Permelia Wycliffe’s haughty expression congealed. “Indeed. What a quaint suggestion.”
“Oh yes, that’s our Mel,” said Bibbie cheerfully. “Quaint as anything.”
Melissande shot her a quelling look, then returned her attention to Permelia. “And your charming associate, Miss Wycliffe? Since we seem to be making our formal introductions?”
“Yes. Of course,” said Permelia Wycliffe, reluctantly co-operative. “This is Miss Eudora Telford. My secretary.”
“And bosom friend,” Eudora Telford added, bobbing up and down some more. “Such an honour. Such a pleasure. So regal. So distinguished.”
“Regal and distinguished, exactly!” said Bibbie, outrageously beaming. “That’s our Princess Melissande to a T. Just like her brother King Rupert the First! Of course you must’ve heard of him.” She snatched the Times from Melissande’s hand and waved the front page under Permelia Wycliffe’s nose. “He’s regal and distinguished, too. And handsome. Don’t you agree he’s a handsome king?”
“Oh yes,” breathed Eudora, before Permelia could speak. “Terribly handsome and distinguished! A positive jewel of a monarch. I’ve read all about him in the Times and the Ladies’ Almanac.”
Melissande frowned. While she unashamedly adored Rupert, only a woman with a bag over her head could honestly call him handsome. So this appeared to be yet another case of unrequited adoration from afar. Poor Rupert. Ever since ascending New Ottosland’s throne he’d been inundated by passionate expressions of affection from all over the world. It seemed a crown was the most potent yet indiscriminate aphrodisiac ever discovered.
“I’m sure he’d be moved by such beautiful compliments, Miss Telford,” she said. “Now, you mentioned something about a matter of life and death…?”
Eudora rallied. “Oh yes, Your Highness. Of course. Please, do forgive me. Such a rattletrap, I am, and a regular fusty gossip. So sorry. So very sorry.”
Really, she was the most horribly damp woman. Perhaps it wasn’t surprising that overbearing Permelia Wycliffe squashed her at every opportunity. Perhaps it was even understandable. Anyone spending any length of time in Eudora Telford’s company must surely end up wringing wet.
“Oh, there’s no need to apologise, Miss Telford. I appreciate it’s not always easy to discuss personal problems.”
“We have not come here to discuss Eudora’s personal problems,” said Permelia. “We have come in response to a disgraceful situation in the Guild. A situation that must be remedied before untold damage is done to the sterling international reputation I have worked so long and hard to build.”
Guild? International reputation? What was the dreadful woman going on about? But before she could betray her woeful ignorance Bibbie stepped forward, her expression suspiciously earnest.
“Then you must tell us all about it, Miss Wycliffe,” she said, her voice hushed. “We can’t have trouble in Ottosland’s world famous Baking and Pastry Guild. Indeed, Witches Inc. is honoured that its president would bring the Guild’s problems to us.”
Baking and Pastry Guild? President? What? How did Bibbie know that? Melissande looked at Reg, who seemed just as surprised, then back at Permelia Wycliffe. The woman was perilously close to letting her jaw drop in shock.
“So you are familiar with the Baking and Pastry Guild, Miss Markham?” she said, eyebrows raised disbelievingly. “I must confess to some surprise. I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of seeing you at one of our… at our… at… oh.” She cleared her throat. “ Markham? Surely you’re not-am I correct in surmising-do you mean to tell me that you are-”
“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
