Image description: The YeastEnders village of Walnutford, with baked-goods characters gathered in Almond Square outside The Queen Victoria Sponge.
The Queen Victoria Sponge had gone unusually quiet.
Peggy Cherry Bakewell stood behind the bar with both hands planted on the counter.
“So let me get this straight. Bruno Brioche runs the Buttered Bunch.”
“That’s right,” said Rye-vita.
“But Bruno answers to somebody else.”
“Apparently.”
“And nobody knows who.”
Parker Pastry cleared his throat.
“I didn’t say nobody knows.”
Every head turned towards him.
Peggy pointed across the bar. “Then start talking.”
Parker glanced at the front windows.
“The Extra Layer isn’t one person.”
Phil the Pudding frowned. “That’s inconvenient.”
“It’s a network,” Parker continued. “Businesses, properties, storage places. People who never appear on the paperwork but somehow control what happens.”
Ronnie Roly-Poly folded her arms. “And Bruno?”
“Bruno runs the Buttered Bunch. But the Bunch is useful muscle. Deliveries, intimidation, keeping people quiet.”
Roxy Rhubarb stared at the black circle and three lines on the paper.
“So what do the Extra Layer want with this pub?”
“That,” said Parker, “is what worries me.”
At a corner table, Fatbread stopped eating.
It was only for a second.
But Sharon Scone noticed.
She waited until Peggy started arguing with Parker about whether being worried entitled him to a complimentary custard slice, then slipped across to Fatbread’s table.
“You’ve heard of them.”
Fatbread concentrated very hard on his plate.
“Heard of who?”
“The Extra Layer.”
“No.”
“You stopped eating.”
“I was chewing.”
“You weren’t.”
“I was thinking about chewing.”
Sharon pulled out the chair opposite him.
“Fatbread.”
He sighed.
“You really want to know?”
“Yes.”
“No, you don’t.”
Across the room, Phil had started counting something on his fingers.
Peggy noticed.
“What are you doing?”
“Trying to work out how many criminal organisations have been in my pub this month.”
“It’s not your pub.”
“Then I’m counting them in yours.”
Sharon leaned closer to Fatbread.
“Tell me.”
Fatbread lowered his voice.
“Years ago, before Bruno started swaggering around Walnutford like he owned the flour supply, there were stories. Places changing hands. Businesses closing overnight. Storage buildings suddenly belonging to somebody else.”
“The Extra Layer?”
“Nobody called them that. Not out loud.”
Sharon glanced towards Parker.
“But you knew the name.”
Fatbread nodded.
“My uncle used to deliver flour all over Crumbford. One night he came home, parked his van and never made another delivery.”
“Why?”
“He’d been told to take a load somewhere that wasn’t on his route. He refused.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
Sharon waited.
Fatbread looked straight at her.
“That was what frightened him.”
At the bar, Rye-vita had spread Parker’s papers across the counter.
“There must be something connecting these properties.”
Sticky Nick picked up one of the old maps.
“The mill. The lower storage room. The Queen Victoria Sponge.”
“And probably others,” said Parker.
Dot Crumble adjusted her sugar-dusted glasses.
“What about the old bakery on Marzipan Lane?”
Parker froze.
Dot noticed immediately.
“Oh, don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“That thing people do when I accidentally say something important.”
Rye-vita turned to Parker.
“What bakery?”
Parker closed his leather case.
“I think I’ve said enough.”
Peggy blocked his way to the door.
“You walked into my pub, told me there’s a secret organisation interested in whatever’s underneath my floor, and now you think you’re leaving?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
From the corner came Fatbread’s voice.
“Marzipan Lane burned down.”
Everyone turned.
He stood slowly.
“Twenty-three years ago.”
Parker stared at him.
Fatbread continued.
“My uncle was supposed to make a delivery there the night it happened.”
Sharon got to her feet.
“What was he delivering?”
Fatbread shook his head.
“He never knew.”
Parker picked up his leather case.
“But I do.”
Peggy folded her arms.
“Well?”
Parker looked around the Queen Victoria Sponge.
Then he placed the case back on the bar.
“Documents.”
“What documents?” asked Rye-vita.
“Property records. Agreements. Names.”
Sticky Nick stepped closer.
“Whose names?”
Parker hesitated.
“People who were never supposed to be connected.”
Outside, a car door slammed.
Parker went pale.
A black envelope slid beneath the door of the Queen Victoria Sponge.
Nobody moved.
On the front was a black circle surrounding three horizontal lines.
Peggy stared at it.
“Well, somebody can pick that up.”
Phil looked at her.
“You’re closest.”
“I own the pub. I delegate.”
Rye-vita crossed the room and picked up the envelope.
Inside was a single sheet of paper.
She read it once.
Then again.
“What does it say?” asked Ronnie.
Rye-vita held up the paper.
Three words were printed across the centre.
LEAVE MARZIPAN LANE.
Blindman Makes 