Thief's Mark

by Carla Neggers

  “I don’t know any more than you do, Cassie. The police told me best to leave the investigation to them and get back to my plans for the day.”

  Cassie stared at the worn gloves, bits of compost debris and dirt stuck to the fingers. “Can you at least tell me if they suspect murder? I have two small boys...”

  “The police haven’t said.”

  “I’ve been trying not to freak out. Eugene says even if it was murder, it’s got nothing to do with us. We aren’t targets. We always keep an eye on the boys. Still, I’m keeping them close to home until we hear more. My parents don’t know yet. They’re so looking forward to retiring to the peaceful Cotswolds. If this man’s death was murder...” Cassie shook her head. “No. I’m not going to think that way. It’s a York thing, whatever it is, and nothing to do with us.” She frowned, cocking her head to one side. “Are you sure you’re all right, Henrietta? How can you be so calm?”

  “I’m afraid I’m still in shock.” She licked her lips. “I’m sure it will hit me later.”

  “Yes. I imagine so. Be careful, won’t you? And come to dinner tonight. You won’t want to be alone.”

  Actually, Henrietta did want to be alone. She couldn’t imagine being sociable after today, but Cassie and Eugene loved to entertain. Henrietta had invited them over for wine and olives on the terrace one evening but had whisked them to the pub for dinner. She knew how to cook. She just didn’t like to.

  “Don’t forget we can provide you all the compost you can use,” Cassie said, then sputtered into laughter. “For gardens, I mean, not for dinner.”

  Henrietta managed a smile. “Thank you.”

  Cassie grabbed her garden gloves. “I found a painting in the cottage the other day. It was tucked in the back of a small closet that I doubt had been opened in years. I’ve been meaning to ask you about it. I’ll show you at dinner. It’ll be a pleasant diversion after this morning.”

  Henrietta was in no hurry to return to the York farm and chat with the FBI. “Why don’t I take a look now?”

  * * *

  As they reached the cottage, Tony Balfour came out the front door. Cassie jumped—she was in easy-to-startle mode—but Henrietta was pleased to see him. He was her father’s first cousin, the only child of Freddy and Posey’s middle sibling, Anthony, who’d died tragically when Tony was a baby. He’d retired in April after a career as a landscaper at various public gardens throughout England. He was living in the Kershaw cottage temporarily, in exchange for overseeing the renovations, a perfect arrangement as he figured out what was next for him. Henrietta suspected gardening was perhaps a stronger Balfour family tradition than intelligence work. Divorced with no children, he hadn’t decided where to settle in retirement. He was in excellent shape and still muscular from decades of physical work, but he was clearly ready to go at his own pace and do other things.

  “Henrietta, love,” Tony said, taking her by the hand and kissing her on the cheek. He was dressed in his work clothes, and she could smell plaster dust on him but saw no sign of it on his gray, paint-stained hoody. He stood back. “I heard the news. What on earth happened?”

  “It wasn’t the morning I had in mind, but I’ve rallied.”

  “Thank heavens you weren’t hurt. You weren’t, were you?”

  “Not at all. No one was, except the man who died.”

  Tony nodded, his expression a mix of grimness and curiosity. “We’ve lived quiet lives compared to Oliver York, haven’t we?”

  “Henrietta’s going to take a look at the painting we discovered,” Cassie said.

  “Great idea. It’s priceless in its own way. I’m sorry I’m in a rush. I need to pick up a few things at the hardware store.” He shifted again to Henrietta. “Phone me if the adrenaline wears off and you want to talk. Once a worker cut his arm and the resulting mess...” He made a face and held up a hand. “Never mind. It wasn’t a fatal accident but you don’t need to have that picture dancing around in your head.”

  “I imagine not,” Henrietta said. “Thank you.”

  “I’ll see you later, then.”

  He headed up the path toward the Kershaw house. Henrietta had never seen anyone quite so happy to retire. Tony heartily approved of her career change and had assured her Posey would have, too. Of course, he believed she’d worked in a dull London office job.

  Henrietta followed Casey into the cottage. The front room was cleared of any furniture while the plastering was being redone. Tony did most of the work, but he’d bring in professionals when needed or grab Nigel Burns or Eugene for easier jobs that needed more than one pair of hands. Since the cottage had once belonged to the Balfours, Henrietta was madly curious about the renovations but tried not to be too nosy.

  Eugene emerged from the kitchen. “I was just in the village,” he said. “Everyone’s shocked at the news of the death at the York farm. I suppose it’s natural for our minds to jump to violence rather than an unfortunate accident. Oliver bolting doesn’t help, but one can understand why he might, under the circumstances. After what he went through as a boy, who wouldn’t?”

  “Best to let the police sort this, Eugene,” Henrietta said.

  “Yes, of course. You’re right.” He smiled. “You’re sensible like your aunt, Henrietta.”

  “Posey was thrilled when you decided to take on the farm.”

  “A late bloomer, I believe she called me.”

  Eugene was nine years older than Cassie, a bit grayer and balder these days but in good shape from his farm work and as amiable as ever. He and Cassie had clicked the moment Henrietta had introduced them to each other, the only instance she’d successfully played matchmaker—not that she’d meant to play matchmaker. It was an accident, really. She’d looked up Cassie on a trip to Boston given their family connection, and they’d hit it off. Cassie had come to the Cotswolds to visit and Henrietta had shown her out to the old Balfour farm. Eugene had been there, cutting the grass after work. They’d ended up at the pub together and eight months later, Cassie and Eugene were married at the village church.

  Henrietta had known Eugene since her visits with her aunt as a child. Her parents would drop her off in the Cotswolds for weeks while they binged on opera or scooted to Paris without her. Eugene and his younger sister, who now ran a restaurant in Oxford, had spent holidays with their grandparents on the former Balfour farm. For as far back as Henrietta could remember, Eugene had expressed his desire to revive the farm. He’d loved to talk about horses, Cotswold sheep, dairy cows and grain fields. Henrietta couldn’t say it’d ever been her ambition to move into Aunt Posey’s house full-time, but she did love the place. It had seemed like a practical, workable option when she’d quit MI5. Flowers, herbs, shrubs, pots, cutting and watering regimes. Simpler than uncovering schemes to commit mass murder.

  She turned her attention to the matter at hand. “Well, what do we have?”

  Cassie went into the kitchen and came out with a mounted canvas. She set it on the floor and leaned it against the wall, standing aside so that Henrietta could see it was an oil painting of a scene of a mountain and a lake. It wasn’t in the class of paintings Oliver York had stolen, but it was charming.

  “It’s wonderful, isn’t it?” Cassie beamed. “A bit amateurish, I know, but I love its sensibility. It’s Queen’s View in the southern Scottish Highlands. It’s supposedly named for Queen Victoria, after she visited in 1866. I looked it up after I found the painting. That’s Loch Tummel and the Tay Forest. Eugene and I drove up there for a few days before we had children. Have you ever been, Henrietta?”

  She nodded. “I went a few years ago with a churl of an ex-boyfriend.”

  Cassie grinned at her. “One day I want to hear all the details of your life before you moved back here. I know so little about it.” She turned back to the painting. “It’s not signed, and there’s nothing on the back to indicate who
painted it. We were wondering if you have any idea.”

  “I’ve never seen it before,” Henrietta said, certain.

  “Did your grandfather paint?”

  “Freddy? Good heavens, no. Well, I doubt he did—I was very young when he died. My father has never mentioned Freddy painted. Posey didn’t, either, when she was alive. I remember him smoking cigarettes and rambling in the garden.”

  “What about Posey?” Cassie asked. “Could she have painted it?”

  “I can’t imagine she did. I never saw her paint, and I haven’t discovered any old canvases or supplies and such since I moved into her house.”

  Cassie frowned. “Hmm. A mystery. Could it have been your grandmother... Freddy’s wife?”

  “No one ever mentioned she painted, but I really don’t know,” Henrietta said. “I don’t remember her at all. She died when I was a baby. A shame you didn’t find it when Posey was still alive. Does Tony have any memory of it?”

  Eugene shook his head. “I asked him. He said he didn’t know but he wasn’t a good one to ask. He was only a tot when his mother moved to the US with him. I suppose his father could have painted it, but he was a tortured soul—I can’t believe he’d have produced something this sweet.”

  “Anthony’s been dead for sixty years, too,” Cassie added. “This cottage was pretty much in ruin then. Freddy had it restored but it’s been decades since anyone’s really used it. It’s a good thing Tony isn’t particular. Anyway, I suppose someone could have discovered the painting somewhere else and tucked it in the closet and forgot about it.”

  Eugene squatted down for a closer look at the painting. “You can almost feel the sun on the loch.”

  “I really do love it,” Cassie said. “If Anthony painted it, maybe Freddy or Posey found it after his death and couldn’t bear to keep it but couldn’t bear to throw away it away, either.”

  “That would make sense.” Eugene rose, his eyes still on the captivating scene. “It’s not discussed but everyone knows Anthony Balfour died of alcoholism. Well. That’s not a cheerful subject any day but especially today, given what happened this morning.”

  “And it’s such a cheerful painting,” Cassie said with a sigh. “Well, I don’t care who painted it, really. I was just curious. Freddy Balfour’s housekeeper could have bought it at a yard sale and a ten-year-old painted it, and it wouldn’t matter—I love it. I’m going to frame it and hang it in here when we’re done with renovations. I’m sure Mum and Dad will love it, too.”

  Henrietta followed Cassie and Eugene out of the cottage. Cassie explained she’d invited Henrietta to dinner. Eugene seemed to be as keen on the idea. “The boys always love to see you,” he said cheerfully. “They got into nettle the other day. You can explain it to them.”

  “Every country girl and boy needs to understand nettle,” Henrietta said. “I learned the hard way myself when I decided to investigate the field across the stream on one of my visits with Aunt Posey. It’s like the nettle was lying in wait for me.”

  “It’s brutal stuff,” Eugene said, grinning at her. “I remember that day. Both your legs were covered in welts. Didn’t Oliver rescue you?”

  “He thinks he did. He was twelve and I was nine.” Henrietta grinned. “It was the worst.”

  Eugene said he’d see her later and returned to the cottage, but as Henrietta started back to the gate, she noticed worry return to Cassie’s face. “Let us know if you hear any news about the investigation, won’t you?” She motioned vaguely toward the compost pile. “I’ll get back to work before it rains.”

  Henrietta went back through the gate. As she brought her lunch dishes to the kitchen, she contemplated polite ways to get out of dinner. She wanted to go. She should go. Be with friends after a difficult day. At the same time, she didn’t want to go.

  The definition of ambivalent.

  She’d shower and go see what the FBI agents wanted.

  5

  A rail-thin man in his fifties introduced himself as Detective Inspector Peter Lowe and took Emma and Colin through what he knew so far. The body had been removed, but the forensics team was still working on the immediate scene. “We haven’t identified the deceased yet,” Lowe said as they stood on the edge of the taped-off area around the side entrance. “He didn’t have a wallet or phone on him. We don’t know how he got onto the property. We haven’t found a vehicle. He could have walked. We’re checking the village.”

  “What shape’s the house in?” Colin asked.

  “Untouched as far as we can tell so far. All the blood is right here. He didn’t go far once he was wounded.”

  “How was he wounded, do you know?”

  The DI shook his head. “He wasn’t shot. We know that much. The artery was in bad shape. It appears to have been cut with an extremely sharp instrument. There’s no guarantee it was a survivable injury even with applied pressure and timely medical intervention.” Lowe’s eyes narrowed on Emma. “Now, Special Agent Sharpe, tell me about your call from Mr. York.”

  Emma did so, repeating Oliver’s words verbatim. It wasn’t as if there’d been many to remember. The DI twisted his mouth to one side, taking in the information. He and the investigative team had been professional and courteous, but it was clear they didn’t appreciate two FBI agents turning up, even with MI5 having paved the way—through whatever means, direct or indirect. Emma understood their reluctance. She and Colin had a personal and professional history with Oliver that could help, but it also complicated matters. The personal history irked Colin but Oliver deliberately exaggerated their relationship. Despite his attempts to forge a friendship, Emma considered her relationship with their unrepentant art thief entirely within her role with the FBI.

  “And this break-in at your grandfather’s house in Dublin?” the DI asked. “Relevant?”

  “I don’t know,” Emma said. “The Irish police are investigating.”

  Lowe nodded. “We’ll speak with them.”

  Colin watched two members of the forensic team finishing up by a stone bench across the driveway from the entrance. “How close are you to identifying the deceased?”

  “Not close enough. We’ll know when we know. I don’t guess, Special Agent Donovan.”

  “Duly noted. Thanks for your time.”

  They left the DI to his work and walked down to the dovecote, taking the same route DI Lowe had described Ruthie Burns had taken from the house to alert Martin Hambly and Henrietta Balfour. The gray weather only seemed to make the sloping fields look greener, a contrast to the grim events earlier in the day. Emma had been here in February on FBI business, winter in the Cotswolds different but still beautiful.

  “I smell roses,” she said.

  Colin shook his head. “Not me.”

  “What do you smell?”

  “Sheep.”

  She smiled, appreciating the light moment. She watched a lamb prance in the grass on her right, near the fence. She could imagine whiling away an afternoon out here, enjoying the views of bucolic fields, listening to sheep baaing. She doubted Oliver made much of an income off the farm, but she knew it met expenses. Her grandfather had given her that information when he’d visited in January.

  A police car was just down the lane past the dovecote, an officer at the wheel. Emma was familiar with the dovecote, built to house pigeons at a time when they were a pricey, sought-after delicacy. Pigeons had fallen out of favor on the dinner plate, and now only a comparatively few dovecotes remained. The York dovecote was on the smaller side as dovecotes went, but it was well-suited to its modern purpose as a potting shed. Ruthie Burns was out front, frowning at the mess Emma assumed Henrietta and Martin had left behind—bags of potting soil and composted manure, a bucket of what appeared to be freshly dug loam, an array of garden tools and a cracked terra-cotta pot. It was as if the ordinary work of the day would re
sume at any moment.

  The DI had let them know Ruthie wasn’t doing well emotionally, but she’d agreed to talk with them. “Please, ask whatever questions you’d like,” she said even before Emma could greet her. “I’d be happy to answer them. DI Lowe said I should.” She paused, her eyes red and puffy from tears, her skin ashen from the shock of the morning. “You and Special Agent Donovan are Oliver’s friends.”

  Emma didn’t voice any objection to the housekeeper’s characterization of her and Colin’s relationship with her missing boss. Now wasn’t the time, and she saw that Colin agreed. “We want to help if we can,” she said.

  “I understand. I’m sorry you’re not here under better circumstances.”

  “I am, too.”

  “Mr. York didn’t know you were coming?”

  “We called this morning and left a voice mail. I don’t know if he received it.”

  “You called on his mobile?”

  Emma nodded. “Yes.”

  Ruthie bit her lower lip, crossed her arms tight on her chest and lowered them again. “I don’t know what to do with myself—stay here, go home, be alone, be with people. I can’t make sense of today.” She spoke more to herself than to Emma. “I keep seeing the blood—so much blood—and Mr. York, desperately trying to help. You hear about such things but never expect to see something like it yourself.”

  Ruthie pointed up the lane to a thickset man shambling toward the dovecote. “That’s my son, Nigel. He’s a mechanic.”

  “Was he here this morning?” Emma asked.

  “He was, yes. He was at the barn, working on one of the tractors.”

  Nigel reached the dovecote, coming up the rudimentary flagstone path to the entrance. He rubbed the back of his hand across his jaw and its two-day stubble of beard, mostly dark but splotched with gray. No sign of gray in his thick, fair, curly hair. He looked to be in his early forties, a solidly built man in oil-smeared work clothes. He addressed his mother. “Police said I should come down here and tell the FBI agents what I saw this morning. That all right with you, Mum?”