Run: 2026-10-27-01M5YJ1K2DKHF4T911YYA809DJ

At six, Bramblewick’s only bakery smelled of cinnamon, butter, and rain. Beyond its fogged windows, the village green lay empty. On the counter, beside cooling apricot buns, lay a muddy gardening glove. “You’re early.” “So is whoever broke your back window.” “Nothing’s missing. Not even the till money.” “Then why break in?” “Perhaps they wanted your famous seed cake.” “Nobody wants it that badly.” The oven timer ticked. “Mr. Halloway came in yesterday. Asked if I still used lavender in the icing.” “The same Mr. Halloway who was found behind the library at midnight?” “Don’t say it like that.” “Like what?” “Like you think a bun killed him.” “Did one?” A floury hand lifted the glove. Beneath it sat a scrap of greaseproof paper, folded into a neat square. Written inside, in violet ink, were three words: NOT THE VICAR. “That’s your order pad.” “It was.” “And that’s your handwriting.” “No. It’s very nearly my handwriting.” The bell over the door gave a tiny shiver, though the street beyond remained still. “Lock the door.” “Already done.” “Then check the pantry.” From behind its closed door came a soft sneeze, followed by the unmistakable rustle of someone hiding among the flour sacks.