Run: 2026-10-05-01M46BE09NJVWA30BVEEVXBC8W

By eight o’clock, everyone in Bellweather knew the church raffle money had vanished. By nine, someone had left a muddy footprint on the bakery’s lemon-yellow counter. “Tell me that’s chocolate.” “It’s mud. Chocolate wouldn’t have a heel.” Rain tapped the windows. Behind the glass, cinnamon buns rose in golden spirals, indifferent to crime. “The raffle tin was locked in the vestry.” “And Mrs. Pike’s spare key was hanging beside her gardening boots.” “You’re accusing Mrs. Pike?” “I’m accusing somebody with access to her boots. There’s a difference.” A teaspoon clinked against a chipped blue cup. On the counter, beside the footprint, lay a single currant. “We don’t put currants in anything.” “You made Eccles cakes yesterday.” “For one customer.” “The vicar.” The bakery clock ticked loudly. “He said they were for the bishop.” “The bishop’s in Portugal.” Outside, the vicar’s bicycle leaned against the lamppost. A paper bag dangled from its handlebars. “Perhaps we should ask him about his guest.” “Perhaps you should finish your tea first.” “Why?” From the back room came the soft scrape of a chair. “Because I told him he could wait in the kitchen. He wanted somewhere private to count the proceeds.” “The missing proceeds?” “That was going to be my next question.”