The Great Witchy Cake-Off

by Jeannie Wycherley

  “Hooo-ooo. Hoooo.”

  “Mr Hoo says you mustn’t talk to Ned about it. He’s rather bashful.”

  “Don’t worry,” I reassured them both. “Ned’s secret is safe with me.”

  But who was the woman? Another ghost? Someone I knew?

  I was itching to find out.

  At just after twenty-past-five in the morning, the sun only just beginning to peep over the horizon, I found myself trying to munch on a piece of toast at the kitchen table. Monsieur Emietter and his entourage, minus Florence on this occasion, were busy preparing breakfast for the production crew. Bacon and sausages sizzled under the grill before being heaped onto silver serving platters and taken through to the dining area. No sooner had they been sent out, but they were back again to be refilled.

  Endless rounds of toast and bowls of eggs cooked in a variety of ways—poached, fried, boiled and scrambled—followed and again, just as quickly, the empty dishes were returned. We normally served breakfast at the inn from seven in the morning, but we’d agreed to start earlier, at a bleary-eyed five a.m., on the days when the crew were filming.

  And that day had finally arrived.

  The Great Witchy Cake Off would begin at nine today—amazingly on schedule in spite of the small issue of the murder of Janice Tork-Mimosa.

  Florence’s absence was noticeable, to me at least, because she was the one who kept me in tea and toast first thing in the morning when I hadn’t really woken up. Without her I kind of felt aimless, unsure of what I should be doing or where I should be. I blinked at everyone coming in and out of the kitchen wondering whether I should be giving them a hand, and ultimately deciding they performed better without me getting in the way.

  I drained my tea—made in a mug by me and not a patch on Florence’s—and decided to take a walk in the grounds. The fresh air would clear my head and give me a renewed sense of purpose for the day. I exited the inn through the back door and wandered slowly around to my left. There were several temporary structures here, like portacabins, one of which acted as the wardrobe department, and one which had been allocated to make-up. Through the open door I could see Mindi and Raoul sitting in leather swivel chairs being attended to by make-up artists wielding what looked like small paintbrushes laden with brown dust.

  I continued on my way, grimacing at the thought of weighing down my skin with something that looked like emulsion paint, and couldn’t help but overhear a conversation between two young women skulking around the corner.

  “It’s impossible,” said the first one.

  “You could lose your job,” the other commiserated.

  “Exactly!” The first woman sounded sorely aggrieved. “Why on earth is she even on the show?”

  Oooh! I pricked my ears up and slowed down. Maybe they were bitching about Patty Cake and I could relay any pertinent information to George and his team.

  “Who invited her?” asked the second woman.

  “Someone who evidently doesn’t know that you can’t put make-up on a ghost.”

  Ah.

  Giggling quietly, but actually empathising too, I picked up speed again until I was at the rear of the marquee. For the first time I could see a number of cameras in situ, and members of the crew were making small marks on the floor. I shuffled to the door and peered in. One of the technicians, on her knees and placing small blue crosses on the floor using chalk, looked up and smiled at me.

  “Morning, Alf.”

  “Morning, Bertha. Busy already I see.” Bertha Crumb, a plain young woman of similar age to Charity, was employed as the floor manager. She wore her shoulder-length mousy-brown poker-straight hair tied back in a ponytail and could usually be found covered in dust or pushing a broom around.

  “Oh yes. This is when the fun starts.” She stood up and brushed the front of her trousers down.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  Bertha showed me the chalk. “I’m creating marks. This is where the judges will stand when the show begins, and there—” She indicated a set of red chalk crosses. “That’s where Mindi needs to be.” She pointed further away to where she had already marked out numerous crosses in green. “And that’s where the contestants will need to stand while we film the opening of the first show.”

  “You’ll interview them there?” I’d seen the show. One of the best things about it was getting to know the contestants and all their quirks.”

  “We do quick interviews in here for the opening then we take them away—one-by-one—somewhere private. Usually to a nice place in the garden if the weather is fine. Then we ask them lots of questions. The interviews are spliced into the tape later.”

  “Oh that’s right,” I said, fascinated by the process. Bertha returned her chalk to a small cardboard box. “Why chalk?” I asked. “Doesn’t it rub off the floor quite quickly? Don’t you have to keep re-marking the floor when it gets erased by people walking over it?”

  “Ah!” Bertha winked and tapped her nose at the same time. “You’ll have to wait and see, Alf. That is if they let you stick around while we film.”

  “Oh I hope so!” I wriggled with anticipation. “I’m excited to find out what happens.”

  “Stick around then,” Bertha instructed me. “Try not to get in the way. And maybe stay on Boo Sully’s good side,” she advised. “That works for me.”

  “I’ll make it work for me too, then,” I promised.

  The eight contestants filed into the tent and took their places on lurid purple stools, including Florence, who didn’t so much sit as hover in place. Two large cameras had been rolled into position to capture the whole of the marquee from the front, but there were an additional pair of mobile camera operators too.

  The contestants had been trailed inside the tent by a group of make-up artists who rapidly made finishing touches to makeup and hair, while several technicians plugged in microphones and tested light and sound levels. As I’d already heard, Florence was causing an issue because the make-up artist couldn’t powder someone who wasn’t actually physically present.

  I’d met everyone now. All of these contestants would be staying at Whittle Inn for the week-long shoot. They had a hectic schedule. By the end of the day, the judges would have decided on one person to eliminate. Then every day for the next four days one person would be knocked out until only three contestants remained. On the final day of filming there would be the ultimate cake-off final and one person would become The Great Witchy Cake Off champion with the other two named runners-up.

  Thrilling stuff!

  With no sign of the judges or producers, or even Boo Sully, I watched as the assistant director, Jemima Clarke took control. She issued a few final instructions to the contestants and one of the mobile camera operators snuck in for a close-up.

  “Action,” called Jemima.

  “Rolling,” responded a camera technician. To my amazement the cameras lifted off the floor, defying the laws of gravity. They floated in the air, making them lightweight and easy to move around. At the same time, the marks that Bertha had made on the floor disappeared, almost without trace. Instead, a slight coloured shine remained to mark the spots the judges, presenters and contestants would use during the week of filming.

  Bertha caught my eye and winked. “Magick,” she mouthed, then turned her attention to the set. “And in three, two, one,” she counted in.

  Jemima nodded at the first contestant. “Cue Hortense.”

  The first witch to speak to camera swallowed audibly. “My name is Hortense Briar. I’m a hedge witch living in the New Forest. I’m sixty-three and I have six cats.” Flushed with nerves she attempted a smile that looked more like a grimace.

  “What are your cats’ names, Hortense?” asked Jemima.

  The question helped to put Hortense at ease. “Biffy, Squiffy, Belle, Scootch, Apple and Peach.”

  “Those are lovely names. Who’s looking after them for you this week?” Jemima asked.

  “My good friend Susanne.” Hortense gave a double
thumbs up to the camera. “Thanks Susanne!”

  Jemima nodded. “Just say your name one more time for me please, Hortense.”

  Hortense nodded and this time her words flowed more naturally. “My name is Hortense Briar. I’m a hedge witch living in the New Forest. I’m sixty-three and I have six cats.”

  “That’s a wrap,” said Jemima and there was a ripple of applause. The first twenty seconds of filming were in the bag.

  In rapid succession Jemima moved onto each contestant.

  A tall black-haired witch with a thick accent, rather stunning to look at went next. “Hello. I’m Jacinta Cadenza, originally from Espanola and now living in Brighton with my husband, Sergio. I’m thirty-eight and a sage. I love to paint abstract sea pictures in acrylics.”

  “Merry meet! My name is Eloise Culpepper. I’m a fifty-seven-year-old kitchen witch from Blackpool and I love to play poker.” Eloise, with her long greying hair and prettily knitted cardigan looked for all the world like someone Millicent would know from the WI.

  The first gentleman to take a turn went next. “Hi! I’m Scampi Porthouse and I’m a founding member of the Blackdown coven. I’m sixty-eight and I play drums with a Mamas and Papas tribute band.”

  “Greetings. I’m Victor Wilde. A mechanical wizard from Swansea. In my free time I restore old Volkswagen Beetles.”

  “How old are you Victor?”

  “Oh I’m sorry, I forget for a minute.”

  “Can we go again please?”

  And so it went. Davide McGilligan was the youngest contestant at just twenty-two, an apprentice mage from Glasgow. He seemed to be getting on well with Jemma Jackson already. Jemma, a twenty-six-year-old solitary witch from the Malvern Hills, professed to a huge love for everything Jane Austen related.

  That left Florence.

  “In three, two, one,” repeated Bertha.

  “Good morning to you. My name is Florence Fidler. I’m twenty-two years old and I’m a housekeeper from Whittlecombe in East Devon. I love people, all kinds of people, and watching my favourite programmes on television.” She smiled happily into the camera, relaxed and confident.

  “That’s a wrap. Nicely done. We’ll have to call you ‘one-take Flo’” remarked Jemima.

  “Take a breather everyone,” Bertha announced loudly. “We’re going to begin in earnest in about five minutes.”

  As soon as the camera operators downed tools, the make-up and wardrobe team were back, fussing and fiddling.

  “Producers on set,” announced Bertha and a kind of hush fell as Boo led Patty, Murgatroyde, Faery Kerry and Mindi into the tent.

  I had to step aside to let them pass. Hurriedly, I tried to melt into the shadows. Mindi brought up the rear and what a transformation. Gone was the dry grey hair and washed out skin tone, the grubby creased clothing and bags under the eyes and in their place was the Mindi I recognised from the television. Sleek, shining blonde hair, and glowing skin, and a colourful silk shirt in bright green over white jeggings and rainbow sequinned slide-ons. Her make-up was perfect in every way and not only did she appear ten years younger, she looked like she’d lost ten pounds and gained ten inches too.

  I glanced around suspiciously. This could only mean one thing. The people working as make-up and wardrobe assistants were cosmetic alchemists, just like the one Wizard Shadowmender had sent me to in Bristol six months ago with the aim of turning me into Fabulous Fenella the Far-Sighted. Cordelia Denby had been her name, and quite a wizard she had been. I’d hardly recognised myself.

  “Hmpf,” I snorted, slightly disappointed that what I’d been served on endless episodes of The Great Witchy Cake Off had been an artifice. The beauty of it for me had been how kooky and natural the whole thing was. How much more of the show was purely staged for the cameras?

  Boo Sully looked my way and raised his eyebrows. I smiled innocently and stepped further back into the canvas of the tent, hoping he wouldn’t send me away. Behind him, Bertha wagged her finger at me. I folded my arms and assumed an air of nonchalance.

  In an attempt to grab everyone’s attention, Jemima clapped her hands like a school mistress. The contestants, nervous and excited, had been talking among themselves, loud enough that I could hear them ruing the gaffes they had made in their mini-introductions. Now they turned to Jemima expectantly.

  “Boo is going to take over the direction very shortly. I want to thank you for your time so far this morning and wish you all the best. But first Patty will launch the proceedings.”

  Oooh. This was interesting. I crept forwards again, intent on hearing everything she had to say.

  Patty, dressed in chic black and white—and still wearing sunglasses, possibly in this case to protect her delicate eyes from the crazy amount of lighting in the marquee—held her hands up as though ready to conduct an orchestra. The tent fell completely silent. If I wasn’t mistaken, most of us were holding our combined breath.

  “As we begin to craft Series Sixteen of The Great Witchy Cake Off, I want us all to pause and remember an incredible woman. My good friend, Janice Tork-Mimosa.”

  Heads were bowed and we paid quiet tribute to the memory of the woman who had been murdered at the entrance to the marquee.

  Eventually Patty looked up. “Wherever you are Janice, we miss you.” She took a sharp breath, a cue to end the solemnity and get down to business. “On behalf of Murgatroyde who is stepping into Janice’s sensible shoes, Raoul, Faery Kerry, Mindi, Boo and indeed the whole of The Great Witchy Cake Off team, I would like to welcome the competitors to this iconic tent and wish all of you well.” She peered through her dark glasses at the contestants on their chairs. “It is worth reminding you of the importance of fair play in the competition. To that end, unless otherwise stated on the day and during actual filming, you are forbidden from using magick either in your bakes or in any other capacity while inside the marquee.”

  She looked around at us all, her face deadly serious. “To ensure all contestants abide by this, we set a no-magick zone within the confines of the tent. Bertha?”

  Bertha reached into a cloth bag and pulled out a plain black wand with an ivory coloured tip. She handed it over, somewhat reverently, to Patty, who once more lifted her arms and then with a rapid flourish sent out bright pink streaks of light that twirled through the air like lengths of ribbon, hitting the canvas ceiling and walls and ricocheting around, knotting together tightly to bind up the space.

  I, of course, recognised a forcefield when I saw it.

  Satisfied, Patty handed her wand over to Bertha who tucked it back safely inside its bag.

  “It only remains for me to wish all of you the very best of luck and may the best baker win!”

  A ripple of applause followed along with a few cheers, and Patty turned to have a few words with Raoul before exiting the tent. I watched him watching her as she left. Bertha moved alongside me, sweeping up as she came, maintaining the cleanliness of the marquee for obvious reasons.

  “Do you think they’re having a fling?” I whispered when the floor manager was close enough to hear me, remembering how Raoul had seemed so keen to transport Patty back and forth to The Hay Loft. “A little illicit liaison?”

  “I sincerely doubt that,” Bertha snorted. “Patty bats for the other team.”

  “Patty’s gay? Oh.” That took the wind out of my sales. I’d assumed I was on to something. “It’s just Raoul and Patty seem very close, that’s all.”

  “Raoul is a lovely man. A bit of a charmer, I suppose. He’s garnered a bit of a reputation in the past, but nothing overtly scandalous. There were rumours about him and Janice, but I don’t know if they were founded on fact at all.”

  “Really?” I hadn’t an inkling of that, and I assumed that Florence—who let’s face it had spoken about nothing else but The Great Witchy Cake Off and all who sailed in her for weeks and weeks—would have filled me in on that type of gossip had she heard such a thing. “Did you tell George—DS Gilchrist—that?”

  “Unsubstan
tiated rumour and gossip mongering are really not my sort of thing, Alf.” Bertha shook her head and resumed sweeping the floor around me.

  “Fair enough,” I answered. I had no such qualms about repeating what she’d told me though. George always insisted that intelligence about a crime, no matter how it had been come by, could prove invaluable. Ultimately the smallest piece of information could be used to break a case.

  I skipped off to make a phone call.

  “Welcome back to the Cake Off tent where we’re just six weeks away from unveiling the witchiest kitchen hostess with the mostest. Eight brand new contestants are here to pitch their skills to the nation. Whose got what it takes to create the ultimate magick in the Cake-off tent? Who needs to saddle up their broomstick and take the first flight out of here? It’s all to bake for. It’s back, it’s more spellbinding than ever, it’s The Great Witchy Cake Off!”

  “Cut!” called Jemima.

  “That’s a wrap,” Boo announced and smiled at the presenter. “Excellent, Mindi! Take a break everyone. We’ll start again in twenty minutes.”

  “This is when they’ll start baking?” I asked Bertha, who seemed to be the best person to answer all my questions. We were outside, the tent in the foreground, perfectly framed against Whittle Inn and the grounds. My wonky inn glowed brightly in the glorious sunshine under the bluest of skies. I’d brought down a trolley from the kitchen, loaded with a large urn and some coffee, tea and biscuits.

  “Yes, finally!” Bertha laughed. “Now we get down to the nitty gritty. They’ll bake to a theme every day. A signature bake that will be similar for everyone first. That takes ninety minutes, then they’ll have a technical challenge which can be anything between twenty and ninety minutes and is the judges’ choice, and then finally they bake their showstopper which is entirely their own choice and should interpret the theme, and for that they’ll have three hours.”

  “I remember,” I said, thinking of all the programmes Florence and I had watched together in the attic. I wondered how she must be feeling. Excited? Nervous?