Charity caught me as I walked into the kitchen. “Rob’s out the back. He’s beside himself.”
That stood to reason. “Poor man. I’ll go and talk to him and we can make some arrangements to have the health people in.”
First though, I put in a quick call to Millicent and asked her to join me at the inn. She’d been intending to come anyway, but I wanted her to bring some supplies. Once I’d had that discussion I went in search of Rob.
He was waiting for me by the back door, his face ashen. “Alf—” he started to say.
I waved his words away. “Rob,” I said as I stopped him. “I know what you’re going to say, and I honestly don’t believe this is down to you. I’m not sure what’s going on, or why, but I’m going to find out.”
“But the health authorities—” Rob wrung his hands in agitation.
“I know.” I reached out to pat his shoulder. “Look. We’re going to play this by the book. I have to get the health authorities involved, because if I don’t, likely someone else will and it will just look worse for us. Don’t touch anything in your van. Don’t clean anything else. Don’t empty the bins. But trust me, something else is going on here, and we will get to the bottom of it.”
“You’re thinking someone sabotaged me?” Rob asked.
I remembered the weevils in my storerooms and nodded, narrowing my eyes.
“I sure am.”
Five minutes later Patty arrived, and joined a congregation of judges, presenters and producers at the entrance to the marquee. All hell broke loose when she heard the news that most of her production crew were incapacitated. I rushed over and apologised once again, explaining we were doing all we could to find out the source of the contaminated food that had made everyone ill.
“It’s the burger van,” Murgatroyde spat. “What else do you possibly need to find out?”
I nodded in agreement. “It certainly looks that way. We’ll have the council out later to take a look around it. In the meantime, we’re asking for everyone to stay away from Rob’s place.” I smiled. “We don’t want to contaminate the contamination.”
“What on earth are we going to do?” Patty was asking. “We’re due to film the final today and now we don’t have a crew with which to do so.” This was true. There were no camera wizards and no sound witches, no make-up, hair or wardrobe.
“Is there no possibility of finding some alternatives?” I asked hopefully. “Shipping them down from the studios in London or Manchester or somewhere?”
“No,” Patty wailed. Her face—what I could see of it behind her sunglasses and concealer—appeared pale and drawn. “The big bosses are not going to like this. My job could be on the line here. My reputation shot to pieces! The show… the show could be cancelled!”
“Steady, Patty,” Raoul, ever the voice of reason, spoke to her gently.
She choked back a sob. “I’ve worked so hard for so long, but without Janice it’s as though my career is being ripped apart at the seams.”
I could taste her despair. My gut feeling was that whatever was happening here was not down to Patty. She genuinely was a hard nut, a tough producer, but she wouldn’t have killed Janice, not on purpose. Raoul wrapped his arm around Patty and smiled at me, and I wondered again about his intentions. Would he have reason to sabotage Patty’s career by systematically destroying the baking programme she had built up from scratch? He knew Patty better than anyone. He would instinctively understand how difficult she would find it to continue without Janice as her right-hand woman. Murgatroyde was too much like Patty to make an effective foil.
From the corner of my eye I watched as Ned, freed from his duties to clear up after a minimal breakfast, slunk away from the inn and the gardens heading for Speckled Wood where he would no doubt practice his dancing while Luppitt strummed a madrigal, and Vance transformed into the largest cheerleader known to witchkind and shook his weighty branches in lieu of pompoms.
Patty swiped away a tear. “I must deliver this series. There has to be a way to salvage the last programme.”
I stared at her thoughtfully, then glanced back at Ned.
“I might just be able to help you with that,” I said. “But it’ll come at a cost.”
Whittle Inn bustled with an onset of sudden activity and renewed purpose.
Millicent turned up with a basket full of goodies and began to heat a copper full of water over the range. I’d asked her to create a potion that would help to ease the discomfort of all members of the production crew currently smitten by food poisoning. Monsieur Emietter—his redundant knives hanging from their places on the wall—rocked in his chair next to the fire and muttered words I couldn’t understand, but they sounded encouraging rather than grumpy so I took that as a good sign.
Silvan, up surprisingly early for once, sprawled on a bench at the kitchen table, despite my insistence that as a paying guest and not a worker he should be in the bar area. He watched the comings and goings with amusement and stared at me insolently every time I had to pass through the kitchen—which was often.
There are times when managing Whittle Inn is akin to directing some over-sized opera, and today was going to be one such instance. I had a plan and now I had to find a way to put it into practice.
Millicent was the first part, but the second part involved the Devonshire Fellows. Fortunately for me, the entire travelling band of Elizabethan minstrels were all in residence. Fortune is a double edged sword, of course, because at least out on tour, the inn was spared their rambunctious cacophony.
In addition to Luppitt Smeatharpe, the Devonshire Fellows were made up of lute player, Robert Wait, the leader of the group, William Wait, his brother and main fiddle player, Napier Harrow a percussionist, John Bond the second fiddle and Stephen Arcott who played a variety of wind instruments, most of which sounded like a goose objecting to being squeezed hard around its middle.
After searching the inn and the grounds and sending Zephaniah out into the wood to locate Luppitt, I finally gathered them all together in the kitchen.
“I need your help,” I announced when I’d managed to get them all to lay down their instruments for just two minutes.
“Anything,” Robert smiled solicitously, giving a little bow. The others grouped behind him, looking at each other with raised eyebrows.
“That depends what it is, rightfully,” suggested John Bond, but Luppitt shushed him.
“We’ll do anything for you, my Lady,” he said, and there were more nods.
“Be it a gala you’d like us to play at?” asked Napier with enthusiasm. “A wedding party to serenade?”
“Ah… er… no. It’s a bit different to that. Erm…” I coughed nervously. “In fact, it won’t involve using your instruments at all.”
Thank goodness.
“Aww,” Napier said, and there were general murmurings of discontent from the others too. I needed to repackage my offer quickly and make it more attractive.
“Better than that!” I injected an air of excitement into my voice to mask my desperation. “It’s a professional gig. Working with the producers of the television show who’ve been staying at the inn this past week or so.”
I expected that the Devonshire Fellows—given the time period in which they’d died—wouldn’t really understand about television and how it worked but I was hoping they understood the entertainment aspect of it.
“The Great Witchy Cake Off?” William asked in surprise.
They had heard of it. They’d obviously been hanging around Florence. “That’s the one,” I said.
“Presenting?” asked Robert hopefully.
“Can I be a judge?” Napier asked, wiggling his fingers in anticipation.
From the direction of the kitchen table came a snort of amusement. Silvan.
“Nothing like that,” I said, ignoring the dark wizard. The ghosts twisted their faces and looked a little downcast. “But far better! I know you’re all adept at what you do, and I need you to transfer those skills. I want
you to operate the cameras and the sound and help us finish the show today.”
“Oooh,” Robert sucked in air over his teeth. “That sounds complicated.”
“It is a little complicated,” I admitted. “But we’re going to use magick to help you, and in combination with your own dexterity, I know you’ll make this a success.”
Robert looked around at the others. Luppitt smiled up at me. For him it was a no-brainer. He’d always do anything he could to assist me and I loved him for that. “Of course we will, my Lady!” he chipped in before anybody else could raise any more objections. “We’d love to do it, wouldn’t we fellows?”
Caught up in Luppitt’s excitement, the other ghosts nodded their heads. When Napier began to beat out a rhythm on his drum to express his new-found enthusiasm, I exited the kitchen in a hurry. “See you in the marquee in fifteen minutes,” I called back over my shoulder, and left Silvan to enjoy the raucous merrymaking and dubious musicality of my band of minstrels.
Florence appeared inside the marquee looking doubtful, as well she might.
I smiled encouragement and beckoned her over.
“I shouldn’t be here, Miss,” she told me nervously.
“It’s absolutely fine. I’ve cut a bit of a deal with Patty.”
Florence glanced around nervously as Eloise and Scampi took their places in the kitchen. “What sort of a deal?”
I took a deep breath. “In order to work all the technical equipment today, I’ve persuaded Patty that we should be allowed to use magick. Let’s face it, Bertha and Boo are witches with a good knowledge of how all this technical malarkey works—the cameras and microphones and recording equipment and so on. With them in overall control and with help from Ross Baines—”
Florence’s eyes sparkled at the mention of his name.
“And with Robert Wait as assistant director to replace Jemima, we’ll use magick to help the rest of the Devonshire Fellows move the cameras around and record everything.” As I spoke, the Devonshire Fellows entered the marquee and looked around in awe at the equipment they would be dealing with. Ross Baines followed closely behind them, and I waved at him.
“Ross can help make sure that everything is recorded all day long, and Millicent is working on a quick cure that will have the rest of the production crew up and about in no time at all. They’ll take over when they can, but at any rate they’ll have plenty of material to work with when it comes to editing.”
Florence smiled, but looked confused. “I’m very pleased to hear that, Miss Alf, but where do I come in?”
“I promised Patty Cake I could make this work,” I told my housekeeper, gesturing around at the cameras and equipment. “And in return I asked that you be reinstated.”
“Reinstated—” Florence stared at me through wide eyes.
“Yes. I said we would pull out all the stops to finish the filming today, but only if you were allowed to compete.”
Florence gasped. “I don’t know what to say, Miss Alf.”
I dropped my voice. “Florence,” I said kindly. “There’s one more thing. They did agree to let you compete, but I had to agree that they won’t allow you to win. It doesn’t matter how well you do today, they will only get this programme—and therefore the whole series—past the big bosses at Witchflix as long as a witch wins the overall competition. Do you understand?”
Florence caught her breath and my eyes moistened. Of course it was unfair, but life is a series of negotiations and for now, this was the best I could do for her.
“Are you asking me to throw the competition, Miss Alf?”
“No. I most certainly am not.” I studied her seriously. “I am telling you to cook your heart out and do Whittle Inn proud.”
Florence raised her chin and her eyes cleared. As always she floored me with her positivity. “That sounds like the perfect solution, Miss Alf.” She grinned. “So what if I can’t win? It’s the participation that counts. I’m going to knock their socks off.”
“Get to it!” I nodded.
While Florence, who of course hadn’t thought to prepare a menu for her day’s baking, pored over her hastily scrambled together plan of action, I helped Patty and Boo brief the Devonshire Fellows and Ross on what they would be doing. I’d suggested Ross should be in charge of digital editing, and so to that end he would be monitoring the digital takes through the filming and making sure they were stored properly for retrieval by the production’s own editors when they felt better.
We’d assigned Robert Wait the task of assisting Boo Scully with the direction as the Devonshire Fellows tended to listen to him, and he could be authoritative in a calm manner. We’d made the fiddle players, William and John, along with Luppitt the camera operators, leaving Stephen and Napier to work as sound engineers. They were all good musicians so I had made the—not unreasonable—assumption that they would have a keen eye for detail and would work quickly and nimbly.
I’d volunteered Charity to assist with clearing the set and supporting Bertha with her workload, and I intended to jump in as and when I could. For now, I needed to leave them to it. My next port of call had to be the officials from the gas company, so I made my excuses, promised to return as quickly as bureaucracy allowed and high-tailed it down the drive and along my narrow lane to where they were digging up the road.
I slowed to a trot, recognising the indolent whistling I could hear as I approached the junction between Whittle Inn and the road. I wasn’t surprised when Silvan pushed himself away from one of the large old oak trees that lined the lane and fell in beside me.
“Don’t you have anything else to do rather than stalk me when I’m working?” I asked.
He flashed me that impudent smile I knew so well. “You’re working, are you? I assumed you were fire-fighting.”
I tutted and shook my head, unsure of the difference. Trying to move faster I hoped he’d take the message and leave me to it, but he matched my pace and began whistling again, only stopping when we reached the place where the workmen were digging.
“How’s it going?” I asked an official looking man with a clipboard, the one who’d spoken to me the day before.
“It’s the strangest thing,” he said, pushing his too-large yellow helmet away from his eyebrows. “We thought we had a blockage here yesterday, but overnight, we’ve been monitoring it and it seems to be perfectly fine.”
“The blockage is unblocked?” Silvan asked.
The official looked from me to Silvan and back again. “That’s about the size of it.”
“So we have gas at the inn now?” I asked with relief.
“Yes. It should all be back to normal.” The official pointed at the digger parked by the side of the road. “We’ll refill the hole and with any luck you shouldn’t have any more trouble.”
“That’s great news,” I smiled. One problem solved at least.
“So what caused the blockage?” asked Silvan, leaning forward to look in the hole as though he’d be able to diagnose the issue simply by looking.
The official shook his head. “To be honest, your guess is as good as mine. I’ve never seen anything like it before.”
“Hmm.” Silvan stroked his chin. “A blockage that unblocks all by itself on the morning after the night before.”
I shifted my weight uneasily. I could see what he was getting at. The official looked worried, like he thought he’d done something wrong. I quickly sought to reassure him. “I’m just glad that all’s well that ends well,” I told him.
Silvan dropped to his knees and stuck his head in the hole. I noticed him make a swift movement with his right hand that anybody else might have missed. Then he jumped up and took my arm to pull me away.
I turned to wave my thanks at the official as Silvan marched me back up the lane.
“All’s well that ends well? Maybe so, Alf. But it hasn’t ended yet, has it?”
A car with local council’s official logo appeared at the end of the lane and trundled towards us. The health departmen
t. I waved at them, my heart sinking when I recognised who they were. I pulled my arm loose from Silvan and beckoned the occupants of the car to follow me to the inn, uttering a little prayer-spell as I walked. “Goddess Endovelicus, it if pleases you to hear my plea, I beg that you please let this visitation go well for me and exonerate both Whittle Inn and poor Rob. I bask in your blessings. So mote it be.”
“Well amen to that.” Silvan smirked, and I nudged him hard with my elbow and turned to face the newcomers.
“We need to talk, Alf,” Silvan called as I walked away from him.
“I’ll catch up with you in a little while,” I promised, then offered my full and solemn attention to the man and woman in front of me, because after all, they had the power to shut down the inn once and for all.
Less than an hour later I was back in the marquee and the pair from the health department had taken their samples and left. They’d seemed decent enough and had put Rob at his ease. They could see how clean and tidy he kept everything, and his van was practically new anyway. They expressed the wish that the samples they’d taken from the food stored in his fridges, coupled with samples from the rubbish would quickly tell them what had happened.
I had a strong suspicion it wouldn’t, but at least I’d done all the right things and made all the correct noises. I’d opened the kitchen and my storerooms to them—having shooed Monsieur Emietter and all my other ghosts away, but they had merely taken a cursory look around and shone their torches into the corners and under the kitchen cabinets, taking a few swabs and collecting some brushing here and there, before thanking me and leaving.
“Cut! Cut!” Boo was screaming as I entered the tent.
“Cut!” Robert Wait echoed.
Neither of them could hear themselves above the high levels of volume in the tent. Total hilarity. Not what I’d come to expect of The Great Witchy Cake Off which was gentle and funny in a quiet chuckle kind of way.
Until today, apparently.
The Great Witchy Cake Off: Wonky Inn Book 7 Page 15