In another lifetime he and Frank had both been janitors. They were of an age. Had shared experiences. If Frank resented answering to him now he’d never shown it. But it was doubtful. Frank Dalby was born to hide in the shadows. The glare of politics would kill him inside a week.
Comfortably at ease on the other side of the desk, Frank gave the tip of his nose a thoughtful rub. “Bloody fool, that Saltman.”
He felt his lips twitch. To say that Frank was unforgiving was like saying water was wet. “We all make mistakes.”
Frank snorted. “Felix bloody did, and all.” He let his disinterested gaze slide around the room. “You got anything brewing in Splotze?”
The other shoe dropped, a soft sounding of doom. “Why do you ask?”
“Nothing on the duty board about Splotze,” said Frank, his gaze upcast at the firelit ceiling. “And everyone’s accounted for.” His gaze dropped. “Everyone based here.”
It was an invitation to a confidence which he
wasn’t inclined to share. With a flick of his fingers he indicated his work-covered desk. “If there’s a point, Dalby, you might consider reaching it.”
Indifferent to rebuff, Frank fished in his pocket and pulled out a folded note. “Back-channel squawk,” he said, handing it over. “Didn’t make much sense but I wrote it down just in case.”
He took the note. “I see.” As far as he knew, his labyrinth of informants didn’t include a detour via Frank Dalby. “Back-channel how?”
“Remember Scrubby Yates?”
<“Yata d/p>
Scrubby Yates, in a roundabout way, had once nearly and spectacularly cost them their lives. Ah yes, indeed, the good old days. “Vaguely.”
“Turns out Scrubby still keeps half an ear to the ground,” said Frank, a sardonic glint in his eye. “One toe in the water. A couple of fingers in a few pies. Someone reached out to him. He wouldn’t say who. I pushed, but he said he’s grown attached to his head.”
“And what has that to do with Splotze?”
“How should I know?” said Frank. “All I know is Scrubby moaned about the accent. And then he clammed up. I said I’d send him some ale.”
The folded note was burning his fingers like a brand. “Fine. Half a case and not one bottle more. I’d rather not encourage him. Scrubby Yates’s time has both come and gone.”
Frank didn’t often grin, but he was grinning now. “Half a case it is.” And then his amusement died, as though an internal switch had flipped. “I’m here if you need me, Ace. Just say the word.”
Frank Dalby would never have made the mistake
Felix Saltman made. “It’s doubtful,” he said. “But I’ll certainly bear it in mind. Thank you, Mr. Dalby.”
As soon as the office door clicked shut behind his former colleague, he unfolded the note and read it. One sentence. Eight words.
Didn’t he want to wear a yellow cravat?
Cryptic for some. Clear as glass for him.
Gerald Dunwoody had never arrived.
“
Gerald
?” said Reg, shocked. “
Gerald
put a shadbolt on him?
My
Gerald?”
Monk scowled at her. “No, Reg,
his
Gerald. I thought you were paying attention.”
Inconveniently close on Melissande’s shoulder, she whacked him with her wing. “I
am
paying attention. And mind how you speak to your elders, sunshine.
You’re
not too old for a thrashing and
I’m
not too old to give you one.”
Rubbing at his arm, he sighed. “Sorry.”
“I should bloody think so,” said Reg. “Because we’ve just got through establishing that muggins over there is you, haven’t we? Which means
his
Gerald is
my
Gerald and I can’t see
my
Gerald doing something like that. Can you?”
They’d retreated to the parlor’s furthest corner again, the better to have a quiet conniption. The Monk from next door had lapsed into a doze, worn out by the effort of getting here and having his etheretic aura rummaged through like a bargain bin at a market stall and whatever else he’d been enduring up till now, that made him look like—
that.
“Are you all right?” Melissande asked quietly.
“Because you look like you’ve got the most fearful headache.”
“I have,” he admitted. “But never mind. Let’s concentrate on the shadbolt fo“the.”
“The shadbolt
my
Gerald—or
any
Gerald—couldn’t possibly inflict on
anyone
,” said Reg, feathers ominously bristling. “Are we all perfectly clear?”
“Look, Reg,” Bibbie said after a moment. “I don’t want to believe it either. But Monk’s not going to make a mistake about something like this. He knows Gerald’s thaumic signature better than any of us. If he says the shadbolt is Gerald’s handiwork, then like it or not we have to accept that.”
Good old Bibbie
. Tentatively, he stroked a fingertip down Reg’s wing. “You think
I’m
happy about this, Reg? Just thinking about it makes me sick.”
She rattled her tail feathers, distressed. “I don’t understand,” she muttered. “It’s just not
like
him. Not even that government stooge Sir Alec could convince my Gerald to do something like that—especially to
you
.” She took a deep, rallying breath. “So
if
this is true—and I’m not saying it
is
—then something must’ve gone terribly wrong.”
Oh, it had. Because the Gerald who’d prisoned the other Monk in his shadbolt—that Gerald stank of filthy magics. If that Gerald walked into the parlor right now, chances were he wouldn’t recognize him. Not on the inside. Not where it counted. And even though nothing in the world next door had anything to do with him he was suddenly scalded by a terrible, angry grief.
What did you do, Gerald? What the bloody hell did you do?
“Rats,” said Melissande, her chin coming up. “I’ve just had a thought. What if we’re looking at this round the wrong way?”
With an effort Monk shook himself free of grief and made himself pay attention to the girls.
“How d’you mean?” said Bibbie.
“Well…” Mel snuck a look at the other Monk. “Aren’t we making a few assumptions here? And don’t we all know what happens when one assumes?”
“Yes,” said Reg. “One makes an ass out of you and anyone who doesn’t happen to be me.
My
assumptions always turn out to be right.”
“Yes, Reg, of course they do,” said Mel, with admirable restraint. “
Blimey
. But see, the thing is, because that’s Monk—sort of—passed out on the sofa, we’re all assuming he’s telling the truth. But what if Reg’s stupid joke is true? What if this Monk really
is
like an evil twin and he’s come here with some dastardly plan to destroy us? Don’t ask me why. Or—or maybe he’s an escaped convict. You did say shadbolts were used on criminals.”
“Madam could be right,” said Reg, unflatteringly surprised. “This other Monk Markham could be a rotter. It would certainly explain why his Gerald had to restrain him.”
“Monk?” said Bibbie, anxious. He couldn’t remember seeing her anxious before. He hated it. “What do you think?”
“You’re right,” he said cautiously. “It’s a theory.” But not one he was terribly willing to embrace.
And why’s that? Because I can’t se“aus one myself as an escaped criminal on the run? Because I can’t be the villain, I can only be the hero?
No. It wasn’t that. According to Uncle Ralph he was already a perishing villain. It was the oppressive, metallic after-taste of the other Gerald’s thaumic signature that revealed the horrible truth. And he’d tell the girls that. He would. As soon as he was sure he could get the words out without heaving up his supper…
“The problem is,” said Bibbie, grimmer and older than he’d ever seen her, “we could keep dreaming up theories until the cows come home—which would get us exactly nowhere. So we don’t have a choice. We have to get that shadbolt off him. It’s the only way to find out for sure what’s going on.”
Reg rattled her tail feathers. “True, ducky. But taking off a shadbolt’s not like wriggling out of a corset, now is it?”
Monk gave her a look. “You’re asking me?”
“Trust me, sunshine, the last man in the world I’d ask about corsets—on or off—is
you
,” Reg said coldly. “Now
shadbolts
, on the other hand…”
The trouble with any kind of conversation involving Reg was that it was far too easy to get distracted by the insults. She seemed to shed them effortlessly, like lice. How Gerald lived with it he would never understand.
Bibbie cleared her throat, not looking at the bird or Melissande. “Ah—Monk? Perhaps we should—”
“I know,” he muttered. “Bloody hell.”
“Bloody hell?” echoed Melissande, instantly suspicious. “What d’you mean
bloody hell
? What’s going on? Why is it that every time someone mentions
shadbolts
the pair of you turn
green
and nearly jump through the roof?” Arms folded, toes tapping, she treated them to
her best prime ministerly glare. And then she blinked. “Wait a minute. Emmerabiblia Markham, does this have
anything
to do with why you were looking as sick as a goose when you finally turned up at the office this morning?”
Bibbie tried to smile. “Ah—would you believe the breakfast milk was off?”
The look Melissande gave her could’ve shriveled rock. “
No
. Monk, you were here last night. I don’t suppose anything of a shadboltish nature happened after Reg and I went home?”
He swallowed.
Bugger
. “Mel, honestly, it’s not as bad as—”
“Reg,” said Melissande, her all-too-knowing gaze not leaving his face, “about these shadbolts. Exactly how tricky
are
they to remove?”
“If you don’t have the incant designed to unravel ’em?” said Reg. “Hmm. Ever dropped a watermelon off a very tall tower?”
Melissande shuddered. “No, actually. And now I’m pretty sure I never will. Tell me, can they be removed without a specifically designed unlocking hex?”
“Depends,” said Reg, her eyes gleaming.
“On what, pray tell? As if I didn’t know.”
“On whether you’ve got someone a bit thaumaturgically special hanging about with nothing better to do.”
“I see,” said Melissande. Her toes were tapping again. “And when you say
special
, you mean you’d have to be a Monk Markham.”
Reg shrugged one wing. “Or a Gerald. You know. Someone like that.”
“Yes,” said Melissande. “I rather thought that’s
what you meant. So. Monk. Here’s my last question—did you
by any chance
put a shadbolt on Bibbie last night?”
Damn.
“Look, Mel—”
“Melissande, don’t,” said Bibbie. “The shadbolt was my idea, not Monk’s.”
Melissande looked like she wanted to say every last appalling word she’d ever heard in her life.
“Emmerabiblia Markham!”
Reg sniggered. “How’s your blood pressure doing now, ducky? Hmm?”
Seizing Bibbie’s shoulders, Melissande shook her with outraged despair. “Bibbie—
Bibbie
—what were you
thinking
?” She flung out an accusing, pointing finger. “Surely you realized you could’ve ended up like
him
?”
Bibbie pulled free. “Well, yes, I knew it was risky, but Monk needed my help.”
“Oh, I see,” said Melissande, rounding on him. “In other words it was
her
idea but
you
went along with it! Monk, how
could
you?”
She was furious with him. Melissande Cadwallader, the love of his life, the woman who’d proven love at first sight did exist. He was having some trouble catching his breath.
Please, Mel. Don’t be mad.
Turning back to Bibs, Melissande grabbed her hands. If anyone ever doubted she’d come to love Bibbie like a sister… “Are you all right, Bibbie? Have you seen a physician? You really did look awful this morning. Have you—”
“I’m fine, Mel,” Bibbie insisted. “I
promise
.”
Mel let go. “I don’t believe you,” she said flatly. “You’d say anything to keep Monk out of trouble.”
Turning again, she stabbed him with her most accusing glare. “And clearly you’d
do
anything to prove a thaumaturgical point.”
“That’s not fair!” said Bibbie. “I
told
you, the shadbolt was my idea. And it had nothing to do with one of Monk’s experiments.”
“Then what was it about?”
Bibbie looked at him. “Tell her, Monk.”
“Bibs—”
“Monk, you tell her or I will.”
He swallowed a mouthful of his own bad words. So this was how Gerald felt, eh? Backed into a corner, badgered into revealing his secrets…
<“m" Sofont size="3">“Fine,” he sighed, and told her.
“Blimey,” said Reg, when he was finished. For once the bird actually sounded impressed. “Not bad, Mr. Clever Clogs. Not bad at all.”
“
What?
” said Melissande, as close to a shriek as he’d ever heard. “Don’t tell me you
approve
of this madness?”
Another decisive tail-rattle. “Don’t be a noddycock. Of course I do. Desperate times call for desperate measures.”
“Yes, well, there’s
desperate
and then there’s
demented
,” Melissande retorted. “And in this case I think we all know which is which!”