Page 8 of The Spy Who Loved Tea

Vera pushed open the heavy oak door. The smell of stale beer and vinegar hit her like a welcome mat.

“Evening, Vera!” called Ted the barman. “The usual?”

“Just a half-pint of stout, please, Ted. Strictly medicinal. My iron levels, you know.”

She shuffled toward a corner table, her eyes adjusting to the dim light. The locals were clustered around the dartboard, arguing about cricket. The fire crackled in the grate. And there, sitting alone in a booth by the darkened window, was Arthur Pym.

He had shed the charcoal jacket, revealing sweat stains under the armpits of his expensive shirt. He was nursing a double whisky and typing furiously on a smartphone, his face tight with anxiety.

No sign of the grey-eyed doctor. But Vera filed that absence away too. Absence was information.

She sat at the table adjacent to Pym’s booth. She rummaged in her knitting bag, pulling out her half-finished scarf and her needles. Click. Click. Click. The rhythm was hypnotic, meditative—and perfectly positioned to observe Pym’s reflection in the dark window glass.

“Do you mind?” Pym glared at her.

Vera looked up, eyes wide behind her glasses. “Oh, am I disturbing you, young man? I do apologize. The clicking helps me think. Old habits.” She peered at his phone with theatrical interest. “Is that one of those ‘smart’ phones? My grandson has one. Always tapping away at it.”

Pym’s jaw tightened. “Yes. It’s a phone.” He shifted in his seat, turning his shoulder to block her view—which perfectly angled the screen toward the dark glass of the window.

“I suppose it must be terribly important business to keep you working on such a difficult evening,” Vera continued, her needles never pausing. “You have the look of a man waiting for bad news.”

“I’m fine,” Pym said flatly. “Just busy.”

“Of course, of course.” Vera smiled sweetly. “I couldn’t help noticing you at the fête today. With Major Barnaby. Such a tragedy, what happened. You seemed to know him?”

Pym’s hands stilled on the phone. “Business acquaintance. Nothing more.”

“Ah. And what business would that be, if you don’t mind my asking? It’s just that we don’t get many businessmen in Lark’s End. We’re rather off the beaten path.”

“Property development,” Pym said shortly. “Consulting.”

“How fascinating.” Vera’s eyes never left her knitting, but she was watching his reflection intently. “The Major was very attached to his property, I understand. Turned down quite a generous offer, or so the rumour mill suggests.”

Pym stood up abruptly, nearly knocking over his whisky. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I don’t appreciate the interrogation. I’m just a businessman, and frankly, this village is full of nosy old⁠—”

He stopped himself. His hands were shaking.

“Full of nosy old what, dear?” Vera asked mildly.

Pym threw a twenty-pound note on the table. “Stay away from me,” he said, his voice low and tight. “You don’t know what you’re meddling with.”

He stormed toward the door, nearly colliding with Ted carrying a tray of glasses.

Vera watched him go. She didn’t follow. She didn’t need to.

In the moment before he’d turned his shoulder, she had seen the text on his phone screen, reflected clearly in the dark window glass:

Asset Unstable. Requesting Extraction.

And the reply, from a contact listed only as ‘V’:

Denied. Complete acquisition. Deadline unchanged.

“Asset,” Vera murmured to her stout. “So he’s not the boss. He’s just a handler. And someone is keeping him on a very short leash.”

She finished her drink, tucked away her knitting, and stepped out into the cool night air.

The walk back to The Rookery was uneventful, but the village felt different now. The shadows stretched longer across the green. The quaint cottages looked less like storybook homes and more like pieces on a board—pieces that someone was trying very hard to acquire.