Image description: The YeastEnders village of Walnutford, with baked-goods characters gathered in Almond Square outside The Queen Victoria Sponge.
Rye-vita placed the black envelope on the bar.
“LEAVE MARZIPAN LANE.”
Peggy Cherry Bakewell read it twice.
“Well, that’s settled then.”
Phil the Pudding relaxed. “Good.”
“We’re going to Marzipan Lane.”
Phil sighed. “I knew I’d misunderstood.”
Parker Pastry snapped his battered leather case shut. “Nobody is going anywhere.”
Peggy reached for her coat. “You don’t give orders in my pub.”
“Too many of us turning up will draw attention,” said Parker. “If somebody sent that warning, they may already be watching the bakery.”
Rye-vita picked up her notebook. “He’s right. You stay here. If this leads back to the Queen Victoria Sponge, somebody needs to be here.”
Peggy pointed at Parker. “Fine. But if any of you get arrested, you’re not using my phone call.”
Fatbread knew where the old bakery had been.
“I can show you,” he said.
Sharon Scone folded her arms. “Then I’m coming with you.”
Fatbread looked at the unfinished custard slice on the bar.
Sharon picked it up and wrapped it in a napkin.
“You can mourn it on the way.”
Twenty minutes later, Fatbread led Sharon, Rye-vita, Sticky Nick and a deeply unhappy Parker Pastry down Marzipan Lane.
The old bakery stood behind a rusting gate.
Most of the roof had gone. The bricks were blackened, the windows empty, and weeds pushed through cracks where customers must once have queued.
Fatbread stopped outside.
“My uncle used to talk about this place.”
“What did he say?” asked Sharon.
“Mostly that deliveries never went through the front.”
They followed him around the side.
A narrow passage ran between the bakery and the neighbouring wall. At the end stood a metal door.
Rye-vita examined the lock.
“That isn’t twenty-three years old.”
Sticky Nick crouched beside the ground.
“Neither are those.”
Fresh tyre marks crossed the dirt.
Parker turned back towards the alley.
“We’ve seen enough.”
“No,” said Fatbread. “We’ve seen a door.”
Nick reached inside his coat and produced a small metal tool.
Rye-vita stared at it.
“Is that legal?”
“Short story? No.”
The lock clicked.
Inside, stone steps descended beneath the bakery.
The cellar smelled of damp brick and old smoke. Empty shelves lined the walls. Rusted hooks hung from the ceiling.
Sharon stayed close to Fatbread.
“Your uncle came down here?”
“He never said.”
At the back of the cellar, Rye-vita stopped.
“Look.”
The wall was thick with dust except for one clean rectangle, roughly the size of a baking tray.
Something had been moved recently.
Nick ran his fingers along the bricks.
“Loose panel.”
Behind it was a small metal box.
Parker stepped forward.
“Leave it.”
Fatbread stared at him.
“You knew it was here.”
“I said leave it.”
That was enough for Fatbread.
He opened the box.
Inside was one photograph.
Faded.
Scorched around the edges.
Five people stood outside the bakery.
Fatbread stared at it.
“That’s my uncle.”
Sticky Nick leaned closer.
Then looked at Parker.
At the far end of the photograph stood a much younger Parker Pastry.
And in his hand was the same battered leather case.
Rye-vita turned the photograph over.
Three words were written across the back.
THE FIRST LAYER.
Nick pointed at the person standing in the centre.
Their face had been scratched away.
Not burned.
Scratched away deliberately.
Fatbread looked at Parker.
“Who did that?”
Parker said nothing.
“Who was standing there?”
Parker stared at the ruined face.
“The person who started all of this.”
Blindman Makes 