19
Southern Highlands, Scotland
“If one’s going to do a mad, all-night drive to Scotland, best to do it in June,” Henrietta said, stifling a yawn. “It’s light already, isn’t it?”
Oliver shrugged next to her. “I’m not sure it ever got dark.”
He was driving. He’d taken over the wheel before they’d reached Edinburgh. She’d dozed off. Really rusty, she thought, if she couldn’t stay awake with a possible murderer in the car with her. Which she knew was absurd, but still.
Now they were cruising on the A9 motorway north of the city. Henrietta was positive Oliver hadn’t slept at all on their interminable drive. She hadn’t even caught him in a yawn, but he didn’t strike her as particularly fatigued.
She forced herself to sit up straight. Easier to shake off sleep that way. “Were you tempted to invite your FBI friends to join us?”
Her out-of-the-blue question didn’t seem to throw him. “I wouldn’t want to put them in a difficult position.” He glanced at her, and she was struck by how good-looking he was, how alert with his black-lashed, deep green eyes focused on her for that brief few seconds before he turned back to his driving. “What about you? Did you ring Jeremy Pearson and tell him you and I were on the way to Scotland?”
“I didn’t tell anyone, actually. I don’t know if that’s an act of trust or stupidity. You have a lot of stone-carving tools. You could have tucked one in a cup holder when I wasn’t looking.”
“But you did a search,” he said calmly.
“You know what they say. Trust but verify. And don’t think I’m intimidated by your martial-arts skills,” she added. “You black-belt types never count on us non-black-belt types being able to defend ourselves.”
“Aunt Posey’s tapestry bag would fell me.”
Henrietta grinned, amazed how comfortable she felt with him—for reasons she couldn’t fathom, either. “I should never have told you it was her bag. I only packed a change of clothes and toiletries. I’m not spending a week in Scotland with you. I can’t leave clients in the lurch.”
“I’m your major client at the moment.”
“I have to make plans. If you want to stay on in Scotland longer than I’m able to, I can take the train back.”
“Decent of you, but you didn’t answer my question. Jeremy Pearson vetted you for MI5, didn’t he? And you put him onto me.”
“For what?”
He kept his hands at a proper ten and two on the wheel. “I won’t insist you drop this garden-designer act but I won’t pretend you’re not MI5, either. Martin knows. I’m sure of it.”
“Martin knows everything. You shouldn’t feel guilty about him, by the way. He’s old-school. He’ll view guilt as belittling. He’s not the sort to waste time on regrets. You should follow his example.” She stared out her window, the Scottish scenery coming into view as dawn took hold. “Of course, if you weren’t the mopey type, I wouldn’t have had this long trip north with you.”
“You snored.”
She laughed, turning to him. “I hope so.”
“Did you want to be a garden designer before you decided on MI5?”
“Garden design is my dream job.”
“Another of your parsed answers,” he said. “Posey never coddled me as a boy after my parents’ murder. She told me not to dwell on it because life would hand me more setbacks.”
“When you were eight?”
“Around then. It wasn’t long after I was orphaned.”
“This from a woman with a trust fund, a home in a beautiful and safe part of the world—” Henrietta broke off. “I’m sorry, Oliver. You deserved only kindness and understanding.”
He was silent a moment. “I might argue that Posey was being kind and understanding. She was right, you know. She could have phrased her advice a bit differently, I suppose.”
“A bit?”
“She meant well.”
“I adored her, but she wasn’t one to beat about the bush.”
“It was refreshing,” Oliver said. “Even now, most people don’t know what to say to me given my history.”
Henrietta stretched her lower back. They’d stopped three times, never for more than a few minutes. She’d let herself get carried away with a sense of urgency that didn’t exist. “Frankly, Oliver, I think that’s in your head. Most people don’t think about you at all. Sorry, but it’s the truth. And if they are awkward, it could be because you don’t like being around people and spend your time studying things like ancient Celtic death rituals. I wouldn’t be surprised if you have a bog body tucked in a back room.”
His mouth twitched but he didn’t turn to her. They were off the A9 now—she’d barely noticed—and were driving through the tourist village of Pitlochry, dead quiet so early in the morning. “Have you ever seen a bog body, Henrietta?” Oliver asked.
“On BBC. As close as I care to come to one. Have you?”
“I have, although I don’t make a point of studying death rituals.”
“Saint Declan of Ireland is your type,” she said.
“He was a healer.”
She put her feet up on the dash. She’d have hung them out of the window if she could have managed, but there wasn’t enough room. “I’m glad you didn’t boot me out of the car and leave me in the dark.”
“You’d have managed. I’ve no doubts whatsoever.”
He sounded distracted, and she noticed the tension in his forearms as he clutched the wheel. She put her feet back on the floor and sat up straight. “Are we getting closer?”
He nodded but grew quiet as they pushed north. “Do you know Scottish history?” he asked.
“Some.”
Without warning, he pulled into a small picnic area just past a caravan park. “This is where the Battle of Killiecrankie took place. It was part of the Jacobite uprising meant to restore the Stuarts to the throne. That didn’t work, of course. Blair Castle isn’t far. Balmoral Castle, summer home to the royal family, is a bit farther up the road.”
“We could chuck seeing the ruin where you were taken and tour castles instead.”
“Have you spent much time in Scotland?”
“The occasional weekend holiday since I left home.” Henrietta decided not to mention her visit with her churl of an ex-boyfriend. “My parents and I never visited when I was growing up. My parents tended to go on holiday without me. They thought I would be bored.”
“That’s why you spent so much time with your aunt. Was she good company?”
“She practiced what she liked to call healthy neglect. She didn’t hover. I was able to roam about and do as I pleased for the most part. She didn’t own a television or a computer. I found that stifling or liberating, depending on my mood.”
“I wish I’d known her better. My grandparents and Martin always spoke well of her.”
“She’d have liked that,” Henrietta said.
It was clearly difficult for him to speak. He took a breath and turned to her with a smile. “A short walk to welcome the new day?”
“All right.” She pointed to the back seat where she’d set a small rucksack. “And breakfast.”
“You have food?” His smile broadened to a grin. “Brilliant. MI5 thinks of everything.”
“An accomplished international art thief who’s never been caught must think of food.”
“I often forget food,” he said without, she noted, admitting he was a thief.
She reached for her rucksack. “Not me. I never forget food.”
* * *
They ate while sitting across from each other at a roadside picnic table. Henrietta set out a thermos of tea, cups, apples and bacon sandwiches. Two of everything. “I have protein bars if you’re still hungry,” she said. “I didn’t unpack them.”
“Let’s walk down to the river.”
They took a well-traveled trail that wound through the trees, down a steep hill to a river. Their trail ended at another, wider trail that ran parallel to the river, wide, shallow and slow-moving here.
“We’re not far from Soldier’s Leap,” Oliver said. “It’s the spot where a Jacobite soldier is said to have jumped across the river, a near superhuman feat. He was being chased by hostile forces, so he was highly motivated.”
“It’s one of the scenes in Davy Driscoll’s car.”
“Yes.”
“The police showed the paintings to you.”
It was a statement, but he nodded without looking at her. He stared at the river in the milky light.
“I didn’t get a good look at all of them,” Henrietta added. “You’re the art thief. Are they any good? Did our anonymous painter of Scottish scenes go on to become a famous artist?”
Oliver continued to stare at the river, as if its steady, relentless flow soothed him.
“Oliver?”
Still he said nothing.
Henrietta swore under her breath. “You recognized the paintings? Did Davy Driscoll do them? Then how did the one of Queen’s View get into the Kershaw cottage? Oliver.” She took a breath. “Whose work are they?”
He turned to her, his breathing ragged.
She touched his shoulder. “Please don’t make me guess. Just tell me.”
“They’re my mother’s work.”
Henrietta lowered her hand from his shoulder. As far as she knew, none of the paintings in the car had a signature. The one of Queen’s View certainly didn’t. The truth was, she had no idea if Oliver was being straight with her. She hadn’t seen the detectives at his house, or coming or going, when she’d returned with her car for this mad trip to Scotland.
“If you’re making this up, I’m going to throw you in the river,” she said.
“I’m remembering.”
“What does that mean?”
He gave her a faint smile. “I love that you don’t coddle me.”
“I only coddle hybrid roses and clematis. Oliver, anyone could have put the paintings in the cottage, assuming that’s where Driscoll got the ones in his car. It seems likely. Could he have painted them?”
“They’re not his work.”
“Why do you think they’re your mother’s work? What are you trying to remember?”
“I’m trying to clear the fog,” he said. “It’s like thinking you heard Santa Claus in the parlor and then trying to figure out what it was and how you could have been so wrong.”
“Because you were eight. You experienced a violent, traumatic event and your mind locked onto images that you don’t know now were real.” Henrietta stared at the river now, too. “Santa Claus is a bad analogy, by the way. Seriously. You think back on footsteps in the parlor and know it was your dad. You’re thinking back on...what?”
“Hiding in the library.”
“Before your parents were killed,” she said softly.
He nodded. Henrietta didn’t know what else to say. What did Jeremy Pearson know about the paintings? Had he told her everything? She rubbed the back of her neck, feeling the strain of their hours on the road. She listened to a red squirrel chattering high in an evergreen on the edge of the picnic area and, beneath the chattering, down the steep hillside, she could make out the soothing sounds of the river flowing downstream. The beautiful setting was a disconcerting backdrop to the raw intensity of the man next to her.
“What else, Oliver?” she asked finally.
He turned away from her and peered up at the evergreen, as if trying to spot the chattering squirrel. “Since yesterday...” He paused, lowering his gaze again to the river. “I’m missing something. I’ve been missing it all these years. It’s as if old and new images are jumbled together and I can’t make sense of any of them.”
“Don’t try. Just let them be. Accept them.”
He glanced at her, his eyes lost in the early-morning shadows. “Do you think that will help?”
“Yes.”
“Always so confident.”
“It’s training, Oliver. Experience. Force can make things worse. What do you see?”
“I see us walking on the farm by the dovecote. My mother, my father and me. We’re holding hands. It’s not a memory. I think it must be an image I held in my head to keep me calm.”
“Even if it’s not a memory, it’s real. You’re the type of family that would hold hands and walk on the farm together.”
“Yes. We were.”
“Are there other images, Oliver?”
He shut his eyes, opened them quickly. “I see my mother with a paintbrush in hand. She puts a finger to her lips and tells me not to tell anyone.” He paused, his gaze again fixed on the evergreen. “The paintings in Driscoll’s car—the one Cassie found—are my mother’s work, Henrietta. They’re hers. I know it.”
“This image of her with a paintbrush—where was she?”
“London. The library. That’s what I see but it can’t be true. No paintings or painting supplies were found there.”
“Was she alone?”
“I don’t remember. I’ve tried. I don’t. I can’t.” He blew out a breath. “Blast it.”
“Why would Davy Driscoll take them? I refuse to believe he was blackmailing her because she had a secret passion for painting Scottish scenery. Upper-class women of your mother’s generation sketched and painted. It’s hardly scandalous. Why didn’t she want anyone to know?”
Oliver didn’t respond.
“Was she having an affair?”
He turned to her. “Do you blurt out everything that pops into your head?”
“No, but I’m not afraid to ask a question. Was she? Upper-class women do that, too, you know. Have secret affairs. She didn’t have one with Driscoll, did she? He wasn’t terribly good-looking, but I only saw him after he was dead.”
“Henrietta.”
“What? I’m sorry. I’m a hound on a fox trail. You were just a boy. You could have misread the situation. Well, we’ll get to the bottom of it—the police will, I should say. Are you hoping the ruin where you were held will help jog your memory?” He nodded, and Henrietta noticed he looked less strangled. She motioned toward the trail. “Then let’s go.”
“Henrietta,” Oliver said again.
“I didn’t let you answer, did I? It’s caffeine and lack of sleep, and these images of yours. When did you remember about the painting?”
“I’ve always remembered. I just didn’t think about it.”
“That makes sense on a certain level, I guess. But what were you trying to say before I interrupted?”
“I’m falling in love with you.”
She gaped at him. “You’re falling in love with me. I could murder you right now myself. We’re here in the wilds of Scotland and you’ve had no sleep and we’re discussing your mother’s secrets, and now you decide to tell me?”
“I should have waited?”
“It was going to be a brick dropped on my head whenever you told me. Didn’t you ask me to marry you when I was five?”
“No.”
“You should have. I’d have said yes.”
“And now?”
She smiled suddenly, even as unexpected tears sprang to her eyes. “We’re train wrecks, Oliver, the pair of us. You’re in far worse shape, of course.” She tilted her head back and looked up at the sky, giving way to dawn. Then she shifted back to him. He wasn’t looking sheepish or embarrassed or showing any sign he’d regretted his admission. She laughed, pleased, and took his hand. “We need to change falling to fallen, don’t you think?”
He squeezed her hand, pulling her toward him. “It’s happening,” he whispered, and his mouth found hers. It was a tender kiss, brief, a brushing of lips, a promise of more. He stood back with one of his enigmatic smiles. “Jeremy Pearson told me you’re falling in love with me.”
“He’s manipulating you.”
“Probably.”
“And he has his nerve,” Henrietta added, truly irritated.
“But is he right?” Oliver asked.
She heard the emotion in his voice, felt it in herself. What did Jeremy Pearson matter now, at this moment?
She smiled. “You must know by now a senior MI5 officer is always right.”