14
The Cotswolds, England
Oliver York would be back in the Cotswolds soon. DI Lowe had stopped to let Emma know as she lingered over breakfast in the courtyard. Colin had gone off to meet his MI5 contact, just as well given the detective inspector’s information about her grandfather’s role in Oliver’s return to England. The DI didn’t stay long, and once he left, Emma helped herself to more coffee and brought it out to her table. She had the courtyard to herself. Everything was soaked from last night’s rain but drying rapidly in the sunshine and warmth. She’d found a reasonably dry chair. She’d like nothing better than to grab Colin for a walk in the English countryside and pretend, even for a few hours, they were still on their honeymoon.
This time when she tried her grandfather, he picked up. Finally. “If I could, Granddad,” she said after they’d exchanged greetings, “I’d jump through my phone and hurl myself across the water to Ireland. I can’t believe you sneaked down to Declan’s Cross and met Oliver on the sly. What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking I didn’t want to involve you. I complicate your life enough as it is.”
“Oh, no—no, Granddad. You’re not putting this off on me. This wasn’t for my benefit. It was because you didn’t want me stopping you.”
“I admit I’m used to handling my own affairs without your help.” His tone was borderline huffy. “I’ve had five years to get used to having an FBI agent in the family. I’m not a lawbreaker, but... Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Emma, my palms are cold and sweaty talking to you. Is that husband of yours listening in?”
“Did Sean Murphy threaten to arrest you?”
“He all but waved handcuffs in front of my face but we made a deal. He indulged my instincts but I imagine he never will again. I also have the feeling your lot got hold of him.”
“My lot?”
“FBI, spies, I don’t know. Emma, there’s nothing bad here. I brought Oliver coffee and a scone and had a good look at him. I told him to turn himself in and took measures to make sure he did. I have some compassion for the man given what he’s gone through. That’s all. He’ll be back there this afternoon.”
“You waited until Oliver was with the gardai before you took my call.”
“I wasn’t dead or in jail.”
“Oh, well. That makes blowing me off all right, then.”
“It must be marriage,” her grandfather said. “You didn’t used to light up this fast. I’ve always been the hot one in the family. You’re the cool milk in the steaming coffee.”
She exhaled, aware that her grandfather—renowned art detective, founder of Sharpe Fine Art Recovery—had decades of experience avoiding tight spaces and maneuvering out of them when he couldn’t. He wouldn’t have lasted sixty years in his profession and earned his reputation by flouting the law and irritating law-enforcement personnel. Everything she’d just heard—the hyperbole, the humor, the long-suffering poke at her FBI status—was all show, either to quiet his nerves or to get her off his back. Most likely both.
“Oliver didn’t kill that man,” he said.
“So everyone keeps saying. The police will follow the evidence wherever it takes them.”
“He’s shattered and confused. He came face-to-face with one of the men who murdered his parents in front of him when he was eight years old. I doubt either of us can imagine how difficult that must have been. And he was dying. A killer on the run for thirty years, no trace of him until that moment with his blood spurting—”
“All right, Granddad. What happens with Oliver isn’t my call, anyway. Are you sure you’ve told me everything you two discussed?”
“Next time you want me to record our conversation?”
“There won’t be a next time and you didn’t answer my question.”
“I think Driscoll said something to Oliver. He wouldn’t tell me what. Maybe you can get it out of him.”
Emma doubted she’d be asked to get anything out of Oliver York, especially given her grandfather’s behavior. “What about your visit here to Oliver’s farm in January?”
“What about it? We drank excellent Scotch and told stories. His grandparents weren’t art collectors. With all the paintings of dogs—anyone’s dogs, not necessarily their own—I encouraged Oliver to get a puppy.”
“I’m trying to ascertain if your visit here somehow prompted Davy Driscoll to turn up in Heron’s Cove and speak with Lucas just days before he died.”
Her grandfather sighed. “I know you are.”
“Did you see anyone else while you were here in January?” she asked.
“Martin, the housekeeper, a farm worker—old guy, Johnny, I think. Ruthie’s son. Nigel. He’s a mechanic—he dropped off a bag of groceries for her. Nice kid. Well, he’s not a kid, but when you’re my age...never mind. We said hello. That was it.”
“What about Henrietta Balfour? Did you meet her?”
“Not sure. Who is she?”
“A garden designer who grew up with Oliver. Midthirties, unmarried, attractive.”
“Right. I remember her. Martin and I went to the pub one night. Oliver stayed home. I ran into a few people there. She was one of them, I believe.”
“And Davy Driscoll?” Emma asked. “Did you run into him?”
“Sean Murphy showed me a photo of the murdering bastard. No, I didn’t see him on my visit—or in Dublin. If I’d met him on the street, though, I doubt I’d have paid any attention. I was more observant when I visited Oliver in January, given his unusual background.”
“That’s one word for it.”
“The gardai are taking another look at the break-in at my place. I know Driscoll flew to Dublin as Reed Warren but that doesn’t mean he’s the one who broke in. Could have been someone following him, could have been unrelated altogether. You know it is. You can have a theory of a case but you can’t get tunnel vision.” Her grandfather was silent a moment. “How are you doing?”
“Being on the sidelines has its challenges.”
“Toes everywhere you don’t want to step on. What do you think my last couple of days have been like? But I’m used to it. You law-enforcement types don’t always appreciate the role of a private interest. Life’s full of gray lines. I know it doesn’t help that you’ve got me in the thick of things. I hope I’m not a ball and chain for you, Emma.”
“Never,” she said without hesitation.
“I bet not stepping on toes is tough for your new husband.”
Emma smiled. “Colin’s a pro, Granddad.”
“Yeah. Well, if it wasn’t this mess, it’d be something else. It’s what you do.”
“Be careful. I wish you’d stay with a friend tonight.”
“I missed my bed last night. I stayed in Ardmore. I got up early and walked out to the round tower. I’m walking for as long as I’m able. Don’t worry about me, kid. I’ll be fine. I’ve got Sean Murphy breathing down my neck now, too.”
“We’ll stay in touch. Answer your phone next time I call. Love you, Granddad.”
“Love you, kid. And you be careful, too.”
After she disconnected with her intractable, unpredictable grandfather, Emma returned to her room. She and Colin had opened a window early, after the rain had stopped, and she could hear the stream and birds. She wondered how many walkers around the Cotswolds were setting off on its network of waymarked trails. She would head to the York farmhouse on her own. She wanted to touch base with the police about the investigation, but she wasn’t sure how forthcoming they would be, even with MI5 smoothing the way.
If nothing else, at least it was a beautiful morning for a walk.
* * *
“For a recluse, a lot happens around Oliver York.”
Colin couldn’t disagree with the man striding next to him on the dirt lane that ran along the southern edge of the York farm. He called himself Jeremy Pearson, but that was almost certainly not his real name. They walked toward the barn as if they’d bumped into each other by accident. Pearson was dressed in casual walking attire, a map of the Cotswolds tucked into a plastic ziplock bag hanging from his neck, allowing his hands to stay free.
Jeremy Pearson was anything but an ordinary trail walker.
A humorless, rugged MI5 officer if ever there were one, he was in his late forties, with the sort of amiable good looks that allowed him to blend in to almost any crowd. The lines etched at the corners of his gray-blue eyes and streaks of gray in his dark hair were due, no doubt, to long-term stress and exposure to every manner of bad weather rather than to aging. He had scars on his hands. He would tell people they were from a gardening mishap, but Colin knew they were from Jeremy’s days with SAS and then MI6, before he’d joined MI5.
“Davy Driscoll seems to have lived a quiet, uneventful life as Reed Warren for the past thirty years,” Pearson said. “He did odd jobs and moved around a fair amount. He got his passport five years ago for a trip to Costa Rica. He didn’t use it again until Saturday when he flew to Boston. As you know, he stayed at the inn next to the Sharpe Fine Art Recovery offices and had a brief conversation with Lucas Sharpe. On Tuesday morning, he visited Father Bracken. That evening, he flew to Dublin.”
“He arrived in time to break into Wendell Sharpe’s place. We want to know what Driscoll did between his arrival in Boston on Saturday and his arrival in Heron’s Cove on Monday.” Colin paused but decided not to mention Sam Padgett was looing into the Balfour connections in the US. “Maine’s a dead end so far. Father Bracken can’t reveal the details of his conversation with Driscoll.” Colin decided not to mention Franny Maroney and his mother, either. “We’ll keep digging.”
“It’s clear Driscoll was looking into Oliver’s relationship with you and with the Sharpes.”
Colin didn’t argue with Pearson’s statement. “We don’t know if he figured out Oliver also uses the name Oliver Fairbairn or that he’s an art thief.”
“Was.”
“Just because he’s not active doesn’t make him less a thief.”
Pearson gave Colin a cool look. “Point taken.”
Colin noted he had the pasture-and-sheep side of the lane and the MI5 officer had the wooded side. They crossed a small bridge that spanned the stream that also ran behind the dovecote. It was wider here, as it meandered through flatter land. Up ahead, he could see the barn, constructed of the ubiquitous honey-colored limestone. A small tractor was out front, probably the one Nigel Burns had worked on yesterday when he’d seen Oliver sneak off in his Rolls-Royce.
“A working farm can’t stop cold for a police investigation,” Pearson said, clasping his hands behind him at the small of his back as he walked. “Tractor maintenance could wait, I suppose, but the animals need regular tending. Do you know anything about farming, Special Agent Donovan?”
“I’m from a fishing village,” Colin said. “Ask me about boats and lobsters.”
Pearson’s mouth twitched into something resembling a smile. “I’m a Londoner myself. Oliver draws a modest income from the farm but he reinvests it in improvements. He contracts out any work. He doesn’t work the farm himself. Martin Hambly doesn’t, either, or, God forbid, Ruthie Burns. Martin oversees staff but he’s primarily Oliver’s personal assistant. Ruthie’s fiefdom is the house.”
“Does Henrietta Balfour’s role fall under farm improvement?”
“Property improvement.”
“MI5 operator to garden designer. I flirt with becoming a tour-boat captain. Ever see a live puffin, Jeremy?”
“No, nor a dead one.”
“Stuffed? Cute gift for the grandkids.”
Another cool look. “You assume I’m old enough for grandchildren. Also that I’m married and have children. Married, yes. Children, no.”
“A grand-dog, then?”
“You haven’t changed since we first met,” Pearson said. “I thought marrying a Sharpe might civilize you.”
Colin grinned. “What says it hasn’t?”
“And I haven’t said that Henrietta was an operator.” Pearson stopped short of the barn. “She blames me for running her out of the intelligence service.”
“Did you?”
Not so much as a flicker of irritation. “No. She ran herself out. She used me as an excuse so she didn’t have to admit she was burnt out.”
“Was she as eccentric when she was with you? The wild hair, the flowered skirts.”
“The skirts aren’t all flowered,” Pearson said drily.
Colin held back a grin. They were deep into Pearson’s turf now, discussing a former MI5 operator he obviously respected, protected and found irritating, troubling and hard to predict. But Colin knew that was just an educated guess on his part. For all he knew, Jeremy Pearson was playing him. But he didn’t think that was the case.
“Henrietta’s grandfather was Freddy Balfour, a legend in UK intelligence circles and quite the local hero. He was at Cambridge with Kim Philby and helped unmask him and his lot as traitors during the Cold War. Before that, Freddy was involved in counterespionage during World War II. He participated in the Double-Cross System. Amazing man. Henrietta hardly remembers him but his example inspired her to join MI5. She romanticized the work, but many do at the start.”
“Did being Freddy Balfour’s granddaughter help or hinder her?”
“Both. People had their ideas about her and perhaps some didn’t take her seriously at first, but that wasn’t really the problem. The problem was in her own head. That’s where most of the help and the hindering occurred.” Pearson paused, turned to Colin. “Not unlike your Emma and her grandfather, I imagine.”
“Wendell put Emma through her paces the past twenty-four hours,” Colin admitted.
Pearson looked out at an ewe and two lambs grazing next to each other in the pasture, as if they were posing for a postcard. “Freddy loved to garden. It was perhaps the only thing he and Posey had in common, although he didn’t approve of her less formal taste. The gardening gene bypassed his son—Henrietta’s father—but she makes up for it. Her mother isn’t a keen gardener, either. Now there’s a couple who wondered why the devil they had a child. Henrietta never fit in. Her parents weren’t awful to her, just remote. As I say, I have a dog myself. What about you, Colin? Do you and Emma plan to have children?”
The personal question was payback for Colin’s earlier comment. He took it in stride. “We’ll see.”
“Emma didn’t plan on having a husband, did she? Is it true she was a nun?”
“True.”
Jeremy sighed. “I’ll stop there, then. I’ve made my point. Oliver won’t be charged for running yesterday, but if he killed Driscoll—”
“You can take up dog-walking since you’ll be toast as an intelligence officer.”
“We could also get Oliver to help us from prison.” Pearson glanced sideways at Colin. “That works for you, doesn’t it?”
“Oliver’s growing on me,” Colin said.
“He has that effect. It’s a shame someone as extroverted as he is by nature lives such a solitary life. Becoming a Hollywood consultant under a pseudonym gave him a way into the world, but he remained eccentric, private. Imagine if he could simply be the dashing, wealthy Englishman he was meant to be.”
“He’s been out and about more in recent months. Maybe that’s what brought Davy Driscoll here.”
Pearson nodded thoughtfully. They stopped short of the barn. Colin expected the MI5 officer to continue on the marked way out to the main road, but instead he turned back toward the dovecote. “We can pretend I’m returning to the village for a pint.”
They walked in silence for a few minutes. Colin appreciated the scenery and the warm sunshine, but he and Pearson both had a dozen unanswered questions that hung in the air between them. They had no direct involvement in the death investigation but they both were affected by it.
“Did Henrietta kill Davy Driscoll on your behalf?” Colin asked finally.
Jeremy Pearson didn’t break stride. “That’s excellent, Colin. You must know I never confirm or deny anything. I prefer having my American friends think I’m capable of having a wanted murderer’s brachial sliced open, but Henrietta? She’s left the service. The only thing she’s killed lately are weeds. For that matter, that’s all she’s ever killed, not because she didn’t face dangers or wasn’t good at her job—precisely the opposite.”
It was more than Colin might have said in Pearson’s place, and certainly more than he deserved in response to his incendiary question. His MI5 counterpart didn’t ruffle easily. Not news, but still good to experience for himself.
“Here’s our friend now,” Pearson said, nodding up a walkway that led to the York house. Oliver and Emma were headed in their direction, Alfred bursting at his leash at Oliver’s side. Pearson turned to Colin with an outstretched hand. “Thank you for the directions. Enjoy the rest of your stay.”
They shook hands, and the MI5 officer ambled off.
“You’re in luck, Colin,” Oliver said when he and Emma caught up to him. “Martin’s training Alfred to be a well-mannered, respectful dog. Martin’s the alpha, by the way. He keeps denying it but it makes sense given my frequent absences and erratic schedule.”
“I like dogs.” Colin stroked the energetic puppy, who responded by licking his hand. “Did you take him to London with you?”
“Only if Martin joins me. He didn’t this last trip.”
“And you were in London,” Colin said.
Oliver ignored him and turned to Emma. “You were more welcoming. Shall I give you a proper tour of my stone-cutting studio? I’d like to see if everything is in order and nothing else is missing. The detectives had me take a look when I arrived home, but I was still reeling at the prospect one of my tools killed a man. At first glance it appeared it’s only the one chisel missing.”
Without waiting for Emma to respond, Oliver plunged ahead of her, Alfred trotting happily alongside him. Colin eased next to his wife. “You’ve talked to Wendell?” he asked her.
“I have that look, do I?”
“It’s a particular mix of tension, affection, relief and annoyance.”
“All at once? Is that even possible?”
He longed to throw an arm around her and walk off into the rolling English countryside, but he settled for smiling at her. “I’ll take a picture sometime and you can see for yourself.”
When they reached the dovecote, Oliver launched into a detailed explanation of the purpose of a small, pointed chisel, next to the one that was missing. “It’s sharp as sin,” he said.
“And the one that cut Davy Driscoll?” Colin asked.
“Even more so.”
As the chisel lecture wrapped up, Martin Hambly arrived at the dovecote, and Colin seized the moment to get out of there with Emma. They decided to walk back to the inn and stop at Henrietta Balfour’s place on the way.
“We can see how the new rose trellis is coming,” Colin said, wishing he could make himself sound more amused.