The Great Witchy Cake-Off

by Jeannie Wycherley

  Millicent and I waited with bated breath, but there was no reason to worry. For the second day running, Florence was named star baker and this time it was Davide who was heading home.

  The cameras finally stopped rolling for the day and we all began milling around the tent offering congratulations and commiserations where appropriate. Bertha and her crew began the clearing up and the cakes were transported to the inn, which reminded me about dinner.

  “Oh hey, guys!” I shouted above the general din. “Hey, everyone?”.

  When I finally managed to get their attention, I explained the situation. “The gas company have located the leak but they won’t finish the repairs until tomorrow, so for tonight I’d like to invite you to try out Rob Parker’s Porky Perfection if you haven’t already, and in the morning, if we can’t manage a cooked breakfast for you, Rob will open early with sausage, bacon or egg baps.”

  “Or any combo of those,” suggested Millicent, and there were murmurs of approval.

  Only Patty Cake turned her nose up the news. “Well I’ll eat at The Hay Loft,” she said with a sniff. “Would anyone care to join me?”

  Raoul shrugged, easy-going, and probably not particularly hungry after a day of eating cake. I thought Murgatroyde might, because she opened her mouth to say something in reply. Her mobile phone picked the moment to erupt into a cheery electronic tune, so she hooked it out of her pocket to answer it instead.

  “Snippe,” she said casually, but when she heard who was on the other end her demeanour changed. She straightened up and I couldn’t help but notice as her face suddenly clouded. “I see. But—” She listened a little more. “I understand that, but we film the final tomorrow.” One hand crept to her mouth, then fell away again. “Sir. Yes. The thing is—”

  Sir? Who could she be talking to? That single word seemed to put Patty on edge too, and even Raoul, normally so laid back glanced over and frowned in concern.

  “Alright. I’ll tell them.” Murgatroyde’s voice weakened. “Yes. Thank you, sir. Bye.”

  She thumbed the screen and the call ended, then turned to face the rest of us. “I have some bad news,” she said. “That was our bosses from Witchflix. They’ve seen the rough cut of the first few shows we shot earlier this week.”

  “Well what’s wrong with them?” Patty asked, peering closely at her co-producer from behind her dark glasses. “I supervised the editing myself. There was nothing untoward, surely?”

  Murgatroyde shook her head. “They say we’ve broken the rules of The Great Witchy Cake Off.”

  Patty screwed her face up in consternation. “Broken the rules? That’s preposterous. We’ve done everything the way we normally would, haven’t we? What’s changed?”

  Murgatroyde pointed at Florence. “The contestants. The way we’ve chosen them. Florence isn’t a witch. And the big bosses have stated that only witches can participate in The Great Witchy Cake Off.”

  Florence’s mouth dropped open in sudden horror at what she knew was coming, and I rocked back on my heels in dismay.

  “So what do they want us to do? We only have the final to film and we’re doing that tomorrow.” Patty’s voice rose in panic.

  Murgatroyde mouth turned down at the corners. “We have to disqualify Florence.” She turned to my housekeeper with a grimace. “Sorry, Florence, you’re out.”

  I sat on a bench in the clearing of Speckled Wood, absently stroking Mr Hoo’s head, hardly hearing him when he twitted at me. Eventually when I didn’t respond to him, he gave me a swift nip on the finger with his sharp little beak.

  “Oi!” I cried. “Do you mind?”

  “Hoo-oooo. Hoooooo.”

  “I wasn’t ignoring you, I was just otherwise engaged,” I protested, sucking on my finger. He hadn’t broken the skin so my only injury would be a little bruise there.

  “Hoooooooo. Hoo hoo.”

  “I don’t want to go and see Vance. I don’t think he can help me.” I said. “I don’t think anyone can. I just feel sad for Florence. She’s worked so hard and she’s come so far… it seems harsh to take the chance of participating in the final away from her. She deserved more than that.”

  Mr Hoo hoo’d sadly. “Hoo.”

  “Yes. I’m sad too.”

  “Hoo ooh. Hoo!”

  I smiled down at my cheeky little friend. “Listen, Mr Feathery Clever Clogs. You’re probably right. I haven’t been getting enough sleep and I am fretting about a variety of things. Too many things.” I stared out into the dark shadows of the forest around me. “For starters, I wish I knew who was behind the death of Janice. I suppose we should be thankful for small mercies that nobody else has been killed this week. It’s not like we have a serial murderer on our hands.”

  “Hoo!” Mr Hoo sounded shocked.

  “I’m not being complacent at all. I’m just saying it could be worse.” Plus, maybe I felt a slight disconnect from it all because the threat had been aimed at one individual whom I didn’t know very well, and not at me or the inn.

  “Although that’s a pretty rubbish way to think of it,” I scolded myself. “At the end of the day the poor woman was on my property at the time of her demise and surely that means I’m culpable in some way.”

  I leaned forward and put my head in my hands.

  “Hooo oooh.” Mr Hoo called sadly.

  “Why are you saying that? I’m not lonely,” I insisted. “I have lots of friends.” I blinked away the tears that had started to form. “Charity, Millicent. George, kind of.” My voice trailed away to virtually nothing. “I have you and the ghosts and Grandmama and Vance.”

  Pretend friends? Asked a niggly voice in my head.

  They are not pretend friends I insisted to myself. As if to prove just that I jumped to my feet and made my way along the path, heading for the marsh after all, but before I could arrive at Vance’s pool I heard the now familiar sound of an Elizabethan madrigal. Luppitt was out here, and that could only mean one thing.

  Ned was dancing.

  I crept forward, inch by quiet inch, peering through the foliage until I could make out the slightly shiny persona of my jack-of-all-trades. He’d obviously been putting in a great deal of practice because whereas before his movements had appeared stilted and slightly off-kilter, now they were more confident and had a certain grace to them. I watched until he’d finished and silently applauded.

  “Oh bravo, bravo!” Vance boomed, and from the cacophony the followed I could only imagine he was shaking his branches. Twigs and old birds’ nests, insects and all manner of detritus rained down around me. I covered my hair with my hands and crouched low to the ground. “You could make a living on the stage, young Neddy!”

  Luppitt laughed and agreed. “Hark! You should join the Devonshire Fellows, Ned. We’ll make our fortunes yet, forsooth!”

  I listened to them having fun and backed slowly away. I was dying with curiosity to find out more about Ned and the object of his affections, but for now I just let them enjoy the forest by themselves.

  Silvan had often told me I was nosy. Well tonight I was minding my own business.

  Except I quickly changed my mind when I arrived home at the inn. Before heading for my bedroom I popped my head around the office door to check on Ross. This time he cheerfully waved me inside.

  “I have something for you,” he announced, looking mightily pleased with himself.

  “The videos?” I asked hopefully. They would help us eliminate Raoul, and I have to admit that Millicent’s hero worshipping of the green-eyed baking god seemed to be rubbing off on me. I liked him. I sincerely hoped he was not the murderer of Janice Tork-Mimosa.

  “No. Sorry to disappoint you. I am making some headway on those, but I’m waiting for some triangulation on co-ordinates, and that means working with my head office as you know.”

  I did know.

  “They won’t be rushed,” Ross said firmly.

  “But the production crew finish filming tomorrow and then they’ll disperse. I’m worried Georg
e—DS Gilchrist—won’t get the arrest he wants for this case.”

  Ross shrugged. Such things made no difference to him, he was a data man through and through.

  “So what do you have then?”

  “Crispin Cavendish.”

  Well, that was something! “Spill the beans, Ross,” I said impatiently.

  Ross waved a finger and a printout floated through the air and into my hand. It contained facts pertinent to Lyle’s brother. His full name and address. Date of birth and… I did a double take. “He’s married?”

  “He certainly is,” said Ross, returning to his screen. “With two children.”

  “Separated then?”

  “I don’t think so.” Ross shook his head, and absently directed another piece of paper my way. I studied the printout in disbelief. Crispin had—that very morning—booked a holiday for himself, his wife and their two children to Australia for Christmas, still over ten weeks away. Not the act of a man who was estranged from his wife.

  “What a rat!” I spat and began ruminating on how I could stitch him up.

  Sometime in the early hours of the morning I found myself suddenly blinking into the darkness, but unsure what had awoken me.

  It could have been the fact that Crispin was a liar and a cheat… and we all know how much I hate those.

  Ribbit.

  Or it might have been the sense of injustice I felt for Florence.

  But I didn’t think so. I was fairly certain it had been a sound jolting me from troubled dreams.

  “Ho ooh,” called Mr Hoo, and in my somnambulant state I misheard it as ‘Uh oh.’

  I struggled to sit up, my heart suddenly beating too quickly, listening out for the tell-tale buzz of spinning red globes. I couldn’t hear anything like that. From the floor above me I heard the creaking of floorboards and a toilet flushing.

  Was that all? Somebody had visited the bathroom and woken me up.

  I let out a shuddering breath, inwardly scolding myself for my over-reaction and then lay back down, pulling the quilt over me. The room was cool, the window wide open to allow Mr Hoo free rein to go where he liked overnight. I closed my eyes, seeking a little more blissful sleep.

  “Ho ooh.”

  I opened one eye.

  Down the corridor from me, I thought I heard another toilet flush. I frowned.

  “Ho ooh.”

  What? By all that’s green?

  Footsteps walked across the floor in the room directly above my head. Was the whole inn awake? Were all of my guests being caught short in the middle of the night?

  “Ho ooh.”

  “Will you stop?” I asked Mr Hoo grumpily, and he made a flapping noise. In the dark his eyes gleamed brightly at me, some sort of smug knowing look there.

  I threw back the bedcovers violently, disturbing the air, and he made a leap to the window where he tilted his head as though contemplating how dangerous I was likely to be. At just before three in the morning, the answer was not very.

  I pulled on my dressing gown and reached for my wand, before padding across the cool floorboards in my bare feet. The nights were getting cooler and I wished I’d looked for my slippers too.

  A momentary silence greeted me outside in the corridor, but the peace only lasted a few seconds before I heard rushing footsteps above, swiftly followed by a groan emanating from a room a little further down from mine. Holding my wand out ready, I relaxed my knees and shoulders and edged forwards. If the inn was being invaded it was happening on several floors at once.

  A brief flash of light in the corner of my eye caught my attention.

  I whirled, ready to direct a painful slap of energy at whatever had appeared at the end of the hallway near the stairs, but the pale glow told me it was a ghost.

  Florence in fact.

  “Hey,” I called softly, not wanting to disturb any mortals in the inn who might have actually managed to sleep through all the disturbances thus far. “Are you alright?”

  She floated towards me, her soft luminescence increasing with every step, the scent of burning cotton never far away.

  “I’m fine, Miss Alf.” She looked downcast. My stomach squeezed tightly, and my heart ached with disappointment. She was easily the best baker in the competition and yet they’d decided she couldn’t participate any further. If I could have reached out and wrapped her in a hug at that moment I would have done so.

  A despairing moan came from behind the door to my right and I reached out to put my hand on the handle.

  “I wouldn’t, Miss Alf,” Florence warned.

  “Somebody might be hurt.” I whispered. “Something is going on.”

  Florence held her hand up. “Wait,” she said and walked through the wood of the door as though it wasn’t there. She was back a few seconds later, shaking her head and looking a little grim-faced. “It’s as I thought. The same as the rest of the inn.”

  I stared at her, perplexed. What did she mean?

  “Food poisoning, Miss Alf. It seems like the whole of the production crew have come down with it.”

  From the room to the right of me came the sound of the toilet flushing once more, and now I understood. Ewww.

  I channelled my inner owl. “Ho ooh.”

  There wasn’t an awful lot I could do there and then for anybody, especially at that time of the morning. I went back to bed, and lay looking up at the ceiling, listening uneasily to the sounds of an inn more awake than asleep.

  Rob’s Porky Perfection had to be at the heart of it. I’d arranged catering for everyone from his van. Sausages with either chips or mash, with beans or peas, or gravy. How had it all one wrong? Rob seemed pernickety in the extreme about hygiene. Had I misjudged and made an entire crew unwell?

  Tomorrow I would have to voluntarily call the council to speak to the health department and ask them to investigate. I’d have to double check that my own kitchen wasn’t involved and given that my chef was both French and a ghost, that experience might verge on the uncomfortable for all concerned.

  I wondered if I could secretly pass Charity off as the chef. Would the ‘powers that be’ buy that?

  I’d soon find out.

  A head count the following morning proved my worst suspicions. Those who had chosen to eat at Rob Parker’s Porky Perfection van could not make it down to breakfast. Those who had elected to travel into Whittlecombe and eat at The Hay Loft—namely Raoul Scurrysnood and Boo Scully—were perfectly fine.

  And then there were those who hadn’t eaten at all. Faery Kerry fell into this category because she only ever picked at her food and a day of tasting bakes rapidly filled her up. There were others who had only eaten a quick sandwich or snack from Whittle Inn’s kitchen, Charity, Millicent and I for example, and there was Patty Cake who had eaten at The Hay Loft and obviously stayed there overnight. We’d all managed to escape.

  The only other folk down for breakfast were Murgatroyde Snippe and Bertha.

  I eyed them suspiciously as, having decided not to risk asking Rob to cook bacon and sausage in his van, Charity offered them a range of cold breakfast options basically consisting of cereal, fruit and yoghurt.

  Clasping a coffee pot in one hand a teapot in the other, I danced between the tables and regarded them all with what I hoped was a mix of professional concern and proof of my capability to deal with any situation.

  “Good morning,” I greeted them. “I am so sorry about the current situation, but please don’t worry. We’ll have it investigated and sorted out.”

  “I’m appalled,” Murgatroyde sniffed. “Wait until Patty gets here. She’ll have a meltdown.”

  Raoul tapped Murgatroyde’s arm. “It’s just one of those things. When you’ve been involved in the hospitality industry as long as I have, you understand that sometimes these things happen.” He looked up at me. “We do all we can, don’t we?”

  It was nice of him to take my side.

  “I’m so glad none of you have been afflicted.” I poured tea for Bertha. “You didn’t ea
t at Parker’s Porky Perfection?”

  Bertha shook her head. “By the time we’d cleaned up the marquee last night, I was dead on my feet. I just went straight to my room and flaked out.”

  “I’m thankful for that,” I said, striving to be sincere. There was something about Bertha that didn’t gel. Where once I’d found her friendly and helpful, now I sensed a coldness I couldn’t quite figure out.

  “And you too, Murgatroyde?” I said, re-filling the coffee cup she’d just drained.

  “Thank you,” she said, and added a couple of teaspoons of sugar, stirring hard. “I was the same. Just wanted to get my head down.”

  I nodded. Of course. It had been a long tiring day.

  “Have you had any more thoughts about Florence?” I asked. “She’s devastated to be missing the final.”

  “None at all,” snapped Murgatroyde. “I can’t go against the Witchflix CEO’s decision. I value my job far too much.”

  Raoul looked up at me, his green eyes gleaming. “Rules are rules, Alf. As much as we’d like Florence back, our hands are tied.”

  I nodded in disappointment and left them to it. As I walked away, I heard Murgatroyde’s distinct voice ask, “What are we going to do about filming today if none of the crew are up to it? We’re behind schedule as it is. This might mean the bosses cancel The Great Witchy Cake Off altogether.”

  “It won’t come to that,” Raoul said. “There’ll be insurance. We’ll just have to wait a day.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it,” Murgatroyde’s voice was hard and uncompromising. “Hecate only knows what Patty will say. She’ll want to sue.”

  I tutted. Such was the culture we lived in today. Yes, perhaps Witchflix would choose to sue Whittle Inn or even Rob. I doubted poor Rob would be able to afford a lawsuit. I decided I’d better add Penelope Quigwell’s name to the list of people I’d be ringing at 9 a.m. to discuss the situation. Forewarned is forearmed, as they say.

  Charity caught me as I walked into the kitchen. “Rob’s out the back. He’s beside himself.”