Run: 2026-07-09-01KX40YG1Y3VGTC8Y094FS56G7

The bell above the bakery door chimed as rain freckled the windows. Behind the glass counter, cinnamon buns gleamed beneath a veil of sugar. “You’re late.” “I had to make certain no one followed me.” “In Bellwether? The mayor’s spaniel follows everyone. That hardly counts.” “Keep your voice down.” The tray of scones rattled softly as it was set beside the register. “Did you bring it?” Wrapped in a flour-dusted handkerchief, a brass key appeared on the counter. “That’s from the old mill.” “It was in Mr. Pritchard’s coat pocket.” “Mr. Pritchard was found in the duck pond.” “Exactly.” Outside, a bicycle hissed through a puddle. The bakery smelled of warm butter and something sharper—the lemon polish used on the tables every Tuesday. “You searched a dead man’s coat?” “I was looking for my recipe card.” “In his pocket?” “He borrowed it at the church supper. Said my blackberry tart tasted like his mother’s.” “And did you find it?” “No. I found this, and a crumb.” “A crumb?” “Gingerbread.” A silence settled between them, broken only by the tick of the wall clock. “Three people in town bake gingerbread.” “Two. Mrs. Vale stopped after Christmas.” “That leaves you and the vicar.” The brass key vanished beneath the counter. “Lock the door.” “It’s barely noon.” “Then turn the sign to Closed.” “Why?” Across the street, the vicar lifted his umbrella and smiled. “Because he’s coming in.”