by Nancy Warren
The stream was once again a stream. I stood there for a long time staring down, but nothing else happened, except I grew chilled. I walked to the end of the bridge, where the woman in my vision had turned. Sure enough, there was a good view of Broomewode Hall from there. She’d have looked back and seen the upper windows, mainly, and the peaks of the roof.
What had that young woman been running from? I didn’t ask myself who she was because I thought I knew. She’d been my mother.
Chapter 12
It was easy to find the front entrance to the manor house: Two great stone pillars flanked the enormous double doors. It looked like the mouth to Hades in the books I’d read while studying Persephone’s myth for my sponge challenge. I swallowed hard and reminded myself this wasn’t the entrance to the afterlife, just that of the British upper classes. How bad could it be?
The turrets stood proudly against the pale blue sky. They were grand and imperious. Approaching the great house from its imposing entrance, I was in awe. I was also afraid—what if Benedict, that strange sword-wielding guy, was on patrol again this morning? Was that his weird job around here? Scare away the tourists? I’d better not waste a minute. I picked up the pace.
In the distance to my left was the wide white canopy of the baking tent, devoid now of the hustle and bustle of the filming crew. There was police tape around it, and a small team of technicians were combing the area for clues, presumably. I had no idea if next week’s filming would go ahead. If Donald Friesen had anything to do with it, though, we’d be back creaming sugar and butter, carrying on as normal. He was the very epitome of the phrase the show must go on! But that particular question mark hanging above the series would have to wait for an answer. I had more important things to think about than a lemon posset.
I walked up the gravel path to the entrance. Either side, the perfectly groomed grounds looked like striped green carpet, rolled out, waiting for someone far more glamorous than me to arrive. I was determined not to feel intimidated, yet my stomach was flipping like a pancake. From what I’d gleaned about Lady Frome, she was a woman not to be trifled with. I knew that she’d been reluctant to be involved in the baking show in the first place. I imagined, like many old British families with sprawling estates, the family needed a cash influx to keep their estate running.
Deeply private and wary of the cameras, Lady Frome had come across as haughty and privileged. She’d looked like an extraordinarily elegant woman, classic in her dress. She was tall and added to her height with slim heels that clicked as she walked along the flagstone corridors, pointing out priceless antiques with a polished fingernail. She was imperious and the very picture of British aristocracy. At the mere thought of her, I trembled in my American boots.
After what seemed an age, I reached the carriage drive and stepped into the portico entrance. Even the front door was a work of art. The wooden panels were carved with swirling patterns, and a brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head took center stage. It was about the same size as a real lion’s head. To my shame, I noticed that my hands were trembling. How could I be scared when yesterday I’d come face-to-face with a dead body? I took a deep breath and knocked. Get it together, Poppy. You’ve got this.
After the sound of the knocker, it was deathly silent. All I could hear were the birds tweeting their morning songs. No footsteps. Nothing echoing along the corridor. Dare I knock again? I glanced to my right, and hanging from the top of the porch was a circular brass plate with a thick red rope attached. What a doofus. Of course, no one would hear a knocker in this vast house. The lion’s head was purely for show. I pulled on the rope, and a crashing bell chimed, and a semicircular fanlight above my head blinked on. I had the strange sensation that I was being watched. I stood back and saw that there were two tiny cameras hidden in the ivy that graced the top of the portico. They were pointing directly at me. I gulped. Maybe whoever was watching had taken one look at my very ordinary appearance and decided that it wasn’t worth the bother to open the door. I fussed with my hair and stood a little straighter. I’d never carried breath mints in my life, but I longed for one now.
A few moments later, the door slowly opened, and a portly gentleman dressed in a formal black jacket and striped trousers stared back at me. His shirt was impossibly white and starched so severely that it stood almost at angles around his broad neck.
“May I help you?” he asked, giving me a decidedly unimpressed once over. I’d already decided on an alias even before that strange vision of a woman running away from Broomewode Hall. I didn’t want news of my visit to the Hall getting back to the production, since I was blatantly ignoring the rules. I’d decided to become Tabitha Worth, a location scout from LA hoping to feature Broomewode Hall in an upcoming movie. Lots of cash and very few scenes was what I’d promise. I hoped that would get me a tour of the place.
“Good morning. I’m Tabitha Worth,” I said. “I’m here to inquire…” But before I could finish, a gentleman I recognized from that same behind-the-scenes episode of the Baking Contest came to the door behind the butler. Lord Frome wore a tweed jacket, brown slacks and a matching tweed flat cap perched at a jaunty angle on top of his head. He looked like a cardboard cutout of the aristocracy. A golden Labrador was by his side, and—alarmingly—a rifle was tucked under his left arm.
He stared at me and seemed to recoil, as if something about my face was hideous or misshapen. I wiped at my cheek and mouth in case I’d accidentally smeared anything there. There was an uncomfortable moment’s silence as the three of us stood awkwardly until the dog bounded over to me and jumped up for some attention. I bent down to his level and petted him. “Hello there,” I said. “What a handsome boy you are.” His paws scrabbled at my legs. I tickled him behind the ears.
The butler introduced me as Tabitha Worth. Before I could explain about the fictitious movie deal, Lord Frome said, “Of course. You’re here for the Assistant Cook’s position. My dear wife is at her wit’s end. Our cook is indisposed. She’s never gone off sick before.” He sounded as though an ill servant was a serious inconvenience to him. “Tilbury, if you see my son, tell him to join us clay pigeon shooting.”
Before I could reply, Lord Frome strode out into the grounds, the dog bounding joyfully ahead. I saw them heading for an old battered Land Rover, which had been parked a little way from the main path.
The butler said, “Wait here, Miss Worth,” and he gestured me inside, pointing at an uncomfortable-looking bench beside a long trestle table. He walked away with purpose, his footsteps light and elegant for a man of his size.
At least now I knew why Katie Donegal hadn’t met with me. She was ill. I hoped it wasn’t anything serious.
As soon as the butler was out of sight, I leapt to my feet, almost knocking over a huge porcelain vase of fragrant pink lilies. I surveyed my surroundings. A dusty-looking chandelier poorly lighted the hall. The paneling on the walls seemed to suck up any light that came in through the leaden windows. Although grand, there was an element of faded glory about the place. In the corner was a suit of armor that looked in need of a polish. The wallpapered walls with their sumptuous swirling patterns were peeling a little in the cracks between strips. I’d read about how many old country estates in Britain were struggling, particularly those built in the Georgian era. It must have been difficult for Lord and Lady Frome to open up their home to the TV show and various weddings held throughout the year. They were notoriously private and worked hard to keep people like me out. Not for the first time, I wondered if the Champneys had something to hide.
I crept along the corridor. I’d no idea how long it might take the butler to find Lady Frome in this vast house. I couldn’t even guess how many rooms there were. What must it feel like to live in a place like this? How could anyone keep track of their belongings? Or each other? And staff wasn’t as cheap as it had been two hundred years ago, so it must be a constant struggle to keep the place up.
I thought longingly again of my darling little cottage. T
he Olde Bakery, with its homey kitchen—complete with Mildred the ghost—and misshapen rooms that were so comfortable and cozy. Despite Broomewode’s grandeur, I wouldn’t trade places with Lord and Lady Frome.
I wanted to find the dining room where the oil painting of my blanket was hanging, but the corridor was long and wide, with a series of closed doors either side. Which one was the dining room? I could hear a woman’s voice coming closer, although what was being said was unclear. I hurried back to my bench, smoothed down my hair, pressed my knees and ankles together like a proper lady, and waited.
Lady Frome appeared at the top of the grand staircase. Gone were the jeans and cashmere sweater I’d seen her in yesterday. Instead, she was wearing an outfit more similar to those I’d seen on the show: navy slacks and a white silk shirt, two strings of pearls wound around her delicate throat. She was certainly a striking woman.
She walked down the stairs and came toward me then raised one eyebrow as if waiting for me to stand in her presence. I did, feeling like a bad servant, and introduced myself, giving my alias once more.
“And you’re here for the assistant cook job, are you? Where’s your CV?” She held out her hand for my resume looking impatient.
All of a sudden, I lost the nerve to pretend I was a movie location scout. If she asked me any questions, I’d fall to pieces. Instead, I decided to go with the truth. “I’m not here for a job. I’m looking for someone who may have worked here—her name was Valerie.” I only had a demented old woman’s word that Valerie was my mother’s name, but it was a start.
Did Lady Frome’s face stiffen? I thought so, but it was a momentary impression.
She gave me a withering look. Clearly, I had let her down not being an eager, fully qualified cook with years of experience.
“How on earth would I recall a servant who worked here decades ago?” she said. “We’re on high security alert after a suspicious death last night. You should never have been allowed inside the house.” She raised her voice. “Tilbury?”
The butler reappeared so quickly, he must have been hovering within earshot.
“Please show this woman out. Through the servants’ door.”
With that, she turned on her heels and went back the way she had come. But suddenly she stopped and glanced over her shoulder at me. I waited, breath held. “I am sorry I can’t help you,” she said eventually. And with that, she climbed the rest of the grand stairs and disappeared from view.
For a moment, I thought I saw a shadow moving at the top of the landing, but I couldn’t be sure. Had someone else been there the whole time? A spirit perhaps? Broomewode Hall was ancient, and there had to be many generations of spirits lingering within its walls. I hoped they weren’t too restless. There didn’t seem to be a lot of love and understanding in this house.
Well, despite the somewhat rude dismissal, Lady Frome had given me some information. She’d said she couldn’t be expected to remember a woman who’d worked there decades earlier. But I hadn’t given any idea of the timeframe. While that didn’t prove she’d lied about knowing Valerie, it was definitely interesting.
By sending me out the servants’ door, she’d meant to show me my place, but she’d also given me a chance to do some more snooping. I was delighted to have an excuse to go to the servants’ quarters, even if that meant forgoing a trip to the dining room and examining the painting up close. Tilbury silently escorted me along the hallway, into a long, narrow corridor, and then pointed in the direction of some steep stairs. “You can exit via the kitchen, Miss Worth,” he said. “Please don’t disrupt the staff. They are preparing luncheon for Lord Frome and his guests.”
Right. The clay pigeon shooters.
The scent of stewing spiced meat hit me before I even opened the door. The sound of pots and pans clanging and the warmth of a busy kitchen enveloped me as I entered. Broomewode Hall might be hundreds of years old, but this kitchen was modern. A woman was standing by the industrial-sized stove stirring an enormous pot. A young woman was also busy chopping vegetables. I recognized her as the Italian girl who’d sent me away yesterday. To my surprise, the woman stirring the pot was Eve from the inn’s pub.
“Eve?” I asked.
She turned and smiled at me. “Poppy. I’ve had to lend a hand today as poor Katie’s broken her arm.” She gave me a humorous look and beckoned with her chin to where an older woman with curly gray hair was directing a young girl in the correct way to peel potatoes. “Go and talk to her. Please.”
I felt like an extra in Downton Abbey as I walked over to the cook, her right arm in a cast, who was obviously having a hard time giving up control of her kingdom. At last. This was Katie Donegal. She wasn’t much taller than five feet and quite round.
However, when I introduced myself, her green eyes were wide and kind. She took me to a sitting room off the kitchen, and sighed as she sat down. She rubbed her cast and apologized for not being able to see me the day before, but she’d broken her arm on the way to meet me, in fact. “I tripped over a tree root, I was in that much of a hurry. But how nice to meet you, dear,” she said with a soft Irish brogue. “How can I be helping you?”
I wasn’t sure how to start. “Did Eve tell you about me?”
“Oh, Poppy, yes, of course. One of the lucky bakers. Though I suppose you don’t feel so lucky after all this terrible business last night. Do you know what happened? Everyone here has been gossiping like crazy. They’re very worried, having a dead body on their grounds. What if they stop the filming?” She glanced around and then dropped her voice, even though we were alone. “They rely on the money, you know. And I imagine it helps pay my salary as well. Also, I’ve always wondered if that Jonathon is as dishy in real life as he is on screen. But look, I’m blathering on. As usual. Eve said you wanted to ask me about some local history. You can make me a cup of tea while you do. I’m useless without my right hand. Useless.”
I put the kettle on. There was a teapot, tea, instant coffee and even a jar of cookies. A small jug of milk had been set out. I wondered whether it was Eve’s idea to try and keep Katie Donegal in here as much as possible and out of the kitchen.
“Do you know anything about this death?” she asked avidly. She was a natural gossip, and I suspected that without her busy job, boredom was taking its toll.
I told Katie that I didn’t know much about what happened yesterday, only that the police were deep into an investigation. She was about to ask me more questions, but I worried Lady Frome would somehow find out I was loitering and have me thrown out, so I said, “Katie, I need to ask you about a woman named Valerie. I think she may have worked at Broomewode Hall or maybe lived close by. Eve told me you know everyone around here. Does that name sound familiar?”
Her kind face grew suddenly sad and also wary. “I think that tea’s brewed long enough,” she said, turning me back to my tea-making duties. By the time I’d added the amount of milk and sugar she directed and handed her a shortbread, she was back in control. “What did you say the name was again?”
“Valerie.”
“No last name, then?”
“No. I was hoping you might be able to help.”
“Oh, well, we’ve had a lot of girls through here over the years.” She glanced at me, and I felt there was an inner struggle going on. Finally, she said, “I believe there was a young woman of that name. It would be more than twenty years ago now at least. But she left. I wish I could tell you more, but she wasn’t here very long. I never got to know her well.”
“Do you think you could find her last name?”
She shook her head. “There’d be no reason to keep records going that far back.”
“Do you know where she came from?”
“I’m sorry, dear. It’s so long ago. I don’t think she was local.”
“Did she leave a forwarding address?” I’d pinned so many hopes on this interview, and I was getting nowhere.
I thought she’d remembered something. She leaned forward and looked at me inte
ntly. “She didn’t. I remember that she left without a word to anyone. Sometimes, people don’t want to be found. It’s kinder to respect their wishes.”
I was about to ask whether this mysterious Valerie who seemed to arrive from nowhere and vanish into thin air, had been pregnant when a male voice could be heard from the kitchen. Tilbury, probably, about to drag me to the dungeon for not scampering out the servants’ door as I’d been ordered.
But the man who appeared in Katie’s doorway was the one I’d first met yesterday. He wasn’t wearing an old-fashioned dress or sword now. His jeans were modern, and he wore them with boots and a heavy navy blue sweater. In my experience, ghosts didn’t have extensive wardrobes. Whatever they died in was usually what they were stuck wearing. Which meant that my ghost probably wasn’t a ghost after all.
He was holding a bouquet of flowers, clearly intended for the injured cook, but when he saw me, he jolted to a stop. I felt like I’d been caught doing something wrong, but this wasn’t feudal times. Katie was allowed to have visitors. Before I could say anything, Katie launched into a speech. “Oh, Lord Winford. Are those for me? I feel such a fool. Fell over like a clumsy oaf, and my arm snapped like a twig.”
“Katie, don’t get formal on me now. It’s always been Ben, and it always will be.”
“You’re not a little boy anymore. Oh, and you did look lovely in your ceremonial robes. How’s the painting coming? Lady Frome was right. It will look lovely hanging in the long gallery with the rest of your ancestors.”
Aha. At least now I understood why he’d been dressed so strangely that first day. Lord Winford might be many things, but he was clearly no ghost.
Katie seemed both pleased and flustered by his visit. “This young lady was keeping me company. She’s with the baking show, you know. Quite a celebrity.”
“Yes. Poppy Wilkinson. We’ve met.” He didn’t look thrilled to see me, but he didn’t look like he was going to call the cops on me for trespassing, either. Nor was he surprised that I was a show contestant. He must have checked up on me after our last meeting, if you could call it that. He put the vase of flowers on the table near Katie’s elbow. If she was getting a visit from his lordship, I’d better make myself scarce.