Page 9 of The Spy Who Loved Tea

G. — 14 / Zn(?)

The ledger entry floated through her mind. G for Gable. The bakery. Fourteen... what? And Zn—zinc? Was Barnaby tracking something geological?

The thought nagged at her, but she couldn’t quite grasp it. Not yet.

Vera unlocked her front door. The heavy bolt slid back with a reassuring thunk.

“Watson? Mama’s home.”

Usually, Watson would be weaving between her ankles by now. The hallway should have been filled with imperious meowing.

Instead, silence.

Vera stopped. Her hand found the small canister of pepper spray in the side pocket of her bag and her sharpest knitting needle.

She moved through the house, clearing the rooms one by one. Methodical. Silent. This wasn’t Vera the pensioner; this was Agent Calloway sweeping a compromised safe house.

Kitchen: Clear. But Watson’s bowl was overturned, kibble scattered across the tiles.

Living Room: Clear. The cushions on the sofa were undisturbed.

Conservatory: Clear. Her orchids swayed gently in the draft from the heating vent.

She climbed the stairs, testing each step for creaks before shifting her weight.

Her bedroom door was ajar. She always left it closed.

She pushed it open with the tip of her knitting needle.

The room was dim, lit only by the streetlamp outside. The lace doilies were in place. The photo of her late husband—a fabricated identity, but a handsome one—sat on the dresser where she had left it.

But on the bed.

Watson was there, curled into a tight, defensive ball at the foot of the duvet. His massive ginger-striped form was trembling, his fur standing on end like a bottle brush. His green eyes were blown wide with panic, and a low, continuous growl rumbled in his throat.

For a cat who had once chased a fox out of the garden, he looked terrified.

And in the centre of her pillow, resting on the pristine white cotton, was a single flower.

A petunia.

But not just any petunia. It was one of Barnaby’s ‘Midnight Stars.’ A deep, velvety purple that looked almost black in the dim light.

Vera walked slowly to the bed. She picked up the flower. The stem was still wet. It had been cut recently—within the last hour, perhaps less.

She lifted it to her nose. Beneath the sweet, slightly cloying scent of the bloom, there was something else. Faint. Expensive.

Cologne. Sandalwood and bergamot. The kind of scent that cost more than most people earned in a week.

She had smelled it before. At the fête. When the grey-eyed doctor had gripped her arm and pulled her away from the body.

“A message,” she said softly.

Watson uncurled enough to bump his head against her hand, still trembling.

Vera stroked his ears absently, but her eyes were cold. Someone had been in her house. They had bypassed the locks—good locks, professionally installed. They had walked past her cat without harming him. And they had left a calling card.

We know you noticed. We know where you live. We can reach you whenever we choose.