Witches Incorporated (23 page)

“
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
.”

“In a black skirt and blouse,” she muttered. “Oh, yes. I can hardly wait.” She heaved a sigh. “Fine. And now, if you’ve quite finished being sneaky, conniving and opportunistic, perhaps we can get ready for our next appointment!’

A
nd here,” said Miss Petterly, “is your cubicle, Miss Carstairs.”

Melissande looked. Cubicle? More like a shoebox. Designed to house a shoe for a very small dwarf. If she sneezed in here she’d give herself concussion against the dull grey wall.

“Wycliffe’s is a very particular firm, Miss Carstairs,” said Miss Petterly, a desiccated old stick with a voice like a disapproving nanny-goat. “Miss Wycliffe insists upon the gels keeping their work-places neat, tidy and unobtrusive. That means no personal mementoes, cards, photographs, knickknacks, paraphernalia or frivolous nosegays from bold young men.”

Beyond the wall of her shoebox—cubicle—someone snorted. Miss Petterly’s narrow nostrils flared. “I heard that, Delphinia Thatcher. I shall tell Miss Wycliffe if I hear it again.”

“Sorry, Miss Petterly,” said an unrepentant voice. “I swallowed a fly.”

“There are no flies in Wycliffe’s, Delphinia Thatcher. Wycliffe’s is a very hygienic firm.”

“Yes, Miss Petterly,” said the unseen Delphinia Thatcher.

Miss Petterly plucked a sharpened pencil from the breast-pocket of her high-necked black blouse and used it as a pointer. “Your desk, Miss Carstairs, and your chair. They are not to be moved for any reason. Your typewriter, Miss Carstairs. There is a daily allowance of blank order sheets and paper, which has been carefully determined by me. If you exceed that allowance the cost of the extra
shall
be deducted from your weekly wage. There are your pens, pencils and ink, Miss Carstairs. You have been supplied with enough to last you a month. Should you remain with us that long, and exceed that supply, the cost of the extra
shall
be deducted from your weekly wage. Here is your abacus, Miss Carstairs, for swift and accurate mathematical calculations. Should you exceed a rate of one error per transaction a penalty
shall
be deducted from your weekly wage. Here is your in-tray, Miss Carstairs, which periodically shall be filled with customer orders. This must be emptied at least twice every hour into your out-tray
there
, Miss Carstairs. Failure to do so shall also incur a penalty which
shall
be deducted—”

“From my weekly wage, yes,” said Melissande. “I think I’m getting the picture, Miss Petterly.”

And the next time I see that wretched photographer I’m going to kidnap him. And then I’m going to steal Monk’s interdimensional portal opener and send that photographer on a one-way holiday to sprite-land!

Miss Petterly’s nostrils flared again. “Miss Carstairs! Wycliffe’s gels are renowned for their courtesy. I shall overlook your interruption this time, but should you interrupt me again—” Miss Petterly smiled, revealing small, even teeth. “I shall have you shown the door. Is that perfectly clear?”

Melissande hooked a finger between the high-necked collar of her own hideous, brand-new black blouse and eased the material away from her throat. Slow strangulation, what a way to die.

“Yes, Miss Petterly.”

“Excellent,” said Miss Petterly, with another fierce smile. “Once your workday commences, Miss Carstairs, you do not arise from your desk for any reason other than your ten minute morning tea-break and your thirty minute lunchbreak. The office-boy—”

“Ah—” She raised an apologetic finger. “Sorry. I don’t mean to interrupt, Miss Petterly, but what if—that’s to say—is it permissible to leave one’s cubicle if—you know—one is required to answer a call of nature?”

Miss Petterly’s sallow cheeks tinged with pink. “What a singularly indelicate question, Miss Carstairs. I do hope Miss Wycliffe hasn’t—” On a deep breath, she regained her self-control. “Unauthorised absences from your desk will not be tolerated. At the first infraction a deduction
shall
be made from your weekly wage. A second infraction shall result in immediate dismissal.”

Melissande blinked.
In which case I’d best start imitating one of Zazoor’s camels. “
I see, Miss Petterly.”

“The office boy,” Miss Petterly continued, still pink-cheeked, “is responsible for bringing you your fresh orders, and taking away such paperwork as has been correctly completed. As you can see—” She pointed her pencil at the pile of papers overflowing the in-tray. “—your first orders are awaiting your attention. A list of instructions as to how they are processed is pinned there.” Another pencil stab, this time at a sheet of paper tacked to the wall. “Should you require assistance you shall call for
me
.” Her pencil tapped a little silver handbell which had been fixed to the cubicle wall above the desk. “You shall not engage in gossip with any other Wycliffe gel, nor ask for their assistance, nor render assistance if it is asked of you. In theory, Miss Carstairs, your workday ends at six, but naturally no Wycliffe gel would dream of departing before every last order or query is dealt with. Wycliffe gels are dedicated and true.”

Well, all except one, apparently
. “Yes, Miss Petterly,” said Melissande, dulcetly obedient. If Monk could hear her now he’d have a fit.

Miss Petterly consulted the fob-watch pinned to her lacklustre bosom. “Miss Wycliffe will see you in precisely ten minutes, Miss Carstairs. Do not be late. Wycliffe gels are always punctual.”

Melissande stared after the woman as she stalked away, her long black skirt sweeping the office floor.
Blimey
, as Reg would say. What an old misery-guts.

Still. At least I don’t have to endure her for long, not like the other girls in this horrible place. Lord. I didn’t treat my palace staff like this, did I?

Appalled by the notion, she slid into her cubicle’s wooden chair and snatched up the top sheet of paper from her in-tray. It was an order for replacement machine parts. Perusing it she frowned, attention suddenly focused.
Velocipede
spokes? Whatever was Wycliffe’s doing selling veloci—

“Hello,” said a cheerful voice, hushed to a whisper. “I’m Delphinia Thatcher, prisoner number twenty-two. Welcome to Wycliffe’s, prisoner twenty-three.”

Turning, Melissande saw a plump and freckled girl grinning at her from round the side of her cubicle. “Molly Carstairs,” she replied, keeping her own voice low. “Pleased to meet you. What do you mean, prisoner twenty-three?”

“This place,” said Delphinia, wrinkling her nose. “And its twenty-five cubicles. Little prison cells, they are, each one containing a
gel
, slaving away for the fading glory of Wycliffe’s. How they manage to keep on paying everyone’s wages I’ll never know.”

Melissande flicked a glance in Miss Petterly’s direction but the ghastly woman had returned to her desk and was bent over a ledger. Hiding behind her own cubicle’s wall, she leaned a little closer to Delphinia Thatcher and softened her voice to the merest breath.

“I’m sorry, are you saying that Wycliffe’s is—ah—”

The girl pressed a finger to her lips. “I’m not saying anything, Miss Carstairs.”

“Oh, please, call me Molly.”

“I’d love to,” said Delphinia, “only Wycliffe gels are
never
familiar. If I get caught it’s a fine and I’ve had so many wage deductions already this week I’m going to end up owing the company money.” She smiled, derisive. “Probably that’s how they can afford to keep paying us.”

So the company was struggling? Well, this was interesting. This was something Bibbie would need to look into. “That’s… a little alarming.”

“Miss Carstairs, you have no idea,” said Delphinia, and returned to her work before someone noticed she was chatting illegally.

Killing time before her interview with Permelia Wycliffe, Melissande hunted through the in-tray. How puzzling: most of the orders were for velocipede and car parts. Hardly any were for airships. How could that be, if this was an airship company? Something odd was happening here. But she’d have to think about it later, because her ten minutes were up and it was time to chat with Permelia.

Standing, she patted her pocket to make sure her secret weapon was safe then made her way through the crowded ranks of identical cubicles to the far end of the room. Her not-quite-floor-length black serge skirt dragged at her, annoyingly, threatening to tangle around her legs and trip her face-first to the floor.

Little steps, little steps, mince, don’t stride. You’re a Wycliffe gel now, Melissande, remember?

She came to a polite halt before Miss Petterly’s knick-knack and memento-cluttered desk, which sat like a sentry box before Permelia Wycliffe’s closed office door.

“Hmmph,” said Miss Petterly, by way of greeting, and put down her pen.

Melissande waited while the dreadful woman got up from her chair, tapped on Permelia Wycliffe’s door, cracked it open and engaged in a low-voiced conversation then stepped back.

“Miss Wycliffe will see you now,” Miss Petterly said grudgingly, as though the idea of sharing Permelia was more than she could bear.

Another Eudora Telford?
Please no, I couldn’t bear it. “
Thank you, Miss Petterly,” she said, squeezed past her into Permelia’s office and closed its door emphatically in the ghastly woman’s offended face.

Permelia Wycliffe finished shoving something into her desk drawer, banged it shut and looked up. “Miss Cadwallader,” she said, eyebrows lifted. “Do have a seat.”

“Thank you, Miss Wycliffe,” she said, but took her time getting settled in the visitor’s chair so she could have a good look around at her client’s well-guarded domain.

The first thing she noticed was the enormous painting on the pale yellow wall behind Permelia’s imposing mahogany desk. It featured a daunting, dignified and prosperous gentleman wearing a sober black three-piece suit, top hat and extravagant ginger whiskers. Age and family resemblance suggested its subject was her father; the notion was confirmed by the large brass plaque attached to the heavy timber frame.

Orville Wycliffe, Esquire.

Melissande, considering the portrait, felt the smallest unwelcome twinge of sympathy for Permelia. Just like her own father, Orville didn’t strike her as the
cuddly
kind of Papa.

The office’s left-hand wall was plastered with sketches and blueprints of airships, each and every one the pride and joy of the Wycliffe Airship Company, while the right-hand wall was almost completely covered in framed photographs. A pity she wasn’t close enough to snoop at them. The section of wall not crowded with photographs was filled by a large, immaculately dusted bookcase crammed with the seventeen Golden Whisks Permelia had won down the years. They might be ridiculous, pointless trophies but still—they were an impressive sight. A testament to Permelia Wycliffe’s dogged pursuit of excellence in the culinary arts.

“
Well?” said Permelia, hands folded neatly on her desk’s blotter. “What are your first impressions of Wycliffe’s, Miss Cadwallader?”

“Well, I’m not really sure,” she said incautiously, as she sat. “I’ve only been here an hour. Of course—” she added, with haste, noticing the ominous flush mounting in Permelia Wycliffe’s cheeks, “it doesn’t take long to see you’ve created a fine family establishment, Miss Wycliffe. The office is just
full
of hardworking, dedicated Wycliffe gels. And I’m sure I’ll find the same kind of dedication in the laboratory and the—”

“It won’t be necessary for you to go further than the office, Miss Cadwallader,” said Permelia Wycliffe. “As I indicated yesterday, you should focus your attention upon the gels.”

“Is that why you only sent us their details for checking?”