Page 14 of The Spy Who Loved Tea

When Pym opened his door—in an hour, perhaps, or when hunger drove him out—he would find homemade biscuits waiting. No note. No explanation. Just a gift from a well-meaning neighbor.

And he would wonder.

Had someone been outside my door? How long were they standing there? What did they hear?

Paranoia was a virus. Once it took hold, it spread to everything—every glance became suspicious, every coincidence became a conspiracy. Pym was already frightened. The biscuits would push him closer to the edge.

Frightened men made mistakes. And Vera intended to be there when Pym made his.

She descended the stairs with the careful shuffle of an elderly woman whose knees weren’t what they used to be. Mrs. Pringle didn’t look up from her program. The vase had been authenticated. Everyone was very excited.

“Lovely visit,” Vera called out. “Such a nice young man. I do hope he enjoys the biscuits.”

“Mm-hmm,” said Mrs. Pringle.

Vera stepped out into the morning air. The sun was climbing over the rooftops of Lark’s End, burning away the last wisps of fog. It looked peaceful. Picturesque. The kind of village that appeared on biscuit tins and jigsaw puzzles.

But beneath the cobblestones and the cottage gardens, something valuable was sleeping. Lithium—the white gold of the modern age, essential for batteries, electric cars, the entire green energy revolution. And OmniCorp was willing to bury an entire village to dig it up.

Vera walked home slowly, her mind turning over the pieces.

The ledger made sense now. G. — 14 / Zn(?) — Gable’s property, fourteen pounds of soil sample, possible zinc traces. V. — 22 / Li ✓ HP — Vickery’s land, twenty-two pounds, lithium confirmed, high purity. Barnaby had been mapping the deposit, tracking which properties sat above the richest veins.

He must have started cooperating with OmniCorp—perhaps they’d approached him first, offered him money for access to his land. But somewhere along the way, he’d realized what they intended. Not just mining rights. Total acquisition. They would buy every property in the village, raze every cottage, and turn Lark’s End into an open-pit mine.

And when Barnaby threatened to expose them, they’d sent the doctor.

Obstacles are removed.

Vera reached The Rookery and unlocked the front door. Watson was waiting in the hallway, his expression suggesting that her absence had been a personal betrayal of the highest order.

“I know,” she told him. “I’ve been neglecting you. But I’ve learned something important.”

She sat down at the kitchen table and pulled out her notepad. In her small, precise handwriting, she listed what she knew:

OmniCorp — corporation, unknown size/scope Viper Protocol — codename for Lark’s End operation Target: lithium deposits under village Method: acquire all properties, raze village, extract minerals Assets: Pym (handler/acquisitions), “the doctor” (cleaner/enforcement) Timeline: Phase Two at noon tomorrow — “alternative methods” if signatures not obtained Threat level: HIGH — they are investigating my background.

She stared at the list. Noon tomorrow. That gave her roughly twenty-eight hours before OmniCorp escalated to whatever “alternative methods” meant.

Arson, most likely. Or manufactured accidents. Perhaps a gas leak at the bakery, a tragic fire at the vicarage. A few well-placed disasters would crater property values and terrify the remaining holdouts into selling.

Unless she stopped them.

Vera tapped her pen against the notepad. She had a name now—OmniCorp. She had a timeline. She had confirmation that the grey-eyed doctor was a corporate asset, deployed for wet work.

What she didn’t have was proof. Nothing that would convince Constable Oakes, who still thought Major Barnaby had died of a heart attack. Nothing that would hold up in court or make the national papers.

She needed evidence. Documentation. Something that would expose OmniCorp’s operation and bring the full weight of the law down on their heads.

And she had a feeling she knew where to find it.

It must have been the doctor who had broken into her home last night. That meant he had a base of operations somewhere nearby—a place to plan, to coordinate, to store whatever equipment a professional assassin required.

Dotty had mentioned a black Range Rover with tinted windows. Brenda at the surgery had seen it heading toward Old Mill Road.

The old mill. Condemned for twenty years. Isolated. Defensible. Perfect.

Vera looked at Watson, who had jumped onto the table and was sitting on her notepad with the air of a cat who had strong opinions about her priorities.