by Nancy Warren
“It was so nice visiting with you, Katie,” I said. “I hope your arm heals soon.”
“Thank you, my dear. And remember what I said.” Translated to American, what she’d said was Butt out!
I nodded to Lord Winford and made to move past him. Up close, he had intense dark eyes and his dark, curly hair had a leaf caught in it. He must have picked those flowers himself. In spite of myself, I was charmed that he’d bring flowers to the cook. No doubt he’d done that instead of shooting clay pigeons.
Our gazes caught. “Give me a minute, Katie. I’ll see Poppy out.”
I was going to tell him not to bother, but he was already striding ahead of me.
In truth, it wasn’t so easy to find the servants’ exit. We turned twice down narrow hallways.
“It’s a bit of a rabbit warren,” he said, as we finally approached the door I’d knocked on only yesterday. He clearly couldn’t get me out of there fast enough. He swung the door open with a flourish and said, “Here you are.”
I stepped out onto the set of stone stairs and was about to say goodbye and get on my way when he said, “You did read the rules, didn’t you? Show contestants aren’t allowed on this part of the property.”
“Yes, Your Lordship.” Okay, I went a bit heavy on the title, but then anyone who wandered the garden dressed in scarlet robes begged to be treated with sarcasm. However, I was going to be in serious trouble if he reported me to the production people. Once more, I decided to stick with the truth as much as I dared.
Before I got into the whole Valerie thing, I heard a familiar mew. “Gateau!” I said as she pushed herself against my calf. “What are you doing all the way up here?” I had a sudden terrible thought: What if Gateau was Lady Frome’s cat? “She isn’t the family pet, is she?” I asked Lord Winford with trepidation. I couldn’t stand the thought of that cold woman anywhere near my sweet girl.
“Goodness, no. We’re dog people, and she doesn’t look tough enough to be a mouser.”
I picked up Gateau and faced him. “The truth is, I’m looking for someone who may have worked here some years ago. A relative.”
“I wish you the best of luck. But I’d urge you to remember: there’s nothing more complicated in life than family dynamics. You may well end up wishing you hadn’t bothered.”
And with that parting shot, he closed the door.
Chapter 13
By the time I arrived back at the inn, disheartened and frustrated, it was lunchtime. Gateau scampered off in the direction of the inn’s little garden, but I had the feeling she’d be back soon. In fact, I felt strongly that the cat would be there in a flash if I needed her.
I touched my hand to the amethyst around my neck. Elspeth had suggested I had a witch’s powers, and I wondered if there was some kind of spell that would help me get the answers I needed. So far, all my ‘gift’ seemed to give me was visits from the departed and disturbing daydreams. Lucky me.
The dining room was busy. Everyone still here was tucking into full plates and talking over the noise of scraping cutlery. As I walked in, Florence stood up and put both hands to her breast. “Where have you been? I’ve been so worried. I went to fetch you for breakfast, but there was no answer. I didn’t even have your mobile number.”
I hadn’t considered that anyone would worry about my safety. I was touched. I apologized and told her that I’d gone for a long walk around the grounds to clear my head. I realized I’d left my phone in my room, which was pretty stupid considering there was an unsolved murder in the area, though I suspected the killer was in custody. I still couldn’t believe that uptight Marcus Hoare had killed Gerry.
I ran up to fetch it, then I plugged my number into Florence’s mobile phone, and she saved it under my name with a little gold star emoji. It was very sweet. When she sent me her number, I added a tiny cake emoji.
“I’m just glad you’re safe,” Florence said. “No one has seen Marcus this morning, so I think he’s being held by the police. I can’t believe he’s suspected of murder! It’s crazy that people think he could do something like that. I just don’t understand it.” She was almost on the brink of tears. It must be the drama student in her, feeding on all the theatrics. Why was she so upset about Marcus? I felt reassured. At least we knew who the culprit was.
I ordered quiche and salad for lunch and a large coffee, as I hadn’t fancied the instant stuff in Katie’s room.
Florence patted the chair beside her, and I joined her, Maggie and Hamish as they ate. Maggie placed her hand on mine. “You gave us all quite the fright, dear,” she said. She lowered her voice. “Please don’t disappear like that again.” Elspeth could have told them I was safe, but Elspeth wasn’t there. I was so touched that they’d worried about me. In spite of the tragedy, or because of it, we were bonding.
Another diner entered the room, and I choked on my coffee when I saw it was Marcus. He glared at all of us. “Here I am back. You’d better all run screaming.” The room fell silent. His face was pallid, and his usual perfectly Brylcreem-styled hair was in disarray. The dark circles that had appeared under his eyes last night were now almost purple in hue. He’d been through the wringer, that was for sure. I was stunned. After discovering how he’d tampered with the ovens, I’d certainly not expected to see him back anytime soon. Or ever again. Surely he had to be responsible for Gerry’s electric shock—whether it was on purpose or an accident.
After a moment, Hamish piped up. “So, they’ve released you then, mate.” His tone was light, but the implication of his words hung heavy in the air.
“Of course, they’ve released me,” Marcus replied. “It was an absolute joke they took me in for questioning in the first place.” He stopped, crossed his arms and looked around the room defiantly. “I’m starving.” He went to an empty table and sat by himself. No one resumed conversation. Instead, we watched as he ordered a steak sandwich and a beer. Still no one spoke.
Finally, he burst out with, “Look. I don’t owe anyone an explanation.”
More silence.
“But since you’re all so set on lavishing me with this ridiculous attention…I suppose I should tell you that there was nothing I could say that helped the police investigation. They asked me all kinds of absurd questions for what seemed like hours. But I had no answers. I had no idea what they were trying to get at half the time. I’m a banker, not a murderer.”
I should have kept my mouth shut, but I knew what I’d seen on those rushes. I wasn’t buying his innocent act. “But you did tamper with Gerry’s oven, didn’t you? And I’m sure you put salt in his sugar for the tarte au citron challenge.”
Marcus glared at me with loathing. “I had nothing to do with Gerry’s death whatsoever.” He stopped again, ran a hand through his messy hair and then smoothed down his wrinkled shirt. “But there is something I’m going to confess. Since the police know now, it’ll come out soon anyway.”
Everyone waited, but I knew exactly what he was going to say.
“I did know Gerry before the show.”
There was a collective gasp. “What?” Florence said. She was pink-faced, a flush spreading down her neck, her eyes lively. I wondered again if she might be enjoying the drama. It also seemed like Marcus relished being the center of attention. What was wrong with everyone? How could this be exciting to them? A fellow baker was dead.
“I’ll tell you all what I told the police. Gerry did a renovation on my house last year. But that wasn’t the only thing he did. Turns out, our Gerry had quite the penchant for other people’s property. Like my wife.”
He stopped. Took a sip of his beer, picked up his knife and fork and put them down again. “From the moment we began filming, I couldn’t believe my bad luck. The whole reason I’d come onto the show was to take my mind off my divorce, and here was the man who caused it. He slept with my wife, destroyed my marriage and overcharged on the renovation. So yes, I sabotaged his sponge. I put salt in his sugar. I burnt his pie.” He said these things with relish, as th
ough he was proud of himself. “I’d do it all again, too. I enjoyed humiliating him the way he’d humiliated me. But I did not kill him.” He speared a french fry. “And you might all be interested to know that someone else will soon be sitting in my chair at the police station. I overheard them talking. The unlucky fellow should be grateful that I warmed that interview chair for him.”
Everyone looked around the room. Who could Marcus possibly be talking about? Maggie raised her eyebrows at me and shook her head. Florence was already stress-eating the chips off Hamish’s plate. “Well, goodness, that was quite the show,” she whispered. “If only he baked as well as he acted, perhaps he’d have a chance of winning.”
“No possibility of that now, I’m afraid,” Maggie said. “The judges won’t put up with sabotage. Marcus will have to go.”
“I’m not sorry to say goodbye to him,” Florence whispered back. “What kind of man sabotages another man’s pie?”
“One who’s hurting,” Hamish said. “Being in pain can make us do funny things. Terrible things.” He shook his head and sipped from his mug of tea.
Marcus was cutting his steak into neat squares. Donald Friesen joined him. I could see the conversation wasn’t a friendly one. Donald’s hands were flat on the table, and he was leaning forward. I couldn’t hear the words, but the body language and tone were both angry.
Maggie said, “This show is a national treasure. The concept came from the village fete, you know, originally, where people are judged on their marmalades or their tea buns. The Great British Baking Contest is good clean fun and not the place to take out personal vendettas on television.” She looked very upset. “I don’t want to be part of the cast that broke a national treasure!”
As though he’d heard her, Marcus hung his head and clasped his hands together, almost in supplication.
Donald abruptly stood, realizing we were all watching. He was back to his usual smartly dressed self. Silver cufflinks glinted in his pressed white shirt, and he was wearing a tan linen suit. But his face was as white as a sheet, and those stress lines on his forehead hadn’t gone anywhere. “Listen up, everyone,” he said. “I hope you’ve had a good night’s sleep, and thank you all for your patience while we process this terrible, terrible tragedy.”
He smiled at us and continued to explain that the production team was doing everything it could to help the police, but the show was currently under review. The room was momentarily stunned into silence. My stomach dropped, and a wave of despair washed over me. I’d come so far, hours and hours of practice baking, going through my audition hundreds of times with Gina and finally getting on the show. And this morning I’d actually managed to get into the manor house. In spite of what Katie Donegal had said, I was convinced Broomewode Hall, the mysterious Valerie and my mother were connected. I was convinced that there were answers about my past hidden inside Broomewode Hall. If they suspended this season of the Great British Baking Contest, I’d have no reason to hang around. This was terrible news.
Then the questions from all the contestants erupted. Donald dealt with them like a consummate professional, batting concerns away with smooth catchphrases and pearls of PR wisdom. He told us if it were up to him, the show would go on, no two ways about it. He was fighting in our corner, of course he was, but ultimately the decision was out of his hands. It lay with his superiors, and he was confident that they’d evaluate all that happened here and come up with the best solution for everyone concerned.
And that’s when I saw him. My latest ghost.
The familiar shadowy line. A hazy rim around the edges. The faded expression. This one wasn’t wearing royal robes. He was wearing a red shirt patterned with trucks and cars, dark trousers and on his feet brilliant white running shoes.
Gerry!
I was so startled I spoke his name at the same moment I gasped. This caused me to choke on my coffee and burst into a horrendous coughing fit. Hamish passed me a glass of water and slapped me on the back. It took every single ounce of self-control I had to arrange my face into something resembling normal. Gerry was standing by the window, surveying the room, arms folded across his chest. He looked distinctly peeved. And tired. Well, I guessed he’d had a long journey.
He was scanning the room suspiciously when his eyes rested on me. I couldn’t help it. I looked right back at him. He blinked several times, and then his eyebrows shot up and he mouthed, “Poppy?” at me.
Poor Gerry, of course he was a restless spirit. He’d been struck down in his prime. Murdered.
My eyes had nearly stopped watering and I’d dared another sip of coffee when Sergeant Lane walked in. He was wearing a somber gray shirt and black trousers, and he looked as tired as everyone else in the room. He greeted the room with a small, professional smile and headed to where some of the crew was eating and talking. The room went quiet again. He laid a hand on Aaron Keel’s shoulder. Aaron had a mouth full of fish pie, and he turned to face Sergeant Lane, still chewing. He swallowed hard when he saw who the hand belonged to.
A low exchange followed that I couldn’t quite hear. And I wasn’t the only one trying to listen. I wondered if this had something to do with the ovens or with the poker game. I remembered then how Marcus had told Gina and I that Aaron was furious about losing the poker game. What was the phrase he’d used to describe it? Gerry took so much cash off of him…he’s lucky he made it out in one piece. Aaron had a stinking temper on him, I’d seen it myself.
Aaron stood up. To the crew, he said, “Don’t worry, lads, I’m just helping the police with their enquiries.” He followed the sergeant out of the room. There was something a little too self-confident in the way he walked, too assured. It was the polar opposite of Marcus’s little showdown last night, but in a way, it was worse. What kind of person remained that calm under that kind of pressure?
If a police officer asked me to accompany him to the station, no matter how squeaky-clean I might be, I’d still be freaking out.
Everyone burst into chatter the minute he was out of sight. We were unanimously shocked. Aaron was in charge of the ovens, and he’d checked Gerry’s and told him it was working fine. Was he crappy at his job? Or had he decided to teach Gerry a poker lesson he’d never forget?
Gerry, meanwhile, was doing everything in his power to draw my attention. Honestly, he was like a two-year-old. He’d discovered that having no earthly body, gravity didn’t have the same effect. He was currently walking up the curtains.
“Guys,” I said, addressing the table. “I’m going to go back to my room for a bit. Have a quick shower. I’ll see you back here later.”
I left the table before anyone could reply and walked over to the window. Gerry slid down the curtains with a whoop only I could hear. I nodded my head discreetly to indicate that he should follow me. He stared at me incredulously but did as I asked. I led the way and waited till we got upstairs and I’d opened the door before I spoke in the soothing tone I’d adopted for ghosts.
“Gerry. Please don’t be concerned. I’m here to help you. I have this special gift. I can see people once they’ve passed.” I stopped. What if he didn’t know that he’d passed over? “Wait, you do know that you’re dead, right?”
“Of course, I do! I’m furious. One minute I was in the tent checking the oven, and the next: BOOM. Bright lights. Flashing colors. Then this. A weird floaty feeling and no one can bloomin’ hear or see me. Except for you. My sweet pal Poppy, who, it turns out, sees ghosts.” He gave a dramatic shrug and shook his head. “It just gets weirder and weirder.” He jumped onto the bed. “Nice room,” he said, looking around. “Bigger than mine.”
“Is that all you remember, Gerry? The flash and bang?”
“Yes. It was a shock. What happened to me?”
Carefully and slowly, I explained to Gerry that he’d been electrocuted. We didn’t yet know what exactly had caused the electric shock, if it’d been a faulty oven or if someone had tampered with the controls. I told him that the police were investigating his deat
h as suspicious and that everyone had been interviewed. Marcus had been forced to admit that he’d known Gerry and admitted sabotaging his baking.
“I knew it! What did I tell you? I would never undercook a sponge. And my tarte, ruined by that fiend. Then he even burned my final pie. Oh, I’ll get him if it’s the last thing I do.”
“Gerry, Marcus was retaliating against you for sleeping with his wife. Remember?” I didn’t add the obvious. Gerry had already done the last thing he’d ever do. Life as he’d known it was over. “Marcus swears he didn’t kill you.”
“Hmm. Nice of him.”
Gerry began to amuse himself by running his hands through solid objects. “Hah, Pop, look at this,” he said, pushing his head and torso through the wall. I rolled my eyes. This was not my first ghost story. I guessed it was his, though. When he pulled his head back into the room, he said, “That was cool. Donald was in the hall talking to Elspeth and Jonathon. Seems like Marcus is going to invent a work emergency and pull out of the competition.”
“So it’s going ahead then?”
He shrugged, and the cars and trucks on his red shirt all took a short ride. “For the rest of you, maybe.”
He tried to lift my hairbrush and looked peeved when his hands slid right through the brush.
“Do you think it could have been an accident?” I asked him. “Even if Marcus was sabotaging your baking, I suppose you could still have a faulty oven.”
Gerry stopped trying to pick things up and turned to me. “No. I might have got a shock, but for full-on electrocution, I reckon someone clipped something like jumper cables to a metal piece of the oven and attached the other end to the electric panel. All I had to do was touch the handle and I’d be fried like crispy bacon. Once I was dead, they turned the power off, unhooked the cable and walked away.”