Author's note: If you don't like the theory of magic being used in this story, not to worry, I doubt I'll use it again. (However, anyone who wants to borrow it is free to do so.) I'm reacting to the magic in Harry Potter, which has always seemed to me like what you'd find in the after-Halloween discount bins in your local mall.
"We're not going to try that wretched tailing-the-suspect business again, are we?" complained Denis. "It didn't work very well last time." Mrs. Macready had already explained the Dunleavy situation to him.
There had also been no choice but to share her doubts with Athanasius. She would rather not have involved him in this but she might need the help of his men. Feeding the old man's suspicions was like tossing logs on to a fire. If Dunleavy's expression on seeing the rings was alarming it was as nothing compared to the way Athananius's eyes had ignited with passionate hatred. The old man's frame had convulsed into life, trembling with excitement. Mrs. Macready could only look on with something like horror and awe. Athanasius would authorize a raid on the Brotherhood's lodge. That the Brotherhood was involved in the skirmish over the rings was justification enough to satisfy their superiors.
Beyond using them as a propaganda tool against the Ministry Mrs. Macready couldn't begin to speculate what the Brotherhood would do if they got their hands on the rings. Some among them would surely try to seize them for personal power. Under the circumstances Mrs. Macready did not want to take that chance.
"No, we'll leave it to the experts. Athanasius's agents will follow him."
"Why did you drag me up to the roof, then?"
"Dunleavy would normally leave work about this time. If we spot him I thought, well, we might just hover usefully in the area." Mrs. Macready smiled hopefully. She pulled a metal baton from under her coat. Engraved on it in very fine lines were rows of symbols, like a text.
"What's that?" asked Denis skeptically.
"I thought you wanted to ride a broomstick."
"That's hardly a broomstick."
"Well, not literally, but it'll do." The tube telescoped out to form a rod about the length of a broomstick. "We must make way for modern times."
"So all that writing on it, that's the spell that makes it work?"
"Yes, laypeople tend to think that magical objects are intrinsically magical but, in reality, they are either enchanted by having a spell cast at them, or the magic that controls how they work must be written on them. Anything as complicated as a flying broomstick must, of course, be written."
"Look, isn't that him now?" Denis pointed to the figure of Dunleavy hurrying from the South Island Import Export building. A taxi was waiting for him on the curb.
"That didn't take long."
Dunleavy must have been afraid she would circulate news of the discovery of the rings. That would have forced his hand either way. If he was loyal to the Ministry he would want his superiors to have the rings under their control to prevent rumors about them from spreading. If he was a traitor he knew that his superiors would soon come knocking at his office door.
Denis straddled the metal rod awkwardly and they were soon aloft. They didn't have to fly very fast; the taxi was caught up in the evening traffic. Denis thought he would be all right as long as he didn't linger on the fact that he was sitting on a thin rod with his legs dangling above the rooftops of the city. He was gripping the rod behind his seat with both hands as firmly as he could. He was afraid his hands would soon be numb.
"You know," said Mrs. Macready helpfully, "there's no need to worry so much. The rod adjusts to shifts in your weight. It's designed to prevent you from falling off."
Denis said nothing but continued to hang on grimly.
After flying for some fifteen minutes, Mrs. Macready remarked, "It seems I was right about Dunleavy, or, I suppose, Athanasius was right. It appears Dunleavy's going to the Lamplighters' Lodge."
"Lamplighters, did you say? Who or what are Lamplighters?"
"The Loyal Order of Lamplighters is a long established and secret organization. Not of wizards, of laypeople. I suppose at one time they lit the lamps in the city. I'm sure they perform many laudable services to society. They raise money for children's hospitals, that sort of thing."
"You mean harmless old codgers with their secret handshakes and initiation ceremonies and that sort of thing. What do they have to do with this?"
"Ah, you see, it's well known to the Ministry that they act as a front for the Brotherhood."
"Oh, so they're a secret society that acts as a front for another secret society." Denis shook his head skeptically. "If it's so well known why don't your agents raid the place, round up the old codgers and make them spill their secrets? Then you'll be done with your opposition in no time."
Mrs. Macready laughed. "Most of the old codgers wouldn't have a clue what the Brotherhood is. We have, in fact, raided the Brotherhood, but they don't leave their conspiracy plans, if any, on desktops or in filing cabinets. As far as anyone could tell, their activities are aimed purely at education and research." But did the failure of those raids have anything to do with Dunleavy, Mrs. Macready now wondered.
Denis was grateful for the conversation which distracted him from his precarious position atop the rod.
They soon caught sight of the black rectangle of the taxi stopping momentarily and Dunleavy getting off and entering a building. They descended to the sidewalk.
"Well," announced Denis beaming, "I survived that."
"Congratulations," said Mrs. Macready, not entirely with sincerity. She waved her wand over Denis from head to feet. Then she did the same for herself. From Denis's point of view she was immediately transformed into a prosperous looking businessman in a black suit wearing a bowler. "There, that might help. Have a look at yourself in a window."
Denis saw that he looked the part of a likely colleague of Mrs. Macready's character. He found it a little unnerving to notice that he had not changed appearance very much but only looked older, with gray whiskers.
"It's only an illusion," Mrs. Macready reminded him. "Don't count on it fooling Dunleavy. We need to stay out of his sight as much as possible."
"What about the Bureau agents? Isn't this their job?" Denis inquired, with a note of anxiety.
Mrs. Macready carefully scanned the street. "I don't know. They're not here, at least, not yet."
Denis was astonished to discover that the building Dunleavy had stepped into was a pub, the Three Phoenixes. "I thought you said he was going to this Lamplighters' Lodge?"
"It's on the corner, half a block away." She pointed and Denis could make out the tall white classical columns of an imposing structure at the end of the block.
The Three Phoenixes reminded Mrs. Macready of the dozens of taverns she had seen Gerald visit in their years together. They wound their way past the booths paneled in dark stained wood, careful not to bump into patrons, some a little unsteady on their feet, and ducking the round trays laden with mugs and glasses carried by the barmaids.
They took seats at the bar to better observe Dunleavy. The supervisor ordered a pint and sat down at a booth to drink.
"Perhaps he just wants a drink after work?" Denis suggested.
Mrs. Macready shrugged. "Almost anything is possible. He might suspect he's being watched and this is just to make us think we're wasting our time. Or he might be meeting someone here to hand off the rings." They ordered drinks so as not to attract attention.
Gerald drank too much when he was younger. It seemed to develop naturally from all the time he spent with his rugby teammates. In the early years she had nagged him incessantly but it did no good—it was a regular theme among their friends to tease Gerald on being nagged about everything. More often she would be exasperated at the effort of nagging and sit in stony silence when she accompanied him. She didn't suppose it made any difference. Thinking back, she thought she might have overdone it. She thought of over-indulging in alcohol as a moral weakness. That was a pattern of thought she was sure she had received from her parents. Whatever resentment he felt never boiled over into much. Looking at it coldly and practically she had to admit that his habit never developed into much of a problem. He was sober when it mattered. He had gotten into the odd fracas from time to time but he was too genuinely peaceable minded for these scrapes to become mean or vicious. She wished he had more concern about his health, though. He was developing something of a belly. (She, on the other hand, had a very trim figure, if she was to say so herself.) To be sure, it didn't show much through his clothes. He always had the same wide shouldered, barrel-chested build. She imagined she must have been the envy of many women. Now she was happy to find excuses to leave him alone, trusting his friends to keep an eye on him. In recent years the drinking had moderated. Four years ago he had left behind friends he had known since Ian was a toddler to move with her to London and her new career. He no longer had as many occasions to drink.
Thinking of the move always gave her a twinge of guilt. Had she asked too much of a sacrifice of him? He never complained about living in the city. He always had amusing anecdotes to tell of his colleagues at Huxley and Sons Hats and the customers he met on his sales route through the southwest counties. Even though he had spent some fifteen years in the market town of Plimley he was a village lad at heart and must have secretly longed to go back. That was why he was so quick to jump at the sales job for the hat makers; it allowed him to spend his working days driving through the countryside, stopping where he wanted.
When Dunleavy had finished about half of his beer he got out of the booth. "Must be going to the lavatory," Denis whispered.
After some minutes Mrs. Macready suddenly sat up at attention. Dunleavy had not returned to his seat. To Denis she said, "You'd better have a look in there."
"Me? You're a man, too. I mean, you look like a man, too."
Mrs. Macready had actually forgotten her illusion. She didn't want to let on, though, so she maintained a stern expression. Denis went into the men's lavatory.
"He's not there," Denis reported.
"What? How is that possible?" Mrs. Macready fairly shrieked. Some heads turned, wondering where the shrill voice came from.
Denis shrugged helplessly. She could sound witchy enough when she wanted to, he thought.
The two of them went together. Mrs. Macready paused in the space before the doors. There were doors to the kitchen and a storeroom on one side and doors to the men's and ladies' rooms on the other. She stood for a moment to consider. Then she waved her hand over a blank wall. For an instant Denis had a vision of a door, with lines of mysterious symbols carved on it. Then this view faded and Denis was left with the everyday appearance of the hallway again. The door was invisible to all the thousands of patrons who had passed by, year after year, on the way to the men's or ladies' rooms.
"Did Dunleavy create this door to give us the slip?" Denis asked.
"Not likely, I think. This door looks old. The Brotherhood may have created a secret door leading to their meeting place long ago. Someone must have told Dunleavy about it. He would never want to be seen going there publicly if there was an alternative."
Mrs. Macready turned the knob on the door and motioned Denis to follow. The door opened to a short set of wooden stairs going down to a long straight passageway completely lined in stone blocks of an antique appearance. Denis and Mrs. Macready stepped down. As she closed the door behind them a light glowed at the end of her wand. She ended the illusion spells to save her powers for what lay ahead. They walked forward into the dark.