Murder At The Bake Off (Celebrity Mysteries 3) (7 page)

“Er, there’s a slight problem,” I venture. “Because it’s a last minute thing, we don’t have any luggage or, well, anything at all, really.”

“No worries,” Chris says. “There’s an outlet shopping village about five miles away. They stay open until late every night. You’ll be able to get anything you need there.”

Looks like we’re staying at the Willows then.

We eat the scones (yum) and drink the tea, then head to the outlet village to get some essentials. Back at Cherry’s country home, we begin to carry out our searches. In the study, there are numerous folders chock full of items relating to Cherry’s illustrious career. It makes for fascinating reading, but after spending ages trawling through, we both agree we haven’t turned up anything to help the case. Next, it’s Cherry’s bedroom, and I hate every single second we are in there, looking through cupboards and opening drawers. It feels disrespectful, and I have to keep reminding myself that we’re here to track down clues as to who might have wanted the Queen of Baking murdered. Yet again, we find nothing to help with the case. Tossing and turning in my brand new pyjamas, I lie awake, going over and over everything in my mind and hoping that the baking workshop tomorrow is going to provide us with some answers on this investigation. We certainly need them—and sooner rather than later.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Jack drops me off at Bakewells on the dot of eight the following morning. Thinking I’d have to find some side entrance and stairs up to the workshop, I’m surprised to see the bakery is already open. The same woman who I accosted last night, begging her to let me in, is back behind the counter, tucking a strand of chestnut brown hair into her uniform cap. I wave and say hello, and she only nods and points towards a doorway at the back of the café area.

Feeling like it’s the first day of school, I nervously scoot over, through the door and up some steep wooden stairs. At the top there’s a landing, and off to one side sits a wall of glass with a doorway into a very fancy-looking room with several workbenches and ovens inside. Everyone else seems to already be here, meaning the only wooden mini-kitchen workstation that’s free is the one right at the front, next to the “teacher’s desk” where Maggie will lead the workshop from.

Perfect. I would much rather lurk at the back of the room to hide my dodgy baking abilities and burnt offerings. Jack, however, will no doubt be pleased I got this spot, so I’m near to Maggie and might have more chance to pick up some useful information from her.

“Hurry up. We’re ready to start,” a woman I assume is Maggie says to me. She beckons me into the room, checking my name against her list of paid and approved attendees and accepting the little pink workshop voucher the woman in the bakery had given me yesterday when I’d booked my slot. I hurry over to the workstation, trying not to hyperventilate at the sight of the various baking equipment laid out all ready for me. I’m not sure what most of it is even for.

I hang my coat on the back of my chair, and the woman on the next workstation over comes across and picks it up. “Coats and bags go in the cloakroom area over there.” She points to the corner of the room where some chairs are arranged around a coffee table. “I’ll do this for you if you like. You finish getting yourself set up.”

“Oh, that’s kind, thanks. I’m Lizzie.”

She smiles. “I’m Gabby.”

“Have you done this kind of thing before?” I ask when she returns from her self-imposed cloakroom duties.

“Oh yes, loads of times,” she nods enthusiastically. “I’ve done workshops and courses all over, but the ones here are my favourite. Maggie’s a great teacher.”

“Do you know her well?”

So far, Maggie isn’t what I’d expected at all. She’s tall and curvy, with sandy blonde hair in a high ponytail. I suppose after what Xanthe had been saying about her, I was expecting Maggie to be more of a Wicked Witch of the West than an approachable baker.

“Yes, I’ve done loads of stuff here, like I said, but our kids are also at the same school. Her boy Maxwell is a year older than my Faye, but we see each other at lots of PTA meetings and sports days and the like.” With a worried look in Maggie’s direction she adds, “It’s so dreadful what happened to her mum. You do know she’s the baking legend Cherry Bakewell’s daughter, right?”

Do I pull a sneaky one here or not? I opt for a teeny little white lie. “Really? I had no idea. I’m in the area on holiday and saw the course advertised yesterday afternoon. Lucky for me there was a space still available. It was all very last minute.”

“Do you have much baking experience?” she asks me, annoyingly going off-topic.

“No, not really. I found an old recipe book of my aunt’s a little while back and started attempting to make the recipes, and that kind of triggered things.”

Gabby opens a drawer on my workstation and pulls out a folded up cream cotton apron with Bakewells embroidered on it in red. Wow, she really does know the lay of the land around here.

She hands me the apron. “You’ll need to pop this on.”

I slide the apron over my head and loop the strings around me to tie in a bow. At the front of the class, Maggie is now flicking through an A4 ring binder of what I assume are her notes for the workshop. I need to see if I can get any more info out of Gabby before the lesson starts.

“So, you were saying, she’s Cherry Bakewell’s daughter. Wasn’t she poisoned recently at some baking festival?”

Gabby nods solemnly. “Horrible, horrible, horrible. Who would do such a thing?” Her hands flutter to her ample chest where she clasps them anxiously. “Makes you wonder what the world is coming to. It’s all so terribly frightening.”

“I’m surprised this course wasn’t cancelled, you know, in the circumstances,” I say, nonchalantly fiddling with some of the cutlery on the stainless steel worktop in front of me.

“I know, you’re not the only one. I even rang up to check, but they assured me it was business as usual. I don’t think Maggie got on that well with her mum from what I’ve heard, but even so, you know, she’s still her mum.”

“Quite.”

Maggie claps her hands together, and all eyes swivel in her direction. “To your workstations if you please, ladies.”

I lightly place a hand on Gabby’s arm as she turns to go. “Maybe we can chat more later, when we’re on break or at lunch?” I suggest hopefully.

“Oh, of course. We all usually get together to compare notes—our baking triumphs and disasters—anyway.”

Hmm. I know which one of those my creation will turn out to be. I still don’t know what the theme or cake is for today. If it’s carrot cake, I might just stand a chance with one of those. Carrot cake is the only decent cake I have ever made, and even that was a one-off, a hard-won success seemingly never to be repeated.

Maggie straightens her folder and rests her hands on the edge of the teaching station. “Ladies, I think we should all honour a moment’s silence for my mother.”

Instantly the room is quiet. We all stand, heads down. After a minute, I think I hear the muffled sound of somebody trying to hold back tears. I lift my head slightly, eyes darting to Maggie. But it isn’t her who is battling the tears. I bow my head again and wait for Maggie to end the silence and begin the workshop.

“Thank you, ladies.” Maggie draws a long breath and then lets it out in a weary sigh. “Now, let’s begin. Have any of you ventured into gluten-free baking territory before?”

I freeze. Gluten-free baking? What?! I haven’t even got to grips with regular baking yet, let along more complex stuff like gluten-free. Oh, this is going to turn out even worse than I’d feared.

Gabby waves a hand in the air. “Yes, me. I made some vegan and gluten-free mince pies last Christmas.”

Another voice from the back of the glass calls, “I’ve made a gluten-free brie, olive and tomato tart before. The pastry was all brittle, but it tasted really nice. My sister-in-law is a coeliac. I want to learn more so I can create some tasty dishes for when she comes to stay with us along with my brother Ben.”

“Right, well, that’s good. Thank you. There are many ways you can make a gluten-free pastry or bread; some far more complex than others,” Maggie continues.

“You mean all those different types of flours and xanthan gum and the like?” asks the same voice from the back of the class. “I cheated and just purchased an all-purpose gluten-free flour and used that.”

“That’s fine. It’s not a cheat at all,” Maggie reassures her. “But when you use gluten-free substitute products, you often need to tweak the amount of liquid you would add to the recipe. That might be why your tart pastry turned out a bit on the brittle side.”

I find myself scribbling down notes, and as my pen flies across the pretty floral notebook provided as part of the course, I’m surprised to find myself eager to learn. I’m actually enjoying taking in all the information and soaking up all of the knowledge and expertise around me, but I need to remember the real reason I’m here.

“This morning we will make a simple gluten-free rye bread without yeast,” Maggie says to her eager pupils. “You can use our masterclass pantry here to pop some additional items into your loaf, sweet or savoury, to make things more interesting. Now, if you open your course folders, you will see a basic recipe for the loaf. Take a moment or two to just read through it and familiarise yourself with the ingredients and the process, and then step forward and join me at my workstation, where I will demonstrate the making of the bread.”

I do as instructed. The ingredients consist of rye flour, baking powder, self-rising gluten-free flour and milk, which can apparently be substituted with vegan rice, oat or soya milk, if required. You can really make a loaf from just these ingredients? It doesn’t seem possible. I recall a bread recipe in my Aunt Molly’s old book, and it sounded complicated, with loads of proving and knocking back and yet more proving, the whole thing taking hours and hours. I notice the rest of the class starting to gather around Maggie, so I wander over and wait for the demonstration to begin.

“First, we weigh out and mix together the two types of flour, and then add in the baking powder.” Maggie’s hands fly between the various jars on her worktop, measuring and adding with precision and confidence. “Now, we add the milk. I’m using a dairy-free soya version to show it makes no difference to the outcome or the taste of the finished product.”

As soon as she’s poured in the milk, the mixture miraculously starts to come together in a soft ball of dough. Amazing.

“Now, this is how you prepare the tin,” she says, setting aside the bowl and picking up a baking sheet. “Lightly oil the non-stick baking paper to be on the safe side. Then pop your dough on top in any kind of shape you wish. Cut a deep star across the top of the dough so it isn’t constricted as it bakes and rises. Finally, place an upturned Pyrex dish over the dough to help it in the cooking process.” Maggie looks up. “Any questions?”

Yes, loads.

“Can we add any flavour we like?” Gabby checks.

“Your only limitation is that it must be something from our larder here. OK, ladies, get started. Your ovens are already preheated at the right temperature. Simply slip the loaf inside and bake for about thirty minutes or so.”

“There’s no proving and kneading required?” another pupil asks, sounding nervous.

“None at all. Now, this is only the first of three tasks today, so we need to press on,” Maggie urges.

Three? It’s going to be a long day.

I head back to my workstation and immediately start to copy what I’ve just seen Maggie doing before any bits can get blurry in my head. I’m adding my milk and hoping the mess of a mixture in my bowl will somehow come together into a perfect dough when Gabby appears at my shoulder. “I’m adding caraway seeds to mine. What are you going to add?”

Good question. “Haven’t decided yet. I’ll go and take a look in the pantry in a minute.”

The mix does actually start to resemble the dough Maggie just demonstrated. Phew. I head off to think what I can put into a rye loaf flavour-wise. There’s an array of tasty-looking ingredients in jars and packets, and I debate at length, not only because I cannot decide, but also because it’s a good opportunity to eavesdrop. After all, that’s what I’m supposed to be here for.

Two women who haven’t uttered a word up to now are standing a foot or so away, debating the merits of ginger versus treacle as their added ingredients. I sidle a little closer and pretend to be reading the back of a packet of demerara sugar. Maybe I can find something useful out from them. It’s got to be worth a shot.

“I know, it’s all wrong,” the one with the spiky red hair is saying to the one with a sandy-coloured bun of hair complete with a pink scrunchie. “I can’t believe she’s running this when darling Cherry has just passed away. Then again, they never got along though, right?”

Interesting.

Sandy Bun nods and sniffs into the edge of her apron. Ah, was this the women trying not to cry during the silent tribute earlier? Putting the sugar down, I pick up a packet of sultanas and edge a little closer to the two women in the process.

“Ladies! Please hurry up and select your ingredients,” Maggie shouts. “We’ve a lot to get through today.”

Great. That’s put an end to my snooping.

The two women head back to their workstations. I opt for keeping it simple, pop the sultanas back on the shelf, select some raisins and a tub of mixed spice to put into my loaf-to-be and get to work. Tipping in a generous handful of the raisins, I guestimate the amount of mixed spice, throw that in as well, mix it all through, and plop the dough onto my baking sheet. OK. I can do this. Covering it over, I slide it carefully into the oven and close the door, feeling marginally more confident than I was earlier about my baking efforts.

“Take a break while the breads cook, ladies,” Maggie instructs as she checks something on her phone.

Perfect. A break sounds like a great opportunity to try and get sleuthing again. I scan the room but cannot see Sandy Bun anywhere. If she’s not in here then there are only two other places she can be – outside or in the toilets. Leaving the workshop, I head along the corridor and push open the door of the Ladies’. Bingo. Sandy Bun is checking her hair in the mirror above the sinks.

“Hi,” I say and beam her a smile.

She smiles back.

“How’s it going for you?” I ask, washing my hands in the next sink across from her.

Frowning she says, “I don’t think my bread is going to be very good. This gluten-free thing is tricky, don’t you think?”

All baking is tricky as far as I’m concerned. “Definitely.”

“I’d better get back.” She finishes her hair and turns towards the door. “I want to keep an eye on my oven.”