“Aren’t the entries displayed sans the baker’s name?” I asked. I’d actually never been to a baking contest, but I never missed episodes of The Great British Bake Off.
“Of course, but they always know. The contestant might include some signature flourish, so to speak, to let them know which one is theirs.”
“I never knew these things were so competitive,” I said, smiling.
“You’ve obviously never lived in a small village. Fight to the death is what it is,” Jonah Hargreaves said, grinning. “And God help me if I don’t vote for Tanya’s offering.”
“Isn’t that nepotism as well?” I asked.
“No, because my Tanya’s cakes are truly the best,” Jonah said, and winked at me.
“Well, if this cake is anything to go by, I’d have to agree with you,” I said. “It’s delicious.”
“I’ll tell her you said that. She’ll be pleased.”
I pushed to my feet, reluctant to leave this beautiful room and interesting man. It’d been a long time since I’d enjoyed talking history with someone as much as I had with Reverend Hargreaves.
“Well, if you happen to remember anything else, please ring me,” I said, handing him the piece of paper with my mobile number.
“I will. I’ll pull up my research and see if I missed anything. How long are you staying at the retreat?”
“I booked in for a week, but I might extend my stay by a few days,” I said. I’d need the extra time once I got down to writing.
Reverend Hargreaves gave me a look that could only be described as sheepish. “I asked Lisa Prentiss if I might scour the library at Lockwood Hall for any documents relating to the Alys Bailey case but was refused permission. Given that you’re staying at the house and have access…” He allowed the sentence to trail off, but I took his meaning.
“I was given full access to the library,” I said. “I just might have a peek.”
“Excellent. You will tell me if you find anything, won’t you?” the reverend asked eagerly.
“Yes,” I replied. “I will gladly share my findings.”
The reverend nodded his thanks. “How are you getting back?”
“Uber,” I replied.
He nodded. “I’d offer you a ride, but I have to take a funeral in an hour, and Tanya doesn’t drive.”
“But she bakes,” I said, smiling up at him, “which is more important.”
“That she does,” he agreed, patting his stomach.
He walked me to the door, and we said our goodbyes before I called an Uber to take me back to the retreat.
As I sat in the back of the car, I couldn’t help but wonder why Lisa Prentiss would refuse Jonah Hargreaves access to the library. What harm would it do if he dug up something about Alys Bailey at this stage? I certainly couldn’t see how anything that came to light now could make any difference, not even to the history of the house. It was common knowledge that Alys Bailey was hanged there all those years ago. It certainly wasn’t a reflection on Lisa or her family. Did she somehow feel she’d be blamed for the actions of her ancestors? If she was, then we’d all have to accept blame for something our predecessors had done.
My dad’s family had been involved in smuggling in the eighteenth century and had probably been responsible for the deaths of passengers and crew members whose ships were smashed on the rocks, lured ashore by the lanterns the wreckers had used to send false signals. And then there was my mum’s family, which had a tragic history of its own. Perhaps that was why I’d been fascinated by the past from the time I was a small child. These weren’t just stories; they were people’s lives and deaths, hopes, and disappointments. And in Alys’s case, something much darker.
Upon returning to Lockwood Hall, I didn’t immediately go in but walked around the side of the building to stand before the morning room window. Just beyond the window was an old oak, its branches spreading like welcoming arms ready to offer a hug, the leaves a shimmering bronze in the gentle autumn light. This tree would have been considerably smaller four hundred years ago, but it would have been sturdy enough to hold a young woman’s weight. As I looked up at it, I could almost see a slight figure hanging from one of the stout branches, the head bend forward, unbound hair hiding the face, bare feet dirty and pale in the morning light, and arms limp in death. In my mind’s eye, the body slowly swayed, the rope creaking as the branches groaned in the gathering wind. This is the hanging tree, I thought, a shiver of apprehension skittering down my spine.
Chapter 18
Entering the house, I hurried up to my room, glad no one was around. I wasn’t in the mood to chat. I turned on my laptop, took out my notepad, and went to work. Now that I had a concrete year and some background information about the case, I could narrow down my search in the hope of finding something pertinent to the story.
I filled pages and pages with notes and saved copies of images from Cresswell Crag. I didn’t believe in witchcraft, but it was entirely possible that Alys Bailey had fancied herself a witch. She may have even belonged to a coven. The images were concrete proof that witches had lived and practiced their dark magic in the area and were perhaps even responsible for
