The sergeant blinked and started to take a step forward, only to be stopped by Garlick as he pushed to the front of the group with his tail swishing in warning.
“Actually, he can’t. Statute seven four three of the Old City bylaws give all magical residents of the city right of access to the medical records kept here during business hours.”
The sergeant blinked and looked at Whipsnide. “He is quite correct. Those bylaws were never rescinded.”
Whipsnide’s expression turned sly. “Ah… but they’re not. Miss McGee was evicted from her apartment last night.”
Surprise rolled through Daffi. “How do you know that?”
“If that’s true…” Sergeant Abberline straightened his uniform jacket. “Miss McGee, I’m afraid you’ll have to come with me.”
Garlick swished his tail again with all the authority of a sergeant-major with his pace stick. “Hold on a moment.”
Abberline looked down. “What now?”
Garlick looked up at Daffi, golden eyes flicking to her badge pointedly.
“Oh, right… yes.” She lifted it from the lanyard around her neck and handed it to him. “I think you’ll find that those registered as MPIs have right of access anywhere in the city—apart from the Tower and the Royal Mint of course.
“And Buck House,” Garlick added.
“Of course. It would be rude to barge in on the queen without a formal invitation.”
Oberon blinked. “Queen? A cousin! I must send my regards and notify her of my arrival in her glorious lands!”
“Cousin?” Abberline asked, eyeing Oberon in confusion.
Daffi stood on Oberon’s toe to shut him the hell up. Block heels weren’t as effective as stilettoes for that maneuver, but his small squeak assured her that she had, in fact, gotten her point across.
“Don’t mind him,” she said quickly. “Method actor. He’s rehearsing for Richard III at the Underglobe.”
“Ahhh… excellent. I do like a good play.”
She breathed a sigh of relief, relaxing a little, as Abberline nodded and seemed to buy it… but only a little as the sergeant studied her badge. He handed it back.
“Seems perfectly in order. Good luck with your investigation.”
“MPI my broomstick, we’ll see about that!” Whipsnide snatched the badge before Daffi could take it back. “Sergeant, wait here. I’m sure you’ll soon be arresting Miss McGee for impersonating an investigator as well as trespassing, just you wait and see!”
10
“Seriously? You’re telling me the girl is actually a legal investigator? Surely you can do something about that?” Whipsnide’s furious voice reached through the thick wood of The Office door to assault the ears of the small group waiting out in the corridor.
Whipsnide’s office was on the second level, the corridor a balcony that ran all the way around the entrance hall. It gave them an eagle-eye view of all new arrivals and the ticket booth/shop where Dave was currently being questioned by Sergeant Abberline. The Shifter seemed a little agitated, running his hands repeatedly through his shoulder length, surfer blond hair.
“What? I don’t know, Duncan. You’re a moons-damned High Circle Judge. Surely there must be something you can do! Have her registration revoked! Do I have to do everything myself?”
Daffi was leaning against a pedestal with a bust of Mother Shipton. More a seer than an actual witch, she still had a place in British Magical History. The Shipton family had patented her revolutionary foresight method, and it was currently sold as a smartphone app. Reviews varied from the truly impressive to gummy bears on Amazon level.
She raised an eyebrow. “Anyone else think Ms. Whipsnide really doesn’t want us on this case?”
“Indeed.” Garlick looked up from his self-appointed task of covering Oberon’s black jeans in silver fur from the knee down. The big fairy was currently ignoring him, instead watching the video on the big screen in the lobby.
“She won’t get far though.” The cat studied his handiwork and, apparently satisfied, sat down, wrapping his floofy tail neatly around his paws. His fiery eyes glowed with amusement. “For a guess that’s Duncan Fozedyke she’s talking to and there’s no way he’ll revoke your MPI registration.”
“There isn’t?” She blinked, hiding her smile as Oberon casually waved a hand and all Garlick’s carefully applied cat hair disappeared as if it had never been.
“Nope.”
The cat yawned so widely that she practically saw his breakfast and grinned. “Who do you think I got to sign off on your registration?”
“Right. I see. Well, thanks for nothing. I’ll just have to deal with this myself. As. Usual.” There was a ringing clatter followed by the stomp of angry footsteps, and then the door was yanked open to reveal a furious-looking Whipsnide.
“Since I apparently have to put up with this,” she snarled through gritted teeth, “you’d better come in. But make it quick. I have an appointment at half past.”
“Thank you.” Daffi smiled politely as the three of them filed into The Office.
Old Wanker stared down at her from his painting over the mantelpiece with an identical expression of distaste to the one his great-great-something granddaughter wore. Witches lived a long time, but even as sour as Whipsnide was, Daffi didn’t think she was more than a century old. Her bet was the living, breathing Whipsnide in front of her hand been born in the last half-century at the most. The absolute outside bet was under two hundred years. She could be utterly wrong, and Whipsnide could be the same age as she was, just pickled with self-righteousness and hatred for anyone who didn’t meet her exacting standards. Like Sybil, she appeared to believe that unless a family appeared in Hare’s Magical Peerage, they weren’t really witches.
Settling herself in the seat in front of the desk, Daffi pulled out her notebook and flicked to a new, clean page.
“Could you recall your movements on the day of the murder for us please?” she asked politely, ignoring Garlick as he leaped up onto the windowsill and pressed his nose against the glass. She’d long since stopped trying to work out what went on in his mad little feline brain. She just hoped he didn’t start hurling obscenities at the pigeons again. The last time that happened, she’d had to explain to the mother of a magically sensitive four-year-old that the bird had not, in fact, said, “Fuck off, you fat, furry little wanker!”
“I left the museum at half-five—”
Daffi held her hand up, cutting the woman off. That earned her an irritated look but she didn’t care. Not like Whipsnide could sack her. Was it?
“Start at lunchtime please, Ms. Whipsnide.”
“Why? Sybil was killed at half-past six. How could what I had for lunch possibly be relevant?”
Daffi looked up from her notes. “Humor me. We need to build up a picture of where everyone was on the day in question. The smallest detail might lead to a breakthrough.”
Whipsnide leaned back in her chair, her gaze dismissive as she steepled her fingers. “And you really think a second-rate witch like you could possibly solve a murder when the watch cannot?”