He might not, but I do. He’s never seen Bibbie when she gets carried away.
“Does that mean they know Bibbie’s mixing herself up in Department business?”
Sir Alec’s lips thinned. “What Miss Markham’s parents are aware of is not your concern.”
In other words, probably not. And probably they weren’t going to find out, either, because Sir Alec would do or say whatever he had to in order to ensure that Bibbie played her useful part in the quest to find Abel Bestwick and unmask the villains wanting to destroy the marital union between Splotze and Borovnik.
He really is the most appallingly ruthless bastard.
“Mister Dunwoody,” said Sir Alec, very sharply. “Were you in Abel Bestwick’s shoes right now, hurt, possibly hunted, would you not wish me to do everything in my power to see you brought safely home, and the assignment for which you spilled precious blood followed through to a successful conclusion?”
Yes. He would.
So does that make me an appallingly ruthless bastard, too?
Discomfited, Gerald cleared his throat. “Then you think Bestwick’s still alive, sir?”
Sir Alec slid out from behind his desk and crossed to the window. The drab, inconsequential little suburb of Nettleworth spread its bleak streets beyond the dirty glass. It was barely past midday, but the sun looked tired already.
“Until I am provided with evidence to the contrary, Mister Dunwoody, I always assume that my agents are still alive.”
He was touched by unexpected shame. “Of course.”
“Tell me,” said Sir Alec, with his back almost turned. “How are you, after Mister Jennings’s procedure?”
Coming out of the blue, the question surprised him. Immediately wary, he resisted the urge to fold his arms.
“It didn’t kill me.”
Sir Alec flicked him a look. “Obviously. Mister Dunwoody-”
“Well, what d’you want me to say, sir? I mean, you’re sending me on this assignment. You must think I’m fit for duty. Surely that’s all that matters.”
Gerald waited for a reprimand. Taking that kind of tone with Sir Alec was more dangerous than juggling sharp knives with his one good eye closed. But instead of snapping out a reprimand, Sir Alec breathed a soft sigh.
“I gave Mister Jennings instructions not to discuss with you the results of the hex extraction.”
He frowned. “I know. He said.”
“Mister Dunwoody, you astound me,” Sir Alec said, turning. “Will you sit there and tell me you don’t have any questions about what was done to you?”
“No, sir. But since I don’t expect you’ll give me honest, straightforward answers, what’s the point in asking them?”
“You won’t know if I’ll answer you honestly and straightforwardly if you don’t ask, Mister Dunwoody.”
“Fine,” he said, no longer caring about his tone, or sharp knives. “All right. The procedure failed. Mister Jennings didn’t manage to extract all the grimoire hexes. But is that because he couldn’t? Or because you wouldn’t let him?”
CHAPTER SIX
“Bloody hell, Gerald!” Monk breathed, awestruck. “You actually said that? And what did Sir Alec say?”
Up to his elbows in sudsy dishwater, Gerald took a moment to scrub the bottom of a pot. For all her besetting sins as a cook, at least Bibbie was keen. And for once her sausages, mashed potatoes and onion gravy had been edible. Only it did mean spending rather a long time in the kitchen afterwards, cleaning up.
“Gerald!” Monk prompted, snapping his tea towel in a vaguely threatening manner. “What did the cagey bugger say?”
He put the scrubbed pot on the sink’s drainer, then glanced at the ceiling. “I wonder how much longer the girls are going to be? I mean, I know your sister’s a raving beauty but it shouldn’t be taking her this long to brew up the right obfuscation hex. I never should’ve let Melissande shut the door in my face. Or throw smelly socks at you until you ran away. I tell you, those two are up to something.”
“And in other startling news,” Monk growled, “water is wet. Gerald, what is going on? Why won’t you answer a simple question?”
Why? Because the question wasn’t simple, and neither is the answer.
I was mad to start this conversation.
“Sir Alec didn’t say anything,” he said, scrabbling around the bottom of the sink to make sure he’d not missed a teaspoon. “Mister Dalby burst in, all hot and bothered about some hiccup in Fandawandi, which meant I became superfluous to requirements. So I toddled home to read up on the history of Splotze and Borovnik, and practice bowing like a minion.”
Monk lifted the drained pot and started towelling it dry. “Oh.”
He’d left no teaspoons behind. Playing for time, trying to avoid possible unpleasantness, he emptied the sink of sudsy water, then started wiping down the table.
With nothing else to dry, Monk put the pot in its cupboard then hung the damp tea towel on its hook. Glancing at him, Gerald saw that his friend’s usually open-as-a-book face was firmly closed. Damn.
“Look… Monk. I really am sorry I didn’t tell you I was going through with the extraction procedure. Only-”
“I know,” said Monk. “You said. Let’s not beat the dead horse, Gerald.”
“No, let me finish,” he insisted. “You were right. Jennings’s procedure is bloody risky. I was afraid that if you had another go at talking me out of it, well… I might listen.”
“Oh.” Monk hooked his ankle around the nearest kitchen chair, pulled it away from the table and sat down, back to front. Then he rested his chin on his folded arms. “D’you wish I had, now? Talked you out of it?”
Remembering the startled fear in Errol’s face, the treacherous pleasure of it, the whispering seduction of power in his blood, Gerald began wiping down the nearest bench. “No.”
Silence, while he pretended to care about spotless benches and his friend brooded. At last, Monk sat up.
“So what d’you think? Did Sir Alec hobble Jennings?”
Gerald shrugged. “I don’t know. And I don’t suppose it matters, does it? What matters is that Mister Jennings didn’t manage to extract all the hexes, which means I have to find a way to live with what’s left until you find a way to get rid of it.”
“And I will, mate,” Monk said darkly. “My word as a Markham. Only first I have to clear my desk of a few things I can’t afford to shove onto a back burner.” He dragged the fingers of one hand through his unruly hair. “Is that all right?”
It’d have to be, wouldn’t it? “Sure.”
“Good,” said Monk, not quite hiding his guilty relief. “Ah- don’t suppose you can tell which hexes got left behind, can you?”
Finished wiping benches, Gerald fussed over rinsing the cloth. It was hard to meet Monk’s eyes, talking about this. He wasn’t to blame for trying to kill his friend, he knew that, but even so…
“It’s tricky,” he said at last, “I can tell which hexes Jennings managed to extract. Like-the power to control a First Grade wizard? That one’s definitely been knocked on the head.”
Monk hooted, not very amused. “Yeah, I’ll bet. Catch the Department letting you hang onto that one. What else?”
“There were a lot of shadbolt hexes. They haven’t gone, exactly, but they’re kind of… smudged. I can’t read them any more.”
“Shadbolts.” Monk shuddered. “You’re well rid of that muck, mate. Trust me.”
Yes, he certainly was. “I’ve lost the compulsion hexes, too. Before my encounter with Mister Jennings, if the fancy had struck me I could’ve made you cut out your own tongue with a pair of rusty garden shears.” His turn to shudder. “Or Melissande’s. Bibbie’s. Anyone’s.”
Monk was staring, wide-eyed. “Bloody hell!”
Finished rinsing, Gerald turned to the kitchen hob. Should he mention bumping into Errol? Confide in his friend how the urge to smash the arrogant bastard had risen in him like a scarlet tide and threatened to sweep away both conscience and humanity?