The Old Bakehouse

by Daphne Neville

  “Are you off?” Natalie called.

  Lottie took gloves from her pocket and put them on. “Yes, we’ll come back and see Charlie again another day, if we may. He said to do so as he’s got some photos of your garden to show us.”

  “Yes, he showed them to me this morning. I must admit it brought a lump to my throat.”

  Lottie smiled. “Yes, I bet it did.”

  “Anyway, I’m glad you’re going to come back to see Charlie because our residents are always glad to have visitors.”

  “We look forward to it,” said Hetty, “He’s good company.”

  “Umm, did he…umm…remember doing the brickwork in the Old Bakehouse?” Natalie was careful not to mention the oven in case any of the residents heard.

  Hetty shook her head. “No, but he reckons if we give him a few days it’ll all come back to him. I know what he means because it’s the same with me.”

  “And me,” chuckled the lady with the walking frame, “I often struggle to remember things but when I do get my mind in the right groove it all comes back crystal clear.”

  “Ah, yes, now this lady is also someone you might like to meet.” Natalie put her hand on the elderly lady’s shoulder. “Hetty, Lottie, may I introduce you to Nellie Gibson. Nellie used to be a midwife and has lived in the village all her life.”

  “Really,” gasped Hetty, “that’s an occupation close to my heart. I used to be a midwife too you see.”

  Nellie’s mouth formed a near-perfect O. “One day then when you’ve time you must come and visit me for a chat.”

  “Well, there’s no time like the present,” said Hetty, eagerly, “that’s unless you’re expecting another visitor.”

  Nellie chuckled. “No, I’m not expecting anyone before the weekend. “My son lives in Totnes, you see and so he can only get away then.”

  Chapter Ten

  Just before dusk on Friday afternoon, a couple in their mid-seventies walked up to the reception desk in the Pentrillick Hotel to book into the room for which they had a made a reservation online.”

  “And may I have your names, please?” Anna, the receptionist on duty asked.

  “Bridget Barnes, Mrs, but everyone calls me Biddy, and this is my husband, Geoff Barnes.”

  “Ah, yes, you have a double room booked and have requested a sea view.” Anna took a key card from beneath the desk and handed it to Biddy, “One of our porters will see you to your room. I hope you have a pleasant stay with us.” She nodded to a young man who waited across the foyer.

  Biddy picked up her handbag from the desk. “Thank you, dear. I hope we do too.”

  “Beautiful view,” said Geoff, as they stepped into their room, “May I have the side of the bed nearest the window, please, Bids?”

  “Of course. I’d prefer to be near the bathroom door anyway as I’m bound to get up in the night.”

  Biddy sat down on the bed and removed her shoes. “The bed feels comfy so that’s good.”

  Geoff crossed the room, opened up the window and then sat down on its cushioned seat. “Hmm, not only is this view spectacular but so is the smell of the sea air. Come and have a sniff.”

  Biddy joined him on the window seat and took in a deep breath. “Yes, it is lovely although a little chilly to have the window open.”

  “I’ll shut it in a minute.” He took her hand. “Anyway, we’ve made it, Biddy.”

  “Yes, we’ve made it and I like what I’ve seen so far.”

  “I agree. It looks a nice place. I wouldn’t mind living here myself.”

  Biddy smiled. “So you could go fishing no doubt.”

  “You can read me like a book. Anyway, this trip isn’t about me it’s about you. So when do you want to start looking into the past?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t even know where to start looking.”

  “Well, I suppose the pub would be the most logical place to ask questions.”

  Biddy laughed. “Trust you to think of that.”

  “Well, we are on a sort of holiday, aren’t we?”

  “Yes, you’re right and I’d like to go to the pub anyway and if we don’t find out anything there we can always take a walk round the churchyard because I’m sure both my biological parents will have passed away by now.”

  Geoff looked at his wife. “Are you going to be alright with this, Biddy? I mean, it must be hard for you.”

  “Yes, I’ll be fine. I just wish I’d done it sooner, that’s all. But it wouldn’t have been fair, would it? And I didn’t want to hurt Mum and Dad. I mean, they didn’t need to tell me I was adopted, did they?” Biddy’s shoulders slumped, “In a way it might have been better if they hadn’t.”

  Geoff put his arm around his wife’s narrow shoulders. “Maybe, but they did tell you and whatever the outcome of this, you’ll always think of them as your parents.”

  “Yes, I shall.” Biddy got up from the window seat, reached for her handbag and took out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. “I won’t be many minutes, Geoff, and then when I get back I’ll unpack our stuff.”

  “I wish you’d give up smoking. You were coughing in your sleep last night.”

  “Was I?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well I’ll give up in January. It’s not far away now and it can be my New Year’s resolution.”

  Geoff shook his head in dismay. “You say that every year.”

  “But this time I promise I’ll stick to it.” She walked towards the door.

  “Okay, but before you go out remind me: what are the names of your birth parents again? I remember your mother was Cicely but have forgotten your father’s name.”

  Biddy opened the door. “Joseph Percival Williams was my father and according to my birth certificate he was a baker.”

  Meanwhile, further down the road on an allotted parking space beside Sea View Cottage, a blue Renault car pulled up and from it stepped two women, who judging by their features were clearly mother and daughter. From the boot of the car they took two suitcases; the name label on one was Irene Hewitt and the other Martha Hewitt. With cases in hand they wheeled them round to the back of the cottage where they found a key to the house beneath a large terracotta pot containing winter flowering pansies.

  “Well, we’re here,” said the younger of the two women, “so where shall we start, Mum?”

  Irene sighed. “Start what, Martha? Do you mean with settling in?”

  “Well, no I was thinking more on the lines of tracing your ancestors.”

  Irene laughed. “Well, I suppose Willow House is as good a place as any, after all that’s where we used to live. Not that the house will be able to tell us anything but at least it might jog my memory back into the right groove. Anyway, before we do anything I’d like to get my things unpacked and make myself at home.”

  Martha picked up both suitcases and walked towards the stairs. “Of course, come on then, let’s choose our rooms. I believe there are four so we’ll be spoiled for choice.”

  After their things were unpacked they returned downstairs.

  “Would you like a cup of tea?” Martha asked, as she took a container of milk from a carrier bag.

  “Yes, please. Then after that and I’ve had a little rest we’ll take a walk through the village although we won’t see much now it’s dark. I must admit I’m looking forward to seeing the old place again.”

  “Me too. Not that I’ve ever seen it before.”

  However, after the tea Irene fell asleep on the couch and didn’t wake until after eight when she found her daughter watching the news channel on the television and a fire burning in the grate. She sat up promptly. “Oh, Martha, why didn’t you wake me, dear?”

  “Because I considered the sleep would do you good and we’re here for a week anyway so there’s no rush.” Martha refrained from telling her mother that she looked tired and older than her seventy years.

  “And you’ve lit a fire. Where did you find the logs?”

  “In a shed out the back. I know the heating
’s on but I lit the fire because it’s nice to look at. Anyway, I don’t know about you, Mum, but I’m feeling a bit peckish so after we’ve taken a walk through the village I suggest we pop into a pub, assuming there is one here of course.”

  “Yes, there’s a pub, at least there was when I was a girl and if I remember correctly it’s called the Crown and Anchor.” She stood up. “I think I’ll pop upstairs and change first though. I feel quite chilly having had a nap and so need to put on something warmer.”

  As they left Sea View Cottage and stepped into the main street, Irene glanced back at the Old Bakehouse just visible further along the road but she said nothing to her daughter.

  “So whereabouts is Willow House?” Martha asked.

  “St Mary’s Avenue but we’ll not bother to go up there tonight since it’s dark: we’ll leave it until tomorrow.”

  “Okay, so has the village changed much?” Martha was aware that her mother’s head was turning back and forth as she tried to take in both sides of the road.

  “No more than you’d expect after sixty years.”

  When they arrived at the Crown and Anchor they found it to be very busy.

  “Good heavens,” laughed Martha, as they stepped inside, “I should have thought the place would be quiet on a weekday night in November.”

  “Me likewise. Perhaps there’s something on. A party maybe.”

  “I don’t think so because no-one is wearing party clothes.”

  Martha went to the bar to buy drinks, and Irene, realising all the tables were taken warmed her hands by the log fire. As Martha returned and handed her mother a glass of white wine, Irene caught the eye of a lady sitting with two other women.

  “There’s room for two more on this table,” said Hetty, “that’s if you don’t mind sharing.”

  “Are you sure?” Irene asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Then yes please. I must admit I don’t like standing, especially with a drink in one hand and my bag in the other.”

  Hetty, Lottie and their friend Debbie moved around the table to make room.

  “It’s busy in here tonight,” said Martha, wondering if the three ladies might be able to say why.

  “Yes, we’ve only just got here and if it wasn’t for the fact some people left as we arrived we’d be standing up too.”

  “So why is it so busy?” Irene asked, “Is there something on?”

  “Several people are strangers so they could well be treasure hunters,” laughed Debbie.

  “And the locals in here are keen to hear the latest gossip,” Hetty added, “and that includes us.”

  Irene and Martha were clearly nonplussed.

  “I take it you’re not from around here then,” Lottie noted their confused expressions.

  “No, no, we’re from Bath.”

  “Ah, Somerset,” said Debbie, “beautiful county.”

  “On holiday?” Hetty asked.

  “Well, no not really,” Irene sipped her wine, “We’re here to see if I can find out what happened to my mother who reputedly left my father many years ago for another man. I was ten years old when she left and then two months later my father and I moved away to Portsmouth. I’ve not really thought much about it over the years but when my best friend died last month it got me thinking of the past and I wanted to see if I could find out what happened to Mother. Pentrillick seemed the obvious place to start.”

  “Oh, I am sorry, about your friend that is,” commiserated Lottie.

  “Thank you. I’m Irene, by the way, and this young lady is my daughter, Martha.”

  “Not so young, Mother, I’m thirty-eight now.”

  Hetty laughed. “That’s young to us, Martha. Anyway, pleased to meet you both. I’m Hetty and this is my twin sister, Lottie and the dear lady next to me is our very good friend, Debbie.”

  They all shook hands.

  “So, what can you tell us about your mother?” Lottie asked, “We might be able to help although I doubt it as we’re all relatively new to the area ourselves.”

  Irene smiled. “I can’t really tell you a great deal but I do know that she was called Geraldine and was born in 1922. Her married name was Glover; her maiden name was Trelease. She was beautiful and sadly she and my father seemed to argue a lot. He always insisted she was a flighty piece and was unfaithful to him. At one time he even accused her of having an affair with the baker. When she went I recall him saying good riddance and he didn’t seem to care. In fact in later years he began to doubt that I was his daughter and so we both took DNA tests. Sadly he was right but I still regarded him as my father although our relationship after that was never the same again. Not until he died, that is. Just before his death he told me he was sorry and said that perhaps it was his fault that my mother had strayed into the arms of another and deprived me of her love and friendship.”

  “That’s really sad,” sympathised Debbie, “it must have been very hard for you.”

  Irene nodded. “It was but it’s history now and I’ve long since moved on.”

  “So when did your mother leave the village?” Hetty asked.

  “When I was ten years old so that would have been in 1958 and I remember the month, it was February. It was weird, she just went off without taking any of her possessions, not even her treasured Buddy Holly records. After that we never heard from her again.”

  Hetty choked on her wine.

  “Are you all right?” Irene patted her back.

  Hetty looked at her sister and then at Debbie.

  “February 1958 and you say you never heard from your mother again after she left?” Lottie felt her cheeks burning.

  Irene shook her head. “No, which in retrospect seems heartless, don’t you think? I mean, you’d have thought that she’d have sent me birthday and Christmas cards. She wouldn’t have needed to say where she was or who she was with but just let us know that she was alive, well and happy.”

  Martha looked across the crowded bar. “You never did explain to us what you meant by the people here being treasure hunters.”

  The jaws of the three ladies dropped.

  “I think I need another drink. A large one,” gulped Hetty, rising, “Anyone else for a refill?”

  Lottie and Debbie held up their quickly drained glasses.

  “We’re fine,” smiled Irene.

  “Okay, I’ll be back as soon as I can and then between us we’ll fill you in with the village’s latest.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Over the weekend several more people descended on Pentrillick keen to find out more about Joe on the off chance they might be able to put in a claim. Amongst them were Jim Bray and his mother, Pamela who had booked into Tuzzy-Muzzy, the first house along Blackberry Way where the owners offered bed and breakfast.

  “I was chatting to a couple just now who are staying next door in the guest house,” said Debbie, as she took off her coat and hung it on the pegs in the hallway of Primrose Cottage on Monday morning, “They’re mother and son and they got here yesterday afternoon. Pamela, the mother, is convinced Joe is the boy’s father. Well, I say boy but he’s actually a man and a tall one at that like his mother. She towered over me.”

  “Not another,” chuckled Hetty, as she closed the front door and escorted Debbie into the sitting room, “Where are they from?”

  “Bodmin apparently.”

  “I heard that,” Lottie looked up from her knitting where she sat in a fireside chair, “Do you think they’re genuine or just here on the off-chance?”

  Debbie sat down at the table. “No idea, but Jim, the son, was born in 1971 and Pamela, his mum, says she’s often wondered what happened to the boy’s father who was definitely called Joe.”

  Hetty tutted. “Looks like Pentrillick was a den of vice back when old Joe was alive.”

  “It certainly does,” agreed Debbie. “So have you fathomed out what happened at the bakery back in 1958? Because I haven’t.”

  “Not really,” Hetty sat down opposite their guest, “I
mean the obvious surmise is that Joe killed Geraldine Glover and hid her body in the oven. We know she had an affair with him because he was Irene’s father…”

  “…Ah, but was he, Het?” Lottie interrupted, “at present we only suspect he is because Irene said her father reckoned she was the daughter of a baker.”

  “True but for the sake of argument let’s assume for now that Joe was her father and then we can move on and explore possible reasons as to why Joe might have killed her.”

  Lottie put down her knitting and joined her sister and Debbie at the table. “Well, we’ll soon know one way or another because Irene’s going to have another DNA test done. As for a reason for killing her, I’ve no idea what that might have been.”

  “Me neither but we should be able to come up with at least one motive,” reasoned Hetty, “Come on, ladies, put your thinking caps on and use your imaginations.”

  All three sat quietly for a whole minute.

  “I suppose it’s possible that Geraldine wanted to marry Joe and demanded that he divorced Eve to enable them to do so and Joe said no,” suggested Debbie, “Geraldine might then have threatened to tell Eve and so Joe killed her to shut her up.”

  “That was one of Sandra’s theories before we knew who the body was,” sighed Lottie, “but it wouldn’t have been that simple, would it? Remember Geraldine was married too and so not free to marry either.”

  Hetty smiled. “What’s more it can’t be the answer because by February when the murder took place Eve had already gone and taken young Norman with her so she wouldn’t have been around for Geraldine to tell anyway.”

  Debbie groaned. “Of course, I’d forgotten that.”

  “Maybe Geraldine’s husband killed her then,” reasoned Lottie, “after all Irene told us that her father, or the man she assumed was her father until both took DNA tests which proved otherwise, wasn’t a bit bothered by his wife’s disappearance and even said good riddance. What’s more, he and Geraldine argued a lot so they clearly didn’t get on.”

  Debbie nodded. “Yes, he’d certainly have a good motive and he obviously didn’t even report her as missing.”