“The best part of the day is when we all get to sample the bakes.” Bertha smiled.
“Mmm. That does sound pretty heavenly. What’s the worst part?
“Bertha pulled a face. “Cleaning up. All the washing up. We have unlimited bowls and baking pans and utensils for the contestants to use, but the downside of that, is all the clearing up that has to be done afterwards.”
“The contestants don’t do it?” I asked in surprise. I’d always rather assumed they would.
“Sadly not. It’s down to us who work behind the scenes. It can take all night sometimes.”
“Eww,” I groaned in sympathy. Cleaning and washing up were my least favourite chores. Which was why I’d put my ghosts to good use in the past. “Oooh!” That gave me a thought. “You know what, Bertha? I might be able to help you out there.”
Filming finished at around eight that evening, and Florence did not disgrace herself at all. In fact, I’d say she did quite well. She finished second in the first challenge, fifth in the technical and fourth in the showstopper, which meant that overall she did well enough. Jacinta Cadenza became the first contestant to be sent home after her showstopper—described as ‘slightly heavy’ by Faery Kerry, and ‘absolutely leaden’ by Raoul Scurrysnood—failed to impress.
As soon as the cameras had stopped rolling and we’d all passed our commiserations on to Jacinta, I sent in a team of ghosts to help with the clear up. They were their usual efficient selves, throwing plates, bowls, pans and cutlery around with studied insouciance, sweeping, mopping, spraying, and scrubbing as though their very afterlives depended on it.
The remains of the day’s baked goods were transported up to the inn and set up on some side tables, buffet style, in the bar for everyone to try after dinner proper. The contestants themselves looked absolutely exhausted and a few of them decided not to hang around for an evening meal, but to take the opportunity for an early night so they could prepare themselves for an even earlier start the next day.
Not so the technicians and production crew. I could see that many of them were ready to party till the wee hours, with one or two of them taking seats on stools at the bar and gleefully ordering cocktails from Zephaniah. Where did they get their energy from? I felt pretty exhausted and yet all I’d achieved during the day was observe everyone else work.
Given that most of my Wonky Inn Ghostly Clean-Up Crew were now engaged in cleaning down the contestants’ kitchens in the marquee, and Florence had been excused normal duties for the duration of the filming, it fell to me to help out Charity by serving dinner to those that wanted something from Monsieur Emietter’s menu, rather than Rob Parker’s sausages (which I definitely fancied myself) so I ambled through to the kitchen for instruction.
Finbarr and his pixies were crowded around the kitchen table finishing up their supper before they headed out into Speckled Wood to patrol the perimeter. This was something we had been doing for nearly twelve months now. While the threat from The Mori had faded significantly after the skirmish we’d had during the summer, we’d decided that it was worth keeping up the patrols and keeping an eye of the sanctity of the force field we had in place to prevent encroachment by any enemies.
And besides, Finbarr was part of the family now. I’d miss his pale Irish face if he scurried back to the Old Country.
“Evening, Alf,” he said in his broad Irish brogue.
“Hiya, Finbarr. Everything okay?”
“Absolutely fine and dandy.” He speared a new potato and coated it in some sort of yellowy sauce. The contents of Finbarr’s plate looked like pork loin in a mustard sauce with green beans to my untrained foody eye. Yum! I hastily reconsidered my previous desire for sausage and mash.
“That’s good.” I surveyed the pixies, there must have been a dozen of the little terrors. Half of them stared back at me with angelic eyes, the rest carried on devouring their dinners as though they hadn’t been fed for weeks. “If you’re still hungry later, you might find some cakes and pastries out in the bar.” I wagged my finger at the pixies as a warning, all twelve of them gazing up at me with interest now. “But only after the guests have had their fill. Okay?”
“Yeah, that’s right fellas. Let everyone else have their chance first,” Finbarr chipped in and wiped his plate clean. The pixies grumbled amongst themselves and I tutted.
“Oh, by the way, Alf. I think Charity was looking for you. You have a new guest arrived, so it seems.” Finbarr smirked and I frowned.
“A new guest?” I hadn’t been expecting anyone. As far as I was concerned the inn had been fully booked for the crew and contestants on the show. That’s what I’d agreed to do. My stomach sank. Had I made a mistake and confirmed a reservation I shouldn’t have done? I’d have to turn them away.
Cursing inwardly, I considered abandoning my idea of helping to serve dinner in order to head for my desk and investigate the booking, but Monsieur Emietter would be snowed under without me. There was nothing for it but to get the dinner service out of the way as fast as possible, or hope that the Ghostly Clean-Up Crew finished quickly and came to my aid.
I grabbed a tray of potatoes and carved pork and headed back into the bar. Charity was coming the other way with her hands full of dirty dishes.
“Alf,” she began as soon as she spotted me.
“I’ve heard,” I said, not stopping to talk. “I’ll get right to it as soon as we’ve finished service. I must have made a mistake.”
“No you don’t understand—” Charity called, but I’d left her behind and found myself standing by the bar where Zephaniah was pouring a lurid pink cocktail from a shaker into a high ball glass.
“Miss Alf,” he called, above the general hubbub of the busy room. There was a better atmosphere in here this evening, the shock of Janice’s death had faded somewhat. I checked the ticket to see where my tray was heading. Table six. A small one nestled in the bay window. A lovely table for two that looked out over the front lawns, currently dominated by the marquee of course, but still a pleasant vantage.
“One sec,” I replied, not wanting the food to get cold. I shimmied my way around the tables, following the route that took me towards the window.
I pulled up short as a familiar figure greeted me. “Alfie!”
“Silvan?” Surprise gave way to pleasure, but rapidly became something else. “What are you doing here?” I stared at his companion, awash with mixed emotions. I’d seen her before. By all that’s green, she was stunningly beautiful.
“You remember Marissa?” he asked, and I did. His female ‘friend’. That long hair, so blonde it was actually white, seemed to glow in the subdued lighting of the room. She wore a long silk sleeveless smock in a pale pink blush that complemented her colouring perfectly. She was tall and elegant, calm and unruffled. I stood in front of her looking like an omnishambles. But her pale blue eyes sparkled with warmth. However I felt about her, she obviously held no animosity towards me in return.
“I do,” I replied as graciously as I could manage, trying not to let the words get stuck in my throat. “It’s good to see you again.”
“And you, Alfhild,” Marissa replied, standing up and offering her hand.
I quickly deposited their tray of food on the table and shook hers. “Silvan talks about you all the time,” Marissa said, and her laugh was a soft merry tinkle that made me smile even against my better judgement.
“Does he?” I threw a suspicious look at Silvan and he raised one sardonic eyebrow.
“Hardly,” he drawled. “I have many, many important things to think about, and I’m not sure you’re one of them.” His voice trailed away as he made a show of considering them all.
“Harumph,” I snorted.
“This smells delicious.” Marissa stepped in before I could respond with an acerbic putdown. Not that I’d managed to think one up yet.
Her gentle prodding about the dinner reminded me of who I was and what I was supposed to be doing. “Oh you’ll love this,” I told her. “It’s o
ne of Monsieur Emietter’s classics. He really does blend a fabulous mustard sauce and it balances the pork and beans beautifully.”
I served the couple quickly and efficiently. “Would you like anything else?” I asked, returning the empty serving dishes to my tray and checking they were alright for water. “Any wine?”
“Later perhaps,” Silvan answered for both of them and his eyes twinkled with devilment. I badly wanted to smack him on the head with my tray.
“Just give Zephaniah a shout,” I replied, anxious to underline that I wouldn’t be the one at the dark wizard’s beck and call tonight. Then I swivelled on my heel and marched away, more than a little self-conscious about the clumsy figure I’d cut in comparison to the gorgeous and elegant Marissa.
Charity was still in the kitchen when I returned there with my empties. She took one look at my face and grimaced.
“Sorry, mate. I did try and warn you.”
“I don’t understand,” I griped. “We’re fully booked. Which room have you put them in?”
“We were fully booked,” Charity explained patiently. “But don’t forget we’re a contestant down because Delores left and was replaced by Florence, and Florence doesn’t need a bedroom.”
Of course. That made sense. Plus Patty’s room was free. We’d put Murgatroyde in Janice’s old room. And tomorrow we’d have another room free because Jacinta Cadenza was heading home. I banged my tray down on the counter in annoyance. “Why didn’t I know anything about the reservation?”
“To be fair, I didn’t either.” Charity straightened up the dishes on my tray. “It was a complete surprise when they turned up, but I checked, and the room was reserved for them.” Our eyes met and a look of understanding passed between us.
“Gwyn?” I muttered.
“Undoubtedly.”
“I’m going to have to have words,” I said, annoyed that my great-grandmother always seemed to cave in to Silvan’s requests so easily. “I don’t know what she sees in him? Why does she like him so much?” I headed for the door to go in search of Gwyn.
“Why does anybody?” Charity called after me. “Handsome, intelligent, witty, devilish…”
“Oh give over,” I retorted over my shoulder.
“His girlfriend is pretty too,” Charity added.
I slammed the door as I exited the kitchen.
Gwyn, of course, was nowhere to be found.
My great-grandmother had a terrible habit of leaving me in the lurch when I needed her. “I know you’re around,” I hissed as I closed ‘our’ bedroom door. “You just don’t want—”
“Good evening, Miss Alf. Are you looking for me?” Florence apparated beside me, but for once she didn’t have her feather duster with her. I wondered where she’d left it.
“Grandmama actually,” I grumbled, but then realised Florence was looking rather pleased with herself, and I was being a bore. “Hey! Congratulations, Florence.” We exchanged air kisses—because you can’t kiss a ghost—and I beamed at her. “I’m so proud of you! Everyone at Whittle Inn is rooting for you.”
“Do you think I did alright, Miss Alf?” Florence asked, genuinely anxious.
“More than alright, I’d say! You made it through. Every day you get through will be magnificent. And remember,” I wanted to make sure she knew it didn’t matter to us if she didn’t bring home the coveted Great Witchy Cake Off trophy, “you’ll always be our star baker no matter what happens.”
“Aww thank you, Miss. I appreciate that.” She twirled lightly in the air. “Right, I’d better get down to the kitchen. I want to help Monsieur Emietter clean up, then I need to think about my bakes for tomorrow.”
“I thought we agreed you didn’t have to do any clearing up?”
“We did, Miss. But I want to practice my blood orange sponge tonight, so I want Chef out of the kitchen sharpish.”
“Gotcha.” I nodded. “If you see my grandmama, please tell her I’d like a quick chat.”
“I will do, Miss!” Florence began to fade away. “Nice to see Mr Silvan again, though, isn’t it? And his lovely girlfriend.”
“Is it?” I asked in annoyance, but she’d gone, and I was grumbling to myself.
The sun had yet to rise by the time my alarm went off the next day. While the early starts were becoming slightly easier, I must confess that it was a secretly and insanely grouchy Alf who greeted the first guests with juice and a fry up.
By 7 am, everyone who’d wanted breakfast had grabbed some, and Charity and I were able to begin clearing up.
“What about Silvan and Marissa?” Charity asked me. “Should we leave a table set up for them?”
I pulled a face. “Not worth it. You know Silvan. He’ll lay abed until midday if he can get away with it. He knows he can send down for a tray if he fancies anything.”
As long as I wouldn’t be the one taking it up to him.
The assumption therefore was that my non-Cake-Off guests were enjoying a lie-in, so finding Marissa returning from a walk a few minutes later was a surprise. “Am I late?” she asked in concern. “Is there anything left?”
“Of course, of course! Anything you like. Take a seat and I’ll run and grab you some juice.” I indicated the table she’d been seated at the previous evening and she settled down with a smile.
“Porridge,” she answered when I asked her what she fancied, “with a little jam. And tea please.”
When I brought her breakfast to the table, she gestured at the empty seat. “Won’t you join me for a few minutes?”
I sat, feeling for all the world like I was just about to face some sort of Spanish inquisition, but Marissa merely smiled and spooned some raspberry jam on top of her porridge before dousing it all in milk.
“Your Speckled Wood is beautiful,” she said in between mouthfuls. “You are so lucky to have access to your very own piece of forest. Walking in nature is something I dream about often.” Marissa lived in Tumble Town, a cramped and overbuilt area of narrow lanes and old buildings located behind Celestial Street populated by the underworld of the witching and wizarding community. “I’d have loved to meet Mr Hoo on my travels though.”
Silvan had evidently mentioned my feathered familiar. “By all means go up and meet him after breakfast if you like,” I offered and pointed directly above my head. “My rooms are on the next floor. He’ll either be balanced precariously on my bedstead, hanging out of one of the windows, or he has a perch in my office.
“I’d like that. Is he friendly?”
Occasionally grumpy like his owner, I could have said, but settled for, “A complete flirt where our guests are concerned. I’m often worried that he’ll go off with someone else.”
“He never has so far. That’s a good sign.” Marissa laughed. I was struck again by what a warm and engaging person she was.
“What are your plans while you stay here?” I asked.
Marissa shrugged. “Some walking, some sightseeing. Maybe catch a little of the filming if they’ll let me.”
“I’m sure they will. I’ll have a word with Bertha, the floor manager. She’s been very good about answering my questions and letting me catch a peep of all that’s going on.” I stood. “Speaking of which, I’d better get a shake on and make sure everyone has what they need.”
“That would be wonderful, thank you, Alf. You are so very kind.”
“You’re most welcome. Catch you later. And say hi to Mr Hoo for me.”
“Alf!” Charity called me as I began to climb the stairs heading for my office a little later. “Your mobile keeps ringing. It’s down here.” I headed back to the kitchen and plucked my phone from the kitchen table. Six missed calls from George.
Oooh! A breakthrough?
I quickly hit redial and listened to the buzz as the call rang through and then connected. “Alf!” George’s voice sounded disembodied, or almost like he was talking to me from a cave. I could only assume he was hands-free in his car.
“Have you been trying to get hold of me?” Daft
question. Of course he had.
“I’m on my way over to Whittlecombe now,” he shouted. “Need to ask folk a few more questions. Including you.”
“That’s fine,” I said. “Everyone expects the police to be in and out all week until all this has been cleared up.”
“Sure.” The line was atrocious and although he added something else, I couldn’t make it out.
“You’re breaking up,” I told him. “I need to go into the village now.” I spoke loudly and slowly, hoping he would hear what I was trying to say.
“I’ll meet you there,” he said, and the line went dead.
I rolled my eyes. I would have to get a move on then. He was only travelling from Exeter, not the other side of the moon. He’d be there in twenty minutes.
I didn’t bother changing, just kept the same robes on I’d been wearing during morning service. What’s a bit of spilled egg yolk or baked bean juice between friends? Plus, the early start meant I hadn’t yet had a chance to shower or put a comb through my hair. I wound my long curls around my fist and secured them into a messy bun on the top of my head, smoothed down my robes, grabbed my purse and trotted out of the inn and down the drive.
There was a certain coolness to the day, with a hint of damp in the air. We might have a little rain this afternoon I decided. I skipped along the lane that led from Whittle Inn’s drive to the marginally wider lane at the bottom that led into the village.
Whittlecombe was busy for the time of day. Mums were coming home after dropping their children off at school, retirees were stocking up on groceries from Whittle Stores or queuing for pensions at the Post Office. I had a short list of things I needed from Whittle Stores and could be done and dusted in quick order, ready to meet George when he drove down the main street looking for me. I guessed we could grab a coffee.
In my haste to get everything done, I wasn’t looking where I was going and missed the step when I dashed out of Whittle Stores. I’d probably have ended up flat on my face had it not been for someone grabbing my arm.
The Great Witchy Cake-Off Page 7