Penelope stared at the phone.

  “Go ahead. Vancouver is eight hours behind us. He’ll be having his morning coffee. Maybe sailing or climbing up a mountain, whatever they do in Vancouver. So happy to hear from his only sister.”

  DI Hembly and Sgt. Lane stepped forward from the shadows.

  Penelope looked from them to me and back again. She checked her watch. “My brother and I aren’t close. Anyway, today is about Eileen.”

  DI Hembly cleared his throat. “We’ve had Vancouver police searching for Oliver Jones. They’re having trouble locating him.”

  The silence in the room deepened. I could see Penelope’s brain working overtime, desperately searching for a way out, for a plausible excuse. I kept my face as expressionless as I could manage. But Penelope was struggling to do the same. It was now or never. I took a deep breath and stabbed her with my words. “Oliver never left Broomewode, did he, Penelope? Because you killed him.”

  Chapter 19

  Into the stunned silence, Penelope let out a short burst of angry laughter and looked around the room as if to say Who is this joker? “How dare you? I’ve never heard anything so absurd. The police searched every inch of our family home and the surrounding property. Search parties were sent out. No trace of Oliver was ever found.”

  “You didn’t deny killing him,” I said.

  Her face looked waxy and her hands gripped themselves into fists, the wet hankie trailing like a drooping tail. “Of course, I deny it. If your crazed theory is correct, then where are Oliver's remains?”

  “Buried beneath the rose bush in Eileen’s back garden,” I answered promptly.

  Someone gasped. Possibly Timothy. Penelope’s mouth began to tremble. There was a long pause. “Did Eileen tell you?”

  I shook my head. “No. I was in her back garden, sketching the beautiful roses, when I saw the plaque next to the bush. It said: To nurture a garden is to feed not just the body, but the soul. And as I read it, a cool breeze went down my spine. There was something about that dedication that stayed with me. I didn’t know it at the time, but that cool breeze, well, I think it was Oliver’s soul.”

  Penelope shook her head rapidly from side to side. “No, no. This is madness,” she said, but tears spilled over again.

  “Penelope?” Timothy asked, putting down his pint. “I don’t understand.”

  The tears slid down her face, forming tracks down her powdered cheeks. There was a long silence until finally Penelope opened her mouth and a tiny voice came out. “It was all an accident. A terrible accident. I never meant to do it. We were just playing. It was a pillow fight. And it got out of control. We were both so stubborn, both in love with winning. And Oliver was always trying to overpower me. He was stronger. But I managed to get a strong hold on him. I held the pillow over his face, waiting for him to admit I’d won, but he wouldn’t. After a while he stopped struggling, but I thought he was pretending to be still so I’d take the pillow away and he’d jump on me.” She gasped, and a keening sound came from her mouth. “But he wasn’t pretending. I couldn’t wake him up..” She broke into a sob. “I never meant to do it. It was an accident. But I was only a young girl, and I was scared.”

  A collective gasp rippled through the room.

  I nodded. “But you weren’t the only one who was scared, were you?”

  Penelope stopped crying, sat up straight, and her voice was suddenly calm. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Eileen was with you.”

  “So she did tell you.”

  I shook my head. “She didn’t breathe a word to anyone. But she was getting to the end of her life. Did she want to finally tell the truth before she passed away? You weren’t going to let that happen, were you?”

  There was a sudden crash, and Timothy’s pint splashed over the rim of his glass. “Penny,” he said, aghast. “You were Auntie Eileen’s best friend.”

  “That’s what I thought, Timothy,” Penelope said. “But true friends don’t turn their back on each other. And that’s exactly what Eileen was going to do.”

  Penelope turned to face me again. “Eileen helped me bury Oliver. We knew no one would look at the bottom of Eileen’s parents’ garden. We were in it together. We got shovels from her father’s shed and we dug a hole and buried my brother. We agreed we’d never speak of it to anyone.”

  “Then last week I went to Eileen’s cottage for tea and I saw the solicitor’s appointment on her calendar. I knew that Eileen had updated her will only last year, so I asked her what it was about. And that’s when she told me that her heart condition had been getting worse. Her doctor said she wouldn’t survive surgery. Before she died, she said she wanted to put things right and thought that Oliver deserved to finally have a proper funeral and burial. She didn’t want to die with that secret on her conscience.”

  “But it was your secret, too.”

  She nodded. “She’d left her cottage to Timothy, and she knew that if he decided to sell it to a developer or did any landscaping, then they’d unearth the remains buried in her garden. She couldn’t bear it. She told me our secret had ruined her life. She was never able to move because Oliver was buried there, and she’d never married because of the guilt and fear of one day being found out. So she was going to the solicitor to find out what she and I could do to admit to the crime without ending up in jail.”

  “Oh, you’d have gone to jail,” Hamish assured her. “The law requires we pay for our crimes.”

  I continued, “So you sent her a letter from Oliver. I saw it on her kitchen table the day she received it.”

  Penelope nodded slowly.

  “What a cruel thing to do.”

  “It might seem that way to you, but I couldn’t have Eileen ruin everything. There was no need to dig up the past. What was done was done. So I sent her the letter from Oliver as a warning. I knew she’d understand. I wrote as though he’d lived a long, happy life. That’s how I wanted her to think of him.”

  “That letter brought on an attack of angina, Penelope. She was pale and frightened and in pain. You did that to your best friend.”

  Penelope screwed up her face. “Oh, poor Eileen,” she said, her voice thick with sarcasm. “Always the victim. She played that part all her life.” Her expression soured further, and deep rivets ran across her forehead. “But she was guilty too. She was there; she saw what happened and she didn’t stop me from killing my own brother. Why didn’t she stop me?”

  I pictured Eileen as a child, either speechless with fright, or trying to get Penelope to stop and being ignored.

  “Easier to blame it all on me. When I told her she was just being a silly old woman, worrying herself about the past, she had the nerve to say I frightened her. That I’d always frightened her and our whole friendship had been bound by this terrible secret, nothing more.”

  Penelope’s breath came out in little bursts, and then tears began to stream down her face again. “How could she say that?”

  “And because she hurt your feelings, you killed her. And then your secret would be safe forever.”

  “I can’t believe it,” Timothy said, looking at her in horror. “I’ve known you my whole life, Penny. How could you?”

  DI Hembly and Sgt. Lane stepped forward.

  “What did you do to Eileen, Penelope?” DI Hembly asked her.

  She glanced at him and then down. “I knew where Eileen kept her heart medication, so I crushed some of her pills. I dropped into the shop that afternoon and made us both tea. I stirred the crushed medication into her tea. I knew the dose would be toxic. And it killed her.”

  Sergeant Lane got out his handcuffs. Penelope looked at them and said, “Eileen managed to ruin me anyway, even from the grave.”

  He read her her rights and I bowed my head as Penelope was led away. I didn’t want to be a witness to any more pain.

  I was also experiencing some heart pangs of my own. I’d jumped to conclusions again and suspected Susan Bentley of foul play just because she knew about the medicinal qualities of foxgloves. I looked over to where she and Reginald were sitting. Susan raised her glass and mouthed, “To Eileen.” I smiled back and vowed to be more trustful of my coven sister. But the jury was still out about Reg. After what Edward had said about his blacksmithing, that made Reg a fraud in my books.

  “I can’t believe it,” Timothy said, watching Penelope being led away.

  “I nearly accused you of murder,” I told him.

  “Me?” He stood up all innocent and full of righteous indignation.

  “You were in Broomewode yesterday. I know because you nearly ran me over with your car. Why did you lie?”

  He looked as though he’d deny it again, but it was pretty clear that everyone in the pub was on my side and no one on his. He got all huffy and said, “Fine. I was in Broomewode. If you must know, I asked to borrow money from my aunt. I got myself into a bit of a tight spot, that’s all.”

  “And did she give it to you?”

  His mouth was very little for his big, red face, and now it pinched even smaller, like a baby’s. “No. No. She didn’t. Said it was time I stood on my own two feet.”

  Good for you, Eileen, I thought. He stared into his drink. “I was angry. I may have said a few things I’ll always regret.” He looked as though he might cry. “But she knew I loved her.” He suddenly glanced up at me as though I were judge and jury. “She had to know I loved her and didn’t mean it.”

  And that, I thought, would be his punishment. If he had any conscience at all, he’d suffer for the way he treated her on her last day on earth. Maybe he hadn’t caused her heart failure—that had been Penny—but he’d hurt her heart.

  Hamish laid his hand on mine and led me back to the group, who were all staring.

  “Blimey, Poppy,” Maggie whispered. “You haven’t half got the knack for cracking a murder case.”

  “And one that’s been cold for years and years,” Hamish added, whistling through his teeth.

  “You did rather upstage my win,” Amara said, handing me back my glass of fizz. “I think you deserve this more than me.”

  I shook my head but smiled. I’d taken a risk by airing my theory, but I’d been right. At first, I’d thought Eileen’s death was natural, but after Timothy lied about being in Broomewode, I’d begun to question everything.

  Slowly, the pub came back to life, and sounds of conversation and merriment filled the room.

  “I think it’s about time we gave a proper toast to Eileen, don’t you?” Hamish said, his voice warm with affection.

  We all raised our glasses in the air.

  “To Eileen,” I said. “A generous and forgiving lady. May she rest in peace.”

  Chapter 20

  Ophelia texted me again the next morning congratulating me on catching a murderer. She said the earl and Lady Frome had invited me to Broomewode Hall before lunch to sketch the interiors. I knew she’d made that invitation happen and I was grateful to her all over again.

  A big smile spread across my face, and my stomach began to turn somersaults. “What do you think about that, huh?” I asked Gateau.

  For once, she looked supportive and mewed her approval.

  “I’m finally going to be able to see that oil painting up close. After all this time, after all those thwarted plans. All it took was befriending a famous humanitarian doctor. Who knew?”

  I leapt out of bed and into the shower, desperate to haul ass to the manor house.

  A few of the bakers who didn’t have work on Monday had stayed an extra night at the inn, exhausted after yesterday’s epic showstopper, but I hoped I was up early enough to skip seeing them at breakfast. I wanted to slip away unnoticed and avoid having to explain where I was going so early.

  I got dressed quickly in my new denim skirt and a white T-shirt, dragged a brush through my tangled hair until it was smooth, and slipped my feet into my running shoes. The birds chirped through my open window, and as I flung back the curtains, I saw that yesterday’s cloudy weather had disappeared and blue skies had returned with fervor.

  “Are you coming with?” I asked Gateau. “You could stretch those paws of yours in the gardens.”

  She leapt up and trotted over to the door.

  I laughed. “Okay, okay. I’m coming. Let me just tie this lace.”

  I was about to leave when a familiar figure floated back through the door.

  “Hello, Gerry. Impeccable timing, as always.”

  Gateau hissed and leapt back on the bed.

  Gerry scowled at her. “Going out, are you? Well, I only came to congratulate you on another mystery solved. You’re on a roll, Poppy Wilkinson. The spirit world is all the better off for having you––well, if not in it, then near it. You’re like a cheerleader for the departed. No crime against a spirit left unsolved.”

  “A cheerleader.” I laughed. “Believe me, helping to send someone to prison does not feel like a pep rally.”

  Gerry waved some imaginary pom-poms in the air.

  “You did great, Pops. But make sure you don’t let all this affect your baking. You’ve been slipping down the ranks.”

  I hung my head. I knew what he was saying was right, but I hated that it was so obvious.

  Gerry could see he’d hit a raw nerve. “You’re a real baking talent. Just make sure to show ’em what you’re made of next week.”

  I agreed but told Gerry I had to dash.

  “Yes, yes, I know. You’re busy. Always busy.”

  Gerry gave a high five his best shot, then floated through the door. “Until next week,” he called from the hallway.

  I picked up Gateau, and together we raced down to the pub. I grabbed a blueberry muffin then hot-footed out of there before anyone saw me.

  As we walked to Broomewode Hall, I couldn’t get my racing heart to settle. I was hoping beyond hope that Ophelia would be the one to answer the door and I could avoid the earl and Lady Frome entirely. I was sure that Lord Frome would have forgotten all about his offer for me to sketch the interiors of his house, and Lady Frome hadn’t even tried to mask her horror at the idea. There was something about the haughty figure of Lady Frome that aroused my suspicions, but I’d yet to figure it out. What I did know was that getting in her bad books was not something I wanted to do. I was going to have to be very careful once I’d crossed the threshold of that house.

  The Georgian manor house loomed before me, golden and imposing in the morning sun. Its symmetrical windows appeared to me as unblinking, all-seeing eyes. The turrets reached proudly up into the blue sky. On my left was the ornamental lake, the swans floating serene and elegant on its surface. I stopped and turned toward the lake. I stayed there for a moment, watching the water’s surface intently, hoping that another vision would appear and tell me that I was on the right path or at least that I was getting closer to discovering more about my birth family. But the only ripples that appeared came from a pair of ducks bobbing for food.

  I turned back onto the main path and soon reached the carriage drive. I had such high hopes pinned on today’s visit. Getting into that dining room and studying the painting had become an obsession.

  So I took a deep, steadying breath, stepped into the portico entrance, and faced the front door with my head held high. I remembered to pull the thick red rope hanging from a circular brass plate rather than use the imposing lion’s head knocker. A crashing bell joined the sound of birds tweeting, and I suddenly felt very, very nervous.

  The bell reverberated through the long entrance hall for what seemed like an eternity. I waited for the sound of footsteps and tried to ignore the two tiny cameras hidden in the ivy that graced the top of the portico. What if the Champneys were watching me on camera and instructed their butler not to open the door?

  But my worries were quelled when it finally swung open and there was Ophelia’s smiling face.

  “Poppy!” she said. “So glad you could make it.”

  As if I wouldn’t give my prized mixer to be here.

  “Come in, come in,” she continued, ushering me into the vast hallway. She was dressed more formally than I’d seen before, in an off-white linen suit. Her long blond hair had been pulled into a sleek ponytail, and there were tiny pearls in her ears. I could see Tilbury, the butler, hovering in the background, a mortified expression on his face.

  Ophelia whispered into my ear, “He’s cross because I refused to let him answer the door. I’m perfectly capable of turning a handle myself.”

  I smiled weakly and asked if she’d slept well.

  “Oh yes, I sleep like a baby. Honestly, not even close-range gunfire can wake me up. It’s a hazard.” She laughed her demure, soft laugh and then made me fill her in on all the details of the drama in the pub last night.

  “I’m so sorry I missed it, but I’m delighted I got to know you. You have quite the reputation around here for solving mysteries,” she said. “Clearly you have brilliant instincts about people. But you care about people. That’s why you’ve such good detective skills. You care.”

  I was sure that I was beetroot red. The great humanitarian Ophelia Wren was complimenting me? I could only mumble my thanks, humbled by her kind words.

  “Have you any thoughts on where you’d like to start sketching? The earl and Lady Frome are still in the breakfast room, so I hope you don’t mind that they haven’t come down to greet you.”

  I shook my head quickly. Maybe a little too fast. The farther from those two I could keep, the better. And, of course, I knew exactly where I’d like to start sketching. “The dining room, I’ve heard it’s an excellent example of the, um, period.” I wished I’d had more time to research Georgian architecture so I could sound like I had a clue what I was talking about.

  “Come this way, and we’ll get you set up.”

  Ophelia led me along the hallway, lit by the dusty-looking chandelier I’d noticed last time I was here. The paneled walls seemed to suck up any light that came in through the leaded windows. I spotted the suit of armor in the corner and the long ottoman where I’d sat waiting for Lady Frome. The pungent scent of lilies filled my nose.