Page 3 of The Spy Who Loved Tea

Underneath the scent of crushed petunias and old tweed, it was there. Faint. Bitter. Like almonds roasted in bleach.

Cyanide derivative? Vera thought, her mind racing through the Periodic Table of Death. No. Too unstable. Tetrodotoxin blend? Maybe. Or something synthetic. Something military.

The injection had probably been administered in the moment of apparent helpfulness—a steadying hand on the collar, a needle concealed in a signet ring or a modified pen. Old tradecraft. Effective tradecraft.

“Come away, madam,” the doctor said firmly, taking her arm. His grip was strong. Too strong for a man offering comfort. And his fingernails, she noticed, were immaculate—buffed to a subtle shine, cuticles perfectly maintained. No doctor she had ever met had nails like that. Surgeons scrubbed. GPs had ink stains. This man had a manicurist.

Vera allowed herself to be hoisted up. She looked at the doctor, widening her eyes until she felt sufficiently owl-like. “But he was just shouting,” she whispered. “He seemed so full of life.”

“Stress,” the doctor said smoothly. “A silent killer.”

Not as silent as you, Vera thought.

She looked past him, to the edge of the tent. The man in the suit, Pym, was already moving—slipping away toward the car park with the hunched urgency of a man who wanted to be anywhere else.

But he didn’t get far.

The doctor’s eyes tracked Pym’s retreat. He released Vera’s arm and straightened up, murmuring something about fetching proper authorities. Then he moved to intercept.

Vera watched the two men meet at the edge of the flower tent. She couldn’t hear their words—the crowd was too loud now, full of gasps and speculation—but she could read their body language with the fluency of four decades’ practice.

Pym looked afraid. His shoulders were drawn up around his ears, his hands making small, placating gestures. The doctor stood perfectly still, speaking quietly, his posture radiating the kind of controlled menace that required no raised voice.

Pym nodded once, sharply. Then he turned and fled toward the car park, his Italian shoes slipping on the wet grass.

The doctor watched him go. Then, as if sensing her gaze, he turned and looked directly at Vera.

Their eyes met across the chaos of the fête.

Vera saw recognition in those flat grey eyes. Not of her specifically—he couldn’t know who she was, not yet—but recognition of what she was. A fellow predator. Someone who had noticed too much.

She did what any sensible grandmother would do. She burst into theatrical tears and collapsed against the Vicar, who had rushed over to offer spiritual comfort.

“Oh, Vicar! How dreadful! How absolutely dreadful!”

When she looked up again, dabbing her eyes with a lace handkerchief, the doctor was gone.

Constable Oakes arrived ten minutes later, looking flustered and entirely out of his depth. He was a very nice boy who should have been a landscape gardener—large, capable hands, a sunny disposition, and absolutely no instinct for homicide.

Vera watched him take statements, his notebook filling with useless observations about heart conditions and the Major’s fondness for rich foods. No one mentioned the man with the medical bag. When Vera gently inquired, suggesting that perhaps the helpful doctor should be interviewed, Oakes looked puzzled.

“Doctor? I thought Dr. Thorne was in Tenerife.”

“Not Dr. Thorne,” Vera said carefully. “Another man. Tall. Dark hair. He had a medical bag.”

Oakes consulted his notes. “No one else mentioned a doctor, Mrs. Calloway. Are you sure you didn’t imagine it? The shock, you know. Plays tricks on the mind.”

Vera let her lower lip tremble. “Perhaps you’re right, Constable. I am rather shaken.”

“Why don’t you go home and have a nice cup of tea?” Oakes suggested kindly. “A shock like this isn’t good for the constitution.”

My constitution has withstood three days in a Belgrade trunk, Vera thought. But thank you for the concern.

“I suppose you’re right,” she said aloud, injecting a quaver into her voice. “I’ll just... collect my thoughts.”

She shuffled toward the exit, moving with the careful slowness of an elderly woman in distress. But as she passed the trampled flower bed where Major Barnaby had fallen, she paused.

The Major lay where he had landed, covered now by a tarpaulin someone had fetched from the gardening shed. One hand protruded from beneath the covering, still clutching a half eaten piece of Mrs. Gable’s lemon shortbread.