Witches Incorporated Read online

  “No, you’re not. Far from it,” said Bibbie, with more honesty than tact. “But you’re a genius at being practical and organised and that’s nothing to sneeze at.”

  Possibly not, but it hardly compared. Still. No point pining after the impossible. “The thing is, Bibbie,” she said firmly, “that I do wear trousers and I don’t get hauled off the street. Slowly but surely things are changing. So you’re not to lose heart, do you hear me? Married or not you will have a large life full of purpose. In fact it’s my belief you’re going to take life by the scruff of the neck and shake it into trembling submission. We both are. Starting with Witches Inc., which is going to be the most successful witching agency in the history of Ottosland. Agreed?”

  Bibbie straightened out her slump. “Yes. All right. Agreed.”

  The phone rang eight more times while they were dusting and rearranging and getting ready for Permelia Wycliffe’s arrival. Three of the callers were eager young men pretending to require assistance from Miss Markham. They were given short shrift. But the other five were genuine enquiries for agency help, and were duly noted in the appointment book. Bibbie managed to restrain herself from saying “I told you so,” but her eyes shone like blue stars and her lips remained curved in the faintest of smug smiles.

  Melissande didn’t begrudge her. The more clients the merrier. And it’s always possible I’m making grapefruits out of lemons. Bibbie’s right: I am a worrier by nature… and Lional only made things worse. Perhaps I need to start looking on the bright side first instead of last.

  At precisely ten o’clock Permelia Wycliffe arrived, this time without Eudora Telford in tow. “Good morning, Emmerabiblia,” she said grandly, sweeping into the office like a duchess on a goodwill tour. Her costly mourning attire was elegantly restrained, as before, her discreet sapphire necklace quietly expensive. “Miss Cadwallader,” she added, almost as an afterthought.

  So… in the absence of Miss Telford’s staunch royalism she’d been emphatically demoted. Hiding her amusement, Melissande nodded. “Miss Wycliffe,” she murmured, and indicated the freshly plumped client’s armchair. “Please, do have a seat. Might I offer you some refreshment?”

  Permelia Wycliffe thawed the merest fraction. “Thank you. Yes.”

  Further relegated to the role of maidservant—a good thing Reg hadn’t come back or she’d be blue-faced on the floor with suppressed laughter, feathers and all—Melissande busied herself with brewing a pot of tea and setting out some freshly bought macaroons on their only unchipped plate. While she toiled, Bibbie and Miss Wycliffe exchanged animated reminiscences about late lamented Great-aunt Antigone. Clearly, as far as Permelia Wycliffe was concerned, Melissande Cadwallader didn’t exist.

  But that doesn’t matter, Melissande reminded herself. It’s her money I’m after, not her undying friendship. An unflatteringly mercenary attitude, to be sure, but hearts-and-flowers didn’t pay the rent.

  Once the tea and cakes had been served and consumed it was time to get down to business. Permelia Wycliffe withdrew from her gold-embroidered reticule a sealed envelope and gave it to Bibbie. “Payment for services rendered, Emmerabiblia, as agreed. Your performance yesterday on the Guild’s behalf was most impressive. So impressive that I have no qualms at all in entrusting to you an even more serious and sacred task.”

  More sacred than the honour of the Baking and Pastry Guild? This was going to be something.

  “It was our pleasure to be of service, Miss Wycliffe,” said Melissande, neatly plucking the envelope from Bibbie’s grasp. “And we’re gratified that you wish to trust us again.”

  Permelia Wycliffe looked down her nose. “As you should be, Miss Cadwallader.” She turned again to Bibbie. “What I’m about to divulge to you, dear Emmerabiblia, is highly sensitive information. I must ask that you not repeat it to another soul.”

  Seated on her own desk chair, pulled out for the occasion, Bibbie leaned forward and daringly patted Permelia Wycliffe’s gloved hand. “You have our solemn promise, Permelia. Client confidentiality is the Witches Inc. watchword.”

  Permelia Wycliffe drew in a deep breath through pinched nostrils, her fingers fiercely interlaced in her lap. “Emmerabiblia… the Wycliffe Airship Company is nursing a viper in its bosom.” Incredibly, her voice broke on the last word, and her eyes glittered with emotion. “One of my gels is—is a thief.”

  As Permelia groped in her reticule for a handkerchief, Melissande slid the envelope she’d given them into her desk drawer and exchanged a raised-eyebrow look with Bibbie, who pulled a face. Don’t just sit there, say something! She wasn’t very good with emotional crises, not her own or anyone else’s.

  Pulling a face back at her, Melissande cleared her throat. “I’m very sorry to hear that, Miss Wycliffe. Can I offer you another cup of tea?”

  With a shuddering effort, Permelia Wycliffe banished all unseemly hints of distress. “Oh. Yes,” she said, and thrust the hanky back in her reticule. “Thank you, Miss Cadwallader. Forgive me. That was most inappropriate.”

  “Um… when you say your gels, Permelia,” said Bibbie. “Who exactly do you mean?”

  “My gels,” said Permelia, as though everyone should know. “The gels who work in the Wycliffe Airship Company office. My busy little worker bees, industriously toiling to keep our beautiful airships afloat. Orders. Queries. Paperwork. The throbbing lifeblood of the business.”

  “Ah,” said Bibbie. “I see. Those gels.” Her dimples appeared and disappeared, swiftly. “Witches Inc. has one of those, too. We call her Miss Cadwallader.”

  Melissande looked up from filling a fresh teacup with fragrant Sweet Tangtang and frowned, but Bibbie wasn’t paying attention.

  “So, you’re convinced one of the Wycliffe office staff has sticky fingers,” she said. “What is it that’s being stolen, Permelia? Money?”

  “Oh no,” said Permelia Wycliffe, accepting the fresh cup of tea from Melissande. “I keep no money in the office, naturally. That would be far too great a temptation.” She sipped. “The gels, you understand, aren’t from Ottosland’s first families. Some of them aren’t from the city at all. Quite rustic, many of them. It would be unkind to keep money within their reach. After all, as this current crisis demonstrates, one can make a mistake in the hiring of staff. Why, just the other day I was forced to dismiss a gel.”

  Standing by Bibbie’s desk, Melissande felt her fingernails dig into her palms and had to make a conscious effort to unclench her fingers. “Really? On what grounds?” Too rustic, was she?

  Permelia Wycliffe’s lips thinned with distaste. “She cut off her hair, Miss Cadwallader. A bob, I believe it’s called. So unfeminine. Despite their unfortunate social position the gels who work for Wycliffe’s are young ladies—broadly speaking. I couldn’t have such a precedent set in my office.” Her gaze dropped to Melissande’s trousered legs. “We have the highest standards and I insist they are maintained.”

  “Yes, yes, Permelia,” Bibbie said hastily. “We quite understand. So if it’s not money going missing…?”

  “Biscuits,” said Permelia Wycliffe. “Pencils. Pencil sharpeners. Sugar. Various and sundry other office supplies. It was Miss Petterly who brought the matter to my attention, some three weeks ago. Miss Petterly is my office supervisor. Naturally, as a Wycliffe, I am in charge of the company’s administration but I’m far too busy to be bogged down in the day-to-day supervision of our gels.”

  “Oh, naturally,” said Melissande. “We quite understand.” So many cakes to bake, so little time to care for your employees or your company.

  “Miss Petterly agrees with me that one of the gels is our culprit,” said Permelia Wycliffe. “She and I have done our best to uncover for ourselves the identity of this ungrateful miscreant—laid many and various cunning little traps—but alas, we have failed. Whoever is doing this has even managed to infiltrate my private office, which is where the expensive biscuits are kept. Under lock and key, I might add! Which is why I am here today making public this d
readful state of affairs.” Her lower lip quivered, just for a moment. “I hope you appreciate how difficult it is.”

  Melissande nodded. “Of course. Your courage is admirable, Miss Wycliffe. So if I can just clarify the situation: you want to hire us to find a biscuit thief?”

  “And why not, Melissande?” said Bibbie swiftly. “I’m sure the last thing Miss Wycliffe wants is a formal police investigation. So insensitive. So—so not private.”

  “Precisely, Emmerabiblia!” said Permelia Wycliffe, her lower lip quivering again. “To think of our shame being made known to the world—I can’t bear it. It is imperative that this matter be handled with the utmost discretion, which is why I have come to you.”

  “Well, we certainly appreciate your patronage, Miss Wycliffe,” said Melissande. “And your confidence. Tell me, as well as laying many and various cunning traps, have you tried confronting the ge—your staff—with the facts of this regrettable affair?”

  “No,” said Permelia Wycliffe, taken aback. “I couldn’t possibly trust the innocent not to gossip about our crisis with undesirable persons. Miss Cadwallader, I thought I’d made myself understood: this dreadful business cannot become public knowledge. Nothing is more important than the protection of our good name.”

  “Oh, we do understand, Permelia,” Bibbie said hastily. “I think what my colleague means is that sometimes, when a miscreant is caught off-guard, they can reveal themselves. You know. A guilty thing surprised?”

  Permelia Wycliffe shook her head emphatically. “No. I won’t hear of it. The risk is simply too great. Besides. While I’m sure all but one of my gels is not a thief, I don’t wish to give any of them ideas.”

  Ideas? Melissande choked back her outrage. Honestly, this bloody woman makes Lord Billingsly look like a champion of workers’ rights. “And you are absolutely certain your thief is one of Wycliffe’s office staff?”

  Permelia Wycliffe looked at her as though she were a particularly dim-witted servant. “Who else could it be, Miss Cadwallader? The young men who work in the Wycliffe Research and Development laboratory have no business upstairs in the office. They are the purview of my brother Ambrose, and rarely set foot out of his domain. I’m sure I couldn’t tell you even one of their names.”

  Bibbie nodded understandingly. “And why would you, Permelia? Really, Melissande,” she added, with a look, “I do think we must trust that Miss Wycliffe knows her situation.”

  Oh, doubtless she did, as thoroughly as she knew how to be an unbearable snob. “Of course. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply otherwise,” she replied. “And what you’ve told us is very useful information, Miss Wycliffe. Armed with your insights, no doubt we’ll crack the case in a trice.”

  “So you’ll seek out this miscreant for me, my dear Emmerabiblia?” said Permelia Wycliffe. She sounded ever so slightly breathless, as though that banished emotion was still close at hand. “You’ll apprehend this dread viper in my—that is to say, the Wycliffe Airship Company’s bosom?”

  Bibbie nodded soothingly. “Absolutely, Permelia. You can rest assured that Witches Inc. will leave no stone unturned to—”

  “No, no, not Witches Inc., Emmerabiblia,” said Permelia Wycliffe. “You. I want you to handle this matter personally. I’ve already given it a great deal of thought. Since I currently have a staff vacancy you could join my little family and investigate this travesty on site.”

  Bibbie blinked. “Work in the office, you mean? As a gel?”

  “Yes! Precisely!” said Permelia Wycliffe. “I think it’s the perfect solution, don’t you? For this is so important, Emmerabiblia—and you are the great-niece of the incomparable Antigone Markham. Greatness flows unhampered through your veins!” Her gaze flicked sideways, doubtful and disparaging. “Of course, I’m sure Miss Cadwallader is perfectly competent, but—”

  The phone rang again. Melissande, who was closest to it, snatched up the receiver. “Good morning, this is Witches Inc. No thauma—” The male voice on the other end of the conversation buzzed in her ear. “No, I’m sorry, Miss Markham is currently unavai—” More buzzing, a little agitated this time. Her heart sank, and she shot a dire look at Bibbie. “Yes, indeed, sir, she did save the Golden Whisk. But as I say, she—” Buzz buzz buzz. My, this one was persistent. “Perhaps, sir, if you’d care to explain your difficulty I could—” Buzz buzz buzz buzz. “Oh, really! Go away, you silly man!”

  She slammed down the receiver and glowered at Monk’s troublesome sister.

  “That was another one of your would-be admirers. I told you your photo in the paper would be trouble.”

  “And you were right,” said Bibbie, suspiciously contrite. Turning to Permelia Wycliffe, she clasped the horrible woman’s hand. “I’m so sorry, Permelia. It appears I’ve been plunged into a whirlwind of notoriety, thanks to that dastardly photographer from the Times. I’m afraid I don’t dare show my face at your office for fear I’d be recognised and my purpose there discovered. However, all is not lost. Miss Cadwallader remains incognito. And I give you my word, as Antigone Markham’s great-niece, she’s an absolute demon for paperwork. Seriously. She used to be a prime minister, you know.”

  Permelia Wycliffe was looking bewildered. “But—but—”

  “And of course I’ll be here at Witches Inc. headquarters, slaving away on your behalf, following up on all the leads that she is bound to discover.” Bending, Bibbie gently but inexorably drew Permelia Wycliffe to her feet. “I’m as heartbroken as you, Permelia, honestly, but we must put aside our personal feelings—for the good of the Wycliffe Airship Company.”

  “Oh… well, yes,” said Permelia Wycliffe faintly. “Of course. Undoubtedly. The Company must always come first. No sacrifice can be too great.”

  “Exactly, Permelia!” said Bibbie. “I knew you’d understand.” She turned. “Isn’t she wonderful, Melissande?”

  Melissande summoned a smile. “Inspirational.”

  “We’ll start work on your case tomorrow, Permelia,” said Bibbie. “What time would you like Melissande to report for duty?”

  With a visible effort, Permelia Wycliffe thrust aside the lingering remnants of her disappointment. “You should present herself to Miss Petterly at a quarter to eight, Miss Cadwallader.”

  Oh, joy. That meant rising at the crack of dawn knowing that Bibbie was still tucked up warm and comfortable in her bed. “Certainly, Miss Wycliffe,” she said, forcing a smile.

  Permelia Wycliffe looked her up and down. “I would point out, Miss Cadwallader, that Wycliffe gels are the very embodiment of sartorial discretion. They wear black from head to toe. Skirts and blouses, naturally. Not… male attire.”

  Of course they did. “That won’t be a problem, Miss Wycliffe.”

  “Then I shall see you in the morning, Miss Cadwallader.” A thin, unenthusiastic smile. “In the hope that our goal might be swiftly reached.”

  “Why don’t we make that Carstairs?” she suggested. “I realise I’m eminently forgettable, especially when I’m not wearing my bustle, but as my photograph also appeared in the Times, to be on the safe side I think I need a different name. Molly Carstairs. That’s got a nice rustic ring to it, I think. Don’t you?”

  “Lovely!” said Bibbie, brightly. “Perfect. Didn’t I tell you she’s a marvel, Permelia? She thinks of everything.”

  “Including the contract,” added Melissande. She returned to her desk, opened a drawer and pulled out one of the boiler-plate contracts she’d had drawn up. “If you’d care to read this, Miss Wycliffe, and affix to it your signature?”

  “I shall take it with me,” said Permelia Wycliffe, holding out her hand. “For a leisurely perusal. One should never sign a binding legal document in haste.”

  Ha. So, even with all the cake and biscuit nonsense, Permelia Wycliffe wasn’t a fool. “In which case,” she replied, “perhaps you’d care to call when it’s ready to be collected. We’ll send a messenger. And if you could be so kind as to include with it the agreed retainer, as specified, an
d a complete list of your company’s employees? They should be independently investigated. References, sadly, can be forged.”

  “Indeed,” said Miss Wycliffe. “But I shall only pay in advance half your retainer. My late father placed great faith in financial incentives.”

  No, she most definitely wasn’t a fool. Melissande swallowed. “Half. Yes. All right. But only this once.”

  “Excellent,” said Permelia Wycliffe, and allowed Bibbie to shepherd her to the door.

  “Emmerabiblia Markham!” said Melissande, as Bibbie closed it behind their client.

  “What?” said Bibbie, with spurious innocence.

  “You know perfectly well what!” she retorted, and advanced, pointed finger jabbing. “You’re a sneaky, conniving, opportunistic—”

  “Oh, come on, Mel,” said Bibbie. “Do I look like a Wycliffe gel to you?”

  “I’ll tell you what you look like! You look like a sneaky, conniving, opportunistic—”

  “Put a sock in it, ducky,” said Reg, hopping onto the open office window’s sill. “Unless you want to explain all that half our retainer nonsense. Mad Miss Markham’s outfoxed you, and that’s all there is to it.” She flapped herself across to the back of the client’s armchair and tilted her head. “Very neatly, too. Nice work. Well done.”

  She spun round. “You were listening?”

  Reg fluffed out her feathers. “Of course.”

  “And you’re defending her? Reg!”

  “Now, now, don’t you start Regging me,” said the bird. “Facts are facts. She’s no more credible as a Wycliffe gel than I am and you know it. Besides, we’ll need her on the outside pulling the thaumaturgical strings. And taking care of any other business that comes our way.”

  Because it, too, might require the talents of a real witch. Feeling her eyes prickle, Melissande blinked hard. “Fine. Wonderful. I’m a Wycliffe gel. I get it.”

  “Sorry, Mel,” said Bibbie, trying to look apologetic. Unfortunately a grin kept breaking through. “But I’d be hopeless, you know I would. You, on the other hand, will be perfectly wonderful.”