“I’m making almost two hundred individual biscuits for this beauty,” Euan said to Arty. “Have I been too ambitious? Definitely. The sweat is on right now. This is more difficult than maneuvering around two hundred of my own bees.”

  “I think you might have stung yourself there, Euan.” Arty chortled.

  “Well, let’s hope it’s more honeypot than sting operation,” Euan joked back.

  I giggled to myself, but I couldn’t let myself get distracted––Elspeth was already calling the halftime mark.

  I switched off the food processor and scooped out the dough, ready to roll my next batch. I needed to get this into the oven and then on to making my buttercream pronto. Not to mention whipping up some icing, dyeing it different colors, then piping it onto the cookies to make different faces and hairstyles. Oh, man, I’d almost made this as tough for myself as Euan. But at least I could console myself knowing that I wasn’t as up against it as Euan. Two hundred biscuits? That man was a glutton for punishment!

  The second half of our allotted time flew by. I only looked up when my poor neck went into spasm from concentrating so hard. The third batch of my biscuits took longer to cook than I’d anticipated, and I was panicked about having enough time to let them cool before I iced them.

  I erected my classroom walls and was beginning to arrange all the students when Jilly told us we had ten minutes left. My heart almost leapt straight out of my chest in fear. Was I going to be able to pull this one off? I couldn’t have another bad bake.

  I worked double-quick, arranging the giant triple-chocolate-chip cookie in the center of my room, and then squirted some chocolate frosting to attach Miss Trunchbull, Bruce, and Matilda. I watched my hands fly over my biscuity diorama almost as if they belonged to someone else. Sweat trickled down my neck.

  When Jilly rang the final clanger, I stood back from the table and took a few deep breaths. I’d done it.

  We brought our showstoppers to the table, and what a sight they were! I couldn’t believe how inventive everyone had been. The combined skill was blowing my mind. Four hours of biscuit torture, and now we had to watch as the judges cracked into our scenes and destroyed them! Cruel or what?

  I was so nervous, I could barely concentrate on the judging as Elspeth kicked off with Maggie’s masterpiece. Words like “lovely lemon flavor…gorgeous texture…crumbly, buttery goodness” floated my way as the judging continued. But when they got to Euan’s, I couldn’t help but pay proper attention as Elspeth wrinkled her nose a little.

  “Euan, I’m afraid you might have compromised taste for ambition,” she said. “It’s certainly impressive to look at, but the majority of your biscuits are far too thick and a little clumsy. There’s much too much icing on here.” Elspeth held up a piece of Winnie-the-Pooh, who now had his ear missing. “Look at that biscuit to icing ratio,” she said, shaking her head a little.

  “Not the best piping,” Jonathon agreed.

  Oh, poor Euan. This was not what you wanted to hear after hours of baking.

  But then it was my turn.

  “This looks very impressive, Poppy,” Jonathon said.

  “Yes, the whole composition is a triumph…even if that buttercream is oozing out of its cookie sandwich,” Elspeth said, breaking off a piece of Trunchbull’s “cake.”

  I held my breath as she bit into the chocolaty goo.

  “Oh, how utterly rich and naughty. This is a delight.”

  I grinned. A delight!

  But as Jonathon tried my vanilla biscuit people, he didn’t appear to be as impressed. “These are a little overdone, Poppy.”

  My stomach sank into my shoes.

  “But the flavor is excellent nonetheless.”

  I sighed in relief, but that was a silly mistake on my part. How could I have left them in the oven too long? Was my wishing-well prayer not loud enough or something?

  Amara’s nerves hadn’t stopped her from turning out a really wonderful scene. And both Jonathon and Elspeth had rave reviews for her scene from Little Women.

  When it was time for the results, I gripped my hands together. Florence, Amara, and Maggie were definitely all safe. Hamish’s biscuit book had been widely praised. I knew I was teetering on the edge, as were Daniel and Priscilla. Euan had definitely received the worst feedback. I told myself that if I was sent home, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. I would be a good sport and try really hard not to cry on camera.

  After their deliberations, Elspeth and Jonathon agreed that Amara had won the showstopper challenge. She looked stunned and so happy I got a lump in my throat. Euan’s was the worst and I’d moved up at least, to fourth place.

  Next we were told who was going home. I knew I hadn’t performed as well as I’d wanted to, so I held my breath, bracing myself to stave off those tears if they rushed into my eyes.

  “Everyone today really pulled the stops out,” Arty said. “You made an amazing effort, bakers, but sadly, we do have to send someone home. And this week we’re going to say goodbye to our very lovable beekeeper Euan,” he continued in a grave voice. “You’ve been an absolute pleasure to have on the show, mate. And you’ve made some sterling bakes. You should be very proud of yourself.”

  Euan looked gutted. As a group, we naturally divided so that half of us comforted Euan and the other half congratulated Amara and then switched.

  Inside, I was saying a private thank-you to the biscuit gods for being on my side today. I was safe for another week.

  Chapter 18

  Back at the inn, the whole gang tumbled into the pub totally exhausted. We were spent and thirsty for something to take the edge off. I lingered by the entrance, reluctant to get into the spirit of things.

  On our walk back from the tent, something shocking had occurred to me. The moment that I was free to think about something other than cookie dough, my mind had raced back to Eileen, the letter, and her horrible nephew. While we’d been busy baking, it had started raining outside, and the late-afternoon air smelled like clay. I let the others walk on ahead. A few thin, straight trees were growing in a line next to each other, and I took a seat on a log beside them, not caring about the drizzle.

  I still couldn’t get my head around why Eileen’s last words would be about a letter. If she was referring to the letter from Oliver Jones, then where was it? If only I knew more about this Oliver chap. What was his life like in Canada? Was he married now? Who would tell him his childhood friend was dead? A missing letter from a missing boy. It was such a puzzle. All I knew about Oliver was what Bill and Barbara had said about him being unhappy at home, that he and Penelope were competitive siblings and Eileen had possibly had a crush on him.

  But as the rain trickled through the umbrella of leaves and landed on me in cool, light droplets, I tried to let thought go and simply let impressions come to me.

  I was still there when Florence stuck her head around the pub’s door and told me off for being slow. “Come on, Poppy,” she called. “Don’t be a party pooper. You’re safe! We’re safe! And we don’t have to look at another biscuit for as long as we live!”

  I laughed. “I’ll drink to that.”

  The gang had commandeered the biggest table in the pub, and Gaurav was beaming. Euan was being a good sport, telling everyone who’d listen that he was happy to have made it as far as he had and he wouldn’t mind a lie-in next weekend. I watched the scene almost as if I were an outsider to it all. I couldn’t shake my heavy heart. At least Eve’s smiling face was behind the bar. Maybe she could answer some of the difficult questions I had.

  Amara saw me then and thrust a champagne flute in my hand. “Today deserves a proper toast.”

  “Congratulations, Amara,” I said. “Your book was beautiful. You deserved to win.” We clinked, and I took a sip, letting the bubbles burst pleasantly in my mouth.

  But my moment of peace was brief. A man, clearly already a little inebriated, was talking loudly at the bar. I looked up and saw to my horror that Timothy, Eileen’s nephew, was the drunk in question. Oh, man. What was the brute doing here? And why was he drunk? Hadn’t the police been to question him today?

  I leaned over and whispered in Florence’s ear. “That’s the guy who nearly ran me over yesterday.”

  “What?” she exclaimed. “I’m going straight over to give that idiot a piece of my mind!” Her chair scraped across the pub’s tile floor.

  I laid a hand on her arm. “Please don’t. I want to go and see what he’s wittering on about. Let me stay incognito for a minute.”

  Florence pouted but agreed, and I excused myself from the table and slipped over to the bar so I could better hear that buffoon.

  Eve was being incredibly patient as she poured Timothy a pint of bitter.

  “The bloody cheek of them,” he was saying. “Questioning me about my whereabouts.” He was red-faced. “Whereyouhavebeen?” he said, slurring a little and mimicking Sgt. Lane’s voice. I had a sudden desire to defend poor Adam Lane, but I had to hold my tongue. I needed to see what else Timothy was going to spill.

  “They seemed to think I was in Broomewode yesterday, but I kept telling them I was in London. Apparently an ‘eyewitness’”—he made air quotes with his crooked red fingers––“saw me driving in the village.” He shook his head angrily. “I drove up as soon as I heard the news. And I was at Aunt Eileen’s cottage, having a clear-out, when they almost knocked my door down. Talk about disrespectful.”

  “You mean Eileen’s door,” Eve said softly. “They almost knocked down Eileen’s door.”

  “Exactly. Anyway, they kept asking me about a stupid calendar my aunt was supposed to have in the kitchen and did I know where it might be. I mean, what kind of trip are these coppers on, asking me about a calendar?”

  Just then my phone buzzed, and a text message appeared from a number I didn’t recognize.

  I opened the notification and saw that it was Ophelia. Despite myself, I grinned. The Lady Ophelia was texting me.

  Poppy, Ophelia here. After our meeting this morning, I did a bit of digging. It turns out that Eileen and Benedict have the same solicitor. I called in a little favor, and the lawyer confirmed that Eileen had an appointment but wouldn’t say anything further…despite my best efforts. I’ve passed the information to the police. Thought you might like to know. O X

  Wow. I felt my mouth drop open. Ophelia had come to the rescue again. But if Timothy had found out that Eileen might be changing her will had that make him angry enough to meddle with Eileen’s medication? Had he upset her so much she had a heart attack and died? And which of them had shoved her will in the cutlery drawer?

  “Anyway, enough about me. I’m here to honor my lovely aunt Eileen,” Timothy said. He spun round and faced the room. “Who’s going to join me in a toast? I’m paying, of course. Let’s have ourselves a little wake, shall we?”

  Behind him, Eve wrinkled her nose in disgust. I caught her eye and shook my head. This was not how you honored a person. Eileen deserved a proper wake; her loved ones needed to tell stories about her life, share their lovely memories and pay reverence to all the qualities she embodied. There was nothing respectful about an inebriated family member offering some strangers a free pint.

  I guessed that everyone shared my sentiments, because the room was completely silent. I turned and looked back over at my fellow bakers. They were clearly uncomfortable––Florence was practically squirming in her chair, so desperate was she to give Timothy a piece of her mind. And from Maggie’s frown, Florence had obviously shared my near-miss with Timothy’s car. That’s when I spied Susan and Reg in the far corner, looking pretty cozy over a bottle of red wine. Their eyes were fixed on Timothy and not without judgment, either.

  The room stayed silent.

  “All right, then, let me drink alone. See if I care,” Timothy muttered.

  I stayed by the bar, watching Timothy grumble into his pint.

  I was halfway back to the table when Penelope walked into the pub. She was wearing a black skirt and long-sleeved top with a high neck. As soon as I saw her, something in my mind clicked, and I knew what it was that had been bothering me. But now I had to prove it. My stomach churned as I watched her take a seat next to Timothy.

  “Are you all right, Poppy?” Gaurav asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  Oh, man, if I had a dollar, or a pound, for every time I had actually seen a ghost, I’d be a very rich woman.

  “Hmm, I recognize that look,” Hamish said. “What are you up to, Poppy?”

  “I’m okay,” I murmured. “I have a hunch about something. And if I’m right, well…I don’t want to be right. Do you see what I’m saying?”

  “The mysterious Poppy strikes again,” Florence said. “No one knows what you’re saying, darling.”

  Instead of answering, I watched the ease with which Penelope accepted a red wine from Timothy. She raised her glass. “To my best friend, Eileen. She’s in a better place now, smiling down on all of us, I’m sure.”

  Hmmm, I wasn’t so sure about that myself.

  Penelope’s toast broke the silent spell that had been cast over the pub, for everyone raised their glass, too. “To Eileen,” the room chimed in unison, clinking glasses.

  It was a touching moment. But one I knew I had to shatter.

  And as if I’d magically summoned them—had I magically summoned them? I’d have to ask Elspeth about that one. I saw DI Hembly and Sgt. Lane enter the pub and speak to Eve. I took a deep breath and approached Penelope and Timothy. I wondered if he’d remember my face.

  “Poppy, dear,” Penelope said, smiling. “I’m so glad you’re here. Can I get you a drink?”

  I shook my head at the offer of a drink. Timothy was looking at me curiously. Clearly he remembered my face, but he couldn’t place it.

  “But it would be nice to talk more about Eileen,” I said. “There’s been something playing on my mind, and I can’t work it out.”

  Penelope looked puzzled. “I’m not sure if I can help you, but I’ll certainly try.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I caught DI Hembly raise an eyebrow. But neither he nor Sgt. Lane interrupted me. I hoped that was because they could now spot when my sleuth instincts were kicking in. So far, my hunches had been right. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t be wrong.

  “Yesterday, we talked about Eileen and Oliver exchanging letters.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “And I told you that Eileen was trying to tell me something important before she died. Something about a letter.”

  Penelope nodded, but looked around as though hoping for someone else to talk to.

  “But when I was having tea at Eileen’s house, going through old photographs, she showed me her stacks of correspondence.” Okay, that was a white lie but I thought Eileen would approve. “She kept every letter she ever received. But you know, I never saw one from Oliver Jones. Which is strange, don’t you think? Why would he only contact her now, decades after he left for Canada?”

  Penelope drew herself up tightly. “I don’t think it’s nice to bring up the past this way. Eileen was devastated when Oliver left. I don’t think she’d want us going over old ground again. She’s barely cold. Have some respect.”

  A chair scraped back, and Hamish came to join me. In his softest voice, Hamish said, “Let her talk.”

  “What business is it of hers? She barely knew Eileen,” Penelope challenged.

  Timothy swiveled on his barstool and leaned forward and stared at me. “I know your face. You’re––” He was about to say where he recognized me from but stopped himself just in time.

  I glared at Timothy, then turned back to Penelope. This was it.

  “I don’t buy it. There’s no way your brother would contact Eileen out of the blue like that. She was very distressed when she received that letter.”

  The color was draining from Penelope’s face. “I’m sure there had been other letters. Eileen must have thrown them away.”

  Hamish spoke up. “But kept every other letter she ever received?” He shook his head. “That doesn’t sound likely.”

  All I had was a theory. But so far my instincts had been right, and Penelope was looking decidedly uncomfortable. I shot a look over at DI Hembly, and Sgt. Lane gave me a small nod. Okay, if I had the confidence of those two, then surely I could do this. I took a deep breath, realizing that the pub was still silent and everyone was watching me, waiting to see what I was about to say.

  “I was looking at old photographs with Eileen, and she gave me one to keep. You were in it and Bill and Barbara––you recall them? Well, they recognized you immediately, and they were the first ones to tell me about Oliver going missing. They also happened to mention how you and Oliver fought a lot as kids. I was surprised that they remembered that because all siblings fight. I guess the two of you must have made a real impression.”

  Penelope crossed her arms. “We were just ordinary siblings. Squabbling and play-fighting. I’m not sure why you’d bring that up now when I’ve lost my best friend.” She made a sound like a sob and pulled out a handkerchief from where it was tucked up her sleeve, dabbing her eyes.

  “I think that one day, your play-fighting got a little too real. What happened?”

  Penelope swallowed. She was white, and as she wiped her cheeks I could see her hands were trembling. I had her exactly where I wanted her. “Stop this.”

  Instead of backing way I pushed. I really hoped I was right or I was going to feel truly terrible about what I was doing. “And Eileen was somehow involved,” I continued. “Did she see you?”

  There was a silence that seemed to stretch into eternity. Hold your ground, Poppy. Stay firm. You’ve got this.

  “That’s…that’s the most preposterous thing I’ve ever heard,” Penelope finally spluttered.

  Exactly what I thought she’d say.

  I slipped my phone from my back pocket. “Here you go then,” I said, handing over the phone. “Why don’t you give Oliver a call?”