“Of course I don’t,” she murmured, eyes drifting closed. “I just hope we’re not biting off more than we can chew.”
“Ha,” said Reg, stifling another yawn. “From the size of your buttocks, ducky, I’d say there’s nothing you can’t chew through.”
If she hadn’t needed her pillow, Melissande would’ve thrown it at the wretched bird.
She and Reg met Bibbie outside the Town Hall at half-past ten the following morning. From the number of well-to-do ladies crowding the footpath and jostling their way up the Town Hall steps to go inside, the annual Golden Whisk competition was something of a highlight on Ottosland’s social calendar.
“Blimey!” said Bibbie, staggering back a few paces. “Do my eyes deceive me, Mel, or are you wearing a dress?”
Melissande glowered at her. “No, actually. I’m wearing a blouse-waist and a walking skirt.”
“Never mind the pettifogging details,” said Bibbie, waving them away with a flick of her fingers. “The salient point is that you’re not wearing trousers.”
“Oh, shut up. Your brother’s carpetbag didn’t go with my tweeds.”
“It doesn’t go with the blouse-waist and walking skirt, either,” said Reg, under her breath in case a passer-by was listening. “But let’s not try to run before we can crawl.”
“And you can shut up too,” said Melissande, twitching her shoulder. She still hadn’t quite forgiven that last crack about butt-muscles one sits on. “Now, are we going to get this done or would you two prefer to stand out here critiquing my sartorial efforts while Millicent Grimwade gets away with metaphorical murder?”
Bibbie was still grinning at the change of attire. “Really, a princess dress would’ve been more appropriate, Mel.”
“A princess dress is what they’ll bury you in, Bibbie, if you don’t shut up so we can get this over with!”
Bibbie rolled her eyes. “Tetchy, isn’t she?” she asked Reg, conversationally. “Did you remember the sprite?”
“No,” said Melissande. “I just brought the carpetbag as a fashion accessory.”
“Where you’re concerned, Mel, anything is possible,” said Bibbie, then hastily raised her hands. “All right, all right. Truce. Let’s go inside shall we, girls, and save the day.”
The Town Hall chamber set aside for the Baking and Pastry Guild’s prestigious annual Golden Whisk competition was crowded with women of varying shapes, sizes, ages, wealth and rabid intensity. Silks and muslins whispered and rustled, sweeping the richly parqueted floor… or flirted above it as some daring young ladies risked censure by lifting their hems dangerously towards their mid-calves. The warm trapped air beneath the convolutedly decorated ceiling was redolent of lavender, patchouli, rose-water, musk, attar of roses and lily of the valley, combined into a heady perfume soup.
“Blimey,” Reg muttered, wheezing. “We’ve come to the asphyxia convention by mistake. I hope these cake-obsessed biddies have got first-aid officers standing by.”
Melissande twitched her shoulder again. “If you don’t shut up,” she muttered under her breath, “I’m going to find a hat and pin you to it.”
“Oh no you won’t,” said Reg. “Last thing you want to do is make yourself conspicuous.”
“Given there’s a woman in the corner wearing a stuffed monkey on her head, I doubt anyone would turn a hair. Now be quiet and pretend you’re an exotic shoulder ornament just like we agreed, Reg, please.”
“Look,” said Bibbie, pointing over the hats and bonnets of the women crowding round them. “There’s Permelia.”
And indeed, there she was. Permelia Wycliffe, faithful Eudora Telford in tow, stood ramrod-stiff at her display table, which was cordoned off from the hoi polloi behind a scarlet rope. All in all it appeared there were twelve finalists vying for the Golden Whisk. The grand prize itself stood in the centre of the room on a pedestal, protected by a glass case and its own scarlet cordon. Shafts of sunlight struck golden sparks from the coveted kitchen implement.
Melissande shook her head. Surely these women have something better to do with their time than sweat blood and shed tears over baking the perfect date scone?
Except clearly they didn’t. Clearly they believed that winning a stupid egg beater meant they’d reached some lofty pinnacle of success. What was the point? It wasn’t as if they could use the wretched Golden Whisk-all the gold would peel off in the omelette and give the dinner guests heavy-metal poisoning.
But practicality, or the lack thereof, didn’t seem to bother Permelia Wycliffe or the other eleven women standing guard over their culinary offerings. If they weren’t darting furious glances at each other’s Rum Balls they were feasting their avaricious gazes on the prize. It was a wonder the organisers hadn’t provided silver drool-salvers.
“Wait a minute,” Melissande said, frowning. “Why is Permelia a finalist? Didn’t she say she hadn’t won a single regional contest thanks to Millicent Grimwade?”
Bibbie grinned. “Perks of the presidency,” she whispered. “But don’t tell her I told you.”
Permelia was pulling extraordinary faces, eyebrows shooting up and down, nose twitching, head minutely jerking sideways.
“Don’t look now,” said Reg, “but I think the pressure’s finally got to her. Any moment she’ll start foaming at the mouth.”
“I think,” said Bibbie, “she’s trying to tell us which one’s Millicent Grimwade.” She nodded at a woman third from the end along the row of wound-up, waiting contestants. “There. Her.”
“Right,” said Melissande. “Then let’s prove she’s a rotten cheater and get out of here, shall we? Because if I have to stay in this room for much longer I’ll never be able to look a cake in the face and smile again.”
“Not a bad idea, ducky,” Reg muttered. “Your buttocks’ll thank you for it, believe me.”
Ignoring that, Melissande hefted Monk’s carpetbag and got to work.
CHAPTER EIGHT
They fought their way through the growing crowd, past the other contestants’ cake and pastry-laden tables, until they found themselves standing in front of Permelia Wycliffe’s nemesis, usefully camouflaged by two shifting rows of gossiping spectators.
Glimpsed between feather-crowned hats and silk-shawled shoulders, Millicent Grimwade lived up to her name. She was a tall, thin, hatchet-faced woman dressed head-to-toe in deep purple silk and basking in a premature aura of victory. A delicate lace cloth covered her display table right down to floor level, pinned in place by a cream-slathered gooseberry sponge, a primrose-yellow iced pound cake and a seductively glistening chocolate log.
Melissande considered the offerings, then sidled a little closer to Bibbie. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, mindful of eavesdroppers. “But I don’t see what’s so terrible about those cakes. They look like cakes you’d buy in a shop. In fact, they make Per-” She darted a glance around the jostling crowd. “ You-know-who look like a sore loser. Which means we’re in grave danger of making ourselves look like idiots if we start throwing about unsubstantiated accusations.”
“What? Are you blind?” said Bibbie, in a disbelieving undertone. “Those cakes are terrible, Mel. They’ve got no business being in the Golden Whisk finals. The cream on the sponge is over-whipped, there’s too much yellow in the pound cake’s icing and she’s used the wrong kind of chocolate for the chocolate log. I can only imagine what they taste like.” She shuddered. “Sawdust, probably. I can hear Great-aunt Antigone’s ashes now, whirling in their urn.”
Close around them the scented crowd swirled and shared its unfettered opinions. Everyone was praising Millicent Grimwade’s entries. Melissande considered the apparently ghastly cakes for a moment. No, she still couldn’t see what had woken Bibbie’s scathing contempt.
“Are you sure?”
Bibbie glowered. “Of course I’m sure.”
“Reg?” she whispered. “What do you think?”
“I think it’s a long time since I ate cake,” Reg whispered back, mournful.