by A. Gardner
"He's here for the wedding," Marta says. "He works at Le Croissant."
"Well, maybe I should put this back." Catherine playfully sets down her pastry box. "I don't think my bakes can quite compare to the ones you're used to."
"Nonsense," Destin says. "I will try your oat muffin and a cinnamon bun."
"I assume you'll be wanting some of the scones I just pulled out of the oven, Marta?"
"Of course," Marta quickly answers.
"If you don't mind me asking"—Destin begins. He puts a hand on the counter and leans in closer to Catherine—"what was Marta like when she worked here? Was she just as grim as she is now?"
"Sorry," Marta butts in. "Destin here is under the impression that I'm part of a secret coven or something."
"Coven members don't rat out other coven members," Catherine jokes. "We haven't used the cauldron around here in years."
"Very funny." Destin shakes his head as Catherine prepares to-go jars filled with her strawberry jam and clotted cream. "At least tell me Marta's specialty."
"Her specialty?" Catherine glances at Marta, and Marta shrugs.
"Yes, what was her specialty here? She must have been halfway decent at something." Destin raises his eyebrows. Suddenly, I'm glad I haven't invited him back to Portland. He asks way too many questions, and my mom would probably try to convince him to propose at some point.
"For years I've told him to shut his gob, but it just doesn't work anymore," Marta explains.
"Besides my scones, there was one thing Marta was especially skilled at making," Catherine admits. "I doubt she even makes it anymore."
Marta twists her lips, eyeing Catherine as if she's attempting to read her mind.
"What is that?" Destin eagerly asks.
"Banoffee pie." Catherine nods. She studies Marta's reaction, pleased when a giant smile crosses Marta's face.
"I can't believe you remember that." Marta chuckles to herself. "You're right, Catherine. It's been years since I've bitten into a proper banoffee pie."
"What is this banoffee pie?" Destin wrinkles his nose.
"Only one of the best desserts to come out of England," Catherine responds.
"It's a pie made from banana, toffee, and lots of cream," Marta explains. "I made my crust with loads of biscuits."
"We always sold out of those," Catherine adds. "I only make them now around the holidays."
My mouth waters as Marta briefly explains how to make it. If the toffee and banana flavor combo tastes as good as Rose's toffee sauce, then I might have to nudge Marta into a late night baking session. I might as well learn something new while I'm here.
"Banoffee pie. Oui. Oui." Destin nods, satisfied with Catherine's insights into Marta's pre- pastry school years. "And tell me, Catherine—"
"That's enough information about me for one day," Marta interrupts him. "Let's just finish ordering. I can picture Chef Gautier now—drumming his fingers on Rose's bar, waiting for his morning caffeine."
"Speaking of which." I step forward. "I'll order the coffees."
"Yes, wouldn't want to arrive late to… Where is it we will be cooking?" Destin looks to Marta.
Marta and I link eyes for a brief second.
"Chutney Manor," Marta quietly answers.
Catherine clears her throat. A stern expression crosses her face, but it is replaced with her friendly customer-service grin in less than a second. She takes it as her cue to pack our order as fast as she can. Maisie prepares our coffees, and before we know it, there is a line out the door.
"Thank you for stopping by." Catherine doesn't even bother to look up when she says it. It's as if the mention of Chutney Manor put a sour taste in her mouth that will take her all day to get rid of.
"So friendly one minute…" Destin mentions as we walk back to the inn. "And so cold the next. I do not understand English women."
"I don't understand French men," Marta snidely remarks.
"Well, I don't understand either of you half the time," I add. "I guess we're all even."
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The manicured lawns of Chutney Manor are even more magical in the morning. Sunlight stretches through the trees and lights the house like it's a haven in the vast wilderness. Chutney Manor is enchanting. The multi-level home looks like it goes on for miles, and I'm sure there is an abundance of secret rooms and passageways hidden behind the walls. I hate that I love it so much.
Marta pulls up to the manor. The five of us barely fit in her car, but somehow we managed to make the journey without complaints. Jean Pierre gets out of the passenger's seat, and I'm more than happy to hop out of the backseat because Destin is a little too close for comfort. I glance at the front entrance, the lineup of classic cars on the front lawn a stain in my memory. Lord Chutney's car collection isn't out on display anymore, and I'm glad. Seeing that Rolls Royce again would make me cringe.
I stand in the same spot I did when Ethan Taylor introduced himself the night he died. I gulp as a breeze rushes across my back and gives me goose bumps. My eyes wander to the top story of Lord Chutney's castle. There must be a hundred rooms or more, and I have no idea where to begin searching or what I'm even looking for. I look at Marta. Her eyes are darting from window to window too.
She has to be as nervous as I am.
"Magnifique," Chef Gautier says as he approaches the front entrance. "Why did you not choose here to get married?"
"That's a long story, chef," Marta replies.
The front door opens before we have a chance to knock. The house staff are expecting us. A maid lets us in and escorts us all to the kitchen. We pass the main foyer with its grand staircase and crystal chandelier. The lounge looks just as it did the night of the dinner party, minus the scattered glasses of champagne and coffee, and I try to avoid making eye contact with the long, wooden table in the dining room.
"Here's the kitchen," Marta announces. The two of us are already familiar with the kitchen at Chutney Manor, but today is the first day I have the chance to really study it.
The room is large, and it reminds me a lot of the kitchen at Dovington Manor in Cornwall, where I first saw Jean Pierre's cake-work in person. Countertops and appliances line the walls, and a massive table sits in the center of the room. The kitchen it mostly white, and it has a view of the side gardens. Another smaller table sits in the corner. This is usually where the cook sits to have a meal or, in Jean Pierre's case, a strong cup of coffee.
"Let us go over our menu," Chef Gautier announces. Destin and Dandre join him at the center table.
Destin frowns at Marta.
"This doesn't concern you," he says.
"What do you mean? It's my wedding." Marta steps in like she normally does when she's working.
"Today, Marta, you are not my sous chef," Jean Pierre responds. "You are a bride."
"You're not going to let me see what's on the menu?" Marta asks, confused.
"It is a surprise." Dandre grins. His warm smile is hard to argue with.
"You know how I feel about surprises." Marta hesitates to leave the kitchen.
"Come on, Marta." I tilt my head toward the exit. "I'm sure dinner and dessert will be spectacular."
"You're right." Marta forces a smile. "Though, I do have just one request."
"Say your peace, and then get out," Destin says jokingly.
"No shellfish." Marta makes eye contact with every single one of them. "I'm serious."
"Okay, let's go," I urge her. "I'm sure whatever they prepare will be fully cooked and amazing. Let's get out of their hair."
I finally convince Marta to leave the kitchen, and as soon as I step back into the hallway, I know why she took her sweet time leaving. My stomach feels uneasy, and I purse my lips like I've tasted something sour. My chest goes tight as I scan my surroundings, wondering where to start.
"Well?" Marta whispers. "What now?"
"What now?" I say a little too loudly. "What do you mean what now? This was your idea."
"So I might have fo
rgotten how massive this house is." Marta looks up at the ceiling.
I take a deep breath and think back to the night of the dinner party. Music plays in my head, and I can hear the faint chatter of Lord Chutney bragging to Mr. Stevenson about his antique car collection. I open my eyes and find myself staring at the ceiling too.
"Lewis said Ethan's injuries were consistent with a fall," I say quietly.
"Right." Marta nods.
"That means he was upstairs," I clarify. "We start upstairs."
The two of us quietly tiptoe back to the grand staircase at the front of the house. The dark wood provides steps leading up the center, but it divides two separate ways before it reaches the second story. The first few steps creak, and Marta's eyes go wide. I wave at her to hurry along.
"Which way?" Marta whispers. The two of us have only seconds to choose.
"Um…" I weigh my options, trying to put myself in Ethan's shoes. It's not that easy since I barely knew him. Both staircases and both banisters on either side look the same. I veer toward the right. "Let's try this one."
Marta follows me into the right wing of the manor, which turns out to be hallway after hallway of dark corners and locked doors. My heart pounds every step of the way as I imagine how Ethan must have felt when he went exploring that night. Where did he go? What was he looking for? Where is the fall that killed him?
"This is going to take all day," Marta comments. She stops at a window overlooking the gardens out back and the greenhouse that houses many of the herbs and vegetables that are used in the kitchen. "We don't have all day. We have rehearsal at the chapel before lunch."
"Do I have to wear my bridesmaid dress?"
"Don't tell me you hate the dress too," Marta mutters. "Tamsin already gave me an earful about how it's tacky to make your bridesmaids look less attractive so that the bride shines in every picture. Apparently, it's a thing now."
"I like the dress," I respond. "It's just a pain to lug around a change of clothes. That's all." I stop and turn back toward the way we came. "Wait a minute."
"What?"
"Ethan was found in Lord Chutney's Rolls Royce, but that's not where he died," I begin.
"Go on." Marta listens eagerly.
"So he fell, and then someone carried him outside," I continue. "It would have been too much of a hassle to carry his body all the way through the house the night of a busy dinner party."
"What are you suggesting?" Marta glances up and down the hallway as if a random maid might jump out and catch us at any moment.
"I'm suggesting that Ethan fell closer to where he was found." I glance out the window in front of me, thinking about the layout of the gardens. "We need to search the area of the house that would have been closest to where Lord Chutney displayed his car collection."
"That would be the left wing toward the front," Marta says.
"The left wing it is." I wave at her to follow me as I wind back through the hallways we've already explored.
We come back to the middle of the manor where the grand staircase divides the house into two sections. The front windows have a picturesque view of the circular driveway out front. It stretches into a long, secluded road that leads back into Woodbury. I quietly walk toward the opposite end of the house, assuming we are close to where Ethan Taylor fell to his death. The left wing looks eerily similar to the right. I start down a long hallway at the front of the house. The walls house floor-to-ceiling windows that show off more of the front lawns.
"What's that?" Marta points to the end of the hallway. "The right wing didn't have one of those."
A door blocks us from exploring any further. I place my hand on the dark stained wood. It doesn't match the style of the other doors we passed. It looks too new. It looks as if it was put in recently. Why would Lord Chutney install a door blocking off the majority of the left wing?
"I don't know, but it looks new," I whisper.
"Okay, now I'm really starting to feel ill." Marta nervously looks over her shoulder.
"That means we're headed in the right direction. Unfortunately." I carefully examine the lock. There is no doorknob, only a latch that has been closed with a simple padlock requiring a small key. My eyes dart around the hallway for something heavy.
"What are you looking for?" Marta asks.
"Something to break the latch," I respond. "The screws holding it to the door are pretty small. One good hit would break it off."
"Poppy, that's vandalism," Marta scolds me.
"Do you want to see what's behind here or not?"
"Well…"
"We can always go back home and hope that your mother isn't dating a self-centered killer," I say. My cheeks go warm as the image of Ethan's body flashes through my mind. If the murderer really is Lord Chutney, and Lord Chutney is also responsible for bankrupting half the town, then that man deserves to be caught.
"Fine," Marta huffs. "For Mum." Her gaze drifts out the window as she thinks of a solution. "How about a sword?"
"Where are we going to find one of those, Marta?"
"The armor we passed in the opposite wing," she answers. "It was hanging on the wall."
"Good thinking."
"I'll retrieve it," Marta volunteers. She speed walks back down the hallway, and I pace back and forth, hoping that she makes it back soon. So far we've been lucky enough not to run into anyone. I wrinkle my nose, surprised that the entire second floor seems to be empty. Maybe the staff are focusing solely on preparing the main level for tomorrow?
Marta returns within minutes. She has a troubled look on her face, and she's carrying an antique sword in front of her like it's a ticking time bomb. I back away from her as she gets closer to me. Marta hands me the sword. I grab the handle and almost drop it, unprepared for how heavy it is.
"How did people fight with these things?" I mutter.
I hold the sword with both hands and position the blade over the latch and padlock. With all the force I can muster, I strike the door, and the latch comes loose. The weakened screws hold it in place, but bend in my favor.
"Hurry up," Marta says.
I strike the latch again, and this time it falls to the floor, taking the padlock with it. I smile, but the loud banging echoes down the hallway. My stomach churns as I think of the noise traveling downstairs and settling in the ears of a curious staff member. I hurriedly push the door open. We need to move fast.
"After you," I say quietly.
Marta takes a deep breath and steps through. I drag the sword along behind me and hide it behind the open door. The hallway continues like normal. The two of us walk, noting that nothing seems to be out place or suspicious. More windows show off the front lawns, and I glance down at the particular spots where Lord Chutney's antique cars sat the night of the murder. We are standing right above the area where Ethan Taylor was found.
The hallway comes to an end, and Marta and I turn a corner.
The two of us stop, absorbing the scene in front of us.
Marta places her hands on her hips. A look of confusion crosses her face, and she hesitates to keep moving. I rub my eyes and try to comprehend what I'm seeing. A cold chill runs down my spine as I stare at what appears to be an entirely different house. The wallpaper is peeling. The carpet is dusty and frayed, and there are outlines on the walls where artwork used to hang.
"What the…" Marta's voice trails off, and she cringes at the sight of a hole in the corner. It's so deep that you can see into the next room.
"Okay, I'm expecting a ghost to fly by any second now," I say out loud. "This place looks like a war zone."
The two of us cautiously walk down the hallway, observing more of the same. Crumbling walls. Ripped carpets. Missing artwork. Water-stained ceilings. Boarded-up windows facing the back gardens. I shake my head at the mess.
"I don't know what to say, except I hope the entire wing doesn't look this way." Marta stops when we reach another hole in a wall.
"I'm going to guess yes," I answer. "That would explain th
e random door in the hallway. The state of this side of the house is just embarrassing."
"That's just like Lord Chutney." Marta clenches her jaw. "He acts like he's royalty, yet he's letting our town's greatest historical landmark fall to pieces. Do you know how angry the villagers would be if they knew about this?"
"Angrier than they are already?" I guess.
"It's Lord Chutney's duty to preserve the fine history of our village." Marta scratches her head. "Do you think this is what Ethan Taylor discovered? Why would anyone kill him over it?" She takes a deep breath. "Unless his death really was an accident."
"No." My eyes wander to a corner up ahead and a stream of light painted across the wall. "If it was an accident, his body would not have been moved."
"True."
"Think about what this means, Marta," I go on. "This is more than just a renovation project. Why would Lord Chutney board up the left wing of his manor and let it fall apart like this?"
"He's an arse just like everyone in the village says," Marta answers.
"Maybe he can't afford the upkeep?" I suggest. "What if Lord Chutney is broke? The state of this place would be sufficient proof of that."
"But his car collection, and—"
"All for show, I'm sure," I interrupt. The light dancing across the wall ahead lures me, and I continue walking. I glance around the corner, and my chest goes tight.
I'm face-to-face with a narrow staircase. It drops down all the way to the main level, and a door meant to blend in with the wall sits at the foot of it. A small window lets the light from outside shine through.
"Stairs," Marta says to herself.
"What do you want to bet that door at the bottom is pretty close to where Lord Chutney's Rolls Royce was parked the night of the dinner party?"
"Mystery solved." Marta sighs. "Though it still doesn't prove that Lord Chutney was the one who pushed Ethan and then dragged him outside."
"No, but it does prove one thing."
"What's that?" Marta asks.
"Tamsin is onto something after all."
CHAPTER SIXTEEN