Baker's Coven

by Nancy Warren

  “Hopefully miles away in some baking paradise?”

  I cringed. Was that a joke? Maybe Jonathon should rehearse a few of those, too. I decided to save him from himself and launched into my explanation of the traditional Beltane May Day festival in England. I spun some well-rehearsed (that’s how you do it, Jonathon) lines about local produce and celebrating the changing seasons, and Jonathon nodded encouragingly.

  “That certainly is a unique take on the challenge, Poppy,” Arty said, crashing into our conversation. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a Beltane bonfire before. Great local knowledge for someone so young.”

  I swallowed hard. Patronizing much?

  “May Day was an important part of my childhood, actually. I grew up nearby, before leaving for the States with my family, and I have many happy memories of taking trips to Lacock to watch the maypole dance.”

  “A pole dance? Doesn’t sound very child-friendly,” Arty snickered and wandered off, evidently pleased with himself. Jonathon and I shared an eye roll, and then he, too, left so that I could finish this monster cake I’d embarked on. Maybe three separate sponge layers was a little over the top, but I’d started now, and I had to see it through. I couldn’t let myself down now, not after yesterday’s mega win.

  The marzipan took forever to roll out, but once the sponges were baked and cooled, I sandwiched them together with a layer of pale lemon buttercream and draped the marzipan over the top. Then I had to arrange the tiny figurines and erect the maypole in the center. I’d carefully cut thin strips of multicolored ribbon for the pole and began to weave them into the pole’s ring. They weren’t edible, of course, but they sure looked cute. At least a hundred times better than my icing Eiffel Towers. The next challenge was making the May flowers and painting them yellow with food dye.

  Before I knew it, Jilly was clanging the gong and time was up. Phew. I’d really worked in a daze for the last hour and was surprised to see a finished cake in front of me. But boy, was I pleased! It might have been ambitious, but it paid off. The maypole was a little wonky, but I thought the overall effect was charming. Now it just had to taste good. I said a small prayer to the sponge gods that my crumb would be perfect and the buttercream light but decadent.

  As each contestant lined up their cakes, I couldn’t see a single one that didn’t impress me. The competition was heating up. Evie, who we all knew was seriously struggling, had baked a stunning Christmas cake, decorated with sumptuous faux velvet fondant and a little manger.

  Gaurav had gone the whole hog with his Christmas cake, with an entire nativity scene on the top. Florence’s cake looked incredible. But it was Euan who really surprised me—for two reasons. Firstly, I’d totally forgotten that Euan was a beekeeper back in his native Wales. How this had eluded me with all the bad bee business going on this weekend, I didn’t know. His showstopper explored the ritual of The Order of the Bees, which happens at summer solstice. On top of his honey-colored cake was a beehive, honeycomb, flowers, and tiny, perfectly striped bees. It was a masterpiece.

  So when Elspeth crowned Euan the winner, no one was surprised—except for Euan. He was wearing a red lumberjack-style shirt, and his cheeks turned a shade to match. He even asked if they’d made a mistake.

  “It’s a wonderful cake, Euan,” Elspeth said. “You should be very proud.”

  Florence turned to me and whispered, “It’s the quiet ones you’ve got to watch out for. He came out of nowhere. We can’t afford to get complacent.”

  “I don’t know why you’re worried,” I said. “You came in second. Jonathon loved your cake. And I’m happy being third.”

  Florence lowered her voice to even more of a whisper, “You’re right. It’s Maggie who should be worried. She’s slipping down. And poor old Hamish hasn’t won a single round yet.”

  After the congratulations died down, the tent fell silent again as we waited for Elspeth to announce who was going home this week. Even though I’d baked my little heart out this weekend, I was still worried. Going home was so not an option for me. I had more to lose than anyone else here if I couldn’t continue my time at Broomewode Hall.

  But Jilly didn’t draw out our misery. “The person we’re going to be sending home today is a warm and wonderful human being, full of patience and heart. Unfortunately, the baking just wasn’t where it needed to be for this show, so this week we’ll be saying goodbye to Evie.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. But poor Evie. You could tell she really was an excellent baker, just not good under pressure. We crowded round her, showering her with hugs and praise.

  She wiped away a few tears with a tissue. “I’d just like to say I’ve learned so much. It’s felt like such a privilege to be in the tent. I really didn’t think I would cope very well with the cameras, so it’s kind of a miracle I made it this far! I’m proud of myself and want to thank everyone involved with the show for such an amazing experience.”

  The cameras stopped rolling, and we returned to our workstations to tidy the mess we’d made. I was bone-tired. But Euan’s win had piqued my curiosity about what had happened to Arnold Bentley. I needed to know more about his beekeeping. I finished my cleaning double quick and went to congratulate him.

  I told him how original his idea was and that I was fascinated by beekeeping. “Are you not afraid of getting stung?” I asked him. “Surely it must happen a lot if you’re working with them every day?”

  “Oh no, that almost never happens, and I’ve been keeping bees for decades. Bees are extremely docile creatures and only sting if they feel attacked.”

  I didn’t know how to reply. Without knowing it, Euan had confirmed my worst fears. Arnold Bentley was far too afraid of bees to do anything close to attacking them—someone else must have been involved in his death.

  Chapter 12

  I left the tent and stood for a moment in the fresh air, taking deep lungfuls and trying to gather my thoughts. The sun was moving across the horizon, but it was still light, and the grounds of Broomewode Hall looked orange and glowing. I wondered how DI Hembly and Sgt. Lane were getting on in their investigation.

  But there wasn’t much I could do to help the investigation now. Instead, I figured it was high time I continued with my detective work into my own past.

  I still had gooseberries for Katie Donegal. I’d take them up and see how her arm was healing. I knew she’d want all the details of Arnold Bentley’s death, and maybe while we were gossiping, she’d offer up a little more information about the mysterious Valerie, the kitchen helper who’d disappeared twenty-five years ago and never been seen since. The woman I thought might be my birth mother.

  I told Florence and the others I needed to stretch my legs for a bit and that I’d meet them back at the inn for an early supper before we all set off for our homes again.

  By now, the short walk over to the manor house felt as familiar to me as the journey from my cottage to the grocery store. I loved the spring flowers that spilled out of the garden beds as I approached Broomewode Hall. I was no longer afraid of the giant building. If anything, my determination to get inside and demand some answers was growing stronger all the time.

  To the left of the house, I saw a familiar figure in the garden. It was Benedict, dressed again in gardener’s clothes and fixing a fence that separated two parts of the garden from one another. I had no idea why it was that the Champneys could afford to employ a butler, yet their only son and heir ended up responsible for yard maintenance.

  “Hello there,” I called out.

  He raised his bent back and turned to look at me, shielding his eyes from the sun.

  “Aha, you again,” he said, smiling, his brown eyes crinkling at the corners. “You aren’t half attached to this place.”

  I gestured to his fence. “So are you.”

  “I don’t live here all the time. In case you were wondering.”

  “No judgment from me. I’m actually here to see how Katie is recovering and to bring her some of the gooseberries I
picked. I do hope she’s feeling better?”

  “Well, I think so. But Katie isn’t here.”

  My heart sank into my boots. Why, oh why was it so difficult pinning Katie down? She had a broken arm and should have been here resting in her quarters. It was like she knew when I was coming and hotfooted it out of Broomewode Hall.

  I must have looked dismayed because he said, “Mother gave her a holiday. She couldn’t manage with only one arm, and she kept getting in the way of the temporary cook who was covering her shifts, bossing her about in the kitchen. Too many cooks and all that…” He trailed off and shrugged.

  So Lady Frome had given Katie a holiday. Of course, it made sense since the woman couldn’t do her duties, but it couldn’t have come at a worse time for me.

  “Katie booked herself a flight to Ireland. She’s visiting her family and will recuperate over there.”

  “Oh,” I said, dismayed. “How long will she be there for?”

  “She’s not expected back for several weeks.”

  I was stunned. There went my brilliant plan of pumping Katie for information about Valerie. Now what?

  “Here are the gooseberries that I nearly got killed picking.” I knew I must have sounded a bit sulky, but I couldn’t contain my disappointment.

  “About that,” Benedict continued, “we’ve got the building surveyor coming tomorrow to look at that tower. If it’s not safe, it may have to come down.”

  “Oh, no,” I cried before I could stop myself. “It’s so beautiful. Surely it can be saved?”

  He made a face. “Romantic old wrecks cost a lot of money in upkeep.” He leaned on his spade and gazed out toward the old tower. “It was only checked a few months back. I can’t work out how a large chunk of stone could have fallen like that, right when you were picking fruit at its base.”

  When his eyes turned back to me, I felt that he was accusing me somehow. Like I’d knocked into the tower and made the stone topple.

  As he had done, I looked at the lonely tower. I wondered if he was telling the truth. Had the tower been sound only a few months ago? And if so, what did that mean? Could there have been intent behind that accident? Perhaps Arnold Bentley’s killer had believed it was him at the base of that tower. I heard again the whispered voice warning me of danger. Could that tumbling stone have been intended for me? It didn’t make any sense, any more than killing poor Arnold Bentley made sense.

  My mind began to whir. What if Arnold’s killer had been tracking the couple? Susan was at the farm when I went to the tower, collecting eggs. So then if the killer went to the tower, they might reasonably believe the figure at its base must be her husband. I’d been bent down picking fruit. And Sly was with me. It would have looked pretty compelling to someone from afar.

  But if all this was true—and it was still a stretch—who would want Arnold and Susan Bentley dead?

  Even more puzzling, who would want me dead?

  Benedict put his gardening gloves back on. The sun was beginning to set, and everything was cast in an orangey haze. The temperature was dropping, too, and I shivered in my top. I’d all but bashed into Benedict coming away from the farm on the day of the falling stone. Could he have toppled the stone? Who knew the place and its weaknesses better than he did? Was there something about me that threatened Benedict Champney? I was probably being hysterical, but that vision haunted me coming on top of my near-death experience. I really needed to find out more about that woman and the past. I touched the amethyst, hoping very much that the protective spell was full strength.

  “Will Susan have to move now her husband’s dead?”

  His brows rose at my question. I suppose it was nosy. “It’s just that I know your father was an acquaintance of Mr. Bentley before they moved here, and that’s how they ended up at the farm.”

  “Yes, that’s right. But we’re hardly going to throw Mrs. Bentley off the farm just because her husband’s gone. She can stay as long as she likes. Though I suspect she might not want to continue living in the place where her husband passed.”

  “That’s very kind of you. Especially as I also heard that your family lost a lot of money when Arnold Bentley’s firm went belly-up.”

  Benedict stiffened. I think I might have gone a bit too far with that last comment.

  “You sound like the police,” he said, his voice now rigid with enforced politeness. I thought he’d ignore me and go back to his gardening until I went away, but instead he turned back. “I’ve heard the rumors. But Bentley made sure my parents got out in time. They didn’t make any money with him, but they didn’t lose any either. Poor old Arnold had it much worse than us. And that’s why my parents gave him the farm for very low rent. My father, in particular, had a real fondness for the chap.”

  I handed over the gooseberries, though I had no idea who was going to make jam with Katie gone, and told him that I was going to head back to the inn to have an early dinner with the other bakers before we all left for the weekend. He didn’t look heartbroken to see me leave.

  As I walked back, I couldn’t stop wondering if Benedict was telling the truth. He certainly wasn’t a straightforward character. Charming and a little handsome, I supposed, but I didn’t doubt that he felt the need to protect his family’s reputation. I wondered if he’d told me the truth about the family finances. Perhaps he hoped I’d spread this new rumor and it would cancel out the other.

  But if I was to believe Benedict, then the Champneys certainly had no motive to murder Arnold. So who did?

  I stopped walking. Straight ahead was the inn—friends, a warm dining room, and a tasty meal. But if I turned right, then the path would take me to Broomewode Farm. And maybe some answers.

  Right it was.

  Chapter 13

  I took out my phone and texted Gaurav to see if he could use his super tech search skills to find a list of the people who lost their money when Arnold Bentley’s firm collapsed.

  A minute later my phone rang.

  “Poppy, where are you?” Gaurav asked, sounding concerned. “There’ll be thousands of people affected by the collapse of Bentley’s firm.”

  Oh. I hadn’t thought of that. I nibbled at my lip and thought. “Can we narrow it down geographically?” I asked. “Start with locals and work out from there.”

  There was silence on the end of the line.

  “What about lawsuits? I’m sure Susan said there’d been court battles. Can you get me information on that?”

  “Shouldn’t you be practicing for next week’s baking challenge and leaving the police work to the police?”

  He was right, but I felt compelled to understand what had happened. I’d been there when the man died. I wanted to help his widow get some answers as to why.

  When I reached Broomewode Farm, I couldn’t help giving a scared glance toward the tower that had nearly killed me. It looked lonely and lovely in the fading light. The fallen stone remained among the gooseberries, though, a grim reminder of my close call.

  I heard Sly before I saw him. A loud, happy woof, and then there he was, bounding toward me in the half light, a joyous bundle of black and white fur. I couldn’t stay morose when he was bounding around me, letting me know he was So Happy To See Me!

  “Hi, boy,” I said, bending down to stroke his nose. “It’s good to see my canine guardian angel again, that’s for sure.”

  He barked and nudged my ankles, herding me toward the house. It felt eerie being back here again, and I was worried that maybe the shady circumstances surrounding Arnold’s death meant he hadn’t passed over. Like my dear undeparted Gerry. I didn’t think I could handle another haunting on the grounds of Broomewode Hall. I kept on the alert, expecting to see Arnold’s ghost around every corner, but after a lap around the farmhouse, the coast was clear. Phew. I couldn’t imagine anything worse than communing with someone who’d died at the hands of their worst fear. Just the thought gave me the heebie-jeebies.

  There was police tape all around the beehives, but the fallen hiv
e had been put upright again, I was pleased to see. Bee-wise, the farm was back to normal.

  The farmhouse was dark except for one square window, which I recognized as the kitchen. I went to the side door and knocked. “Susan? It’s Poppy.”

  “It’s open,” a frail voice said.

  I took a deep breath and braced myself. I didn’t have much experience dealing with the recently bereaved. It was the other side of things that I was good at.

  I found Susan sitting at the kitchen table, dressed in jeans and an oversize cream sweater. Her short hair was sticking up in tufts. She didn’t look up as I came in, preoccupied by stacking some jars on the table.

  “I thought I’d come to check in with you,” I said softly. “See how you’re getting on. It was a surprise to see you last night. Sorry we didn’t get a chance to talk.”

  Susan finally looked up at me. Her skin was pale and creased with worry. Her eyes were bloodshot, with bluish circles beneath them, and the tip of her nose was red. She looked like she’d been crying all day. “That’s very kind. I could do with some company.”

  When I saw what was on the table, I was taken aback. Susan was arranging jars of honey into stacks and placing them into wooden crates. My expression must have given away how weirded out I felt, seeing her handling goods made by the very bees that killed her husband.

  She gestured at the table and shrugged. “I think I’m still in shock. I don’t know what to do with myself. I keep walking around this massive house aimlessly. What am I supposed to do without Arnold? It all feels so meaningless. So I decided to go ahead with the farmer’s market, which had been arranged for next weekend. That’s what all the honey is for—we have a stall booked. We usually sell out.” She trailed off.

  Sly went over to Susan and sat by her side, his big brown eyes watching her closely. When she reached out automatically to pat his head, his tail thumped the flagstone floor.