“Yes, Miss Wycliffe,” said Bibbie, a wicked gleam in her eyes. “I am related to Antigone Markham. She was my great-aunt, as a matter of fact.”
“In deed,” said Permelia, her nostrils pinching as she plumbed new depths of disapproval. Beside her, Eudora Telford was making little squeaking sounds. “And how can it be that you have failed to follow in her illustrious footsteps? Surely the great-niece of Antigone Markham is sensible of her obligations to the noblest calling to which any woman of breeding may aspire!”
“Oh I am, I am,” said Bibbie, adopting an air of martyred tragedy. She’d even managed to put a sob in her voice. “And it’s because I am sensible to them that you’ve not seen me in your hallowed Guild’s halls, Miss Wycliffe. Alas, I am bereft of Aunt Antigone’s talent for shortcrust. I felt I would’ve been betraying her if I’d asked you to overlook my lack of aptitude just because of my familial connections.” Another small, artistic sob. “Please, Miss Wycliffe. Don’t ask me to explain further. As I’m sure you can imagine, it’s a painful subject.”
Permelia Wycliffe was transformed into a monument to sympathy. “ Poor child. You have my sincere condolences and my heartfelt admiration. That you would so revere your great-aunt’s legacy as to not sully the memory of her magnificence-I am speechless with approbation.”
On her ram skull, Reg was back to chortling like a kettle. Eudora Telford seemed close to tears of worshipful joy. With nothing useful to contribute, Melissande warily let Bibbie have the floor. Tiny alarm bells were ringing in the back of her mind. Monk’s sister might have Permelia Wycliffe eating from the palm of her hand now… but in her experience, the Permelias of the world were fickle in their approval. One injudiciously uttered sentiment, one expressed opinion that deviated from the acceptable, and the air would swiftly freeze solid again.
And then of course I’ll be the one picking up the agency’s pieces.
She tried to semaphore as much to Bibbie with her eyebrows, but Bibbie was resolutely paying no attention.
“Thank you, Miss Wycliffe,” she said, one hand pressed to her heart. “I can’t begin to tell you how that makes me feel.”
“You see, Permelia?” quavered Eudora Telford. “It was meant that we should come here for assistance. Her Royal Highness and sainted Antigone Markham’s great-niece will save the day!”
“Yes indeed,” said Bibbie robustly. “There’s nothing we’d like better. Isn’t that right, Miss Cadwallader?”
Willing Reg to stop snickering, Melissande crossed her fingers behind her back. “Absolutely, Miss Markham. Saving the day is what we live for.”
“So, Miss Wycliffe-forgive me, Madam President,” said Bibbie. “How exactly does the day need saving? What is it you’d like Witches Inc. to do for the Guild?”
Permelia Wycliffe lifted her chin as though she’d just received a challenge. “Miss Markham, you can unmask a villain!”
“Happy to,” said Bibbie. “Does this villain have a name?”
“Millicent Grimwade,” said Permelia, through tightly pinched lips. “The most sly, underhanded, dishonest, deceitful and third-rate cook the Guild has ever known!”
“Really?” said Bibbie. “She’s that bad? Then-if I might be so bold as to ask-how is it she was admitted to the ranks of the illustrious sisterhood?”
Two bright spots of colour burned hotly in Permelia Wycliffe’s thin cheeks. “Allow me to assure you, Miss Markham, that had I been Guild President when her application was submitted she would have been summarily refused the honour! Unfortunately my predecessor lacked the acumen essential to the august position of Guild President.”
“It’s an absolute tragedy, Miss Markham,” added Eudora Telford, when it appeared Permelia Wycliffe was momentarily overcome. “Because Millicent’s been cheating. Brazenly cheating. And if we don’t put a stop to it she’ll win this year’s Golden Whisk uncontested.”
“The honour of the Guild is at stake,” said a recovered Permelia, eyes glittering. “It is unthinkable that the likes of Millicent Grimwade should receive our highest accolade.”
“It certainly is,” said Eudora, choking with emotion. “Why, Permelia’s won the Whisk for the last sixteen years, ever since she became our president. Everybody knows she’s the best cook in the Guild. Why, her Chocolate Rum Tart is renowned throughout Ottosland. When it failed to win its division in this year’s first county fair, well, we knew something dreadful was going on. And it’s still going on, because Permelia’s been defeated by Millicent at every county fair this year. It’s-it’s unheard of!”
Melissande exchanged a glance with Reg, who rolled her eyes, then cleared her throat. Time for her to rejoin the conversation before Bibbie enthusiastically committed them to a case they couldn’t possibly solve. To a case that wasn’t even a case, but simply a matter of sour grapes.
“Ah… that sounds very… disheartening, Miss Wycliffe,” she said with care. “But I’m obliged to point out to you that any understandable disappointment over your recent defeats isn’t proof of illegal behaviour. How is it you’re so sure that Millicent Grimwade is cheating? I mean, do you have any proof?”
Permelia Wycliffe looked at her as though she were an idiot. “Of course I have proof,” she said, witheringly. “The proof is that I’ve yet to win a single baking contest. You may rest assured, Miss Cadwallader, that Millicent Grimwade is using some kind of thaumaturgical charm to influence the judges or enhance the quality of her cakes or something equally nefarious. It’s the only explanation for her unprecedented success.”
Melissande stared. The only explanation? Was Permelia Wycliffe serious?
The woman is obsessed. Most likely delusional. And when we can’t prove there’s been cheating of any kind by this Millicent Grimwade-because who would cheat at baking cakes? The idea’s ridiculous! — this appalling Wycliffe woman is going to sue us for inadequate representation. Or at the very least tell every one she meets not to touch Witches Incorporated with a forty-foot barge pole. And then we really will go out of business.
No matter how long it took she was going to find that wretched photographer from the Times, and when she found him she was going to stuff Monk’s sprite down the front of his unmentionables.
Strangely, Bibbie didn’t seem at all disconcerted or disbelieving. Instead she was frowning. “I must apologise for my colleague, Miss Wycliffe. Not being of the Guild, she doesn’t understand. It goes without saying that if you’re convinced Millicent Grimwade is cheating then she is. After all, they don’t appoint just anybody as president of the Guild, do they?”
“Well, not usually,” said Eudora Telford loyally. “Although our last president was a sad disappointment. But of course since we’ve had Permelia at the helm we’ve surged from strength to strength. Seven times Best Cake in Show at the International Baking Symposium.” She beamed at the object of her uncritical adoration. “Which is why this has been so particularly distressing, Miss Markham. It’s even been suggested that Permelia is motivated by-by-oh, I can scarcely bring myself to say it.” Her eyes brimmed with tears. “By jealousy.”
Bibbie patted the silly woman’s arm, like someone comforting the bereaved. “Please don’t weep, Miss Telford. That would be giving Millicent Grimwade the victory.”
“Oh, Miss Markham,” whispered Eudora Telford. “You’re so wonderfully sympathetic. It really has been awful, you know.”
“Eudora, I can imagine,” said Bibbie, so earnestly that even Melissande believed her. “The petty tyrannies of the mediocre are endless. But you must buck up, really you must. Witches Inc. is here to help. Now I take it you’ve approached other thaumaturgical experts regarding this wicked state of affairs?”
“We have,” said Permelia Wycliffe mordantly. “We have availed ourselves of the services of several highly recommended witches and wizards, Miss Markham… all to no good purpose. They’ve come along to this county fair or that one, taken our money and then told us we’re imagining things. One wizard even had the effrontery to suggest I stop imbibing so generously of my Rum Tart’s prime ingredient!”