The Old Bakehouse

by Daphne Neville

  “Yeah, we do but we’ve no evidence to back it up,” admitted Harry, “You see back in the swinging sixties our mother worked in this pub for a while and so we assume she got to know the locals. We were born in 1967 and after our birth, Mum was keen to get back to work which she eventually did by leaving us with Grandma but it wasn’t this pub, by then she’d moved on to one in Penzance. Anyway, as she was driving home one really wet and miserable night having had several drinks I might add; she took a corner too fast, crashed the car and was killed instantly. She was just twenty one years old.”

  “Oh dear, that’s terrible,” Sid sympathised, “So you don’t even remember her.”

  “No, we’ve nothing but a few old photos.” Larry added.

  “So what happened to you both?”

  Harry sighed. “We were brought up by our grandparents and they did a damn good job. In later years we asked them about our dad but neither could tell us anything simply because they didn’t know.”

  “Apparently Mum would never tell them,” Larry confessed, “Grandma said she was very strong willed and independent.”

  “Obstinate too,” added Harry.

  “Yeah, a bit like us, I suppose.”

  “So what makes you think you might be Joe’s boys?” Sid studied their faces to see if he could see any likeness to Irene, Norman or Biddy.

  “Because the one thing Grandma could tell us was she reckoned our father’s name was Joe,” said Harry, “At least we’re pretty sure that was the name she said.”

  “And I suppose your grandparents have since died so you can’t ask them again.”

  “Yep, they’ve both been gone twenty years or more.”

  “Anyway, if you want to know for sure I suggest you take a DNA test. That’s the only way to find out.”

  “How do we go about that?” Harry asked.

  “You see that young lad over there playing pool?” The brothers nodded. “Well he works at the solicitor’s office that are handling the will so he’ll be able to advise you.”

  On Sunday morning, Irene and Martha went to church for although neither was particularly religious Irene needed comfort to help her come to terms with the brutal murder of her mother. For a DNA test taken as requested by the police, confirmed that she was the daughter of the lady found in the oven; a result which enabled them to name the deceased as Geraldine Glover.

  As they left the church they shook hands with Vicar Sam who greeted them cheerily. “Nice to see some new faces. Are you here for a winter break?”

  “Not really,” said Irene, “I suppose you could say we’re here looking into our family history and my mother in particular.”

  “Well, if you need to see the church records at all I have access to them and it can be arranged.”

  Irene smiled weakly. “That’s very kind of you but sadly they will be of no help. I already have my mother’s birth and marriage certificates and as regards her death it appears that she was deprived of a Christian burial.”

  Sam’s cheeks burned as realisation struck. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” he stammered, “You must be the two ladies of whom Kitty our organist told me yesterday. Descendants of the young woman who was found in…in…the um…”

  “Yes, we are,” Irene spoke quickly to save the vicar’s embarrassment.

  “Well…um…if I can be of any help please don’t hesitate to ask.”

  “Thank you, Vicar,” said Martha, mildly amused by his discomfort, “it’s been a shock but at least now Mum knows what happened to her mother. Well, not exactly what happened but she knows where she…um…oh dear.”

  Irene took Martha’s hand. “Best not to think about it, my love.” She then turned to Sam and looked into his eyes, “Actually, Vicar, you can help because now that she’s found, Mother must have a proper funeral and I should like her to be buried here in the village. For despite what happened to her she did grow up here, was married here and probably even loved the place. Can that be arranged?”

  “Of course. Shall I call on you?” Sam’s composure had returned.

  Irene brightened. “Yes, please do. We’re staying at Sea View Cottage. Do you know of it?”

  “Oh yes, seeing as it’s within a stone’s throw of the church.”

  “So it is, I’d lost my bearings for a minute.” Irene looked over towards the church gate where the cottage roof was just visible on the other side of the road.

  “Well if I may, would it be alright to call on you both at say three o’clock this afternoon or is that too soon?”

  Irene nodded. “No, that’s perfect. We hadn’t any plans for the rest of the day and so we look forward to seeing you.”

  As the church clock struck three, Vicar Sam knocked on the door of Sea View Cottage. “Come in, Vicar,” said Irene. Sam was delighted to see that she was in a much happier frame of mind.

  “Please sit down,” Irene waved her hand towards one of the two fireside chairs.

  “Thank you.”

  “Tea, Vicar?” she asked, “or would you prefer coffee?”

  “Tea would be lovely, thank you, but please call me Sam, nearly everyone else does.”

  “I’ll make the tea, Mum,” Martha jumped to her feet.

  “No, no you sit down and entertain our guest, I’ll not be long.”

  As Irene bustled off into the kitchen, Martha nervously sat back down in the other fireside chair. “I’m not quite sure how one entertains a vicar.”

  To her relief Vicar Sam’s face broke into a huge grin. “Entertain me as you would anyone else,” he laughed, “I’m quite human.”

  “Only quite?”

  Sam felt uncomfortable under her gaze and was unable to think of an intelligent response. For Martha was very attractive and her eyes teased him.

  “If I’m to entertain you as I would anyone else with whom I’m not well acquainted then I suppose we must discuss the weather.”

  Sam groaned. “Must we? It’s been pretty miserable of late. Rain, rain and more rain.”

  “I can’t disagree with that. So tell me, Sam, how long have you been the vicar here?”

  “Not long, a couple of years, I think. I was in Devon before I came to Pentrillick.”

  “And would it be a silly question to ask if you like being a vicar?”

  “No, not at all and the answer is yes I do. In fact I love it and love the people in this village too.”

  “What all of them?”

  “Well…umm…”

  “You don’t need to answer that.”

  “Thank you.”

  “So does being a man of the cloth run in your family? I mean, was your father also a clergyman?”

  Sam laughed. “No, my dad was a car mechanic and very good he was too. Well, he still is for that matter even though he’s retired. How about you? What’s your occupation?”

  Martha smiled. “I’m a nurse.”

  “Ah, an admirable profession but it must be very trying at times.”

  “It is especially when one is faced with death,” she smiled, “a bit like being a vicar, I suppose.”

  “Here we are, tea’s ready,” said Irene, as she carried in a tray on which stood three mugs of steaming tea, a bowl of sugar and slices of fruit cake, “I forgot to ask if you take sugar, Sam, and so brought the bowl.”

  “Thank you but I don’t.”

  “Sweet enough already, eh?” Martha giggled.

  As they drank their tea, Sam asked Irene if the police had released her mother’s remains.

  “Yes. I mean there’s no reason for them to detain them, is there? Not after all this time so we can have a funeral whenever it’s convenient to you and the undertakers.”

  “Okay, I’ll give them a ring in the morning and arrange that.”

  “Thank you. I’d like it over and done with as soon as possible because we’re only renting this place although we’ve been told we can extend our stay which we’ve already asked to do.”

  “I see,” Sam put down his mug of tea and picked up a slice of cake, �
��Please don’t think me indelicate but is it assumed by the police that your mother’s life was taken by the baker, Joseph Williams or do they suspect someone else?”

  “They suspect Joe,” Irene whispered, “but he wasn’t just the baker, Sam, he was my father.”

  Sam was taken back. “He was! Are you sure? I mean, how do you know?”

  “Mother’s DNA was a match with a man called Norman Williams who we are told is the son of Joseph the baker and it’ll no doubt be a match with the DNA the solicitors have been authorised to verify the baker’s offspring from.”

  “So, your mother was k…” Sam was unable to finish the sentence.

  “Yes,” sighed Irene, “my mother was killed by my biological father.”

  “But…but why?”

  “That my dear, Sam, I doubt we shall ever know.”

  On Sunday evening, Bill, Sandra and the children were finally able to sleep in the Old Bakehouse for the first time. The upstairs rooms were all done, the wood burning stove was installed and the removal of the beds from the sitting room meant there was enough space to decorate the downstairs walls. Meanwhile, the baking room still had much work to be done to convert it fully into a kitchen and the dining room was habitable and just needed a lick of paint. The washing machine had been plumbed into the back porch but a partition wall still needed to be constructed in order to house the downstairs toilet and wash basin which Sid had already fitted in a corner.

  “It feels like home now.” Vicki stood at the foot of the stairs and took in a deep breath, “and I love the smell of the paint and the new carpets.”

  “I couldn’t agree more and it’s going to be fun putting up Christmas decorations this year,” said Sandra, “we’ll hang cards from the beams and have the tree standing in between the two windows.”

  “And lights around our front door,” added Vicki.

  Shortly after, Zac and Vicki went to their rooms but Kate seemed reluctant to follow.

  “Anything wrong?” Sandra asked, “You don’t look very happy. I thought you’d be keen to get upstairs and sleep for the first time in your very own room.”

  “Oh, I am. I love the house and my room, it’s just…”

  “It’s just what?”

  Kate’s shoulders slumped. “It’s just that I’ve never had a room all to myself before. It’ll be weird not having Vicki to talk to.”

  “But I thought you wanted your own room,” laughed Bill, “You were raving about it earlier.”

  “Yes, but that was before it got dark.”

  Sandra frowned. “But you’re not afraid of the dark, surely, Kate.”

  “No, no, it’s just that,” she hesitated, “Do you believe in ghosts?”

  “Ah, that’s it, is it?” Bill chortled, “You think Geraldine Glover might come and back and haunt you.”

  Kate blushed. “It had crossed my mind, after all she did die here and so did Joe.”

  Sandra was more sympathetic than her husband. “Lots of houses have had people die in them, sweetheart including Primrose Cottage and you didn’t feel uncomfortable there, did you? Anyway, if all houses in which people had died were haunted no-one would ever get any sleep.”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  Sandra stroked Kate’s flushed cheek. “But if it’ll make you feel better, leave your bedroom door open and we’ll leave the landing light on all night and see how you get on but I promise you there’s nothing to worry about.”

  Kate stood up. “Okay, thanks, Mum, I will. Goodnight.”

  As they heard Kate run up the stairs, Bill glanced at his wife who looked a little pale. “She hasn’t got you worried too, has she?”

  “No…but…well, there might be something in what she says, don’t you think?”

  Bill laughed. “If Geraldine Glover didn’t haunt the place when she was cooped up in the oven I don’t think she’ll bother now that she’s free and everyone knows her plight.”

  “Yes, I suppose you’re right and if she was going to haunt anyone it’d have been old Joe seeing as how he murdered her.”

  “If he murdered her.”

  “Oh, don’t let’s go down that road again.”

  “I agree.” Bill reached out and squeezed Sandra’s hand. “Really, love, we’ve nothing to worry about here. Besides, this is a happy house now, especially since Auntie Het painted the front door bright yellow. Several people have told me they like it because it makes them smile.”

  “You’re always so down to earth,” laughed Sandra.

  “I guess that’s why you married me.”

  Sandra snuggled up beside him on the sofa. “I just wish I’d never seen that damn raven.”

  Bill laughed. “Or listened to your grandmother’s silly tales.”

  “Hmm, perhaps you’re right. Anyway, I’ve no need to worry because I know you’ll protect us all against scary things.”

  “Scary things?”

  “Yes, you know, ghosts, baddies or any murderers who might be lurking in the shadows.”

  “You read too many silly novels, Mrs Burton. Murderers indeed. There will be no more murders in this village. Mark my words.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  It was cold, damp and very windy on Monday evening as Hetty walked down to the village after dark in torchlight with Albert, her Yorkshire terrier, on his lead. As she passed the Crown and Anchor she peeped in through the window to see if Zac was working behind the bar; when she saw that he wasn’t she remembered that it was pool night and the team were away in one of the Helston pubs.

  Because the evening was miserable and there were very few people outdoors, Hetty decided rather than to walk any further than the village, to let the dog have a good run around on the beach where she knew it would be possible for them to see in the glow of lights shining from buildings that overlooked the sand and shingle.

  As she neared the alleyway which led down to the beach, she passed a lone figure. Unable to see the individual’s face for her head was bowed low against the strong north-easterly wind, she nevertheless greeted the person in a friendly manner but received no more than a grunt in response. Assuming the person was unknown to her she turned into the alleyway which was a little more sheltered than the street.

  As expected the beach was deserted except for a cat perched on a wall which seemed to be luring Albert to give chase. Hetty laughed as the small dog trotted across the sand and shingle, one eye on the cat, the other on the huge waves which he knew were in the habit of suddenly wetting his paws if he were not vigilant.

  Hetty sat down on a bench. It was moist and she knew it would make her coat damp but it was only an old one and she considered it needed a wash anyway. To help keep warm she tucked her chin inside her scarf and folded her arms tightly; she then thought about Christmas and wondered if Bill and Sandra would have their new kitchen finished by then because due to the discovery of Geraldine Glover, work was well behind schedule.

  Hetty pulled her woollen hat down over her ears to muffle the sound of the howling wind and the waves crashing onto the shore. The metal sign outside the beach shop, closed for the winter, added to the noise as it rattled and clattered in its frame accompanied by a tarpaulin flapping and snapping against the small boat it covered; a complete contrast, thought Hetty, to the stillness of a calm summer evening.

  With the surrounding sounds slightly muffled, Hetty watched the lights of a distant ship on the horizon and while shuddering at the idea of being out at sea on such a cheerless night, she heard Albert barking. Concerned, she sat up straight. Was he chasing the cat or had another dog come onto the beach? She stood and cast her eyes in the direction of the little dog’s barks. He was leaping on the spot and barking at something near the rocks at the end of the beach. Keen to put his mind at rest, Hetty hurried across the wet sand to where the little dog stood. When she saw the reason for his concern, her jaw dropped. Lying against the rocks, her legs soaked by the tumbling waves, was the body of a small woman. She wore a grey coat and was face down, one of her
boots was missing and her exposed sock was entwined with a strand of seaweed. Hetty switched on her torch. Something appeared to be clasped in the woman’s hand but it was not possible to see what. Hetty wanted to turn the body over to see if it was anyone she recognised but knew that she should not touch. However, knowing that it was important to establish whether or not the lady was alive, she searched for a pulse. To her amazement she felt a gentle throb. Realising time was of the essence she took her mobile phone from the pocket of her coat. With trembling fingers she punched in 999 and asked for an ambulance and the police. Hetty then removed her coat and cardigan and covered the woman with both hoping that by doing so it might help prevent hypothermia setting in. She then sat down on the sand with Albert by her side and waited. As she shivered and her teeth chattered she prayed that the tide would slow down so that no more than the woman’s legs would be submerged in sea water.

  It seemed an eternity as she waited for help to arrive but in reality little more than ten minutes passed before she heard the welcome sound of sirens and saw the flashing blue lights. And as the team of men and women emerged from the vehicles being parked on the beach, she waved and called to them. With a police officer by her side, Hetty, now wrapped in a blanket, stood back and watched as the paramedics gently turned the body over. When she realised it was someone she knew, she gasped. The casualty was Bridget Barnes, the daughter of Joe and his first wife Cicely who had been adopted shortly after her birth.

  Considering it was a Monday, that the pool team were away and that many people had been to work and had work the next day, the Crown and Anchor became very busy later that evening. Having heard the emergency vehicles’ sirens the locals were keen to learn and spread the latest news. The most imaginative villagers on hearing of Bridget Barnes’ plight insisted that she had been attacked and left for dead while those of a more down to earth disposition believed that she had been taken ill. The latter of the theories was eventually ratified by Bridget’s husband, Geoff, who sent word from the hospital to Irene Hewitt with whom he and his wife had formed a friendship. Irene, who was in the pub with her daughter Martha informed the locals that Biddy had gone for a walk hoping to settle a bout of suspected indigestion which she had put down to having eaten a heavy lunch several hours earlier.