12
Despite the varied menu, everyone ordered some version of “pub grub.” Colin settled on fish and chips but he knew he wouldn’t eat it all—especially with Emma, who’d ordered soup, dipping her fork into his plate. Henrietta had pushed two small tables together in front of the fireplace. A low fire was burning, taking the dampness out of the air more than adding heat. He and Emma sat across from Cassie and Eugene Kershaw, their backs to the fire, with Henrietta holding court at the end of the table.
After an hour, they’d finished their meals, having talked about everything except the death at the York farm and its owner’s disappearance. The Kershaws had to get back. “Tony’s wonderful, but the boys have him wrapped around their pinkies,” Cassie said. “They’re five and six.”
“Take your time and finish your drink,” Eugene said. “I’ll see to the boys.”
He pointed a finger, indicating he’d hit the men’s room first. Colin watched him shuffle off. News that the dead man was Davy Driscoll was still officially being withheld, but it was clear that was what people in the village, including the Kershaws, assumed. It was understandable—inevitable—a violent death would stir up memories of the manhunt for Charles and Deborah York’s killers and their son’s kidnappers. Eugene had struck Colin as distracted, careful to steer the conversation away from any slide toward the Yorks.
Henrietta yawned and moved to the bar, where she ordered Scotch. It wasn’t her first drink of the evening, although Colin wouldn’t describe her as inebriated. He glanced at Emma. She gave a slight nod and he got up and joined Henrietta at the bar, easing onto the stool next to her.
“Not the warm English welcome you imagined upon your arrival in our quaint village, was it?” She took her glass from the barman before he could set it down. “Shall I buy you a pint, Colin?”
“Thank you.”
“You’ll get a drink faster with me here,” she added. “My cousin Tony noticed a small leak in the pub kitchen and fixed it before it turned into a massive leak, and the owners were so thrilled that now I can do no wrong, too. He’s retired but you’d never know it. He’s always busy. Loves to be handy.” She waved suddenly. “Eugene! Over here!”
Eugene reddened as he returned from his dash to the restroom.
“I embarrass Eugene,” Henrietta said in a low voice, leaning toward Colin. “It’s become a game of sorts. He’s a great guy but he can be like an old housecoat. Comfy and no bother. A case of opposites attracting, as you see now that you’ve met Cassie. She’s a Yank, did you notice? She’s from Boston, as a matter of fact.”
“I’m from Hartford,” Cassie said, easing between them with a wineglass in hand. She seemed content to stand. “Hartford is decidedly not Boston.”
“But you went to Harvard,” Henrietta said.
“Boston College.”
Henrietta grinned at Colin. “Cassie will throw something if I say there’s no difference between Harvard and Boston College. You’re from New England, Colin. What do you say?”
“I stay out of college rivalries.”
“Smart man,” Cassie said. “Henrietta’s teasing. She visited Boston when I was living there after college. I was working a dead-end office job in the city. She introduced me to Eugene, as a matter of fact.”
“You’ll never forgive me.”
“Now I am going to start a brawl.”
Eugene arrived, shaking his head at the two women as he addressed Colin. “I can guess what they’re on about.”
Henrietta’s cheeks deepened to a bright pink, probably from alcohol and heat more than her attempt to mix it up with her friend. She grinned, unrepentant. “I broke the somber mood, at least.”
“It’s a terrible thing, what happened today,” Eugene said quietly. “I know the police haven’t said, but we all know it wasn’t an accident. We haven’t had a murder in the village since the Yorks. What a shocking tragedy that was.”
“They weren’t killed here in the village,” Cassie said.
Henrietta sipped her Scotch. “We must remember our Cotswold history isn’t all cute sheep, the Middle Ages wool trade and the building of twee limestone villages. The last big battle of the Civil War was fought up the road in Stow-on-the-Wold. It’s said the streets were soaked in blood from the dead and wounded.” She turned to Colin. “That was in the seventeenth century, by the way. It was a nasty war between royalist and parliamentary forces.”
Eugene smiled weakly. “We don’t let Henrietta write our tourist brochures. She gets on well with her plants and pots.”
She laughed, raising her glass. “Cheers to that, my friend. Are you sure you won’t stay? The boys must be asleep by now. Tony’s probably reading a book with his feet up.”
Colin turned down the Kershaws’ offer to pay for his and Emma’s dinner. “An FBI rule, is it?” Eugene asked. “We’re glad you’re here. I know Oliver’s a friend—”
“He’s not a friend,” Henrietta said. “They’re FBI agents. They don’t have friends.”
Eugene winced but attempted a smile. “Henrietta’s trying to be funny, a noble gesture tonight, perhaps. We can forgive her. Dinner was a pleasure. If you have a few extra minutes tomorrow, stop by the farm and I’ll give you the ten-minute tour.”
He said good-night and was noticeably more animated as he started for the exit. Glad to be on his way, Colin thought, not blaming him. Emma joined them at the bar and sat at Henrietta’s left. Cassie was still on her feet but looking toward the door. “I should go with Eugene. He won’t say so but today’s hit him hard. He idolized the Yorks—he was just a teenager when they died.”
“That’s a difficult age to experience such a violent tragedy,” Henrietta said. “I was too young to fully understand what had happened, and I lived in London. Go on, then, Cassie. I’ll take care of dinner. Scoot. Catch up with Eugene. I’ll see myself back home.”
Cassie gave her friend a quick hug. “Today was dreadful for you, too, I know. I hope you can get some sleep tonight.”
Henrietta watched Cassie depart, the heavy pub door shutting with a soft thud behind her. “Today’s affected all of us,” she said finally, more subdued. “We each have our own way of coping. Me, with a trowel and too much drink. Martin’s gone to ground with a good Scotch, I’ve no doubt. He’s a rock, of course. He’d have to be working for the Yorks all these years. Ruthie’s shattered but Nigel will look after her. Her younger son lives in the area, too. She’s worked for the Yorks for nearly as long as Martin. Our dashing bachelor is an interesting sort, isn’t he?”
“That’s one word for it,” Colin said.
She ordered another Scotch. Emma was still nursing her first and only glass of wine. Colin doubted he’d finish his pint. He could hear a rush of rain outside. The fire was dying down, the pub not as crowded as it might have been on a night without the shock of the death that morning, the unspoken certainty it was related to the violence thirty years ago.
An older man in work clothes came into the pub. Henrietta jumped off her bar stool and threw her arms around him, kissing him on the cheek. She introduced him to Emma and Colin as her cousin Tony. “He’s my father’s first cousin, the son of the middle Balfour, Anthony. My grandfather was the eldest and Posey was the youngest. Tony’s named for his dad if you missed that.”
Tony looked awkward at the personal attention, but he greeted Emma and Colin politely and then shifted back to Henrietta for what was obviously the business at hand. “I can see to your trellis in the morning. Will that work for you?”
“Perfect,” she said. “I had a good look at it last night. It’s falling apart, as I suspected. The climbing roses will be crawling roses by July.”
Tony’s mouth twitched, as if he was holding back a real smile. “Nigel Burns has offered to help. Is that all right with you?”
“Of course. Two strong backs will make quick work of the job. Good of you to mind the boys tonight. Next time you must join us.”
“No problem at all.”
“Today wasn’t the best of days but tomorrow will be better. Did the police speak with you?”
“No, but I was working on the cottage all day. I didn’t see Mr. York or any strangers—no one except the Kershaws. I should get on,” Tony added quietly. “I don’t want to intrude.”
“You’re not intruding.” But he headed out, apparently touching base about her rose trellis his only reason for stopping by. More curls fell in Henrietta’s face as she returned to her bar stool. “Tony’s divorced, no kids. He met Freddy—my grandfather—once before he died but then we all lost touch. We’re like that. Tony was kind to Aunt Posey in her last days. I was ‘all work, no play’ then. He doesn’t remember his father. His mother never got on with the Balfours and went to live with a sister in Connecticut after she was widowed. That’s my connection with Cassie.”
“Cassie’s a Balfour?” Emma asked.
“Sort of. Tony’s widowed mother married Cassie’s widowed grandfather—he’d lost his first wife to cancer. Cassie’s father was already a teenager then.” Henrietta screwed up her face. “It’s a bit complicated after more than one pint. I can draw you a family tree if you’d like.”
Colin smiled. “That’s all right. We can follow along.”
“Of course you can.” There was no detectable edge to her voice. “Cassie likes to lay claim to my grandfather. I can’t blame her. He was a legend with MI5, did anyone tell you? An amazing man. Of course, I remember him primarily as my grandfather. I wasn’t aware of his hero status until I was older. He and Posey were devoted to each other but she liked to tell me they fought over everything. He disdained cottage gardens.”
“No MI5 for her?” Emma asked.
“Oh, no. Never. She loved her life here in her safe, secluded biscuit-tin village.”
“You were an operator,” Colin said softly.
Her eyes sparked. “You know I can’t say.”
He nodded, drank some of his beer. “But you were.”
She sighed. “For a time,” she admitted. “I found it more to my liking than what came next. At least I was more suited to it. You know, if we’re going to discuss state secrets, we should at least do it walking in the rain.”
Colin saw it now. He’d had hints. After her stint as an operator, Henrietta Balfour had been a senior intelligence officer overseeing domestic operations—responsible not just for the success of the mission but the safety of the MI5 officers, agents and the innocent civilians involved. “A hell of a responsibility,” he said.
“Yes. Climbing roses don’t plot, although sometimes I wonder when I get at them with the clippers. I swear they fight back.”
“Your grandfather must have been something,” Emma said.
“I wish I’d had more time with him. My father had no interest in following in his footsteps. He said Freddy wouldn’t have been keen on any of his offspring joining up. My dad, encouraging sort that he is, said I shouldn’t consider MI5 because I’m an all-in or all-out sort and would never learn to pace myself.” She smiled, her warm eyes sparking with humor. “Don’t you hate it when your dad’s right? Anyway, Freddy Balfour was a legend and a hero, and I happily and eagerly followed his example, at least for a time.”
Emma finished her wine and set the glass on the bar. Colin noted he had a few more sips of beer in his glass. “I believe maybe half of what you just said.”
Henrietta laughed. “Wonderful. I’m not as rusty as I thought. But you know what—I’m done for. It’s been a terrible day, and Tony and Nigel will be in the garden with their crowbars in the morning. There goes the lie-in I had in mind. So. Excuse me, but off I go.” She pulled on her rain jacket. “I’ll walk.”
“We can give you a ride home,” Emma said.
“No worries. I’ll collect my car in the morning. I’ve a mad urge to puddle stomp, and there will be loads of puddles tonight.”
She said good-night and headed out, cutting quite the eccentric figure. Colin knew that as a former MI5 operator, Henrietta Balfour was well-trained and could take care of herself on her walk home, even with a bit too much to drink.
“I used to love puddle stomping,” Emma said, sliding onto Henrietta’s vacated stool.
Colin picked up his glass. “As I recall, you still do.”
“Oh, yes.” She raised her empty wineglass and clinked it against his pint glass. “To puddle stomping and its aftermath.”
In the Kerry hills, last week. A puddle that was deeper than she’d realized. His “rescue.”
That night had involved one of their June fires.
Colin smiled, ignoring the tension in his gut that Oliver York—of all the people he and Emma knew—was the one who’d launched them out of their honeymoon and back on the job.
He texted Sam Padgett. What do we know about the Balfours?
Sam’s response came in seconds. Not enough. I’m on it.
Colin didn’t relax but he had confidence in Padgett and the rest of the HIT team. It had taken time to build that trust. He wasn’t the team player Emma was.
It was raining hard when they crossed the courtyard to their ground-floor room. Emma switched on lights, peeled off her jacket and shoes and went into the bathroom. In a moment, Colin could hear the tub filling. He took off his own jacket and shoes and pulled the curtains.
He stood in the bathroom doorway. He could feel the steam from the hot water as he watched his wife pull off her shirt. Heavy rain darkened the long June night earlier than usual.
Perfect, he thought, easing into the bathroom and shutting the door behind him.
* * *
Henrietta felt a sudden chill as she headed upstairs to bed, in the room she’d always used as a child. She hadn’t touched Posey’s room. She dreaded going through her aunt’s things. She could grab Cassie one quiet, rainy Sunday, buy a couple of bottles of wine and have a treasure hunt. Who knew what Posey had squirreled away in her near century in this life. Maybe they’d find something they could put up on eBay. In exchange for Cassie’s help, Henrietta would be delighted to split any profits, but given Posey’s habits, they’d be lucky to find anything of enough value to pay for their wine.
Henrietta drew the shades and drapes—frayed, a high priority for replacing—and dug her Swiss Army knife out of a drawer and set it on the bed stand. She didn’t own a gun.
Does the killer?
She shook off that thought. She wasn’t one to dwell on matters outside her control—fears, the unknowable...
But there was a killer.
MI5 could help Oliver even now, after bolting this morning. If he got himself killed? Nothing to be done then except bury him in the York family plot in the village cemetery.
Henrietta washed her face, brushed her teeth and fell into bed before she realized she’d forgotten to put on a nightgown. She dragged herself out of bed, slipped into a nightgown and got back in bed, pulling the duvet up to her ears.
For all the wrong reasons, she thought of Oliver. He was suffering, reliving the horror of his boyhood trauma, probably still trying to get all of Davy Driscoll’s blood off him—and she was thinking about having him in bed with her. What it’d be like to make love to him. To feel his palms coursing up her skin, lifting her nightgown...his tongue following his palms...
It was fatigue. Shock. Adrenaline. The emotional connection they’d had since childhood that was now getting all mixed up with everything else.
Not everything else. Sex.
Simple enough and yet oh, so complicated.
She fought hot tears and pulled her duvet down to her waist, but the rush of cool air on her hot skin only made things worse. She ached for him. Feared for him. And she wanted him desperately, more than she’d ever wanted a man before. It had nothing to do with her family or his family or thieving or MI5. It was him.
She could see his irreverent smile, a lock of tawny hair on his forehead, his eyes...and his taut abdomen, pants hanging low on his narrow hips. As solitary as he was, she knew he wasn’t inexperienced with women. She imagined what his mastery of karate and tai chi would do for him in bed. The control, the hard muscles, the stamina. She longed to fight to keep up with him, to sweat and pant and moan as he thrust into her, taking her to dizzying, orgasmic heights. And she would do the same for him, again and again through nights like this one.
She’d never let herself think this way, with such openness and abandon. She and Oliver weren’t lonely children anymore, and it felt good to see him as a man she wanted with her now, in bed, making love.
“Oliver, Oliver,” she whispered. “Please get out of this alive.”