Chapter 1

The cottage had finally stopped radiating heat, but the once pale walls were now scorched and crumbling. Inside was nothing but an empty space, a cavity bereft of all internal structure. Windows stood empty like vacant eye sockets, and the roofless building was spread open to the sky.

Nonetheless, Ginger Burnet saw potential in the ruin. Tools in hand, she approached, determined to shape the sweet little cottage into the masterpiece that she knew it could be.

Ginger picked up her small pot of isomalt and a teaspoon, the tip of her tongue poking out the side of her mouth. Adjusting the cool, dark brown gingerbread wall on the waxed paper, she carefully began to pour the melted sugar replacement into the spaces left for the windows.

Amid her intense focus, Ginger heard the tap of tiny feet, followed by the chair on the opposite side of the table creaking as a weight landed on it. After she finished pouring the window, Ginger looked up through her feathery brunette fringe to see Nina, one of her blue shorthair cats, peering over the edge of the table with her intense golden eyes.

“Don’t even think about it,” Ginger warned, setting down the isomalt and lifting the setting sugar glass onto the wooden worktop, well out of reach of curious paws. “Remember what happened when you investigated the caramel? We had to clip patches of your fur off, and it took weeks to grow back properly.”

Lifting her head above the table, Nina twitched one ear and squinted, as if reliving her mistake. Ginger chuckled, taking up one of her piping bags filled with royal icing. She continued to work on the smaller pieces of gingerbread she had cut out freehand for the hedges included in her design.

Her record of a Thelonious Monk concert that he and his quartet had given in Paris in 1964 was playing on the turntable in the living room next door. As she drew delicate leaves and stalks in various hues of green and brown, Ginger found herself humming along and began to sway a little, her bare feet lightly skimming the cool ceramic tiles of her cottage’s kitchen floor. It was one of her favourite records, and it never failed to get her toes tapping.

“Did I ever tell you where I found this record, Nina?” she asked the cat who was now dozing in a patch of August sunlight. “It was November, a couple of years ago before I moved back here to Little Chiswick. I was still in London, and it was dark, raining, miserable.”

The cat rolled onto her back, twitching one ear as she looked at Ginger upside down.

“I was walking to the tube to go home one evening, when I passed this little pop-up market on the Thames embankment.” Ginger picked up a cocktail stick and began adding texture to the hedge leaves while the icing was still soft. “There was a crate of records in a corner on the floor. Something made me stop to flick through them, and I found this masterpiece.”

Nina sneezed as she accidentally inhaled some flour off the floor, then leapt to her feet and trotted out of the kitchen.

“Sorry, was I boring you?” Ginger called, shaking her head with a grin.

Shimmying across the kitchen to check on the cooling windows in her gingerbread walls, Ginger got lost in the memory of dancing around her beautiful but tiny London flat. On that freezing November night, she’d soaked in the smooth notes of the music to try and forget about how miserable her job, her home, and her life were.

Turning back toward the kitchen’s central island to place the finished hedge piece with the others, Ginger had to stop with a squeak of alarm when she nearly stepped on her second blue shorthair cat.

“Miles,” she chastised, scooping him up. “I know you’re half blind, buddy, but please try to keep out from under my feet.”

The cat purred, headbutting her gently on the chin. He blinked slowly—his left eye the yellowish-green of oxidised copper, the right milky white with blindness—blinked slowly with happiness as he snuggled closer to her.

The clatter of the metal cover on the letter slot cut through the peaceful atmosphere. A moment later, Nina came trotting into the kitchen, an embossed dark green envelope held delicately in her mouth.

“What do we have here?” Ginger asked, dusting off her hands on her faded jean shorts.

Crouching, she delicately took the envelope from her cat’s mouth, giving Nina a scratch behind the ear in thanks. Turning the envelope over in her hands, Ginger studied it carefully.

The thick, expensive cardstock of the envelope was the deep green of the moss growing on her cottage’s roof tiles and was embossed with twisting vines. Most notable, however, was the ornate black wax seal pressed onto the back.

Tipping it toward the light, Ginger tried to make out the letter or symbol at the centre of the seal. However, the heat of August was not friendly to wax, and the design had melted slightly.

“Who sends letters with wax seals anymore?” Ginger murmured, sitting cross-legged on the floor, leaning back against the pale blue-grey doors of her kitchen cabinet.

Reaching up and feeling around for the small sharp knife she’d been using previously to trim the gingerbread, Ginger slit open the top of the envelope and took out the letter inside.

With a growing sense of astonishment and intrigue, she quickly scanned the lines of beautifully written calligraphy, one hand coming up to cover her mouth in surprise.

“Miles! Nina! Listen to this! ‘Dear Miss Burnet,’” she read aloud, “‘here at Breakline Entertainment, we’re always eager to find new ways to push the borders of local programming and believe that even local television stations can host unique high-quality programming. So, we’ve decided this year to take steps toward making this a reality with… reality!’”

Ginger paused to chuckle a bit. She’d written enough marketing copy in her previous London life to see how much effort had gone into making this letter appear off the cuff and funny.

“‘We know that the true strength of local programming is the local people,’” she continued reading, stroking Miles as he climbed onto her thigh in search of affection. “‘And so we’ve gone in search of the undiscovered stars of Gloucestershire. You are one of those stars.’”

She tapped Miles on the nose. “Did you hear that? I’m an undiscovered star!”

Miles sneezed on her hand. Ginger gave a long-suffering sigh and returned to the letter, wiping her hand off on her jeans.

“‘Our talent scouts here at Breakline Entertainment found the mind-blowing baking talent you show on your social media absolutely amazing. We’re certain that your skills, as well as your looks, will test well with audiences. After finding out that you have also competed in several local baking contests and done rather well, we decided that you were a perfect contestant for our new baking and mystery-themed reality show!’ Hmm…”

Ginger got to her feet and wandered over to the wooden kitchen table where she’d left her laptop. There were many red flags in the letter. She was concerned it was a scam. However, a brief search showed that Breakline Entertainment was a legitimate media company operating in Gloucestershire that produced genre-defying reality shows using local talent.

Satisfied, she returned to the letter, moving over to the details. Using the same kind of overenthusiastic, peppy language, the letter detailed that the concept was a new one and that this was an opportunity for her to be part of an exciting new pilot.

The concept combined aspects of a murder mystery dinner party (an event which Ginger had always wanted to experience,  never having had the chance to) and a baking challenge show in the vein of The Great British Bake Off.

“Filming will take place at Arlington Manor this coming Saturday and Sunday, with the contestants arriving Friday afternoon and leaving Monday morning.” Ginger frowned. “This weekend? It’s Tuesday. That’s short notice.”

Nina meowed in agreement as she wandered to the living room.

“But it says the winner gets a cash prize as well as free publicity for their baking through the show,” Ginger called after the cat. “And God knows I could use both. Especially the cash.”

She slumped back in the creaking wooden chair, only half-reading the final few lines filled with corporate babble about how she can’t discuss this opportunity with others due to copyright laws and that she has twenty-four hours to respond via post.

It seemed like a good opportunity at first glance, even if the communication method and the guidelines were a little strange. The company was real, and she knew of Arlington Manor. It was a beautiful old manor house about an hour from the villages of Greater Chiswick and Little Chiswick where she lived, deep in the rolling hills of the Cotswolds.

“It could be a chance to make a bit of a name for myself, Miles,” Ginger murmured. “I know I’ve got that job as a cook at Chiswick Park Academy all lined up, but if I won this competition mystery thing… hell, even if I just took part in it, it might convince Mum and Colin that I wasn’t insane for giving up everything in London and coming back here.”

Miles carefully picked his way around the kitchen island and over to the kitchen table, his trajectory skewed slightly by his blindness. However, he reached the chair where Ginger was sitting, and leapt lightly into her lap, immediately beginning to purr.

“Thanks, baby,” Ginger murmured, taking a deep breath. Focusing on the softness of his fur under her fingers and the jazz still floating in from the turntable, she found her calm once more.

“Well, I’ve still got a while to think about it,” she said, gently setting Miles on the floor and standing up, leaving the letter on the table. “Right now, I’m on a deadline to get this gingerbread ready for the quiz, and the cottage isn’t going to build itself.”

After putting a new record on the turntable, Ginger washed her hands and took up her piping bags again. Soon she was lost in the music and the artistry of her creation. A soft breeze blew through the open patio doors, and Miles and Nina soaked up the sun of the summer evening, their ears occasionally flickering in response to the rise and fall of the music.

Chapter 2

Later that evening, with the gingerbread cottage fully completed, Ginger carefully loaded it into her car and slowly drove the few minutes down the winding country lanes from her house to the quiet village of Little Chiswick.

It was Tuesday, which meant that it was quiz night down at Stuart Mill’s pub, The Fox’s Den. It was one of two pubs in the tiny village of Little Chiswick; the other, called The Split Oak, was a small Tudor building that Ginger passed as she entered the village. However, she noticed that despite the warm evening, no one was at the tables outside.

Thinking no more of it, Ginger drove as slowly as she dared on the one road through Little Chiswick, not wanting any of the potholes to jostle the cottage on the back seat.

Squeezing into a space in the tiny car park behind The Fox’s Den, Ginger breathed a sigh of relief before getting out of the car.

“You made it!” her mother Dorothy cried, hurrying out of the back door of the pub, arms spread wide to hug her daughter.

Ginger grinned, submitting to her mother’s exuberant greeting. Many people said that they looked very similar and Ginger could concede that she had undoubtedly inherited her mother’s wavy brown hair, warm hazel eyes, and slightly gangly limbs from Dorothy. However, the smattering of freckles across her nose, excellent eyebrows, and slightly crooked teeth were all because of her father, Ian.

“You won’t believe what we just found out,” Dorothy said as she finally ended the hug. “I’ve just got off the phone with Martha, and it turns out that Alister Beck—”

“Who?” Ginger asked, distracted by trying to slide the gingerbread cottage out of the car without shaking any of the surrounding biscuits made to look like hedges, trees, and cats.

“You know, Alister who owns The Split Oak?” Dorothy said, not realising that Ginger was barely listening. “Well, Martha heard from Mrs Cook down at the newsagents that apparently Alister tried to bribe one of the brewers who works here to give him the method for making Stu’s bitter ale. So now no one is going to his pub. It’s an official boycott. It’s going in the newsletter this week and everything.”

“No way! Really?” Ginger said half-heartedly, holding the car door open with her hip while sliding the cottage further out. “Oh hi, Colin.”

“Evening, Ginger,” replied Colin Ashford, his soft voice still warmed by a Jamaican accent even after forty years in England. He stooped to avoid knocking his bald head on the pub’s low door frame. “Need a hand carrying the prize in?”

“Please.” There were few people that Ginger would trust to carry a creation that had taken her several days to bake, construct, and decorate. Her stepfather was one of those few people.

“Stu is so excited that you agreed to make the prize for this week’s quiz,” Dorothy said, linking her arm with Ginger’s. “And I think it’s so nice that you’re getting to practice your hobby before you start the new job up at the school.”

Ginger subtly rolled her eyes at how her mother referred to baking as her hobby… even though she had to admit that technically it was true. She thought of the envelope containing her response to the mysterious competition. It was tucked into her handbag, stamped first class and ready to post. Perhaps it didn’t always have to be just a hobby.

The two of them followed Colin with his precious bundle into the pub. Ginger grinned, flushing, as a cheer of appreciation went up from the thirty or so people gathered inside The Fox’s Den. Most were grouped into quiz teams around the dark wood tables, but a few casual onlookers were relaxing into the comfortable leather upholstery of the booths that lined the edges of the pub.

“Ginny, my girl, you’ve outdone yourself with this prize,” said Stuart Mill, the owner of The Fox’s Den, coming out from behind the spotless bar to give Ginger a warm hug. “Let’s just hope your team doesn’t make things awkward by winning the quiz, or else you’ll just be taking most of it home again!”

“I’m sure whoever wins will be more than happy to share the cottage with everyone here,” Ginger called as she headed toward her regular table. “It would probably be better if they did. The butter and sugar in this thing are at a near-lethal dosage.”

“I wouldn’t mind dying if it meant I got a taste of Ginger,” said a blond, slightly balding man in one of the booths as he took a sip of his pint.

“That’s my daughter, Gary,” Colin warned as he passed by the booth. “Watch your mouth.”

Ginger just laughed as she took a seat. “I used to work in the Indian take-away on the corner of Price’s Road when I was a teenager. I know how weak your spice tolerance is Gary, so I’d suggest quieting down.”

Those listening laughed and Gary scowled, sinking deeper into the bench of the booth.

“Is that the melodious sound of Gin shutting down Grubby Gary that I hear?”

Ginger turned in her chair toward the front entrance, a grin on her face as she heard the cheerful voice of her friend Bonnie Natt.

“I’m not grubby!” Gary protested.

“Your mind is, Gary,” Bonnie said, tossing him a wink as she took a seat at the table.

Gary scoffed. “Stu, are you going to let her speak to one of your customers like that?”

“Stop whining and drink your beer, Gary,” Stuart said, carrying a tray of dripping pint glasses over to Ginger’s table.

“You’re a star, Stu,” Dorothy said, lifting the glasses off the tray and setting one down in front of each person.

Bonnie’s girlfriend Mariah was the last one to arrive at the table, immediately taking a sip of her partner’s cider.

“The cottage looks amazing, Gin,” she said, ruffling Bonnie’s short auburn hair before giving her a swift kiss. “Even better in person than it did on Instagram.”

Ginger blushed, not mentioning that she’d worked extra hard on the post now that she knew companies like Breakline Entertainment were viewing her social media.

“We’re just about to start,” Stuart said at the front of the room. “So, gather your notebooks and pencils, turn off your phones so there’s no cheating, and get ready to compete for this edible piece of art that Ginger Burnet so kindly provided for us.”

“It looks almost professional, Gin,” Colin said approvingly, nodding toward the house where he had placed it on the bar. “Not bad for an amateur.”

Although meant as a compliment, Ginger couldn’t help but wince internally at her stepfather’s observation. As the quiz began, she found herself mentally checking out, reflecting on why she so often found herself facing the same problem.

Good, but not quite good enough.

Ginger often felt as if that was the cursed mantra of her life. She had done well in school, but not quite good enough to get into her preferred university. She had been good enough for her previous boyfriend for the last three years, but not good enough for him to propose and have a life with her.

It had been the same with her job: good enough to be hired and kept on for five years, but always passed over for promotion no matter how hard she tried.

“Here, you might know these ones, Gin,” Dorothy said, pushing a sheet of paper toward her daughter. “Picture round.”

Blinking free of her thoughts, Ginger began trying to identify the variety of beer labels from the low-resolution images spread unevenly across the page. But her mind wasn’t in it, and she quickly allowed Bonnie and Mariah to take over the challenge.

Ginger couldn’t stop thinking about the letter waiting patiently in her bag. She didn’t want baking to be another thing that she was almost good at. She wanted to prove to everyone that this was something she was genuinely skilled at. The letter, and by extension the competition, was a chance for her to prove that.

As the scores for the picture round were announced, a cheer went up from the table next to hers, startling Ginger.

“We’ve got to do better,” Bonnie said, doodling moodily on the back of the answer sheet. Of course, since she was the art teacher at Chiswick Park Academy where Ginger would be working in just a few days, her doodles were impressive still-lifes captured in an instant.

“Just stay focused,” Colin said calmly, finishing his glass of cider. “Anyone want another drink before Stu starts the next round?”

Everyone apart from Ginger did. Bonnie offered to buy the round and joined Colin at the bar, while Mariah and Dorothy both nipped off to the loo. Left alone, still sipping her first pint, Ginger pondered whether she should break the NDA and talk to her family and friends about the opportunity.

There was a part of her that was still uneasy about the whole thing, and not just because of the NDA. As much as she wanted to ask those around her for advice, she couldn’t help but be afraid that they would discourage her from entering.

She could already hear her mother saying how it would be too much pressure for her after such a challenging year full of stress, and grief, and change. Colin would nod, his dark brown eyes soft with concern, and say that she had no real experience outside of her own kitchen, although she was good at baking. If she didn’t win, she might be discouraged from continuing with her hobby, which would be a tragedy for her and everyone else.

Bonnie would undoubtedly chip in to point out that the whole show would likely be about humiliation and staged fighting, like a lot of reality television. Did she really want to be a part of something like that?

In some ways, Ginger knew the points she was making to herself through the medium of a hypothetical conversation made sense. Still, she couldn’t stop herself from daydreaming about the possibility of winning. A cash prize and proving to be a talented baker on a TV show?

It would certainly prove to others, and to herself, that the creative baking she did could be more than just a hobby or a passion for her. Maybe a bit of local fame would help her pick up some work making specialist cakes for parties or birthdays?

“Are you all right, Ginny, my love?” Dorothy asked, returning to her seat beside her daughter. “You’ve been awfully quiet this evening.”

Ginger gave a weak smile, feeling herself lean into realising that this competition was an opportunity she couldn’t afford to pass up. “I’m fine, Mum. Just a little tired. I think I’m going to go away for the weekend. Maybe check into a spa to relax before I start this new job.”

Ginger told herself that it was a white lie, and she only told it because she had to. Besides, once the program came out, it would be a great surprise for her mum and Colin.

Dorothy stroked her daughter’s hair, tucking it back behind her ear like she used to when Ginger was a little girl. “What a good idea. It’s been a difficult year for you. A weekend of pampering wouldn’t be a bad idea.”

“Exactly,” Ginger said, getting to her feet, her excitement rising as she recalled that there was a post box in the wall just over the road from The Fox’s Den. “I just remembered. I think one of the hedge pieces from the house fell off in the car. Get on with the next round without me. I’ll be right back.”

“All right, love,” Dorothy said, gathering the empty glasses together as one of the bar staff came by to pick them up.

Ginger hurried out of the door, hands immediately digging through her purse for the envelope. Heart pounding, she slipped out the back door and across the car park, following the beacon of the red post box set into the dry-stone wall.

Pausing in front of the cobweb-clad door that had been there since the reign of Victoria, Ginger stared at the plain white envelope she held. It wasn’t as dramatic as the letter she had received, but this one somehow felt more important. This letter was her way of seizing control of her life.

Before she could talk herself out of it, Ginger slipped the letter into the post box, finding herself almost breathless immediately after.

The letter would be collected first thing the next morning, and reach the address she’d been given in the first letter by the end of the next day. With a final nod of satisfaction, Ginger returned to the quiz, feeling lighter now that she’d made her choice.

It was out of her hands now. Bring on the baking.

Chapter 3

Ginger was balanced on a stepladder, applying wood stain to the exposed beams in the living room, when there came the familiar clatter of the post arriving. Miles and Nina paused where they were gently play-fighting on the rug in front of the empty fireplace, ears pricking at the sound.

Laying the brush across the top of the paint tin, Ginger wiped off her hands on the faded green overalls she always wore when decorating. Scampering down the ladder and rushing to the door, her heart leapt as she saw another embossed, wax-sealed green envelope waiting for her on the mat.

She snatched it up, leaning back against the collection of winter coats and scarves hung up by the door, waiting for their next usage. Opening the envelope, Ginger read the letter inside as quickly as the elegant calligraphy allowed.

Her first emotion was one of exultant relief when she saw the confirmation that she, Ginger Burnet, was now officially a contestant on Breakline Media’s newest reality show. A grin burst across her face, and she went dancing into the living room.

“I got in!” she sang to Miles and Nina, performing a few wobbly pirouettes before collapsing onto the indigo blue sofa. “I mean, I know that seemed pretty likely from the first letter, but I couldn’t sleep last night, wondering if maybe they’d sent out loads of letters and only the first people to reply got picked. But I guess not because I’ve been chosen. Ow!”

Ginger wheezed as Miles leapt up beside her, sitting very deliberately on her stomach. With a somewhat withering glance at her brother, Nina climbed up onto the back of the sofa, curling her tail around her feet as she sat elegantly on the dark blue corduroy.

“Miles, get off my stomach so I can finish reading this,” Ginger said, shooing the blue shorthair down to sprawl across her thighs. “Now, it says that a car will come and pick me up here on Friday at three in the afternoon to take me to Arlington Manor. The rest of the afternoon and evening has been set aside for the contestants to get to know one another and for a short briefing from the director and producer about the details of the show and what to expect over the course of the weekend of filming.”

Nina lazily flicked out a paw to bat at her brother’s tail, but Miles quickly twitched it out of reach. As Ginger kept reading, she absentmindedly reached out to scratch Nina behind the ears, prompting a slow rumbling purr.

“The competition will begin early on Saturday morning and end Sunday at midnight,” Ginger said, squinting a little to decipher the writing. “The contestants will sleep at the manor Sunday night following the end of filming. Transport will be provided on Monday morning to return the contestants to their homes.”

Ginger paused, frowning. “It’s kind of disconcerting that they know where I live,” she said to the cats. “Guess I really should have listened to Ryan about social media privacy.”

Her brother, who went by Ryan to avoid using his proper name Valerian, was a detective with the local police force. He was currently involved with a complicated case involving cybersecurity that was connected to a woman who had allegedly murdered her boyfriend. He’d only mentioned the case in passing, but as Ginger remembered the things that the cybercrime unit had told him about internet safety, she grimaced.

“Remind me to check over what info I have visible on my public accounts,” she said to Miles.

Seemingly offended at being asked to take on such a responsibility, Miles sprang to his feet, making Ginger wince as he used her body as a springboard to leap over the back of the sofa.

The action sent Nina into a burst of motion. Soon, the two of them were zooming out of the living room, through the kitchen, and out the open back door to hunt one another in the tangled garden that Ginger was, unsuccessfully, fighting to get under control.

Rolling her eyes, Ginger got to her feet more slowly and, continuing to read, headed upstairs to dig out her suitcase.

Climbing the narrow wooden staircase, out of habit, she skipped the treads that squeaked the most. Reaching the upstairs landing, she used one foot to straighten the rug laid over the pale honeyed wood of the cottage’s original floorboards.

“‘Please bring all necessary personal items needed for three days, such as clothes and toiletries,’” Ginger read, leaning against the doorframe of her bedroom. “‘Also bring any specialist tools required for your baking, but all other equipment and ingredients will be supplied by the production.’ Hmm, guess I’ll need to gather all my sculpting tools and art supplies then. Who knows what we’ll be making for the baking challenges?”

Dropping the letter among her jewellery, hair ties, and incense burner scattered on top of the polished walnut chest of drawers that she used as a dressing table, Ginger crawled under her Victorian cast iron bed in search of her suitcase. Pushing aside random bags full of gift wrappings, boxes of tealights, and a stack of books she’d been meaning to take to charity for the last six months, the suitcase finally emerged, victorious.

Brushing the dust from the front of her overalls, Ginger sneezed, prompting two distinct, polite meows blessing her from downstairs.

“Thank you,” she called, brushing the loose strands of her long hair back out of her face and picking up the letter once more to finish reading under her breath. “Accommodation and meals will be provided… you must grant permission to be filmed… blah blah blah… confidentiality agreements, legal jargon… blah blah blah… oh.” She stopped, rereading the sentence.

“‘Communication will be extremely limited due to the lack of phone signal in the area and also to avoid contestants sharing confidential information.’ That’s a little concerning.”

There came a clatter from downstairs, followed by a yowl, reminding Ginger that she had left the tin of wood stain open on the ladder. Swearing, she bolted down the stairs, nearly crashing into the wall at the bottom, and swung around into the living room.

The tin was thankfully still balanced on the ladder, but Nina was standing on the next step down, guiltily looking at the paintbrush she had knocked away and her brother who now sported a long, dark streak of stain on his side.

Ginger sighed, quickly putting the lid on the tin and moving it to the floor.

“Come on, Miles,” she coaxed, scooping up the unhappy cat. “We’ll get you all cleaned up.”

As she ran a small bath, reflecting that she was lucky to have cats who loved the water, Ginger repeatedly thought about the section in the letter about lack of communication.

“I wouldn’t call myself addicted to social media or anything,” she said to Miles as she gently washed the stain from his coat. “But I’d have to be stupid to not be a little worried about going off to a manor house for the weekend without telling anyone, and also not being able to communicate with the outside while I’m there.”

He mewed in response, lapping at the few drops of water still falling from the tap.

“Exactly,” Ginger said. “Even if it’s not life threatening or anything, it certainly leaves us contestants open to manipulation by the production company.”

She carefully poured water over Miles’ back. “Maybe I should take some kind of recording equipment with me,” she mused. “I’m sure I can get some kind of small body cam or something by Friday. The magic of Amazon Prime.”

Nina, who was perched on the toilet seat watching, gave a little chirp.

“Well, of course I’m still going,” Ginger replied. “This whole thing is far too mysterious and exciting to ignore. A murder mystery-themed baking challenge that might be released on TV? I’d have to be crazy to pass that up. And I’m going into it with a healthy dose of caution, so that should help.”

Miles meowed again, shaking water from his head.

“I’ll be fine,” Ginger assured him, lifting the dripping cat out of the bath and swaddling him in a towel. “And I’ll make sure Mr O’Malley from next door comes round to feed you while I’m gone.”

Miles snuggled under her chin, purring in contentment as Ginger rocked him back and forth. Nina wound around her legs briefly, then scampered back downstairs.

“Now,” Ginger said to Miles, bopping him on the nose. “Let’s get you dry and then you can watch me while I pack, hmm?”

Chapter 4

Friday afternoon arrived, and by three in the afternoon, Ginger was waiting outside the hip-height garden gate that separated the front lawn of her cottage from the tiny, one-lane road that was the only route into Little Chiswick.

Spinning the small blue suitcase by her side on one wheel, Ginger couldn’t stop checking her phone incessantly to see how much time had passed. She’d been standing by the gate, ready to go, since ten to three; it was now ten past the hour. The August sun was oppressively hot, and Ginger’s floral print sundress was starting to stick to her back.

Taking off her straw hat, Ginger fanned her face, staring out over the rippling golden miles of wheat and barley fields opposite her home that stretched out as far as the eye could see. The hawthorn and hazel hedges lining the lane were stuffed with white puffs of cow parsley, tangling cleavers, and pink spears of rosebay willowherb. The flowers attracted hordes of butterflies and large, fuzzy bumblebees who filled the air with their ponderous buzzing.

These idyllic Gloucestershire summer days were what she had missed living in London, Ginger thought, taking a deep breath of the fresh air tinged just slightly with the scent of the hayfield to the left of her cottage.

Lost in the moment, Ginger jumped when her phone buzzed in her pocket. Pulling it out, she momentarily panicked that the whole competition had been a prank and that no one was coming to get her. However, it was only a text from her mum telling her to have a nice weekend away in Bath and for Ginger to text her when she arrived safely.

“Will do, Mum,” she texted back. “Though the coverage isn’t very good at the place where I’m staying. Might not be able to call or text when I’m there, so don’t worry if you don’t hear from me.”

Just as she finished the text, Ginger heard the low rumble of an approaching car. Peering down the lane along the row of cottages of which hers was the last, Ginger saw a large black shuttle bus with tinted windows creeping between the hedges.

“I guess they’re either lost, or this is my ride,” Ginger muttered, turning to wave one last time at Miles and Nina where they were lounging on the windowsill of the front room.

“Don’t worry about them,” came the reedy voice of her sweet, elderly neighbour, Mr O'Malley. He was tending the rose bushes in his front garden and lifted a hand in a wave. “I’ll make sure those little rascals come home and get fed every evening. You enjoy yourself.”

“You’re an angel, John,” Ginger called, blowing him a kiss as the shuttle stopped in front of her gate.

Considering how fancy the car was, Ginger expected the driver to step out and take her bag, but nothing of the sort happened. She couldn’t even see the driver through the darkened windows. Instead, the side door slid open automatically, accompanied by a sharp beeping, revealing two other women already inside, strapped into the luxurious bench seats along the edge of the bus.

One, a sparrow-like older woman with only a hint of brown remaining in her carefully curled grey hair, was familiar to Ginger.

“I think I know you,” Ginger said as she climbed into the shuttle, setting her suitcase in front of her. “Are you Susan Ford? I think we both provided cakes for the charity fete in Worthington a few weeks ago.”

The woman’s face brightened, and she reached out a hand for Ginger to shake.

“I thought I recognised you,” Susan said warmly. “Ginger, isn’t it? You made the five-tier chocolate cake decorated to look like Cooper’s Hill?”

“Complete with rolling cheeses,” Ginger grinned as she remembered one of her more insane designs.

She fastened her seat belt as the door slid closed on its own. A solid divider separated the seats from the driver’s area, leaving Ginger none the wiser about who was transporting them or how long the journey would take.

“I’m sorry, but why would there be cheese rolling down a hill? Am I misunderstanding something?”

The question, said in a soft Scottish accent, came from the other woman in the shuttle. She was younger than Susan, closer to Ginger’s age or perhaps even younger, with an adorably chubby face, dark brown eyes, and straight black hair that fell to her shoulders.

“I’m Maggie, by the way,” she said quickly, waving to Ginger as they were too far apart to shake hands. “Maggie McFelder. I’m from Scotland, obviously, but I’ve lived over in Stratford-upon-Avon for the last few years. Anyway, back to cheese?”

“No, you didn’t misunderstand,” Susan assured Maggie. “Cheese rolling is an actual tradition around here.”

“It’s completely insane,” Ginger added. “People gather at a place called Cooper’s Hill near Cheltenham, which is terrifyingly steep, and they roll huge wheels of cheese down it. The really crazy part is that people then run down that very steep hill to try and catch the cheese.”

“People break legs and all sorts,” Susan said, reaching up to fiddle with the hearing aid she had in one ear. “One of my grandsons dislocated his shoulder trying to do the run.”

Maggie shook her head, laughing. “My dad is Scottish. My mum’s Filipino. They both warned me that English people are weird, but even though I’ve lived here for years now, I’m still caught off guard sometimes.”

Ginger laughed. “Some of the traditions around here are certainly weird. But I guess everywhere has stuff like that, right?”

Maggie shrugged. “My da follows Scottish tradition and recites Burns’ ‘Address to a Haggis’ every year on Hogmanay, so you’ve got a point.”

“Do you know how much longer the drive will be, Maggie, my dear?” Susan asked. “I’m not usually in a car for this long and my dodgy hip is starting to protest.”

“Is there some way we can ask the driver?” Ginger asked. “Maybe they could stop at some services so you can stretch your legs, Susan?”

“I think the leaflet says it’s not too much longer,” Maggie said, picking up a trifold from off the seat beside her. “Says there are going to be four stops. Ginger was the third, so we’ve only got one more. Then it’s only about twenty minutes or so to the manor. Will you be all right until then?”

“Oh yes, I’ll be just fine,” Susan said with a small smile. “I’ll just need to make sure I get a good night’s rest before the competition starts tomorrow.”

She was the picture-perfect grandma figure and Ginger felt her heart melting like a marshmallow. It was difficult to think of Susan as a rival when all Ginger wanted to do was make her a cup of tea.

“I still can’t believe I’m going to be part of a TV show,” Maggie said, shaking her head.

Ginger noticed that the other woman had a nose stud made to look like a tiny strawberry cupcake and she couldn’t help but smile.

“It’s kind of unbelievable, isn’t it?” Ginger said. “This time last year, I lived in London, at a job that I hated. Now I’m on my way to be part of a mystery-themed baking reality show. Who would have seen that coming?”

The three women fell into easy chatter, although Ginger couldn’t help but glance toward the solid divider every once in a while, wondering about the driver on the other side. Why keep them separate from the passengers? Was it to keep the sense of excitement and mystery? Or more to do with keeping the details of the production private?

After about half an hour of driving, the shuttle stopped again outside a neat, semi-detached red brick house. The door slid open once more, revealing a short, somewhat stout black man with neatly combed white hair. He was dressed in crisply ironed white linen trousers, a bright pink shirt, and a bow tie patterned with tiny flamingos.

“Well, good afternoon, ladies,” he said as he climbed into the shuttle, a small brown leather overnight bag in hand. “Charles Mathers. Pleased to meet you all.”

The door closed and the shuttle moved off again on the final leg of the journey toward Arlington Manor. Small talk soon evolved into a discussion about baking skills and favourite recipes. Still, Ginger noticed that each of them seemed to be holding back slightly, not revealing their full capabilities or giving too many details about past baking projects.

After about twenty minutes, Ginger noticed that the shuttle turned onto a road marked ‘private.’ Thick copses of trees lined both sides of the road, the top branches stretching to tangle with one another, creating a dark green tunnel.

The conversation slowly trailed off as everyone began looking out of the windows, sensing that the journey was coming to an end. There was a brief pause as the shuttle stopped, followed by a mechanical creak. As the shuttle drove on, Ginger saw that they had passed through two ornate cast iron gates that slowly slid closed behind them.

It seemed they had arrived at Arlington Manor.

Chapter 5

The shuttle came to a stop after winding its way up a long gravel drive. Ginger guessed the drive was easily half a mile long, coiling its way through an unkept swathe of lawn dotted with untrimmed trees and abandoned flower beds. Looking out further, all that surrounded the house was rolling fields and woods.

“No wonder they said the signal out here is bad,” Maggie said, tapping pointlessly at her phone. “I bet the production will have had to bring their own internet out with them. An old house in the middle of nowhere isn’t likely to have fibre-optic broadband.”

“Not a problem for me,” Charles boasted, pulling an ancient Nokia phone out of his pocket. “Don’t need any of that new-fangled nonsense. All I need a phone for is calls.”

Ginger and Maggie shared an amused look as Charles continued needlessly explaining to Susan the value of a traditional mobile phone.

The shuttle came to a smooth stop and the door slid open to allow them all to exit. Ginger, who was closest to the door, stepped out first, offering her hand to both Charles and Susan to help them down the small step out of the shuttle.

Once all four of them stood on the weed-studded gravel in front of the manor, their bags at their feet, the shuttle immediately drove away.

As Ginger watched the vehicle disappear through the gates at the bottom of the drive, an involuntary shudder rippled through her. She told herself that it was just excitement and a few nerves, or maybe the fact that the sky had darkened with clouds, casting the world into shadow.

“We seem to have arrived just in time,” Charles puffed, pointing up at the sky. “A summer storm is on its way.”

No one looked particularly worried as they wandered toward the two large wooden doors that marked the entrance. Ginger hung back for a moment longer, looking up at Arlington Manor.

She’d searched for photos of the place online the day before, having a vague memory of visiting once as a child for a school art show. The large, slightly grimy-looking building in front of her looked very different from the pictures of the idyllic, white-painted manor that had looked like it was straight out of a Jane Austen novel.

Now, the white paint was studded with peeling patches and ivy was slowly consuming one wall. Weeds were growing in the gutters, and the exposed Cotswold stone was stained with lichen. However, the windows all looked brand new, with freshly painted frames, and a bundle of cables crawled through a freshly drilled hole in the wall, suggesting that some kind of a major renovation was partially underway.

Large, heavy drops of rain began to plummet from the sky, urging Ginger to step inside.

Her assumption about renovation was confirmed when Ginger stepped into the entrance hall. The black and white flagstones had recently been cleaned and the walls, half wainscoted with dark cherry wood, were all freshly painted in a soft, pleasant green.

What was very out of place, however, was the floor to ceiling glass wall dividing the foyer in half. There was a single door in the centre, closed by an intimidating steel lock and handle. The only other aspect of the smooth surface was a small container, like a letterbox, also made of glass.

“Well, this all got very modern all of a sudden,” Maggie said, rapping her knuckles against the wall. “Don’t think it’s glass. Some kind of reinforced plastic, maybe? Whatever it is, it’s a bold design choice.”

“Look at the sign,” Ginger said, pointing to the small, laser-cut plaque above the slot of the box.

“‘Please deposit phones into this container,’” Charles read. “‘They will be checked by production staff and then returned to you at the briefing this evening once NDAs have been signed by all contestants.’”

His confidence and intonation reminded Ginger of a teacher or an actor, definitely someone who was used to speaking in front of others. He’d mentioned on the drive there that he was retired, but maybe his job beforehand had been something in theatre or teaching?

“Well, that sounds very reasonable,” Susan said, taking out her little phone and dropping it into the box.

Charles did the same and, after a moment of hesitation, Maggie did the same. Ginger hung back, chewing on her lip as she typed out a text for the family group chat.

“Have arrived at the manor safely. Won’t have my phone close by for a while but will get in touch later. Love you.”

“It’s slightly strange we haven’t been greeted by a production coordinator,” Maggie said as her phone thunked into the box. “I work backstage at a theatre and we always have a production assistant or someone ready to greet new cast or guests.”

“Maybe it’s to heighten the sense of mystery?” Charles said, his dark brown eyes lively with excitement. “I mean, it’s all very Hill House, isn’t it? This beautiful old house, all fitted out in dark wood and original floors, with the low lighting casting everything into shadow? What better way to build an atmosphere for the mystery part of the show than to immerse us in it from the moment we arrive?”

“You wouldn’t happen to have worked in theatre at some point in your life?” Maggie asked.

“Why, yes,” Charles said, sounding surprised. “I was an English Literature and Drama teacher for many years.”

Ginger turned away to hide her grin, amused that she and Maggie had both so quickly reached similar conclusions. Her smile quickly dropped however when she saw that her text had failed to send. Moving closer to the door, the only thing separating her from the thunderous pounding of the rain, she held up her phone, searching for some scrap of signal. Finally, in the far corner near the window, there seemed to be just enough signal for the text to send, though Ginger couldn’t be sure.

“I think all four phones need to be in the box for the door to open,” Maggie said, subtly hinting that they were now all waiting on Ginger.

“Oh, of course. Sorry,” Ginger said, dropping her phone into the box.

As if by magic, the door swung open with an almost inaudible mechanical hum. Charles led the way through, but Ginger noticed that Maggie had a look of hesitation on her face that matched what Ginger herself was feeling.

“I can’t help but feel like we’re walking into a series of smaller and smaller boxes,” Maggie admitted, hovering in front of the open door. “I guess I’m just being paranoid, right?”

“Right,” Ginger agreed quickly, even though her gut questioned her response. “I’m sure it’s just nerves about being filmed.”

Maggie nodded, a tight smile on her face, then stepped through the door. Ginger followed, and the door immediately closed behind them. The click of the locking mechanism echoed off the stone floor, bouncing up to hang from the ceiling like a bat.

Once through the door, however, some of Ginger’s worries were assuaged. On this side of the barrier, it looked much more like what she’d imagined a film set would look like.

There were professional lights grouped in corners, looking like troops waiting to be assigned a position. Bundles of cables slithered along the skirting boards, disappearing under doors or into power sources. Tape markers sprouted from the floor like strange fungus in blue, red, green, and yellow.

There were still no people in sight, though, giving Ginger the feeling that everything was holding its breath, poised on the edge of some frenetic burst of action. She found her shoulders curling up toward her ears, and she began cracking her knuckles compulsively, a nervous tic she’d had since her teenage years.

“I don’t know if I agree with Charles’ idea that the lack of people is for atmosphere,” Maggie muttered, quietly enough that only Ginger would hear. “This just smacks of a disorganised production to me.”

“I think I hear voices this way,” Charles announced. He’d clearly elected himself the head of the group, striding ahead with posture like a military man.

“I’d have hated to have been in his class at school,” Ginger said to Maggie. “He’s got a lot of passion, but he doesn’t seem like the type to let any shenanigans go on. And that was half the fun of drama class.”

“Do you suppose there will be anyone to take our bags,” Susan said softly on Ginger’s other side. “Mine is really getting quite heavy.”

Ginger startled slightly; the other woman had been so quiet, she hadn’t realised that Susan was there.

“I can take it for you if you need?” Ginger offered, reaching for the bag Susan carried in both hands. “I’m sure we’ll see someone from the production team soon.”

“Thank you, my dear,” Susan said, gratefully releasing her hold on the bag.

“Ah, here we are!” Charles said, stepping through an open set of double doors made of dark wood with polished brass handles.

Ginger caught her breath slightly as she followed him in. The room was a large, beautiful library. Books filled shelves that stretched along two walls; the one wall without shelves sported a large fireplace containing a flickering blaze even though it was late August.

A large painting of a rambling country house backed by a thick woodland hung above the mantle. In the background of the painting, a fox hunt was in full flight, the riders’ red coats and the fur of the fox like droplets of blood on the canvas. On either side of the painting, dusty animal heads—ibex, zebra, deer, and even a lion—mounted on boards stared down at the small group of ten people in the room. The glass eyes of the heads seemed to hold a gleam of reproach that made Ginger shiver.

To shake away the feeling, she turned her attention to the living. Six other contestants were gathered around a table laid out buffet style with finger food and glasses of Buck’s Fizz or Pimm’s. There were four women and two men, all ranging in ages, ethnicities, and personal styles. As introductions began, they all picked up glasses and piled tiny plates with mini sandwiches, scones, squares of fruit, and little crackers with cheese.

“I don’t suppose you saw anyone from production on your way in?” asked an impressively muscled Indian man with a Bristol accent who’d introduced himself as Manjeet.

“Not a soul,” Maggie said, tucking her hands into the back pockets of her black jeans. “Have you seen anyone at all yet?”

“No one was here when we arrived. We just followed the equipment to here and found the buffet waiting,” said Lilly, a bright and perky young woman who looked barely over eighteen. She had softly slanting hazel eyes and dark red hair impressively styled into 1950s style curls. In fact, her whole look was adorably vintage: bright red lipstick, a black and white polka dot dress layered under a knitted bolero cardigan with a felt kitten stitched on either side, and red, thick-framed glasses.

“There was just a sign saying to not eat or drink anything until everyone was here,” added Jack, a tall and skinny Welsh man dressed casually in a blue sweater and faded blue jeans. He had his curly blond hair tied back into a small ponytail.

“Perhaps someone will come and brief us now we’re all here?” suggested Calliope, nervously tugging at some of her hip-length wavy brown hair. The movement caused the collection of wooden, metal, and crystal-studded bangles on her arms to rattle softly, reminding Ginger of a rain stick.

“Or perhaps this part is where we’re all brutally murdered,” joked Nadine, sprawled in one of the armchairs by the fire, her boots propped up on the side table. She was a stocky woman with bright pink hair, black lipstick, and a host of facial piercings. Despite her intimidating appearance, Ginger liked her immediately.

“You shouldn’t joke about such things,” chastised Annabelle, a very pale woman who looked to be in her late forties, neatly dressed in a blue tweed skirt and jacket, polished patent leather shoes with a low heel, pearl necklace and earrings, and with her blonde hair perfectly coiffed. “It’s morbid and uncouth.”

“I take it the “Saw” franchise isn’t really your thing, huh, Annabelle?” Nadine said with a grin, emptying her glass of Buck’s Fizz in a final gulp.

Ginger raised an eyebrow in surprise as Annabelle gasped, eyes going wide, her hand flying to her chest.

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” Nadine quickly said, sitting upright, concern on her face. “I’m sorry.”

But Annabelle didn’t respond. Instead, she started to cough uncontrollably. The glass of Pimm’s in her hand dropped to the floor, staining the Persian-style rug.

Manjeet and Nadine both rushed forward but neither was quick enough to catch the older woman as she too fell to the ground. Ginger felt a sick sense of panic deep in her gut as the woman she had only met a few minutes before began to violently convulse on the floor.

“What’s happening?” Lilly said, her hands flying up to cover her mouth in shock.

“Help!” Calliope called, rushing to the door. “Anyone on the team, please help! I think she’s had an allergic reaction!”

As foam began to spatter out of Annabelle’s mouth and her eyes went glassy, Ginger began to suspect that this was caused by more than an allergy.

Moments later, Annabelle fell still, her panicked eyes still open wide. There was no sign of breathing, and Ginger felt the room start to spin around her as she realised that the woman was very much dead.

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