Page 33 of The Spy Who Loved Tea

“She tried to kill me,” Julian spat. “That old woman attacked me. I want a lawyer.”

“He has a broken wrist and some bruised ribs,” Vera said calmly. “I have third-degree burns, smoke inhalation, and I haven’t slept in thirty-six hours. I think we can agree that I came out worse in our encounter.”

Oakes looked at her properly for the first time—took in the soot-stained face, the singed clothing, the raw and blistered skin visible beneath her torn cardigan sleeves.

“Mrs. Calloway,” he said slowly, “what exactly happened tonight?”

“It’s a rather long story, Constable. Shall I start from the beginning, or would you prefer the executive summary?”

Before Oakes could answer, more sirens split the morning air. Blue lights flickered at the edge of the car park. Two police cars and an unmarked vehicle pulled up, disgorging officers in a variety of uniforms.

A woman in a dark suit emerged from the unmarked car. She was perhaps fifty, with steel-grey hair and the kind of face that suggested she had seen everything and been impressed by none of it.

She surveyed the scene—the bound man, the scattered evidence, the elderly woman with the walking stick—and her expression flickered with something that might have been amusement.

“Mrs. Calloway, I presume?”

Vera straightened up. “And you are?”

“Detective Chief Inspector Morrison. Serious Crimes.” She produced a warrant card, holding it up long enough for Vera to read. “I received a call from a friend about an hour ago. He said I should get to Lark’s End as quickly as possible and look for a woman matching your description.” She tucked the card away. “He also said I should trust whatever you told me, no matter how improbable it sounded.”

“Finch,” Vera said. “He always did work fast.”

“He speaks very highly of you.” Morrison looked at Julian, then at the briefcase, then back at Vera. “I’m looking forward to hearing your statement.”

“I’m looking forward to giving it.” Vera handed her the briefcase. “But first, I think you should release Martha Gable. She’s been arrested for a murder she didn’t commit, and every hour she spends in custody is an hour too long.”

Morrison raised an eyebrow. “You’re certain of her innocence?”

“I’m certain that man—“ Vera pointed at Julian with Henderson’s cane “—killed Arthur Pym and framed Mrs. Gable for the crime. The evidence in that briefcase will prove it. And the evidence on this drive—“ she tapped her pocket “—will prove a great deal more.”

Morrison studied her for a long moment. Then she nodded.

“Constable Oakes. Get on the radio. Tell them to release Martha Gable immediately, pending further investigation.” She turned back to Vera. “Now, Mrs. Calloway. Shall we find somewhere warm to sit, and you can tell me everything?”

Vera looked at the rising sun, painting the sky pink and gold above the Cotswolds hills. The fire on the ridge had burned down to embers. The train had departed, empty, toward London. And Julian was being hauled to his feet by two uniformed officers, his hands still bound with grey wool.

“I would like that very much,” Vera said. “But first, I’d like to check in on my cat. He worries.”

CHAPTER TEN

Three days later, the village of Lark’s End had almost returned to normal.

The bunting from the ill-fated fête had been taken down. The scorched remains of the old mill had been cordoned off and declared, somewhat optimistically, an “archaeological site of interest” by the county council. The ducks on the village green were back to their usual routine of demanding bread from anyone foolish enough to sit on the benches.

And Martha Gable was back behind the counter of The Crumbly Crust, looking tired but triumphant, with a queue of customers stretching out the door.

Vera joined the queue. She had considered staying home—her wrists were still bandaged, her lungs still ached, and Watson had made it very clear that her recent absence was unforgivable—but some things were more important than rest.

Besides, she wanted a scone.

“Vera!” Mrs. Gable’s face lit up when she reached the front of the queue. “You shouldn’t be out and about. I heard you were in hospital.”

“Just overnight. They wanted to observe me for smoke inhalation.” Vera waved a bandaged hand dismissively. “Doctors do love to fuss.”

“After what you did, they should be building you a statue.” Mrs. Gable leaned across the counter and lowered her voice. “I know it was you, Vera. I don’t know how, and I don’t know why, but I know you’re the reason I’m standing here instead of sitting in a cell.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, dear. I simply happened to be at the train station when that dreadful man had some sort of episode.”