by Nancy Warren
“Oh, my goodness, Poppy!” she exclaimed, staring at me and then at the huge slab on the ground, and then looking up at the tower. “I heard the noise but didn’t know what it was. Are you all right?”
“I’m not hurt. Only shocked. But I’d be dead if it wasn’t for Sly. He literally herded me away from the tower. The stone missed both of us by inches.”
The color drained from Susan’s face, making her red hair seem even redder. She looked horrified. It was something like the expression I’m sure I made the first time I realized I was seeing a ghost.
She was staring at the handle of her crushed basket. Somehow, it felt more deadly to see a basket associated with produce or picnics crushed like that. “You could have been killed. I feel so responsible. I’m the one who sent you up here. But I’d no idea that the tower was in such a state of disrepair. I haven’t been here myself in ages. I knew it was old and damp, but certainly not crumbling.”
“You weren’t to know,” I said, but I was still shaking from the shock.
“It’s not the first thing to go wrong on this property. My husband and I settled on Broomewode Farm as our new home only because Arnold and Lord Frome knew each other through work, but I’d no idea how much upkeep an old farm involves. Things go wrong more often than one would hope. Life was so much easier in London. I wonder if I’ll ever get used to it here.”
I didn’t know what to say. The world the Bentleys and Champneys appeared to inhabit was beyond my imagination. I wouldn’t mind a farm and acres of land, even if it was a bit downtrodden. When I bought the Olde Bakery, it certainly didn’t look like Buckingham Palace. I’d spent months renovating the place, pulling up some of the old carpet and replacing it with the same flagstones in the rest of the cottage that I’d found on eBay. I retiled the kitchen and bathroom myself and gave the whole thing a makeover with fancy paint I’d saved and saved for. I guessed the Bentleys were used to living in a flashy London pad. Probably a penthouse. Even still, I did know something about feeling displaced, so despite just having had a near-death experience, I smiled at Susan and tried to comfort her.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “There’s no harm done. And Sly is a hero.” I looked again at that ominous slab that, now I stared at it, resembled the top of a coffin. “You should put up some rope or something, though, and a sign warning people to keep clear.”
She smiled weakly back at me. “Good idea. I’ll get someone to do that today. In the meantime, come back to the house and we’ll have a cup of tea.”
I wasn’t so sure that I was in the mood for tea—a stiff vodka tonic would have done the trick—but I picked up the full basket of berries and my bag and followed Susan and Sly back to the farmhouse. Gateau brought up the rear.
The fawn-gray front door was open, and in the entrance a tall man was silhouetted. He was holding a copy of The Financial Times, and as we approached, he raised it to shield his eyes from the sun.
“Susan?” he called out. “Is everything all right? I heard something.”
“There’s been an accident, Arnold, but no one is hurt,” she called back.
As we grew closer, I took in his cashmere sweater and flannels. It was the man I’d almost collided with at the pub, the one I was certain had argued with Peter Puddifoot. Now, in place of his smart brown brogues was a pair of tartan slippers, and reading glasses were hanging around his neck on a silver chain. I said hello and smiled, but if he recognized me, he didn’t show it. Not even a blink.
Susan introduced us, and he shook my hand with a palm-crushing grip. She explained about me returning Sly, how I was “one of those charming bakers” and about the gooseberry-picking for my cake. While she was talking, he stared quizzically at Gateau, who had one leg cocked in the air and was giving herself a good clean. So not ladylike.
“We should put up warning signs, Arnold. Not that anyone goes near it except us and Katie Donegal sometimes. Still, I wouldn’t want anyone to get hurt.”
“I’d come over to the tower to take a look, but I’m afraid you may have stirred up the bees.”
Susan looked alarmed. “Oh, I didn’t mean you. I’ll have Peter Puddifoot or one of the lads do it. Have you got your EpiPen on you, darling?” My ears perked up when she mentioned Peter Puddifoot. He was the man who’d been shouting at her husband not so long ago.
“Of course, I do,” he replied, with the air of a man used to repeating himself. He pulled the EpiPen from his pocket. “Never go anywhere without it,” he said, turning it over in his large hands. “And luck getting that lazy, no-good Puddifoot to fix anything around this place. He was getting drunk in the pub last time I saw him.”
“Well, I’ll get someone else, then,” she said in a soothing tone.
Peter Puddifoot had indeed been drinking a cider with his mates in the pub, but he’d been far from getting drunk. There was definitely serious animosity between those two.
“Poppy, are you ready for that tea?”
I was not. Still shocked from almost being obliterated by a slab of falling tower, I didn’t want to make small talk with strangers. Besides, if I was gone, they could get busy posting warning signs around that tower. I made my excuses to Susan, explaining that I needed to get ready for tomorrow’s challenge.
“I understand,” Susan said. “But you must return another time so that I can serve you some of my fruitcake. I’d love your opinion as an expert baker.”
She handed me a bag filled with fresh eggs and a glass jar of golden honey. I thanked her and gently placed the bundle in my tote bag. I gave Sly a big old stroke and thanked him for saving me. He wagged his tail in response. He really was a special dog. Arnold gave me the briefest bow of his head and headed back inside with his wife.
The door slammed behind them, and I jumped with a start. My nerves were jangled. If Broomewode was supposed to be a magical place that drew witches to it, why was I continually being confronted by my own mortality? I tapped the amethyst on the necklace around my neck with my nail. “Hello, hello, is this thing on?”
I walked back down the path, my gaze drawn to that ruined tower. It didn’t look any different. Just as lonely and romantic as before, only this time, the very sight of it filled me with dread.
Turning resolutely away, I said to my little sidekick, “Shall we go back to the pub and get some lunch or take these gooseberries to Katie?” I wasn’t even scheming to get inside; I simply wanted to warn the woman. What if she chose today, of all days, to pick berries? She seemed determined enough to pick one-handed. Or talk one of the kitchen helpers into it. Either way, I wanted to warn the kitchen staff to stay clear.
The sound of an air rifle cracked across the sky. I jumped again, this time nearly dropping my bag of baking goodies. Was Lord Frome shooting clay pigeons again? I was in no fit state to charm my way inside that fortress or tell them that I’d nearly been crushed by their dodgy old tower. A better idea would be to drop off my produce for the weekend’s challenge at the tent—while I still had it.
I slung the tote higher up my shoulder and turned in the direction of the tent. Gateau bounded ahead of me and disappeared into the depths of a huge flowering bush. Rather than calling her back, I figured she might need a little I’m just a cat time. She’d find me when she needed me or, as was more likely, when I needed her. She might have a bit of an attitude, but that cat certainly knew how to do her job.
A flock of gray birds rushed over my head, their wings beating so rapidly they made a whooshing sound that startled me. I definitely wasn’t feeling myself. All week I’d been itching to get back here, and now that I was, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. Dreadfully wrong.
Was I overreacting about a bit of old stone falling so close to me? Was it witchy intuition, or was I just losing my nerve? I touched the purple stone again and wished with all my might that Elspeth would show up and tell me that everything was all right.
There was a rustle from behind a buckthorn bush, and I wondered what new horror was in store.
Wild boars? As I backed away, Benedict Champney emerged. He looked as surprised to see me as I was to see him. Way to go, Poppy. That’s twice in one day you’ve collided with a strange man. What else would you like to walk straight into? A door?
“Poppy!” Benedict spluttered. He was wearing an old flannel shirt with grass stains on it and heavy work trousers with frayed hems. His hands were encased in big brown work gloves, and a length of rope was slung over his shoulder. He had a toolbelt on. This guy. He never wore the same kind of outfit twice. First some kind of historical getup, then a posh cashmere sweater, and now he looked more like a gardener.
He paused and studied my face more intently. “You look awfully pale. Are you all right?”
I wondered if all this equipment was so he could put up barriers around the tower. I certainly hoped so. “Are you headed to the tower?”
He looked at me strangely. “What tower?”
Maybe he wasn’t heading toward Broomewode Farm at Susan’s behest. Briefly, I explained that Susan Bentley had let me pick gooseberries at the base of the old tower and that part of it had fallen and nearly crushed me to death. I found that even in the short time since it had happened, the incident was taking on a fairy-tale quality. Like it hadn’t really happened or as if it were in the past.
“Good Lord,” he said, shaking his head with the same look of horror as Susan had given me. “You do mean the old chapel tower?”
How many towers were there around here that tossed rocks at unsuspecting gooseberry pickers? “Yes. The old chapel tower at Broomewode Farm.”
We both turned to look in the direction of the tower, though it was invisible from here.
“I thought that’s where you were going,” I said, gesturing to the rope.
“I’ve been out mending the fences this morning. It’s an endless job.” He shifted the rope on his shoulder. “Now I’ll have to abandon it and see what I can do about securing the tower.”
I nodded, for the second time that day clueless as to how to respond to the woes of the wealthy.
“I’ll head over to the farm now. If it’s unsafe, we’ll have to repair it. There’s no tearing down of Grade II listed buildings.”
I nodded again, still mute, still having trouble working up a whole lot of pity for these people who owned so much, including a piece of history that they’d no doubt knock down if they could.
Benedict looked concerned again. “Perhaps you’d best have a lie-down? Have you eaten any lunch?”
I shook my head. No wonder I was feeling strange. I was hungry. I guess not even a close call with the grim reaper himself could disrupt my appetite.
I told him I was just going to drop off my foraged ingredients at the tent and then I’d get myself some lunch back at the pub. I felt a bit dizzy and hoped I wouldn’t make an utter fool of myself by fainting.
“Shall I walk you to the village? You really look most odd.”
And wasn’t that what every girl wanted to hear? “No. I’ll be fine. I haven’t eaten much today, and the shock…”
I waved Benedict goodbye and headed toward the tent. Since I didn’t hear rustling leaves and branches snapping behind me, I was fairly certain he was watching me. No doubt making sure I didn’t suffer a fatality before getting off his land.
At last I left the path and began to cross the fields toward the tent. From the outside, it looked the same as ever: white and vast, billowing in the breeze. Not even the vaguest suggestion of the terrible events that had happened here last week. I shuddered. I didn’t know whether it felt like coming home or stepping back into a nightmare. I took a deep breath and swallowed. There was only one way to find out.
Chapter 5
With only a day to go before filming, the tent was buzzing with activity. A cleaning crew, cameramen, and what looked to be a new sound guy were going about their duties with a quiet intensity. I optimistically scanned the tent for Elspeth or Gina, but no such luck. Worse luck, in fact, as I spied Gerry in the corner hovering over the ovens and admonishing Aaron Keel, the electrician, who was checking the wiring. For a scary second, I thought Aaron might have heard Gerry because he straightened and looked suspiciously around. But it must have been instinct, not ability, that he sensed someone flapping around in his face.
Waving to a couple of the cameramen, I gestured to my bag of goodies and went to my workstation. Its white surface was sparkling. I carefully put the gooseberries and eggs into the fridge and the honey in my allocated cupboard, closing the door gently. My mind began to whir with ideas on how to make my gooseberry upside-down cake sing tomorrow.
When I came out of the tent, I saw Peter Puddifoot walking down the path from the manor house. He did not look like he was in a good mood. When he looked up and saw me staring, he glared until I hastily averted my gaze. He didn’t know I’d overheard his argument with Arnold Bentley or that I knew he believed he should have had Broomewode Farm. I wondered if he’d been up at the big house complaining about the current farm tenants. If he had, he didn’t look like his visit had been a success.
He made his way toward a riding lawnmower, climbed aboard and started it up with a roar. I watched him attacking the lawn as though each blade of grass was his enemy and he was leaving no prisoners. The sound was deafening.
I made a wide berth, not wishing to be mistaken for lawn.
Suddenly, he stopped, got down, and walked around the front of his lawnmower with a frown on his face. He bent and picked something up, turning it in his hands. I moved closer. It was Sly’s orange ball. As if on cue, the collie came bounding across the freshly mowed grass, kicking up green as he went. But as he got closer, I saw Peter’s face turn redder and redder. He was furious. The collie bounded up to his ball and tried to jump up to Peter to say hello—but to my absolute horror, Peter’s foot shot out. I watched it happen in slow motion. The boot. The happy dog’s face. And then the impact. Sly yelped and fell back.
I was horrified and cried out, running forward.
Once more the gardener glared at me. “Keep this bloody dog off my lawn,” he shouted. He must know perfectly well it wasn’t my dog. He threw the ball on the ground in disgust and stomped back to his mower.
Sly picked up his ball, and I grabbed his collar and walked awkwardly away, bent over, my arm like a human leash.
When we were well out of lawnmower range, I stopped and crouched in front of the dog. “Poor thing,” I murmured, stroking his head, while his big brown eyes stared at me adoringly. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” That hateful Peter. Did he kick the dog as a way of getting back at its owner? What kind of a monster would do something like that?
I wanted to stand up for this loyal dog who’d saved my life, but I didn’t know what to do. Go and tell Lord Frome what his gardener was up to? Give the grumpy gardener a piece of my mind? I felt a chill down the back of my neck and turned to see Gerry behind my shoulder. “Did you see that? He kicked poor Sly.” I was furious but still kept my head enough to make sure I kept looking at the collie. Let anyone watching think I was talking to the dog.
“I did,” he said. “Peter Puddifoot is a right rotter. You do not want to rub that geezer up the wrong way.”
A cameraman was coming toward us, and I couldn’t be seen talking to nothing, so I told Sly to go back home (to my surprise, he licked my hand, took his ball and then dashed off) and then started to walk down a quieter path.
“Hey! Ruuuude. Where do you think you’re going?” Gerry whined.
I made a small follow-me motion with my hand and kept walking.
“Ah, I get it. You don’t wanna look like you’ve lost the plot talking to thin air.” He sighed and put a hand through his belly. “Can’t believe this bad boy isn’t solid. All those hours in the gym. And now no one can see my perfect abs.”
We were far away enough now that I could reply. “Gerry, you were more sweet doughnut than rock candy and you know it.”
He laughed good-naturedly. “No point going to the gym now. What you see is
what you get.”
I turned onto the gravel path back to the inn. I checked that no one was around and then said, “So tell me, what on earth is Peter’s problem?”
“Well, one benefit to being a ghost is I get to overhear private conversations. And what a corker I witnessed earlier this week. Puddifoot and a chap named Arnold had a huge fight and—”
“Wait, did you say Arnold?”
He nodded.
“Arnold Bentley?”
“No idea of his surname. Old geezer, long face and looked like he was headed to his gentlemen’s club fifty years too late.”
I smiled, but the description was perfect. “I met him today.”
“Those two had a massive argument over the grounds of Broomewode Hall a couple of days back. Turns out that Lord Frome had promised Arnold that his team of gardeners would also look after part of the Bentley’s farmland. But Peter and his team had been slacking off, deciding that it wasn’t part of their job to please their boss’s mates. But when Arnold came to the inn to ask Peter about it this week, Peter just exploded about ‘not bending to the will of privileged tossers.’”
“So that’s two massive arguments the two have had.” I filled Gerry in on the fight I’d overheard.
He whistled softly. “No wonder he’s got such a bug up his arse. He thought the farm was going to be his. Now, not only does he lose the farm but also his pet bees.”
I turned to him, astonished. “Pet bees? Who kicks a beautiful dog and fights for stinging insects?”
“Tells you everything you need to know about Peter Puddifoot.”
I thought of that beautiful, golden honey and felt horrible. “Bees are wonderful insects. They pollinate flowers and make honey and wax. I don’t mean to be unkind.”
He looked at me oddly. “Poppy, I don’t think they can hear you.” He leaned closer and in a stage whisper said, “You didn’t hurt the bees’ feelings.”
