The Cake Tin at the End of the Lane
The lane smelled of warm tarmac and cut grass. It was the kind of August afternoon that made Nettlecroft look like a postcard of itself, all hanging baskets and drowsy bees and cats asleep on stone walls. Miriam Fletch was returning her library books — two days early, as usual — when she noticed the tin.
It was a square biscuit tin, the old sort, with a faded pattern of Scottish terriers on the lid. She knew it immediately. Everyone in the village knew it. It belonged to Dorothy Speer of Hawthorn Cottage, who used it to transport her famous shortbread to every parish fundraiser, every school fete, every funeral tea within three miles. Dorothy had brought it to the WI only last Tuesday. It had a small dent near the left-hand corner from the time it had fallen off the Speer’s garden wall in 2019, and Miriam had been standing right there when it happened.
The tin was now tucked under the arm of a man Miriam did not recognise. He was walking quickly, head down, in the direction of the village car park.
She watched him turn the corner. Then she went into the library, stamped her books, and walked directly to Hawthorn Cottage.
Dorothy answered the door in her apron. The smell of warm butter and sugar drifted from somewhere behind her.
“Miriam. How lovely. Do come in.”
“Dorothy,” said Miriam, “where is your tin?”
Dorothy blinked. “Which tin?”
“The terrier tin. The one with the dented corner.”
“It’s on the shelf in the kitchen, where it always is.” But even as she said it, Dorothy was turning, and her footsteps quickened slightly on the flagstones. Miriam followed her into the kitchen. The shelf above the dresser held an assortment of containers: a round rose-patterned tin, a green tea caddy, a stack of ceramic bowls. There was a gap.
Dorothy stared at it. Her hand moved to the edge of the dresser and rested there.
“That’s very strange,” she said, with the particular steadiness of someone who is working hard to sound steady. “I had it this morning. I’ve been baking.”
“I saw a man carrying it,” said Miriam. “Walking towards the car park. He was perhaps forty, quite tall, brown jacket, no tie.”
Dorothy said nothing for a moment. She moved to the sink and turned on the tap, then turned it off again without filling anything.
“That sounds like it might be Gerald,” she said at last.
“Who is Gerald?”
“My nephew.” Dorothy picked up a tea towel and folded it in half, then in half again. “He stopped by this morning. I wasn’t here — I was at the post office. He has a key for emergencies.”
“Why would your nephew take your biscuit tin?”
Dorothy set the folded tea towel down very precisely on the counter. “I think,” she said slowly, “it may not just be the tin.”
—
They found Gerald Speer in the car park, loading bags into a grey hatchback. He had the tin. He also had Dorothy’s carved mahogany jewellery box, a small oil painting of the church at Nettlecroft that had hung in Dorothy’s sitting room for thirty years, and three rolls of her late mother’s silver photograph frames, wrapped in tea towels.
He startled when he saw his aunt. His face rearranged itself into something that was trying to be casual and failing entirely.
“Aunt Dorothy. I was just collecting a few things you said I could have.”
“I said no such thing, Gerald.”
“You mentioned the painting, at Christmas.”
“I mentioned that it would come to you eventually. That is rather a different matter.”
He glanced at Miriam. She looked back at him pleasantly, the way one does at a garden fete when someone is taking too long at the tombola.
“Who’s this?” he said.
“This is my neighbour,” said Dorothy. “She is also the person who noticed you leaving my house.”
The boot of the hatchback was still open. The jewellery box sat on top of a holdall, the little brass latch undone. A string of pearls was just visible inside, pooled in the velvet like something spilled.
Gerald had the grace to go quite red.
Dorothy reached into the boot and lifted out the jewellery box with both hands. She passed it to Miriam, who held it. Then she retrieved the photograph frames, one by one, and set them carefully on the tarmac. She took down the painting last.
“The tin,” she said.
Gerald handed it over.
“I would like you to return my key,” said Dorothy. “You may post it, if you prefer not to come in person.”
He reached into his jacket pocket and held the key out. Dorothy took it without looking at him.
Miriam carried the painting back up the lane while Dorothy carried the jewellery box. The frames were wrapped back in their tea towels and tucked under Dorothy’s arm.
At the gate to Hawthorn Cottage, Dorothy paused.
“You’ll stay for a cup of tea,” she said. It wasn’t quite a question.
“I will,” said Miriam.
Inside, the kitchen smelled of butter and warm shortbread. Dorothy put the tin back on its shelf. The gap on the dresser was filled. She stood at the counter for a moment with her back to the room, and her shoulders rose and fell once, slowly, before she turned to put the kettle on.
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