The Great Witchy Cake-Off

by Jeannie Wycherley

  Florence was bending over one of the counters, adding the final touches to some gaily coloured French Fancies. They were decorated in gaudy orange and deep lilac icing, with teeny tiny cats on black and orange iced tartan blankets. They must have taken her hours to do.

  “Oh no,” she replied airily when I asked. “It’s only a vanilla sponge tray bake cut into squares. The secret is the crème filling.” She offered me the bowl with the remains of something purple inside. I scooped a little out with my pinkie and delicately touched my finger to my tongue. An unmistakeable touch of lavender.

  “Lovely!” I said and reached for one of the finished fancies.

  “Miss Alf!” Florence chastised me. “Guests first.”

  I pulled a face but took her point.

  “Florence,” I changed the subject. “Do you recall Janice eating dinner at the inn last night?”

  “The lady that was murdered, Miss?” She nodded. “I do. Funny thing though.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Well… I served her and she had the fish, but she didn’t eat very much of it. Then when I cleaned her room on the morning of the murder, I found a discarded takeaway.”

  “Let me guess. Sausage and mash?”

  “That’s right.”

  Puzzled, I reached out absently to try and take one of Florence’s cakes again, but she whisked them away from me. “Had she eaten much of it?” I asked.

  Florence shrugged. “Well, I didn’t look very closely. But there was an awful lot there, so I imagine not. It had made the room very smelly. I had to air it out and spray my favourite air freshener.”

  “L’attention! L’attention!”

  Monsieur Emietter was ready to send the soup. I peered inside the tureen as it moved past me; a beautifully scented bouillabaisse. Served with croutons and a lemon drizzle, it would be perfect for lunch. For those who preferred something a little… well… English, there were toasted cheese and tomato sandwiches, baby pork pies, and a range of healthy-looking salads.

  I snagged a toasted sandwich as the serving platter went by and bit into it. The cheese instantly burnt the roof of my mouth and I cried out. Monsieur Emietter directed a stern look my way. Suitably chastised I dropped it and headed for the cloakroom to give my hands a good wash. Charity could no doubt use my help in the dining room.

  We’d agreed with the producers—Janice specifically—that we wouldn’t serve alcohol until each day’s work had been successfully completed, and so although Zephaniah, my one-armed jack-of-all-trades, was operating the bar for soft drinks and so on, there was little need for me there. Instead I grabbed a serving tray and helped the guests to servings of potato salad. There was plenty to go around, nobody would ever starve at Whittle Inn, despite me having a French chef.

  “Miss Alf?” Florence appeared at my elbow looking slightly worried.

  “Is everything alright, Florence?” I asked.

  Florence nodded at Faery Kerry, sitting with Patty Cake, Raoul Scurrysnood and Boo Sully on a table by themselves. “Miss Alf, please don’t serve them too much of the main course. I’d like to make sure they have room for a cake.”

  “Hasn’t Faery Kerry tried one of your cakes yet, Florence?” I asked in surprise.

  “Not that I’m aware, Miss.”

  “Leave it to me,” I said. “I’m on the case.”

  I took a few steps towards the judge’s table and could have sworn I heard Florence mutter, “That may not play out in my favour, Miss Alf.” But when I turned to check she only smiled at me.

  “Is everything alright with your lunch?” I asked, beaming around at the four Cake Off bigwigs. I noted a space had been left for Mindi, but she was nowhere in sight. Probably outside having a crafty puff.

  “Just perfect, thank you,” Faery Kerry nodded graciously. She’d ordered the soup, but from the amount still in her bowl it looked like she wasn’t going to finish it. Similarly, Patty had the minutest serving of bouillabaisse and she hadn’t even lifted her spoon to it.

  “Is that potato salad?” Raoul sat up straighter, trying to peer into the silver serving bowl I was carrying.

  “Yes,” I said, lifting it higher and out of his eyeline. “I need to refresh it. We appear to be running out.” Potato salad can be very filling after all, and I didn’t want to ruin his appetite. “I’ll be right back to offer you a refill.” I had no intention of coming back of course, and I hid around the corner until their plates were eventually cleared by an attentive Florence.

  At that moment Charity began to bring out bowls of fruit salad and freshly whipped cream. I sidled up to her. “None for the judges table,” I hissed, and Charity gaped at me in surprise.

  “But—”

  I widened my eyes at her and then nodded in Florence’s direction as the housekeeper whizzed past us to deliver plates of French Fancies to every table. Charity frowned but swerved around the judges’ table and made for the contestants instead.

  Florence served her plates of pretty French Fancies to every table before finally plucking up the courage to approach Faery Kerry and Raoul. They paid her little attention, but Mindi chose that moment to walk into the bar and take her place.

  “Oooh, aren’t these cute!” she said in a loud voice, plucking one from the serving platter and twisting it this way and that to get a better look at the cat’s tiny sculpted face. “Too nice to eat.” With that she took an enormous bite of the cake, chomping straight through the cat on the blanket. She chewed with relish. “Mmm. Mmm. Mmmmm. Ohmigosh,” she said with her mouth still full. “So good.” Florence, floating next to the table, smiled so wide that for a second I could almost imagine her little round cheeks glowing with pleasure.

  However, given that ghosts don’t gain colour, she remained pale, merely luminescing a little brighter.

  “Seriously,” Mindi was telling Raoul and Faery Kerry. “I know I’m only a lowly presenter and you’re the great gods of the judging world, but you should try these.”

  “Oh, I really can’t eat another thing,” Patty murmured although the evidence suggested she hadn’t consumed anything.

  “I wasn’t talking to you,” Mindi retorted. “Raoul, wrap your laughing gear around one of these.” She picked up the platter and held it out to him.

  Looking like he’d heard it all before, Raoul gave Mindi a one-sided smirk and picked up one of the delicate Fancies. He placed it on the plate and, unlike Mindi, politely utilised his dessert fork to cut into the sponge. He lifted the fork and scrutinised the texture and colour of the cake, gave it a sniff and raised his eyebrows in agreeable surprise before taking a bite.

  He nodded at Faery Kerry, who was altogether more delicate. She broke off a tiny amount and popped it on to the end of her tongue, then ran it around her mouth a little before trying a tiny bit more.

  “Delicious!” she announced, and a number of the contestants looked around from their own table, to see whom she was casting judgement on.

  If Florence could have died and gone to heaven a second time, I think she would have done so. She half sank to the floor, then in jubilation, shot into the air, before streaking around the outskirts of the bar and dining area. Round she went, one, twice, three times.

  Faery Kerry beckoned me over. “Who made these delicious cakes? Someone in your kitchen?”

  “Yes,” I replied. “Florence. My housekeeper. She’s a wonderful baker. She’ll be so pleased you enjoyed these.”

  “More than enjoyed. These are sensational.”

  Sitting alongside the faery, Patty frowned and reached for one of the fancies. She didn’t bother moving the cake to her own plate, just dug her fingers into the icing, and pinching off a chunk of the side. She popped it into her mouth and chewed. It was difficult to see her expression, hiding as she was behind her customary sunglasses, but for a fraction of a second she remained very still, and the sides of her lips curled up.

  Patty glanced at Faery Kerry who looked at Raoul. Nobody consulted Boo.

  Raoul nodded. “Y
ou know… We’re a contestant down. Delores Everyoung chose to back out of the competition. I think your Florence would make a great replacement.”

  “Well. Hmm. Let me see.” I pretended a nonchalance I was far from feeling when actually you could have knocked me down with a feather. “I’ll have to ask her of course, and then find a replacement for her here at the inn for the duration of the filming of the show.”

  I turned about to see Florence hovering behind Charity’s shoulder, listening to every word that was said.

  I clenched my fists and mouthed, “Oh my witchy goodness!” at my housekeeper, but I’m not sure she saw me do it. Florence, eternally pale anyway, had fainted dead away.

  “So we have yet another dead body at the inn, and the place is crawling with the police once more. I have numerous celebrity bakers in residence and Florence is going to be famous,” I explained to Mr Hoo. “That about sums up the past few days.”

  My feathered friend had chosen to perch on a low branch near to the bench I occupied in the clearing of Speckled Wood. It felt like it had been a rather full-on day, what with contracts to review, murder cases to investigate, and strange men turning up in Whittlecombe. As I often did of an evening, I’d taken a little time for myself and walked into the heart of my wood.

  “I hope it doesn’t go to her head,” I added. “What if she becomes so popular she’s invited to write a baking column for The Celestine Times? or maybe even write a cookbook? I’ve seen it happen. Some previous Cake Off contestants have been able to travel the world or they go on and make other television programmes. I could see it now. Barbequing the Florence Way. Or A Thousand Smoky Recipes for Halloween. She’d make the perfect cover girl.

  “Hoo-ooo.”

  “I’d miss her. That’s all.” My voice sounded thin in the stillness of the wood.

  “Hooooo.”

  “I know. But she’s my friend, not just an employee. She never has been. Besides, I don’t even pay her.” I twiddled with a strand of my hair, preoccupied by the history Florence and I had shared during our time together at the inn. “She drives me crazy at times.”

  “Hoo-oo. Oooh ooh.”

  “What do you mean I drive you crazy at times? You can talk. Well you can’t talk—”

  “Hoo-ooo!”

  “Okay you can talk. But only in owl.” I smiled at Mr Hoo. “I suppose we both drive each other a little nuts, huh?”

  “Hoo. Hoo.” Mr Hoo wiggled his head in agreement and proceeded to engage in a little dance on his branch. “Hooooo.”

  “I’m glad I have you too.”

  We lapsed into companionable silence. From deeper in the wood I could hear the sound of music—Greensleeves. A lute. The notes drifted prettily towards us on a light breeze.

  “Must be Luppitt,” I said. I often banished Luppitt Smeatharpe and his Elizabethan band of Devonshire Brothers into the wood when they wanted to rehearse. Luppitt was a ghost from the Elizabethan period that I’d kind of adopted, and I loved him to bits, but the blaring of the crumhorn and the crashing of the drums could get a bit too much for me and my guests at times, and sometimes the singing was just a little too melancholic.

  However, given the lateness of the hour and the sweetness with which the lute found the notes for this magnificent English tune, supposedly written by Henry VIII, I was curious. “Shall we go and investigate?” I asked Mr Hoo and he stopped dancing and regarded me with solemn eyes.

  “Hooooooooo. Hooo oo.”

  “Why would I be intruding?” I asked, puzzled by Mr Hoo’s comment.

  These were my woods after all. Well I liked to think of them as my woods, but it had been established, rather forcibly on the part of my great-grandmother, that actually, I was a mere custodian of the woods and the inn. My sole purpose of being here was to maintain the building and the grounds and keep them safe for past and present generations of Daemonnes and their friends and neighbours to enjoy.

  I crept along the path, heading towards the music, Mr Hoo remained behind me, twittering with indignation from a safe distance. I found myself at the edge of the pool that Vance, an enormous oak tree and The Keeper of the Marsh, inhabited. I could see him there. He shimmied, waving his branches along to the music, as though conducting some kind of forest orchestra.

  Luppitt stood with one foot elevated on a rock, picking away at the strings of his lute with studied concentration, humming along to his music. The moment he finished I was about to applaud and offer a few ‘Bravos’ when I noticed someone else.

  Another ghost. But one I hadn’t expected ever to see in the forest.

  Ned?

  Ned Bricklewick, one of my indoor-outdoor ghosts. Once upon a time he’d been a Victorian builder working around about East Devon. He’d died relatively young by today’s standards, only in his late forties. He’d lived a hard life, working long hours in a tough occupation to earn a crust, and I think in the end he’d just been worn out.

  Ned was dancing.

  He’d bowed and swayed and stepped in time along to the music, pretending to have a partner at the end of his right arm. I won’t say what I’d witnessed was of a professional standard. In fact I didn’t imagine that Ned would be receiving a phone call from the producers of Witches Got Talent any time soon, but he had a certain masculine grace and lightness of touch that made watching him perform fairly painless. He’d obviously been practicing.

  A lot.

  At that moment Mr Hoo decided to fly in from the clearing with his wide wingspan. As he negotiated the branches closest to me, he rustled the leaves and knocked a few twigs to the ground, scattering insects and leaves in his wake and thereby completely blowing my cover.

  Ned looked up and clocked me there gaping back at him and without a word, apparated away.

  Luppitt grimaced. “Oh dear, oh dear!” he said, the White Rabbit to my Alice, and even as I began to ask him what he and Ned were up to, he’d followed Ned somewhere I couldn’t go.

  I tutted and twisted my head to stare up at Mr Hoo. “You did that on purpose.”

  “Hooo ooo.” Mr Hoo denied it of course, the fibbing little ball of feathers and fluff.

  Vance’s booming laugh echoed around the marsh and I ducked under his branches and scuffled through the undergrowth to join him.

  “Young Alfhild!” he boomed. “How very good to see you!”

  “You too, Vance,” I said and waved. I didn’t intend to jump into the water and give him a hug today. Now the music had stopped, I could make out the call of dozens and dozens of toads, and the rasping of crickets in the silence.

  “How is everything at the inn?” he asked. “I hear you’ve had another spot of bother.”

  “Another murder.” I nodded. “Yes. How did you hear about that?”

  “Oh, I keep an ear to the ground.” Vance shook his branches, and Mr Hoo flew up to sit with him. I folded my arms and gave the owl a hard stare. A right little gossip-monger he proved to be. “Ha ha ha!” Vance boomed again. “Actually, your great-grandmother came for a chat last night.”

  “Did she?” I hadn’t seen Gwyn for a while. Occasionally she went to ground and disappeared from the inn, and I wouldn’t see her for days or even weeks on end. I didn’t mind as long as she came back. Together we were like oil on water and yet she was my greatest and strongest ally.

  “Yes, we had a gay old time.” Vance nodded. “I don’t understand all this talk of film and television, and I’m not entirely convinced your great-grandmother does either, but I have to confess it sounds like a fun gathering of people. Eat, drink and make merry is a good motto for life.” Vance shook his branches approvingly.

  “Not so much fun for Janice Tork-Mimosa,” I said with a shrug. “But otherwise, yes.” Changing the subject, I pointed at the rock where Luppitt had been standing and playing his lute. “You’ve had some entertainment this evening. Was that my Ned? Was he really dancing, Vance?”

  “Wasn’t it wonderful?”

  I laughed. “I suppose so. He’s a lovely fellow,
always asking if I need anything, happy to turn his hand to everything. He never complains. Just gets on with being a really valuable part of my Wonky Inn Ghostly Clean-Up crew.” Ned helped with everything from maintenance to gardening (which he loved) to manning the bar (which he was less fond of). “But I’ve never seen him dance.”

  “Ho ho ho. He’s learning! Ably assisted by Luppitt. You know, that Luppitt is such a talent. I do so enjoy the evenings when he and his brothers seek me out and play to me. My own personal concert.”

  “Right.” I didn’t mention they only played in the woods because I kicked them out of the inn. “Indeed, that’s nice. But Vance?”

  “Yes, my dear?”

  I squinted into the shadows where I’d seen Ned. “He’s such a quiet man. He never has much to say for himself at all. Just a shy smile here, a few words of smart-assery there.” I had to confess to being stunned when I realised what he was doing here in the clearing. “Why was Ned dancing?”

  “Why does anybody dance?” Vance asked and I rolled my eyes as he became all philosophical on me. “Movement, like music, is life. An expression of freedom.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “A tribute to those who have walked our paths before.”

  “I know, but—”

  Vance laughed suddenly, a cracking explosion of sound; wood splitting and reverberating throughout the forest. “Or perhaps he’s doing it for love?”

  I stared up at the enormous tree in confusion. Vance’s eyes, large knots in the bark, blinked down at me in amusement. “It’s an emotion you have experienced, young Alfhild,” he reminded me in his kindly way.

  “I have.” I glanced around the edge of the pond, wondering where Jed was hanging out, and thought back to the time I’d turned both him and George into the toads they undoubtedly were. “But Ned?”

  “Ned has a lady friend, I believe. Someone he is trying to impress. He’s hoping to dance with her one day.”

  “Really?” I asked, and my heart fluttered in my chest. Ned was learning to dance in an Elizabethan style for a woman. How incredibly romantic. “Awww!”