Witches Incorporated Page 11

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Permelia!” Eudora Telford exclaimed, pinkly penitent. “It’s dreadful of me to contradict you, I know, but I simply can’t stay silent, not when such an injustice is being perpetrated upon you!”

  “Forgive me, ladies,” said Melissande, very carefully not looking at Reg. “I really don’t mean to be rude, truly, but—” She picked up the agency’s copy of the Times from the rickety occasional table where she’d earlier dropped it, and opened it to the despised social gossip pages. “—did you mean this photograph?”

  Courageously ignoring the irate Permelia, Eudora joined her. “Why, yes! That’s the one! Her Royal Highness Princess Melissande of New Ottosland, proprietor of Witches Inc., attending the opera.” She peered at the newspaper, then frowned sideways. “Oh. Dear. My gracious. I’m sorry, Miss Cadwallader, are you quite sure—I mean to say—”

  “Of course,” said Bibbie, with a grin as lunatic as her mad brother’s, “when I introduce my esteemed colleague as Miss Cadwallader, really that’s just her name of convenience. Really she’s Her Royal Highness Princess Melissande of New Ottosland. Don’t let the tweed trousers fool you. Go on, Mel. Don’t be shy. Show ’em your tiara.”

  It was almost worth Reg’s evil chuckling to see the look of unbearable snobbery congeal on the awful Permelia woman’s face.

  “Her Royal Highness?” Permelia said in a strangled voice. “Princess Melissande?”

  “Well, yes,” said Melissande. “I’m afraid so.”

  “I see,” said Permelia faintly. “Of course. Well. Do forgive me, it appears I—I didn’t recognise you without your bustle.”

  “Oh, Your Highness!” cried Eudora, snatching up Melissande’s hand and hanging onto it like a life preserver. “Oh, please, please, you have to help us! Please. It’s ever so important! In fact it’s a matter of life and death!’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Life and death?” said Melissande, discreetly attempting to retrieve her hand from Eudora Telford’s fervent clutches. “Really? How very alarming. Well, of course we’ll help you, if we can. And for a very reasonable fee.”

  “Oh thank you, thank you,” the woman said, breathless all over again. “I knew we were right to come to you, I knew—”

  “Eudora Telford,” said her disapproving friend. “Do stop fawning. It’s most unattractive in a woman of your age. Especially as you and the princess have not been formally introduced.”

  Eudora Telford blushed bright red. “Oh—oh, how awful of me!” she choked. “How embarrassing. Such a social solecism. I’m quite beyond the pale.”

  Finally released from the poor woman’s desperate adoration, Melissande cleared her throat, uncomfortable. “Oh no, truly, it’s—”

  “Eudora being Eudora,” said Permelia Wycliffe bitingly. “Alas.” Lips pinched in additional, silent criticism, she advanced like a warship under full sail. “Allow me to introduce myself, Your Highness. Miss Permelia Wycliffe. Of the Ravenscroft Wycliffes. Not to be confused with the Lormley Wycliffes, who now find themselves genealogically extinct.” There was no “alas” this time. The addendum And serve them right wasn’t spoken aloud but nevertheless, the words hovered in the air.

  Melissande looked at Permelia Wycliffe’s gloved and outstretched hand.

  I could be wrong, but I thought I was the one meant to make the first move. And isn’t she supposed to be curtseying or something? I am a princess, after all…

  Except Ottosland had long since shrugged off the oppressive shackles of monarchy—Monk’s words, not hers—and now took a positive delight in putting visiting royalty in its place. Although apparently no-one had thought to mention that to Eudora Telford. Banished to the back seat of this encounter, she was bobbing up and down like a cork in a stream.

  The part of Melissande that was related to Lional prickled in the face of Permelia Wycliffe’s overbearing condescension. But with penury looming this was no time to indulge offended feelings.

  “Miss Wycliffe, it’s a pleasure,” she said, decorously shaking the woman’s hand.

  “Likewise,” said Permelia Wycliffe. “Doubtless you have heard of my brother, Mister Ambrose Wycliffe. He heads the Wycliffe family firm. The Wycliffe Airship Company, established fifty-two years ago by my distinguished, world-famous late father Mister Orville Wycliffe.” Her disciplined eyebrows lifted, inviting a response.

  “The Wycliffe Airship Company,” Melissande murmured, playing for time. No, she’d never heard of it. Her acquaintance with airships was severely limited, since New Ottosland had never gone in for newfangled contraptions. Installing their own portal had practically caused a revolution. “Ah—”

  “Her Highness hasn’t long been among us in Ottosland, Permelia,” said Eudora, as her daunting companion’s thin face froze with disapproval. “And when at home in New Ottosland she travels by royal carriage, of course. But now that she’s here among us, living incognito—so romantic!—doubtless she wishes to maintain her anonymity, which she couldn’t do if she travelled with the best of the best on a Wycliffe airship.”

  “Ah,” said Permelia Wycliffe, barely thawing. “Incognito. Yes. Although there is the matter of that photograph in the Times…”

  “A mistake,” said Melissande grimly. “Believe me.”

  “Incognito,” Permelia Wycliffe repeated. “I see. Doubtless that accounts for Your Highness’s… unorthodox… attire. Unless… perhaps you dress yourself in the costume of your native land? New Ottosland is a colony, after all. I believe colonials can be… eccentric.”

  On her ram skull, Reg was wheezing with half-strangled laughter. And Bibbie was clearly biting the insides of her cheeks. They were far too easily amused, both of them.

  Melissande fought to keep her expression welcoming. Eccentric? Trousers aren’t eccentric, you silly woman. Eccentric is my brother turning himself into a dragon.

  “Actually, I prefer the term ‘practical’. You should give trousers a try, Miss Wycliffe. They might give you a whole new outlook on life.”

  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. P
erhaps 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.”

  “Indeed,” 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 Gu
ild, 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!”