7
They didn’t need a key. The door to Oliver’s stone-cutting studio was unlocked. The key, an ordinary skeleton key, was hanging on a hook, out of sight on the wall above the potting table. Emma left it there. “Going through an unlocked door is easier to explain than going through a locked one,” she said. “Oliver told me he gave up stone-cutting. He said he lost interest.”
“Do you believe him?” Colin asked.
“I believe he’s not doing any stone-cutting here. Whether he’s given it up entirely, I don’t know. I think so, though.”
But thinking so wasn’t enough, she knew.
She and Colin entered the studio, a small room on the west side of the dovecote. This was where Oliver had polished and inscribed a series of small, polished stones with Celtic crosses and symbols honoring Saint Declan. He’d taunted her grandfather with them for years, and eventually her and Lucas, too. Now, though, most of the tools of Oliver’s stone-cutting “hobby” were packed into crates stacked against the wall, ready for sale, donation or storage. Saws, heat guns, polishing wheels, different kinds of glue, various hammers and chisels. The rough wood workbench was cleaned off. Emma didn’t see any stones, sketches or tracings that might have hinted at what had gone on here. A row of small chisels in a variety of sizes and shapes remained on a magnetic strip, perhaps awaiting special packaging—she had no idea.
Colin ran his fingers across the top of the workbench. “No point locking up with nothing to hide. Lock the outside door and call it a day. No need to bother with the studio door. Wouldn’t matter now if Henrietta Balfour, Martin or one of the farm workers got in here. Nothing to see.”
Emma nodded in agreement. Privacy and discretion were no longer an issue for Oliver and his secret work here. The once-incriminating studio was now tidy and sterile.
“You wonder how a troubled English boy ends up fascinated by an early Irish saint,” Colin said. “Did his interest prompt him to choose the O’Byrne house for his first theft, or did that theft prompt his interest in Saint Declan? One of your chicken-and-egg questions.”
“You do have a way of cutting to the chase,” Emma said with a smile. “The silver cross he stole and the crosses on the headland where he hid that night depict Saint Declan. By then Oliver was already an expert in pagan Celtic and early Celtic Christian history, myths, legends and folklore.”
“He named his consulting business Left Hand Enterprises after an Irish proverb.”
“Lamh chle Ultain id ughaidh,” Emma said. “My Irish pronunciation isn’t great but close enough.”
“It means ‘the left hand of Ultan against evil and danger.’” Colin winked at her. “I remember. Ultan was a disciple of Saint Declan who raised his left hand against Nordic invaders and stopped their attack on the Irish coast.
“He kept the people safe,” Emma said.
“An ancient Batman.”
Colin liked to compare Oliver York and Martin Hambly to Batman and his trusted aide, Alfred. Amused, cheeky as ever, Oliver had chosen Alfred as the name for his wire-fox-terrier puppy. But the analogy fit with the stories about Saint Declan’s healing miracles and Ultan’s standing up against attacks on the innocent. Unraveling the meaning of Left Hand Enterprises had been a pivotal clue in identifying Oliver as the serial art thief who’d launched his career in Saint Declan country on the south Irish coast.
“I wonder what hobby Oliver will move on to next. Gardening, maybe.” Emma noticed a gap in the line of small tools above the workbench. “It looks as if one is missing, doesn’t it?”
Colin shrugged. “Could be a tool that broke and never got replaced or an intentional gap.”
“Oliver is an expert in martial arts. He wouldn’t necessarily need a weapon to kill someone, but it would be difficult for someone to kill him without one. If he was attacked this morning, he had a right to defend himself.” She touched the empty space, trying to picture what tool had been there. “I know I’m stating the obvious.”
“Sometimes it bears stating.”
“We can ask Martin if there’s a tool missing. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s inventoried every chisel, knife, pair of pliers and glue gun in this place.”
They left the studio and went outside. A slight breeze stirred, but Emma couldn’t smell any roses. Colin headed to the police officer and let him know about the gap in the line of chisels. The officer could decide whether to notify DI Lowe.
When Colin returned to the dovecote, Martin Hambly was walking toward them from the farmhouse. He waved, signaling he wanted to speak with them. “I was in such a state I didn’t think to offer to help you find a place to stay,” he said as he joined them. “Oliver would invite you to stay at the house if he were here. The police say they’ll have the crime scene cleared soon. The bloodstains...” He cleared his throat. “We’ll get to that.”
“Thanks, Martin,” Colin said, “but we’re not staying at Oliver’s house.”
“At least let me offer you a bottle of his best Scotch. He’d want that.”
Emma gave him a reassuring smile. “We’ll be fine, thanks.”
He nodded. “Understood. The police had me take a look around inside the house. I saw nothing unusual, no indication Oliver left in a hurry, packed a bag, washed off blood. There’s no blood in the house, in fact. Not so much as a drop.”
“That probably means Oliver went straight to his car without going inside,” Emma said. “Might he keep a packed bag in the trunk or tucked in a safe spot away from the house?”
Martin shook his head, his growing fatigue and exasperation evident. “I have no idea. I wouldn’t be surprised if he does, though.” He motioned toward the house. “I should check on Ruthie and Nigel, and Henrietta. It’s been an upsetting day. If there’s anything I can do for you two, please don’t hesitate to give me a ring.”
“A tool seems to be missing from Oliver’s stone-cutting studio,” Colin said. “Do you know anything about that?”
Martin’s chin snapped up. “What?”
Emma explained what she and Colin had discovered in the studio. “We noticed it wasn’t locked,” she added.
“We haven’t locked the studio for weeks,” Martin said. “We just lock the outside door. Oliver’s particular about his tools. There were no gaps the last time I was in there. That was about five o’clock yesterday afternoon. I didn’t check this morning. I doubt Henrietta did, either.”
“If there is a tool missing,” Colin said, “could it be sharp?”
Martin nodded, gulped in a breath. “Those particular tools are all extremely sharp.”
Sharp enough to cut an artery, then. Emma knew she didn’t need to articulate that point. It hung in the air between them, understood if not proof a tool was missing, never mind responsible for the fatal cut.
She and Colin went with Martin back into the studio. He nodded immediately when he checked the row of small tools. “A chisel is missing. I can see it now. It’s slender and lightweight, about twenty centimeters long with a flat blade.”
“It would fit into a palm or a jacket pocket, then,” Colin said.
Martin gave a grim nod. “I’ve never touched any of these small tools and certainly not that particular one.”
“So we won’t find your fingerprints on it.” Colin glanced at the packed crates and boxes. “You’re positive Oliver didn’t come in here this morning?”
“Positive,” Martin said. “He didn’t enter the dovecote at all when he met Henrietta and me here this morning. I have no way of knowing if he’d come down prior to that, but I also have no reason to suspect he did.”
Emma leaned against the workbench and crossed her arms on her chest. “Did Henrietta go inside the dovecote?”
“Yes, of course, as did I, but we didn’t come in here to the studio.” Martin rubbed the back of his neck. He was clearly agitated. “We left the outside door unlocked while we were out back for a bit. I suppose someone could have slipped inside then—looking for a gardening tool, perhaps—and discovered the stone-cutting tools.”
Colin eased into the studio doorway. “Dusk comes late this time of year. Did Oliver go out after he returned from London, maybe to get some air or walk the dog?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” Martin said. “I had Alfred with me at my cottage and took him to the house to see Oliver. I still had Alfred’s crate, so he didn’t stay. Terriers prefer one master. I want it to be Oliver, but we’re working on that.”
“The police will want to talk to you about the missing chisel,” Colin said.
“Yes, of course. I’ll wait here for them.” He glanced around the packed-up studio. “Oliver has decided to let this room be reincorporated into the dovecote’s main purpose as a potting shed. Henrietta will put it to good use, no doubt, now he’s redoing the landscaping and adding more flowerbeds and flowerpots and who knows what. He’s finally seen the wisdom of why his grandmother converted this building into a potting shed in the first place.”
Emma and Colin thanked him and headed back outside. The air was cooler, but she could feel the humidity that spelled impending rain. Colin stood next to her. “Who stole the chisel out of the quaint Cotswold potting shed?” He sucked in a breath. “Hell.”
“Not our usual case, I know,” Emma said. “The chisel might not even matter. Oliver could have grabbed it to cut open a package and forgot to put it back. If he didn’t take it, maybe it disappeared a while ago or he accidentally threw it away.”
“Or someone took it,” Colin said.
“Right. Or someone took it. Killer, witness, our dead man, an accomplice who wanted to cover up what happened and didn’t have much time to think.”
“If Martin’s right and this man is Davy Driscoll, Oliver could have recognized him—or thought he recognized him—and snapped.”
Emma frowned. “Do you think that’s likely?”
Colin didn’t answer at once. “Oliver doesn’t snap,” he said finally. “He’s self-disciplined and well-trained. He’d never have pulled off a ten-year string of high-profile heists if he couldn’t cope with surprises.”
Emma nodded in agreement. “He buried his emotions after his ordeal as a boy. His studies, his thefts, his solitary life, his dual identities—they all helped him keep his feelings stuffed deep. If they exploded to the surface this morning, it’s hard to predict what he’ll do.” She digested her own words. “We need to find him.”
“It’s better if he surfaces on his own.”
“Yes.”
DI Lowe arrived but he didn’t go straight into the dovecote to see Martin. “Mr. York’s Rolls-Royce has been found in Stow-on-the-Wold in a church car park. A wallet and phone were on the front seat. They belong to a man named Reed Warren. We’re almost certain he’s Davy Driscoll. You know that name, don’t you, Agents Sharpe and Donovan?”
Emma answered. “Yes, we do.”
“This isn’t just a courtesy update,” Colin said.
The detective inspector turned to him. “That’s right, it isn’t. Reed Warren’s phone contains text messages between him and a Father Finian Bracken. I believe you know him.”
Emma recognized Colin’s look. Bridled aggravation. “Yes,” he said. “We know him.”
DI Lowe clearly had already known the answer. “Stick around,” he said. “I’ll talk to Martin Hambly. You two be where I can find you.”