Page 7 of The Spy Who Loved Tea

Watson meowed—a sharp, imperious sound that clearly translated to feed me first, then we’ll discuss your problems.

Vera hung her cardigan on the hook by the door next to the dark coat with the hidden kevlar lining. It looked like a regular coat to most, but came in handy to stop a bullet when situations got sticky.

She made her way to the kitchen. It was a small, tidy space with copper pots hanging from a rack and a window that looked out over the back garden. She retrieved the good salmon pâté from the refrigerator—the expensive kind, imported from Scotland and spooned a generous portion into his bowl.

“Guilt offering,” she said. “Don’t get used to it.”

Watson ignored her entirely, his face buried in the pâté with the single-minded focus of a creature who had once known hunger and never intended to know it again.

Vera put the kettle on. While she waited for it to boil, she retrieved Barnaby’s ledger from her knitting bag and spread it open on the kitchen table.

The entries stared back at her, cryptic and maddening.

G. — 14 / Zn(?) T. — 6 / Neg. P. — Inquiry. L4. V. — 22 / Li ✓ HP B. — 31 / ite H. — 8 / neg

She copied the entries onto a fresh sheet of notepaper, her handwriting small and precise. Initials, certainly—she was confident now that G was Gable, T was probably Thorne. V could be Vickery, the farmer whose land bordered the church. The numbers might be weights, measurements of some kind. Sample sizes?

And those abbreviations. Zn. Li. HP. Neg.

They nagged at her like a half-remembered song. She knew she should recognize them, but the connection refused to form.

The kettle whistled. Vera made herself a cup of Earl Grey—no sugar, a splash of milk—and returned to the table. She read the corporate letter again, holding it up to the light as if it might reveal hidden watermarks.

Our offer is final. The mineral rights to the entire aquifer zone are essential for the development project.

Mineral rights. That phrase kept snagging in her mind. Mining companies bought mineral rights. Oil companies. Gas extractors. But the Cotswolds weren’t known for any of those things. The geology was chalk and clay, limestone and sandstone—pretty to look at, useless to dig.

Unless she was missing something.

Obstacles are removed.

Vera set down the letter. Major Barnaby had been an obstacle. And now Major Barnaby was dead.

Watson finished his pâté and jumped onto the table with the heavy thud of a cat who had never learned to be graceful. He walked directly across the ledger and sat down on the letter, his tail swishing.

“You’re contaminating evidence,” Vera informed him.

Watson began to wash his face, supremely unconcerned.

Vera scratched behind his torn ear—the spot he pretended not to like but secretly loved—and checked the clock on the wall. Half past seven. If Pym kept to the schedule Dotty had described, he would be settling into his corner booth at the Bull and Bush within the hour.

She closed the ledger and tucked it into the drawer of the Welsh dresser, behind the good napkins that only came out at Christmas. The letter she photographed with a small camera disguised as a lipstick case—old technology, but reliable—before hiding it with the ledger.

Watson watched her preparations with the air of a supervisor who found his employee’s work barely adequate.

“I need you to guard the house,” Vera told him, refreshing his water bowl and checking that the back door was locked. “I won’t be long. An hour, perhaps two.”

Watson yawned, displaying an impressive array of teeth, and stretched out on the warm spot where the ledger had been. His eyes were already half-closed.

“Eternal vigilance,” Vera muttered. “That’s what I ask for. Eternal vigilance.”

The cat began to snore.

Vera retrieved her knitting bag, checked that her compact mirror and pepper spray were in place, and stepped out into the evening air. The first drops of rain were beginning to fall, just as Dotty had predicted. She raised her umbrella and set off toward the village, leaving Watson to his dreams.

CHAPTER THREE

The Bull and Bush was the sort of pub that prided itself on having sticky carpets and a selection of ales that tasted largely of damp cellar. It was also the only place in Lark’s End where a stranger might try to blend in—and fail spectacularly.