Page 21 of The Spy Who Loved Tea

Vera moved through the lobby and out the back entrance, into the narrow alley that ran behind the B&B. The sirens were louder now—she could hear the crunch of tires on gravel as a police car pulled into the front car park.

She pressed herself into the shadows of a recycling bin and waited.

Through the gap between buildings, she watched Constable Oakes emerge from the car, his face pale with unaccustomed urgency. A second officer—someone from the county force, by the look of his uniform—followed close behind.

They disappeared into the Jolly Miller.

Vera counted to thirty. Then she slipped out of the alley and made her way around the building, keeping to the shadows, until she had a clear view of the front entrance.

She didn’t have to wait long.

Eight minutes later, Oakes emerged, speaking urgently into his radio. She caught fragments: “—confirmed deceased—” “—suspicious circumstances—” “—requesting forensics from Cheltenham⁠—”

A third car arrived. Two more officers. They went inside, emerged again, conferred in hushed voices.

And then the car she had been dreading.

A small blue hatchback, driving too fast, screeching to a halt at the edge of the police tape that was being strung across the car park. Martha Gable stumbled out of the passenger side, the Vicar close behind her.

Someone had told her. Someone had warned her—or summoned her.

Mrs. Gable was crying, her hands pressed to her mouth, shaking her head at whatever Oakes was saying. The Vicar had his arm around her shoulders, his face tight with fear and confusion.

And then Oakes produced a pair of handcuffs.

Vera watched from the shadows as Martha Gable was arrested for the murder of Arthur Pym. She watched the woman crumple, watched the Vicar argue and plead, watched the county officers guide Mrs. Gable—gently, almost apologetically—into the back of a police car.

The car pulled away. The Vicar stood alone in the car park, his hands hanging at his sides, looking like a man whose world had just collapsed.

Vera stayed hidden until he, too, had gone—stumbling back toward the vicarage with the dazed steps of someone walking in a nightmare.

Then she turned and walked home.

The Rookery was quiet when she returned. Watson was sitting in the front window, watching her approach with the expression of a cat who had been ignored for an unacceptable length of time.

“Don’t start,” Vera said as she unlocked the door. “I’ve had a difficult afternoon.”

Watson followed her into the kitchen and sat pointedly beside his food bowl, even though it was still half full.

Vera put the kettle on. She moved through the familiar motions—tea, milk, her favorite cup with the chip on the handle—and let her mind run through what she had seen.

Pym was dead. Mrs. Gable was arrested. Julian had executed a textbook frame-up and disappeared without a trace.

And Vera had let it happen.

She didn’t regret the decision. That was the thing about difficult choices—you made them, and then you lived with them. Regret was a luxury for people who had never operated in the field. In the real world, you weighed the options, picked the least terrible one, and moved on.

Martha Gable was safer in custody than she would be at home with Julian stalking the village. Someone must have planted the idea of Martha poisoning Pym to Oakes. The frame would hold for a few days at most—forensics would find inconsistencies, the toxicology would raise questions, and a halfway competent solicitor would tear the case apart. Vera just needed to provide the evidence before it went to trial.

Simple. Clean. Professional.

She carried her tea to the armchair and sat down. Watson jumped onto the arm of the chair and stared at her with unblinking intensity.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Vera told him. “But I’ve done worse things for worse reasons. This barely registers.”

Watson’s tail flicked. He didn’t look convinced.

“The objective hasn’t changed,” Vera continued, as if explaining to a junior officer. “Find the evidence. Expose OmniCorp. Free Mrs. Gable. Neutralize Julian.” She ticked each point off on her fingers. “Four tasks. Twelve hours until the noon deadline. Perfectly manageable.”