Page 19 of The Spy Who Loved Tea

Mrs. Gable’s breath caught. “Mrs. Calloway, I don’t know what you⁠—”

“Of course you don’t, dear.” Vera smiled gently. “I’m just a dotty old woman rambling about nothing. But I do think that tomorrow—around noon, say—some very unpleasant people might find themselves in a great deal of trouble. It would be a shame if anyone signed anything important before then.”

She picked up her bread and tucked it into her bag.

“Take care of yourself, Martha. And don’t do anything hasty. Things have a way of working out for the patient.”

The bell jingled again as she left.

Behind her, Mrs. Gable stood frozen at the counter, the coins still clutched in her hand, a spark of something that might have been hope flickering in her eyes.

CHAPTER SIX

The afternoon light was fading by the time Vera returned to the Jolly Miller.

She had spent the intervening hours preparing for that night’s reconnaissance—checking her equipment, memorizing the footpaths to the old mill, and explaining to Watson why he absolutely could not accompany her on a mission that might involve explosives.

Watson had been unimpressed by her reasoning. He was currently sulking in his cat bed, having turned his back to her with the theatrical disdain that only felines could achieve.

But the reconnaissance could wait until dark. Right now, Vera had other business.

Pym was scared. Pym was under pressure. And scared, pressured men sometimes made desperate decisions—like cooperating with someone who offered them a way out.

It was a long shot. Pym was clearly terrified of his employers, and “the doctor” even more so. But Vera had turned assets in worse circumstances. A man facing death might accept any lifeline, even one thrown by a grandmother with a knitting bag.

Besides, she wanted another look at those contracts Mrs. Gable had shown the Vicar. Pym would have copies. Pym would have documentation—names, account numbers, the paper trail that corporations always left behind, no matter how careful they tried to be.

The Jolly Miller’s lobby was empty when she arrived. Mrs. Pringle’s armchair sat vacant, the television dark. A handwritten sign on the reception desk read: Back in 20 minutes. Ring bell for service.

No bell was visible.

Vera glanced around. The stairs to the guest rooms were unguarded. The hallway above was silent.

She climbed the stairs without ringing any bells.

Room 4 was at the end of the corridor. The door was closed, but as Vera approached, she noticed something that made her slow her steps.

The “Do Not Disturb” sign was hanging from the handle. But the door wasn’t fully latched. A thin strip of light showed between the door and the frame.

Vera stopped. She listened.

No sound from inside. No television. No pacing footsteps. No anxious phone calls.

Silence.

She reached into her knitting bag and wrapped her fingers around the canister of pepper spray. Then, with her other hand, she pushed the door open.

“Mr. Pym? I thought we might have a conversation about⁠—”

She stopped.

Arthur Pym wasn’t going to be having any conversations. Not anymore.

He was sitting in the faded armchair by the window, his body slumped sideways against the armrest. His eyes were open, staring at nothing. His skin had taken on the waxy, greyish pallor of the recently deceased.

On the small table beside him sat a half-empty cup of tea. And next to the tea, arranged with almost theatrical precision, was a familiar tin.

Mrs. Gable’s Famous Lavender Shortbread.