Книга - Thief’s Mark

Thief's Mark
Carla Neggers


A murder in a quiet English village, long-buried secrets and a man's search for answers about his traumatic past entangle FBI agents Emma Sharpe and Colin Donovan in the latest edge-of-your-seat Sharpe & Donovan novelAs a young boy, international art thief Oliver York witnessed the murder of his wealthy parents in their London apartment. The killers kidnapped him and held him in an isolated Scottish ruin, but he escaped, thwarting their plans for ransom. Now, after thirty years on the run, one of the two men Oliver identified as his tormentors may have surfaced.Emma Sharpe and Colin Donovan are enjoying the final day of their Irish honeymoon when a break-in at the home of Emma's grandfather, a renowned art collector, points to Oliver. Emma and Colin are desperate to question him, but when they arrive at York's country home, a man is dead and Oliver has vanished.As the danger mounts, new questions arise about Oliver's account of his boyhood trauma. Do Emma and Colin dare trust him? With the trail leading beyond Oliver's small village to Ireland, Scotland and their own turf in the United States, the stakes are high, and Emma and Colin must unravel the decades-old tangle of secrets and lies before a killer strikes again.New York Times bestselling author Carla Neggers delivers the gripping, suspense-filled tale readers have been waiting for.







A murder in a quiet English village, long-buried secrets and a man’s search for answers about his traumatic past entangle FBI agents Emma Sharpe and Colin Donovan in the latest edge-of-your-seat Sharpe & Donovan novel

As a young boy, Oliver York witnessed the murder of his wealthy parents in their London apartment. The killers kidnapped him and held him in an isolated Scottish ruin, but he escaped, thwarting their plans for ransom. Now, after thirty years on the run, one of the two men Oliver identified as his tormentors may have surfaced.

Emma Sharpe and Colin Donovan are enjoying the final day of their Irish honeymoon when a break-in at the home of Emma’s grandfather, private art detective Wendell Sharpe, points to Oliver. The Sharpes have a complicated relationship with the likable, reclusive Englishman, an expert in Celtic mythology and international art thief who taunted Wendell for years. Emma and Colin postpone meetings in London with their elite FBI team and head straight to Oliver. But when they arrive at York’s country home, a man is dead and Oliver has vanished.

As the danger mounts, new questions arise about Oliver’s account of his boyhood trauma. Do Emma and Colin dare trust him? With the trail leading beyond Oliver’s small village to Ireland, Scotland and their own turf in the United States, the stakes are high, and Emma and Colin must unravel the decades-old tangle of secrets and lies before a killer strikes again.

New York Times bestselling author Carla Neggers delivers the gripping, suspense-filled tale readers have been waiting for.


Thief’s Mark

Carla Neggers







To Henk and Christine

and our many good talks on the veranda.


Contents

Cover (#u6cff7905-e035-54a6-9654-ee1bd480cfe9)

Back Cover Text (#ufecdc683-56ad-5086-90e3-8900cb829080)

Title Page (#ub2259122-5415-535f-b43b-b380bcd75a81)

Dedication (#u98d0fe20-0e35-578b-b7b5-c90780eb4fb1)

Chapter 1 (#ua31b5cf1-1574-59c9-a5ff-54e24574f91b)

Chapter 2 (#u0d2d64d1-5c3b-5ffa-9ddf-ca5bb64a29a2)

Chapter 3 (#ud3b654bc-9c01-5ece-989e-9156c26fcb36)

Chapter 4 (#uafaccaf4-a15a-56fb-88ce-cdc919b5271b)

Chapter 5 (#u0c0d0d7c-f68f-5577-8ec5-55391a0862aa)

Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 23 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 24 (#litres_trial_promo)

Author Note (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


1 (#u951240e0-74d3-5ee9-b773-8a019319d286)

Dublin, Ireland

Colin Donovan eyed his wife of almost two weeks, a glass of champagne in front of her on their low table at the crowded, upscale bar at the landmark Shelbourne Hotel in the heart of Dublin. Since he knew Emma Sharpe as well as he did, he noticed the slight pull in her eyes that indicated tension. “Last night of our honeymoon,” he said, leaning back in his comfortable stuffed chair.

She smiled. “We’ll make the most of it.”

He returned her smile. “We will. You look good, Emma. Rested, happy and rosy-cheeked.”

“The rosy cheeks are due to the champagne.”

“And the tension I see in those green eyes of yours?”

She picked up her champagne. “I’m in reentry mode.”

Colin got that. They would be back at their offices on the Boston waterfront in a few days. Right now, they could enjoy the views out the tall Shelbourne windows across to St. Stephen’s Green as the long June day slowly wound down. Every seat at the polished bar and the tables was occupied with laughing shoppers with their Brown Thomas bags, tourists in sensible shoes and young office workers with loosened ties.

“Then there’s Granddad,” Emma added. “He’s up to something.”

Wendell Sharpe was always up to something but Colin knew he didn’t need to tell Emma. “Speak of the devil,” he said, nodding to the entrance off the lobby.

She followed his gaze, sipping her champagne as she watched her octogenarian grandfather, who lived in Dublin, make his way toward them in his rumpled khakis, sport coat and bow tie. He was semiretired, but no one believed he would ever fully give up his work as a private art detective. Not willingly, anyway. Meeting for drinks at the Shelbourne had been his idea.

He shuddered as he arrived at their table. “Could you two at least try to look less like FBI agents?”

“We are FBI agents, Granddad.” Emma set down her glass and rose, smiling as she and her grandfather embraced. “It’s great to see you.”

Colin got to his feet and he and Wendell shook hands. “Good to see you, Wendell.”

“Welcome to Dublin. How was the honeymoon?” He grinned. “Don’t answer.” He pulled out a chair and sat with a heavy sigh. “I walked from my place. Beautiful day. When did you get in?”

“About an hour ago,” Emma said. “We walked in the park and got here about twenty minutes ago. It’s the last day of a perfect honeymoon.”

“Your secret Irish honeymoon didn’t stay secret for long, did it?”

Emma laughed. “It didn’t stay secret at all.”

“Everyone knows we’re here,” Colin added, glad to see some of Emma’s earlier strain ease.

“You chose Ireland for Emma,” Wendell said. “Tough to think of you as romantic.”

“Not going there, Wendell.”

“Are you making a stop in Dublin on FBI business?”

Emma shook her head, strands of her fair hair falling onto her forehead. She reached for her champagne and sat back with it. “We’re here to see you, Granddad.”

Colin picked up his Smithwick’s. “What’re you drinking, Wendell?”

“Sparkling water. I like to keep my head about me with you two.”

A typical Wendell Sharpe exaggeration, but Colin ordered the water. He drank some of his beer and contained his impatience. He’d been on alert since Wendell had texted Emma two hours ago and suggested they meet at the Shelbourne instead of at his home a few blocks away.

The sparkling water arrived, and Wendell drained about a third of his glass before setting it on the table and taking a breath. “We’re getting looks. I’ve lived in Dublin for fifteen years but I don’t recognize a soul here. I’m an old man. It’s got to be you two.”

Colin made no comment. They weren’t getting looks. It was a diversion tactic. No one near their table was paying attention to them much less sneaking looks at them. He and Emma were dressed comfortably but suitably for their surroundings, not in the hiking clothes they’d worn much of the past ten days in the Irish countryside.

“It’s nice of you to invite us here, Granddad,” Emma said casually. “Any particular reason for the change in plan?”

Wendell glanced around the elegant bar. “I haven’t been here in a while. I thought we should celebrate your marriage at a special place. I didn’t make it to your wedding. Least I could do is buy you a drink.” He settled back in his chair. “Glad you two didn’t order expensive whiskey. I’m retired.”

Emma gave him a skeptical look. “Semiretired at best.”

Colin stayed out of this one. In the months he’d come to know Emma—as he’d fallen in love with her—he had learned to steer clear of meddling with or even trying to understand her deep-seated, often impenetrable relationship with her eccentric family. Wendell had launched Sharpe Fine Art Recovery sixty years ago in the front room of his home on the southern Maine coast. After his wife’s death, he’d returned to the land of his birth and set up a Dublin office. When Colin had planned their Irish honeymoon, he’d included a night in Dublin for Emma to see her grandfather. Wendell had invited them to stay with him. It had seemed like a good way to start the reentry process back to their normal lives. Family, friends, their work with the FBI. No more boutique hotels, cute cottages and long walks in the Irish hills, at least not for a while.

“You two go back to work...when?” Wendell asked. “You’re flying back to Boston tomorrow, right? They’ll let you get home first, do a load of laundry, buy some milk and coffee?”

“We’re flying to London tomorrow,” Emma said. “We’re taking advantage of being on this side of the Atlantic and meeting with a few people.”

Wendell frowned. “So you’re back to work tomorrow?”

“We’ll return to Boston for the weekend and be at our desks on Monday.”

“I thought Colin didn’t have a desk.”

“I don’t,” Colin interjected. “They let me nap on Emma’s couch once in a while.”

They being HIT, the small Boston-based team Emma had joined early last year and he’d been shoehorned into last fall. He wasn’t a good fit, but for the past ten days, he’d had one focus and that was the woman on the other side of the table. It was Wednesday. They had an early flight to London. Emma would meet with her UK counterparts in art crimes, her area of expertise, and Colin would focus on...whatever Matt Yankowski, their FBI boss, wanted him to focus on. He and Yank would talk tomorrow. Colin had completed an undercover assignment before the wedding. Yank no doubt would be chewing on a new assignment.

Wendell took another big drink of his sparkling water. “I have a surprise for you. I’m treating you to a night here at the Shelbourne. Figured it’s a better choice for the last night of a honeymoon than my guest room.”

Emma folded her hands on her middle, eyeing her grandfather with a cool steadiness Colin had come to know and appreciate. “Thank you, Granddad, that’s generous of you, but we’d have been happy in your guest room.”

“You’ll be happier here.”

Emma unfolded her hands and touched a fingertip to the rim of her champagne glass, nothing casual about her move. “Are you sure this is a wedding present and you’re not having your place painted, or you didn’t suddenly discover mold in the walls? It’s not a problem if it’s inconvenient for you to put us up. We could find somewhere to stay. The Shelbourne is gorgeous, but having a drink with you here is a great wedding gift. We don’t want you to go to any big expense.”

Her grandfather looked around at the bustling bar. “Princess Grace stayed here back in the day. You’ve seen pictures of her. She was a beauty. Tragic end to her life.” He shifted back to his guests. “This place was built in 1824. I saw that when I booked your room. These walls ooze Irish history.”

Wendell was engaging in pure, in-your-face evasiveness. No wonder he’d stuck to sparkling water. Colin snatched up his pint glass and nodded to Emma. “Do you want to get the truth out of him or do you want me to...or just forget it and pretend drinks and a night at the Shelbourne are a last-minute wedding gift?”

“They’re a surprise wedding gift,” Wendell said, unruffled. “They’re not last-minute.”

Emma sipped her champagne, returned the glass to the table and turned to her grandfather. “But Colin’s right, isn’t he, Granddad? You are hiding something.”

Wendell leaned forward, plucked the slice of lemon out of his glass, squeezed it, then tossed it back in and took a drink. “You two missed your jobs while you were on your honeymoon, didn’t you? You’re rested and ready to pounce on an old man. I shouldn’t have mentioned expensive whiskey and being retired. Put you on alert.”

“When someone does something out of the blue, out of character, most people will notice,” Emma said. “It doesn’t take being an FBI agent.”

“Helps, though.”

Colin gritted his teeth. “Spit it out, Wendell. Why don’t you want us at your place?”

The old man locked eyes with his new grandson-in-law. “All right. I give up.” He paused. “My place is a crime scene.”

Emma stiffened visibly. Colin noticed a renewed strain in her Sharpe green eyes. “What kind of crime scene?” she asked quietly.

“Break-in. Someone slipped inside while I was out for a walk after lunch. I didn’t have much time to think before you two arrived in town. Putting you up here was the easiest way to handle you until I could figure out what to do.” He waved a bony hand. “One of the hazards of having FBI agents in the family.”

“You didn’t call the police,” Colin said, making it a statement.

“No point. Nothing they can do.” Wendell gave another sigh. “Damn, I’m getting old. Fifty years ago I wouldn’t have spilled the beans this fast. Ten years ago. I should have just had you over to the house and handed you a broom to clean up the glass.”

Emma’s chin shot up. “Glass?”

“Guest-room window. That’s how they got in. Do you have a car? Where are your bags? You can check in after your drink. I booked your room under Donovan. I assume you’re using Sharpe professionally?”

“Unless you land in prison,” Emma said. “Then I might reconsider.”

“I wouldn’t blame you.”

“We turned in our rental when we arrived in Dublin and took a cab here. We left our bags with the bellman while we had drinks with you.” Emma leaned toward Wendell and put a hand on his thin wrist. “Why don’t we finish our drinks and then walk over to your place and have a look?”

“Check in and get settled first. I’ll take a cab back to my place and meet you there. A one-way walk’s my limit these days.”

“You can call the gardai in the meantime,” Colin added.

Wendell scowled at him but turned to Emma with a smile. “Take your time. I won’t touch anything, but I’m not involving the gardai and the FBI has no jurisdiction here. Just so we’re clear.”

“Have you told anyone else about the break-in?” she asked.

“No, and I don’t plan to. I didn’t plan to tell you but Colin here had his thumbscrew look on and I caved.” Wendell raised his glass. “Bottoms up, kids.”

* * *

“Granddad could be overdramatizing and the break-in isn’t a big deal,” Emma said as she and Colin approached her grandfather’s town house near Merrion Square. They’d decided to walk after checking in to the hotel. Wendell had staked them to an elegant, third-floor room with a view of St. Stephen’s Green. “It’s still possible we can have a good last night of our honeymoon.”

“We will no matter what,” Colin said.

She smiled. “You’ve turned into a romantic.”

“The Ireland effect.”

“Not being with me?”

He winked. “We’ll see what happens when we get home.”

Home was her tiny apartment in Boston and his house in his hometown of Rock Point, Maine. Now their apartment and house. She loved being married to him and had relished every second of their time together in Ireland. She looked at him now, her broad-shouldered, dark-haired undercover-agent husband with his ocean-gray eyes and sexy smile.

But her mind was on her grandfather. “I don’t like the coincidence of a break-in and our arrival in Dublin,” she said.

Colin gave a curt nod. “I don’t, either. Do you think he has a suspect in mind?”

“I don’t know. He’s being slippery, that’s for sure.”

“I’m not touching that one.”

“Best we stay on our toes when Granddad is in full obfuscation mode.”

“Not regretting joining the family business instead of the FBI at the moment, are you?”

“Not at the moment, no. Not ever, actually.” She sighed. “Granddad didn’t look hurt or freaked out to you, did he?”

“No, but he never does.”

True enough, she thought.

When they reached her grandfather’s redbrick building, he pulled open the door before she could knock or ring the bell. “I suppose you want to go straight to the crime scene,” he said. “Come on in.”

Without waiting for an answer, he led them through the entry and front room back to a ground-floor bedroom. He moved aside, and Emma stood on the threshold, Colin to her left and a bit behind her. The room was small and square, with two twin beds, a nightstand, a dresser and photographs of Skellig Michael on the wall opposite the window, which looked onto a terrace at the back of the house. The only sign of a problem was a spiderweb of cracked glass emanating from a fist-size hole in the window.

“Bastard unlocked the window and came right in,” her grandfather said behind them. “Used a gnome statue on the terrace to break the glass. You remember it, Emma. It belonged to your grandmother. Otherwise I’d have left it in Maine. It’s a homely little thing. Anyway, I think he went out through the back door. I don’t know if it was a man. Could have been a woman.”

Colin pointed at the bare tile floor in the bedroom. “No glass.”

“I went ahead and swept it up. There wasn’t much.”

“You shouldn’t have touched anything,” Emma said.

“Yeah, I know. It would have been easier if I’d left the doors unlocked and he walked in and out again. Less of a mess to clean up and I might never have known anyone had been here. I’d never have looked if...” Wendell stopped abruptly. “Never mind. Doesn’t matter now.”

“If what, Granddad?” Emma asked.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I spotted a piece of broken glass on the kitchen table when I got back from the pub. That’s why I checked in here. The intruder must have taken the glass with him after he climbed through the window. If I’d been here and put up a fuss—well, you know. He could have threatened me or slit my throat.”

Colin angled a look at him. “But you didn’t see anyone?”

“No one in here or outside. I wasn’t here when he broke in and I didn’t get my throat slit. And,” he added emphatically, “the glass could have been a practical consideration. A tool rather than a weapon, in case he needed to cut something.”

Emma frowned. “Cut something?”

He motioned with one hand. “Come.”

Emma felt Colin’s tension as they followed her grandfather to his study, now his home office and where he spent most of his time. When the weather was dank and chilly, he’d have a fire going, but not today, given the lingering warm, dry June weather. It had rained only a few times during her and Colin’s stay in Ireland, but the occasional lazy, drizzly day hadn’t gone to waste.

“I turned over most of my physical files to Lucas when I shut down my outside office,” her grandfather said. “He went through them when he was here last fall and took what he wanted back to Maine with him.”

Lucas, Emma’s older brother, had taken over the reins of Sharpe Fine Art Recovery and worked out of its offices in Heron’s Cove, a picturesque village on the southern Maine coast. He’d just completed a massive revamp of the offices, located in the same Victorian house where a young Portland security guard had launched his career as a private art detective. Six decades later, Wendell Sharpe was world-renowned, and Sharpe Fine Art Recovery was a thriving business, but still small in terms of staff. His only son—Emma and Lucas’s father—had cut back on his role with the company after a fall on the ice had left him in chronic, often debilitating pain.

“Lucas is considering reopening a Dublin office now that I’ve retired.” Wendell shrugged, waved a hand. “More-or-less retired, anyway. I work when he needs me or I land on something interesting on my own. The rest of my files are here.” He tapped his right temple. “I told Lucas what he needs to know for the business. Everything else can go to the grave with me.”

“The stuff you want to hide,” Colin said.

Wendell snorted. “Damn right but not from the FBI. You and your lot wouldn’t be interested. Neither would my family. Most of it’s memories, ideas, suppositions, speculations, conspiracy theories...mistakes I’ve made, people whose reputations might be harmed unfairly because of their association with me. I’m an old man. I’ve done a lot.”

Emma sat on the couch. She’d spent countless hours here in her grandfather’s study when she’d worked for him before she’d left Dublin for the FBI. She’d wanted to learn everything—about the business, art crimes, his contacts, his methods, his resources. She’d been a sponge. But she eyed him with measures of skepticism, anticipation, curiosity—the usual mix when she was dealing with her grandfather. “What do your files and memories have to do with the break-in?”

He hesitated. “Maybe I jumped the gun.”

“Granddad, just tell us everything, okay? Don’t make me pry it out of you.”

“Rusty after your honeymoon?”

Colin took in an audible breath. “Quit stalling, Wendell.”

“All right, all right. It’s tricky timing, dealing with a break-in and having your FBI granddaughter and her FBI husband show up. It looks as if my intruder had a look around in here. He didn’t toss the place, but there are signs.” He pointed to a small, dark wood box on a shelf by the fireplace. “He got in there. It doesn’t have a lock but there’s no label saying what’s inside. Never occurred to me anyone...” He didn’t finish, instead plopping onto a chair across from Emma.

Colin remained on his feet. “What’s in the box, Wendell?”

He clearly didn’t want to answer, but Emma knew. She sighed. “It contains the stone crosses our serial art thief sent Granddad after his heists.”

“Oliver York,” her grandfather said. “I don’t mind saying his name out loud.”

Emma noticed a muscle work in Colin’s visibly tight jaw but he said nothing. For most of their Irish honeymoon, they’d managed to avoid talking about, thinking about or dealing with Oliver, a wealthy Englishman with a tragic past. He was a self-taught expert in mythology, folklore and legends, a black belt in karate, a sheep farmer, a dashing Londoner with an apartment on St. James’s Park and an international art thief. He’d launched his art-theft career on a bleak November night ten years ago when he’d slipped into a home in Declan’s Cross, a small village on the south Irish coast. He’d walked off with paintings—including two prized Irish landscapes by Jack Butler Yeats—and an extraordinary sixteenth-century silver mantel cross. The police came up empty-handed in their investigation.

Six months later, after a small Amsterdam museum was relieved of a relatively unknown seventeenth-century Dutch landscape, Wendell Sharpe received a package containing a brochure of the museum and a polished stone, about three inches in diameter, inscribed with a Celtic cross, a miniature version of the one stolen in Declan’s Cross. More thefts followed in at least eight cities in England, Europe and the US. After each brazen heist, another package with another cross-inscribed stone arrived at Wendell Sharpe’s Dublin home.

Last fall a murder in Boston put Emma and Colin in contact with an eccentric mythology consultant advising on a documentary—Oliver York, it turned out, working under an alias. He was their elusive art thief. Without question. That didn’t mean he would ever face prosecution. He knew it, and they knew it. Over the winter, the stolen art—every piece except an unsigned landscape stolen on that first heist in Declan’s Cross—had been returned to its owner, anonymously and intact. Oliver, in the meantime, had put his unique skills, knowledge and experience to work for British intelligence.

Given the unique relationship he and her grandfather had, Emma wasn’t surprised to hear Oliver York’s name, but she’d have preferred not to.

She shifted back to her grandfather. “Is anything else in the box?”

“A few photographs I took years ago in Declan’s Cross.”

“Would they explain to an intruder the significance of the stone crosses?”

Her grandfather shrugged. “Probably not by themselves. They’d be a clue, though. There’s nothing specific in the box or anywhere else in here that connects the stones and the photographs to the thefts or to Oliver. Nothing’s missing. The box lid was on crooked. That’s the only reason I know the intruder got into it.”

“Had the box been sealed?” Colin asked.

“No. Our perp didn’t need to use his glass shard to cut through tape.”

Emma forced herself to stay focused. Her grandfather was restless, fidgety. “You’re sure the box was opened during the break-in?” she asked. “Could someone else have opened it on a different occasion and you didn’t notice?”

“I’m positive,” he said without hesitation. “And I didn’t leave the lid on crooked and forget.”

Colin’s gaze steadied on her grandfather. “You have a soft spot for Oliver.”

“He’s an interesting character.”

“You visited him at his farm in January. You stay in touch.”

“So?”

Stubborn as well as fidgety and restless. Emma eased onto her feet. “Granddad, as you pointed out, Colin and I have no jurisdiction here. We’re family. We want to help.”

“I know you do.” He uncrossed his legs and tapped his fingertips on his knees. “I didn’t want to involve you. It’s your honeymoon.”

“Have you told Lucas about the break-in?” Emma asked him.

“No. No point. There’s nothing he can do. He’s in New York on business. With the time difference and everything—no point bothering him. I didn’t tell your father, either. I can handle this situation on my own. I’m not five.”

“You need to get the police in here, Wendell,” Colin said.

He rose stiffly, with a small grunt, as if he was in pain. How much was a bit of an act Emma didn’t know. Colin sucked in a breath—it was a sign, she knew, he was on his last thread of patience. She pointed toward the back of the house. “Did you go straight to the kitchen when you got in?”

Her grandfather nodded. “Yeah. Maybe I heard something. I don’t know.”

“Was the back door open or shut?” Colin asked.

“Partially open, like it hadn’t been latched properly and the wind caught it. Then I saw the glass and went into the bedroom and saw the broken window. I figured whoever it was must have heard me coming in through the front door and bolted out the back door. Someone looking for cash, drugs—maybe just getting out of the rain.”

Colin shook his head. “People don’t break a window to get out of the rain.”

Emma appreciated the back-and-forth between them. They were both strong, independent-minded men, each in his own way. Her grandfather grunted. “You know how to sweat a guy, Special Agent Donovan.”

He grinned. “You’re just out of practice. That was nothing. We’ll see what the gardai want to do.”

“Lock me up.”

“Can’t say I’d blame them but they probably won’t. At least not tonight.” Colin dug his phone out of his jacket. “Catch your breath, Wendell. I’ll make the call.”

* * *

Emma wasn’t surprised when the gardai couldn’t do much, given the delay and little physical evidence. At this point, it was unlikely they’d locate passersby who might have seen something. To complicate matters, the broken window opened onto a small, fenced terrace with a private gate—which her grandfather had left unlocked. Someone walking through an unlocked gate wasn’t likely to draw attention.

Once the gardai left, he insisted she and Colin return to the Shelbourne. “Go,” he said, opening the front door. “Enjoy yourselves. Room’s paid for. It’s too late to get a refund.”

“I don’t like leaving you here alone,” Emma said. “You could always stay at the hotel, too.”

“Three’s a crowd anytime but on a honeymoon?” He shuddered. “No way.”

She smiled. “I didn’t mean in the same room.”

Her grandfather grinned. “I bet you didn’t. Relax. I’ll be fine. If this guy wanted to harm me, he’d have jumped me when I came home instead of scooting out the back door.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better, Granddad.”

“Lock up,” Colin said. “Gate, windows, doors. We’ll give you a hand.”

“I don’t need a hand. Go.”

Emma hugged him, kissing his cheek. “Call Lucas and fill him in or I will. Thanks for our night at the Shelbourne. We’ll stop by before we leave for London tomorrow.”

He returned her hug, kissed her on the cheek. “Always good to see you, Emma.” He turned to Colin. “You, too, Colin. Welcome to the family. We’ll do better than a broken window next visit.”

Once they reached the street, Colin glanced at Emma. “He’ll have the whiskey before he locks up the place.”

“No doubt. He’s tired. He doesn’t like to admit he’s not forty anymore.”

Colin slipped an arm around her. “We still have our fancy room for the night.”

She leaned into his embrace. “That we do. I haven’t heard from Oliver since he left us the champagne at Ashford Castle our first night here. Do you think the timing of the break-in with our arrival in Dublin is a coincidence?”

“I don’t think anything that involves Oliver York and your grandfather is a coincidence.”

They crossed a quiet street. “We can see Oliver while we’re in England,” Emma said.

“You can see Oliver.”

“You’d let me go on my own?”

Teasing time. As if Colin “let” her do anything. He tightened his hold on her, drew her closer. “I don’t know, I think I could get into a submissive Mrs. Donovan.”

She laughed. “Oh, you think so?”

His deep blue eyes sparked with humor, and something else. “We can find out tonight.”

They walked hand in hand past Merrion Square, one of Emma’s favorite spots in Dublin, with its black iron fencing, lush greenery and soothing Georgian ambience. She’d spent countless hours there during her months working shoulder-to-shoulder with her grandfather, learning from him, enjoying his company, his experience, his brilliance as a private art detective and consultant. Everything she’d gleaned she’d put to use in her work with the FBI. The quiet, pristine square had been a pleasant spot to consider her past and her future. Her past had been a stint in a Maine convent. Her future was here, now, with Colin.

Her grandfather had accepted her decision to leave Sharpe Fine Art Recovery, if not enthusiastically at least with his good wishes. “You’ll be Special Agent Emma Sharpe the next time I see you,” he’d said with a grimace. “I’ll never get used to it, but it’s what everything you’ve done to date has prepared you to be. Go catch bad guys, Emma. Stop them. Lock them up. Keep us safe.”

Colin tugged on her hand. “Lost in thought?” he asked.

She smiled. “Totally.”

He pulled her closer. “It’s a beautiful evening in Dublin.”

It was, indeed. The warm weather and the prolonged daylight of June had brought the crowds out to the streets. Shops, pubs and restaurants were bursting, and people were flowing into St. Stephen’s Green. Although tempted, they decided to skip a walk through the park and returned to the Shelbourne and their elegant room.

A plate of chocolate truffles and two glasses of whiskey were set out on a small table, with a note:

To Mr. and Mrs. Donovan,

Enjoy the last night of your honeymoon.

Love,

Granddad

Colin lifted a whiskey glass and handed it to Emma. “Your grandfather is impossible, but he does have his charms.”

“It was a spectacular ten days, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. Spectacular.”

She nodded to the note. “I like the sound of Mr. and Mrs. Donovan. I’ll have an easier time in Rock Point as a Donovan.”

“You think so?”

“Your brothers won’t think you’re manly if I go by Sharpe.”

“That’d ruin my reputation for sure.” He picked up the second glass. “I don’t care what you call yourself, you know.”

“I know. I’m learning to tease like a Donovan. I love being married to you whatever anyone calls me. We’ll be home soon enough. Right now, we’re on our honeymoon.”

His gaze settled on her. “Yes, we are.”

A warmth spread through her. She clinked her glass against his. “Sláinte.”

Colin smiled. “Sláinte,” he said, and he set his glass and then hers back on the table.


2 (#u951240e0-74d3-5ee9-b773-8a019319d286)

Near Stow-on-the-Wold, the Cotswolds, England

“Just because something is old doesn’t mean it’s an antique of any quality,” Oliver York said. “It could be rubbish.”

Martin Hambly withheld his irritation. Henrietta Balfour, a local garden designer, was either preoccupied with her bucket of loam or ignoring Oliver, or perhaps both. Martin had hired her but Oliver was paying her. They were gathered outside the potting shed, located in a small, centuries-old dovecote on the southern edge of the York farm. The farm itself was located on the outskirts of the tiniest of Cotswold villages, a short drive to the busy market town of Stow-on-the-Wold. Martin had expected Oliver to stay another few days in London, but he’d returned last night. He would have thought a lazy morning was in order, but now here Oliver was, offering input in matters in which he’d never displayed any interest prior to ten minutes ago. For reasons Martin couldn’t fathom, Oliver had decided to contribute his opinion of an old pot Henrietta had unearthed. She’d discovered it out back in a heap of discarded gardening materials, created when Oliver had converted part of the dovecote into a stone-cutting studio. At first, Martin had thought it just another of Oliver’s solitary hobbies. Not quite the case.

Martin had worked for the Yorks for decades. He’d promised Nicholas and Priscilla York on their deathbeds he would never abandon their orphaned grandson, no matter how frustrating, annoying and outrageous Oliver could be.

Some days that promise was easier to keep than others.

Today wasn’t one of those days.

Oliver had gone to London on his own last Friday and hadn’t required Martin’s assistance at the York home on St. James’s Park. That could mean he’d been on a clandestine mission for MI5 or he’d discovered more stolen art he needed to return to the rightful owners—or he’d simply had a stack of books he’d wanted to read without Martin hovering about. They never discussed Oliver’s decade as a brazen art thief or his current work with MI5. For that matter, his reading list was off-limits for discussion, too.

Old pots, however, he would apparently discuss.

“This pot belonged to your great-grandmother, Oliver,” Martin said, fingering the slightly chipped terra-cotta pot. “It has soul. That’s the point, not its monetary value.”

“If you insist.”

Oliver stood straight. He was in his late thirties and exceedingly fit, with wavy, tawny hair and the sort of looks that drew women to him, although he’d yet to marry or even have, as far as Martin knew, a long-term romantic relationship.

And Martin would know.

Oliver turned to their garden designer. “Henrietta?”

She raised her warm blue eyes to him. “Old rubbish with soul?”

Martin could have cheerfully dumped the pot on their heads. It was half-filled with soil—not the sterile kind from a bag, either. He’d personally dug loam from the hillside behind the dovecote. Henrietta had protested but he’d won that battle, if with the compromise that she could top off the pot with her preferred professional mix of soil.

Professional dirt. Martin had never heard of such a thing.

After years of neglecting the farm’s gardens and overall landscaping, Oliver had taken Martin by surprise when he’d suggested they hire a garden designer and even provided Henrietta’s name. She’d recently moved from London into a nearby cottage she’d inherited from Posey Balfour, her grandfather’s never-married only sister and long a fixture in the village. Martin didn’t like to think of himself as shallow, but he hadn’t paid much attention to Henrietta in years and noticed at their first meeting about the gardens that she bore little resemblance to plain, gangly Posey, who’d died last summer in her midnineties. Henrietta was attractive with her mop of reddish-brown hair, her warm blue eyes and her pleasing curves. In her midthirties, she had a penchant for long, flowered skirts that she wore with a faded denim jacket or a battered waxed-cotton jacket and sturdy walking shoes. When conditions called for them, which they often did, she would don olive-green Wellingtons. How she managed her work in a skirt was beyond Martin, but she did occasionally pull on baggy pants, which also looked fine on her.

Perhaps Henrietta’s presence explained Oliver’s sudden acquiescence to professional help with the gardens and his early return from London. They’d known each other since they were small children, but she’d worked in London until recently and he’d... Well, Oliver had a variety of ways he kept himself busy.

Henrietta’s extended visits to the Cotswolds had started when she was five or six, most often on her own. Her parents, born-and-bred Londoners, loathed Posey’s “chocolate box” village. They’d steal away on exotic holidays, leaving Henrietta to amuse herself by helping her great-aunt with her gardens. Although she’d had no children of her own, Posey had doted on Henrietta, the only other female Balfour.

Martin had been heartened by Oliver’s interest in his somewhat neglected landscaping but suspected it had more to do with his attractive garden designer. He and Henrietta had played together as children, creating an easy familiarity that still existed between them. Martin didn’t want to read too much into his observations. Oliver could have ulterior motives. He often did. Martin had learned to be wary. He didn’t like to be a suspicious sort but it came with keeping his promise to Nicholas and Priscilla.

At the same time, Martin had to acknowledge an undercurrent, warning him something about Henrietta Balfour’s charming eccentricities was off—not faked so much as unpracticed. Perhaps her move to the Cotswolds from London and her radical career change explained the disconnect.

She dipped her gloved hands into the bag, set on the worn stone landing in front of the dovecote. “Sentimental value counts for something, don’t you think, Oliver?”

The pair were familiar enough with each other they’d never bothered with “Mr. York” and “Ms. Balfour.” Oliver didn’t answer. Instead, without a word or so much as a grunt, he gave a curt wave, spun around and shot back out to the narrow lane that ran along the southern edge of the farm. It was a gray morning but it wasn’t wet, although there was talk of rain later in the day.

Henrietta rolled back onto her heels and frowned, hands deep in the bag of soil. “He can be like that, can’t he?”

Martin knew there was no point denying the obvious. “He can.”

“The lads down the pub say he can be dashing and sweet, too.”

Not in Martin’s experience, but he let it go. “What kind of flowers do you have in mind?”

“Depends where we decide to put the pot. It’s a gem, isn’t it? I do like the idea of having it out here.”

“You love old rubbish, do you?”

She smiled, her eyes lighting up despite Oliver’s rudeness. “Especially if it has sentimental value. Does Oliver remember his great-grandmother?”

“It’s possible. She died when he was three.”

“I don’t remember, of course, her but you must.”

Martin nodded. “I do. She was a lovely lady. She expanded the gardens here, although it was her daughter-in-law, Oliver’s grandmother, who converted the dovecote into a potting shed.”

“I remember Priscilla, of course. She and Aunt Posey were friends.” Henrietta dumped two heaping handfuls of soil into the pot, atop what he’d dug from the hillside. “We’re not going to discover Oliver bought this pot at a white-elephant sale and forgot about it, are we?”

“I’m sure we won’t. I can vouch for it. I remember his great-grandmother planting flowers in this very pot.”

“It’s a forgotten family heirloom, then. What kind of flowers were they, do you recall?”

Martin managed a genuine smile. “Dahlias. Peach-colored dahlias.”

Henrietta smiled again, wispy curls escaping her hair clip. “Perfect. Consider it done.”

Martin left her to her work. He didn’t see Oliver, or anyone else for that matter, on the lane, part of one of the marked, public walking trails that crisscrossed the Cotswolds. He could hear Henrietta humming now that she was rid of both him and Oliver. Continuing simply to tend the gardens was no longer sufficient but the process of overhauling them would take time. Martin had seen her in recent years on her visits with her aunt, but he knew little about her life in London. She was friendly and amusing, but she didn’t invite that kind of intimacy. Although charming and delightful in many ways, she was all about her work. These days discovering old pots was Henrietta Balfour’s idea of excitement.

Martin walked up the lane toward the farmhouse. After a spell of warm, clear days, he appreciated the cloudy sky and looked forward to a shower. The gray weather brought out the smells of early summer and suited his mood. He hadn’t missed joining Oliver in London, but he had to admit to a certain uneasy restlessness. It wasn’t like Oliver to go this long without getting into some kind of trouble. Even MI5 hadn’t contacted him in weeks. Oliver hadn’t acknowledged he was working with British intelligence—and he never would—but Martin knew better. There were subjects between them that were understood but never discussed and that was one of them.

A scream penetrated his brooding. He jumped, nearly tripping. His first thought was an accident involving one of the farm workers. Then he realized it was Ruthie Burns, Oliver’s housekeeper. In another moment, he spotted her at the lane’s intersection with a path up to the main house. She was running madly toward the dovecote, her arms pumping at ninety degrees at her sides as she picked up speed.

“Help! He’s dying. Dear God. Help!”

Although not one of Martin’s favorite people, Ruthie wasn’t prone to hyperbole or overreacting. He felt a jolt of adrenaline. Did she mean Oliver? Was he the one who was dying?

Henrietta burst up the lane from the dovecote. “What’s happened?” she asked, intense but steady. She’d removed her garden gloves and didn’t seem impeded by her long skirt.

“I don’t know yet,” Martin said.

She pointed a slender, dirt-covered hand up the lane. “That’s Ruthie, isn’t it?”

Martin nodded. The stout housekeeper was in her sixties, a few years older than he was, and had worked for the Yorks almost as long as he had. He felt an unwelcome tightness in his throat but forced himself to maintain his poise and equilibrium. Hysteria wouldn’t do anyone a bit of good.

Henrietta started toward Ruthie. “No,” Martin said. “Stay here. I’ll handle whatever’s happened.”

“Not alone, Martin. I’m going, too.”

He took in her natural sense of command, her composure, her directness—and he knew. He’d been expecting them to emerge. Any suspicions he’d had about her had transformed to certainty.

Henrietta Balfour was MI5.

Martin shook off the thought. Who and what Henrietta was didn’t matter now. They needed to get to Ruthie and find out what had her in a panic. He pushed forward but didn’t break into a run. Henrietta eased next to him, clearly holding herself back from charging ahead. She was younger and fitter, but it wasn’t just that. She hadn’t hesitated. She’d relied on training, experience—perhaps just her nature but Martin doubted it. It was something more.

In thirty seconds, they intercepted Ruthie. She was breathless and red-faced, barely able to speak. Martin touched her arm. Accidents and crises weren’t unheard of on the farm. She’d dealt with many of them herself over the years. “Ruthie,” he said gently. “What’s happened?”

“A man. I didn’t get a good look at him. There’s so much blood.” Her eyes welled with tears. “It’s awful, Martin. Just awful. I think he’s dead.”

“Where’s Oliver?” he asked, trying to stem her panic as well as to get information.

“He’s there. He was trying to help him. The man who was bleeding. I don’t know what happened.”

“Have you called for an ambulance?” Henrietta asked.

Ruthie looked stricken, as if she’d done something wrong. “No, no—I didn’t. Oliver, I thought he... No.”

“Call 999 at once, in case Mr. York hasn’t had a chance to ring them,” Martin said.

“I have my mobile...” Ruthie mumbled.

“Shut the door first and lock it,” Henrietta said. “Then make the call.”

Ruthie gulped in air. “You don’t think... Surely it’s an accident.”

“We want to be on the safe side,” Martin said softly.

“Of course.” Sweat mixed with drizzle and streamed down the older woman’s temples. “You two take care.”

“We will,” Henrietta said.

Ruthie sniffled and lurched forward, picking up her pace as she ran toward the dovecote.

Henrietta turned to Martin, who knew he had to look both annoyed and shocked. “I’m good in an emergency,” she said, then gestured toward the house. “Shall we?”

Given her uncompromising manner, Martin didn’t consider arguing with her to stay with Ruthie and let him go alone. He didn’t want to waste time on what he knew in advance would prove to be a futile effort. She started off, and he fell in behind her.

* * *

Skirt or no skirt, Henrietta could move. As they charged up the private drive that curved to the main entrance at the side of the gracious stone house, Martin was pushing hard in an effort to keep up with her quick pace. The drive ended at a parking area surrounded by mature hedges, trees and flowerbeds. She glided onto the flagstone walk. He huffed and puffed a step behind her, his sense of dread mounting. Violence had devastated the Yorks thirty years ago, but it had occurred in London—never had violence touched the York farm.

But Martin warned himself against leaping ahead. He didn’t know what had happened.

Henrietta slowed her pace and thrust out an arm, as if he were a five-year-old about to jump into traffic. He saw the door standing wide-open. His first thought was that Oliver must have grabbed Alfred, his wire-fox-terrier puppy, for an urgent walk. Wouldn’t that be a welcome change? Martin cared for him when Oliver was away, but had dropped him at the house before heading down to meet Henrietta to discuss dirt and flowerpots.

“There,” she said, pointing at the entrance.

Martin lowered his gaze as if by the sheer force of her pointed finger. It took a half beat for him to grasp what he was seeing.

A man lay sprawled facedown on the stone landing in front of the threshold. Blood had pooled around him on the pavement.

Henrietta cursed under her breath. “I hope Ruthie’s called the police.” She lowered her hand. “Do you know this man?”

Martin pretended not to hear her. Did he know him? No. It can’t be. His knees wobbled, but he forced himself to focus. “I should check for a pulse.”

“He’s gone, Martin.”

There wasn’t a note of doubt in her tone. He blinked at her. “Dead?”

She gave a grim nod. “I’ll check to be absolutely certain, unless you’d rather—”

“No. Please. Go.”

She hadn’t waited for his answer, regardless, and was already stepping forward, circling the pool of blood. She bent from the waist, touched two fingers to the man’s carotid artery and stood straight, stepping back, shaking her head. “Dead. No question. We need to wait for the police.”

“Oliver...” Martin stifled an urge to vomit, shock and what he took to be the smell of blood taking their toll. “Ruthie said Oliver was here. He was helping...”

“Well, he’s not here now. There’s no sign he administered first aid. The man’s upper arm was cut. I didn’t get a good look at the wound, but with this much blood, he must have nicked his brachial artery. He’d have had only minutes to get help. Oliver must have been too late.”

“How do you know these things?” Martin asked, gaping at her.

“What?” As if everyone knew. She waved a hand. “BBC.”

“I should check inside. Maybe Oliver is ringing the police.”

She shook her head, firm, knowledgeable. “I don’t think so, Martin. Look. His car isn’t here.”

Martin glanced behind him at the empty spot along the hedges. Oliver had left his Rolls-Royce there last night, instead of parking it in the garage. “Oliver mentioned last night he wanted to go out today.” Martin heard how distant his voice sounded—his tone one of shock, disbelief—but at least the nausea had passed. “I noticed when I went down to meet you at the potting shed.”

“Did he say where he planned to go?”

“No, he didn’t. I’m not sure he had a plan.”

Henrietta adjusted her skirt, which had gone askew in the charge up to the house. “Why would he run?” she asked, her tone neutral.

Martin didn’t answer. It was a loaded question, anyway.

She peered at the dead man. “I haven’t seen him before that I can recall. Have you?”

The woman was relentless. MI5 wasn’t far-fetched at all. “I don’t think...at least I’m not certain...” Martin stopped himself. He didn’t need to speculate and didn’t want to lie, but he hated stumbling around for what to say, no matter the provocation. Time to get hold of himself. “I can’t say for certain I’ve seen him before. We get a lot of walkers on the south lane this time of year. I seldom pay attention to them.”

“All right, then.”

He heard the skepticism in Henrietta’s tone but let it be. He glanced at the dead man, hoping to take in more details of his appearance, but he felt another surge of nausea and turned his head quickly, if too late. He’d seen enough. Much of the man’s blood had emptied onto the landing and oozed onto the pavement. What a dreadful sight it must have been when he was alive, his heart pumping arterial blood. Martin hadn’t noticed blood on Ruthie, but Oliver, if he’d been helping this man, surely he would have been sprayed with blood.

Martin felt the bottom of his shoe stick to the pavement. He looked down and saw he’d stepped in a smear of blood himself. Ruthie hadn’t exaggerated. There was a great deal of blood. He felt bile rise in his throat. “Someone else could have taken the car,” he said, forcing himself to keep his wits about him. “There are several routes on and off the property. One of the workers or a walker might have seen the car leaving and might even be able to identify the driver. Ruthie was in a panic. She could have been mistaken and it wasn’t even Oliver she saw.”

“Perhaps,” Henrietta said.

She was humoring him. Martin felt a surge of irritation but knew it wouldn’t help. She was right. Of course Ruthie wasn’t mistaken. “My point is we don’t have enough information to draw any conclusions.” He stared at the open door. “I shouldn’t wait. I need to search the house—”

“No, Martin. The police will be here shortly. They’ll check the house. They’ll deal with any possible intruders or additional casualties. We’ll only muck things up sticking in our noses now.”

Her self-assurance, decisiveness and brisk efficiency snapped Martin out of his stupor of shock and worry. If not oblivious to the blood and death at their feet, Henrietta was remarkably focused and steady. No panic, no wild speculation, no fear.

He turned to her with a cool look. “You speak with authority for a garden designer.”

She gave the smallest of smiles. “One learns to be decisive when planning gardens.”

No doubt true, but he was now convinced she was MI5. Her grandfather, Posey’s older brother, Freddy, had been a legend with Her Majesty’s Security Service. Henrietta obviously took after him—except for the heavy smoking and penchant for opera.

“Come.” She pointed toward the edge of the driveway, where the hedges grew tall. They were an item on the long list of garden-related tasks, but Martin saw she was pointing at a stone bench that had occupied the spot in front of the hedges for decades. “Let’s have a seat there, shall we? The police will be here in a matter of minutes.”

Martin followed her to the bench but he didn’t sit. She did, crossing one leg over the other, skirt only slightly askew. He peered at the dead man, attempting to absorb the details of his appearance, his attire, his injuries. They were a jumble. He was reeling, fighting a sense of urgency that had purpose but no direction. “Is anyone in the house?” he shouted. “Do you need assistance?”

Henrietta frowned at him, but he ignored her. He remembered his solemn promise to Priscilla York he would look after her only grandson. She’d known it would be difficult. “Oliver has his ways, Martin. Don’t be too hard on yourself when he goes astray, as he surely will.”

He steadied himself, taking in the pungent scent of the evergreen hedges. He calmed himself and peered again at what he could see of the man sprawled at the door—what was clear and not out of his view or blurred by fear, shock, adrenaline and horror.

The man looked to be in his fifties.

The right age.

Martin allowed himself a moment to listen to birds singing in the trees behind him, but he couldn’t do it. He felt himself being transported to the past, against his will...to the arrival of the police and the unfathomable news that Charles and Deborah York were dead—murdered in their London home—and their young son was missing. At that moment, his own life had been forever changed. He’d been here on the farm. He’d wanted to run, as he did now.

He’d located Nicholas and Priscilla and sat vigil with them through those tense, grief-filled days, every second seared into his memory. Eight-year-old Oliver had escaped from the Scottish ruin where the two men who’d killed his parents had taken him, with the hope of earning a hefty ransom in exchange for the boy’s safe return to his family. A priest out for an early morning walk had come upon him and taken him to safety. Young Oliver identified the killers and kidnappers as Davy Driscoll and Bart Norcross, two men in their midtwenties who had done groundskeeping and a variety of odd jobs in London for Charles and Priscilla. They’d worked on a contract basis and had quit a short time before the murders.

Physical and circumstantial evidence confirmed the boy’s eyewitness account.

For their part, Driscoll and Norcross disappeared as if into thin air.

Until today.

Martin raked his hands through his grayed hair. He was aware of Henrietta silently watching him from the bench, but he didn’t care. He could be letting his emotions get the best of him. He could be wrong and it wasn’t Davy Driscoll lying dead before him.

He didn’t need to panic or go off half-cocked. He hadn’t known either killer well. They were wanted men. With no credible sightings of them and no leads, surely they’d altered their appearance and adopted new identities.

The face of the dead man, the line of his jaw, his slight build, his age...

Was he Davy Driscoll?

Martin sighed heavily. He was certain it was.

Almost.

He wondered how the dead man had sustained his fatal injuries. A knife wound? A gunshot? Martin hadn’t heard gunfire and assumed no one else had, either. He shuddered. Never mind the shock that had seized him—he made no pretense of expertise in violent death, whether accidental, self-inflicted or the work of another.

He could hear approaching police cars. The York farm had always been a refuge, not just for Oliver, but for him, too—for all those who loved the land, its history and the family. The violence done to Charles and Deborah and their young son had occurred in London, not here.

“Alfred...” Martin bit back fear. “He was here when I left the house.”

“Oliver didn’t bring him to the potting shed. He probably returned Alfred to your cottage before he came down.”

It had to be the case. The puppy would have been out the open door, yapping at their feet by now, and he was trained to stay close and wouldn’t have gone far. Martin shut his eyes. “Oliver,” he whispered, “where the devil are you?”

“Good question,” Henrietta said.

He opened his eyes and turned to her. “You weren’t supposed to hear that.”

“I know.”

She didn’t look ruffled by his gruffness. She seemed sincerely troubled by the day’s events, but if she was MI5, she’d be able to fake sincerity. “Oliver isn’t a killer,” Martin said.

Henrietta turned by a tall, cracked stone urn. Her eyes had an unexpected, genuine warmth to them. “Of course he isn’t.”


3 (#u951240e0-74d3-5ee9-b773-8a019319d286)

London, Heathrow Airport

Emma eased toward an empty carousel, away from the throngs in Heathrow’s crowded baggage claim. She hadn’t expected a call. It was an unknown caller. She almost let it go to voice mail but instead answered with a simple hello, without using her name.

“Dear Emma. Where are you?”

She recognized Oliver York’s voice and slowed her pace. “Heathrow. Did you get my voice mail?”

“This morning. Yes. You and Colin want to see me. Why?”

“We’ll come to you. Are you in London or at your farm?”

“I didn’t do it.”

Emma went still. His voice was ragged, barely a whisper. This wasn’t the irreverent, relentlessly good-natured Oliver York she knew. “Do what, Oliver?”

“I didn’t kill that man. I tried to help him. I don’t know if it was murder, suicide, an accident. I don’t know anything. Tell the police. They’re looking for me.”

“Oliver, talk to me. Where are you?”

“I’m going dark. I trust you. Trust me. Colin and I will never be friends now.” His attempt to return to his natural cheekiness fell flat. “I hope you two had a fabulous honeymoon.”

“I can’t help you if you go dark,” Emma said. “We’ll come to you.”

He was gone.

She slid her phone into her tote bag and rejoined Colin at their baggage carousel. He’d collected their bags, hers a wheeled case, his a duffel he had slung over his shoulder. They’d packed more than they would have for a typical business trip. They’d put together the meetings at the last minute but were dressed professionally in clothes that had seen them through nights out in Ireland.

She told him about Oliver’s call. “He’s in trouble, Colin.”

“Damn right he is. I just got a call from my MI5 contact. Oliver took off from his farm this morning and left behind a dead body.”

“Who?”

“They don’t know yet. It was a quick call. He wants our help. He’ll pave the way for us to talk to the detectives.” Colin hoisted his bag higher on his shoulder. “Looks as if we’re renting a car and driving to the Cotswolds instead of taking the train into London.”

Emma absorbed the change in plan. She didn’t know Colin’s MI5 contact, just that they’d met during his first undercover mission five years ago. She raised the handle on her bag. Matt Yankowski, their boss in Boston, would want to know she and Colin had landed in the middle of a British death investigation involving Oliver York. “We need to check in with Yank.”

“Have at it.”

“It’s your MI5 contact.”

“It’s your art thief on the lam and your grandfather whose house was broken into. If we walked into a bunch of arms traffickers, I’d make the call. I’ll rent the car.” He dipped a hand into her jacket pocket and withdrew her phone, then folded her fingers around it and winked. “Tell Yank I said hi.”

“All right. It does make sense that I make the call. I’ll check with my brother at the same time to see if he knows anything about the break-in.”

Colin took the lead as they switched their route and started toward the car rental kiosks. Emma unlocked her phone and hit Yank’s cell phone number. It was early in Boston but Yank picked up on the first ring. “I just had a call from MI5. They know you’re in London and called Oliver York this morning, asked if you have an idea where to find him. Imagine that.”

“We don’t know where he is. Do they know the identity of the dead man?”

“Not yet. Where’s your grandfather?”

“I haven’t been in touch with him since we left Dublin. We stopped to see him on the way to the airport. He was having tea on the terrace.”

“Has Oliver been in touch with him?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Will he now that he’s on the run? Those two have an unusual friendship.”

“Anything is possible,” Emma said.

“Keep me posted. I’ll see what we can do on our end.”

Yank disconnected without further comment. A short conversation. Emma pictured him at his Back Bay apartment with his wife, Lucy, a clinical psychologist who’d opened up a knitting shop on Newbury Street after balking at moving from their home and her work in northern Virginia. As unorthodox and risky as his brainchild, HIT, was, Yank was a straight arrow. Late forties, chiseled good looks, crisp suits and dedicated to the FBI. He’d known what he was getting into when he’d gone after her—an ex-nun and a Sharpe—to join the FBI and then to become a part of his unique team.

She dialed an art-crimes detective she knew at Scotland Yard, and he put her in touch with the detective chief investigator leading the inquiry into the death at Oliver York’s farm. He listened attentively and instructed her and Colin to come straight to the farm when they arrived in the village.

The calls to her grandfather and her older brother, Lucas, who ran Sharpe Fine Art Recovery, were easier. Neither answered. She left voice mails and caught up with Colin. He had the paperwork finished for their rental car. They’d be on the road to the Cotswolds in no time.

“How’d it go?” he asked her. “Did Yank ask if we had a good time on our honeymoon?”

“He did not. I wish we’d run into arms traffickers. They’re more straightforward than Oliver York.”

“But nowhere near as charming.”

* * *

A few minutes later, they were on the road, heading west to the rolling hills and classic honey-stone villages of the picturesque Cotswolds. Colin was doing the driving. Emma was preoccupied, thinking about Oliver’s call. “You know this has something to do with the break-in at Granddad’s.”

“What do you want to do?”

“I left him a voice mail. I left Lucas a voice mail, too. I’ll try Granddad again.”

She was almost surprised when he answered. “Emma,” he said. “You’re in London?”

“Just landed. What are you up to?”

“Contemplating finding a hardware store to fix my broken window.”

That didn’t sound suspicious, and there was nothing suspicious about his tone. “Has Oliver York been in touch by any chance?”

“No.” A pause. “Why?”

“Something’s happened. I’m not sure what I can tell you at this point. Let me know or let the gardai know if Oliver gets in touch. And keep your doors locked.”

“Don’t talk to strangers and drink my milk. Got it.”

“Granddad...”

“It’s okay. I can tell whatever’s going on is bad.”

“I just want you to stay safe.”

“Always,” he said.

Colin glanced at her after she’d hung up. “First day back on the job,” he said.

She stared out the window at the busy motorway. “It’s going to be a long one.”


4 (#u951240e0-74d3-5ee9-b773-8a019319d286)

Near Stow-on-the-Wold, the Cotswolds, England

Henrietta walked home after the police finished with her. They’d blocked off entrances onto the York property, including the lane that ran past the dovecote potting shed and was part of a waymarked trail. Walkers out for the day, unaware of the events that morning, would have to take a detour, at least until the scene was cleared. Henrietta had witnessed deaths and seen corpses in her previous life but never one involving a childhood playmate as a witness—a man as enigmatic, frustrating, larcenous, tortured and sexy as Oliver York.

He was maddening, and he was the reason she had quit MI5.

That was the short answer, at least.

She continued along a dry wall, constructed God knew when, of the region’s ubiquitous yellow limestone. Oolitic Jurassic limestone, it was called. She’d thought she’d needed to know that as a garden designer, but no one had yet to ask. She wasn’t concerned about running into a mad killer. The police hadn’t been, either. She’d take care, of course, but whatever had happened behind her at the York farm, it hadn’t been random.

She crossed a bridge over the same shallow stream that ran behind the York dovecote. The paved lane would eventually take her into the village, but she needn’t go that far—never mind the temptation to. It’d been a day. She’d love nothing better than to spend the rest of it at the pub.

Instead she turned onto a narrow lane, lined with more honey-stone walls, and came to what was still known as the Balfour farm. Her great-grandparents had purchased it in 1909 as a country home and working sheep farm. They’d proceeded to have three children—Freddy, Posey and Anthony—and had left the entire property to Freddy, the eldest Balfour and only surviving son, Anthony having died young. Freddy had promptly turned over most of the acreage to tenant farmers. He’d spent holidays—not every holiday—at the house and let friends and colleagues use it for getaways, but he’d never had a great affinity for the Cotswolds or country life. Surprisingly, he’d moved to the farm after he lost his wife to a stroke. Widowed, his only son busy with his own life in London, Freddy had enjoyed several good years before he developed lung cancer and died in his Cotswolds sitting room at age seventy-seven. Henrietta had been only five, but she remembered him, her chain-smoking grandfather with the kind eyes. She hadn’t known then, of course, that Freddy Balfour was an MI5 legend and British hero. That had come later.

Posey Balfour had fallen in love with the Cotswolds as a young girl and couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. The family had carved out a lot for her, and she’d built her own home, where she’d stayed, content, for the next seventy years. Henrietta’s father had sold the rest of the original farm after Freddy’s death. As far as she knew her dad had never considered keeping it.

She came to her great-aunt’s house.

My house now.

She was relieved to see only her Mini and not Oliver’s Rolls-Royce in the drive.

A silly thought, that he might have come here.

“Blast it, Oliver, where are you?”

Normally she would drive to work in order to haul tools, pots, seedlings, bags of soil and supplies—her Mini amazed her with its hauling capacity—but that morning she’d walked. She’d been working at the York farm for two weeks straight and had everything she needed there. The day had started with sunshine, but she enjoyed walking even in less-than-lovely weather.

She felt tense as she unlocked her front door. After twelve years with MI5, she liked to think objectivity and emotional distance had become natural for her. She’d managed in the midst of the crisis, with Ruthie Burns in a state and Martin Hambly about to have a stroke, but now, on her own, she was anything but objective and distant. It wasn’t that she was out of practice. She’d only left MI5 in March. It was that today involved people she’d known her entire life. Friends, neighbors, villagers.

Oliver.

She fumbled with the door lock. His fault, damn him.

She got the door open and felt her tension ease the moment she crossed the threshold. Posey had died in her sleep of general organ failure at ninety-four and left the house to Henrietta and small inheritances to Henrietta’s father and his cousin, Anthony’s only son.

Posey would have relished a mysterious death in the village, provided it wasn’t too gruesome and involved someone who’d had it coming. Henrietta had yet to figure out what to do with her great-aunt’s daunting collection of cozy mysteries. They lined the study shelves and filled more than one cupboard.

She went back to the kitchen and filled the kettle with water and set it to boil. In addition to the kitchen, the house consisted of a sitting room, study and powder room on the ground floor, and, upstairs, two slanted-ceiling, dormered bedrooms and a bathroom. Posey had had the house built to her standard. She’d decided on new construction rather than selling the lot and buying an existing house. She would never have had the patience to fuss with anything listed or mildly historic that would require her to follow rules and regulations and entertain unsolicited opinions from villagers. “I didn’t want my house to be the subject of postcards, tourist photographs or chocolate boxes,” she’d told Henrietta more than once.

Posey hadn’t cleared out a single possession before her death. Henrietta knew she needed to get on with sorting what didn’t suit her. Sell it, give it away, toss it. It seemed like a daunting process at the moment. Of course, it wasn’t. Surveillance and penetration of a violent cell bent on mass murder were daunting. Deciding what to do with Aunt Posey’s stacks of murder mysteries was emotionally challenging but hardly the same.

As she waited for the kettle to boil, Henrietta gazed out the kitchen window at the glorious June blossoms. As plain as the house was, the gardens were incredible. They were Posey’s creation and had been her greatest joy. Pink foxglove, cobalt-blue delphinium, white daisies, artfully placed grasses—Henrietta let the burst of color soothe her. In the months since her great-aunt’s death, she had maintained the gardens, at least to a degree, without touching their essential structure. The rose trellis needed replacing. Most of the perennials needed thinning and a good chop. She’d get to it all one of these days.

How far would Oliver get in his Rolls-Royce? It wasn’t an inconspicuous vehicle.

Henrietta shook off the intrusive thought but she couldn’t ignore a tug of emotion. She’d felt it before—this unexpected, unwilling attraction to Oliver. They’d known each other since childhood and she hadn’t felt anything remotely romantic toward him until last Christmas. She’d tried to blame winter for her sudden, uncomfortable feelings—the short days, the gray, the damp—and when that hadn’t worked, she’d tried to blame grief and nostalgia given Posey’s recent death. She’d looked up Oliver in London after the new year and joined him for a drink at Claridge’s, his favorite spot, thinking that would do the trick. He’d be back to being the Oliver who’d always been there—dashing, good-looking, solitary, a man coping with unspeakable tragedy, but not anyone she could imagine sleeping with.

But that hadn’t happened.

Henrietta wasn’t sure what to call how she felt. She’d been out of touch with anything resembling a romantic life or romantic feelings for so long, how was she supposed to know? She wasn’t in love with him, she kept telling herself. Oliver was irresistibly fascinating, with his knowledge of mythology, folklore and legends, and his unusual lifestyle. Given his expertise in karate and tai chi, he was fit and capable.

Sexy, in fact. That was the truth of it.

Maybe what she felt was simple lust. Maybe she just wanted to sleep with him and once she did, that’d be that.

“The man’s a bloody thief,” she said aloud, getting the teapot off an open shelf. It was hers, although Posey had left a half-dozen teapots. She needed a few things of her own in her new life.

In a way, learning Oliver was a serial art thief had somehow permitted her to indulge in these fantasies about him. His eccentricities and solitary ways kept people at bay. They didn’t ask questions about the true nature of his hobbies and travels.

Henrietta envisioned him slipping past security guards, disabling alarms, carrying off valuable works of art without breaking into a nervous sweat. Each of his heists had required detailed planning and careful execution. The man was brazen, brilliant, wily.

She sniffed. “He’s still a thief.”

One of his covers was his occasional work as a film-and-television mythology consultant, under his assumed identity of frumpy Oliver Fairbairn. He’d fly off to Hollywood and chat with writers, producers, actors.

Not an easy man to figure out, her one-time childhood playmate.

Henrietta couldn’t let her fascination with him lead her astray, but perhaps it was too late and it already had. She’d just come upon a dead body at his door, hadn’t she?

Her unsettling attraction to him wasn’t the only factor in her departure from MI5, but coupled with recent frustrations on the job, it had helped her to understand that twelve years in domestic intelligence had been enough. She wanted more from her life, or at least something else, even if she wasn’t sure what that was. Right now she needed to get a grip on herself. Oliver York was a thief, if a charming and sexy thief, who’d shown no interest in her whatsoever beyond their childhood bond, and he’d just taken off from the scene of a suspected homicide.

Any thought of a relationship with him was delusional.

For all his quirks and misdeeds, however, Henrietta couldn’t see Oliver as a murderer.

She rummaged in a near-empty bag for two slices of bread. Tea and a cheese-and-pickle sandwich weren’t a pint but they were what she needed right now. She’d reorganized the kitchen a few weeks ago to suit her. Slowly but surely, she was making the house her own. It needed remodeling but that would come in due course. She’d been focused on establishing her garden-design business.

She was slathering on Branston pickles when her phone vibrated on the table. She swooped it up and sighed when she saw it was Martin Hambly. She’d wanted it to be...who? Oliver? MI5? It didn’t bear considering.

She answered. “Hello, Martin,” she said.

“How are you doing?”

It wasn’t why he’d called. She could hear it in his voice. “I’m fine, thank you.”

“Good.”

She frowned, on her feet, silent phone at her ear. “Has something happened?” she asked finally.

“No, no—sorry. I’m distracted. Two FBI agents are on the way. The police want us to talk to them.”

Now this was interesting. “Are these Oliver’s FBI-agent friends?”

“Emma Sharpe and Colin Donovan, yes, but ‘friends’ is perhaps too strong. I didn’t realize you knew about them.”

“Everyone in the village knows about them, Martin.”

“I see.” He sounded resigned to the fact, if not pleased. “They might be able to help us find Oliver. They arrived at Heathrow this morning.”

“Excellent. I can show them our vintage flowerpot.”

“Henrietta?”

“Sorry. No problem. I’ll have a bite and be along.”

“Thank you. I’ll let them know when they arrive.”

She rang off, finding herself torn between wanting to meddle in the death investigation and wanting to grab sheers and prune something—anything—in Aunt Posey’s garden.

Classic fight-or-flight.

She finished making her lunch and took it outside to the terrace. She settled at a metal table and chairs. They’d been Posey’s. Henrietta hadn’t had a garden in London. There were cushions, but she was always forgetting to take them in when it rained, or out when it didn’t rain. The seat wasn’t as cold as it had been that morning, when she’d had breakfast outdoors, before leaving for the York farm.

She tried to focus on a clump of cheerful Shasta daisies. Posey had been a master gardener and might have raised her eyebrows at Henrietta calling herself a garden designer. On her many visits since childhood, she’d soaked up her great-aunt’s gardening wisdom and expertise. On all matters, not just her house, Posey had preferred to consider only her own opinions. She’d inherited enough money from her parents to get by if she lived frugally—which came naturally to her—and had supplemented her income with the occasional magazine and newspaper article on gardening. As opinionated as she was, Posey had been relatively open-minded when it came to gardening. She had a simple philosophy: “Plant what you like where it will grow.” Everything else, she said, would follow and sort itself.

Henrietta ate her sandwich, hardly noticing its taste. Her plans for the day had been thoroughly messed up. She was in no hurry to meet with the FBI agents. Would they know she was ex-MI5? She was certain Martin suspected that she’d been sent by MI5, perhaps, to keep an eye on Oliver. The truth was considerably more complicated.

Well, not that much more complicated. She’d quit MI5 in March, moved to the Cotswolds and put out her shingle as a garden designer. Half her former colleagues believed she’d been sacked, but it wasn’t true, at least technically. One day she’d realized she’d had her fill and put in her papers. The “one day” had followed a bad run-in with a senior intelligence officer and a seriously inexplicable longing to call Oliver and talk to him about it. She’d realized she needed to move on.

“Focus,” she said aloud. “Don’t let your mind wander.”

Her new job was enhanced by a wandering mind. It gave her something to do while finding old flowerpots as she had that morning.

She poured more tea, taking care to note its heat, its scent, its splash in her cup. She found the ritual reassuring, a way to stay fully present and to step out of the whirlwind of the dead man at the York farm and Oliver’s disappearance.

She drank a few more sips of tea and gave up. Her mind wasn’t on tea or flowers. She was can-do by nature, and she wanted to pace, jump up, do something—clean, wash, throw things, anything that wasn’t sitting, keeping her cool. She’d been cool and decisive that morning but that was different. That was real. It wasn’t debating whether to have biscuits with her tea or to wander in the garden.

The humidity was building ahead of the rain. It worked its dark magic and frizzed up her hair. She could feel it.

She pounced when her phone vibrated next to her. “Hello—”

“Tell the FBI agents everything. They know who you are. I told them.”

“And you are?”

But the man on the other end of the connection was gone. It didn’t matter. She knew who it was. MI5, in the form of Jeremy Pearson. The same uncompromising senior officer who’d given her such a hard time in March.

Now it was time to wander in Aunt Posey’s gardens.

* * *

“Henrietta!” Cassie Kershaw, who owned the original Balfour farm with her husband, waved by the iron gate in the stone wall that divided their two properties. “Are you all right? I just heard what happened.”

“Hang on,” Henrietta said. “I’ll come to you.”

She extricated herself from examining a crumbling rose trellis and took a well-trodden footpath through the back gate. Cassie stepped aside, tucking strands of her fine, pale hair behind her ear as if to help calm herself. “My God, Henrietta, what a day. Are you all right? Did you just get back from the York farm? I’ve been worried about you.”

“I’m fine,” Henrietta said. “I wasn’t hurt. I spoke with the police and came back here for lunch. You’ve probably heard more details than I have.”

“Gossip, not details.”

Gossip about an unexplained, bloody death was inevitable, but Henrietta had discovered that people in Oliver’s small Cotswold village seldom gossiped about his family tragedy. She didn’t believe they considered it a forbidden subject as much as one well in the past and none of their business. Oliver had been on his own since the back-to-back deaths of his grandparents when he was in his late teens. Henrietta had accompanied Posey to their funerals. She remembered how sad and yet self-contained he’d looked at the cemetery service, the wind catching his tawny hair as he’d stood in front of his parents’ graves. He’d kissed her cheek and told her he was glad she was there, but it had felt mechanical and rote, an upper-class young man remembering his manners. He’d promptly dropped out of Oxford, dividing his time between London and the farm—and eventually his illicit travels to steal art.

In the years since, he could play the dashing, aristocratic Englishman when it suited him, but for the most part he’d kept to himself, particularly when he was at his farm. Henrietta had never been under the impression villagers judged him for his solitary ways. They left him alone, since it was what he wanted.

Or had wanted. Bit by bit since last fall, he’d been lifting himself out of his self-imposed isolation, venturing to the pub, having visitors, now that his secret career as an art thief had come to an end.

Something, of course, Henrietta couldn’t discuss with Cassie or anyone else in the village. “There’s not much I can tell you,” she said.

“You walked home?”

“I didn’t have my car. Someone would have dropped me home, but it felt good to walk after such an intense couple of hours.”

“What a fright. Just awful.”

Henrietta noticed a pair of bright pink work gloves in a wheelbarrow next to a compost bin off to Cassie’s right. She looked in her element, dressed in a baggy flannel shirt, baggy jeans and muddy Wellies. She was American, but she and Henrietta were related through a circuitous connection to the Balfours. Henrietta had introduced her to Eugene Kershaw, an unhappy Oxford solicitor now a deliriously happy farmer. He and Cassie were the parents of two young boys. Eugene’s grandparents had purchased the Balfour farm from Henrietta’s father shortly after her grandfather’s death. It’d been their dream to own a Cotswold farm, but they’d never managed to make much of a go of it. Eugene’s parents were Oxford professors and had no interest in taking on a thriving farm, much less a struggling one.

By the time Eugene and Cassie took over, the property had been seriously neglected and getting it back in shape was proving to be considerably more work at far more expense than either had anticipated. The risk and effort were paying off, and now they were drawing a sufficient income that allowed Eugene to quit his outside work. Both he and Cassie worked at the farm full-time. Henrietta had never heard them complain about the vagaries of farm life. They’d helped spread the word about her garden-design business when she’d made her career change. This was the life Cassie and Eugene wanted to live, how they wanted to raise their sons.

“I’ve been in the compost pile, as you can see,” Cassie said. “Eugene and the boys love mucking about in compost more than I do, but it does feel good to work up a sweat. We only just heard about the mishap out at the York farm. The police came round to ask if we’d seen anyone about. We hadn’t, of course. The death—It was a mishap, wasn’t it?”

“I honestly don’t know,” Henrietta said truthfully. “I’m still trying to absorb everything.”

“But you’re not one to panic,” Cassie observed, making it sound almost like a criticism.

“Dealing with plants will do that.” Henrietta left it there. She wasn’t accustomed to family and friends living close by, seeing people she’d known for years—since childhood, in many cases—on a regular basis. She’d maintained a very different existence in London. “One imagines all sorts of dramatic scenarios to cope with the parts of the work that are pure drudgery. Plucking weeds gets boring after thirty seconds. I’ve imagined myself in so many dangerous situations, it was second nature to deal with a real one.” None of which was an outright lie. “I had Martin’s example. The man is unflappable.”

Cassie relaxed slightly. “I can imagine. He strikes me as the epitome of ‘keep calm and carry on.’ Do you know the man who was killed?”

Henrietta shook her head. “I never saw him before that I can recall. If the police know, they haven’t told me. Where’s Eugene?”

“He’s just back from the post office. I think he’s in the cottage we’re renovating. I’ve been so distracted since the police were here. They were gracious and professional, but you know how it is.” Cassie stopped abruptly and pointed at Henrietta’s forearm. “Is that blood?”

Henrietta glanced at her sleeve. It was blood, indeed. She hadn’t noticed until now. Neither Martin nor the police had mentioned it, but she’d had on her jacket. She must have got blood on her sleeve when she’d checked the dead man’s pulse. She lowered her arm, discreetly angling the blood smear from Cassie’s view. “Martin and I tried to help, but we were too late. There was nothing we could do.”

“How dreadful. Maybe you should have stayed in the potting shed with the housekeeper.”

“How did you know about Ruthie?”

Henrietta winced at her quick question—her MI5 past bubbling up—but Cassie didn’t seem to notice. “Nigel Burns,” she said.

Nigel was the older of Ruthie’s two adult sons, a mechanic who often worked on the equipment at the York farm. Lately he was helping renovate a traditional stone-and-timber cottage on the Kershaw farm. It predated the farmhouse. At one point, Posey had considered it for her home, but Henrietta doubted that thought had lasted long. The low ceilings alone would have done in Posey. The cottage was located just down the stone wall, amid trees that bordered a stream and a field, green with spring grass. Cassie’s parents planned to retire later in the year and move into the renovated cottage.

“Ruthie did well today,” Henrietta said. “She’s old-fashioned, dedicated, a thorn in Martin’s side and part of the furnishings as far as Oliver’s concerned, but she’s reliable. I appreciate her—I promise you I do—but if I ever get as proprietary about gardens as she does about muddy footprints and spots on water glasses, I expect you to elbow me in the ribs.”

Cassie nodded warmly, some color returning to her cheeks. “Consider it done.”

“Today wasn’t easy for her,” Henrietta added guiltily.

“I’m sure it wasn’t. You’re gaining quite a reputation throughout the Cotswolds, you know.”

“A reputation for what?”

“Garden design and a cheerful demeanor.”

Henrietta sighed. “A cheerful Henrietta Balfour. That would shock some people.”

“Life among flowers and winding paths will do that even to a jaded Londoner like yourself.” Cassie paused, studying her friend. They’d known each other for almost a decade but they’d never really spent much time together. “I’m glad you found a career that suits you, but you don’t fool me, Henrietta. You’re bored. The pace of a garden designer and a Cotswold life is different from what you were used to in London.”

“True enough.”

And more so than Cassie knew or likely would ever know, but Henrietta couldn’t explain she’d entered Her Majesty’s Security Service fresh out of university, trained and worked as an operator in the field, specializing in surveillance, and then moved up the ranks to an office in Thames House. There’d never been any job in a London financial office. She was happy not to explain, either. Best to put those years behind her.

“I’m a Balfour, Cassie. Gardening’s in the blood.” So was MI5, but Henrietta kept that point to herself. “Bored or not, I could do without what happened today. My only interest at the York farm involves annuals, perennials, herbaceous borders—”

“You can stop there,” Cassie said with a welcome laugh. “I definitely do not have the Balfour gardening gene. Eugene and I are amazed at the landscaping here, though. It’s perfect for us to build on. People say your grandfather puttered in the flowerbeds after he left MI5, right up until his death. That’s heartening somehow. He’d have been proud of you today, don’t you think?”

“I hope so.”

The lighthearted moment dissipated and Cassie turned serious again. “And Oliver York? Did he really take off?”

“I only saw him at the dovecote,” Henrietta said. “He left a short while before Martin and I found the body.”

“Just awful. Truly. Eugene and I ran into Oliver at the pub last week. He was on his own but he sat at the bar and chatted with people. He doesn’t mingle often. We tend to notice when he does. He’s quite the character, isn’t he? Good-looking and a bit mysterious.”

Henrietta pushed up her sleeves, hiding the blood. “I haven’t really thought about it,” she said casually.

“Haven’t you?” Cassie reached for her gloves. “You don’t have to answer. It’ll keep. This isn’t the time to discuss such things. I know you’re intrepid and all that, but finding a dead man must be a shock. Do you have any idea what happened...how this man died? It had to be an accident, however terrible, don’t you think? He didn’t attack Oliver, did he? Oliver didn’t kill him in self-defense?”

“I don’t know any more than you do, Cassie. The police told me best to leave the investigation to them and get back to my plans for the day.”

Cassie stared at the worn gloves, bits of compost debris and dirt stuck to the fingers. “Can you at least tell me if they suspect murder? I have two small boys...”

“The police haven’t said.”

“I’ve been trying not to freak out. Eugene says even if it was murder, it’s got nothing to do with us. We aren’t targets. We always keep an eye on the boys. Still, I’m keeping them close to home until we hear more. My parents don’t know yet. They’re so looking forward to retiring to the peaceful Cotswolds. If this man’s death was murder...” Cassie shook her head. “No. I’m not going to think that way. It’s a York thing, whatever it is, and nothing to do with us.” She frowned, cocking her head to one side. “Are you sure you’re all right, Henrietta? How can you be so calm?”

“I’m afraid I’m still in shock.” She licked her lips. “I’m sure it will hit me later.”

“Yes. I imagine so. Be careful, won’t you? And come to dinner tonight. You won’t want to be alone.”

Actually, Henrietta did want to be alone. She couldn’t imagine being sociable after today, but Cassie and Eugene loved to entertain. Henrietta had invited them over for wine and olives on the terrace one evening but had whisked them to the pub for dinner. She knew how to cook. She just didn’t like to.

“Don’t forget we can provide you all the compost you can use,” Cassie said, then sputtered into laughter. “For gardens, I mean, not for dinner.”

Henrietta managed a smile. “Thank you.”

Cassie grabbed her garden gloves. “I found a painting in the cottage the other day. It was tucked in the back of a small closet that I doubt had been opened in years. I’ve been meaning to ask you about it. I’ll show you at dinner. It’ll be a pleasant diversion after this morning.”

Henrietta was in no hurry to return to the York farm and chat with the FBI. “Why don’t I take a look now?”

* * *

As they reached the cottage, Tony Balfour came out the front door. Cassie jumped—she was in easy-to-startle mode—but Henrietta was pleased to see him. He was her father’s first cousin, the only child of Freddy and Posey’s middle sibling, Anthony, who’d died tragically when Tony was a baby. He’d retired in April after a career as a landscaper at various public gardens throughout England. He was living in the Kershaw cottage temporarily, in exchange for overseeing the renovations, a perfect arrangement as he figured out what was next for him. Henrietta suspected gardening was perhaps a stronger Balfour family tradition than intelligence work. Divorced with no children, he hadn’t decided where to settle in retirement. He was in excellent shape and still muscular from decades of physical work, but he was clearly ready to go at his own pace and do other things.

“Henrietta, love,” Tony said, taking her by the hand and kissing her on the cheek. He was dressed in his work clothes, and she could smell plaster dust on him but saw no sign of it on his gray, paint-stained hoody. He stood back. “I heard the news. What on earth happened?”

“It wasn’t the morning I had in mind, but I’ve rallied.”

“Thank heavens you weren’t hurt. You weren’t, were you?”

“Not at all. No one was, except the man who died.”

Tony nodded, his expression a mix of grimness and curiosity. “We’ve lived quiet lives compared to Oliver York, haven’t we?”

“Henrietta’s going to take a look at the painting we discovered,” Cassie said.

“Great idea. It’s priceless in its own way. I’m sorry I’m in a rush. I need to pick up a few things at the hardware store.” He shifted again to Henrietta. “Phone me if the adrenaline wears off and you want to talk. Once a worker cut his arm and the resulting mess...” He made a face and held up a hand. “Never mind. It wasn’t a fatal accident but you don’t need to have that picture dancing around in your head.”

“I imagine not,” Henrietta said. “Thank you.”

“I’ll see you later, then.”

He headed up the path toward the Kershaw house. Henrietta had never seen anyone quite so happy to retire. Tony heartily approved of her career change and had assured her Posey would have, too. Of course, he believed she’d worked in a dull London office job.

Henrietta followed Casey into the cottage. The front room was cleared of any furniture while the plastering was being redone. Tony did most of the work, but he’d bring in professionals when needed or grab Nigel Burns or Eugene for easier jobs that needed more than one pair of hands. Since the cottage had once belonged to the Balfours, Henrietta was madly curious about the renovations but tried not to be too nosy.

Eugene emerged from the kitchen. “I was just in the village,” he said. “Everyone’s shocked at the news of the death at the York farm. I suppose it’s natural for our minds to jump to violence rather than an unfortunate accident. Oliver bolting doesn’t help, but one can understand why he might, under the circumstances. After what he went through as a boy, who wouldn’t?”

“Best to let the police sort this, Eugene,” Henrietta said.

“Yes, of course. You’re right.” He smiled. “You’re sensible like your aunt, Henrietta.”

“Posey was thrilled when you decided to take on the farm.”

“A late bloomer, I believe she called me.”

Eugene was nine years older than Cassie, a bit grayer and balder these days but in good shape from his farm work and as amiable as ever. He and Cassie had clicked the moment Henrietta had introduced them to each other, the only instance she’d successfully played matchmaker—not that she’d meant to play matchmaker. It was an accident, really. She’d looked up Cassie on a trip to Boston given their family connection, and they’d hit it off. Cassie had come to the Cotswolds to visit and Henrietta had shown her out to the old Balfour farm. Eugene had been there, cutting the grass after work. They’d ended up at the pub together and eight months later, Cassie and Eugene were married at the village church.

Henrietta had known Eugene since her visits with her aunt as a child. Her parents would drop her off in the Cotswolds for weeks while they binged on opera or scooted to Paris without her. Eugene and his younger sister, who now ran a restaurant in Oxford, had spent holidays with their grandparents on the former Balfour farm. For as far back as Henrietta could remember, Eugene had expressed his desire to revive the farm. He’d loved to talk about horses, Cotswold sheep, dairy cows and grain fields. Henrietta couldn’t say it’d ever been her ambition to move into Aunt Posey’s house full-time, but she did love the place. It had seemed like a practical, workable option when she’d quit MI5. Flowers, herbs, shrubs, pots, cutting and watering regimes. Simpler than uncovering schemes to commit mass murder.

She turned her attention to the matter at hand. “Well, what do we have?”

Cassie went into the kitchen and came out with a mounted canvas. She set it on the floor and leaned it against the wall, standing aside so that Henrietta could see it was an oil painting of a scene of a mountain and a lake. It wasn’t in the class of paintings Oliver York had stolen, but it was charming.

“It’s wonderful, isn’t it?” Cassie beamed. “A bit amateurish, I know, but I love its sensibility. It’s Queen’s View in the southern Scottish Highlands. It’s supposedly named for Queen Victoria, after she visited in 1866. I looked it up after I found the painting. That’s Loch Tummel and the Tay Forest. Eugene and I drove up there for a few days before we had children. Have you ever been, Henrietta?”

She nodded. “I went a few years ago with a churl of an ex-boyfriend.”

Cassie grinned at her. “One day I want to hear all the details of your life before you moved back here. I know so little about it.” She turned back to the painting. “It’s not signed, and there’s nothing on the back to indicate who painted it. We were wondering if you have any idea.”

“I’ve never seen it before,” Henrietta said, certain.

“Did your grandfather paint?”

“Freddy? Good heavens, no. Well, I doubt he did—I was very young when he died. My father has never mentioned Freddy painted. Posey didn’t, either, when she was alive. I remember him smoking cigarettes and rambling in the garden.”

“What about Posey?” Cassie asked. “Could she have painted it?”

“I can’t imagine she did. I never saw her paint, and I haven’t discovered any old canvases or supplies and such since I moved into her house.”

Cassie frowned. “Hmm. A mystery. Could it have been your grandmother... Freddy’s wife?”

“No one ever mentioned she painted, but I really don’t know,” Henrietta said. “I don’t remember her at all. She died when I was a baby. A shame you didn’t find it when Posey was still alive. Does Tony have any memory of it?”

Eugene shook his head. “I asked him. He said he didn’t know but he wasn’t a good one to ask. He was only a tot when his mother moved to the US with him. I suppose his father could have painted it, but he was a tortured soul—I can’t believe he’d have produced something this sweet.”

“Anthony’s been dead for sixty years, too,” Cassie added. “This cottage was pretty much in ruin then. Freddy had it restored but it’s been decades since anyone’s really used it. It’s a good thing Tony isn’t particular. Anyway, I suppose someone could have discovered the painting somewhere else and tucked it in the closet and forgot about it.”

Eugene squatted down for a closer look at the painting. “You can almost feel the sun on the loch.”

“I really do love it,” Cassie said. “If Anthony painted it, maybe Freddy or Posey found it after his death and couldn’t bear to keep it but couldn’t bear to throw away it away, either.”

“That would make sense.” Eugene rose, his eyes still on the captivating scene. “It’s not discussed but everyone knows Anthony Balfour died of alcoholism. Well. That’s not a cheerful subject any day but especially today, given what happened this morning.”

“And it’s such a cheerful painting,” Cassie said with a sigh. “Well, I don’t care who painted it, really. I was just curious. Freddy Balfour’s housekeeper could have bought it at a yard sale and a ten-year-old painted it, and it wouldn’t matter—I love it. I’m going to frame it and hang it in here when we’re done with renovations. I’m sure Mum and Dad will love it, too.”

Henrietta followed Cassie and Eugene out of the cottage. Cassie explained she’d invited Henrietta to dinner. Eugene seemed to be as keen on the idea. “The boys always love to see you,” he said cheerfully. “They got into nettle the other day. You can explain it to them.”

“Every country girl and boy needs to understand nettle,” Henrietta said. “I learned the hard way myself when I decided to investigate the field across the stream on one of my visits with Aunt Posey. It’s like the nettle was lying in wait for me.”

“It’s brutal stuff,” Eugene said, grinning at her. “I remember that day. Both your legs were covered in welts. Didn’t Oliver rescue you?”

“He thinks he did. He was twelve and I was nine.” Henrietta grinned. “It was the worst.”

Eugene said he’d see her later and returned to the cottage, but as Henrietta started back to the gate, she noticed worry return to Cassie’s face. “Let us know if you hear any news about the investigation, won’t you?” She motioned vaguely toward the compost pile. “I’ll get back to work before it rains.”

Henrietta went back through the gate. As she brought her lunch dishes to the kitchen, she contemplated polite ways to get out of dinner. She wanted to go. She should go. Be with friends after a difficult day. At the same time, she didn’t want to go.

The definition of ambivalent.

She’d shower and go see what the FBI agents wanted.


5 (#u951240e0-74d3-5ee9-b773-8a019319d286)

A rail-thin man in his fifties introduced himself as Detective Inspector Peter Lowe and took Emma and Colin through what he knew so far. The body had been removed, but the forensics team was still working on the immediate scene. “We haven’t identified the deceased yet,” Lowe said as they stood on the edge of the taped-off area around the side entrance. “He didn’t have a wallet or phone on him. We don’t know how he got onto the property. We haven’t found a vehicle. He could have walked. We’re checking the village.”

“What shape’s the house in?” Colin asked.

“Untouched as far as we can tell so far. All the blood is right here. He didn’t go far once he was wounded.”

“How was he wounded, do you know?”

The DI shook his head. “He wasn’t shot. We know that much. The artery was in bad shape. It appears to have been cut with an extremely sharp instrument. There’s no guarantee it was a survivable injury even with applied pressure and timely medical intervention.” Lowe’s eyes narrowed on Emma. “Now, Special Agent Sharpe, tell me about your call from Mr. York.”

Emma did so, repeating Oliver’s words verbatim. It wasn’t as if there’d been many to remember. The DI twisted his mouth to one side, taking in the information. He and the investigative team had been professional and courteous, but it was clear they didn’t appreciate two FBI agents turning up, even with MI5 having paved the way—through whatever means, direct or indirect. Emma understood their reluctance. She and Colin had a personal and professional history with Oliver that could help, but it also complicated matters. The personal history irked Colin but Oliver deliberately exaggerated their relationship. Despite his attempts to forge a friendship, Emma considered her relationship with their unrepentant art thief entirely within her role with the FBI.

“And this break-in at your grandfather’s house in Dublin?” the DI asked. “Relevant?”

“I don’t know,” Emma said. “The Irish police are investigating.”

Lowe nodded. “We’ll speak with them.”

Colin watched two members of the forensic team finishing up by a stone bench across the driveway from the entrance. “How close are you to identifying the deceased?”

“Not close enough. We’ll know when we know. I don’t guess, Special Agent Donovan.”

“Duly noted. Thanks for your time.”

They left the DI to his work and walked down to the dovecote, taking the same route DI Lowe had described Ruthie Burns had taken from the house to alert Martin Hambly and Henrietta Balfour. The gray weather only seemed to make the sloping fields look greener, a contrast to the grim events earlier in the day. Emma had been here in February on FBI business, winter in the Cotswolds different but still beautiful.

“I smell roses,” she said.

Colin shook his head. “Not me.”

“What do you smell?”

“Sheep.”

She smiled, appreciating the light moment. She watched a lamb prance in the grass on her right, near the fence. She could imagine whiling away an afternoon out here, enjoying the views of bucolic fields, listening to sheep baaing. She doubted Oliver made much of an income off the farm, but she knew it met expenses. Her grandfather had given her that information when he’d visited in January.

A police car was just down the lane past the dovecote, an officer at the wheel. Emma was familiar with the dovecote, built to house pigeons at a time when they were a pricey, sought-after delicacy. Pigeons had fallen out of favor on the dinner plate, and now only a comparatively few dovecotes remained. The York dovecote was on the smaller side as dovecotes went, but it was well-suited to its modern purpose as a potting shed. Ruthie Burns was out front, frowning at the mess Emma assumed Henrietta and Martin had left behind—bags of potting soil and composted manure, a bucket of what appeared to be freshly dug loam, an array of garden tools and a cracked terra-cotta pot. It was as if the ordinary work of the day would resume at any moment.

The DI had let them know Ruthie wasn’t doing well emotionally, but she’d agreed to talk with them. “Please, ask whatever questions you’d like,” she said even before Emma could greet her. “I’d be happy to answer them. DI Lowe said I should.” She paused, her eyes red and puffy from tears, her skin ashen from the shock of the morning. “You and Special Agent Donovan are Oliver’s friends.”

Emma didn’t voice any objection to the housekeeper’s characterization of her and Colin’s relationship with her missing boss. Now wasn’t the time, and she saw that Colin agreed. “We want to help if we can,” she said.

“I understand. I’m sorry you’re not here under better circumstances.”

“I am, too.”

“Mr. York didn’t know you were coming?”

“We called this morning and left a voice mail. I don’t know if he received it.”

“You called on his mobile?”

Emma nodded. “Yes.”

Ruthie bit her lower lip, crossed her arms tight on her chest and lowered them again. “I don’t know what to do with myself—stay here, go home, be alone, be with people. I can’t make sense of today.” She spoke more to herself than to Emma. “I keep seeing the blood—so much blood—and Mr. York, desperately trying to help. You hear about such things but never expect to see something like it yourself.”

Ruthie pointed up the lane to a thickset man shambling toward the dovecote. “That’s my son, Nigel. He’s a mechanic.”

“Was he here this morning?” Emma asked.

“He was, yes. He was at the barn, working on one of the tractors.”

Nigel reached the dovecote, coming up the rudimentary flagstone path to the entrance. He rubbed the back of his hand across his jaw and its two-day stubble of beard, mostly dark but splotched with gray. No sign of gray in his thick, fair, curly hair. He looked to be in his early forties, a solidly built man in oil-smeared work clothes. He addressed his mother. “Police said I should come down here and tell the FBI agents what I saw this morning. That all right with you, Mum?”

“Of course. Do what the police say.”

Colin sat on a bench next to the front door, a gesture, Emma suspected, to make him look less intimidating. “You were here on the farm this morning, Nigel?”

“Yes, I got here about eight o’clock. I was working on the old tractor down at the barn.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, clearly awkward and uncomfortable in his role as witness. “I came to tell you Mr. York is gone.” Nigel reddened to his ears. “Not dead. I don’t mean that. He left in his car a few minutes before the police got here. No more than that. I saw him myself.”

“Do you mean you saw the car or that you saw Oliver?” Colin asked.

“I saw them both,” Nigel said without hesitating. “Mr. York was driving. I didn’t see anyone with him.”

Ruthie twisted her hands together, as if she needed to release tension before she hit someone. “Are you sure it was Mr. York?”

“I am. No question.”

Colin put a foot on the rim of a bucket of dirt. “Where exactly did you see the car?”

Nigel pointed a thick, callused finger down the lane, in the direction of the barn, which wasn’t visible from the dovecote. “The west gate. He drove past the barn. It’s on this lane.”

“It meets up with the main road to Chipping Norton,” Ruthie added. “The public route continues across the road through a hay field but it’s strictly a walking trail. It can’t handle a vehicle.”

“I didn’t see which way Mr. York went once he reached the road,” Nigel said. “Even if I’d thought to look, I wouldn’t have been able to see from where I stood.”

Emma considered his response. “And where was that?”

“I told you—” Nigel stopped, took in a breath. “In front of the barn door facing the lane. I was up on the tractor, heard the car and took a look, since it’s odd to have the Rolls-Royce down there.”

Colin toed a small pile of spilled soil. “You recognized the Rolls-Royce by the sound of its engine? Before you saw it?”

“I did. Always’ve had an ear for an engine. I told the police.”

“They were all right with it,” Ruthie said.

Colin’s eyes narrowed slightly, and Emma knew he, too, had heard the note of defiance in Nigel’s tone and the protectiveness in Ruthie’s. “How did Mr. York look to you?” she asked.

Nigel picked up an open bag of soil that had fallen on its side and stood it upright against the dovecote. “Same as always,” he said, stepping back. “Only unusual thing was seeing him driving down by the barn. He didn’t look as if he’d been hurt or was bloody or in pain, anything like that. You know. Given what happened up at the house.”

“And the dead man?” Colin asked. “Did you see him?”

“I didn’t see anyone else, sorry. I got to the farm at ten and went to work. I drove. I know you’ll be asking. I live in the workers’ rooms at the pub. I do some work there, too. It’s temporary. My ex lives in the village with our two kids.” Nigel again shoved his hands into the pockets of his work jacket. “I’m saving for a place of my own. I’ve worked for the Yorks on and off since I was in my teens. Mr. Hambly can vouch for me. So can my mum, but, y’know—” He grinned at her. “She’s my mum.” He shrugged his big shoulders. “That’s it.”

It was clear he’d finished his story. “Thank you, Nigel,” Ruthie said. “If you think of anything else, you’ll notify the police straight away.”

“I will. They said I can go home but I can stay if you need me.”

“No, I’ll be all right. I’ll head home soon. It’s been a rough day, and I’ve no idea when the police will finish. Go on home.”

“I’ll come by and stay with you. I don’t want you home alone.” Nigel shifted to Emma. “I remember you from this winter. The man who died—he’s not one of yours, is he?”

“No, he’s not,” she said. “Any idea who he is, Nigel?”

“Not a clue. It was just a day like any other until I saw the Rolls-Royce and then my mum texted me after she called 999.” He gave an apologetic look. “Sorry I couldn’t do more to help.”

“It’ll be all right, Nigel,” Ruthie said.

He left without comment and started back up the lane toward the barn. His mother turned to Emma, gesturing vaguely toward her son. “I’ll go now, too. You ring me if you need anything else.”

“Of course,” Emma said. “Thank you.”

Ruthie Burns nodded grimly, then hurried after her son. “You’d think he was twelve,” Colin said.

Emma didn’t disagree. “It’s been a rough day. Brings out a mother’s protective instincts, maybe.”

“My mother was never that protective. She sure as hell won’t be when my brothers and I hit our forties.”

“There are four of you. She’d have worn herself out being protective.”

Martin Hambly walked up from the police car, where he’d been chatting with the officer, obviously killing time until Ruthie and Nigel left. “Were they any help? I imagine not much. The officer told me Nigel saw Oliver go toward the west gate in his car. What terrible witnesses we are. I feel as if I missed a thousand important clues that by now are beyond my grasp. To think...” He glanced at the half-filled terra-cotta pot. “To think the day started with the delightful memories this old flowerpot brings. Henrietta found it this morning. She’ll be along soon. Would you two like to sit down while you wait for her? You can take the bench. There’s not much room inside, but we can go in if you’d like.”

Emma shook her head and noticed Colin didn’t make a move for the bench, either.

Martin walked to the edge of the grass and looked at the green, sheep-dotted pasture that sloped up to the elegant farmhouse. “I hate that the police and their forensic teams have been crawling through the place. By now they must know more about what happened here this morning than I do.”

“Do you have any idea where Oliver might be?” Emma asked.

He turned to her, the strain in his face unmistakable. “None, I’m afraid.”

Colin studied him. “Would you tell us if you did?”

Martin shrugged. “Depends, doesn’t it?” He nodded to the bucket next to Emma. “I dug that dirt myself this morning,” he said absently.

“Here?” she asked.

“In back.” He pointed vaguely behind him. “I was preoccupied with other matters this morning. Ordinary matters. Now...” He paused. “The police have cleared the body, but you’ve spoken with them.”

His tone was laden with suspicion and doubts, but he didn’t go further. Emma wouldn’t be surprised if he guessed that MI5 had paved the way for her and Colin to be here. She pointed at the bucket. “It looks like good dirt.”

“That’s what I told Henrietta. She and Oliver have known each other since they were children.”

“They’re friends?”

“I wouldn’t go that far. The Balfours have deep roots in the village but Henrietta only moved here a few months ago. She and Oliver aren’t always here at the same time. He’s not...well, you know. He doesn’t often seek the company of others. Henrietta lived in London until March, but as I understand it, she and Oliver only saw each other there once or twice.”

“Was she a garden designer in London?” Emma asked.

“She worked in a financial office.”

Martin inhaled and let out his breath slowly, shutting his eyes, as if he was meditating. Emma remembered when he’d greeted her, Colin and Matt Yankowski last fall at Oliver’s Mayfair London apartment. From the moment Martin had opened the door to three FBI agents, he’d kept a professional distance, never admitting or denying what he knew or suspected about Oliver’s secret life as a thief. Emma was convinced it was a lot, if not everything.

“We look forward to talking with Ms. Balfour,” Emma said. “Are you concerned Oliver was hurt or kidnapped this morning?”

“No,” Martin said without hesitation. “I can’t explain why. I’m just not. The police haven’t found anything to indicate he was injured or taken against his will. And with the car gone...” He didn’t finish, the ending to the sentence obvious. With the Rolls-Royce gone, it looked as if Oliver had taken off voluntarily and deliberately before the police had arrived. “The police have little to go on at the moment,” Martin added finally. “The house isn’t alarmed. There’s no video of the incident. Only Ruthie and Oliver seem to have been at the house when it happened.”

With a burst of energy, Martin started tidying up the area in front of the dovecote, grabbing garden tools and setting them inside by the worktable. He left the door open and came out and grabbed the bags of soil. Emma decided it was best not to offer to help. Given his employer’s ways, Martin was accustomed to running the show at the farm, and probably in London, too. He would want to be useful in some small way and reassert a sense of control.

“How long were you down here before Oliver arrived?” she asked.

“Here at the potting shed? Forty minutes.” Martin spoke with certainty as he stood in front of the dovecote door. He tapped his watch. “I happened to look at the time. Oliver stayed perhaps ten minutes.”

“And the gardener—Henrietta Balfour? Was she here when you arrived?”

“No. I got here first. She’d been out back yesterday and wanted to show me the flowerpot she’d found. We carried it around front. I went out back again to dig loam from the hillside while she gathered her potting supplies. Then Oliver came down from the house.” Martin paused. “And Henrietta’s a garden designer, not a gardener. She’ll tell you herself.”

“I see,” Emma said.

Colin peered through a small window into the dovecote. “Did Oliver say whether he’d come straight from the house?”

“No, he didn’t, not specifically, but where else would he have come from?”

“Pasture, barn, another outbuilding, one of the cottages.”

Martin held up a hand. “Point taken.” He grabbed the rest of the tools and set them inside. He shut the door behind him, but not tightly, and dusted off his hands. “That’s done, then.”

“How long after Oliver left here did Ruthie Burns alert you?” Emma asked.

“Five minutes or so. I didn’t check my watch but it wasn’t more than that. Henrietta might know.” He sounded stronger, and his color was better. “I assume she’s walking here. She didn’t have her car this morning and the police didn’t discourage her from walking home. They haven’t said they’re investigating the death as a homicide. It could be a terrible accident, couldn’t it?” He sighed. “I know. Not for you to say.”

Colin returned to the bench, stretching out his thick legs. “The police will have a better idea of what happened once they have autopsy results. They’ll figure it out.”

“We’ve had nasty accidents on the farm,” Martin said. “Years ago a worker lost a finger. I can’t see how an accident this bloody and catastrophic could happen so close to the house. The police didn’t find blood inside the house, at least that I’m aware of. It can’t be just one of those things for a man to incur a cut that causes him to bleed to death.”

“Oliver could have found him outside after he’d been cut, when it was too late to put pressure on the wound to do any good,” Colin said. “A cut brachial artery can be repaired.”

“Death isn’t inevitable?”

“It is if you don’t stop the bleeding and get help fast. I’m not a doctor and I can’t say what happened this morning.”

Martin perked up. “Oliver is trained in martial arts. He might have known what to do in such a situation but was simply too late. If the man attacked him, Oliver’s martial arts training would have kicked in. He’d have defended himself, but not...” Martin went pale. “Not in such a grisly fashion.”

Emma plucked a dried lobelia leaf from a pot and tossed it into the grass. “Do you have any idea when and where the injury to this man occurred?”

Martin shook his head, squinting as if he was envisioning the scene. “I didn’t see a weapon—a sharp instrument or anything like that—but the cut must have occurred close to where Henrietta and I found him. I would think it happened moments before Ruthie, before Oliver...” Martin jerked his chin up. “You don’t think I killed this man, do you?”

“Take us through your morning, if you would,” Emma said gently. “From when you woke up until the police arrived.”

“Please sit, Agent Sharpe,” he said. “You two make me nervous enough as it is.”

Emma smiled and complied, sitting next to Colin on the bench. He crossed his ankles and gave a slight smile, in a deliberate effort, she suspected, to look less threatening. Martin needed to relax and focus on the details of his morning, not on his audience.





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