Run: 2026-10-05-01M46B7V98QZZAJWMPSN67NVAB

By seven, the whole of Bramblewick smelled of warm cinnamon. Inside the bakery, rain tapped the windows, and two cups of tea stood beside a conspicuously empty cake stand. “Tell me you moved the mayor’s birthday cake.” “If I’d moved it, would I be staring at that plate like it owed me money?” A flour-dusted apron brushed the counter. Across it, a damp umbrella dripped into the brass stand. “The door was locked when I arrived.” “And the windows?” “Painted shut since the Jubilee. You helped.” “Then we’re dealing with someone who had a key.” Three keys hung beneath the till. The fourth hook was empty. “Your nephew?” “At school.” “Mrs. Bell?” “In hospital. New knee.” “The mayor?” “He wouldn’t steal his own cake.” “He did promise to lose half a stone before Saturday.” Beside the stand lay a single silver button, still threaded with green wool. Neither reached for it. “Doesn’t the vicar wear a green cardigan?” “So does half the gardening club.” “Yes, but only the vicar asked whether the filling contained brandy.” Outside, the church bell began to ring. “Shall we pay him a visit?” “After breakfast. If we’re accusing a clergyman of cake theft, I’m taking a bun.”