The Great Witches Baking Show

by Nancy Warren

  I wanted to get closer to show him I wasn’t a threat, but I supposed that moving closer to a man armed with what looked like a very sharp sword was probably a stupid idea. “Who were you? In life?” I asked him.

  Now an expression of alarm crossed his face. “Is there someone I should call? Someone who looks after you?” He spoke slowly as though I might have trouble understanding his words.

  Before I could assure him that in my era it was perfectly all right for a woman to walk out alone without a servant following her, a female voice called, “Benedict?”

  The man with the sword shook his head. “Surrounded by madwomen,” he said softly to himself.

  The voice came again, like a mother calling her recalcitrant child. “Benedict Arthur Champney. Do not make me call you again.”

  Somehow, I knew that this woman was very much alive, and I had no interest in being told by a real living person that I was trespassing, so I quickly slipped back into the woods until I was hidden from sight. By peering through the leaves of the tree I was hiding behind, I saw a woman wearing jeans and an expensive-looking cashmere sweater, her blond and silver hair in a sloppy up-do. The woman looked to be about sixty, attractive, and very regal. I recognized her immediately from the TV program. She was Evelyn Champney, Lady Frome. She walked right up to the ghost. “Benedict. You will be the death of me. Please, let’s get this over with.”

  A horrible feeling crept over me. Was it possible that that man wasn’t a ghost? But then why was he in those strange clothes? He must be. Which meant that Lady Frome shared my gift.

  It was a mystery but one I couldn’t solve now. We’d been told in no uncertain terms never to wander off onto the family’s part of the property. It was strictly off-limits. I had no idea what the punishment would be if I was found trespassing, and frankly, I didn’t want to find out.

  I headed back down the path thinking that somehow I had to get past those two gatekeepers and find my way into Broomewode Hall. I’d been so tantalizingly close and been turned away by both the living and the dead. I’d gone through too much to give up now. I was determined to get inside the manor house and snoop. But how?

  Chapter 4

  Back at the tent, everybody was too preoccupied with getting ready for the next round to notice I’d slipped away. I hurried over to my own worktable and frantically got my ingredients in order. My stomach was gurgling, and I realized that I’d barely eaten lunch, but there was no time for food now. We’d come to the final challenge of today’s filming. Tomorrow, we’d get up and put on the same clothes (ugh) for the final showstopper challenge so it would look to the home viewer as though we’d done all three challenges in one day.

  I wasn’t nervous anymore because I was too tired to be nervous. This was going to be the make or break it round, and we all knew it. The cameramen were poised and ready. Gordon came over and re-mic’d me. “You had me worried that you wouldn’t make it back in time,” he said, as he made sure my pack was working and invisible.

  “Sorry, I just needed some air.”

  “You’re all right. Just don’t cut it quite so close next time.” He gave me a thumbs-up. I smiled and took a deep breath as the judges and comedians swept into the tent.

  Once cameras were rolling, Fiona gave Elspeth Peach her cue. “Bakers, you must be exhausted from your sponge-making this morning. But it’s time now for your next challenge. It’s a dessert I’m quite famous for, in fact.” Even though I’d known this was coming, the now familiar wave of worry rippled through my body.

  “We’d like you to make a tarte au citron. Every serious baker must master this classic, but it’s certainly not as simple as it looks. We’ll be judging your tarts by how well you balance the tangy lemon with its creamy counterpart and encase it in a rich butter pastry. Zingy and zesty is the name of the game. Best of luck to you all.”

  Arty and Jilly did a bit where Arty said, “You know what they say about life handing you lemons?”

  Jilly put out her hands. “Make tarte au citron.”

  “Just what I was going to say.” He smirked to the camera, and then he turned to us. “Bakers. On your marks, get set, bake!”

  I swallowed hard and tried to smile in case one of the six cameras was on me. I’d watched plenty of episodes in preparation, and the first day was always the time when everything that could go wrong would. I didn’t quite know the oven yet or the personality of the food processor. The whisks, knives and spatulas, all the bits and pieces that become part of your baking life, were all still a mystery. The only comfort I could take was that everyone else was in the same boat.

  At least we’d had a chance to think about the tart challenge and practice. But it was tricky because the more carefully you combined your ingredients, the greater the risk of running out of time. I also still didn’t know exactly how stiff my competition was. I knew Maggie was up there with the best. But who had it in them to thrive under pressure? Who was the dark horse of the show? All I could imagine was that this first week, everyone was out to impress the judges and win the hearts of those watching at home.

  I began combining my flour and butter in a large glass bowl, then, using my fingers, gently rubbing the mixture until it resembled fine breadcrumbs. And then to my surprise, I saw Gerry slipping away to the toilet. I don’t know how he thought he had time for the bathroom! I couldn’t imagine even losing thirty seconds. Maybe nerves had gotten the better of him. But in fact, compared to the quiet terror all us contestants seem to be suffering with in the morning, this afternoon everyone was moving about the tent much more, talking to each other, even joking a bit with the comedian presenters. I guess we were getting into our groove.

  I weighed out my sugar and added it to the mix, slowly introducing the eggs and water to make a dough. I was engrossed in rolling it out into pastry when I heard an enormous clatter. Marcus Hoare had walked past Gerry’s station and knocked a mixing bowl over. “Whoops,” he said, in a kind of fake horror tone that made me wonder if he’d done it on purpose. Gerry had weighed out his ingredients but hadn’t yet mixed them, so Marcus frantically scooped the sugar back into the bowl.

  The cameras caught the entire incident, but I doubted it’d end up broadcast. Florence caught my eye and then rolled hers in an exaggerated fashion. I laughed and turned back to my tart and began grating lemons. Their citric tang filled my nose and lifted my spirits. I followed the recipe I’d practiced so much I knew it by heart.

  The rest of the meager ninety minutes went by in a blur. I went through the motions, trying to forget about the cameras, the strange sword-wielding ghost patrolling the grounds of Broomewode Hall, and my burning desire to get inside that building. I’d just finished decorating the pie with some candied lemon slices when I heard the dreaded clanger.

  “Time’s up, bakers,” Jilly announced.

  For the second time that day, I breathed a huge sigh of relief and plated up my tart, ready to take it to the judge’s table. I’d tasted the filling, and if I said so myself, it was delicious.

  “Now you all know that my dear Elspeth is famous for her delicious tarte au citron, so this is a tricky challenge, to say the least,” Jonathon said. He regarded the table. “But it looks like we have a terrific array of tarts. I’m already salivating.” He grinned. “This is going be a tough call, I know it.”

  I looked around, and all the contestants were smiling, trying not to look too hopeful. I was glad to see that Gerry was smiling too. I hoped he’d done well enough this time to discount the morning’s earlier disaster. At this point, there was no telling what could happen.

  One by one, the judges tasted the tarts. I don’t know how they managed it—I’d be full to bursting after all that sponge, too. They praised three in a row before they got to mine.

  “Now this, this is really something, Poppy,” Elspeth said.

  It took all of my willpower not to jump up and down on the spot with joy.

  “I agree,” said Jonathon. “An excellent marriage of zing and cream
. Well done.”

  I was in such a thrilled daze that I almost missed what came next, but my ears pricked up when I heard a cry of distress. Elspeth’s mouth was screwed up. “Oh dear, Gerry. I think you must have mistaken the salt for sugar. And your tarte looks so pretty, too. What a pity.”

  “How could that be?” he cried. “I measured out all the ingredients myself, and I brought a special sugar imported from France.”

  The production manager made a cutting motion to the camera trained on Gerry.

  “I’m sorry, Gerry,” Elspeth said softy. “Come here and try for yourself.” She offered him a fresh fork.

  Gerry crossed over to the judges’ table and cut into his tart. When he swallowed, he grimaced. His face went ruddy. “I don’t understand it. I just don’t understand.” He shook his head from side to side as if he were trying to shake water from his ear.

  “Why don’t you take five,” the production manager gently suggested. “Get some air.”

  Gerry looked like he might argue but then turned and stalked out. If it hadn’t been that judging wasn’t over, I’d have followed. “Carry on filming,” the production manager said to the cameras. The show had to go on.

  Florence’s tart won the round. She’d glazed the surface, generously dusted it with icing sugar and then, with a blowtorch, caramelized the sugar. She then decorated it in true French patisserie style, piping “citron” in melted dark chocolate. I was impressed! Florence bowed theatrically before the judges before curtseying at the camera. She was so good at being the center of attention. I envied her. I came third, after Florence and Evie. I couldn’t believe I was in the top three.

  “And that’s a wrap for today,” the production manager called out. “Well done, everyone. Bakers, clear your workstations and then get yourself to the pub!”

  Filming had finally finished. The crew high-fived each other. I returned to my station.

  I was shattered. Looking around me, the other bakers clearly felt the same way. Gina rushed over to me. She’d been behind the scenes all day, and I was relieved to finally see her.

  “Poppy!” she exclaimed. “You were amazing. Dad’s going to take all the credit, you know, for teaching you how to bake.”

  I pulled her close and gave her a bear hug, inhaling the familiar scent of her rose perfume, a welcome change from flour and lemon. “Boy, am I glad to see you. That was an intense day.”

  “I’m so proud of you, Pops. You’re going to make it all the way. I feel it in my bones.”

  “Will you come have dinner at the inn? I’ve got loads to tell you.”

  “Oh, Pops, I wish I could, but I have to rush back now to babysit Reggie.”

  Reggie was Gina’s nephew and the sweetest little boy alive. “Okay, I can’t keep you from that little cherub, but tomorrow you’re mine.”

  She kissed my cheeks. “Make sure you get plenty of rest tonight. Don’t stay in the pub drinking with the other contestants. I’ve seen many a good baker on this show suffer with a sore head when they should have been at their best and brightest.”

  “Duly noted.”

  My heart sank a little as she dashed off. I really needed my best friend to help me get through this. All the contestants were being put up in a local inn that was only a ten-minute walk down a country lane. It was owned by the Champney family that owned Broomewode Hall. My feet hurt, my brain hurt, and in about fourteen hours, we had to do this all over again. I didn’t know how I’d manage.

  After baking all day, I didn’t even want food, but I knew I had to keep up my strength. My plan was to lie down for half an hour and then go down to the pub restaurant for dinner. Outside, the air was crisp, and the last of the day’s sun shone on my face. I took a few deep breaths and tried to gather my thoughts before facing the rest of the contestants.

  As the group walked the short distance, Gerry caught up to me. He was clutching a small plastic package. “Sabotage,” he said, thrusting the package into my hands. It was the remains of a packet of sugar.

  “What?”

  “It’s sabotage. Someone’s out to get me. Here’s the sugar I used. I didn’t have salt anywhere near me when I measured out the sugar. And I’ll tell you another thing. That oven is faulty. I don’t care what that two-bit electrician said.”

  I doubted there was anything wrong with his oven, but I understood the impulse to blame the equipment. It was better than believing you were the worst baker on the show. “Oh, Gerry. It’s just unlucky. We all make silly mistakes when we’re under pressure. Tomorrow will be different, I know it.”

  He skipped over a muddy puddle on the path. “I’m serious. I’m going to get to the bottom of this. The electrician has invited some of the lads to play poker tonight at one of the cameramen’s houses. I’m going to go and suss everyone out. Detective style. Want to join me? It’s supposed to be all boys, but we could make an exception? Give me your best poker face.”

  “I’m incapable of one, and you already know it. I’ll pass.”

  “You sure? I could do with someone on my side.”

  I caught a waft of expensive-smelling perfume and felt a warm arm slip around my shoulders. Florence. “Poppy’s coming with us,” she said to Gerry. “Aren’t you, Poppy? She doesn’t want to play silly boy games.” She linked her arm in mine.

  I laughed. “Why don’t you join us,” I said to Gerry.

  He shook his head. “I’ve been in a temper. Focusing on cards will help. So will winning. Maybe see you for a nightcap—on me, if I win big, that is.” He gave a sharklike grin. “I’m a very good poker player.”

  Chapter 5

  The group seemed to split evenly into two when we got back to the hotel. Half went straight to the pub, and the other half went to their rooms. I followed Florence to the bar and thanked her as she insisted on getting the first round of gin and tonics and a packet of potato chips, or crisps as they called them over here.

  We joined the others sitting on the soft red banquettes that lined the wall of the pub. Long-stemmed red candles flickered in empty wine bottles. The wooden tables were stained a deep mahogany. Hunting prints hung on the walls. Even though it was April and warm out, inside was as cozy as Christmas. The room smelled of roasted meat, and I looked forward to finally eating a proper plate of food. I was ravenous.

  Florence clinked my glass. “Bottoms up, darling,” she said, smiling. “Day one: done.”

  I took a long gulp. “Your sponge looked amazing this morning,” I told Florence. “I never would have thought to do Jack and the Beanstalk with tonka beans. So inventive. I was jealous.”

  She laughed. “Your myth scene was a masterpiece. I see the competition is going to be really tough.” She gestured at the rest of the table. Three contestants I hadn’t much of a chance to talk to yet were deep in conversation about the merits of polenta cakes. I remembered their names as Gaurav, Amara, and Daniel.

  Florence lowered her voice to a whisper. “I feel simply terrible for Gerry. How unlucky to have his cake undercooked and then use salt instead of sugar. You’d think someone who renovated houses would have better control over appliances, wouldn’t you?”

  “I know what you mean,” I agreed, taking another long sip of my drink. “He’s convinced something was wrong with his oven.”

  “How very male of him,” she drawled, making a sweep in the air with her polished red nails and rolling her eyes.

  We got through the crisps so quickly, I went to the bar for another pack. The woman behind the bar looked at me intently for a moment, tilting her head and squinting slightly, before smiling at me. She had kind gray eyes and pale blond hair pulled into a long braid that lay over her left shoulder.

  “Do I know you?” she asked.

  “I don’t think so. It’s my first time here.”

  “And you’re American. Never mind. One of the lucky bakers, I take it? Well done for making it through the first day.”

  “Thank you. I can hardly believe it.”

  She took the money from
my hands and handed me the packet. “Strange,” she said, a quizzical look on her face. “You look so familiar. It’s like I’m seeing a ghost I can’t name.”

  I knew that feeling. Still, maybe I looked familiar for a different reason. A surge of hope raced through me. Could she know my birth mother? “Actually, I might once have had some family living around here. About twenty-five years ago? Maybe you’d know if they’re still here?”

  “Perhaps that’s it. What were their names?”

  Well, I hadn’t thought that through very well, had I? I mumbled something about it being a cousin who’d married and I couldn’t remember her last name. I must have sounded like a featherbrain.

  She shook her head, obviously unable to recall who I reminded her of. This was the first lead I’d had since the behind-the-scenes documentary at Broomewode Hall, and so I said I thought my relative had been connected with the hall.

  “If there’s anyone around here who might remember, it’s the cook at Broomewode Hall. She’s been working there for over thirty years, and she makes it her business to know everyone else’s, if you know what I mean. Katie Donegal’s her name. I’m Eve, by the way.”

  She offered me her hand, and I shook it vigorously. “I’m Poppy. Thank you, thank you,” I said. “That’s so helpful. Do you think maybe I could visit her?”

  “Don’t see why not. She loves a natter and she adores the show. I’m sure she’d be happy to do a favor for a baker. If you like, I’ll get a message to her and see if you can visit in the morning, before filming? If you can bear to get up that early!”

  I was definitely not a morning person, but there was no way I’d let this opportunity escape me. “Absolutely. See if she’d mind just having a cup of tea or coffee?”

  “Consider it done. I’ll get a message to your room later, pet.”

  I beamed at Eve. Finally, I had a way into Broomewode Hall that didn’t involve trying to creep past that strange guard. I was one step closer to finding out more about that blanket and hopefully where I came from.