The Final Cut

by Catherine Coulter

  She patted his bruised cheek. “Stitches and all.”

  99

  Farrow-on-Grey, England

  Old Farrow Hall, Drummond estate

  Tuesday morning

  Nicholas turned onto the drive leading to his family home, Old Farrow Hall, or OFH, as everyone hereabouts called it. In the spring and summer the branches of the ancient lime trees intertwined above like a secret tunnel. In mid-winter, everything was naked sticks and branches—alien, yet still achingly beautiful, at least to him.

  Once through the ancient stone gate, another half mile and the hall itself loomed before him, three stories of four-century-old red brick with stone quoins, gables, and turrets. Home. He pulled into the roundabout, the gravel crunching under his tires.

  A small man with a tonsure of gray hair circling his head stood by the open door, dressed in a fine gray morning coat, crisp white shirt and tie.

  “Good morning, Master Nicholas. Hurry in, now, the rain is coming down harder.”

  “Morning, Horne,” Nicholas said, and stepped into the central core of the old hall. “You’re looking well. Nigel sends his best.”

  Horne’s expression at the mention of his beloved son didn’t change, since age-old precepts of decorum prevented it, but he did allow a full-bodied “Ah.”

  Nicholas pulled the hamper from behind his back. “Can you sneak this in for me, Horne? I don’t want Cook Crumbe seeing I’ve brought pastries from Fortnum and Mason for my mother.”

  Horne’s nose twitched. “Of course. No sense in upsetting her. Your mother and his lordship are waiting for you in the breakfast room.”

  “Thank you, Horne. I’ll head there straightaway.”

  He passed through the grand entrance hall and made his way toward the back of the house to what had been labeled the breakfast room by some ancestor centuries ago. He smelled cinnamon and apple and cardamom. Cook must have made apple tarts for breakfast, his favorite. All hail the prodigal son. He hoped they wouldn’t kick him out.

  The long, narrow breakfast room gave onto the sweep of the back lawn. A row of six tall windows overlooked the lower garden and the labyrinth, a fetching scene, even with the rain scoring down the glass. A fire crackled in the grate; the room was a bit too warm, but that was the way his grandfather liked it. Nicholas didn’t mind, not today.

  His grandfather, Eldridge Augustus Nyles Drummond, eighth Baron de Vesci, was ensconced at the head of the table in the master’s hand-carved chair, his buttocks cradled by a decades-old crimson velvet cushion thicker than Nicholas’s fist. He was halfway through a bowl of Cook Crumbe’s solidly bland Scottish porridge, welcomed his grandson with a swirl of his spoon, his voice gruff. “Nicholas, my boy. About time you joined us. You’re late.”

  “The score of vehicles I nearly ran off the M11 getting here wouldn’t agree with you.”

  The baron wheezed out a laugh.

  “Good morning, Mother. I like that jumper you’re wearing, matches your eyes.”

  The old man harrumphed, spooned in more porridge. “The demmed thing doesn’t match her eyes at all.”

  Mitzie Drummond laughed as she lightly laid her hand along his cheek, leaned up, and gave him a kiss. “Good morning, darling.”

  “Where’s Father?”

  Mitzie said, “On a call, talking to the Home Office about some nonsense in the Middle East he shouldn’t have to worry about.” She shook her head, the perfectly maintained blond bob swinging forward. “He had tea, said he needn’t have anything more.”

  Nicholas turned to Horne. “Would you ask him to join us, please? I have some news I’d like to share.”

  Mitzie narrowed her eyes at him.

  “What sort of news?”

  “Let’s wait for Dad, shall we? What’s been happening round here?”

  Mitzie took the hint and began filling him in on the leak in the West Wing roof, and how she was certain Gwynne Willis, the town butcher’s wife, was slowly poisoning her abusive husband—served him right—and she was having trouble with her moral compass since she’d just as soon see the husband belowground. Did she have proof of this? She nodded, sadly, but said no more.

  A few minutes later, Harry—Harold Mycroft St. John Drummond—joined them. He was taller than his son, fit and lean, a full head of black hair, distinguished gray at the temples. Nicholas stood and shook his father’s hand in greeting. He took his seat and poured some tea.

  His father’s every motion was done with economy and purpose, like his grandfather, Drummond hallmarks. He was a man of infinite calm, which made him an excellent diplomat, and a man of common sense and reason. He was not, like his son, with his impatient, impulsive American blood, a man who ever leapt before looking carefully at the terrain beyond.

  Properly fortified, Harry leaned back in his chair. “What’s this news then, Nicholas?”

  Nicholas also poured himself a cup of hot tea, stirred in milk and a bit of sugar. Liquid courage. He took a sip and said, “I’ve decided to join the FBI.”

  Dead silence, all eyes staring at him. Well, he had their attention. There was more dead silence.

  “I’ve been accepted to the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia. It’s twenty weeks of immersion training. I’ll probably be assigned to the New York Field Office with the same people I worked with to find the Koh-i-Noor.”

  He looked around the table at the shocked faces. “Well, say something.”

  Harry studied his son’s face. “You already changed direction once when you left the Foreign Office for New Scotland Yard. You are certain you wish to make another change?”

  “I’m sure.”

  Harry sat back and looked at his dark-eyed, dashing son. He took after his mother, with his handsome face, his spirit, his bullheadedness, traits that made Harry proud, and profoundly worried on occasion. Nicholas had spent his entire career avoiding any hint of favoritism, of nepotism, striking out on his own from the very beginning. His son had courage, and honor, which made him, his father thought, a fine example of Drummond blood. And sometimes he was a wild hair, doing something so unexpected it left one speechless, something Harry recognized in his own father.

  His mother was biting her lip. “You’ll move to New York? When will we see you?”

  “I’ll come home as often as I can, I promise.”

  She shook her head. “I always knew your uncle Bo would drag you into his den of thieves.”

  Nicholas said mildly, “It’s not the old Wild West, mother. It’s your country, too.”

  She waved an elegant hand. “Of course it is, Nicholas, it’s simply too far away for my tastes.” She sighed. “I suppose this is a wonderful opportunity for you, but—” She didn’t finish; instead, she came to give him a hug, and he relaxed. This, telling his family, was the part he’d dreaded. Penderley hadn’t fought him at all, even wrote him a glowing recommendation. Nicholas suspected Penderley was probably happy to get him out of his hair more than anything else.

  He stole a look at his grandfather, who appeared to be ignoring all of them, still studiously eating his oatmeal. He was eighty-three, his back ramrod-straight, his eyes still the rich Drummond brown, always sharp and assessing. The only real acknowledgment of his age was his thinned hair, and, well, not to belabor it, but his ears and nose seemed to grow bigger each passing year.

  Nicholas was the grandson of a baron; there were no two ways around it. The heir twice removed, as Penderley had sometimes called him if he was feeling jovial. There were responsibilities to come in his future, but not now. His grandfather was hale and hearty, his father as well.

  No, not now.

  Finally, his grandfather put down his spoon and met his eyes. “Don’t forget where you come from, Nicholas. This is your home, and it always will be.” He said again, “Don’t forget.”

  Nicholas smiled. “Never.”

  EPILOGUE

  Farrow-on-Grey, England

  Friday morning

  They walked in unison out of the thirteenth-century Norman
church, a slow march in step with the beatings of their hearts, hands clasped in front of their belt buckles, the heavy coffin on their shoulders. Nicholas felt the edge of the wood digging into his neck, a last connection to Elaine York, and it was pain. At least the pain reminded him he was alive when so many others weren’t.

  He’d seen Mike sitting in the middle of the church, her head covered with a ridiculous confection hat she’d told him she’d found near Harrods in London. She’d laughed, adding that the enthusiastic saleswoman had assured her it was just the thing for a stylish funeral. Elaine would have loved it, since she couldn’t wear hats and was wildly jealous of women who could. Elaine’s mother, who looked rather marvelous in hats, sat with her companion near Mike. She now had a much-needed $200,000 safe in her bank. Kitsune had seen her friend done rightly by, at least.

  Nicholas thought she understood what was happening, though he wasn’t really certain. She’d been mentally clear, though, when, taking his big hand in her small ones, she’d said to him, “Please bury my daughter here, Nicholas, in Farrow-on-Grey. She loved it so.” And then she’d sort of faded away, back into the soulless prison in her mind.

  Nicholas looked over the top of the coffin at Ben Houston, his head bowed, grief pouring off him, and he felt his own throat close.

  Elaine was being buried as a decorated officer, with all honors, as she deserved. Her friends and fellow officers from London were here, all still in shock, not really understanding what had happened, since she was in New York to be a minder, not a police officer. And Penderley, silent, bearing the weight of Elaine’s coffin on his shoulders.

  He heard a throat clearing and looked over at his uncle Bo, walking in front of Ben. Nicholas was grateful for his presence. It would make the next few days easier, having him here.

  When it was done, when Nicholas had said a silent prayer over her grave, the sky opened and rain began to fall in heavy sheets, crying for him, crying for them all.

  Friends from the Yard were going around to The Drunken Goose, Farrow-on-Grey’s fifteenth-century pub, with its small windows of square-cut glass, ancient oak beams, and hot, sweet air, Penderley with them! But Nicholas didn’t want to go, he wanted to go home and strip off the damn funeral suit, take a shower, and have a drink. He crossed the church graveyard to Bo, who laid a hand momentarily on his shoulder; then the two of them turned to wait for Mike and Ben. Once they were together, Bo said, “Let’s get out of here.”

  The drive to Old Farrow Hall took only a few minutes. They were all silent.

  Cook Crumbe had prepared a spread for them, of course, so when they arrived, all shaking umbrellas and ducking out of the way of Mike’s enormous hat, Horne shepherded them into the dining room and saw to it everyone had a drink and some food.

  Nicholas nodded to the old man who’d taken such care of him and his family for so many years. He cleared his tight throat. “Thank you, Horne.”

  Horne only nodded and said in his most formal voice, “Of course, Master Nicholas, of course.”

  “Inspector York told me she appreciated your kindness to her.”

  Horne bowed his head, then said, his voice austere, “She was a young woman deserving of kindness. I will miss her.”

  Mike watched Nicholas speaking to the Drummond butler—butler!—she still couldn’t get over having a butler in the modern world. She’d noticed his accent was deeper, his voice more clipped, when he was at home. It had been a hard day on him—a hard week, really, what with telling his parents he was joining the FBI. She would have loved to be a fly on the wall when he’d made that announcement. He’d told her his parents and his grandfather, even Horne and Cook Crumbe, had taken it well, but she thought he was just trying to make himself feel better about his decision.

  And then he’d arranged for Elaine’s funeral, seen to Elaine’s ill mother. Mike was very pleased that Elaine had had time to send her mother the $200,000 before she’d been killed.

  She knew this huge rambling house with its hundreds of years of life and all its endless dramas was a deep part of him, and would always be his touchstone. As for her parents, she’d told her dad how his heroine, beautiful Mitzie Drummond, was a gracious, loving woman who solved mysteries in her spare time.

  Mike looked at Mitzie across the room. She’d left it all behind, fame and fortune, to marry Nicholas’s dad, a man very unlike his son. Tall, aloof, but when he smiled, it warmed his face and made you smile in return.

  Nicholas’s wily old grandfather had asked her if she intended to take care of his grandson. And not five minutes later, Nicholas’s mother had asked her the same thing. And not five minutes after that, Cook Crumbe had stirred from the kitchen and asked if she would take care of Master Nicholas. She told them all the same thing: yes, she would take care of Nicholas Drummond, they could take that to the bank.

  She ate one of Cook Crumbe’s delicious shrimp prepared with some sort of curry and watched and listened.

  Horne waited until Nicholas had eaten and had a few sips of single malt before handing him a thick package.

  “A woman came with this while you were out.”

  Nicholas only glanced at it. “Can’t it wait?”

  “She said no, sir. She wanted you to open it the moment you came home.”

  Something in Horne’s tone made Nicholas look up sharply. “Who was she?”

  “I couldn’t say. She was small, though, with dark hair. Bonny blue eyes, so light—”

  Nicholas thrust his drink into Horne’s hand and grabbed the package from him, ripped it open. Everyone stopped to watch him. He pulled the thick stack of paper from the envelope; saw the familiar blue backing indicating a legal document.

  Mike asked, “Nicholas, what is it?”

  He thumbed through the pages, then started to laugh. “It’s a deposition. Almighty God in heaven, it’s a bloody deposition.”

  “From who? About what?”

  “There are hundreds of pages. I will be damned. This contains information on Mulvaney’s thefts, all the murders, everything she promised.”

  He looked up and said simply, “Kitsune. She’s alive, and she kept the bargain.”

  London

  March

  The rooftops were slick with frost, the sun just beginning to break through the gloomy sky. Snow again, she could feel it. She adjusted her position slightly, made herself more comfortable. She stashed the ATN night-vision goggles, pleased she’d chosen the PVS7s. Wouldn’t do to have anything less than military-grade. They’d served her well on her overnight sojourns this week.

  She brought her monocle to her eye and checked it once. All was quiet. In their quarters, their tiny apartments, men were waking, beginning their morning routines. Women were showering, preparing breakfast, readying themselves to go out into the world. The men stayed behind; this was their work and their home.

  She saw him then. Her pulse quickened, her breath became shallow, and something moved deep inside her.

  She set the monocle down and poured the last of the tea from the thermos into her cup. She drank, letting it warm her, then checked the monocle again. The watch was changing, the guards in camouflage bristling with weapons.

  The gates would open to the public at 9:00 a.m. The most dynamic and wondrously grim landmark in London would see throngs of people streaming through the gates, despite the weather. Though late March now, the air was still a bone-deep cold and seeped through puffy down jackets.

  Today, Kitsune would be among them, bundled in her jacket, as she had every day for the past week.

  Today, she would approach him. Ask to speak. Ask for forgiveness.

  She was prepared, overprepared, but it was the only way she had the courage to try. Today everything would change. He’d either turn her away or take her back. There would be no in between. He wasn’t the type to stay friends.

  Ignoring the lingering pain in her forearm, she packed her things and crawled down the slick roof. The wound was healing, but she’d have the long, thin scar forever.


  The window on the tenth floor was still cracked, and she slipped inside, taking a moment to make sure nothing had been disturbed. It wasn’t just a stroke of luck construction had started on the building closest to the Tower of London. She’d bought the building and commissioned the renovation. Through a shell company, of course. She wasn’t about to let anything else get in her way. And she saw a profit down the road as well. She’d been able to observe unmolested for days.

  She said a small prayer as she changed clothes, stashed her black camo that blended so perfectly with the nighttime rooftops, and became the young researcher from the University of Edinburgh again, jeans, trainers, jumper, and mac, hair in a ponytail, the false brown irises restored to their natural, startling blue, the odd genetic anomaly that should have led her to a career in modeling instead of the life she’d led. She wouldn’t change her old life for the world, but she’d bid it farewell back in Gagny.

  She pulled the satellite phone from her bag, scrambled the signal, and placed a call to a mobile number she knew by heart.

  His voice was deep, clogged with sleep. She’d woken him. She couldn’t blame him for sleeping late. He deserved rest after all they’d been through. And his life was undergoing a sea change as well.

  “Drummond here.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered, then ended the call before he had a chance to react.

  Time to go.

  With a smile, she gathered her bag, walked to the elevator, and disappeared.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Koh-i-Noor—say it aloud, pause for a moment. Do you feel the fleeting warmth of light bathing your face? Or perhaps the pull of something you don’t understand, but you know it’s in the deepest part of you, the part that recognizes magic?

  Imagine, this incredible stone was once 793 carats—the size of a man’s fist, the prized possession of the god Krishna. Now imagine betrayal and a curse passed down through the ages that promises death, chaos, and destruction to any man who tries to keep the Koh-i-Noor close.