The Great Witchy Cake-Off

by Jeannie Wycherley

  Mindi nodded her thanks. “So no soggy bottoms, and thirty-six perfect mini egg custard tarts. Got it.” Mindi turned back to address the tent as one camera wizard closed up on her face and the other took a panoramic shot of the contestants looking either worried or confident. “You have ninety minutes to produce thirty-six identical egg custard tarts before the judges take a blind taste test. Are you ready? It’s time to turn your ovens on once more… and in three, two, one… Bake!”

  Florence’s egg custard tarts were as exquisite, as you would expect. I knew because after the cameras had stopped rolling, the cakes and bakes were sent up to the inn so that everyone could indulge over an extended tea break if they so wished. I guess there must come a time when every person working on The Great Witchy Cake Off became been heartily sick of sweet goodies.

  I hadn’t reached that stage quite yet.

  “Are they finished for the day?” Charity asked as I walked into the kitchen with Millicent, both of us gagging for a cup of tea.

  “They still have to make the showstopper.” Millicent sounded extremely knowledgeable about everything Cake-Off all of a sudden. “It’ll be a late one.”

  “Are you sticking around?” I asked, not really trying to get rid of her, just because I already knew the answer.

  “And miss the chance of setting eyes on the sultry Mr Scurrysnood again? Are you kidding?”

  “He’s far too young for you.” I shook my head.

  Charity snorted. “Age is a state of mind. Don’t listen to her, Mills.”

  “I may take up permanent residence here,” Millicent replied archly. “Do you have a room going spare? I don’t want to miss any of the delicious Mr Scurrysnood’s comings and goings. And anyway, did you see the way he looked at me? He appreciates a woman with a full figure and soft edges.”

  “There’s hope for us all.” I smirked.

  “Well thank heavens for that,” Charity said. “I’d begun to despair of ever finding anyone decent.”

  “It’s small pool to fish from here in Whittlecombe,” I admitted. “Mind you, there’s always Alex Bramble.”

  “It didn’t go well last night then?” asked Charity. “You’re giving up on him already?”

  “I don’t think I spoke five sentences to him all night. No, he’s not for me.” I remembered Silvan saying exactly that.

  Hmpf. What did Silvan know?

  “Shame. By the way, Alf, you have a visitor upstairs.”

  Good news.

  “Already? Smashing. I’ll head on up there.” Then, nodding at Millicent, I said to Charity, “Keep Miss Whittlecombe 1978 here out of trouble, will you?”

  “Roger that,” Charity said, and we both laughed. Millicent pretended to mince her way along a catwalk as Monsieur Emietter looked on in bewilderment.

  “Hey, Ross.” I raised my eyebrows at the ghost sitting at my computer, furiously tapping away on the keyboard. “Good to see you again.”

  “It’s lovely to be back.” He looked up momentarily, offered a half-smile, and then went back to what he was doing.

  “Is there something wrong with my machine?” I asked in alarm.

  “Just updating your virus protection and cleaning some files.”

  “Wouldn’t you have needed my password or fingerprint?”

  Ross favoured me with his most scathing look. “Please,” he said.

  “Sorry.” I hovered beside him feeling suitably chastised, waiting to speak again until he’d finished.

  Finally, he sat back. “All done.”

  “How has it been? Working with Penelope Quigwell?” I asked, hoping he’d be able to dish some dirt on the peculiar woman who managed most of Whittle Inn’s legal and financial affairs and assisted Wizard Shadowmender with similar issues and challenges. She led a team of computing and technical wizards who had used their magick skills to good effect recently in order to untangle The Mori’s financial affairs and help us defeat them.

  “Great. Really interesting,” Ross said.

  “Oh right.” Not the answer I’d been hoping for. Not very exciting at all.

  “There’s always something juicy to get in to.” Ross smiled properly, something he rarely did. “You know what? Dying and meeting you, Alf, I think those were the best things that could have happened to me.”

  That’s called putting a positive spin on things. “I’m glad,” I replied, and I kind of was, but still thought living your actual life before death was preferable.

  “So what can I do for you?” Ross got down to business.

  I opened the desk drawer next to him and pulled out Raoul’s phone, wrapped in its plastic evidence bag. George had entrusted it to me for the time being.

  “There was a murder here in the grounds of the inn a few days ago. A witch by the name of Janice Tork-Mimosa was stabbed. She was a producer at Witchflix, so quite important. This phone belongs to Raoul Scurrysnood.” I placed it gently on the top of my desk and looked expectantly at Ross, but he showed no recognition at either name. Perhaps he hadn’t been dead long enough or maybe he just didn’t have time to watch television.

  “You remember George? DS George Gilchrist?” I asked, and this time Ross nodded. “He’s investigating the murder but obviously there’s a crossover between the mortal and magickal worlds and I want to help him out.”

  “Alright.”

  “Raoul had been having a relationship with Janice, but he broke it off after he received some emails suggesting she was having an affair with Pierre de Corduroy.” When Ross again looked blank I filled in the gap. “Pierre is a hotshot fashion designer. His designs are always on the front of Witch in Vogue.”

  “Sounds pretty sordid all round,” remarked Ross.

  “Indeed.” I couldn’t disagree. These were the lives our witchy celebrities seemed to enjoy living. “However, the emails and the video links Raoul claimed he received can’t be found by normal police methods which is why we decided to turn to you.”

  “Fun,” Ross said, and his hands hovered over the phone. The screen lit up and Ross began scrolling, simply using his own thoughts. Faster and faster the screens changed as Ross looked through the most obvious apps. “So, you want me to see if I can find any traces of these emails to Raoul, and who sent them?”

  “If you could, that would be perfect.”

  “I’ll certainly give it a go.” Ross peered up at me. “There is something else to consider of course.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The messages were never there in the first place and your Raoul is simply covering his tracks.”

  He certainly had a point. The thought hadn’t even crossed my mind. I’d bought into the judge’s story hook, line and sinker. Ross had obviously been hanging around Penelope for longer than was good for him.

  “Either way you’ll be able to tell that, right?”

  Ross bent over the phone once more, the screens just a blur. “Oh, I should think so,” he said, and I swear I’d never heard him sound more cheerful.

  Zephaniah and Charity were busy cleaning up the dining area when I headed back downstairs. I quickly grabbed a plate and stole some of the remaining bakes. Florence’s egg custard mini tartlets were long gone, so I had to make do with someone else’s—impossible to tell whose but I knew they weren’t Florence’s—and they really didn’t make the grade. Florence’s splendid orange, saffron and cardamom infused Victoria sponge had also been demolished and I settled for a slice of strawberry sponge instead. I have to admit, grudgingly, that it at least tasted pretty decent.

  The production crew and contestants had disappeared, and the only tea on offer had long-since stewed so I decided to grab a blackcurrant and soda from behind the bar. Ned was there, polishing glasses and restocking the fridges.

  Standing at the pump, dispensing soda into a pint glass, I distinctly heard Ned say, “Mine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd, thy beauty's form in table of my heart; my body is the frame wherein 'tis held—”

  I looked sideways at him and
he stopped and ducked his head.

  “That was pretty,” I said, trying to encourage him but he only looked sheepish. “Was that poetry?”

  “Shakespeare, Miss Alf.”

  “Well it was lovely.” I tipped blackcurrant cordial into my glass and added an extra measure because I liked to be able to taste it. “Is it for someone special?” I asked.

  Ned looked scandalised. “No!”

  “Oh. Okay. As you were.” I backed away, pretending to be engaged with cleaning the drops dripping from the bottom of glass.

  “My body is the frame wherein 'tis held, and perspective it is the painter's art,” Ned continued, stumbling over a few of the words.

  Curious. It looked like my odd-job man-of-all-trades was learning poetry.

  Bless him.

  Poetry and dancing?

  Who on earth was he trying to impress?

  “I’m behind with the bedrooms,” Charity announced when I carried my empties through to the kitchen. I regarded her guiltily. With Florence in the Cake-Off tent and me flitting in and out so I could watch the filming, the burden of the housekeeping was falling on poor Charity.

  “I’m sorry,” I said sheepishly. “I’ll help you out before I go and see how Florence is getting on.”

  I climbed the stairs and poked my head into the office to see how Ross was doing. He had Raoul’s phone hooked up to his own chunky laptop and was scowling in concentration at whatever data was showing on the screen. I backed out of the room without disturbing him.

  I have five rooms on this floor, and I didn’t expect the housekeeping to take long. For the most part it didn’t. Bertha the floor manager was as neat and tidy as I’d expected, and Faery Kerry’s room was immaculate. So immaculate in fact, it led me to believe she had waved her magick wand and cleaned it herself before she started work in the Cake-Off tent that morning. I emptied the bins, straightened the already made bed and dusted around. Job done.

  Raoul’s room was a similar story, except the bed was unmade, while Mindi’s room had the faint stale stench of cigarette smoke. I squirted the air with Florence’s favourite room freshening spray. The scent of raspberries and rhubarb flavoured the air. Much better.

  The final room on the corridor had briefly belonged to Janice Tork-Mimosa. George had taken her meagre belongings to the station on the day she’d been murdered and so I had allocated the room to her replacement, Murgatroyde Snippe.

  “By all that’s green!”

  I stood in the doorway and surveyed the wreckage of Murgatroyde’s room, wondering if I’d make it back to see Florence finish her showstopper. Where the other rooms had been reasonable, Murgatroyde was one of those guests who could bring a housekeeper to tears. There were clothes all over the floor, strewn about with total abandon. Numerous glasses and cups were abandoned on every surface, and make-up littering the dressing table. Given that the room would have been cleaned just twenty-four hours previously it seemed incredible to me that she had managed to make so much mess in so short a time.

  Sighing, I set to work, moving quickly and efficiently through each task, starting higher up, as I’d been taught—cleaning surfaces and so on—then making the bed and finally clearing up the floor so I could hoover.

  Murgatroyde’s suitcase lay half under the bed, so I pulled it out. It was one of those soft cases that closed with a three-quarter length zip. It was open, so I tried to zip it up, to stop the dust from getting inside. When the zip stuck, I pulled it back and had another go. Something inside the case was catching. I unzipped the whole thing and peered inside the case. A black and white scarf in soft merino wool lay on top of a couple of pairs of shoes, its end snagged in the zip. I gently eased it free, folded it neatly and tucked it away, before zipping up the case and stowing it beneath the bed.

  The bathroom looked like an artist had tripped over with a pallet full of paints in their hand. More concealer, blusher and eyeshadow stained the sink and even the bath. There was nothing for it. I gritted my teeth and got down to business, scrubbing at each and every surface, spraying and wiping, until the bathroom gleamed.

  “As shiny as a new sixpence.” Gwyn’s voice startled me.

  “Were sixpences particularly shiny?” I asked.

  “Only when they were new.” Gwyn replied. “Having fun, dear?”

  “I’m just about finished. Charity is going to hoover and mop.”

  “How is young Florence getting on?” Gwyn asked, arching one of her perfect eyebrows.

  “I think she was in or around first place after the technical. I’m going to go down and see how the showstopper bake is going now. Why don’t you come with me?”

  “I’ll see you down there,” Gwyn said, and the air shimmered as she disappeared. I collected up my cleaning materials, and with one more quick look around the bedroom, satisfied that the room was clean and tidy, I let myself out and headed down the stairs.

  Florence’s showstopper was a triumph. She’d elected to create a model of the Crystal Palace, where The Great Exhibition had been held in 1851. She’d plumped for a white strawberry sponge cake with hints of basil, and a more intense flavoured strawberry filling. The cake had been covered in white chocolate frosting and then decorated with basil-flavoured sugar glass windows, with darker chocolate outlines where needed. Florence had piped a green fondant base onto a cake stand and then made a dozen or so tiny Victorian figures—the women in crinolines and the men in top hats—who appeared to be walking around the building itself.

  “Darn it, that’s cute,” I muttered to Millicent as the judges cut into the structure.

  “It’s impressive for sure,” Millicent nodded, but her tone suggested mild disapproval, and I wondered if this champion of the uber-traditional Whittlecombe WI considered it a little over the top. She would never have said so.

  “It is a baking competition,” I reminded her, just in case she’d forgotten.

  Poor old Hortense suffered a complete disaster. Not only did her cake have a soggy bottom, an entire layer appeared to have imploded. She’d been trying to recreate Victoria’s coronation crown and sceptre, but the icing had run and the whole thing looked like somebody had mistaken it for a cushion and sat on it. Hortense’s eyes filled with tears, and the other contestants consoled her as best they could.

  Mindi took her place and the cameras rolled around. One kept a focus on the presenter and the other took close-ups of Florence, Scampi, Hortense and Davide.

  “It’s been a day of drama for you all. So without further ado I’m going to reveal this week’s star baker. The contestant who will be crowned Empress of the bakes after the Victorian challenge, is—”

  There was a long silence, all the better to ramp up the sense of expectation in the room.

  “Florence!” Mindi announced, and there was a rippling of applause. I had to clamp my hands to my mouth to stop myself from shouting out in glee. Florence looked stunned and then jigged on the spot as the other contestants congratulated her.

  “And now I have the sad task of announcing the name of the contestant who will be leaving us today. The person being banished to the workhouse, is—”

  Again, a lengthy pause and I found myself clenching my fists in agitation even though I knew Florence was already through to the next day.

  “Hortense.” A collective ‘aah’ filled the tent, the sound of multiple people expressing their regret. We all joined in, everyone lamenting the loss of one more person even though the whole idea was that the last one standing in the competition was the winner and if we didn’t get rid of somebody then nobody would win.

  “Sorry, Hortense,” said Mindi, and enveloped her in a hug. The contestants grouped together, and the judges quickly moved to join them, Raoul shaking hands with Hortense and Faery Kerry giving her a quick cuddle before engaging Florence in discussion about her clever use of sugar glass.

  “And cut!” shouted Jemima.

  “That’s a wrap.” Boo leaned back on his seat and stretched.

  Bertha ran f
orward to move the cakes to a trolley to be taken up to the inn, while her team began to clear the contestants’ kitchens of all the remaining ingredients. My own Wonky Inn Ghostly Clean Up Crew arrived to undertake the deep cleaning required after the day’s filming.

  I watched everyone work, aware that any of them could have contaminated the flour sacks when clearing up the previous evening. At this time of day, Monsieur Emietter would have already produced his evening meal and it was unlikely that he would need to go into the storerooms again. He wouldn’t have noticed any issue with the flour until he arrived in the morning.

  The contamination had almost certainly come from someone engaged in the production, and it seemed logical to imagine that by extension they might be the person responsible for Janice’s murder. I found it unlikely that either of the judges, or Mindi, would have an excuse to go into the kitchen. So didn’t that leave the production crew?

  I watched them all working and found myself wishing I knew more about them.

  “Morning, Ross.” I slipped into my office before breakfast to sort out a few things. The Great Witchy Cake Off crew would only be here for another few days and then the inn would be getting back to normal and I’d have a whole load of new (and old) guests returning. Halloween was just a matter of weeks away after all, and I liked the idea of celebrating Samhain with a full heart this year.

  And without vampires.

  Ross, who of course did not need sleep, was staring at the screen on his laptop. I peered over his shoulder but all I could see were blocks of rapidly changing numbers, entirely meaningless to me. “How’s it going?”