The Great Witchy Cake-Off

by Jeannie Wycherley

  As Charity quickly stepped out of the way, I listened as Gwyn uttered soothing words to the chef. He rapidly fired off a series of curses, gesticulating wildly towards the storerooms. Gwyn, shooting me a frown, spoke once more to the chef, nodding and placating him to the best of her ability. She led him to the kitchen table where he hovered above a bench.

  “We’ll sort it all out. You really mustn’t worry,” she told him and nodded at me, even though I had no idea at all just what I was supposed to be sorting.

  “We will,” I agreed, hastily walking over to join them.

  “Vite! Vite!” Monsieur Emietter said and placed his head in his hands and sobbed.

  “What on earth?” I asked Gwyn.

  “Weevils.” Gwyn said, her eyes projecting her horror.

  “What?” My head thumped like a bass drum. I was never going to drink wine again.

  “Weevils?” Charity repeated, standing next to me and looking around in confusion.

  “In the flour,” Gwyn enlightened us through gritted teeth. “Probably flour beetles rather than weevils actually, but I don’t think that makes a great deal of difference to our poor Monsieur Emietter.”

  I shuddered in response. Insects in the food.

  Charity however was far quicker on the uptake, mainly because she had gone to bed sober and at a reasonable time. “The flour in the storeroom? The flour that the production crew are going to be requesting in a few hours?”

  Gwyn nodded. “Apparently, according to Chef, all of the bags of flour are infested.”

  “We need to get rid of them!” Charity cried, then looked at me in concern as I gagged. “Are you alright, Alf?”

  For one awful moment my stomach tipped over and I thought I might be ill. Insects in the food at Whittle Inn? This could seriously damage our reputation of course, but over and above that, it simply made me feel nauseous.

  I swallowed hard and shook myself. I needed to get a grasp of the situation. “Ned!” I called, and he appeared lightning fast. “You need to rally the Wonky Inn Ghostly Clean-Up Crew. I want you to remove every trace of flour from the kitchen and storerooms. No exceptions. I want the storerooms swept, hoovered, mopped and rechecked. Got it?”

  He nodded and hastened away to grab a few more ‘bodies’ to assist him with the task. “Charity, I need you to run down to the village and buy every bag of flour, no matter what it is, plain flour, cornflour, maize flour, rye flour, the works. Buy it all and see if Stan will drive you back here with it. Let’s hope there’s enough at Whittle Stores to start the bakers off.”

  “Will do. What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to have a very strong coffee and then I’m going to get on the blower to Rhona to see if her wholesaler can replace our stocks and deliver it all this morning. By the time you get down there I’ll have spoken to her and made the arrangements.”

  “Okay, boss!” Charity left the kitchen at a run.

  “Alfhild,” my great-grandmother was saying. “Follow me.”

  “Can I just grab a coffee, first?” I pleaded but Gwyn glared at me and I dutifully followed her out of the kitchen and down the short corridor to the first storeroom. I pushed it open and we went inside. I was immediately struck by how cool it was.

  There were a dozen large sacks of flour neatly lined along the bottom shelves. Flour had been spilt on the floor. This was unusual. We were fastidious about keeping everything neat and tidy in the storerooms. No-one could ever be sure when we might have an inspection from the Food Standards Agency.

  I stared at the scene knowing something was wrong but struggling to process my thoughts.

  But then it came to me. The sacks had been ripped open. Every single one. Only one would ever be used at a time. There was no need for the rest to have been opened.

  “Did Monsieur Emietter open these?” I asked Gwyn and she shook her head.

  “He says not.”

  I bent down, my thumping headache all but forgotten, and rippled my fingers in the flour. I loved the feel of it, always had, but even as I did so, I could see the beetles. At 3 or 4 millimetres long, they were small but hideous in this context.

  “This was done on purpose?” I asked in wonder. The room was cool. We would hardly have incubated our own beetles in here, and the fact that all of the sacks had been opened suggested sabotage. No doubt about that.

  I stood, and the room spun. I quickly gripped the shelving to steady myself. This was no good. I couldn’t think properly when I was dealing with a mild case of self-inflicted blood poisoning.

  “I need to make a few phone calls, Grandmama. Can you oversee the removal and proper disposal of this flour and make sure both storerooms are properly cleaned before we have any more flour delivered?”

  “Yes, my dear. Leave it with me,” Gwyn nodded approvingly. “Are you going to call your friend at Whittle Stores now?”

  “I’m going to start with Millicent,” I said. “I need a potion to eradicate this hangover from hell.”

  Millicent was only too thrilled to head on up to the inn, hoping to catch a glimpse of some of the celebrities working on The Great Witchy Cake Off. She brought with her a vial of the most revolting green liquid I had ever seen. It looked like a scraping of toxic plague, or something you might have scooped up from between the rocks in the marsh after the whole of the forest had been sickening for a week. But I knew better than to ask questions. I simply downed the potion in one, much to Millicent’s approval, and turned to the more important tasks of the day.

  Rhona had been able to re-order all of the flour we would need, and for a small fee the wholesalers would deliver before ten. As long as Charity had enough to keep the contestants going from nine when the filming began, I figured we might get away with it.

  As a courtesy I made a quick phone call to George, who sounded alert and as fresh as a daisy. I filled him in on our potential intruder and he promised to drop by.

  I was concerned that someone had been inside the inn, messing with the flour. They’d broken into Rob’s van too. Or perhaps, as Silvan had suggested, they had used a djinn. Whomever was behind this, I had to ask myself, did they have something against me and Whittle Inn, or were they trying to sabotage the filming of The Great Witchy Cake Off?

  I headed upstairs to shower and change, thinking hard all the while. I’d been far too complacent. Silvan had pointed that out—not in so many words—the evening before. My gut feeling that this series of events, starting with the murder of producer Janice, was not aimed at me personally, but at the series. I tied my hair back in a business-like ponytail, buttoned my robes to the neck and pocketed my wand.

  Enough already.

  Cake-Off fun time was over. I needed to get down to business.

  “We’re a nation that harks back to the golden era of our grandparents and great-grandparents. To a time when steam trains chuffed through the rolling hills of the countryside, and hot cross buns were one a penny, two a penny. So, what will our five remaining contestants make of Victoriana week? Will they push for the glory of the Empire, or will there be more famine than feast? Stoke up the engine and tighten your stays. It’s week four of The Great Witchy Cake Off and it’s all to bake for.”

  “Cut!”

  “Was that okay or do you want me to try that again?” Mindi was asking as Jemima and Boo took a quick look back at the recording.

  “I think we’re good,” Boo said, and Jemima agreed. Mindi smiled and relaxed.

  “Morning, Alf,” a quiet voice greeted me from behind; Bertha, armed as always with a broom. “Everything alright?”

  “Yes, thanks.” I watched her sweep. “Any reason why it wouldn’t be?”

  “No, no. I heard you were out late last night, that’s all.”

  “Ha-ha!” I replied. “Yes, I was a little the worse for wear this morning but I’m much better now, thanks to my friend Millicent here.”

  Bertha and Millicent exchanged pleasantries, Millicent gushing about how much she loved the show, while I pee
red around at the rest of the production crew, beavering away to make a start on the day’s filming. I was relieved to find that the flour that had been kept overnight in the marquee had remained unadulterated. With luck and a following wind, as long as none of the contestants decided to start their bakes over from scratch, we would have more than enough flour to last until the new sacks arrived from the wholesaler.

  Bertha finished sweeping and stowed the broom. “We’re a little short of cocoa powder and cornflour. And I need to send someone to collect some flour from the stores. Is that alright with you?” Bertha asked.

  “Of course!” I said, pretending to be entirely unconcerned, while Millicent, who knew the whole story, cast a suspicious glance at her new friend. “Charity is up at the inn, just give her a shout.” Bertha nodded and moved away, and Millicent narrowed her eyes in suspicion.

  I shrugged and shook my head. “It’s her job,” I explained. “She always asks me for permission, and she’s the one who organises the supplies to come down from the storeroom.”

  “So she knows all about the stores and their contents?” Millicent asked in a low hiss.

  “Yes, but then so do the runners. She sends one or two of them up to the inn each time.”

  “I’d keep an eye on her.” Millicent folded her arms.

  “I don’t disagree,” I said, keeping my tone mild and stepping well out of the way as one of Bertha’s assistants rushed into the marquee with several trays of eggs precariously balanced in one hand and a clipboard in the other.

  Millicent raised her eyebrows. “That’s a lot of eggs.”

  “They get through dozens every day,” I agreed. “I’m having fresh supplies brought in daily.”

  “I’m telling you, Alf, you really should get some chickens up here at the inn. You’ve got bags of room out the back. You’d save a fortune.”

  “I don’t—” I was about to begin protesting again, when the judges entered the marquee.

  Millicent’s mouth dropped open at the sight of Raoul Scurrysnood and Faery Kerry, making her the oldest fangirl in Devon. She leaned in close to me and whispered, “Can I get Raoul’s autograph? Oh, I love him.”

  Maybe she said it a little louder than she anticipated because he looked over at us and smiled, his glorious eyes lighting up his whole face. Millicent gasped and I was momentarily concerned she might faint, so I nudged her hard with my elbow.

  “Raoul,” I said. “This is my friend Millicent. She lives in the village and is one of your biggest fans.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Millicent.” Raoul shook her hand. “You’ll have to excuse me though; I need to get started.”

  “Oh of course! Carry on, carry on!” Millicent waved him away, blushing bright red. As he joined Faery Kerry on his mark on the floor, she giggled like a little girl. “Raoul Scurrysnood just spoke to me! I can die happy now.”

  I laughed. “Well please don’t do that just yet.”

  “Doesn’t he make you go weak at the knees, Alf?” Millicent asked, and one of the technicians shot us a quick look. I could see that Millicent was going to be difficult to contain while they were filming.

  “Well,” I whispered, “I think he’s rather sweet, and very handsome, and probably quite charming, but no. He doesn’t actually do it for me.” I lay my hand on her arm. “Now, Millicent, you need to control yourself because they’re going to start rolling in a minute and they need absolute quiet.”

  “Alright,” Millicent chirped playfully. “I’ll be good, Alf, I promise. Please don’t banish me.” She directed this latter to the nearest camera wizard, a young man with long black hair and a nose-ring, who winked at her and set her off again. I pulled her away to the very rear of the marquee, just as the contestants came in.

  There were only five of them now. Hortense Briar, Eloise Culpepper, Scampi Porthouse, Davide McGulligan and Florence. We waved at the housekeeper as she passed, like over-excited parents proud of our offspring. I noted how calm she appeared to be in spite of all the furore of the previous evening.

  Mindi took her place again, and there was a swift flurry of adjustments to hair and make-up before Bertha asked for silence on the set and Jemima called action. Mindi addressed the camera and recapped on the previous episode, before giving her trademark instruction to the contestants, You’re under starter’s orders. Recalibrate the scales, flour your pans, turn on your ovens and in three, two, one… Bake!”

  Baking pans, glass bowls and utensils clattered loudly as the camera wizards moved into place, zooming in and out as each contestant began their preparation. I watched as Florence carefully shook out flour onto her scales, chopped up butter into small cubes—all without touching anything, of course—and cracked the eggs into what would become her Victorian sponge mixture.

  Mindi sidled up to Florence, with a camera wizard and a sound witch on her tail. “Welcome back, Florence. Congratulations on making it through to week four.”

  “Thank you,” beamed Florence. “I’m thrilled to have made it this far.”

  I could have written the script myself. Everyone said the same things. But maybe that was why we loved it so much.

  “So the theme this week is Victoriana, and you’ve been asked to produce a cake for this round. Can you tell me what your plan is?” Mindi asked.

  “Well,” Florence gestured at the bowl in front of her. “I’ve decided to keep my cake as traditional as possible. I’m following Mrs Beeton’s well known recipe for a Victoria sponge.”

  Mindi pretended to look concerned. “Do you think a plain Victoria sponge will be good enough to keep you in the competition, Florence?”

  Florence nodded. “I do. Yes. Because it’s going to be a good one. I’m sticking to Mrs Beeton’s tried and proven recipe. What I have here are equal quantities of butter, sugar and flour. But the trick is, and this is something that many people forget, you also have to have the same weight of egg. You should weigh the eggs in their shells and then make sure you measure out the same amount of butter, sugar and flour. So in my case my eggs weigh… let me see… 263g, so I need 263g of butter and 263g of flour and sugar.” Florence shook the flour into her large mixing bowl. “Trust me this will be beautifully light and airy and taste like angel’s wings.”

  “Let’s hope any angels watching aren’t too distressed by that thought.” Mindi turned to the camera and winked. “Are you opting for a traditional strawberry jam filling too, Florence?”

  “No. I thought that would be a little too simple. Given that Queen Victoria was the first Empress of India, I felt I could give a nod to India’s rich legacy.” Florence held up a small bowl, “I’ve infused some saffron and crushed a palmful of cardamom seeds, so I’m going to add this to the mix instead of milk, with just a little freshly squeezed orange juice. It will taste wonderful!”

  “That does sound heavenly. Thanks, Florence!”

  “Good, good! Well done, Florence,” called Boo. “Keep the cameras rolling please and can we go to Eloise next, Mindi?”

  Florence glanced my way and I gave her the thumbs up.

  So far, so good.

  Charity popped her head around the door of the tent to give me the heads-up that the delivery had arrived and our storeroom had been restocked with new supplies of flour and sugar. I followed her out, away from the sweet scents of baking, into the more autumnal environment of the outside world. My headache had dissipated, and I felt fine, albeit rather hungry. I hadn’t had time for breakfast. I could see Rob opening up his van which reminded me I needed to speak to him about the events of the previous night. Tummy rumbling with desire, I headed his way.

  “Morning, Rob,” I called as I drew closer.

  He looked up from whatever he was doing and nodded. “Morning, Alf.”

  “Is everything alright with the van?” I asked. “Only I was out here last night with my friend Silvan and he thought you’d had a break in maybe.”

  “A break-in?” Rob looked confused and I knew what he was thinking, because the v
an had been locked up when he’d arrived. “Silvan secured the door for you,” I explained.

  “Oh right. Well,” Rob looked around. “Everything seems to be okay.” He opened a few cupboards and looked inside, and then opened his fridge and rummaged around. “Everything is where I would expect it to be.”

  “And nothing is missing?”

  Rob shook his head. “Not as far as I can tell. But what would anyone take from here. All I have is sausages and onions and a huge bag of potatoes in the back of my car.”

  From behind us came the sound of a klaxon. That signalled the end of the first round.

  Torn between the needs of my stomach and my desire to see how Florence had fared in the judging, I reluctantly headed back to the marquee. I waved goodbye to Rob and promised I’d catch him later.

  I arrived back into the tent just as Faery Kerry was cutting into Florence’s sponge. I was pleased to see how well the cake had risen. It had been sandwiched with a thick layer of cream and a kind of orange marmalade compote. My mouth watered as I watched first Faery Kerry and then Raoul take a forkful of the sponge and chew thoughtfully.

  “That’s delicious,” piped up Faery Kerry. “So moist. The balance of flavours there is exquisite.”

  Raoul nodded in agreement. “What we have here is a heady mix of skill and creativity. I think you’ve shown a real flare here, Florence. It tastes delicious. I loved it. Well done!”

  Millicent and I exchanged delighted looks. That was the first hurdle accomplished today, the technical challenge was next.

  Once all the judging had been completed, there came another break in filming so that everyone could grab a drink and a snack and visit the bathroom, but within twenty minutes the cameras were rolling again.

  “This week’s technical challenge is a real Victorian favourite, and Faery Kerry, who is old enough to have existed at the time,” Mindi winked cheekily at the camera, “is going to tell you all about it.”

  “Thank you, Mindi,” said Faery Kerry in a voice that mildly castigated the presenter for her joke. “Contestants. This week we’re asking you prepare a Victorian favourite. A staple at many a Victorian tea, and at high tea ever since. Delicacy is the order of the day here. We would like you to prepare thirty-six mini egg custard tarts. We’re looking for perfectly crisp cases, and sweetly scented middles. You’ll have just ninety minutes.”