Worth-Jones still didn’t look at me. I brought my hand down and examined it. No, I wasn’t invisible.
He continued. ‘I think the biggest issue is that Marsh is incredibly weak at magic. He shouldn’t even have been admitted to the Order in first place. Plenty of people with smatterings of magic manage without actually becoming witches.’ He shrugged. ‘Marsh is still Adeptus Minor though. How he managed to gain that position, I’ll never know.’
Diall’s grubby fingers were over everything. Winter didn’t say anything like that to Tobias, however. He remained strictly on point. ‘Do you know anyone who knew Marsh personally? We need to find his address.’
‘Trumpton Avenue.’ Tobias thought for a second. ‘Number twenty-two, I believe.’
Winter stared. ‘How on earth do you know that?’
‘Because Diall had to go there on more than one occasion to pick up Marsh. He made a little ditty about it. Now how did it go?’ He scratched his head. ‘Ah, yes. “Twenty-two Trumpton Avenue houses the witch who hasn’t a clue. Vodka, rum, Bacardi and…” No, wait. “Rum, vodka, gin…”.’ He frowned. ‘No. Hang on. I’ll have it in a minute.’
‘I think we’ll manage without it,’ Winter said drily. ‘Thanks for your time.’
Tobias was still mumbling and humming to himself as we walked away.
‘He’s the culprit,’ I said as soon as we were at the end of the corridor. ‘Tobias Worth-Jones is the guilty one for sure.’
Winter sighed. ‘Why?’
‘First of all,’ I said, ticking off my fingers, ‘he’s eating lunch at his desk. He doesn’t have enough time to take a break because he’s spending all his free time reading Volume 9. Secondly, he knew Diall well enough to get all the gossip about him, so he definitely knew him well enough to be invited into his home where he murdered him. Thirdly, his tie has yellow stripes. Never trust someone wearing yellow.’
‘What’s wrong with yellow? It’s the colour of sunshine.’
‘It makes me look sallow and washed-out.’ Winter took a deep breath and I grinned. ‘Are you counting to ten?’
‘Your theories are quite extraordinary, Ivy. Besides, I thought you were convinced that Price did it.’
‘I changed my mind. It’s a lady’s prerogative.’
Winter halted abruptly. Slowly, he turned towards me. ‘You … you’re a lady?’
Ha. Ha. Ha.
***
Trumpton Avenue sounded considerably more upmarket than it actually was. Instead of a leafy road with pretty Victorian houses, which is what I’d imagined, Winter and I found ourselves in Oxford’s version of hell. Although I’m sure that the council serves this area in the same way as the rest of the city, the road was strewn with rubbish ranging from old beer cans to cigarette ends.
On one side of the street, a shabby man mumbled to himself as he shuffled along. When he saw us he yelled a warning about two-headed sheep then shook himself and continued on his way. A scrawny cat, thankfully ginger rather than black, crossed our path and gave a defiant hiss in Winter’s direction. The houses were small, often with boarded-up windows. They were also covered in a layer of grime which archaeologists would probably find fascinating.
‘I bet they don’t put this place in the tourist brochures,’ I said.
Winter didn’t answer though he appeared horrified. It didn’t help when we discovered that number two wasn’t before house numbers four and six, as you might expect. No, that would have been too easy. Instead, it was wedged in a terrace further down, as if the town planner had been having some fun and decided to rewrite the laws of basic arithmetic.
Winter gently nudged me out of the way so that he was the only person on the doorstep when he rang the bell. I picked some dirt out of my fingernails. If he was so keen to do all the work, let him get on with it. My mouth was parched and my sock was still wet. At this rate, I wouldn’t have to feign illness; I’d end up in hospital with pneumonia. Or some kind of terrible bacterial infection.
Winter wasn’t in the mood for waiting. When no one answered the doorbell, he knocked loudly. When that didn’t work, he shouted, ‘Oscar Marsh! This is Arcane Branch! Open up!’ He knocked some more, the force of his fist making the flimsy door rattle and shake in its frame.
‘You could try turning the doorknob,’ I suggested. ‘It would take a lot less effort.’
Winter wasn’t ready to take the easy route. He knocked some more, with increased vigour. Without a warrant, he probably couldn’t enter a property unless he had the owner’s permission. I could fix that. I didn’t want to stand here all day.
Taking a step backwards, I focused on the rusty doorknob. Like the rest of the house, and indeed this street, it had seen better days. It didn’t matter what it looked like; the rune I’d developed was to avoid having to root around in the bottom of my bag for my keys. That might not sound like a particularly arduous task but, given the amount of crap I carry around with me, it could take some time to find what I needed. With this little magic rune, I didn’t have to worry about losing my house keys – and Winter and I wouldn’t have to stand out here until his knuckles were bloody.
With his back towards me, it was easy for me to sketch out the rune without him noticing. I added a little pinkie flick at the end as a flourish, which had precisely the desired effect. The doorknob turned and the door creaked open. Not by much but enough to reveal the dank and musty corridor beyond.
‘Hey,’ I said cheerfully. ‘He must have heard you. Let’s go.’ Before Winter could argue, I nipped past him and went in, although the reek inside almost made me wish I hadn’t.
Irritated, Winter stepped over the threshold and joined me. He looked at me suspiciously, as if he were sure that I’d had something to do with the door’s miraculous opening. The whiff that reached his nose and made it wrinkle gave me the chance to forestall any pointed questions. ‘Smelly, huh?’ I said.
Winter shook his head. ‘I’ve never smelt anything like it before.’
I stared at him; he had to be kidding. ‘Chips and curry sauce,’ I said. I lifted my nose and sniffed. ‘And, if I’m not mistaken, just the faintest tinge of three-day-old doner kebab.’
Now it was Winter’s turn to look astonished. ‘People actually eat doner kebabs?’
‘What else would they do with them? You can’t beat a good kebab.’ I smacked my lips. ‘Especially with slatherings of chilli sauce.’ I grinned. ‘Let me guess: you’re a vegetarian?’
‘No, I’m not. But I don’t eat garbage like that.’
I hadn’t seen him eat anything yet; so far, he’d seemed to exist on air and a furrowed brow. My stomach gurgled to remind me that it was some time since I’d eaten anything substantial myself.
‘I made dinner last night,’ Winter said. ‘I even went shopping. You’d have noticed if you hadn’t crammed a chocolate bar into your mouth then fallen fast asleep.’