by Nancy Warren
Contents
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
A Note from Nancy
Poppy’s Recipe for Gooseberry Upside-Down Cake with Raspberry Kisses
Also by Nancy Warren
About the Author
Introduction
Can she bake a winning cake without getting iced?
Competition is hotter than the pre-heated ovens as The Great British Baking Competition moves into cake week. Amateur baker Poppy Wilkinson has a lot to deal with, from learning she has talents she never knew about, to trying to keep cool and bake under pressure.
She’s also trying to track down the secrets of her parentage. Meanwhile, she’s saved from death by a local Border collie who seems to think she’s part of his flock and herds her out of danger. Was it an accident or does someone want her out of the baking competition permanently?
With witches, an energy vortex, an ancient manor house that holds it’s secrets tight, Poppy’s barely got time to practice her fondant icing, never mind escape from a killer.
Taste this culinary cozy mystery series from USA Today Bestselling author Nancy Warren. Each book is a stand-alone mystery, though the books are linked. They offer good, clean fun, and, naturally, recipes.
The best way to keep up with new releases and special offers is to join Nancy’s newsletter at nancywarren.net.
Praise for The Great Witches Baking Show series
“I loved it! I could not put it down once I'd started it.”
Cissy. Amazon Top 1000 Reviewer
“Such a cute, fun read to kick off a new series!”
Becky, Amazon Top 1000 Reviewer
“I love the story. The characters are wonderful. And #2 in the series cannot come soon enough! More, please!”
Barb, Goodreads Reviewer
“This book was funny, sweet and had a good amount of mystery and suspense which kept me invested throughout. I cannot wait to read the next book in this series.”
Erin, Goodreads Reviewer
Chapter 1
The gorgeous rolling green hills of Somerset were achingly beautiful in the golden morning light, but they couldn’t hold a candle to the electric glow I felt as I hit the accelerator in my little Renault Clio and Broomewode Hall came into view. It was as magnificent as ever. Home to The Great British Baking Contest, the manor house was a Georgian masterpiece. The leaded piping lent the symmetrical windows an air of elegant mystery, and the proud turrets reached up as if to touch the few puffy clouds that interrupted the beckoning blue sky. It was surrounded by perfectly manicured lawns and flowerbeds bursting with a wealth of spring offerings: daffodils, tulips, and hyacinths in colorful abundance. To my left was the vast white calico tent where filming took place, and underneath its solemn awning, the workstations were ready and waiting for the second episode of The Great British Baking Contest to begin filming.
I pulled into the parking area behind the pub, which also offered comfortable rooms where we baking contestants were housed during filming. I couldn’t believe it had only been five days since I’d driven away from the inn. It had been a weekend of fierce baking competition, sabotage, the murder of my new friend Gerry—and then, to top it all off, the great master baker Elspeth Peach informed me that I was a witch.
And so was she.
To say it was a jaw-dropping weekend would be a gigantic understatement. Mind. Blown.
I’d applied to the show because I’d been searching for clues about my birth parents and thought Broomewode Hall might hold the answers. But last weekend I ended up learning things about myself that I never could’ve predicted. It turned out that I was a water witch, though I still had almost zero clue as to what that really meant. One of my special powers was seeing ghosts, an oddity I’d lived with all my life but had never been able to share with anyone. But now I could share it with a celebrity baker: Elspeth Peach, someone I’d looked up to from afar but now I thought of as family.
Since then, I’d had a restless week. I mean, a climbing the walls kind of week.
I thought that I’d love being back in my sleepy village near Bath in Somerset, and my cottage, The Olde Bakery, in the break before the next episode was to be filmed. I’d always felt protected by its solid stone walls, flagstone floors, and its charming misshapen rooms. Outside, spring was working her magic and my rambling herb garden was luscious and fragrant. The murderous drama of last weekend’s show was behind me, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that my home, well, didn’t feel so homey anymore.
It was strange. I couldn’t quite put my finger on the problem. Everything was as I’d left it. My baking equipment was piled high on the draining board by the sink; the clothes I’d rejected for filming were still scattered across my bed after my last-minute panic packing. Even Mildred, my resident ghost, was there to greet me when I got in, desperate to know how all her baking tips had fared in the competition. My sweet new cat, Gateau, who’d attached herself to me at Broomewode Hall, had no problem making herself comfy immediately. It took her all of ten minutes to adjust to her new surroundings. She sniffed about the place and then settled on the armchair in front of the kitchen’s fireplace, the spot where I usually sat and trawled through recipe books. But being away from Broomewode Hall felt––wrong. I couldn’t shake the sensation that I needed to be back there.
I tried to ignore the pull and spent as much time as I could practicing for the coming weekend’s cake challenge. One evening I had Gina over to taste-test my cakes as well as share some Chinese takeout, a bottle of wine, and indulge in a Friends marathon.
It was so nice for us to spend some girly time together after all that happened and try to decompress, but even these pleasures didn’t overcome the odd feeling that continued to plague me. Besides, Gina still couldn’t get her head around the incident in the forest when Gordon was trying to kill her and I had a huge power surge that seemed to come out of nowhere and managed to throw him off her. I couldn’t convince Gina to drop the subject, so instead I plied her with egg rolls until she became too full to ask any more questions. Blessed be the egg roll.
When I suspected the whole of last weekend had been an elaborate nightmare, and I wasn’t a contestant on the long-running reality show at all, I’d touch the amethyst necklace that Elspeth had given me for protection. Every time I touched the beautiful purple stone, I felt calmer.
According to Elspeth, I was connected to a coven of witches. Witches! I’d kept my eyes open for pointy hats, warts on noses, boiling cauldrons and broom-shaped flying objects, but Broomewode and the connected village seemed tranquil. I was more likely to come across grazing sheep and friendly villagers than witches. Or so I hoped.
Still, after a couple of days at home, I could no longer ignore the urge to get back to Broomewode Hall. I remembered what Elspeth said when she first told me I was a witch: Settle your mind and don’t ignore your intuition. I knew that several things were bothering me.
First, I was desperate to continue searching for information about my birth parents. As a baby, I’d been left in an apple crate outside the Philpott’s bakery in Norton St. Philip, a charming village near Bath in Somerset. I had zero information about my parents. The only clue was the hand-knitted baby blanket I’d been bundled in. I’d seen an identical design on a shawl draped across a woman in a painting at Broomewode Hall when I’d been watching the show.
Rumor had it that a mystic
energy ran from Glastonbury, where King Arthur is said to be buried, to Broomewode Hall and beyond. Elspeth confirmed that Broomewode was a special place for witches––an energy vortex, she called it. I began to wonder whether maybe my birth mom was a witch, too.
I’d had a vision of her, pregnant and distressed, running away from something, or someone, when I’d been at Broomewode Hall. But this still left me none the wiser about that mysterious painting and whether the lady in it was even alive. I had so many questions and no answers.
So far, my attempts to get inside Broomewode Hall had been thwarted. Its owners, Lord and Lady Frome, were notoriously private. I’d tried to talk to Katie Donegal, the manor house cook, who’d worked for the Champney family for thirty years and knew all the local gossip. But she was weirdly reluctant to tell me anything about my only clue—that I looked like someone named Valerie who’d lived in the village more than twenty years ago. I was certain Katie was holding back, and since it was so busy during filming over the weekend, I decided to arrive a bit earlier than scheduled and come up with an inventive way to get past those intimidating oak doors.
I guessed now was the time to start waking up my dormant witchy powers, whatever they were. I hoped that I could do super-cool stuff, like levitate. Or become invisible! All I knew for certain was that using my powers for personal gain was strictly off the table. So I needed, no, I was champing at the bit to ask the great Elspeth Peach a zillion questions about being a witch. She’d given me a few details, but I was no closer to understanding the full picture. Plus, despite the unfortunate start to the series, my competitive nature hadn’t dampened one bit. I wanted to show the judges, Elspeth and Jonathon, that I was a brilliant baker, too. All in all, it’s fair to say that instead of getting some R and R and my A-game ready for the second episode of The Great British Baking Contest, I was distracted and antsy, counting down the hours till I could load up my car and haul my witchy butt back to the inn.
Instead of waiting until Friday evening, when the remaining contestants were expected to arrive, I left early Friday morning. I packed and put together some food for Gateau (turned out she had a penchant for organic roast chicken—of course my familiar would be a high-maintenance gourmet) and heaved my suitcase into my car. Gateau liked to ride up front, so I settled her into the passenger seat, and she promptly fell asleep the moment the engine began to rumble.
Fifty minutes later, having miraculously avoided a speeding ticket, I was back.
I let Gateau out, and she scampered happily toward the garden while I fetched my case.
I came around the corner of the building and had to smile as Gateau pounced on the moving shadow of a leaf flickering on the ground. I paused under a blossom tree, breathing deep, enjoying the peace of the day. However, that peace was suddenly shattered by the sound of a man shouting. The gruff voice boomed, “Don’t you walk away from me, ye great numpty. I’m telling you it can’t be done. It would be murder.”
Naturally, at the word murder, my ears perked up.
The speaker had a local Somerset accent, and though I couldn’t yet identify him, I was certain I’d heard that voice before. The man who answered him, also sounding as though they were in the middle of an argument, had a posh, smooth accent. “The bees will only be moved a mile. How could that possibly hurt them?”
I heard a thump as though one of the two had punched something, perhaps his opponent, and the Somerset voice cried out with fury, “You can move beehives two feet or you can move them more than three miles, but less than that, they’ll go back to the place they remember, fly around looking for that hive until they die. If you move them a mile, you might as well spray them with insecticide and be done with it.”
Bees? He was talking about murdering bees?
“Then perhaps that’s what I’ll do. I don’t think you quite understand. I have a deadly allergy to bees. I’m afraid to walk about on my own property.”
Yet another cry of helpless rage blasted through the calm of a sleepy Somerset midmorning. “Your property! I like that. My own dad worked his whole life on that farm. And I should have had it after him. Lord Frome promised.”
“That’s none of my affair,” the other man said in a slow, condescending tone, as though this argument had been had many times before. “You must take that up with the current earl. He’s the one who rented the farm to me, which he had a legal right to do, and which gives me a legal right to live there. Unharassed.”
“Your kind. You make me sick. I won’t let you destroy the work of a lifetime. I won’t.” A man practically exploded around the corner of the pub and stormed past where I was standing, very still, in the shade of the tree. He was so angry, he didn’t notice me standing there quietly. Even Gateau froze as the man stomped by in a thundering great temper. I was right. I had heard that voice before. I recognized him as Peter Puddifoot, who was a gardener or groundskeeper for Broomewode Hall.
He kicked gravel as he stomped along, then paused as though undecided before turning into the pub entrance. I decided to follow. If the second man who’d been in that argument came around the corner with less fury, he might catch me eavesdropping. He hadn’t appeared yet, so perhaps he’d gone in the other direction. That or he was taking a minute to cool down.
Curious about this bee-murdering business, I dragged my case toward the pub’s entrance, hoping Eve would be on duty and in the mood to gossip.
Chapter 2
Inside the inn, I rushed straight to the bar to see if Eve was working. There were a few people having lunch, and no one that I recognized but Peter Puddifoot, who’d joined a group at a large table. They were probably locals who stayed well away from the film-crew madness that descended at the weekends. He leaned in and was talking in furious undertones. I was pretty sure I could guess the context.
To my delight, Eve’s warm, smiling face was behind the bar, and the minute she finished pouring a pint of Somerset cider, she stepped out and enveloped me in a giant hug.
“Poppy, sweetheart, you’re early. And you look so well. I can’t believe it’s been a week since all that tragic business happened. It feels like a bad dream.”
I agreed with Eve, and we caught up on the week. Like me, she’d had trouble settling back into a routine. “Everyone who works around Broomewode Hall is on edge, though it had hit the crew hardest. They couldn’t believe someone they’d worked so closely alongside, drank pints with in the pub and even invited into their homes was capable of murder.”
“And Gordon seemed so nice.” I still couldn’t get over that the man who’d mic’d me up and flirted so ineptly was a killer.
“It’s still the main topic of gossip among the locals,” she whispered, pointing at the table of men who were tucking into plates of fish-and-chips and burgers, most enjoying a pint of something along with the food. I felt hungry simply watching them eat.
I wanted to ask Eve about the fight I’d overheard but didn’t want the gardener to overhear me. Besides, I had more important things to do. Unpacking would be a good start. It would be nice if I could show up on camera without looking like my clothes were all creased.
Eve fetched a key from one of the hooks that lined the back of the bar and pressed it into my hand. “You’ve all been given the same rooms as last week. You should feel right at home.” And safe, too, I guessed. But it didn’t feel weird to be back here, even though last week someone had tried to murder me. Eve was right. It did feel like home.
“You fancy a drink first, Poppy? Tea or coffee? Something a little stronger?”
I was about to refuse (I needed to get going if I was going to get back into Broomewode Hall today) when a guffawing racket exploded from the crowded table and startled me. It was the kind of noise that only British men seemed to be able to make when they gathered in groups. It was loud and kind of obnoxious. Peter Puddifoot was looking pretty pleased with himself, so I guessed he’d cracked the joke that caused the rest of his group to double up with laughter. No doubt the butt of the joke was
even now fuming over their argument.
There was another man watching the merriment. He sat alone with a pint of beer in front of him. He had brown hair and a pale complexion and was wearing a cheap-looking suit. He looked like a businessman and, from his dejected expression, not the most successful one.
“I think I’ll go up to my room and unpack first,” I said to Eve. “I’ll come down a bit later for some lunch.” I’d become so wrapped up in the overheard argument that I’d nearly forgotten to ask Eve’s advice about the first baking challenge tomorrow. “Eve, do you have any idea where I’d find local produce?” We weren’t supposed to let anything about the production slip, but it would be pretty obvious to Eve why I was asking.
Her nose wrinkled as she gave my question some thought. “It’s a bit early for fruits. Of course, there are root vegetables and apples and things, but you might try the gift shop. We sell local jams and sweets. Might be a start?”
“Of course. Thank you.” I’d never been inside the gift shop in an outbuilding beside the inn. I’d assumed it was for the tourists and Baking Contest fans who came on tours when they weren’t actively filming. However, if they sold local edibles, I’d definitely have a look. I’d brought some apples and pears, both grown in Somerset, and some nuts. I had an idea for an upside-down cake, but I needed to add some pizzazz to it or come up with something else by tomorrow. I thought it was a cruel trick of the show to make us use fresh produce so early in the growing season, but maybe that was the point. To see how innovative we could be.
