Baker's Coven Read online

  “I’ll put the kettle back on,” I offered. I guessed tea-making would have to be my superpower today.

  As the kettle boiled, I stared out of the farmhouse’s window, vaguely listening. I couldn’t stop thinking about my own family, the one I knew and loved, and the other one I’d yet to find. Seeing someone lose their husband really brought home how much I had to cherish the people around me. I set down four more mugs of tea on the scrubbed pine kitchen table, and this time Susan finally took a sip. “I don’t understand how it happened.” And then she began to cry again.

  “Take your time,” DI Hembly said. “But could you talk me through what happened to your husband?”

  Susan shook as she cried, and I reached out and held her hand, giving it a little squeeze. If only Elspeth was here, she’d know what to say and do. I wished that I could make Susan feel calm, the way that Elspeth did for me. I squeezed her hand tighter and concentrated on breathing evenly, trying to communicate with her. To my surprise, her breathing began to slow.

  “I’m right here with you, Susan,” I said quietly.

  “In your own time,” Sgt. Lane said, softening his voice. “There’s no rush.”

  Susan took another sip of her tea and then began talking. “I was—I was out on the tractor, up over the hill, ploughing some of our land. I do a lot of the manual stuff here, you see, because my husband isn’t…wasn’t in great health. And he has to be very careful because he’s allergic to bee stings. So I don’t understand what he was doing there. Why would he go there? And without his EpiPen? He carried it everywhere.”

  “Go where, Mrs. Bentley?” Sgt. Lane asked. He had his notebook open.

  “The beehives. He’d never go near them. Never. One of them was knocked over, you see, but why would he try and sort it out? He’d leave it to me.”

  “Is that where you found him? The beehives? How many exactly are there?”

  Susan took another sip of tea. “Yes. I came back from the fields. I have to pass the beehives to get back to the house—there are four hives—and I saw in the distance that a hive had been knocked over. I was only thinking of the bees. It wasn’t until I got closer that I saw him. On the ground.” In mine, her hand began to tremble. “He couldn’t breathe. He was gasping. Trying to speak, but all I could hear was him wheezing.”

  Sgt. Lane looked up from his notepad. “So, let me get this right. Your husband was lying by the fallen hive? Even though he’s allergic to bees?”

  “Yes. It makes no sense for him to have been there. He usually only traveled between the front door and his car. Sometimes he’d sit out on the back patio, but rarely. He was so frightened of being stung, you see. And what’s more, he didn’t have his EpiPen with him. And he never leaves the house without it. Never. Even in the house, there’s always one in his pocket.”

  As Susan spoke, Sgt. Lane kept up his rapid note-taking in his small black book. I sipped my sweet tea, wishing I could use my witchy powers and turn back time for Susan. I also wished for a vanishing spell. I wanted to be a million miles away from this table, back with my mum and dad in our old kitchen, maybe eating my dad’s famous pancakes covered in blueberries and maple syrup.

  “Has a hive ever toppled over like that before?” DI Hembly asked.

  “No, not in the four years we’ve been here at the farm. I look after those bees like they’re family. Everything is well maintained. I can’t imagine what happened for the hive to be knocked over like that.” She gave a gasp. “I should have let him give the bees away. He wanted to, you know, but I love beekeeping. I love gathering the honey and the wax for candles. Bees are peaceful creatures. They only sting if provoked. So long as Arnold left them alone, I was certain he’d be safe.” Her voice choked again with tears. “But he wasn’t. This is all my fault.” She looked at the two officers. “I killed my husband.”

  The two officers exchanged a glance. Had this woman just admitted to murder?

  “Why do you say that, Mrs. Bentley?”

  “Because I argued against him giving the bees away. I just told you. If I’d been more supportive, they’d be gone by now. Reg would have them, and my husband would be alive.”

  Except that I recalled Peter Puddifoot’s shouted words to Arnold Bentley about moving bees. I had no idea if he’d been telling the truth, but a woman who’d worked with the insects for four years must know. For the first time I spoke, hoping the cops wouldn’t mind me interfering. “But they might have come back, mightn’t they? Don’t bees need to be moved a long way if they’re not to return to their former home?”

  She turned to me, and her green eyes looked eager. As though she’d forgotten this fact. “Yes. Exactly. Reg only lives a mile away. It’s not far enough.”

  “Reg?” Sergeant Lane asked her.

  “Reginald McMahan. He said in the pub one night that he wanted to start hives. He was only looking for advice, but Arnold immediately told him he could have our hives and welcome to them. I wasn’t very happy, as you can imagine, but I would have gone along with it except that Reg—that Mr. McMahon—only lives on the other side of the village. In the old blacksmith’s cottage. Bees can be moved a couple of feet and still get back to the hive, or you can move them miles away and they’ll adjust. But if they’re close enough to the original site, they’ll return there instead of the new hives. Frankly, I thought it would be more dangerous for Arnold and probably deadly for the bees.”

  She looked around, stricken. “Did I put the welfare of my bees ahead of my own husband?”

  No one answered. I was certain she’d done the best she could and wasn’t responsible for her husband’s tragic end, but she was currently being questioned by police, and it wasn’t my place to keep butting in. I buttoned my lip, vowing to talk to her quietly after they’d left and reassure her as best I could. Susan Bentley hadn’t caused her husband’s death. I was sure of it.

  However, she might have hurt him in other ways. I now had a name for the silver fox who lived at the old blacksmith’s cottage in Broomewode Village. Reginald McMahan. She’d slipped and called him Reg, which suggested they were friendly, but how friendly exactly?

  “When did you first notice the hive was on the ground?” DI Hembly asked.

  “They were fine this morning. I can see them when I go to let the chickens out. I fetched eggs, checked on the hens, and returned. That was about nine this morning.” She was sounding more together now that she was focused on remembering.

  “And when did you first notice the hive was on its side?”

  “Not until late this afternoon. I could see something was wrong. The bees were obviously disturbed, but it wasn’t until I got closer that I noticed one of the hives was on its side. And Arnold was on the ground.”

  “Might the hive have been pushed over?”

  Susan looked at the two officers and then at me. “That’s what I’ve been sitting here thinking. I can’t figure out any other reason why it’d be on the ground like that. Bored teenagers, not realizing that a prank like that could be deadly. A stray animal, maybe. I wondered about weather, but it hasn’t even been windy.”

  How many bored teenagers were there in Broomewode? I hadn’t seen a single one. I also couldn’t imagine an animal knocking over the hive. In the Pacific Northwest where bears still roamed and loved honey, then sure. But out here?

  “Mrs. Bentley, did your husband have any enemies?” DI Hembly asked. At the question, I stopped thinking about bears and my attention sharpened.

  “Enemies? Are you trying to say that someone might have done this on purpose?”

  “We’re just trying to get a clearer picture, that’s all. Did he?”

  Susan hesitated, patting Sly’s head absentmindedly. “Not here. Or not that I know of.”

  Ha. What about Peter Puddifoot? With the angry face and the animal cruelty?

  “Arnold worked in the finance district in London. It wasn’t an easy environment, and the stress got to him.” She paused. “He ran his own investment fund, you see. He w
as never one who followed trends and did what every other fund manager did. He was daring, and he made many of his clients rich.” She stopped to bite her lip. “But he took risks. That’s why the returns were so high. When his technique stopped working, it went badly wrong, and he crumbled under the pressure. I think there may have been a few people he upset in the process. Money lost and all that. But not so badly that they’d do something unspeakable. We were the ones who lost a lot of money. Everything. I mean, we drive that old Land Rover now. The Porsche and the Mayfair home are long gone. We had to sell our home in Saint-Tropez.”

  I appreciated that these were real tragedies to Susan Bentley, but in truth, I felt like playing the world’s tiniest violin.

  “We moved here because Lord Frome was an old client of Arnold’s and gave us a good deal on the property.” She smiled sadly. “Arnold would have hated me to tell you that. He was so proud. We always pretended we were well-off, when the truth was, we were barely making ends meet.”

  DI Hembly nodded. “Thank you. That’s very helpful to know.” He paused. “Apart from Lord Frome, was he in contact with other old clients?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so. Our friends and Arnold’s colleagues mainly deserted us at the first hint of trouble. I try to be forgiving, but it hasn’t been easy.”

  “What about disgruntled clients? Was anyone harassing your husband?”

  “It all happened more than five years ago. There were lawsuits.” She shuddered. “It was awful.”

  “We’ll need names of all the complainants.”

  “Of course. I’ll put you on to our lawyer, but I really think—”

  “Just covering all possibilities, Mrs. Bentley. We like to be thorough.”

  Sgt. Lane jotted down the name of Arnold’s old firm, the lawyer’s name and a few of his closest colleagues. The names Susan could remember.

  “I think that’s all for the time being, Mrs. Bentley,” DI Hembly said. He handed her his card and asked that she call him if she thought of anything else that could be useful.

  “We’ll walk around your property now. We’ll need to see the hives.”

  She looked up, alarmed. “But it’s dark. And you mustn’t go too close. They’re still very upset. I wouldn’t want you to get stung.” Then she looked from one to the other. “You’re not allergic, are you?”

  “We won’t go too close,” DI Hembly said in his soothing tone. “We’ll come back in the daylight to examine the area properly.”

  They stood from the table, and I rose with them. DI Hembly’s phone buzzed, and he frowned at whatever message had just come through. “Poppy, if you could wait a few minutes, Sgt. Lane here will walk back with you to the inn. I’m needed back at the station. He’ll just ask you a couple of questions about what you saw when you arrived at the scene this evening. Nothing to worry about, you understand.”

  I swallowed. Even though I knew that I wasn’t under suspicion, I still felt awkward being once more on the scene of a death. I picked up my tote bag and remembered Sly’s bone wrapped up inside. And the cake. It seemed a hundred years had gone by since I won the challenge. “Will you be okay?” I asked Susan. “I can stay here with you.”

  She thanked me but shook her head. “Reg is on his way. He’ll help me right the hive. I must get the bees resettled.” I was shocked that “Reg” was rushing to her side when poor Arnold was barely cold. Perhaps she read my expression, for she added, “And I’ve sisters in the area. They’ll help me.”

  The police officers shared a glance. “We’d prefer you leave the area exactly as it is, Mrs. Bentley. Until it’s light and we can have a proper look.”

  I could tell she was about to argue, and then she slumped back into her chair. “Yes. Of course.”

  I told her about Sly’s bone and put it in the fridge for later. On the counter beside the stove was an EpiPen. If only Arnold Bentley hadn’t forgotten his pen, he’d be alive at this moment. I debated with myself, then put the slice of gooseberry cake on the table. “Thanks to your bees and hens and the gooseberries, my cake won the challenge this morning.”

  Her pale face brightened. “That’s wonderful. I’ll be sure and eat this when I feel up to it.”

  “Please do. You must try to eat something. Keep your strength up.” I had so little experience with grieving widows. I wished my mother were here, or Elspeth or an older woman who would know what to say. I was repeating pat phrases I’d probably heard on TV or read in books.

  When Sgt. Lane and DI Hembly returned from the hives, I hugged Susan goodbye and gave her my phone number, urging her to call whenever she wanted. Then I bent down and hugged Sly. I knew he’d watch over her tonight.

  DI Hembly shook my hand with his firm grip and then got into his car.

  Sgt. Lane and I began to walk back to the inn, gravel crunching underfoot. The moon was rising now and so perfectly round, it must be full. In the silvery light, the flowers and plants that had looked so delightful earlier now looked ghostly and unnerving. I shuddered.

  “Well, Poppy,” Sgt. Lane said. “You’ve certainly been through a lot in the last couple of weeks. How do you know the Bentleys?” And I realized that he was definitely still on duty. He might be walking me home, but I suspected he was going to gently interrogate me on the way.

  I explained about Sly, how he’d run off on Friday and I’d returned him, and then Susan and I got talking and I’d told her I was a contestant on the baking contest. “She let me pick gooseberries on her land and gave me farm eggs and honey from her bees.” I stopped at the mention of bees. I had to gather myself before telling him that I’d been returning her dog again and bringing her a slice of the cake I’d made with her produce. I was tempted to tell him about my win but restrained myself.

  I could see the old chapel tower lit by moonlight, and I toyed with the idea of telling Sgt. Lane about my near-miss with a rocky end. Maybe it was a coincidence and he’d think I was as much a drama queen as Florence, but I decided to tell him anyway.

  “Something else happened yesterday.” I stopped and pointed at the tower. “I don’t know if this is relevant or not, but gooseberries grow at the base of the tower, and Susan told me that’s where the cook at Broomewode Hall, Katie, goes to pick the berries to make jam for the Champneys.” So not relevant. Pull yourself together. “Anyway, while I was picking berries yesterday, a massive slab of stone fell from the tower and almost flattened me. I mean, I was inches from where it crashed down. I could have been killed.” I stopped again, shaking at the memory.

  He turned to stare down at me. “How close did it come to hitting you?”

  “If the dog hadn’t started barking and herded me away, I think I’d be dead.” Did he think I was exaggerating? Hard to tell. “Strangely, I’m kind of getting used to weird things happening around here.”

  “You’ve been hearing the rumors about the energy vortex, no doubt.” From his tone, I guessed he wasn’t a big believer. No doubt he didn’t believe in witches, either. “Can you show me where the stone fell?”

  Sgt. Lane pulled a flashlight from his pocket and lit the way as I walked us along the path to the tower. I was pleased to see that Benedict, or someone, had put rope around the area and a large sign saying “Danger. Keep off.”

  Sgt. Lane swung his flashlight around the area. The slab of stone was on the ground, unmoved since it had almost pulverized me.

  “You’re right. That would have killed you.” I felt he could have sounded more shocked. Or at least sympathetic.

  “I thought it was an accident, but after what happened this evening, I’m not so sure. It doesn’t add up. I met Arnold, only briefly, but long enough to see that he was a cautious man. He was too terrified to come and look at what had happened to the tower for fear of bees. So why would the same man go running toward the beehives, without his EpiPen, and accidentally knock one over? Or if it had already been knocked over, he’d have run in the opposite direction. Not toward the hive. The bees were buzzing all around h
im. It was an awful sight.”

  I took a breath in and then told him about the fight I’d overheard between Peter Puddifoot and Arnold Bentley. “I don’t know if it’s relevant, but when you asked Susan Bentley earlier whether her husband had any enemies, the gardener was the first person who came to mind.”

  We turned from the tower and back onto the main path. When we came out of the woods and onto the lawns of Broomewode, the inn was silhouetted against the moon, its windows shining with warm yellow light. It looked safe and warm and comfortable. Exactly where I wanted to be.

  Sgt. Lane was very quiet, and he looked to be deep in thought. Finally, he said, “You do know what you’re suggesting, Poppy?”

  I blew out a breath. “Yes. I’m suggesting Arnold Bentley was murdered.”

  Chapter 9

  We arrived back at the inn, and Sgt. Lane lingered at the door. The glow of the orange lamp above the entrance tinted his face gold. Those dimples got me every time. He really was a cutie. I stood waiting, somehow knowing that he wanted to say something but was holding back.

  “What?” I asked. He hadn’t said a word since I’d cried foul play regarding Arnold Bentley’s death. “Do you think I’m being hysterical?”

  He laid a gentle hand on my shoulder. “We don’t know what killed Arnold Bentley yet, but you should be careful. Stay with your group. No wandering at night in the dark.”

  I smiled, feeling that his interest in my safety wasn’t completely professional. Although I knew by now that people weren’t always what they seemed (Gordon the murdering sound guy for one). But I had a good feeling about Adam Lane. Maybe it was time to trust my intuition a bit more and place my trust in him, too. Although some of my secrets would have to stay secret. I mean buried right down. Deep down. I didn’t think he could handle a ghost-seeing water witch right now on top of a second murder case.