17
After he pried himself loose from various authorities, Oliver devoured an enormous helping of a steak-and-kidney pie Ruthie had heated for him, having decreed he needed “comfort food.” He did appreciate her concern—and her able cooking—but now she was hovering. He stood up from the kitchen table. “Don’t fuss,” he said, doing his best to keep any irritation out of his tone. “Please, Ruthie. We’re all on edge. Go home. I’ll manage. Be sure to get proper rest, won’t you?”
“Nigel’s at the barn. He says he’ll stay late to finish work on the tractor. Make up for the lost time yesterday.” She reddened to her ears, as if she’d just scalded herself. “I didn’t mean...”
“It’s all right. We all lost time yesterday.”
She nodded. “It’s good you’re back.”
“I’m sorry I bolted.”
“Your flight home—it went well?”
His flight? Who cared? But he smiled. “As well as one can expect with a police escort.” His attempt at a lighter note, however, failed miserably. Ruthie didn’t come close to smiling. “Go home, Ruthie. I insist. Give my best to Nigel. He saw me leaving yesterday, didn’t he?”
“He had to tell the police. He had no choice.”
“Of course.” Why had he brought that up? Oliver gave Ruthie an encouraging smile. “Go on, now. Have a good evening.”
She started to the back door but turned to him. “I didn’t see that man before yesterday, here, when he died in your arms. I know you were trying to help him. I heard he was in the village overnight—he sneaked into a shed at the Kershaw farm.”
“I know about that. The police will investigate. You and I are just witnesses, Ruthie. Nigel, too. We answer the police’s questions to the best of our ability and leave the rest to them.”
“We’re all suspects in his death, though, aren’t we?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “One has to trust the police to do their jobs, I suppose.”
She paused, and Oliver realized she was waiting for him to respond, but what was there to say? “Of course,” he mumbled, leaving it at that.
Ruthie said goodbye and left through the kitchen door, out to the terrace. Oliver wondered if she’d ever go through the main entrance again. He’d had a difficult enough time himself, but he’d had Alfred with him and had risen to the occasion. He’d heard his grandmother encouraging him to “keep calm and carry on.” Easier to do when one hadn’t had a killer bleed to death in one’s arms, but that was the point of such words, wasn’t it? To help during difficult times, even unimaginable times.
After a moment, Oliver pulled open the back door and went outside. Ruthie was on the far edge of the terrace. “Did you recognize him?” he called to her.
She stopped abruptly and turned, her face ashen, no hint of red now. “No, I didn’t.” She spoke clearly, her voice steady, and squared her shoulders before she continued. “I never saw him before in my life.”
“Did you hear him speak?”
“I couldn’t make out anything. It was just mumbling.”
Oliver wasn’t positive he believed her. Would she have told the police what she’d heard and not him? They would have asked her not to discuss the investigation. “What about Nigel?”
“Best you speak with the police, don’t you think? Phone me if you need anything. I’m five minutes away.”
She continued on her way, and Oliver returned to the kitchen. He couldn’t face more food. He went down the hall to the entry. A police car was idling in the drive, near the bench where he’d chatted with Emma Sharpe. DI Lowe had told him a car would stay through the evening and the night as a precaution. The house didn’t have an alarm. Oliver had never seen any point. The cost and aggravation outweighed any benefit. His grandparents were gone, his parents were gone—who was there to protect? What was there to protect? The value of the place was in its land and its history, and in the construction of the house itself. It’d be a feat to make off with beams, brick and stone.
And he could take care of himself.
He went into the front room and opened the liquor cabinet by the fireplace. “Now here’s something to protect,” he said aloud, lifting a bottle of Irish whiskey. It was a fifteen-year-old peated single malt, a limited run from the days when Finian Bracken was at Bracken Distillers with his twin brother. “A bit of fun,” he’d told Oliver on one of their visits.
He got out his mobile phone and, after a moment’s hesitation, called Finian Bracken in Maine. “I’ve returned to the farm and I’m not under arrest. I hope you aren’t, either.”
“I’m not. I’m glad to hear you’re well.”
“Are you? Good. I’ll let others fill you in on the latest developments. I have more questions than ever.” His chest felt tight as he envisioned the Scottish scenes the police had shown him. “I honor your rite of penance and reconciliation, Finian.”
“Oliver?”
“I’m opening the Bracken 15—the peated expression.”
“It’s rare and gorgeous. You have one of the few remaining bottles.”
“I’ll save the rest for you when you visit next. Come soon.”
“I will.”
“I’ve been fighting images since yesterday. Sometimes I can’t tell if they’re bits and pieces of memories of something that actually happened or of an old dream or nightmare.”
“What if you stopped fighting the images?”
Oliver considered his Irish friend’s words. “I’ve always fought them. Is the FBI still on your case about Davy Driscoll’s confession?”
“Be well, my friend,” he said, ignoring the question.
“You, too.”
After Oliver disconnected, he opened the Bracken 15. He could call Emma Sharpe and Colin Donovan to join him, or Jeremy Pearson. He shuddered at the prospect of Pearson joining him for a dram—a táoscan, Finian would say, using the Irish word for an imprecise measure. The FBI agents would be better company. So would Martin, and he was no company at all. “You left me to worry and explain your actions to the police,” he’d told Oliver. “I promised Nicholas and Priscilla I’d look after you.”
“And you did,” Oliver had responded. “You dealt with the dead man when I couldn’t.”
Martin had sniffed, unsatisfied. “I’ll see to Alfred,” he’d said, and stalked off to his cottage.
MI5 wouldn’t be particularly interested in the past thirty years of Davy Driscoll’s life or why he’d come to the York farm or even how he’d died, provided the manner of death—including a killer on the loose—didn’t interfere and had nothing to do with the assistance Oliver was providing MI5. Davy’s crimes thirty years ago—a double homicide, a child kidnapping—were ancient history to MI5, not relevant to their immediate concerns.
Oliver started to taste the peated Bracken expression when he saw he had a text. He sat up straight, intrigued. It was from Henrietta Balfour. Can I come over?
He smiled, settling onto the sofa as he typed his response. I just poured a good Irish whiskey.
Is that a yes or a no?
Yes.
“Good,” she said from the entry. “I’m here. I told the officer out front that I’m invited. He’s watching me in case I try to cut your throat with garden clippers.”
Oliver set his glass on a side table and went into the entry.
Henrietta pushed the door open wide and waved behind her. “He’s here. Have a look.” She turned and motioned to Oliver. “Here, smile at the policeman so he doesn’t think I’m inviting myself in.”
“You are inviting yourself in.”
“Semantics,” she said dismissively.
Oliver took the door in hand and motioned to the police officer that all was well.
Henrietta stepped past him, and he shut the door.
She raked a hand through her messy curls and managed a half-hearted smile. “Well, then. You’re back. Where’s that whiskey?”
“In here,” he said, leading the way.
She remained on her feet while he poured her a taste of the Bracken 15 and handed her the glass. “It’s peated,” he said. “The only other peated Irish whiskey I know is Connemara.”
“I’ve been wanting a quiet, leisurely drink since finding that bloodied corpse yesterday. I inhaled a couple of drinks last night and they put me under the table.” She nodded to the sofa. “May I sit?”
“Please.”
Oliver waited for her to sink into the soft cushions. She truly was an attractive woman, and clearly fit. He remembered playing together as children, before his parents’ death—they’d climbed trees and thrown stones in the stream. Unfortunately he wasn’t so certain of his memory that he’d mention it to her. It would be terrible if it’d been another little girl. Now that she was here, having a drink in his company, he didn’t want to insult her.
“What brings you here?” he asked, sitting in a chair across from her.
“Mad curiosity.”
“Do the police believe you’re a garden designer?”
“I am a garden designer.”
“And I’m a poet,” he said with a smile.
“You’ve seen me with a trowel in hand.”
“Handy to split open someone’s head, perhaps. Martin? Does he believe you?”
“He did until Ruthie’s first blood-curdling scream,” Henrietta said, not sounding at all perturbed. “I think he has his doubts now.”
“Not easy for you to look shaken by a dead body, was it?”
“I’m ignoring that comment.” She looked restless, but she didn’t move. “Tell me about Ireland. It’s all over the village that’s where you went. Off in the Rolls-Royce to Stow, on to an air taxi—or was it a helicopter? And if not Ireland, we can discuss what to do with that ghastly Celtic statue out back.”
“I carved that statue myself.”
“An early effort, I imagine.”
“It is ghastly, but it has sentimental value.”
“The bane of the existence of every garden designer.” She threw one leg over the other and narrowed her gaze on him. “We aren’t going to discuss Ireland, are we? All right, then. I’ve said why I’m here. Now, why did you let me in?”
“Martin took Alfred with him—”
“I’m substitute for your bloody dog?”
“No, no.” Oliver grimaced. He really wasn’t good with people. “It’s been a difficult two days. Let me start again. I’d like company. I’d like your company.”
“Much better.” She smiled and held up her glass. “Cheers, then.”
Oliver returned her smile and held up his glass. “Cheers.”
She took a sip of the Bracken 15. “Oh, it is good, isn’t it?”
“I think so.” He tried his whiskey, then cupped the glass in his palm as he settled back in his chair. “Tell me, Henrietta, does MI5 want you back?”
Her chin shot up. “I beg your pardon?”
“Do you miss intelligence work?”
“I doubt anyone would miss MI5 once they quit. What about you, Oliver? Do you miss art thieving?”
His gaze held hers but she didn’t wither in the slightest. “Are you the one who suggested MI5 tap me as an agent? Because you believed I’m a thief and have knowledge and expertise MI5 could exploit?”
She was silent, looking up at a painting of hounds above the mantel. “When you finish refurbishing your gardens, you can start in here. You’ve hardly touched the place since your grandparents died.”
“You’ll note I didn’t confirm I am an art thief,” he said, ignoring her attempt to change the subject.
She tasted more of the Bracken whiskey and shifted back to him. “You’re a wily one, Oliver.”
“And here we are, in the same village. You with your old flowerpots and your cover as a garden designer. Me with...” He thought a moment. “My ways.”
“I wonder where you stashed your stolen art.”
“I wonder why you left MI5.”
“Whatever you think, you can’t argue that I’m not a very good garden designer.” She set her glass on a small table. “The dead man was Davy Driscoll. We all know that now. Why was he here? Did he tell you? He can’t have told you he’d been murdered or surely you wouldn’t have charged off in your Rolls-Royce and left the rest of us at risk of getting our throats slit with a stone-cutting chisel.”
“You’d have dispatched anyone who came at you.”
“You have a robust view of my abilities. Did you believe he’d been murdered?”
“I did and do, but I believe he was the only target. At least he was the only target yesterday.” Oliver set his own glass on a side table. “Things can change. The killer could have new targets. One must stay nimble.”
“Nimble. Right.” Henrietta stared at him for a few seconds. Then she sighed and shook her head. “I’m not going to try to understand how your mind works. Did Reed Warren, aka Davy Driscoll, mention his cohort thirty years ago? Did he say something that threw you? Is that why you left in such a hurry? He made you question what you and the police believe happened in the incident when you were a boy?”
“Incident?”
“I’m drinking whiskey. Don’t parse my words. It seems the police were shocked to discover Driscoll had been living under an assumed name.”
“Maybe yesterday wasn’t about me.” Oliver kept his tone even, speculative—two people discussing a theory about something innocuous, say, the discovery of an old flowerpot. Not death. Not murder. He picked up his drink again. “What if this is about you and MI5? What if you’re being played? What if I’m being played by MI5?”
“Drink more of your Bracken 15, Oliver. Finish the bottle. Open another. You’ll make more sense drunk.”
Nothing he said would faze her, obviously. But he kept on. “Someone could have paid to have Driscoll killed.”
“You’re suggesting it was MI5,” she said, her tone mild but also incredulous.
“Why not?”
“I can tick off a half-dozen reasons, starting with murder is illegal and immoral. However, let me try one on you. What if one of your farm workers recognized Reed Warren was Davy Driscoll and had his or her revenge on your behalf? Grabbed the chisel and nicked the bastard’s artery. Didn’t realize you were back from London and would happen upon your dying kidnapper and killer of your parents.” Henrietta tucked her feet up under her on the sofa, making herself comfortable. “Pretty decent theory, don’t you think?”
Oliver shrugged. “Not bad.” For all he knew, it could even be true. “My parents were killed in London. I was dragged off to Scotland. Davy Driscoll and Bart Norcross were from London. They did odd jobs, including groundskeeping. Did you hope posing as a garden designer would somehow lead MI5 to them?”
“As I keep saying, I am a garden designer.”
“You’re a liar, Henrietta. An adept liar and an attractive one, and perhaps your lying is for the greater good, but you’re still a liar.”
She pointed to a stack of novels on the side table near her. “I have a taste for mystery stories. I’ve been steeping myself in mysteries set in the Cotswolds since I moved here.”
“Would you like to borrow a book?”
“Not tonight. Right now I prefer to think of the Cotswolds as a peaceful place free of murder.”
“I do, too,” Oliver said quietly.
“Blast.” She breathed deeply, her warm eyes on him. “Just for a few hours—a moment—I’d like to go back to that summer afternoon when we were children and threw stones in the stream. Do you remember, Oliver?”
His throat tightened. “I remember.”
“It was before your parents were killed in front of you. Before I realized my parents could do quite nicely without me. We were lucky, Oliver. We are lucky. We had no worries then, that summer day. Not everyone gets that in life.”
“Henrietta...”
She unfolded her legs, dropped her feet to the floor and jumped up. “That’s as maudlin and philosophical as I get. Now, assuming nobody’s bugged your house...” She paused. “Well, it’s entirely possible someone has bugged your house. But I don’t care. Was Davy Driscoll an artist? A painter? Did he tell you about the paintings before he died? What they mean?”
Oliver stared at her over the rim of his glass, focused on the strong peated scent of the Bracken whiskey. He didn’t speak.
Henrietta went on. “Driscoll was a lying, murdering sod and I believe he stole the paintings we found in his car out of the Kershaws’ cottage,” Henrietta said. “The painting of Queen’s View that Cassie found in the cottage itself is an outlier. The rest must have been in the cottage woodshed, or she, Tony, Eugene or Nigel would have found them by now. As far as I know, none of the paintings are signed.”
“Every one of them was of an iconic scene in Scotland,” Oliver said. “Castles, Celtic crosses, lochs, coastline. Practice studies, I imagine.”
“I didn’t notice one of the ruin where you were taken. Did you?”
“No.”
Oliver managed another sip from his glass. His hands trembled. That never happened. He saw that Henrietta noticed. She was calm, centered—a highly trained, experienced intelligence officer, he realized. A member of a clandestine team? A team leader? It didn’t matter. He now knew why she was here.
He got to his feet. His hands were no longer trembling. “You want to go to Scotland to see where I was taken.”
“I’m already packed. You can throw a few things together since you used your go-bag to sneak off to Ireland.” Reddish-brown curls drooping onto her forehead, her long, flowered skirt dusting the floor, she pointed one finger vaguely toward the entry. “We’ll take my car.”
“I’ll let Martin know. You can drive.” Oliver gave her a quick smile. “I understand MI5 has the best drivers in the world.”