“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!”
“How
shocking
!” said Bibbie, shooting Melissande and Reg a repressive look. “Please, Miss Wycliffe, allow me to apologise again, this time on behalf of my misguided fellow-thaumaturgical practitioners. Clearly they have failed to grasp the gravity of your situation. Why, thanks to Millicent Grimwade the Guild’s integrity now hangs by the proverbial thread. The lustre of the Golden Whisk is about to be irretrievably tarnished!”
Permelia Wycliffe’s clasped hands tightened. “The Guild be praised. You really
do
understand!”
“Of course she does, Permelia,” said Eudora Telford, fresh tears trembling on her lashes. “Is she not the great-niece of Antigone Markham?”
“I am,” said Bibbie. “And I promise you, in my great-aunt’s illustrious name, we
will
unmask this dastardly Millicent Grimwade. The final bake-off’s tomorrow, isn’t it? In the Town Hall?”
“That’s correct,” said Permelia Wycliffe. “Commencing at eleven o’clock sharp. I take it we can count on you to be there in time?”
“Have no fear, Miss Wycliffe,” said Bibbie grandly. “My colleagues and I will be there in
plenty
of time to prevent a grave miscarriage of culinary justice… and see that Millicent Grimwade receives her comeuppance.”
Incredibly, it seemed that Permelia Wycliffe was on the brink of losing her intimidating composure. “Please, Miss Markham. Call me Permelia.”
“Of course, Permelia… if you’ll agree to calling me Emmerabiblia.”
“It would be an honour,” said Permelia Wycliffe, very nearly smiling. She extended her gloved hand. “Until tomorrow, Emmerabiblia.”
Bibbie shook the woman’s hand. “Until tomorrow, Permelia,” she said gravely.
“Come, Eudora,” said Permelia Wycliffe. “We still have the bake-off’s preparations to oversee.”
Eudora bobbed a curtsey to Melissande, and nearly to Bibbie. “Your Highness—Miss Markham—so pleased—so gratified—”
“Come
along
, Eudora!”
“Coming, Permelia, coming!”
With a last frosty nod at Melissande, and a thoughtful glance at the apparently empty birdcage on the desk, Permelia Wycliffe sailed towards the door with Eudora bobbing in her wake like a dinghy. But at the doorway, she hesitated then turned back. “I’m sorry. Did I hear you say your colleagues—
plural
—would be at the Town Hall tomorrow?”
Bibbie nodded. “That’s right.”
Permelia’s gaze shifted to Reg. “Do you mean to say you’ll be bringing…”
“Reg?” Bibbie grinned cheerfully. “Of course. She feels left out if we don’t bring her along. Especially since she’s the National Bird of New Ottosland and figures prominently on the kingdom’s coat of arms. Doesn’t she, Miss Cadwallader?”
Melissande scorched her with a look. “If you say so, Miss Markham.”
“I see,” said Permelia Wycliffe, after a precarious moment. “Well, I’m sure the great-niece of Antigone Markham knows best.”
And on that note, the door closed emphatically behind the two women from the Baking and Pastry Guild.
“
Gosh
!” said Bibbie, and sagged on the desk. “Wasn’t that a stroke of luck, the president of the Baking and Pastry Guild needing our help! And to think I never thought batty old Great-aunt Antigone would ever come in handy.”
“Luck?
Luck
?” said Melissande, free to stamp about the office in an excess of temper. “Luck’s not the first word that comes to
my
mind, you raving nutter!”
“
Why
?” said Bibbie, amazed. “What have I done wrong
now
?”
“You know perfectly well what you’ve done wrong!” she retorted. “Promising those two nitwits we could solve this ridiculous case? And all that guff about Rupert! Reg on the royal coat of arms!
Honestly
, Bibbie, you
know
I hate using that royalty claptrap to impress strangers. It’s crude and it’s common and it’s—”
“Going to help us pay the bills!” said Bibbie. “Just like me being related to the saintly Antigone Markham saved us from your
stupid
insistence on wearing those
ghastly
tweed trousers! The least you could do is wear velvet, Melissande, at least velvet’s got some class! But no,
you
have to—”
“
Shut up!”
roared Reg, rattling her tail feathers so hard she nearly fell off the ram skull. “The pair of you!”
Shocked silent, they looked at her.
“Mad Miss Markham’s right,” Reg continued severely. “We can’t afford to tiptoe on our principles. Not if we want to avoid landing on our penniless arses in the alley.” She bestowed upon Bibbie an approving nod. “Nice work spotting the Guild pins, ducky.”
Bibbie dropped an ironical curtsey. “Thank you, Reg.”
“But don’t you see?” said Melissande, despairing. “That dreadful Eudora Telford’s going to run around telling everyone I’ve got a tiara stuffed up my blouse!”
Reg snorted. “Down the back of your trousers, more like it.”
As Melissande advanced, Bibbie leapt between her and Reg’s ram skull. “Ignore her, Mel. You know she only does it to get a reaction.”
“And anyway, madam here didn’t flap the
Times
under that silly woman’s nose!” Reg added, hopping from the ram skull to Bibbie’s shoulder. “That was
you
, ducky.”
“Look, Mel, you need to focus on the big picture,” said Bibbie, impatient. “Which is that the Baking and Pastry Guild is a really,
really
big deal. I’m talking about an upper-crust sisterhood full of women of affluence and influence. Women with excellent connections—and
money
. Once we’ve solved the mystery of Millicent Grimwade’s cheating, trust me: we’ll have more work coming in than we know what to do with.”
Melissande stared at her. “
Once we’ve solved
—Bibbie, are you saying you think that dreadful Wycliffe woman’s got a case against this Millicent Grimwade?”
“Of course.”
“Emmerabiblia Markham, are you telling me that a grown woman would stoop to dishonesty—if not downright illegality—just to win some cheap statue of a
cooking utensil
?”
“Mel, Mel, Mel,” sighed Bibbie, shaking her head. “Don’t you have a Baking and Pastry Guild in New Ottosland?”
“Probably,” she said. “I know I used to get served up some pretty awful jam rolls when I was out and about on official duty. But I was never a
member
. I had better things to do!”
“Don’t you let Permelia Wycliffe hear you say that,” said Bibbie. “And stop being such a snob. I’ll have you know the internecine warfare of the Baking and Pastry Guild makes international politics look like a kiddie’s afternoon tea party. Trust me. Millicent Grimwade is up to no good.”
“Why? Because she’s won a few cooking contests?”
Bibbie wagged a finger. “Not a few, Mel.
All
of them. And all of them over the reigning Guild president. Trust me, it’s just not possible. Not without some unorthodox assistance.”
Melissande blinked. It sounded utterly potty. But Bibbie seemed convinced, and she was the one with the presidential great-aunt.
I suppose I’d be mad to discount her expertise and experience. It just all sounds so dreadfully silly…
“Fine,” she sighed. “So there’s a legitimate case. But Bibbie, even if Millicent Grimwade
is
cheating, how are we supposed to prove it? I mean if a tribe of other witches and wizards have failed to uncover even the tiniest hint of thaumaturgic interference, what makes you think we’ll fare any better?”
“
Because
,” said Bibbie, eyes shining, “Witches Inc. has a secret weapon!”
With a flourish she reactivated the sprite trap’s etheretic field. In its small cage, the newly visible sprite buzzed and hummed.
Melissande stared at it, then at Bibbie, with a dawning horror. “Oh, no. Emmerabiblia Markham, you
cannot
be serious!”
Bibbie picked up the cage and made coochiecoochie faces at the sprite, which sparkled and buzzed back at her.
“I can, you know,” she said. “I’ve never been
more
serious. We’ve already established that this thing disrupts thaumaturgic vibrations. All we have to do is smuggle it into the bake-off tomorrow morning and let interdimensional nature take its course!”
“But what about Monk?”
She shrugged. “What about him?”
“Bibbie, he needs to send this sprite back to where it came from!
We
need him to send the horrible thing home, it’s a menace!”
“And he will send it back, Mel. Once we’ve used it to save the agency,” said Bibbie. “Come on. Monk owes us. What’s three tins of tamper-proof ink? We can buy that ourselves… or at least, we could if we had any money. But this sprite is priceless. This sprite is going to put Witches Inc. on the map, I can feel it in my bones. It’s not going back to Monk until it’s made us the heroines of Ottosland’s internationally celebrated Baking and Pastry Guild.”
Melissande gnawed the edge of her thumb. “I don’t know. I don’t like this, Bibbie. I’ve had enough unnatural creatures to last me a lifetime.”
“Really?” said Reg, staring down her beak. “Well, thank you very much, I’m sure.”
Distracted, she smiled at the bird. “Don’t be silly, Reg. You’re not unnatural, you’re just irritating.”
“And so are you,” snapped Bibbie. “
Honestly
, Mel. How can you be so short-sighted? Don’t you see this sprite is a
gift
?”
A curse, more like it. But either she was going to trust Bibbie, or she wasn’t. “All right. Fine. But if this blows up in our faces—which is hideously likely—then I give you fair warning: I will swear with my hand on my heart that I don’t know you from a hole in the ground.”
Bibbie put the sprite trap back on the desk and leaned over for the phone. “And when my plan works brilliantly—
which
it will—
I
am going to take all the credit.” Picking up the receiver she dialled, then waited. “Hello, Monk? It’s me.—Yes, we’ve got your stupid sprite but you can’t have it back until tomorrow.—Because I say so, that’s why.—Because something’s come up.—All right, because if you don’t stop yelling at me the next person I telephone will be Uncle Ralph.—Well, actually, I
can
. But I won’t. Not unless you—Good. I didn’t think so.—You’re welcome. See you tomorrow night, for dinner.”