Image Description (cover image): A warm, richly textured illustration shows a glowing Family Circle biscuit tin floating at the centre of a swirling vortex. Around it spin various baked goods — jam tarts, bread rolls, cinnamon buns, shortbread fingers — all being drawn into the jamline spiral. The colours are rich reds, oranges and golden yellows, with a nostalgic, storybook feel. At the top, the words “Something’s Wrong with Time” appear in cream lettering. At the bottom, the title reads: “A Crumble in Time.”
Chapter Four – Jam In The Gears
The jump was smoother this time.
The tin vibrated once, gently, then settled with a soft clink, like a tray of neatly stacked Bourbons.
Lady Biscotti adjusted her spectacles. “Somewhere quieter this time, I think.”
Sir Dunkalot peeked out through the lid and nodded. “We’re near Chapelfield Gardens. But… older. I think this is early Edwardian Norwich.”
The team stepped out into a cobbled courtyard flanked by brick buildings and curling chimney smoke. The air smelled of cocoa and steam. Factory clatter echoed in the distance.
A faded sign nearby read:
Caley’s Chocolate & Confectionery Works Est. 1886 – Norwich
Lady Biscotti’s eyes lit up. “This is it! Caley’s — the original chocolate works. They made bars, buttons, and even sent chocolate to the troops in the Great War.”
Biggie sniffed the air. Indy let out a sneeze — not from flour this time, but from jam vapour.
Sir Dunkalot narrowed his eyes. “Do you smell that?”
“Jam,” said Lady Biscotti. “But this wasn’t a jam factory.”
They followed the scent around to the back of the building, where a large delivery entrance stood open. Inside, workers moved hurriedly — but not with purpose. Something was clearly wrong.
Machines clanked. Pressure pipes hissed. A foreman stood shouting over the din.
“I said stop the belt! Shut it down! The jam’s in the gears again!”
Lady Biscotti stepped forward. “Excuse me — did you say jam?”
The man turned, his moustache twitching. “It’s in everything! We’ve got raspberry all through the cocoa mixers. I’ve got fondants foaming and truffles turning pink!”
He pointed to the corner, where a vat of what should have been milk chocolate was bubbling an unpleasant shade of plum.
“This factory never used jam,” Lady Biscotti muttered. “This is a jamline breach. Someone’s twisted the time threads — and now the recipes are infected.”
Sir Dunkalot poked at a lever that was dripping with sticky residue. “Is that… seedy?”
“Definitely raspberry,” Lady Biscotti said grimly.
Biggie growled low. Indy backed away from a spinning whisk covered in goo.
Lady Biscotti examined the chocolate-vat control panel. Embedded in the side was something that didn’t belong — a scroll, half-melted but still legible. She carefully pulled it free.
The message read:
“Where sweetness boils and fondant fails, beware the blend that should not be.”
Sir Dunkalot frowned. “Sounds like a warning.”
Lady Biscotti nodded. “Chocolate and jam weren’t meant to meet like this. Not here. Not now.”
She pulled a small tool from her bag and twisted open the inspection hatch on the vat. Inside, floating on the surface of the jammy mixture, was a silver tag:
“Caley’s – Experimental Biscuit Batch – Do Not Mix”
She held it up. “This wasn’t a chocolate glitch. Someone tried to add biscuits to the chocolate line. Biscuits that weren’t invented yet.”
Sir Dunkalot gave a low whistle. “That’s… bold.”
Lady Biscotti shook her head. “Or dangerous. Biscuit history is bleeding forward. The jamlines are unravelled.”
The factory bell rang. The foreman shouted something about backup supplies and syrup catastrophes.
Lady Biscotti folded the scroll and tucked the tag into her notebook.
“We’ve seen enough.”
They headed back toward the tin. The sky flickered faintly overhead.
“I hate it when time ripples like that,” said Sir Dunkalot.
Biggie barked in agreement. Indy trotted ahead.
As they approached the tin, the jamline viewer flashed again — a glowing image of loaves, buns, and bakers in motion.
Sir Dunkalot looked at Lady Biscotti. “Where to next?”
She glanced at the swirling lights.
“Wherever flour remembers… that’s where we’re going.”
The lid closed behind them.
And with a soft pop, the tin vanished once more.
Blind Man Makes 