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.”
The Biscuit Detectives – Volume Four: A Crumble in Time Chapter Six: The Shortbread Scandal
The landing this time was softer. Less rattle, more glide.
The tin clicked gently into place as if it had touched down on flour-dusted stone. Lady Biscotti opened the lid with a cautious eye, still shaken from the biscuitless world of the future.
Outside, the air smelled different.
Yeasty. Seaside-salty. With a hint of burnt caramel.
Sir Dunkalot peered out. “We’re back in the past. I can smell it. Somewhere coastal.”
A sign nearby confirmed it: King’s Lynn – May 1923
Biggie did a little tail wag. Indy gave a single approving woof.
They were in a cobbled street tucked between narrow buildings, their wooden signs swinging gently in the breeze. A nearby one read: “Pruitt’s Pantry – Est. 1871”
But the door hung awkwardly off its hinges. The window was dust-smeared. And the smell of baking… was fading.
Inside the bakery, flour lay scattered like a crime scene.
No loaves. No cakes. No shortbread. Just the echo of footsteps on wood and the faint creak of an unattended dough hook.
“Looks like it’s been deserted,” Lady Biscotti whispered.
Sir Dunkalot stepped behind the counter. “Odd. The ovens are cold but clean. Like someone planned to stop.”
On the counter sat a cracked teacup and an empty scroll tube.
Lady Biscotti lifted it carefully. Inside, she found a single curled piece of paper — the edges singed, the centre written in spidery jam-stained ink.
She read aloud:
“Shortbread must be pure: flour, sugar, butter… and no berries.”
She frowned. “Berries?”
Sir Dunkalot squinted at a second line scrawled beneath the original recipe.
“To tempt the future, corrupt the past. The crumble begins here.”
Lady Biscotti snapped the scroll shut. “Someone’s been tampering. This wasn’t the original recipe.”
They explored the back room, where storage shelves once held ingredients from around the world — cinnamon from India, almonds from Spain, sugar bricks from the Caribbean.
Most were now smashed or spoiled. A sack of flour had been replaced with dry pink dust. Biggie sniffed and sneezed.
Suddenly, Indy barked.
He was pawing at the floor beneath the old proving table.
Sir Dunkalot pulled it aside.
There, carved into the flagstone, was a mark — a small circle of shortbread wedges, one piece missing.
Lady Biscotti knelt beside it. “This is a biscuit circle. An old one. Maybe older than we thought.”
And in the centre of the circle: a date scratched into the stone. ‘13 June, 2025’
Sir Dunkalot’s jaw dropped. “That’s the future. How did it end up down here?”
Lady Biscotti stood slowly. “I think we’re chasing something bigger than jamline glitches.”
“They’re not just erasing biscuits — they’re rewriting history.”
As they turned to leave, Lady Biscotti noticed something pinned to the back of the door.
A black-and-white photo.
It showed a young baker in a tall hat, holding a tray of perfect shortbread.
Underneath, a hand-written note: “Forgive me. I tried to preserve the recipe. I hope it finds its way back.” — Pruitt.
Sir Dunkalot touched the photo gently.
“We’ll find it, mate,” he said quietly. “And we’ll bake it right again.”
The team stepped back into the tin. Lady Biscotti clutched the scroll.
Biggie curled up beside the dial. Indy stood guard by the lid.
“Where to next?” Sir Dunkalot asked.
Lady Biscotti smiled faintly. “Where all the best baked secrets hide — underground.”
The lid closed. The tin shimmered. And the scent of shortbread faded into time.
Blind Man Makes 