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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.”
3 (#u951240e0-74d3-5ee9-b773-8a019319d286)
London, Heathrow Airport
Emma eased toward an empty carousel, away from the throngs in Heathrow’s crowded baggage claim. She hadn’t expected a call. It was an unknown caller. She almost let it go to voice mail but instead answered with a simple hello, without using her name.
“Dear Emma. Where are you?”
She recognized Oliver York’s voice and slowed her pace. “Heathrow. Did you get my voice mail?”
“This morning. Yes. You and Colin want to see me. Why?”
“We’ll come to you. Are you in London or at your farm?”
“I didn’t do it.”
Emma went still. His voice was ragged, barely a whisper. This wasn’t the irreverent, relentlessly good-natured Oliver York she knew. “Do what, Oliver?”
“I didn’t kill that man. I tried to help him. I don’t know if it was murder, suicide, an accident. I don’t know anything. Tell the police. They’re looking for me.”
“Oliver, talk to me. Where are you?”
“I’m going dark. I trust you. Trust me. Colin and I will never be friends now.” His attempt to return to his natural cheekiness fell flat. “I hope you two had a fabulous honeymoon.”
“I can’t help you if you go dark,” Emma said. “We’ll come to you.”
He was gone.
She slid her phone into her tote bag and rejoined Colin at their baggage carousel. He’d collected their bags, hers a wheeled case, his a duffel he had slung over his shoulder. They’d packed more than they would have for a typical business trip. They’d put together the meetings at the last minute but were dressed professionally in clothes that had seen them through nights out in Ireland.
She told him about Oliver’s call. “He’s in trouble, Colin.”
“Damn right he is. I just got a call from my MI5 contact. Oliver took off from his farm this morning and left behind a dead body.”
“Who?”
“They don’t know yet. It was a quick call. He wants our help. He’ll pave the way for us to talk to the detectives.” Colin hoisted his bag higher on his shoulder. “Looks as if we’re renting a car and driving to the Cotswolds instead of taking the train into London.”
Emma absorbed the change in plan. She didn’t know Colin’s MI5 contact, just that they’d met during his first undercover mission five years ago. She raised the handle on her bag. Matt Yankowski, their boss in Boston, would want to know she and Colin had landed in the middle of a British death investigation involving Oliver York. “We need to check in with Yank.”
“Have at it.”
“It’s your MI5 contact.”
“It’s your art thief on the lam and your grandfather whose house was broken into. If we walked into a bunch of arms traffickers, I’d make the call. I’ll rent the car.” He dipped a hand into her jacket pocket and withdrew her phone, then folded her fingers around it and winked. “Tell Yank I said hi.”
“All right. It does make sense that I make the call. I’ll check with my brother at the same time to see if he knows anything about the break-in.”
Colin took the lead as they switched their route and started toward the car rental kiosks. Emma unlocked her phone and hit Yank’s cell phone number. It was early in Boston but Yank picked up on the first ring. “I just had a call from MI5. They know you’re in London and called Oliver York this morning, asked if you have an idea where to find him. Imagine that.”
“We don’t know where he is. Do they know the identity of the dead man?”
“Not yet. Where’s your grandfather?”
“I haven’t been in touch with him since we left Dublin. We stopped to see him on the way to the airport. He was having tea on the terrace.”
“Has Oliver been in touch with him?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Will he now that he’s on the run? Those two have an unusual friendship.”
“Anything is possible,” Emma said.
“Keep me posted. I’ll see what we can do on our end.”
Yank disconnected without further comment. A short conversation. Emma pictured him at his Back Bay apartment with his wife, Lucy, a clinical psychologist who’d opened up a knitting shop on Newbury Street after balking at moving from their home and her work in northern Virginia. As unorthodox and risky as his brainchild, HIT, was, Yank was a straight arrow. Late forties, chiseled good looks, crisp suits and dedicated to the FBI. He’d known what he was getting into when he’d gone after her—an ex-nun and a Sharpe—to join the FBI and then to become a part of his unique team.
She dialed an art-crimes detective she knew at Scotland Yard, and he put her in touch with the detective chief investigator leading the inquiry into the death at Oliver York’s farm. He listened attentively and instructed her and Colin to come straight to the farm when they arrived in the village.
The calls to her grandfather and her older brother, Lucas, who ran Sharpe Fine Art Recovery, were easier. Neither answered. She left voice mails and caught up with Colin. He had the paperwork finished for their rental car. They’d be on the road to the Cotswolds in no time.
“How’d it go?” he asked her. “Did Yank ask if we had a good time on our honeymoon?”
