-think happy thoughts, Gerald. You can do it if you try, I know you can."

He stared at his friend, bemused. "Monk, what are you going on about? I'm fine. I'm tired and starving, but aside from that I'm fine."

"Really?" said Monk. "Then you and I have very different definitions of 'fine', mate. Look-you relax. I'll be right back. Don't go anywhere."

"I wasn't planning to," he said, around a jaw-cracking yawn. "b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, Monk. You won't believe what's been going on. Exploding factories is just the beginning."

"I'll believe anything if you're mixed up in it," said Monk. "I should've known what I'd be in for after you turned that mad king's b.l.o.o.d.y cat into a lion."

Monk was only joking, he was trying to play the fool, like he always did... but suddenly nothing felt funny any more. "Give it a rest, Monk," he said, appalled to hear the little quaver in his voice. "Can you?"

"Oh, G.o.d," said Monk, equally appalled. "Who died?"

"Haf Rottlezinder."

Monk's eyes nearly started out of his head. "Really? Someone died? You're not joking?"

He gave Monk his most jaundiced look. "Is this my joking face, Markham? Is it?"

"You don't have a joking face, Gerald."

"Then take the hint."

"b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l," Monk muttered. "Rottlezinder's really dead?"

"Yes. He's really dead." Very dead. Comprehensively dead. Unmistakably, unreservedly dead. Every time he closed his eyes he heard the annihilating boom of the factory exploding. Smelled the tinny thaumic discharge. Imagined himself enveloped in a fine red mist...

Don't think about it. Don't think about it. What's done is done.

Monk cleared his throat. "Did you-you didn't-b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, Gerald-"

With a grating effort, he dragged his eyelids open. "If you mean did I actually, personally kill him, then no. Not exactly. He was killed by his own unstable hex. But I had to choose between saving him and saving Errol."

"Blimey," said Monk. "Rather you than me, mate." Then he winced. "Sorry."

He shrugged. "Yeah. That makes two of us."

"Look, I want to hear all about it, but-let me get you some breakfast first."

"I don't want to make you late for work. I can-"

"I'll call in sick," said Monk. "Or late. Or something. Don't worry about that. You just-take some deep breaths. Cultivate your appet.i.te. I'll be right back."

The remains of Monk's breakfast were sitting on the parlour table. He'd b.u.t.tered his bread roll but hadn't eaten it. Perhaps the telephone call from Bibbie had distracted him. With a heartfelt groan, Gerald staggered off the sofa, s.n.a.t.c.hed the bread roll off its plate and devoured it. Then he fell onto the sofa again and enjoyed the sensation of being still and quiet. Could eyelashes ache? He rather thought that they could.

Time meandered by. He didn't quite fall asleep, but he did drift into a kind of aimless doze. The room was pleasantly warm, with a cheerful little fire crackling in the fireplace. It was like being in a shabby coc.o.o.n...

"Here you go," said Monk, returning to the parlour with a mug of tea and a plate of scrambled eggs, only slightly charred bacon and four thick slices of b.u.t.ter-dripping toast. Bless him and the camel he rode in on. "Wrap your laughing gear around this, mate. You'll feel like a new man, afterwards. And while you're eating you can fill me in on the rest."

So he did. When both breakfast and tale were finished he sat back, replete, the worst of his dizziness subsiding. Looked at Monk, who was staring at him with dazed fascination.

"b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, Gerald."

"Yeah," he sighed. "I know."

"So what's going to happen to Errol?"

He shrugged. "Don't know. Don't much care. He's Sir Alec's problem now."

"But you're convinced he didn't sell his work to the Jandrians?"

"You're the one who didn't believe he'd sabotage the portal network. Does Errol selling secrets to an enemy government sound likely to you?"

Monk shook his head. "No. I said from the start he's a pillock, not a traitor."

Which reminded him... "So which Haythwaite was it then, who did the dirty on Ottosland?"

"What are you talking about?"

"It was something Sir Alec said. About Errol maybe not being the first treacherous Haythwaite."

"Dunno," said Monk, his interest piqued. "I'll ask Uncle Ralph. He'll know for sure. He's got closets full of other people's skeletons and he hates the Haythwaites as much as we do." Monk shook his head again, this time with a tinge of admiration. "I can't believe you read the riot act to Sir Alec. And I really can't believe he didn't skin you for it!"

Oh. Yes. d.a.m.n. He cleared his throat. "Ah, Monk? There is one more thing. In the course of the mission debrief I, well, I sort of lost my temper a bit and-well, frankly, I got a trifle carried away and, um, I let it slip that I knew where he got the delerioso incant."

"Oh," said Monk, after a moment's horrified silence.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. But I swear you won't hear a word about it," he said quickly. "Sir Alec and I came to a definite understanding."

"Yeah," Monk said slowly. "And by a definite understanding, did you actually hear him say, I will not string Monk Markham up by his short and curlies for blabbing about his super-secret hex?"

"Well, no," he said. "I mean, not in so many words. You could say the understanding was definite, but not... articulated."

"Right," said Monk, his expression glum. "In other words it's back to Probationville for me-if I'm lucky."

He shook his head. "No. Not this time. Not on my account. Not again."

Monk sighed. "You say that, Gerald, and I know you mean it, but-"

They both turned their heads at a loud banging on the front door.

"This has an eerily familiar feel to it," said Monk. "All right. I'll let them in, but after that you're on your own." He took a deep breath and blew it out, hard. "Brace yourself, mate."

Reg flapped into the parlour first to circle under the ceiling, closely followed by Melissande and Bibbie, their long skirts swishing. All three of them were talking a mile a minute. On his feet to greet them, Gerald waited till Monk came in and closed the door behind them, then raised both hands.

"Put a sock in it, all of you!" he said loudly. "I mean it!" And to show them he was serious, he stirred the ether with a short, sharp breeze. The flames in the fireplace leapt up, roaring. The heavy curtains swayed, creaking the old timber curtain rods. The girls' skirts whipped around their legs and Reg's feathers fluttered wildly.

"Oy!" said Reg, gliding down to the arm of the sofa. "Do you mind?"

"Sorry," he said, and settled the ether. "But I know what you three are like when you're in full spate."

"Monk Markham, you wipe that grin off your face right this instant," said Melissande, without turning her head. "Or there will be blood on the carpet and I promise it won't be mine."

"Sorry," said Monk, hastily sobering.

"Gerald," said Bibbie, "you look dreadful."

"I'm fine," he said, trying hard not to be distracted by her. Really, she was so beautiful it was ridiculous. She was so beautiful she made Ambrose's ban on gels in the laboratory almost seem reasonable.

"He looks like he's been blown up," said Reg. "I told you, didn't I?"

"Yes, but you've been known to exaggerate," said Bibbie, and shook her head. "Really, Gerald? Really, you blew up another factory? I mean, I heard about the explosion on the boarding house wireless, but-"

"Yes, Bibbie," he sighed. "Another one. Son of Stuttley's and so forth and et cetera and so on."

She wrinkled her nose. "Son of Stuttley's? That's a silly thing to say-" Her gaze shifted sideways. "Monk."

"Oh, find a sock and swallow it, ducky," said Reg. "Then put your b.u.m in the nearest chair. Gerald needs to know what we know and vice versa."

Grumbling under their breaths, Melissande and Bibbie sat, taking an armchair each. Monk stood in front of the dwindling fire, one elbow propped on the mantel. When everyone was settled, Gerald sat on the sofa again and looked at the girls.

"All right," he said. "Tell me everything."

"In a minute," said Melissande. "First, is what Reg told us true? Have you stopped suspecting Errol Haythwaite?"

"For the portal sabotage? Yes," he said, with a warning glance at Monk. "It's true. Your turn."

"We found out what Eudora Telford was doing in South Ott last night. She was taking a fortune in gemstones to Haf Rottlezinder."

He stared at her. "I'm sorry-she was what?"

"On Permelia Wycliffe's behalf," Reg added. "Which you never would've found out if it hadn't been for us." She sniffed. "A nice bit of grovelling wouldn't go astray right about now, sunshine."

Sometimes the only way to survive Reg was to ignore her. "Permelia Wycliffe was paying Haf Rottlezinder?" he echoed. If that's the case, Sir Alec's going to go spare. "Are you quite certain?"

"Of course we are, Gerald," said Bibbie. "When Mel and I took that silly Eudora Telford back to her bungalow we ended up staying for cakes and tea. Mel snooped in Eudora's purse and found a fortune in sparkly stones. And a note in Permelia Wycliffe's handwriting, directing Eudora to Haf Rottlezinder in the old boot factory that you blew up."

"Actually," he said, "for the record? I didn't blow it up. Rottlezinder did. I was just... there."

"Oh, who cares?" said Reg, fluffing out her feathers. "It was abandoned. No-one was using it."

"No-one except Haf Rottlezinder," he said quietly.

"Yes, well, he was a rotter and he blew himself to smithereens so good riddance to him," said Reg. "What matters, Gerald, is we've solved your case."

He considered her blankly. "No, you haven't."

"Yes, we have," said Melissande. "Gerald, we caught Permelia red-handed, paying off the wizard who blew up the portals!"

Monk cleared his throat. "Except that you didn't, Mel. Permelia Wycliffe was nowhere near South Ott last night."

"But-"

"Melissande," said Gerald, as kindly as he could. "Look. I know you're trying to help, but Monk's right. Have you got the gemstones? Have you got this note you think was written by Permelia? Have you got anything connecting her to Haf Rottlezinder?"

"I told you," said Melissande, rolling her eyes. "I overheard Permelia and Ambrose arguing about saving the company, and Reg overhead Permelia asking Eudora for a favour and-"

"In other words, no. You've got no proof at all."

Reg, Melissande and Bibbie looked at each other. Then Bibbie shrugged. "Well... we've got Eudora Telford."

"What?" said Monk, alarmed. "What do you mean you've got Eudora Telford? Do you mean you've actually got her? Are you telling me there's some old bat trussed up and-and stuffed in the boot of my jalopy?"

"No, Monk, you idiot," said Melissande, throwing a cushion at him. "Honestly. She's at her place, waiting for me and Bibbie to pick her up and take her out to South Ott so she can honour her promise to Permelia Wycliffe and deliver the gemstones to Haf Rottlezinder."

"Which of course she can't do now, because he's blown himself to smithereens," said Bibbie. She pulled a thoughtful face. "It's a funny word that, isn't it? Smithereens. How big is a smithereen, do you suppose? Do you think it's smaller than a-"

"One more word out of you, ducky," said Reg, "and I'll blow you to smithereens myself and you can investigate the mystery personally."

Bibbie stared at her. "What did I say?"

"I'll explain later," said Monk, and threw the cushion at his offended sister.

"What Bibbie means," said Melissande, with teeth-gritted restraint, "is that we've established quite a cosy little rapport with Eudora Telford. She-ah-she thinks she's got an invitation to visit Rupert and cook pastries for him."

Gerald raised an eyebrow. "Really? And whatever gave her that idea?"

"Ah," said Melissande, her freckles disappearing in a tide of pink. "Well. I might have... you know... um..."

"Told her a big fat lie? Got her to trust you under false pretences?" He had to grin, even though he was so tired. "Oh, Melissande. Can this Telford woman even cook?"

"Only very, very badly," she said. "But I'm trying hard not to think about that."

"Good idea," said Reg. "So-forgetting New Ottosland's b.u.t.terfly King and his future digestive dilemmas for a moment-let's agree, shall we, that Mad Miss Markham's right for once and Eudora Telford's our gold-plated key. Because with that pillock Errol Haythwaite ruled out of the guilty picture it's obvious that Permelia and her brother are-are-" She chattered her beak. "Gerald...?"