Thief's Mark

by Carla Neggers

  “Pleased to meet you, Emma,” Henrietta said, then turned again to him. “I’ve never been to Maine. Perhaps one day.”

  “I’m sure you’d love it.” Emma rubbed her fingertips on the old stone of the dovecote, next to the pile of junk where Henrietta had found the vintage flowerpot. “Did you meet my grandfather when he visited Oliver in January?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Do you know if he and Oliver have been in touch recently?”

  Henrietta frowned. “No idea. Why?”

  Emma told her about the break-in at Wendell’s place in Dublin.

  “Oh, well, now, that’s interesting,” Henrietta said. “Good your grandfather wasn’t hurt, but the break-in can’t be a coincidence, can it? I understand he and Oliver have formed an odd friendship.”

  Odd was the word Colin would use, too, but he said nothing.

  “We don’t know if the break-in and the events this morning are connected,” Emma said.

  Colin noticed she hadn’t told Henrietta about the call from Oliver. In her place, Colin would have made the same decision and let DI Lowe decide what to tell them.

  Henrietta zipped her jacket, signaling she was wrapping up. “I’m feeling a touch of survivor’s euphoria, I think. Just seeing a man minutes after he bled to death will do the trick, whether or not he was attacked. As I explained, I’d never seen him prior to finding him this morning. Martin was incredibly composed, did I tell you? He went into a bit of a stupor for a moment but he pulled himself together.” She patted her hips, obviously signaling she was done. “Well, then. Anything else?”

  Colin shook his head. “Thanks for speaking with us.”

  “You’re welcome.” She pointed vaguely toward the main road. “Don’t hesitate to get in touch if you have further questions or any thoughts you’d like to share. Let’s hope Oliver simply panicked and will surface by nightfall.”

  Oliver York hadn’t become a successful international art thief and eluded authorities for a decade by panicking, but Colin didn’t offer Henrietta his opinion. She said goodbye and eased around to the front of the dovecote, her gait and demeanor normal, if not as perky as it probably had been when she’d arrived at the York farm that morning.

  “What do you make of her?” Emma asked, peeking into a compost bin.

  “She’s a pro,” Colin said. “She wasn’t unaffected by coming upon a bloody corpse, but it didn’t shake her to her core.”

  “Her training kicked in.”

  “I’ve never met an MI5 agent turned English gardener.”

  “What do you think the police know about her?”

  Colin shrugged. “They won’t tell us. I wouldn’t, in their shoes.”

  Emma moved toward him, away from the back wall of the dovecote. “Oliver will be less valuable to MI5 and MI6 the more distance he puts between himself and his past.”

  “The longer he goes without sneaking around the world stealing art, the better. It’s time he led a quiet life. Even after MI5’s finished with him, he’ll never be prosecuted for his thefts.”

  “Returning the art undamaged helped. Do you suppose he kept it here on the farm? A moot point now.” She peered down through the trees toward the stream. Birds twittered nearby. “It’s a pretty place. I wonder where we’d all be now if Oliver had returned the stolen artwork before we figured out he’s our serial thief.”

  “It took identifying him to get him to return the art,” Colin said.

  “Maybe. Probably.” Emma shifted, the dappled light on her face darkening, deepening the green of her eyes. “I don’t think Oliver’s thieving past is behind what happened today.”

  “It’s not a good day, Emma. Oliver needs to show himself.”

  She didn’t respond. She didn’t need to.

  They returned to the front of the dovecote. Henrietta Balfour hadn’t stuck around. Other than the police officer, Colin didn’t see anyone else. He studied his bride as she stared up the lane toward the York house. “What’s on your mind, Emma?”

  She turned to him and nodded toward the dovecote door. “I want to take a look in Oliver’s stonework studio.”

  “Doesn’t he keep it locked?”

  “Yes, but I know where he keeps the key.”

  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 shru
gged. “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.”

  8

  Heron’s Cove, Maine
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  As much as Finian Bracken longed for fish chowder and tea—even the terrible tea at Hurley’s on Rock Point harbor—he found himself pulling his BMW into the car park next to Sharpe Fine Art Recovery in Heron’s Cove. The day had started foggy, dreary and bleak, which matched his mood, but now the sun was shining, glistening on the tidal river in front of him as he got out of his car. His BMW was his most conspicuous indulgence as a parish priest. He’d bought it with funds he’d earned as a whiskey man back home in Ireland, before seminary and the priesthood.

  A lifetime ago, those days seemed now.

  He was a fish out of water in Maine. A fish out of water in the priesthood, too. He’d lost his wife and their two small daughters eight years ago in a sailing accident. Shattered, drinking too much, he’d spent months in a stupor of self-recrimination, despair and unfathomable grief, until finally he’d received a call to a different life. He’d entered seminary and had begun the long, exacting process to become a priest. He’d expected to serve a parish in his home country of Ireland, but a chance meeting with a priest planning a year-long sabbatical had landed him in the struggling village of Rock Point, Maine. He’d met Colin Donovan on his first day in Maine last June, and they’d become friends. Now Father Callaghan had decided not to resume his duties at St. Patrick’s Holy Roman Catholic Church, and Finian was staying. For how long was anyone’s guess.

  Heron’s Cove was quainter and more upscale than Rock Point, but both offered a charm he had come to recognize and appreciate as pure coastal Maine. Next to the car park was the gray-shingled Victorian house that served as the main offices for Sharpe Fine Art Recovery, a small, highly respected family business. During his year in Maine, Finian had come to know the Sharpes, including Dublin-based Wendell Sharpe.

  He wasn’t here to see the Sharpes. He was here to see a guest at the inn next to the Sharpe offices.

  Finian hesitated, his tentativeness a signal, perhaps, he wasn’t as fully committed to his mission in Heron’s Cove as he’d been when he’d started out from the rectory twenty minutes ago. It was understandable, he supposed. Not once since he’d left Bracken Distillers and entered the priesthood had he envisioned his new vocation sending him to check on a killer.