Death by Lavender Scone

The morning of the Thornbury Village Baking Fair began the way all good mornings in a small English village do: with the smell of butter, the sound of competitive muttering, and an argument about whether a Victoria sponge counted as a simple bake or a showpiece.

Miriam Cottle stood behind the counter of The Kettle & Crumb and watched the village green fill up through her lace curtains. She was fifty-three, practical, and wore her grey-streaked hair in a bun that never quite stayed neat. Her apron had a small embroidered bee on the pocket. She had sewn it herself in a moment of optimism.

The Thornbury Baking Fair had run for forty years without interruption, except once in 1987 when the judging tent blew away. This year the prize was a silver rolling pin and, more importantly, the right to boast about it until the following October.