Chapter 9 #2
The witnesses looked at the gun on the ground. They looked at Julian, groaning on his knees. They looked at Vera, a slight, grey-haired woman in singed clothing, clutching a walking stick like a lifeline.
The narrative was clear. The gun told the story.
“Someone call the police!” the older gentleman shouted. “And keep away from him!”
The young woman was already dialing, her phone pressed to her ear, her other hand still recording video of the scene. The businessman had stopped at the edge of the car park, watching from what he clearly considered a safe distance.
Julian tried to rise. Vera brought the cane down on his shoulder.
He collapsed onto the platform, groaning.
“Stay down,” Vera said quietly, her voice dropping the theatrical quaver. “The next one goes across your throat.”
Julian stayed down.
The train whistle sounded again, closer now. She could see the headlamp approaching through the darkness.
She didn’t have much time. Julian was subdued but not secured, and the police would have questions she wasn’t ready to answer until she had the evidence in hand.
She needed to secure him.
Her knitting bag was still over her shoulder—battered, singed, but intact. She reached inside and pulled out the half-finished scarf she had been working on for weeks. Grey wool, sensible, boring.
And very, very strong.
She knelt beside Julian, ignoring his weak attempts to push her away, and went to work.
Wrists first—a Prusik loop, cinched tight, with a double fisherman’s backup for security.
Then his ankles, bound together with the same efficient knots she had learned forty years ago in a farmhouse outside Cambridge.
The scarf wasn’t long enough to complete the job, so she pulled out the remaining balls of wool and used them to tie his bound hands to the metal leg of the platform bench.
Julian watched her work, his face pale with pain and dawning horror.
“You can’t do this,” he said. “Do you know who I work for? OmniCorp has resources you can’t imagine. Lawyers. Politicians. They’ll destroy you.”
“They can try.” Vera stood up, surveying her handiwork. “But first, they’ll have to explain why their ‘problem solver’ was found tied up at a train station with a briefcase full of incriminating documents.”
She picked up the briefcase.
“No—“ Julian struggled against the wool, but the knots held. “That’s proprietary information. That’s—“
“Evidence.” Vera opened the briefcase and rifled through its contents. Files. Maps. A laptop. A passport in the name of “Julian Thorne”—not his real name, she was certain, but useful nonetheless. And there, at the bottom, a USB drive labeled “Viper Protocol - Master.”
“This will do nicely,” she said, tucking the drive into her cardigan pocket.
The train pulled into the station with a screech of brakes and a hiss of steam—no, not steam, just hydraulics. Modern trains. No romance left in the world.
The doors opened. A conductor leaned out, looking bored.
Then he saw Julian, tied up on the platform, and Vera standing over him with a walking stick.
“What the—”
“He attacked me!” Vera cried, her voice trembling with shock that was only partly theatrical. “He had a gun! I didn’t know what to do—I just hit him with my stick and he fell down and I was so frightened he’d get up again—“
“She saved our lives,” the older gentleman interjected, striding back toward the platform now that Julian was clearly subdued. “That man pulled a weapon. This woman stopped him.”
The conductor stared at Julian, trussed up in grey wool like a Christmas goose. “But how did you... the knots...”
Vera blinked at her handiwork as if seeing it for the first time.
“I... I don’t quite know. I had my knitting in my bag, and my hands just...
I suppose it’s muscle memory? I was a Girl Guide, you know.
We took our knots very seriously.” She pressed a hand to her chest, the picture of a woman running on adrenaline and bewilderment. “Is he secure? He won’t get loose?”
“He’s not going anywhere,” the conductor said slowly, with the tone of a man who had seen many things on the five-fifty to London but nothing quite like this. “I think I’d better call the police.”
“Oh, yes,” Vera said faintly. “Yes, I think that would be best. I feel rather wobbly, actually. Might I sit down?”
Constable Oakes arrived fourteen minutes later, looking as though he had dressed in the dark and run the entire way to the station. His hair was uncombed, his shirt was misbuttoned, and his expression was one of profound bewilderment.
“Mrs. Calloway?” He stared at her, then at Julian, then at the elaborate arrangement of grey wool that bound the assassin to the bench. “What... how... is that a scarf?”
“I’m afraid so, Constable. It was meant for the statue of the village founder, but I suppose it’s found a better purpose.
” Vera adjusted her borrowed glasses. “This man is responsible for the murders of Major Barnaby and Arthur Pym. He also set fire to the old mill, attempted to murder me, and has been orchestrating a conspiracy to destroy the entire village on behalf of a corporation called OmniCorp.”
Oakes blinked. “I... what?”
“There’s evidence in the briefcase. And on this USB drive.
” She held up the drive, then thought better of it and tucked it back into her pocket.
“Actually, I think I’ll hold onto this until someone from the Serious Crimes division arrives.
No offense, Constable, but this is rather above your pay grade. ”
“None taken,” Oakes said faintly. He looked at Julian, who was glaring at both of them with murderous intensity. “Sir, I’m going to need you to... stay there, I suppose. You’re... under arrest?”
“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.”