Finally, Ophelia opened a door on the right hand, and we walked into the dining room.

  I inhaled sharply. I’d gone over the details of this room so many times that it felt as familiar to me as my own bedroom.

  There were the enormous bay windows, framed by heavy tapestried curtains woven through with gold. The cream-wallpapered walls reached up to the paneled ceilings, which were bordered by a deep red runner. The ancient-looking long dining table was a rich mahogany color, which matched the sideboards and display cabinets. The damask-upholstered chairs were much larger than I’d thought from seeing them on TV.

  And there, hanging by the window in the left-hand corner, was the painting itself. I had to clench my fists into little balls to fight the urge to run straight to it. But I had to keep my composure for Ophelia’s sake. As much as I was grateful to her, I couldn’t let the real reason I was here become apparent. What would I do if she stayed to keep me company?

  But I needn’t have worried, as Ophelia said, “I wish I could stick around and watch you work, but I’ve got a lunch meeting in London.” She checked her watch. “I’d better get a move-on. Ben knows you’re here. Make sure to tell me how it goes later? You’ve got my number.” And then, to my total surprise, she rushed over, air-kissed my cheeks and gave me a warm wave as she elegantly strode toward the door.

  I couldn’t wait a second longer and rushed over to the oil painting. Like the chairs, it was much larger than I thought, and the colors were richer, full of depth. I rummaged in my bag and pulled out my sketchbook. Inside was the photograph that Eileen had given me. I looked from the painting to the photo. It was definitely the same woman, the same shawl. Thanks to Eileen, I now knew that the grand woman sitting in the wicker chair was the previous viscount’s mother and her name was Elizabetta.

  She was beautiful. Her light-brown hair was pulled up in an old-fashioned style so that a few strands curled at the edges of her face. Her eyes were greenish-gray and smiling so that they creased a little in the corners. Her lips were painted a soft, natural peach, and her cheeks were flushed to match. If Eileen hadn’t told me that she’d been a kind lady, I would have seen it captured by the softness of her expression. It seemed to invite you to spill all your secrets.

  And there was her woolen shawl. My baby blanket. Now that I was up close, I could say for certain that the pattern matched exactly. I exhaled deeply and realized that I’d been holding my breath all this time. I snapped a couple of photos with my phone.

  But if I’d been hoping for an epiphany of some kind, then I was going to be kept waiting. Despite having the link between us confirmed, I was no closer to understanding why Elizabetta was wearing my baby blanket as a shawl. Was it the same blanket, or had the same person knitted both versions? It was hard to believe that such a complicated pattern could be replicated, but maybe it wouldn’t be such a challenge for a master knitter.

  I put my face as close as I could to the painting without it touching my nose. I kicked myself for not bringing my blanket with me this weekend. How I’d love to have it now so I could compare stitch for stitch.

  I was still holding this inelegant position when I heard, “Good morning.”

  I spun round, and there was Benedict Champney wearing a bemused expression, hands on the hips of his jeans. Did he think I was planning to steal the artwork? Maybe stuff the sterling in my bag? I wondered if I’d be searched on my way out. “Oh, hello,” I said as coolly as I could manage. Like my nose wasn’t half an inch from one of his family portraits. “I was taken by this painting. It’s very beautiful.”

  He came closer. “Ah, yes, Elizabetta. She was the Countess before mother. A cousin of ours. She died when I was very young, so I don’t remember much about her, but the old staff still talk about her fondly.”

  I suddenly felt very sad. “She must have been a very kind woman. I think she gave that shawl away to a desperate young woman.”

  Benedict looked stern, suddenly, and I realized that I’d already given too much away. The Champneys were a private bunch, and Benedict wasn’t going to respond well to me talking as if I was chummy with one of them.

  “How on earth do you know that?” he asked. “You couldn’t have been acquainted with Elizabetta. You’re much too young.”

  “Oh, just village gossip.”

  He frowned again. “Well, village gossip tells me that you’d better get your head back in the game or you’re not going to make it much further in the competition.”

  I stared at him, open-mouthed. He was right, of course, but I was shocked that he knew. Or cared.

  Benedict gathered himself up until he stood ramrod-straight. “There’s a bell on the ottoman in the hallway. When you’re finished here, ring it, and Tilbury will see you out.”

  And without so much as a goodbye, Benedict turned on his heels and left.

  But there was no need to subtly hustle me out. I’d seen what I came here for, and now I knew that the shawl in the painting was the exact match of my baby blanket. Elizabetta must have given it to my birth mother.

  I went back to the painting. “But who are you? Why did you give a frightened young girl that shawl?” She must have prized it since she’d chosen to be painted in it.

  Unfortunately, the smiling woman didn’t answer, but as I stood there I felt a warmth hug around me, as though I’d been wrapped in a shawl.

  Chapter 21

  I decided to end my weekend where I’d started it: at Broomewode Farm. Even though Susan had no idea that I’d suspected she might be involved in Eileen’s death, I felt pretty sheepish about jumping to conclusions. Susan had been generous and kind to me from the moment we first met, from her happy eggs and sharing her secret gooseberry plot to showing me the plants and herbs to use in magic tonics. It was just that darn Reginald. Their close friendship was still suspicious to my mind, and after what Edward, the gardener, revealed about those fireplace tools, I now knew for sure that Reg wasn’t all that he presented to the world. But despite her dodgy taste in company, I wanted to say goodbye to Susan before I made the drive home. And maybe fit in a little ball-throwing for Sly, too.

  Armed with my sketchbook, I left Broomewode Hall with a huge grin on my face, feeling thoroughly satisfied now that I’d finally seen the painting for myself. I turned left onto the path that led to the farm and enjoyed the warm sunshine and tweeting birds. For the first time all weekend, my mind was clear and calm. No murders to solve, no biscuits to bake.

  Before long, Susan’s glorious herb garden came into view, and I inhaled its earthy, fresh scent. And then the calm was shattered by a happy bark, and Sly almost knocked me over in his excitement.

  “Hello, hello!” I called, laughing. “You don’t know your own strength, you silly goof.”

  Sly barked again and used his nose to nudge his red ball toward me. I gave him a big stroke and picked up that slobbery ball, hurling it across the garden.

  The side door to the farmhouse opened, and Susan emerged. My jaw almost dropped to the ground. I’d never seen Susan wearing anything but farming clothes: jodhpurs and gumboots and sensible waterproofs. But here she was in a long, pleated blue shirt with a billowy white smock. Her reddish curly crop had been brushed away from her face, and was that––yes, she was wearing blush on her cheeks. And a spot of lipstick too.

  “Susan!” I called out. “You look fabulous.”

  She beamed and came toward me. “I needed to do something to raise my spirits.” She held the folds of her skirt and then let it drop. “Isn’t it pretty?” she asked.

  “Gorgeous.”

  “We’re off for a drive. Reg has ordered me to stop working so hard. We’re heading into Bath for lunch. I can’t remember the last time I went into the city.”

  Of course Reg was behind this. But I couldn’t begrudge his intentions. Susan looked happy.

  As if on cue, a rumbling noise came from the side of the house, and then a racing-green Morgan pulled up next to the farmhouse.

  “He’s into classic cars, you know,” Susan said.

  More than blacksmithing, that’s for sure.

  Reg stepped out of the car and came to join us. His thick mass of silver hair was swept back with a glossy gel, and he looked very smart in a green tweed suit, a white shirt open at the neck. Susan was beaming, and they greeted each other with a chaste kiss on the cheek.

  But Edward’s words about the tools were still ringing in my ears. Whoever did this has been at his trade for years and years. Decades, probably. This isn’t amateur stuff.

  “I suppose ‘congratulations’ might seem an odd word, but well done, you, for putting Penelope to rights last night,” Reginald said.

  “It was nothing,” I replied, shrugging. “Just a hunch.”

  I had a hunch he wouldn’t be too pleased when I told Susan he wasn’t a classic-car-driving, blacksmithing hero. He was a fraud.

  I was about to open my mouth and hope a more delicate way of expressing this sentiment came out, but the side door to the farmhouse opened again.

  “I thought that was you, Poppy.”

  It was Edward, the gardener. He was wearing green trousers and a matching T-shirt with Broomewode Hall stitched in white thread.

  I raised my eyebrows. “What are you doing here?”

  Edward laughed and ran a hand through his thick hair. “Don’t look so happy to see me.”

  “He’s my new lodger,” Susan explained.

  Reg cleared his throat. “Since you may have already cottoned on, Poppy, I’ll admit that perhaps my blacksmithing skills weren’t all I claimed them to be.”

  Susan linked his arm and patted him gently on the shoulder. “Proud, silly thing,” she said.

  Reg stared at his car keys rather than look at me. “I had high hopes for my skills as a blacksmith when I moved down here. Keen as mustard. With all the tools.”

  “All the gear, no idea.” Susan laughed softly.

  “Exactly. I wasn’t good enough. But by the time I’d discovered that fact, I’d already promised Eileen some goods for the shop to boost sales. I’m embarrassed to admit I contracted a fine blacksmith in Scotland to turn out my pieces. I shouldn’t have done it when the truth is, I’m still learning.”

  I turned to Susan. “You knew?”

  “Oh, yes,” she replied.

  Reginald unlinked arms with Susan and clapped a hand on Edward’s back. “But Edward here has agreed to train me in blacksmithing.”

  “And I’m going to teach Edward about beekeeping so that he can help me out with the hives,” Susan said.

  “Win-win,” Edward said.

  “Come on, you,” Reg said to Susan. “We’ve got a reservation to keep.”

  I said my goodbyes and told Susan I’d be back next week. I was hoping for some more “happy eggs” to use in the next round which we’d been told was European Tradition. I was going to need a little extra oomph to get back into the judges’ good books. Susan promised she’d set aside some eggs from her favorite hen (only Susan would have a favorite hen), and after a final ball throw for Sly, I turned and headed back toward the inn.

  “Wait up,” Edward called. “Let me grab my bag, and I’ll walk with you.”

  We set off along the cobbled path that would take me back to the inn and Edward to work. As we walked, Edward told me how lucky he was to have found board with Susan. He’d been renting an expensive room in the next village and driving in, but now his commute was a pleasant fifteen-minute walk. He was glad to share his knowledge of blacksmithing with Reginald; it would keep his skills in good shape.

  “You don’t mind that he lied?” I asked.

  Edward shook his head. “I can understand why. Broomewode is a very closed community. They’re not exactly welcoming to outsiders. I’ve seen that with the gardening team. Reginald just wanted to fit in. You can’t blame a chap for that.”

  I supposed I’d had a lucky time being part of a coven. I really did appreciate having Eve and Susan here in Broomewode.

  We reached the end of the path, and I said goodbye as Edward turned onto the grounds of Broomewode Hall. The vast white tent looked magnificent in the sunlight, and I promised myself that next time I was beneath that awning, I’d bake my little heart out.

  As if she’d heard my promise, Elspeth emerged from the tent. I waved at her and waited until she reached me.

  She looked more casual than when filming was in progress, comfortable in a pair of cream slacks and short-sleeved khaki shirt. Her silver hair hung freely in a neat, long bob. “Poppy,” she said, smiling, “I thought I might have missed you. This morning’s team meeting went on for ages.” She shrugged. “Donald Friesen is a thorough man. Anyway, I wanted to talk to you.”

  Oh no. Was I in trouble?

  “Poppy, you’ve managed to stay away from physical danger this week, but now you’re in danger of being sent home.”

  I snapped my head up and stared at Elspeth aghast. “Is the warning note right? Is someone trying to get me to leave the show? I was hoping it might just be a prank from one of the other contestants, but now I’m not so sure.”

  “No, dear,” Elspeth said. “I’m trying to tell you to pull your baking socks up. You skated on thin ice this week, Poppy, and you need to do better next week if you want to stay on the show.”

  My heart sank into my shoes. I hated that I’d let Elspeth down. I’d been busy getting to the bottom of Eileen’s and Oliver’s murders and tracking down the origins of my baby blanket, and I’d taken my eyes off of the baking prize. And now Elspeth thought I wasn’t up to scratch. I’d have to dedicate myself to baking all week to get back on track.

  I promised Elspeth that I would try my hardest.

  “Good,” she said kindly. “You’re a fine baker. If you truly put your mind to this, you’ll excel. Meanwhile, if there is any hint of truth to that strange warning letter, I want you to have this.”

  She opened up her red Birkin bag and handed me a small tan leather pouch that fit inside my palm.

  I looked at her curiously, touching the soft leather with my thumb. Elspeth’s bag was very Mary Poppins. What else did she just happen to carry around with her all day?

  “It’s a fortification charm. The amethyst necklace will protect you as much as it can, but if danger is imminent, this will help shield you. It’s too potent to be worn all the time, so keep it in its pouch somewhere you can reach for it easily. In a pocket or bag will suffice.”

  “How does it work?” I asked.

  “The charm is infused with magic and will protect you.”

  I thanked Elspeth, slipped the charm into my tote bag, and assured her that I’d keep it safe.

  We parted ways at the inn, and I went to my room to pick up my bag and Gateau and carry them both to my car.

  It had been another exhausting weekend in Broomewode, but at least I got justice for Eileen Poole and Oliver Jones. I started the engine, and Gateau curled up in a ball on the passenger seat, preparing for a long snooze. But unlike my sweet feline friend, I’d have no time to rest this week. Next week was something called European Bakes, and I’d need every second to practice.

  A Note from Nancy

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you for reading The Great Witches Baking Show series. I am so grateful for all the enthusiasm this series has received. I have more stories about Poppy planned for the future.

  I hope you’ll consider leaving a review and please tell your friends who like cozy mysteries and culinary adventures.

  Review on Amazon, Goodreads or BookBub.

  Your support is appreciated. Turn the page for a sneak peek of A Bundt Instrument, the next book in the series, and Poppy’s recipe for Ginger and White Chocolate Scones.

  Join my newsletter at nancywarren.net to hear about my new releases and special offers.

  I hope to see you in my private Facebook Group. It's a lot of fun. www.facebook.com/groups/NancyWarrenKnitwits

  Until next time,

  Happy Reading,

  Nancy

  A Bundt Instrument

  © 2020 Nancy Warren

  Chapter 1

  “Ta-da!” my voice rang out as I presented my latest baking marvel to Mildred. “What do you think?” I was pretty pleased with myself.

  “Yer cake has a great hole in its center,” Mildred said in a horrified tone. “My mistress would have turned me off without so much as a character reference if I’d ever dared serve her such a thing.” My kitchen ghost had been the cook here in my cottage during Victorian times and she was always critical of my efforts.

  Of course, in her day, losing her job was her greatest fear. Mine was being humiliated in front of the millions of viewers who’d be watching me fail if I got sent home this week. As we entered week four of The Great British Baking Contest I was practicing day and night trying to up my game.

  “It’s called a Bundt Cake,” I told her.

  “Hmph. A Blunder Cake more like.” She chortled at her own joke. That made one of us.

  Gateau, my black cat and familiar, was curled up on a chair beside the stove, watching. Not that she needed the warmth. It was mid-May and I’d be outside enjoying the warm, spring weather if I wasn’t panicked.

  I was hanging on by a thread and I knew it. I was one ‘blunder cake’ away from saying good-bye to my new friends on the baking show, and to my best chance of finding out the secrets of my parentage.

  I could not let that happen.

  I stuck a fork in my cake, which made Mildred even more sour-faced. “I wish you could taste it, too,” I told her. I could use a second opinion.

  Instead, I pretended I was a judge on the show. I tasted the flavors and texture critically as I chewed. When I’d swallowed, I put on a British accent and imitated celebrity judge Elspeth Peach. “Very good crumb on this cake, Poppy. The raspberry and lemon flavors are coming through nicely. But I feel you could do better.”