2
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.”