Chapter 10
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.”
“An episode.” Mrs. Gable’s eyes sparkled. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
“That’s what Constable Oakes is calling it, and I see no reason to contradict him.” Vera smiled. “Now, might I have a lemon scone and a cup of tea? I find near-death experiences leave me rather peckish.”
Mrs. Gable laughed—a sound Vera hadn’t heard from her in days—and began preparing the order.
“On the house,” she said firmly when Vera tried to pay. “Today and every day, as far as I’m concerned. You saved my life, Vera Calloway. The least I can do is keep you in scones.”
“That,” Vera said, “is an arrangement I can live with.”
She took her tea to the small table by the window—her usual spot, with a clear view of the high street and the village green beyond. The morning sun was warm through the glass, and for a moment, she allowed herself to simply sit and breathe.
It was over. Or this part of it was, at least.
The bell over the door jingled. Vera looked up to see Constable Oakes entering, his helmet tucked under his arm and his expression caught somewhere between awe and confusion—an expression he had been wearing more or less constantly since the events at the train station.
“Mrs. Calloway.” He approached her table with the caution of a man approaching a sleeping lion. “Might I have a word?”
“Of course, Constable. Do sit down.”
Oakes sat. He placed his helmet on the table, adjusted it slightly, then adjusted it again. He was clearly working up to something.
“The detective from London,” he said finally. “DCI Morrison. She’s been asking questions about you.”
“Has she?”
“She wanted to know how you happened to be at the station at that hour. And how you managed to subdue a trained... well, whatever he was. And how you knew to tie those particular knots.”
Vera sipped her tea. “What did you tell her?”
“The truth. That you’re a retired schoolteacher who keeps to herself and knits scarves for the village statues.” Oakes paused. “She laughed. Said that was the most creative cover story she’d heard in twenty years.”
“Cover story?” Vera widened her eyes. “I’m sure I don’t know what she means.”
“No,” Oakes said slowly. “I don’t suppose you do.
” He studied her for a moment—really studied her, perhaps for the first time since they’d met.
“The Chief Inspector from the Yard came down yesterday. He examined the knots you used to tie up that Julian fellow. Said he’d only seen that particular combination in special forces training manuals.
A Prusik loop with a double fisherman’s backup, he called it. ”
“Is that so? How fascinating.”
“He asked if you’d served in the military.”
“I was a Girl Guide,” Vera said. “We took our knots very seriously.”
Oakes stared at her. Then, unexpectedly, he smiled.
“Right,” he said. “Girl Guides. Of course.” He stood up, tucking his helmet back under his arm.
“Well, Mrs. Calloway, I just wanted to let you know that the investigation is ongoing, but it’s been taken over by the Serious Crimes division.
Apparently this OmniCorp business goes quite high up.
There’s talk of arrests in London. Board members, executives, that sort of thing. ”
“How gratifying.”
“And Julian—if that’s even his real name—is cooperating. Giving up names, accounts, the whole operation.” Oakes shook his head. “He confessed to all sorts of things. The Major’s murder. Mr. Pym. Breaking into half the cottages in the village to leave threatening messages.”
Vera thought of the petunia on her pillow. The scent of expensive cologne.
“Did he say why?” she asked. “The break-ins?”
“Intimidation, apparently. He wanted the holdouts to know they were being watched. That they could be reached anywhere.” Oakes grimaced.
“Nasty business. But it’s over now, thanks to...
” He trailed off, looking at her with an expression she couldn’t quite read.
“Thanks to a series of fortunate coincidences.”
“Fortune favors the prepared, Constable.”
“So I’m learning.” He tipped an imaginary hat. “Good day, Mrs. Calloway. Try to stay out of trouble.”
“I always do,” Vera said.
Oakes left. The bell jingled behind him.
Vera finished her scone and considered her next move.
The walk back to The Rookery was pleasant—warm sun, light breeze, the scent of cut grass from the village green.
Several people nodded to her as she passed, their greetings warmer than usual.
Word had spread, as word always did in small villages, that the elderly woman with the knitting bag had somehow been involved in stopping the “unpleasantness.” No one knew the details. No one needed to.
She was, and would remain, just a dotty old pensioner who happened to be in the right place at the right time.
Her cover was intact.
Watson was waiting in the front window when she arrived, his expression suggesting that her forty-five-minute absence was a betrayal on par with the great cat famines of history.
“I brought you something,” Vera said, producing a small paper bag from her cardigan pocket. “Mrs. Gable’s salmon paté biscuits. The ones you like.”
Watson’s expression shifted from outrage to cautious interest.
“Don’t get used to it. This is a special occasion.”
She unlocked the door and went inside, Watson weaving between her ankles with the aggressive affection of a cat who had decided to forgive her. She set down her bag, hung up her cardigan, and went to the kitchen to plate the biscuits.
Watson followed, supervising.
“We did good work,” Vera told him, setting the plate on the floor. “Mrs. Gable is free. Julian is in custody. OmniCorp is under investigation. The village is safe.”
Watson ignored her entirely, his face buried in the biscuits.
“You’re welcome,” Vera said drily.
She made herself a cup of tea—her third of the day, but who was counting—and carried it to the sitting room. The afternoon light was soft through the curtains, casting long shadows across the carpet.
She sat in her armchair and picked up her knitting. The scarf she had been working on for months was gone—sacrificed to the cause of restraining a corporate assassin—but she had started a new one. Blue this time. A change of pace.
The needles clicked softly as she worked.
Click. Click. Click.
It was peaceful. Domestic. The kind of afternoon she had imagined when she first retired to Lark’s End—quiet days filled with tea and knitting and absolutely no international conspiracies.
Of course, it hadn’t quite worked out that way.
Her mind drifted to the USB drive currently hidden in the false bottom of her Welsh dresser. The one labeled “Viper Protocol - Master.” She had given DCI Morrison the briefcase and most of its contents, but the drive she had kept.
Insurance, she told herself. In case OmniCorp’s lawyers found a way to make the charges disappear.
But that wasn’t the only reason.
The drive contained files she hadn’t yet examined. Communications. Contacts. The names of everyone involved in the Viper Protocol, from the field operatives to the board members who had authorized murder as a business strategy.
And somewhere in those files, she suspected, was the identity of the voice on Julian’s phone. The one who had given the orders. The one Julian had called “sir.”
Julian was a tool. A weapon pointed at a target. But someone had aimed him.
Someone was still out there.
Vera’s needles paused.
She thought about Martha Gable, back in her bakery, smiling for the first time in days.
She thought about the Vicar, who had visited Mrs. Gable in custody every single day and was now, according to village gossip, openly courting her despite the scandal it would cause.
She thought about the other villagers—the Hendersons, the Pringles—going about their lives, oblivious to how close they had come to losing everything.
They were safe. For now.
But OmniCorp was a corporation, not a person. You couldn’t handcuff a corporation. You couldn’t tie it to a bench with knitting wool. It had shareholders and subsidiaries and shell companies scattered across a dozen jurisdictions.
Julian had been stopped. But the machine that had created him was still running.
Vera looked out the window at the peaceful village green, the ducks paddling on the pond, the children playing on the grass.
“The snake has more than one head,” she murmured.
Watson, having finished his biscuits, jumped onto her lap and began kneading her thigh with his claws. She winced but didn’t push him away.
“I suppose,” she said, scratching behind his torn ear, “retirement was getting a bit dull anyway.”
Watson purred, which might have been agreement or might have been a demand for more scratching.
Vera picked up her needles and resumed her knitting.
Click. Click. Click.
Outside, the sun continued to shine on Lark’s End. The ducks continued to paddle. The villagers continued their lives, safe and oblivious.
And Vera Calloway, retired, sat in her armchair and planned her next move.
The game wasn’t over.
It was just beginning.