Blood, Sweat and Tiers Read online

  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

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Poppy’s Strawberry and Basil Layer Cake

  A Note from Nancy

  Also by Nancy Warren

  About the Author

  Introduction

  "I love cozy mysteries and The Great British Baking Show and this wonderfully quirky series combines them to perfection!"

  The Earl of Frome gets a shock when a gaggle of nosy bird watchers gang up on him. When one of them winds up dead, it doesn't look good for the Earl. Amateur baker Poppy Wilkinson gets embroiled in yet another murder mystery. It's a good thing she's got witchy powers as she has to solve a murder, try and learn more about her own mysterious beginnings and turn out a winning cake, because it's cake week in the competition tent.

  From USA Today Bestselling author Nancy Warren comes the 5th book in the witches baking series. Each book can be read alone. They feature no sex, gore or bad language but lots of clues, some quirky humor, and recipes. "Just my cup of tea--with cake!"

  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

  “Why is Lord Frome coming toward us with a rifle?” Florence whispered, moving so she stood behind Hamish’s broad back. I looked up from my workstation in the competition tent on the grounds of Broomewode Hall in Somerset in the UK. It was Friday afternoon, and the three of us over-keen bakers had arrived early to prepare for this weekend’s filming of The Great British Baking Contest. That is, if we could survive whatever the Earl of Frome was about to do with his rifle.

  I’d never seen the Lord of the Manor inside the tent’s crisp white awning before. Although he walked with long, purposeful strides, he looked awkward, totally out of sync with the bustling energy of the tent. It might have had something to do with his getup. I’d lived in the English countryside long enough to recognize that he and the man he was with were wearing hunting tweeds: wool caps, tweed jackets with matching vests over jodhpurs tucked into leather boots. Under the vest and jacket, they wore checked shirts with ties. The whole thing was so elaborate, so traditional, it was almost farcical.

  I looked back at Florence, who––ever the actor––was still playfully hiding behind Hamish, and laughed. “Don’t worry,” I told her. “He won’t shoot us. He needs the money from The Great British Baking Contest to run the estate.”

  There was a muffled snicker from one of the technicians setting up the lights. Oops. I’d have to keep my voice down if I didn’t want to start accidentally spreading local gossip.

  Apart from the contestants, the tent was buzzing with staff from the show, checking sound and running through camera positions to make sure everything would be ready to roll for filming early tomorrow morning.

  Hamish took a step away from Florence. “There’s nothing to fear—that’s a shotgun meant for hunting game, not killing people. Besides, it’s broken, which means he can’t shoot it.”

  Hamish was a police officer up in the Scottish Highlands, but he raised Shetland ponies and knew all about farming. By broken, I assumed he meant the way the barrel was bent away from the stock of the gun so it looked like a triangle.

  Florence tucked a stray strand of chestnut hair behind her ears. She was wearing it in a high ponytail today and looked more casual than usual but still glamorous. But then the woman could have worn a flour sack with holes cut out for arms and look gorgeous.

  The earl was crossing the tent now, with the second man following behind, also carrying a shotgun. To my horror, he was heading straight for us, but I couldn’t imagine why. Was this another ploy to be at one with the village people? I grimaced as I remembered his and Lady Frome’s little performance in the pub a couple of weeks ago, talking to the staff and customers as if they were one big happy family. No one had been fooled.

  The earl stopped at Hamish’s workstation. His shotgun tapped the floor as he let it rest by his side. “Good afternoon, bakers,” he said in his posh voice. “How are you all getting on?”

  “Fine, fine,” Hamish said, and Florence and I nodded.

  “Good, good,” the earl echoed. He looked around the tent with an appraising eye, as if he were considering buying the place—pretty silly, considering the grounds belonged to his family.

  There was a moment of silence, which not even the vivacious Florence attempted to break. I took the opportunity to study the earl’s face. Just like the first time I met Lord Frome, I was struck by how much he looked like a cardboard cutout of an aristocrat. He must have been well into his fifties, but had a full head of neatly coiffed hair, gray now, but with a few lingering streaks of ashy brown. His deep brown eyes were close-set beside a strong, slightly pointed nose, which his son Benedict had inherited. The earl’s pronounced chin was responsible for his overall haughty appearance, although the smile lines around his firmly set mouth went some way to softening the effect. I imagined he must have been quite formidable as a young man.

  Fiona, the director, glanced at the rifle with horror. “Good afternoon, sir,” she said, her eyes wandering back to the rifle. “Are you going shooting, sir?”

  Could Fiona fit another sir in her short address? It was kind of troubling to see her so deferential when it was Fiona’s orders we were used to following during a tough weekend’s filming.

  Lord Frome nodded. “Not to worry. Won’t make a noise while you’re filming. Thought I’d pop in and give you all my best. High time I saw what you all get up to in here.” He made a grand, sweeping gesture before spying the bowl of fresh raspberries on Florence’s workstation and smiling. “What lovely, fresh berries. Local, I imagine.”

  Florence, who had remained uncannily silent so far, suddenly appeared to remember that she was never one to pass up an opportunity for attention and flashed her most Oscar-acceptance-worthy smile. “Yes, Your Lordship. Please, help yourself.”

  He popped a red berry into his mouth and made noises indicative of pleasure. Florence said, “It’s cake week, you see, Your Lordship. The judges want us to use some of the local fresh fruits. I’ve quite the penchant for juicy raspberries myself. These ones are especially sweet and tangy.”

  “Marvelous. Marvelous.” Lord Frome nodded in agreement and then looked as though he hadn’t the slightest clue what to say next. “Well, carry on, carry on. I shan’t keep you from your work. I look forward to seeing your cakes.”

  And then he was gone.

  The moment the earl was out of earshot, Hamish turned to Florence with a grin. “Your Lordship?”

  “I looked up how one
should address an earl for just such an occasion,” she said with dignity.

  We watched as Lord Frome and the man, who was presumably his gamekeeper, headed off down a path. The earl stumbled over a root and Hamish said, “Let’s hope he doesn’t shoot his own foot off.”

  “I doubt the earl is accident-prone,” Florence said with a sniff. “He’s far too composed.”

  I shrugged and went back to putting my ingredients away. The technicians continued to work around us, and Fiona and Donald, the series producer, went back to their meeting, no doubt discussing how our baking highs and lows would best be captured over the course of the weekend. For now, however, everything in the tent was calm. The calm before the storm.

  But the peace didn’t last long: I jumped when an almighty CRAAAAACK CRACK CRACK sounded in the distance.

  “Was that gunfire?” Florence asked, half alarmed, half thrilled.

  “Yup,” Hamish said.

  Fiona threw up her hands and addressed Donald with a look of despair. “So glad the good earl isn’t going to make any noise,” she said, her voice laced with sarcasm. She shook her head. “He knows full well that one of the most difficult things about filming outside is the extraneous noise. It makes everything so much harder.”

  Just then, the almighty roar of a lawn mower joined the chorus of gunshots.

  “Oh, I give up,” Donald muttered.

  Fiona walked towards the entrance of the tent where Edward, the gardener, was mowing the vast green lawns that surrounded Broomewode Hall. She flapped her hands about to get his attention and, with a judder, Edward halted his mowing.

  Before Fiona even opened her mouth, Edward assured her that all mowing duties would be finished before filming started tomorrow morning. She let out her breath in relief, and he gave her a cheeky smile.

  “Wish I could guarantee the same for the boss man,” he continued, “but the earl raises grouse, quail, and pheasants, and he and his gamekeeper are after the vermin who eat the young chicks.”

  “Oh.” Fiona looked crestfallen. “I’d assumed he was clay-pigeon shooting. Not killing live animals. I’m a vegetarian.”

  I was shocked. Like Fiona, I’d thought the earl was just killing time with sport, not creatures. I turned back to Florence and Hamish and chastised the two men for hunting.

  “Brutal, isn’t it?” Florence said, shaking her head so that her pretty curls tumbled over her forehead. “Who’s to say what animals are vermin?”

  “It’s easy to think that way,” Hamish said, “but it’s legal to shoot magpies, crows, foxes, rats—any animals that hunt the baby quail and pheasant. As a bit of a farmer myself, I can tell you that landowners who raise game birds are also protecting the habitat for other birds. It’s the natural cycle of things, pet,” he added gently. “Mother Nature has her ways, and sometimes we give her a helping hand, that’s all.”

  “I never knew old Hamish was such a poetic soul,” said a voice from behind me.

  I turned and there was Gerry, his ghostly form floating by the fridges and grinning away. Oh, great. I wanted to motion for him to vamoose—how many times did I have to remind him not to talk to me in front of people?—but how could I do that without the others noticing? Pretend to be swatting at a fly? Actually, come to think of it, Gerry’s presence in the tent was a little like an annoying fly, buzzing in my ear.

  As if he’d just read my thoughts, Gerry frowned and let out a big sigh. But luckily he hadn’t managed to master mind-reading this week. “It’s him again,” Gerry said, pointing at the entrance to the tent. “Thinks he’s God’s gift. You should see the way he struts around this place. Not my cup of tea at all.” I looked over and saw a new security guard talking to Donald. Hamish and Florence followed my gaze.

  “Who’s that hot dish?” Florence asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “Martin,” Gerry replied.

  “I’ve heard he’s called Martin,” I dutifully relayed. “He’s new.”

  “How are you always so up to date with the goss round here?” Florence asked.

  I imagined replying: Well, the ghosts round here don’t have a lot to do.

  I shrugged. Martin looked to be in his late thirties with a head of dark hair sharply parted to the side. He was wearing the gray security guard’s uniform: smart trousers with a crease down the middle, walkie-talkie at the hip, and a short-sleeved shirt with the Broomewode crest. He was setting up the rope barrier by the tent, behind which some of the public were allowed to quietly watch us racing around the tent in a panic, brandishing our whisks like magic wands.

  I couldn’t believe filming was starting again already. I’d been floating all week after being crowned best baker last Sunday. But now that I was back in Broomewode, I’d come down to earth with a bump. The reality was you were only as good as your last bake. And after Priscilla’s exit last week, the competition was toughening up. I had to prove myself worthy of staying on the show.

  “I might just introduce myself to our newbie crew member,” Florence said and sashayed off to flutter her eyelashes at the unsuspecting Martin. It was as much of a guess as to who Florence would date around here as it was who’d win the show. Darius, the Greek god who worked at the inn, had caught her attention last I’d seen.

  “What do you have planned for your signature bake?” I asked Hamish, watching him unpack a whopping amount of oranges and lemons.

  “It’s a cake-inspired version of a St. Clements,” Hamish said, looking at me as if I knew what he was talking about.

  “St. Clements?” I asked.

  There was a silence and then Hamish burst into song, his deep baritone echoing around the tent.

  Oranges and lemons,

  Say the bells of St Clements.

  You owe me five farthings,

  Say the bells of St. Martins.

  When will you pay me?

  Say the bells at Old Bailey.

  When I grow rich,

  Say the bells at Shoreditch.

  When will that be?

  Say the bells of Stepney.

  I do not know,

  Says the great bell at Bow.

  Here comes a candle to light you to bed,

  And here comes a chopper to chop off your head!

  Chip chop chip chop the last man is dead!

  My jaw dropped open.

  “You’ve never heard that before? Sometimes I forget you grew up on the other side of the pond.”

  I shook my head. “What kind of sick nursery rhyme is that?”

  Hamish chuckled. “So many childhood rhymes are terrifying. ‘London Bridge Is Falling Down,’ ‘Pop Goes the Weasel,’ and ‘Ring a Ring of Roses,’” he said, ticking them off on his fingers. “All plague and misery. ‘Oranges and Lemons’ is based on a nursery rhyme which dates all the way to the eighteenth century. It name-checks all the major churches in London, starting with St. Clements because it has such an unusual peal of church bells. The oranges and lemons of the song refer to the cargo that would have been offloaded close to the church when the Thames was a lot farther in than it is today. My grandpa was born in central London, and he had a fruit stall in the East End, so the rhyme resonates with me. Good talking point for the show, right?”

  I nodded. I bet he’d done some research, too. But I couldn’t get over the last line and asked Hamish about the chopping of the head.

  “Ach, yes, there’s lots of speculation about those lines, but what I think makes most sense is that it’s referring to Newgate prison—next to the Old Bailey church in the rhyme. The church had a great tenor bell, and at nine a.m. on Monday mornings, it would ring out to signal the start of any hangings due to take place that week. The prisoners on death row were visited the night before by the bell man of St. Sepulchre, who would hold a candle in one hand and ring the execution bell in the other.”

  I shuddered. “That is one seriously messed-up nursery rhyme to sing to kids.”

  “I agree, but the oranges and lemons make for a tasty cake.” Hamish tossed an orange i
n the air and caught it, and went on to explain that he was making a light sponge sandwiched with orange curd, cloaked in lemon icing and finished with a lemon syrup drizzle. He was still undecided about the decorations (a relief, as I was, too) but he’d been playing around with various arrangements of sliced candied oranges and lemons.

  As he spoke, I set about putting my dry ingredients away—I was due over at Susan Bentley’s farm soon to pick up some fresh produce. I was going to make a four-tier strawberry and basil layer cake. It was my riskiest ingredient combo to date, and I’d had a tough week getting the balance of this one right.

  “Should we save poor Martin from Florence?” Hamish asked, gesturing at where our friend had backed the security guard into a corner of the tent. Even from here, I could see that he was perspiring at the temples. Florence tended to have this effect on men. She was so gorgeous and so confident that the men she flirted with turned to wobbling jelly the moment she switched on her charms. The new barman at the inn, Darius, was the only man I’d seen hold his own around Florence. My bets were on him.

  Under the guise of getting some lunch, I took Florence by the arm and led her out of the tent. Hamish followed. It was a gorgeous day, and I lifted my face skyward to feel the sun’s soft embrace. The manicured lawns were bathed in a golden glow, and I stepped out onto the thick, springy green grass. I closed my eyes for a moment and reminded myself how lucky I was to have gotten this far in the competition. The scent of magnolias carried on the breeze, and I opened my eyes to see a pretty bed bursting with their white and pink star-shaped blooms.