Blood, Sweat and Tiers Page 13

The singing was getting louder.

  I have stockings of silk

  And shoes of bright green leather,

  Combs to buckle my hair

  And a ring for every finger.

  “More later,” Belinda whispered and got up from the table. But I couldn’t move. I was shaken to the core. Why was Katie singing the same song as my mom? Had she taught my mom the words? If they’d been close enough to sing with each other, why had Katie pretended she barely knew her? Surely it couldn’t be a coincidence that they knew the same song, that I knew the song…that it had been sung to me when I was a baby.

  Katie walked into the kitchen, humming now rather than singing. She looked lost in her own world. Each time I saw her, I was taken aback by how small she was, only around five feet, with alert green eyes. She was still in her cast but was obviously on the mend. When she saw me, Katie immediately stopped singing, and a flash of surprise shot across her face.

  “Poppy,” she said. “Hello, dearie. Nice to see you.” She smiled broadly, but her forehead twitched, and she began stroking the nail of her little finger. Why did I make her so nervous?

  “Good morning, Katie. What a pretty song.”

  “Shouldn’t you be in the tent this morning, dearie, baking something wonderful?”

  “Not for a couple of hours,” I said. “I was hoping to have a quick chat.”

  “With me?”

  I nodded. “I’m afraid something terrible happened yesterday, but I think you might be able to help.”

  She nodded solemnly. “I think I know what you’re talking about.”

  Belinda looked at me quizzically but excused herself. “I have to start setting the dining table for breakfast,” she said. I inwardly thanked her for her discretion.

  When Katie entered, I’d stood to greet her, but now she gestured back at the stool. I poured a cup of tea into the cup Belinda had left out, added a splash of milk, then passed it to her. She thanked me.

  “This is just the ticket,” she said, taking a sip. “I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

  “Me either.” I was dying to ask Katie more about the song she’d been singing, but I feared that would only scare her off. Instead, I kept things light and asked how she was managing with her arm, if it kept her up at night. She shook her head no, that she was on the mend. “The lack of sleep isn’t down to me poor arm. It’s just that the police were here last night. Caused a dreadful commotion, though His Lordship and Her Ladyship acted as if it were nothing at the time. They interviewed the earl about poor Marlene.”

  “You knew her?”

  “Oh yes, Marlene was the kind to make herself known round here.”

  At that I smiled. It certainly matched the image of the woman I’d briefly met.

  “I didn’t know her well,” Katie continued, “but she was a thorn in the earl’s side. They didn’t see eye to eye, not to speak ill of the dead. But she did get on with the former gamekeeper, Mitty, which was strange considering how he earned his living.”

  “Do you know where the old gamekeeper’s living? Marlene said something about a posh care home.”

  “Yes, that’s right. The poor thing had a stroke. I don’t recall the name of the home, but it’s in a town not far away. In Chippenham, I think.” She leaned closer. “She might not think much of the new earl, but it’s him as pays the hefty fee to keep Mitty in his comfortable home.”

  “That’s nice,” I said, thinking it was the least the earl could do after the man had given a lifetime’s service. I wondered if Marlene had managed to visit the old gamekeeper yesterday before she was murdered. It was about a half-hour drive from the inn, so the timing was possible. If she had, maybe he might remember something about his old friend that could help the case. If he’d had a stroke, might he still be able to communicate?

  “Poor Marlene,” Katie repeated, shaking her head. “Shot to death. What a way to go. Though what that had to do with the earl, I don’t know. After the police left, there was a great row of which I’ve never heard the likes of before. The earl and Benny were shouting at each other. I couldn’t make out the words exactly, but it was the tone which stuck with me. Pure fury. It was chilling. Then Lady Frome stepped in, tried to cool things down—no doubt she was mostly concerned about them making a scene. Lady Frome is not one for scenes.”

  “I can imagine.”

  Katie stayed quiet, staring into her tea. It was almost as if she’d forgotten that I was sitting there.

  “You seem troubled,” I said.

  Katie broke from her reverie and looked up at me. “I overheard the earl say he was glad that old busybody was dead. I was shocked. What a callous thing to say.”

  I had to stop myself from saying that I wasn’t surprised. The earl? Callous? Go figure.

  Katie looked around nervously and then lowered her voice again. “The earl claimed he hadn’t been out with a gun at all yesterday but…” She stopped, and I held my breath, trying to be patient and let Katie speak in her own time. “But…I heard him banging the cabinets in the gun room. He came out wearing his hunting tweeds.”

  I felt my eyebrows shoot up. “Yesterday. You’re certain? When was he in the gun room?”

  “In the evening. He went out and came in again, then he rushed upstairs. By the time the police arrived, he was wearing ordinary clothes.”

  “Why would he lie to the police about not using his gun that day, Katie?”

  She shrugged. “It doesn’t look good, I know. But the earl isn’t a murderer. A bit cranky and self-important, yes. But deadly? No.”

  “That may be so, but you have to tell the police what you heard.”

  She rubbed her cast as though it was the arm that pained her. “I’ve been working for the family for decades, Poppy. The earl would never a hurt a soul. Why cause trouble?”

  I swallowed. What I had to say next wouldn’t be easy, but Katie needed to hear it. “I was at the murder scene yesterday,” I began, thinking carefully about how to choose my words. “I was out walking with Susan Bentley, and we discovered Marlene. The cartridge from the shot that killed her was nearby. It was from the same kind of shotgun as the earl uses.”

  “Purdey?” she asked in a whisper.

  I nodded.

  The color drained from her face, and she set her teacup back in its saucer. “But that doesn’t mean it was his gun,” she whispered. “Or that he fired it.” She fell silent and played with the bottom of her apron. “Look, if it turns out his gun killed that woman, then I’ll come forward. But you must promise me, Poppy, not a word about what I told you.”

  I was disappointed, but I wouldn’t break Katie Donegal’s trust. I’d been trying to get her to open up to me for weeks. And now that Katie had put her confidence in me, I felt emboldened to ask the questions that had kept me awake all night. It was time to ask her what she knew about my dad. The coincidence of the song would have to wait.

  “Katie, what you told me last week about Valerie leaving here because she was pregnant was so helpful. But I haven’t been able to stop thinking about who my dad might be. I think you were right; he might have been one of the local lads. But I also think he disappeared from Broomewode around the same time as Valerie. Do you remember any local lads going missing?” I swallowed hard. “Or dying?”

  “Dying? Why would you think that?”

  “I’m nearly certain my father is dead.”

  Katie shook her head. Her mouth was set in a firm line. She was closing up again. Whatever moment of vulnerability we’d just shared had dissolved.

  “I really haven’t the foggiest who the father may have been. But I have been thinking about Valerie this week.”

  I leaned forward in my seat. Any information about my birth mom was gold dust. My heart was in my throat, and I could barely manage to ask, “Did you remember something else?”

  She nodded. “Valerie used to talk to the old countess. Unlike the current Lady Frome, her predecessor wasn’t one to disdain the company of servants. Valerie was a
bright girl. I think they shared an interest in local herbs and plants.”

  At that I smiled. Images of Susan Bentley’s herb garden flashed through my mind, of me helping her tie up the green, fragrant bundles with string.

  “That makes sense,” I said. “I’m sure the countess gave Valerie her shawl.”

  “Shawl?” Katie asked.

  “The one that’s in the oil painting in the dining room. The one we tried to look at last week but had been taken ‘for cleaning.’”

  “It sounds like something the old countess would do. She was that generous. Valerie left here when she was pregnant. I don’t know if she stayed in the area or if she left. Maybe her and the countess stayed in touch.”

  At this I sighed, and Katie leaned over the table and touched my hand. And then, just like she said to me last week, Katie whispered gently, “Let it be, lovey. Let it be.”

  “I can’t. What is it you won’t tell me?”

  She heaved a great sigh. “Not won’t, dear. Can’t.”

  “But—”

  “Trust me, nothing good can come of you asking questions.” She raised her head and looked out through the kitchen window. “Especially now.”

  I smiled weakly and nodded. But I wouldn’t let it be. I couldn’t. It was the story of my birth, and I was going to find out what happened, no matter how many barriers to the truth were in my way.

  I thanked Katie for her time, assured her that I would never dream of breaking her confidence in me, and then excused myself. I’d stayed far longer than I’d intended, and there was a showstopper that needed to be baked.

  “Good luck, dearie,” Katie said as she walked me to the door. “I’ll be rooting for you today.”

  I stepped out into sunshine. “Thank you. I need all the well-wishes I can get.”

  At that, Katie crossed both sets of fingers. I waved goodbye and began my walk back to the inn. It was time to focus all my attention on The Great British Baking Contest and guarantee my place in the next round.

  As I’d guessed, Katie knew more than she’d told me, and for the first time, she’d as good as admitted it. “Can’t”? What did that even mean? And “Especially now”? Once more I ended up more frustrated leaving Broomewode Hall than I’d been when I arrived.

  Chapter 16

  By the time I got back to the inn, it was almost nine a.m. Gerry was floating around in the hallway, trying to unlock the cleaning cupboard, which was tucked neatly under the stairs. He spun round as I approached him, obviously shocked that I wasn’t at the tent.

  “Where—” he started to ask, but I cut him off.

  “Up at the hall,” I explained, “trying to figure some stuff out. But I left with more questions than when I went.”

  Gerry wagged his finger at me. “What—”

  Again, I cut him off. “I know, I know, but it’s important. And I’m going to make it to the tent on time. Just one coffee. And a muffin.”

  Gerry opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again. I guessed by now he knew that there was no arguing with me when I was following the trail of a lead.

  “If only you could use a phone.” I shook my head. “You’d be the best sidekick.”

  Gerry stuck out his chest proudly. “I might not be able to make a phone call, but I do have other uses. And believe me, if I could, I’d be ringing my ex-girlfriends to give them hell, and my horrible old boss, and—”

  I laughed. “Point taken.”

  He wished me luck, and I raced upstairs to drop off my cardigan and put in the same tortoise hoops and wear the same clothes I’d been wearing yesterday. Gina would have to do her magic again with the rest of my appearance—if I got there in time, that is.

  Downstairs, I was expecting the breakfast room to be empty, but there was Florence, still eating breakfast. I went to the buffet table and grabbed a bacon roll, a spoonful of scrambled eggs and a hot black coffee. I wouldn’t have time for anything else. I joined my friend, who was wolfing down the last mouthful of a plate of scrambled eggs and toast. As usual, she was a vision, yesterday’s outfit pristine and her hair and makeup styled with her professional eye. I smoothed down my slightly crinkled shirt dress.

  Florence looked at me, aghast. “Where have you been, Poppy? Have you seen the time?”

  I nodded and tried to smile. “Cutting it fine, aren’t we?”

  “Don’t tell me—you went for a walk.” She didn’t wait for an answer, just shook her head at me and gestured at my coffee. “If only we could mainline the java, right? I need a caffeine drip. I’ve no idea where to find the energy for the showstopper today.”

  “Tell me about it,” I commiserated.

  This week’s showstopper theme was one I’d been looking forward to. We were to be inspired by another great British tradition, the Chelsea Flower Show. The idea was to construct and incorporate the flavors of a perfectly imagined garden, but the added kicker was that the cake had to be at least three tiers.

  It had felt like the perfect topic for me, combining my love of botany and design, and I’d gone back to the sketchbook of flowers I’d filled a couple of weeks ago to illustrate a new hardback book about the English country garden. The publisher was famous for their beautifully designed books, which showcased the best of English heritage, and this week I’d been sent a mock-up of some of the pages where my work would feature (perfect timing or what) and had been re-inspired by what I saw. Vivid pink azaleas, their delicate petals a symbol of gentleness and femininity; sunshine-yellow freesias with their long stems graced by strange but beautiful knots of flowers; sweet multicolor pansies; pink and white tulips; tall foxgloves; the puffy, round heads of alliums, which reminded me of brightly colored cotton wool balls. In my garden, flowers didn’t grow only in certain seasons, but everything bloomed year-round, so I could mix the most delicate rose buds with the richest, dusky chrysanthemums and get away with it. However, I couldn’t just throw on a flower arrangement to honor the flower show theme. No, it had to have a good story and a clever flavor combination, too.

  This is where my prep hit a wall. Margaret, my kitchen ghost, had been no help. She was still of the mind that gardens should be manicured to within an inch of their lives, all topiary and strict, tidy beds with flowers all lined up in a row like ladies in waiting. But I was a sucker for wild gardens where colors burst forth in surprising combinations and there was no order or sense to the planting, like a true meadow. Thing is, that wouldn’t do for a cake. I didn’t want to be accused of sloppy style. Somehow it had to be spontaneous and fresh-looking but also carefully designed. I’d worked all week to get the balance right, but I was going to have to stay on top of each element if I was going to complete it in time.

  By the end of the week, I thought I’d come up with the unique solution to incorporating a variety of flowers into my cake. But now I had to put it to the test.

  “Come on, come on,” Florence said, “no time for daydreaming or dawdling either. Let’s get ourselves to the tent.”

  I took a final bite of my bacon roll (crispy with just the right amount of ketchup), ran back to my room to brush my teeth, then let Florence drag me off to the tent, the remnants of my black coffee still languishing, undrunk, at the bottom of my cup.

  As we walked, Florence told me about her showstopper. She had grand plans as usual and was making a blackberry and pear cake with an almond sponge. The fruits weren’t seasonal, but it was a delicious combination. I’d worried a lot more about the decoration than the cake itself, and she’d obviously worked in the opposite direction. “I’m decorating with fresh flowers,” she said. “The most beautiful white peonies you’ve ever seen. I spent all week looking for the perfect bloom. I’m going with a pure, white garden. I’m sure some of the bakers will throw all sorts of flowers together.” She wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Gosh, isn’t it hot this morning? I hope it doesn’t get roasting in the tent.”

  Gerry appeared, running ahead of us and pretending to fan Florence with great dramatic fanfare. I had
to stifle a giggle.

  “What is it, Poppy?” Florence’s dark eyes were wide with dismay. “Are you sick?”

  “No, no,” I said quickly. “I had a sudden panic I didn’t have enough eggs in the tent for today, but I’ve got plenty, I’m sure.”

  “Silly goose,” Florence said. “You could always borrow some of mine. Now let’s pick up the pace.”

  I smiled as Gerry leapt ahead, bowing like an Elizabethan courtier all the way. Soon I was back in the tent, in Gina’s hair and makeup chair, being thoroughly chastised for my tardiness.

  She redid my hair and makeup, and then, with a final slick of lip gloss, I was good to go. “I’m cheering you on, Pops,” Gina whispered.

  As soon as I was miked up, I took up position behind my workstation and waited for the hosts to arrive.

  Everyone looked nervous. As well we might. In a few hours’ time, someone would be going home. Don’t let it be me, I silently prayed.

  The judges entered, and Arty stepped forward to introduce the segment. He cleared his throat like an officious judge about to decree their ruling. “For this week’s showstopper, the bakers must produce at least a three-tiered cake which adheres to a Chelsea Flower Show theme. We’re looking for floral, fruity or botanical flavors and superb decoration that will transport us into an imaginary but delicious garden.”

  “Heaven on earth,” Jilly added. “That’s what our judges are looking for.”

  And who wasn’t?

  “For this challenge, I’m renaming you The Botanical Bakers,” Arty said. “Take the energy of a rock band into your baking, guys,” Arty said, erupting into a mini headbanging session, his long hair flopping over his face.

  Jilly laughed. “Before Arty gets carried away with his delusional dreams of rock stardom, I think you’d better get baking! Your time starts… NOW!”

  Arty smoothed his hair down and tucked the long strands behind his ears. Had they breakfasted together this morning? Something was definitely going on between them.

  But now wasn’t the time to ponder the mysteries of other people’s romantic lives. It was showstopper time. I banished any lingering thoughts about the comedians’ love lives, my birth family, the hawk, Marlene and the other bird-watchers, and the earl and his entourage of hunting fellows. One deep breath in, one big exhale, and then I started measuring my ingredients.