Page 5 of The Sugar and Spice Bookshop Bakery

She doesn’t have the keys.

She’s put them down somewhere. In here? When she first came in? Or in the kitchen, when she lifted the mixer out of its box?

She turns, running her fingers over the table nearest her. No keys. Gingerly, she shuffles forwards, reaching for where she thinks there’s another table. Her foot catches something, and there’s a clatter as a chair – she assumes it’s a chair – topples over, and Louise feels herself tipping forward after it. She puts out a hand to break her fall, letting out a shriek as pain shoots through her wrist. Her body collides against something hard, and the sound of smashing china rings out.

Mum won’t be happy, she thinks. That’s either a vase or a sugar bowl.

Or both.

She is still for a moment, sprawled on the floor, cradling her wrist with her other hand.

And then there’s a knock on the door.

She doesn’t answer.

The knock comes again, a little louder this time, and a man’s voice says, ‘Is everything all right? Are you okay in there?’

She should probably be scared – it’s the middle of the night, the electricity is out, she’s lying prostrate and there’s a strange man at the door. The door she didn’t lock behind her. Or doesn’t remember locking, anyway. It’s like the opening of one of the many crime novels she’s edited over the years.

‘Thanks, I’m fine. I just fell over something,’ she calls back.

The door opens a crack. ‘Do you need help? Shall I come in?’

He has a local accent. Probably someone she knows – having grown up in Applethwaite, she knows most people around here. Although she can’t actually place his voice.

‘Erm, sure.’

There’s some scuffling as he stumbles over the threshold.

‘Sorry, I hope I didn’t scare you. I was passing and I heard a noise,’ he says. ‘It’s Jack, by the way.’

Jack. Jack. She can’t recall any villagers called Jack.

‘Hi, Jack,’ she says, not wanting to say she doesn’t know him, or else she doesn’t remember meeting him. The last thing she wants to do is cause offence, despite the urge to ask if he’s an axe murderer. Of course, only a really crap axe murderer would actually admit to being one, so it’s pointless.

‘You were passing, you said? Pretty late for a stroll.’ She hopes she doesn’t sound too accusatory.

‘I suppose. Though, I could also ask you what you’re doing in here in the dark at this hour.’ He pauses. ‘Oh God, you’re not a burglar, are you?’

Now he’s the one who sounds scared.

‘If you are,’ he says, ‘I haven’t seen your face, and I won’t call the police, if you let me go quietly.’

‘I’m not a burglar,’ she says, scrambling to her feet. ‘And the lights were on. The mixer must have tripped the fuse box. And then I collided with one of the tables and well, here I am.’ It sounds foolish even to her own ears, but it’s the truth. Jack is quiet for a moment.

‘Huh. D’you think you’ve broken anything?’

She rubs her throbbing wrist. ‘Only a sugar bowl.’

‘No, I meant… no bones or anything?’

‘I don’t think so.’

Jack. Jack.

There was a farmer called Jack, wasn’t there? He lived a few miles outside the village but popped into the bakery every now and then. Around her mother’s age, from what she can recall, so he’d be in his sixties now. This Jack sounds a bit younger than that – more early forties, like herself – but voices can be deceptive.

‘How do I know you’re not a burglar?’ she asks. ‘I mean, going for a walk in Applethwaite after the pub’s shut? Were you casing the joint?’