I weighed out my golden syrup and put the pan onto the stove. I knew the mix had to dissolve slowly, otherwise the sugar and butter would crystalize and become gritty. I stirred gently, trying to banish non-baking thoughts from my mind. But all I could think about were Eileen’s photographs and my plan to get into Broomewode Hall.

  I suddenly felt a rush of electric energy. It was Elspeth, her delicate hand momentarily touching my shoulder. I looked up, and her face was full of concern. She lowered her voice. “I can’t be seen to be checking up on you, but I’m worried. Is everything okay? You look pale and agitated.”

  “Oh, Elspeth. I can’t focus.” I wanted to tell her everything, about the car nearly running me down and the picture, but I’d have to wait.

  Elspeth was about to reply when Jonathon joined us. He gave Elspeth a very stern look that I couldn’t understand. But Elspeth obviously did. She immediately changed tone, praised my stirring technique, and glided away to speak to Daniel, who was being followed by the cameras as he panicked about whether he’d added too much sugar.

  “Smells good, Poppy,” Jonathon said and then joined Elspeth.

  I looked down at my pan and realized that the heat was far too high. I groaned and turned it down, hoping that I hadn’t already done irreparable damage. It should take fifteen minutes to melt everything down in a smooth and glossy liquid, and I really didn’t have time to start again.

  I stirred and stirred, staring into the pan like it might have some answers for me. Once the mix was dissolved, I had to let it cool for a couple of minutes.

  The rest of the bakers were already adding their remaining ingredients. I really was behind. My heartbeat sped up, and I started to get that horrible queasy feeling that rolls through your body when the dread begins to trickle in. I’d known going into this afternoon’s filming that I had to bring my A game after the scones. But what had I done instead? Gone on a hunt for information about my family and got my emotions all fired up.

  “Bakers, you should be getting ready to get those brandy snaps into the oven,” Jilly announced. “Hurry up and make it snappy!”

  I quickly sieved the flour and ginger into the mix. But the mix was still too warm, and I had trouble making it combine properly. I forced myself to wait a couple more minutes. And, of course, that was when Arty decided to return to my station.

  “I see you’re running a bit behind the others,” he said.

  Er, yes, thanks for stating the obvious.

  “A little, yes,” I said through a forced grin. “But now I’m ready to add the lemon juice.” I poured it in and then got a piece of baking parchment ready.

  “So next you’re going to spoon out the mix?”

  Thanks, Arty. He was stealing my lines.

  “That’s right. I’m only going to put four dollops on each tray. Otherwise they might run into each other.”

  Arty snorted. “Exactly the kind of technique I need to employ with my ex-girlfriends.”

  I laughed, but I was worried. As I spooned the mix, I could see it wasn’t glossy or smooth enough. Either the sugar hadn’t dissolved properly, or I’d added the flour too soon. I felt tears prick the corners of my eyes. But no way was I going to start bawling on TV. I knew that the comedians lived for these kind of meltdown moments. I had to get it together before Arty noticed I was on the brink of panic. I swallowed down my emotions and faked a smile at Arty. Thankfully, he had no idea that my mix was all wrong––he was here for the jokes, not the bakes, so he simply wished me luck and moved off with the cameras.

  I went through the rest of the steps like a woman possessed, got the brandy snaps into the oven, and said a little wish-you-well prayer with way more urgency than usual.

  When the biscuits had spread out across the parchment and had the appearance of a sheet of lace, I took them out. At least they weren’t burned. I’d oiled the handles of several spoons, ready to roll the snaps into the right shape. I was beyond grateful that I hadn’t burned the batch. Now this was the tricky bit. I had to roll them all around the handle while they were still soft, otherwise they’d harden, and then gently press the edges so that they made a cigar shape. Once my tray was finished, I left them there while I tackled the cream filling.

  The cream needed to be thick and light but not too stiff. I knew from past experience that it was easy to over-whip the cream. Then I filled a piping bag, twisted the top, and piped the cream into the hard snaps. But now they were cool, I could see that the biscuits didn’t have that glossy sheen they needed. I’d poured the flour into the mix too quickly. But there was no time for regrets now. Elspeth sounded the clangor, and I placed the rest of the biscuits onto my decorative china plate.

  My stomach dropped into my shoes as I walked over to the judging table. These snaps were nowhere near my usual standard.

  I stole furtive glances at the other plates. They all looked pretty much the same, but on one plate, the cream was dribbling out of the biscuit. I studied the faces of the other contestants and immediately saw that the oozing biscuits belonged to Priscilla. Her usual jolly expression had soured, and worry lines were etched across her forehead. Poor Priscilla. She hadn’t whipped her cream to a thick enough consistency. I felt for her; it could happen to anyone. But right now I was more worried about myself. Mine looked all right, but was the taste okay?

  I braced myself as Jonathon and Elspeth did the taste test. I winced after each crunch, waiting for the moment they got to mine. And when I was finally put out of my misery, I held my breath as Elspeth delivered her verdict.

  “The biscuit has a good snap to it, and the cream is the perfect consistency. I like this snap a lot, even though it might be a little sweeter than strictly necessary. Perhaps the sugar hadn’t quite dissolved enough early on. Even so, I’d say this was a pretty good brandy snap.”

  What a relief.

  Hamish was crowned the king of the brandy snap, and Priscilla was urged to keep on top of her cream whipping if she wanted to do better next time, as she came in last. I came in fifth again. It wasn’t the bottom, but I really needed to do better. Daniel was seventh, so he looked even more worried than I was.

  There was a round of congratulations for Hamish and then a multitude of hugs given to Priscilla, who was far from her usual loud, outgoing self. I felt for her, but after a consolatory hug, I headed out. I really wanted to get to Broomewode Hall tonight so that maybe tomorrow I could actually be focused enough to smash the showstopper challenge.

  I was not ready to be sent home. Not when answers seemed to be within my grasp.

  Chapter 10

  While I’d been frantically baking I hadn’t even noticed that the weather had chilled. Silvery gray clouds now covered the blue, the sun just a distant yellow haze behind them. I shivered in my light shirt and wished I’d thought to pack a cardigan in my bag today from the wide selection I had brought with me. Between the ovens and the stress, I was usually plenty warm in the tent, but the walk back to the inn could be chilly.

  I crossed the freshly mowed lawn. The flowerbeds had recently been watered, and the air smelled earthy and fresh. Edward, the new gardener, must really be on top of his game. And who did I find scratching up against a bayberry bush but Gateau?

  “Where have you been roaming, little one?” I asked. She looked up at me, as if to say I had important cat stuff to do, okay? I let her finish her scratch and then bent down to take her into my arms. “Come on, we’ve got some very pressing detective work to be getting on with.”

  Gateau meowed softly, and I took that as an indication she was game.

  “And we’ll have to be super quick. After today’s disappointing results, there’s no way I can afford to be distracted tomorrow.” I paused, aware that I was talking out loud to a cat but also finding her to be the perfect sidekick.

  Silence from Gateau. Oh well. Was she not impressed with my plan?

  “Okay, I guess I’ll have to try and wing it. You just concentrate on looking adorable.”

  Gateau licked a paw in response.

  “Perfect,” I said, smiling.

  I was nearly past the gift shop when I decided to pop in and see if Eileen could answer a few of the questions I’d forgotten to ask yesterday. Like who else was in that photo. I glanced at my watch. Perfect. There were twenty minutes before it was due to close. As I opened the door, I had a brief but clear memory of helping out at the Philpotts’ bakery when Gina and I were kids. Although come to think of it, we’d only counted the one-pence pieces in the till float and then “helpfully” gobbled up the few mini apple turnovers that were left on the counter.

  I reminded myself, not for the first time, that I did have family. If I found out about my birth mother and maybe father, that would be great, but I mustn’t lose sight of the way the Philpotts and my mom and dad had raised me.

  The bell tinkled charmingly as I pushed open the door, Gateau trotting in beside me. Eileen was beside the till, perched on an antique stool. She was wearing a maroon corduroy dress, and next to the rich color, her face looked very pale. I stepped closer and saw that her eyes were also rimmed red, and blue shadows sat beneath them. Had she been crying? Or was it something worse?

  “Eileen?” I said, rushing over to the till. “Is everything all right? You really don’t look well. Is your angina playing up again?”

  Eileen glanced at me with a blank look on her face and then rearranged her features to a brighter expression. “Oh, Poppy, I’m fine, just miles away.”

  But she didn’t look fine. Not one bit. I wished she would tell me what was plaguing her; she had the same distracted air as when we had tea together yesterday, but this time there was something distressed about it, too. I touched her slender hand. She felt ice-cold.

  “What can I do for you?” Eileen asked in a faint voice. “How did the baking go today?” She suddenly coughed, a deep, breathy, chest-racking sound, and I went round the side of the till.

  “Eileen,” I said with a stern voice, “It’s obvious you’re not well. Let me call you a doctor.” It was more a command than a question.

  “No, no. I think I need to lie down,” Eileen said quietly, catching her breath. “Would you mind awfully helping me to close the shop?”

  “Of course. Don’t you move,” I said. “I’ll do it all, then I’ll drive you home. You need to rest.”

  She nodded, and I could see she was relieved.

  “Shall I start with the till? Talk me through the cash-up.” The cash register was an old model, a relic from the sixties probably, and I fiddled with the clunky buttons. Eileen didn’t answer, and when I glanced over, she’d stood and was swaying.

  I ran forward and caught her as she fainted, then I eased her down to the floor, my arms shaking with the effort of lowering her slowly so she didn’t hurt herself.

  Gateau raced over and sat by Eileen’s side.

  I crouched beside her, checking her pulse. “Eileen?” I said. “Can you hear me?”

  Silence. I managed to find her pulse. But it was very faint.

  Gateau looked up at me as if to say, Do something!

  Right, Poppy, get it together. I needed help. And fast. I pulled out my phone, but the reception was terrible in this stone building.

  I rushed out of the shop, wondering how long it would take an ambulance to get here. I was about to punch in 999 when I saw a familiar figure striding toward the tent. It was Benedict Champney. Of course, Lady Ophelia was a doctor. She was much closer than the local ambulance.

  I called to him, and I must have sounded as frantic as I felt for he broke into a sprint, concern etched across his face. “Poppy, what’s happened?”

  “Where’s your girlfriend?”

  “She’s not my girl––”

  “I need a doctor. Now! It’s Eileen.”

  Benedict looked behind me into the gift shop and saw Eileen lying in a heap on the floor. “Right. You stay with Eileen. I’ll get Ophelia. She was making a phone call outside the inn.”

  He took off at a run, and I went back inside the shop. Poor Eileen looked so frail and helpless on the floor. I looked around and scanned the shop’s shelves until my eyes fell on a pile of those beautiful embroidered cushions I’d so coveted last week.

  I took out the softest, most plump-looking cushion and carefully slipped it under Eileen’s head. She struggled to open her eyes, her expression one of bewilderment. I grasped her hand. It felt so tiny, and still––so icy cold. “Eileen, I’m right here with you. Just concentrate on your breathing. Try to breathe as deeply as you can. Help is on the way.”

  Gateau meowed and nuzzled against Eileen’s side.

  She turned the corners of her mouth up slightly, as if she was trying to give me a weak smile, but I could see that she was shivering.

  I darted around the shop again and found a thick woolen throw, made for cozying up on a couch. Perfect. I draped the throw over her, tucking it around her body and under her chin. “Is that better?” I asked.

  But instead of answering me, Eileen lifted her feeble hand and clutched my wrist. She was desperately trying to tell me something. I leaned down, putting my ear to her face so that I could hear what she had to say.

  “The letter,” she whispered, struggling for breath. “Key is the frog. Must…so sorry.”

  And then Eileen let out a gasp of air, and her eyes fluttered shut.

  “Please don’t go,” I said, but while I held her cold hand, I saw her spirit leave her body and float upward.

  As much as I didn’t want to believe it, Eileen had breathed her last.

  Chapter 11

  I sat beside Eileen’s body for what seemed to be hours, holding her hand, as if I was waiting for her to finish her last sentence. In fact, I was desperate to know the end of what she was trying to tell me. But when I heard the door chime again, I realized that only a couple of minutes had passed. I looked up, and Lady Ophelia Wren rushed toward me, Benedict a few paces behind.

  Ophelia knelt beside me.

  “Her name is Eileen?” Lady Ophelia asked, very efficient.

  I nodded, finally letting go of Eileen’s hand and laying it to rest on the blanket. I didn’t have the heart to say out loud what I already knew to be true: Not even Lady Ophelia’s expertise could help Eileen now.

  Gateau jumped into my lap, and I picked her up so that I could move back and let Ophelia do her job.

  The doctor soon shook her head, her long, blond hair swishing from side to side. She looked up at me sadly. “I’m afraid she’s gone.” She ran a manicured hand over Eileen’s soft white hair, smoothing a few strands away from her forehead, and then tucked the woolen blanket I’d found up under Eileen’s chin.

  Benedict looked as sad as I felt. “Oh, poor Eileen. I’ve known her most of my life. She was a lovely woman, so kind and warm. Never had a bad word to say about anybody.” He looked at Ophelia. “What did she die of?”

  “It will take a postmortem to be certain. I don’t know her medical history, obviously.”

  “She had angina,” I told them. “She was on medication. She had a bad spell yesterday when we had tea together.” I asked Ophelia, “Is it possible her medication wasn’t working?”

  She nodded. “Yes, sometimes the dosage level needs changing. That would be something her doctor would monitor. I would need to take a look at her prescription to say anything for certain. I assume she would have her pills in her bag.”

  I went to the till and rooted around for her handbag. It was brown with a shiny gold clasp, which opened with a snap. Inside was a tube of lipstick, a pocket mirror, a packet of tissues, keys, and a white blister pack of pills. I held them up. “Is this it?’

  “Yes,” she said, taking them from my outstretched hand. She turned the packet over. “And we have to call the emergency services for an ambulance. And also to alert the police. Since we don’t know the exact cause of death, there will have to be a postmortem and an inquest.”

  “But she was old and had heart trouble,” Benedict said.

  “Even if it’s more likely than not that her death was from natural causes, at this stage, we can’t say for sure.” She looked at the two of us, both so shaken by a death, and said, “I’ll make the call.” And she stepped outside.

  Benedict stepped closer to me. “Was she—were you able to…”

  “I was with her when she passed.”

  “Good. I wouldn’t like her to have died alone.”

  I let out a deep sigh and shook my head slowly from side to side, as if I’d been swimming underwater and was trying to release trapped water. I was in shock. Deep shock. It was hard to believe that Eileen had passed away in front of me.

  “Ambulance is on its way,” Ophelia said as she came back inside. She also had the presence of mind to turn the open sign to closed.

  She laid a hand on Benedict’s forearm. “Does Eileen have any family? We will need to inform her next of kin.”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “She lives alone in a cottage, but I’ve never seen her with any family.”

  “She has a nephew,” I piped up, suddenly springing back to life. “I don’t know if her sister’s still alive or where she might be, but there is definitely a nephew. She showed me some photographs yesterday.” What was his name again? I thought hard. “I think his name is Timothy.”

  I cast my mind back. And then my thoughts began to race as I played and replayed the events of the previous day over in my head. I honed my mind’s eye in on the photographs of the nephew, which were proudly displayed on the mantelpiece above the fireplace. One as a young boy and then as a married man. I recalled how Eileen had told me that she didn’t see him so often anymore, and the strange expression that had accompanied that statement––sorrowful, yes, but also a little strained. I got the impression that maybe their relationship was a tricky one.

  And that’s when it hit me, just like the man himself almost did: the reckless driver of the silver car who’d nearly run me over and who looked strangely familiar to me. It was the man from Eileen’s photos. Her nephew had almost killed me.