Page 18 of The Spy Who Loved Tea

Then he lowered the device and melted back into the shadows, moving with the fluid grace of a predator who had decided not to strike. Not yet.

Vera didn’t pursue. Not with Mrs. Gable and the Vicar standing in the open, oblivious to how close danger had crept.

She waited until the two of them had gathered the contracts and the Victoria sponge. The Vicar pulled Mrs. Gable close and kissed her—not on the forehead this time, but properly, the kiss of lovers who had stolen too few moments together. Then they hurried away toward the village, his arm around her waist, her head on his shoulder, moving with the unconscious synchronicity of two people who had learned each other’s rhythms.

A vicar and a baker, Vera thought. The Bishop would have apoplexy. But there are worse sins than love.

She waited another five minutes, listening to the woods settle back into silence, before she moved.

She circled the clearing, approaching the spot where Julian had been standing. The ferns were barely disturbed—he was good, she had to admit. But not perfect.

There. A partial boot print in the soft earth. And beside it, a cigarette butt—hand-rolled, recently extinguished.

Vera produced a small plastic bag from her knitting bag and collected the butt with her handkerchief. DNA evidence, if she ever needed it. The boot print she photographed with her lipstick camera.

Then she straightened up and looked back toward the village.

Mrs. Gable wasn’t the killer. She wasn’t even a willing collaborator. She was a victim—pressured, blackmailed, set up to take the fall if OmniCorp needed a convenient scapegoat.

And the grey-eyed doctor was watching her. Documenting her. Making sure she stayed frightened and compliant.

But Julian had made a mistake. He had been so focused on Mrs. Gable that he hadn’t noticed Vera watching him.

Arrogance, she thought. The fatal flaw of professionals who’ve never met a real opponent.

She checked her watch. Half past eleven. The noon deadline was tomorrow, but “Phase Two” was already in motion. Julian was surveilling the targets, identifying who would sign and who would resist.

And somewhere, someone was preparing the frame that would destroy Mrs. Gable if she refused to cooperate.

Vera needed to move faster. She needed to find Julian’s base of operations, gather evidence of OmniCorp’s conspiracy, and expose the whole rotten scheme before noon tomorrow.

The old mill. That was her best lead. Tonight, after dark, she would find out what Julian was hiding.

But first, she needed to warn Mrs. Gable. Not directly—that would blow her cover and put the baker in even more danger. But there might be a way to give her hope without revealing too much.

Vera tucked the plastic bag into her knitting bag and began the walk back to the village.

The game was accelerating. And Vera intended to stay one move ahead.

She found Mrs. Gable back at The Crumbly Crust, mechanically arranging scones in the display case with the vacant expression of someone whose mind was very far away.

The bell over the door jingled as Vera entered.

“Good morning, Mrs. Calloway.” Martha’s voice was flat, exhausted. “Can I help you?”

“Just a small loaf, dear. The cottage white, if you have it.” Vera shuffled to the counter, peering at the baked goods with theatrical interest. “You look tired, Martha. Are you sleeping well?”

Something flickered across Mrs. Gable’s face—surprise, perhaps, that anyone had noticed. “Not particularly, no. It’s been... a difficult few days.”

“The Major’s death. Yes, dreadful business.” Vera accepted the bread and counted out coins with deliberate slowness. “You know, I’ve been thinking about poor Major Barnaby. He was such a stubborn man. Refused to sell his land, I heard, even when those London people offered him a fortune.”

Mrs. Gable’s hand trembled slightly on the till.

“Funny thing about stubborn people,” Vera continued, her voice dropping to something warmer, more confidential. “They often turn out to be right. The people pressuring them—the ones with lawyers and money and documents—they’re usually hiding something. Some scheme that falls apart if even one person refuses to play along.”

She met Mrs. Gable’s eyes and held them.

“If I were being pressured, I think I’d want to know that I wasn’t alone. That other people were watching. That the people doing the pressuring might face consequences of their own, if someone were brave enough to wait them out.”