Page 6 of The Spy Who Loved Tea

She slipped out the side door just as the sound of shattering glass echoed from the kitchen window. She melted into the hedges, invisible, silent, just another grandmother taking a shortcut home.

But as she hurried away from The Willows, a cold feeling settled in her stomach.

Lark’s End wasn’t just a sleepy village with a murder. Something far larger was happening here, and she had stumbled into the middle of it.

Vera didn’t go home. Not yet.

Instead, she made her way to Primrose Cottage, a tiny, wisteria-smothered dwelling at the end of Church Lane. It belonged to Dorothy Pemberton—Dotty to her friends—a woman who had been the village postmistress for thirty-seven years before retirement and who still knew everyone’s business, often before they knew it themselves.

Dotty answered the door in a housecoat and slippers, a cup of cocoa steaming in her hand.

“Vera! Good heavens, you look like you’ve been wrestling badgers. Come in, come in.”

“I need information, Dotty.” Vera stepped inside, brushing leaves from her cardigan. “And possibly a biscuit.”

“Information I have in abundance. Biscuits too.” Dotty led her to a small sitting room crammed with china figurines and back issues of The People’s Friend. “Dreadful business about the Major. Heart attack, they’re saying, though I have my doubts. That man had a constitution like a draught horse.”

“Your doubts may be well-founded.” Vera accepted a custard cream and sat in the chair nearest the fire. “Dotty, the man in the suit—the one who was arguing with Barnaby. Arthur Pym. Do you know where he’s staying?”

“The Jolly Miller, I expect. Only B&B in the village since the Crossed Keys closed.” Dotty’s eyes sharpened with interest. “Why? What’s he done?”

“I’m not sure yet. But I’d very much like to find out what he’s doing in Lark’s End.”

“Asking questions, from what I hear.” Dotty lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Mabel Fitch—you know Mabel, runs the wool shop—she said he came in asking about property values. Who owned what. Whether anyone was looking to sell.”

“Property,” Vera murmured. “Yes, that fits.”

“He’s been drinking at the Bull and Bush every evening, too. After eight, regular as clockwork.” Dotty shook her head. “Sits in the corner with his whisky and that phone of his, typing away like his life depends on it. Mabel says he looks like a man waiting for bad news.”

“The Bull and Bush,” Vera repeated. “After eight, you say?”

“Like clockwork. Ted says he tips well but doesn’t talk to anyone.” Dotty’s eyes glittered. “Vera Calloway, what are you up to?”

“Just curiosity, Dotty. You know how I love a puzzle.”

“Hmm.” Dotty didn’t look convinced, but she was wise enough not to press. “Well, if you’re going to the Bull and Bush, take an umbrella. Rain’s coming.”

The Rookery was a crooked little cottage at the end of Blackthorn Lane, all moss-covered stone and climbing roses that had long since abandoned any pretense of discipline. Vera had chosen it specifically for its unassuming appearance—the kind of house that looked like it belonged to someone’s grandmother, which was rather the point.

The interior told a different story, if one knew how to read it. The locks were commercial-grade, installed by a man in Norwich who asked no questions. The windows were double-glazed and reinforced. And the garden, while charming, had been landscaped with clear sight lines to every approach.

But to the casual observer, it was simply a retiree’s cottage, complete with floral curtains and a welcome mat that said Bless This Mess.

Vera unlocked the front door and stepped inside. The hallway smelled of lavender and old books—a scent she had cultivated deliberately, because it was exactly what visitors expected.

A rumbling sound emerged from the kitchen, like a small diesel engine starting up.

“Yes, yes, I know,” Vera called out. “Mama has been gallivanting. Unforgivable.”

Watson appeared in the kitchen doorway. He was an enormous ginger tabby, easily fifteen pounds of muscle and attitude, with a torn left ear that gave him the look of a retired prizefighter. His fur was the color of marmalade streaked with darker stripes, and his eyes were a pale, unsettling green that seemed to assess everyone he met and find them wanting.

Vera had acquired him seven years ago, during what she referred to as “the Lisbon incident.” He had been living behind a fish market, scarred and half-starved, and had bitten the hand of every person who tried to approach him. Vera had simply sat down on an overturned crate, opened a tin of sardines, and waited.

It had taken three hours. But eventually, Watson had crept close enough to eat from her hand.

He had been insufferable ever since.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Vera told him as he wound between her ankles, his purr vibrating through her shins. “I’ve had a very trying day. A man was murdered and I broke into a greenhouse. The least you could do is be supportive.”