by Nancy Warren
“We’ll miss you. I was wondering if—”
“Ben, don’t hog Poppy,” Florence said, pushing a glass of bubbly at him. “We’re having a last drink with our friend before we lose her forever. Oh, and you must meet Stanley.”
Benedict accepted the drink and reached out to shake Stanley’s hand. If Florence had been nearer, I’d have kicked her ankle under the table. I would really have liked to know how that question would have ended. “Poppy, I was wondering if …” So many possibilities.
Now I was wondering, too.
“And bring another glass for Stanley,” she said to Darius. Ouch. How could she order him around like that? She must know he was hurting. Talk about adding insult to injury.
Darius said he’d be right back. He was polite, but it was so obviously forced that the mood of the table tangibly shifted.
When Darius left, Florence laughed her pretty laugh and told Stanley that Benedict would one day inherit all of Broomewode.
“Take it from me. Lot of work. I’ve an estate in the north. Money pit, that’s what it is.”
Benedict agreed, and Stanley immediately launched into a story about dry rot. Florence moved closer to me and whispered in my ear, “Darius is being a real drag. He’s been texting me alllll day. I thought he understood this was only a bit of fun. But he’s gone all jealous and clingy. Not what I signed on for.”
I raised an eyebrow. Obviously Darius was jealous, but I didn’t have time to dwell on Florence’s love life. I only offered a shrug as consolation and then turned to Maggie and asked if she’d tell me more about turf cakes.
“Why? Have you heard something? Will we need to make them?”
“No. I was just wondering where I’d go if I wanted to taste the best ones.” I shrugged. “I’ve suddenly got a lot more free time.”
She patted my hand, and once more I felt like one of her grandchildren after they’d taken a tumble. “My favorite part is the lovely cherries and almonds on top,” Maggie said. “And for the best turf cakes in York, you go to Lester’s Cake Shop.”
The best turf cakes in York.
The exact words Eloise had used. It was a long shot, but I wondered if they might know her at the bakery.
“Oh no,” Florence said.
I turned to face her. “What is it?”
“You’ve got that look on your face again. That ‘Poppy’s about to go off and do something dangerous’ look.”
I burst out laughing. “Nothing dangerous. I need to make a quick phone call. But I promise to come right back and continue the celebrations.”
“You’ve been here all of ten minutes, Poppy Wilkinson,” Florence chided.
Hamish shot me a worried glance. “Need help?”
“Not yet, but I might.”
Benedict turned to look at me, but Stanley was enthusiastically describing the renovations he was making, and Benedict was obviously too polite to stop him.
I excused myself again and went up to my bedroom, where I could make a call in private. Thankfully, Gerry wasn’t waiting for me when I turned the key, as was his usual wont. I breathed a sigh of relief. He could be helpful, but right now I needed to focus and get my best charm on.
I took a seat on Gateau’s favorite armchair and searched online for Lester’s Cake Shop in York. With a couple of taps, I found an old-fashioned-looking website and breathed a sigh of relief when I found a contact number at the bottom of their homepage. I carefully tapped in the digits.
As the phone rang, Gateau scampered in through the open window and came to sit on my lap. As much as I loved seeing my friendly familiar, her sudden appearance made me cautious. She liked a good snuggle, that was for sure. But she came to me when I was sad or in danger. Maybe something about this call might have triggered her instincts. I decided to use an alias, just in case.
“Hello, Lester’s Cake Shop. Lester speaking. How can I help?”
The voice belonged to a jolly-sounding man, maybe in his sixties. A granddad perhaps. But if I’d learned anything these last few weeks, it was that people could be seriously deceptive.
“Oh hello,” I said, affecting a fake British accent and employing the alias I’d used when first trying to get into Broomewode Hall in my first week at the Village. “My name is Tabitha Worth. I’m a food writer.” I mentioned a top magazine. “I’m working on a feature about the bakers behind the scenes who make the most iconic treats in the UK. Could I speak to the baker who makes your famous turf cakes?”
The man cleared his throat. “That’s great to hear. The baker’s new, I’m afraid. He’s only been here a couple of months, so if you’re looking for more background—”
“Oh, yes. I was told it was a woman who’d made your cakes famous. I can’t quite read my scribbled notes. Was her name Eloise?”
“Ella.” He chuckled. “You might want to work on that handwriting. “Ella Cartwright. Wonderful baker, but as I say, doesn’t work here anymore.”
“I’m really sorry to hear that.” And I was. It seemed my crazy hunch had been correct, and now I knew more about the woman I’d known as Eloise.
I wanted to pry but had no idea what to ask next. I thought of “Trim” Trimble asking the awkward question anyway, hoping I’d tell him what he wanted to know. I’d have to act like a real reporter too.
But I didn’t have to. Before I could say another word, Lester said, “And please don’t think she left because of anything I said or did. I was gutted to lose her.”
“Why did she leave?” He could hang up, he could tell me to mind my own business, or he could answer me.
“You’ve obviously been around enough bakers, Tabitha—okay if I call you Tabitha?”
“Yes.”
“Well, like I say, when you’ve been around bakers, you get to know they can be an insecure lot.”
“I’ve definitely experienced that,” I agreed, thinking of the last six weeks.
“Ella was a good baker, kept herself to herself, but she had a difficult home life.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“The best turf cake baker I’ve ever had the pleasure to work with. Not such a sure hand when it came to men.” He sighed. “I told her not to marry him. It was too quick, I said, but they don’t listen.”
“She was married?” I blurted out.
“Still is, far as I know. He swept her off her feet, wouldn’t take no for an answer until she married him. So happy she was, I was glad she hadn’t listened to me, and then suddenly, POOF, things changed. He left her. Simply said he was done. I didn’t want to be right, but I was right all along. Poor Ella was beside herself. She was determined to get him back, so she left her job to follow him. Should have said good riddance if you ask me.”
“Any idea where she went?” Was it possible I’d got it wrong?
“Down south somewhere. That’s all I know. Told her she could have her job back if it didn’t work out. I keep expecting she’ll call.”
I didn’t want to be the one to tell him that probably wasn’t going to happen.
I couldn’t believe that Eloise—Ella—was married. No wonder she was moody at work: She was heartbroken. The poor girl.
But if they were the same person, and she came south to find her husband, where was he?
Chapter 15
After I’d finished the call, I stared out of the window of my bedroom at the inn for what was probably the last time. Evening was settling in, with gorgeous splashes of pink and orange across the skies.
I couldn’t get over how Eloise, or Ella, had hidden so much pain from her co-workers. Her heart had been broken. She’d been desperate to find the husband who’d swept her off her feet and then disappeared. She’d packed up everything in York, left her job, put her life on hold. And her search had led to Broomewode Village. Which surely meant that her husband must live nearby? Why else take a job at the local inn?
I tried to bring to mind everyone I’d met who lived here, what their stories were, whether they’d been born here or had m
oved more recently. I ticked off each person one by one. It was a mixed list. On the one hand, Broomewode Village had a longstanding community of families who’d been here generations: the Champneys and all the generations before them, dear Eileen and dastardly Penelope, Katie Donegal, the old gamekeeper Mitty and his somewhat questionable family. But on the other hand, the village attracted new blood, those looking to escape the city. Eve and Susan immediately came to mind—but the vortex had likely brought them here to be with their sisters. Susan Bentley and her husband had also moved to Broomewode in retirement, as had her new friend Reginald—but surely he was far too old for Eloise? Who else could be a contender for Eloise’s affections?
And then I remembered Hamish’s devasting tip from the police. Edward. I’d obviously pushed his name out of my mind, not wanting to believe that he could be capable of something so terrible. Edward was also a newbie in Broomewode, or at least at his job—joining the gardening team soon after I arrived in Broomewode. He was the right age for Eloise, mid- to late twenties, and he’d said he’d left home to find work. Was it possible he moved to get away from a wife? I thought he’d told me he was from Devon, but it was an easy lie, to swap York for Devon, and he didn’t have a distinguishable accent, just slightly Somerset, and that could have lingered from childhood. If he’d moved around from town to town, whatever his real accent was could have easily diluted.
He’d certainly seemed very upset at the news of her death. Could it be fear masquerading as sadness? Fear that he’d be caught?
He’d been spending time with Lauren from the ill-fated wedding, after all. What if he was one of those serial monogamists, moving from one intense relationship to another? Or a love addict? Addicted to the first thrills of falling in love, which never lasted. Perhaps he’d been careless in the pursuit of the ultimate adrenaline rush, the burst of oxytocin. He had admitted to bumping into Eloise last night, but it wasn’t until Sol the chef spoke to the police that it came to light that he’d taken the meat for Edward to cook dinner for Eloise. Why had he lied about their interaction and tried to downplay it? It made him look so guilty. If he was the last person to see Eloise before she died, then of course he’d be a prime suspect. Especially if I now revealed that he was her estranged husband, furious that she’d followed him across the country.
My palms were clammy, and my heart beat furiously. I was still trying to resist the notion that Edward was a bad guy. I liked him a lot. He was friendly and kind. Or so I thought.
Surely by now I knew not to be ruled by emotion when it came to narrowing down suspects? It was always the people you least suspected would let you down that eventually did. That’s what made it burn so bad.
I had to know if Edward had been Eloise’s husband. I had to know if he had it in him to kill.
There was only way to find out without confronting him and putting myself in serious danger. With trembling hands, I redialed the number to Lester’s Bakery.
The phone rang for what seemed an inordinate amount of time. With each new ring, my heart moved another inch towards my throat. I both did and didn’t want an answer. I was about to hang up when the phone clicked.
“Hello, Lester’s Bakery.”
I swallowed. It was time to face the music—for real this time.
I let my British alias go and explained to poor Lester that I was, in fact, an American by the name of Poppy who’d met Eloise in the local inn and spoke with her at length about bread.
Lester was baffled—as well he might be.
“Okay, dear. I’m not quite sure that I’m following,” he said slowly.
I took a breath. “I was worried about revealing too much just now. You can never be too careful. It’s just that …” I took another breath. “Eloise, I mean Ella, well, she’s dead.”
Lester gasped. “Is this a joke? Some kind of sick, awful prank?”
“No. I would never joke about something this serious. She died yesterday in the kitchen at the pub under pretty suspicious circumstances. It looked like an accident, but I’m not so sure, and neither are the police. Not a single person knew she was married. And I’m worried that she caught up with her husband and he didn’t like it … maybe enough to do something about it … permanently.”
“I can’t believe it,” Lester said quickly. “Such a sweet girl. So happy. So in love. And an absolute blinder of a baker. What a loss.”
Sol and Darius’s comments about Eloise couldn’t have been further from Lester’s warm summation. They’d called her moody and difficult; Eve had said she’d kept herself to herself. If this was what being in love looked like, then I wanted nothing to do with it.
“It is a great loss,” I echoed. “Which is why we need to get to the bottom of this whole tragic affair. If foul play was at work, then we have to find the culprit.”
Lester was silent for a moment, obviously still in shock. I stared out of my window, watching the sun make its path across the deepening sky.
“What can I do?” he said, finally clearing his throat. “I’ll help in any way I can.”
“Who was her husband?”
“Wait, you don’t think—”
“It’s possible he really didn’t want her to find him.”
“I’d like to personally turf his cake,” Lester said.
I smiled. My instinct hadn’t been wrong about Lester. He was a good egg. If only I could say the same about Edward.
“I wish I could help you, but I never met the fellow. Another thing that made me suspicious. Saw some photos of their honeymoon. Good-looking chap.”
Right now I needed to make sure Ella and Eloise were indeed one and the same. “I was hoping you might have a photo of Ella? I need to make sure I’ve got this right and the woman I met as Eloise is definitely Ella.”
Lester agreed immediately and said he was sure he had one on his phone.
“If only I had one of her husband. If only I’d known.” He put me on speaker as he scoured his phone for photographs. In the background, I could hear the hubbub of the bakery, faint sounds of customers talking and the crinkling of brown paper bags.
“How could you?” I said, trying to make Lester realize that all of this stuff was so out of our hands. There was no sense in going through the what-ifs; it would only make you crazy. For my part, I was feeling increasingly guilty about falling asleep when I should have been downstairs meeting up with Eloise. If I had been the reason she was in the pantry all alone, it didn’t bear thinking about.
“I don’t suppose you know anything about Ella’s family?” I asked hopefully.
“No.” He sighed. “She didn’t really talk about her family. Said she’d moved around a lot. She seemed kind of lonely before she met this bloke. I suppose it made her a prime target to be taken advantage of. A lonely girl in a big city.”
I suddenly felt very emotional. Lester was right; you were more vulnerable without your family around you. I missed my parents terribly. And I was already missing my baking family from the show and my coven sisters from the village. The idea of not seeing them every single weekend was beginning to sink in.
But now was not the time to let my emotions get the better of me. I had to focus on uncovering the mystery of Ella’s death. Lester said he had to hang up to message me the photograph, so I gave him my number, and he promised to hit send as soon we hung up.
I put the phone down for a moment and stroked Gateau, who’d fallen fast asleep on more than her fair share of the chair. She rolled onto her back and offered me her belly for tickles. She mewed a little and stretched as I stroked her soft black fur.
Lester didn’t disappoint. A few moments later, my phone dinged. I snatched it from the bed and eagerly unlocked the screen. There was a message from an unknown number. “Is this her?” the message read.
I scrolled down, and there was a photograph of a young woman in a floury apron, holding a tray of what I assumed must be turf cakes, brown hair in a messy bun and a proud smile on her face. I breathed out. Both triumphant and ver
y sad.
The woman smiling at me was Eloise.
I replied immediately, confirming that it was the women I’d met. Lester replied a second later. Part of me was hoping you’d got the wrong lass.
Me too, Lester. Me too.
Now I had to get my hands on a photograph of Edward. If I could send it to Lester and have him confirm that he was Ella’s husband, then I’d be one step closer to finding out what really happened to Ella in the pantry, even if that meant discovering something terrible about my friend. Until then, I could hope that it wasn’t Edward.
It could have been any of the eligible men in Broomewode. Could the animosity between Eloise and the chef have actually been a marital spat? But no. Sol had mentioned a wife. Unless it was a bigamous wife. Now that would be inconvenient.
But why would he hire his ex and then kill her? It made no sense.
How about Darius? Although he and Florence were attached at the hip—it would be strange if Eloise’s husband was that blatant about being with another woman. I’d try to snap a furtive photo of them all and ping them back to Lester. The sooner I eliminated suspects, the better. I sent Lester a quick message to tell him my plan.
He texted back warning me that he’d only glimpsed the fellow in a photo. He wasn’t sure he’d recognize him.
Well, we had to try.
Phone still in hand, I raced downstairs to tell Hamish what I’d found out and begin my little photography project.
The pub was busier than when I left it. There was no food service, obviously, but it was still full. I suspected people had come to gossip about the murder and maybe have a ghoulish look at the place where Eloise had been killed. I couldn’t help but feel another pang of regret at having to leave this place.
There was a long queue at the bar. People round here must be thirsty for a cold pint of cider. But when I looked closely, I saw that poor Eve was on her own. There was no sign of Darius. Hmm. My first photo was going to be hard to snap.
I went over. “You okay?” I mouthed.