by Nancy Warren
Luckily, Florence was back on screen so her attention was diverted back to the rushes.
The three of us settled in to watch. When I came on the screen, I cringed. There wasn’t any sound yet, and this made it all the more bizarre. Everything about my face was so large. My cheeks were too pink, and I recognized my panicked look, my eyes darting from bowl to mixer. Jilly had obviously just cracked a joke, and I broke into the fake smile I’d practiced.
I was amazed at how much footage there was and began to admire the editing team who’d have to pull all the pieces together to make one episode.
There was Maggie, putting on her glasses to check the recipe. Gaurav, gesturing as he explained something to Jonathon. Marcus Hoare walking the short distance to the ovens to check on his sponge.
There was Evie dumping her first batter in the bin. That was painful, but worst of all was watching Gerry, so cheeky and full of banter, as he joked with Arty and Jilly. And there he was again, taking his sponge out of the oven. First in proud anticipation and then increasing horror as he realized it hadn’t baked properly.
If he was going to die, I so wished he’d had a good first episode so at least his final hours would have been happier.
The rushes continued, but I felt weird and twitchy. Something was bothering me, like a name on the tip of my tongue, an elusive memory. But what was it?
Since six cameras caught bakers at different times, everything was out of sequence. Here I was taking my tart out of the oven. At least it wasn’t obvious how tight I was gripping that tin. I turned to ask Hamish and Florence if they were as terrified of dropping the goods as I was, but they were deep in conversation about the proper way to make a panettone.
I turned back in time to see Marcus take his tart out of the oven. And then I felt like someone had stuck a pin in me, that’s how sharp the shock was. “Wait,” I said aloud. “That’s a different oven.”
I looked around the room to see who else had spotted it. Donald was yelling into his phone. Elspeth was talking quietly to Jonathon. Hamish and Florence were still nattering on about the Italian Christmas bread, and everyone else must have gone to bed except Marcus Hoare. He was staring directly at me. I’d never seen a person look more afraid. Or more caught out.
“What were you doing at Gerry’s oven earlier, Marcus?” My tone must have been tense enough that the two beside me stopped to stare.
“Nothing,” Marcus said. “You’re overtired, Poppy. You should go to bed.”
Oh, yeah, patronizing me in that snooty way was a really good idea right now. Even Donald had ended his call and was listening. “Didn’t anyone else see it? Earlier in the rushes, Marcus is checking his sponge in an oven, only it’s not his oven. It’s Gerry’s.”
With everyone staring at him and knowing all we had to do was rerun the tapes to prove I was right, Marcus did his best to look unconcerned. He shrugged awkwardly, nearly strangling himself on his buttoned collar. “So I checked on the competition. That’s no crime. I probably peered in your oven, too.”
Beside me, Hamish said, “No. But if you also sabotaged another contestant, one who was later murdered, that is a very serious crime.” I was so glad Hamish was sitting here beside me, solid and tough. “Donald, let’s play those rushes again. Poppy, tell the police what you’ve told us. They should see this footage, too.” He turned to me and said, “Well done, Poppy.” I felt like an honorary copper.
“This is ridiculous. I’m not sitting around here to be insulted,” Marcus said, getting to his feet and moving toward the door.
I stood too. I was not going to let Marcus leave. Behind me, I heard mumbling coming from Elspeth. I couldn’t catch the words, but I felt as though a streak of power went past and through me. Marcus went to open the door, but it wouldn’t budge. He tried again, throwing his weight against it. The old oak door could have been in its original tree form for all the budging it did.
Suddenly, it opened from the other side, and Marcus fell into Sergeant Lane’s arms.
“Hold that man,” Hamish said, and Lane obliged, looking at us all curiously. Rapidly, Hamish related what I’d seen.
Marcus stopped struggling and stepped back, trying to sound cool. He didn’t succeed very well. His voice was high and jumpy. “I didn’t kill anyone. I’ve got nothing to hide.”
It didn’t take long for Donald to replay the relevant footage. “See?” I said, there’s Marcus checking an oven, but that’s not his oven. It’s Gerry’s.” As I watched the sequence for the second time, I caught what I’d missed earlier. “And, look, he’s changing the temperature.”
“You’re certain that’s not his oven?” the inspector spoke to me, but Donald answered. He sounded livid. “No. Poppy’s correct. That’s Gerry’s oven. So he was right all along. He was being sabotaged.”
“Right,” DI Hembly said, walking toward Marcus. “We’ll continue this down at the station.” He placed a firm hand on his back and walked him out of the room. At the door, Marcus paused and turned. The loathing in his eyes turned my blood cold. I’d made an enemy—and even worse, it was a potential murderer.
Chapter 11
The following morning, I awoke to find Gateau gone. I’d left the window ajar, and she hadn’t stayed the night. I felt a pang of sadness, but I was sure that she’d be back soon. It had taken me a long time to fall asleep. I’d tossed and turned, tangled in the inn’s soft sheets, but nothing was comfortable. I was haunted by Marcus’s chilling look, the way hatred had emanated from his entire being.
I roused my groggy body and considered the events of the previous evening. When the police had taken Marcus to the station, the relaxed mood of the dining room soured. No one knew what to say and quickly returned to their rooms. That someone involved in the show might be responsible for Gerry’s death was a terrible shock for us all. And despite Marcus being down at the station, the atmosphere was one of quiet fear. Florence and I hugged and promised each other that we’d have each other’s backs since our rooms were directly across the hallway from each other. However, nothing had disturbed me all night but Gateau making herself comfortable on my bed and my own dark thoughts.
I pulled the thick red curtain aside and let the morning light filter into the room. It had rained overnight, and the breeze carried the scent of dewy grass. From here, I could just glimpse Broomewode Hall, its golden stone glinting in the early sun. A carpet of crocuses were in bloom, vividly purple. The grounds of Broomewode Hall were refreshed and unchanged. It was unsettling, as if yesterday’s terrible tragedy had never happened. How I wished that were true. I knew that even if the police let us, I couldn’t go home today. There were now two mysteries that I would not let go unsolved: Gerry’s death and the identity of the enigmatic Valerie.
Since I was sure the police had the best suspect in custody, I could focus on my personal detective project. I’d go back to the manor house—and this time, I wouldn’t be fobbed off at the staff entrance. I’d go straight to the front door. If yesterday had taught me anything, it was that life was precious and things could change in an instant. I had no time to waste. I was going to have to become my bravest self and find a way into that building, come hell or high water.
I dressed in the only skirt I’d brought with me. It was black, and with it I wore a blue-green camisole and a cream-colored linen shirt that was a favorite, which I wore open like a jacket. I put a bit more effort than usual into my hair and makeup and was just slipping on my shoes when there was a knock at the door.
No. Not now, Florence, I said to myself. I’d have to tell her to go away. But as I grew closer to the door, I knew it wasn’t Florence. I felt calm and glad as I opened it.
Elspeth was standing outside. “May I come in?” she whispered.
Surprised at the secrecy, I nodded and stepped back. She shut the door behind her. “Jonathon and I aren’t supposed to get too friendly with the contestants, but we won’t talk about the competition. That’s not why I’m here.”
“All right.” I
wondered why she was standing in my room at eight o’clock in the morning. She was dressed much more casually than usual, in jeans and a T-shirt, with a long cardigan overtop. She’d left her hair long. She looked like someone’s very cool grandma. I wished she were mine.
She smiled her kindly smile at me and said, “I’ve brought you something.”
I hoped it was one of her famous scones or any kind of baked good. I was hungry. I didn’t smell anything appetizing, though, and when she reached into the bag she’d brought, it wasn’t baking she brought out but jewelry. I stared. There was a purple stone that I thought was amethyst on a silver chain in her palm. I looked up at her, a question in my eyes.
“It’s for protection, dear.”
Seeing my continued puzzlement, she said, “Oh, this is awkward, isn’t it?”
I didn’t want to be rude, but yes, it was, and getting more so by the second. Elspeth took a breath and closed her eyes for a second, then opened them and said, “Did your mother never talk to you about your special abilities?”
I’m sure my mouth dropped wide open. “You know about that?”
How could she know about the ghosts? I’d been so careful. She smiled. “I recognized you right away. We sisters often do, you know.”
“Sisters?”
“Sisters, mothers, aunts. Some of us are men, but not so many.”
I wasn’t going to come right out and say I saw dead people in case this was some kind of test, so I just looked at her. She said again, “Your mother. Didn’t she teach you our ways?”
“I never knew my mother.”
“Ah, that explains so much.” She came deeper into the room and gestured to a pair of armchairs. “Shall we sit?”
I nodded, and we settled. Even though I was anxious to get to Broomewode Hall, I was too curious not to give Elspeth my full attention. She set the pretty necklace on the table, where it winked in the light. “Poppy, have you had odd experiences you couldn’t explain? Especially around water?”
I told her about the vision I’d had in the bathtub, where I’d seen the ace of spades dripping blood. “But it was probably fatigue.”
She shook her head. “That was the night of the poker game, wasn’t it? You foresaw that it was a cutthroat game. Perhaps the blood was a hint that violence was coming.”
This was terrible news. “You mean I predicted a murder and then didn’t stop it?” I didn’t know who was crazier, me or Elspeth.
“No, no,” she said quickly. “You couldn’t have prevented it, but you felt trouble was coming. And are there things that happen you can’t explain?”
Well, if we were two crazy women talking, I might as well tell all. “I see ghosts.”
“Really?” As though I was telling her I preferred a marble rolling pin to a wooden one. “And you have no female relatives who share your gift?”
“Gift?” I felt my lip curl. “It’s a curse. And I was left in a box on a baker’s doorstep when I was a couple of days old. Any gifted relatives I have, don’t seem to have come calling in the last twenty-five years.”
“Oh, my poor dear. No wonder you’re confused. Well, you’ve been given great gifts. You simply don’t understand how to use them.”
“Are you saying there are other people like me?” I wasn’t sure if this was good news or the worst ever.
“Oh, yes. We all have different talents, of course, but my dear girl, I believe you are a witch.”
I snorted with laughter. Right in Elspeth Peach’s face. I didn’t mean to, it just came out. “A witch?” I snorted again, but she wasn’t laughing along.
She looked perfectly serious and waited until I’d finished my outburst before saying, “It’s a great deal to take in, I know. You helped me last night, though, when I shut that dreadful man in the room.”
My eyes opened wide. “The door that wouldn’t open? That was you?” I’d heard strange mumbling coming from her. I remembered now.
“It wasn’t only me, Poppy. It was you, as well. I could feel your power as well as my own.” I didn’t want to agree, but I thought I knew what she meant.
“I felt like there was a wave of energy and I was part of it. I remember wanting that door to stay closed so Marcus couldn’t escape.”
“Exactly. We’re more powerful when we work together. That’s why we have covens.”
“Covens,” I said faintly. This was more like a fairy tale than a reality show. Or had I drifted onto the wrong set? Instead of featuring on The Great British Baking Contest, I was starring in Surprise! You’re a Witch. That would actually be a show I’d like to watch. Not appear on.
She lifted the necklace. “I’ve put a strong protection spell on this stone and, as you may know, amethyst is already a protective crystal. Also, it’s associated with water. Very good for a water witch.”
“I’m a water witch?” Now I even had a specialty.
“I believe so.”
“And you?” I was having a hard time taking in that the great Elspeth Peach was a witch.
She chuckled. “I’m an air witch.” She rose and fastened the necklace for me. As it settled over my heart, I felt calmer. “Try not to take it off.”
I put my hand over it. “Protection. Do you think I’m in danger?”
“Until Gerry’s killer is apprehended, I think we should all be extra careful.” She lifted her wrist, and I saw a cluster of stones in a bracelet. “I’ll do my best to keep everyone safe, but I’m hoping you can help me.”
“Me? I’ve known I was a witch for less than five minutes. What can I do?”
“Listen to your natural instincts. Settle your mind, and don’t ignore your intuitions. You found Marcus out, didn’t you?”
I was going to say that was just dumb luck, but I remembered how twitchy I’d felt when watching the rushes. I had found him out. “But any good detective would have done the same. It was a question of looking.”
She smiled at me but didn’t argue. “All I ask is that you stay open. And welcome, little sister.” She rose and headed for the door. Then she turned. “Blessed be.”
When she left, I ran to look in the mirror. I wanted to admire the necklace but also look at my own face and see if I looked any different.
The mirror reflected back the same face as always. The necklace was beautiful and looked perfectly ordinary. Whatever power it had was invisible. Still, I was glad to have it, and the walk to Broomewode Hall would give me a chance to go back over our conversation.
Was I really a witch? It would explain how I’d always felt out of place. Even more curious, she’d kept mentioning my mother. Could my real mom have been a witch too? Would I ever learn who she was and why she’d given me away?
Once more, I felt that answers lay at Broomewode Hall.
I’d watched the episode of the baking show where I’d seen the oil painting hanging countless times. I knew every inch of that dining room as well as the poor maid who had to clean it. The enormous bay windows, framed by heavy tapestried curtains woven through with gold. Cream wallpapered walls reaching up to the paneled ceilings, bordered in a deep red runner. The ancient-looking long dining table, in rich mahogany with matching sideboards and display cabinets. The damask-upholstered chairs ready and waiting for the next gala dinner. And then the painting itself. A grand woman, maybe in her early forties, sitting in a large, wicker-backed chair, a woolen shawl draped over her slim shoulders, its pattern the exact match of my baby blanket.
If the police who’d investigated the strange circumstances of my appearance at the bakery, tucked as I was inside the apple box with nothing but that blanket, were right, then the shawl and my blanket had been knitted by hand. Whoever had done that knitting might know something about my mother. And the woman who’d worn it? I wondered if she were still alive. I hoped I’d soon have some answers.
Outside, the air was warmer than I’d expected, a light breeze rustling through the leaves of the whitebeam trees. The tulips and daffodils were magnificent as they tumbled out of their well
-manicured flowerbeds, and my lungs filled with crisp, clean air. I’d grabbed an apple from the bowl in the hall so I could avoid seeing anyone at breakfast, though I guessed everybody was exhausted from last night and sleeping in. Strangely, though, I didn’t feel tired. In fact, it was as though caffeine was coursing through my veins that morning. I set off for the manor house with gusto, more determined than I think I’d ever been in my life—including when I had to practice making puff pastry for the show. Lady Frome could be as elusive as she wanted, but I was going to get into that building and get some answers.
I wandered over the footbridge and stared down into the stream. Water witch? Really? I touched the crystal at my throat. Sure, I’d always been drawn to water, but so were lots of people. I was clearly odd, though. Instead of fighting the water witch idea, I wondered if Elspeth could be right.
There was movement in the water. Fish, I thought, leaning over and peering closer. The surface of the water began to ripple. Did the fish think I’d come with food? I imagined greedy mouths searching the surface for crumbs. Then the surface stilled as suddenly as it had rippled, and a chill came over me. As though I were watching a grainy old black and white movie or a newsreel, I saw the image of a woman.
I couldn’t see her face, only the back of her. She was running, but awkwardly, as though she were carrying something heavy that was slowing her down. She wore a baggy dress, and her long, dark hair trailed behind her as she ran. I could feel waves of sadness and fear coming from her. My heart was pounding. She ran across a grass field that could be anywhere, and then she ran across a footbridge—this footbridge, I was sure of it, not because the bridge itself was particularly unique, but I knew it deep inside myself. On the other side of the bridge, she turned to look back, and I saw that she wasn’t carrying anything but a cloth bag over her shoulder. She’d been running awkwardly because she was heavily pregnant.
Her face was in shadow, but her belly was too prominent to miss. She had her hands wrapped around the bump in a protective way. Then she turned and continued her flight.