Thief's Mark

by Carla Neggers

  “What if the guy confessing is insincere?”

  “The confessional seal holds with impenitence, too. The penitent wouldn’t get absolution but he or she would still be entitled to confidentiality. The priest can also choose to give a blessing instead of absolution.”

  Colin stretched out on the bed atop the duvet and leaned against the pillows. “Driscoll should have spent the last thirty years in prison. If he confessed to murder, would Fin have encouraged him to turn himself in?”

  “Yes, almost certainly. Finian would have urged him to go to the authorities and atone for his past.”

  “But he couldn’t call the police himself,” Colin said, not making it a question.

  “A priest’s role as a confessor is to facilitate a penitent’s return to God and an end to the moral disorder caused by his or her sins. Confession isn’t a free-for-all. There are conditions that permit a priest to reasonably refuse a confession, but if Davy Driscoll said he was Catholic and dying...”

  “Finian wouldn’t have refused him.” Colin finished his cookie and set the empty package on the bedside table. “I never bought the absolute-secrecy thing as a kid. I always figured Father Callaghan would rat me out to my parents if I told him the good stuff. Did you tell your priest all your sins?”

  “That’s between me and the priest.”

  “Aha. So you were a bad girl before the nunnery?”

  Emma laughed. “You’re hopeless.”

  “Is that a yes? You know I have a reputation as a tough interrogator.” But he rolled to his feet and reached for his jacket. “Let’s go have dinner with Henrietta and her friends. I’ll get your naughty past out of you another time.”

  She tossed the remains of her cookie in the wastebasket. “I’ll try Granddad again on the way.”

  “He’s not going to answer. You know that, right?”

  “I can get Lucas and my father to try him.”

  “He’ll ignore them, too. Whatever Wendell’s up to, we’re in England and can’t do much about it. We might as well trust him.”

  “He’s gone to see Oliver. I just know it.” She pulled on her rain jacket. “I swear, though, if Granddad’s thrown off an Irish cliff by a crazed art thief, it’ll serve him right.”

  “Never mind getting thrown off a cliff. You need to worry about him getting himself arrested.”

  “That would serve him right, too.”

  “It’d be nice if Driscoll confessed to your brother, too, but Lucas would have told you.”

  “In a heartbeat,” Emma said without hesitation.

  “If there are any loopholes in Finian’s understanding of his obligations with his meeting with Davy Driscoll, Sam will find them.”

  11

  The police found the missing chisel stuck in a pot of coleus by the side entrance where Davy Driscoll had bled to death. Martin confirmed it was, in fact, the chisel missing from Oliver’s stone-cutting studio. He recognized the worn handle and the sharp, flat steel blade. Although not sprayed by blood itself, the coleus pot, a stone urn that had occupied that spot for years, was within two meters of the spilled blood. Both the urn and the chisel would be closely examined for forensic evidence.

  DI Lowe thanked Martin for his help. “Get some dinner and some rest, Mr. Hambly.”

  “I will, thank you.”

  “And lock your doors.”

  Martin went through the house, hearing only his footsteps in the stone-tiled hall. He said hello to a detective sergeant in the kitchen and left through the back door. He welcomed the cool evening air, its dampness, its feel of impending rain. He decided he wanted a fire tonight, more for atmosphere than heat. He was exhausted and yet his mind was buzzing with worries and questions.

  He hadn’t said anything to the police, but he suspected it had been both potting soil and blood he’d seen on the chisel blade. It had been stabbed into the soil, not tossed in among the coleus leaves. Martin supposed a flailing, dying man spurting arterial blood theoretically could have flung the instrument of his self-inflicted injury and have it land in the coleus by happenstance, but stabbed into the soil? Unlikely. On the other hand, a calculating killer could have chosen the coleus as a hiding place for the murder weapon, not wanting to risk being caught with it but expecting at least to delay its discovery. Martin had countless questions that he knew the police couldn’t or wouldn’t answer.

  They’d assured him they would keep watch on the property overnight.

  Martin put his questions aside and crossed the terrace off the kitchen, one of Henrietta’s many upcoming projects. Weeds were popping up through the cracks in the bricks, which were chipped themselves, crumbling, splotched with moss and lichens. Flowerpots helped but it needed a complete redo. Oliver, however, had to be convinced. Martin had tried for years. He’d leave Henrietta to it.

  He started across the lawn, past a fenced flower garden in its full June glory. Henrietta approved of its overall design and effect despite its need for an “extreme chop.” Oliver had all but paled at that assessment.

  “Where are you, Oliver?”

  Martin knew his words would do no good, even to calm him.

  As much as he couldn’t envision himself getting any rest, as the detective inspector had suggested, Martin knew it was what he needed, and soon.

  After a drink and whatever he could scrounge for supper.

  He continued past a Celtic stone sculpture—one of Oliver’s early efforts and a sorry one at that—and down a gentle, grassy slope toward his cottage, a stone-and-timber traditional structure that had been built at the same time as the farmhouse.

  When he was certain he was out of sight of anyone watching him from the kitchen, he allowed his shoulders to slump and the full impact of the horrid day to show in his stance, his gait, his expression—his entire being. It took all his strength to continue to the cottage he’d called home for nearly forty years instead of sinking into the grass, burying his face in his hands and blocking out the world.

  He took comfort in the familiar walk and when he reached his cottage, he went straight in, without hesitation. He seldom locked the doors and hadn’t that morning. The police had taken a look inside but hadn’t detected anything amiss—at least from what Martin had been able to gather. They hadn’t told him. They’d simply emerged from their search without further questions.

  He didn’t know if police had dismissed him as a suspect in Davy Driscoll’s death.

  Alfred was asleep on the hearth in front of the cold wood-and-coal-burning stove and barely wagged his tail in greeting, as if the events of the day had left him drained and shaken, too.

  Martin had left the door open to the puppy’s crate. Given the circumstances, he’d decided to let Alfred have the choice of going in or out. The hearth had won, but he hadn’t torn up the place or relieved himself on the floor or the wall, which he’d managed to do early in his training. Oliver had thought that hilarious when Martin had told him. “He’s your dog more than mine, Martin, and not because he peed on the wall.”

  It was true. Martin had pushed Oliver into getting a puppy. He’d believed the farm needed one—that Oliver needed a dog for companionship, to get himself outside his head and into the day-to-day world. Martin was convinced that Alfred’s presence had helped lead Oliver to hiring Henrietta, although her curls and warm blue eyes and mad skirts didn’t hurt.

  What would Alfred have done if he’d come face-to-face with one of the men who’d killed Charles and Deborah York and kidnapped their young son? A wire fox terrier mere months old wouldn’t recognize Davy Driscoll and Bart Norcross, of course, but would Alfred have sensed their malevolence? Their capacity for violence?

  Martin took a bottle of Lagavulin from his whiskey cabinet. He got a glass and poured a dram of the smoky single malt. It had been a Christmas present from Nicholas York, Oliver’s g
randfather, shortly before his death. “I worry about Oliver,” Nicholas had said, his voice raspy with illness. “A good single malt will come in handy after Priscilla and I are gone and it’s just you looking after him.”

  No truer words were ever spoken, Martin thought as he sat in his favorite chair and shut his eyes, breathing in the complex scents of his Scotch. Questions overran him. Why had Oliver run? Where was he now? Had Davy Driscoll said anything to him before he died?

  Would Oliver’s friends in MI5 be able to save him this time?

  He was intelligent, clever, solitary and damaged. That much Martin knew and couldn’t deny. As much as Oliver claimed to trust him, that trust went only so far. “Some things it’s best you don’t know, my friend,” he would say.

  One of them being that Oliver was a master art thief.

  Martin sipped the Lagavulin and settled deeper into his chair. An open window would alert him to any commotion outside among the police, and it let in the warm air, fragrant with flowers.

  He set his glass on the side table, next to the morning newspaper. He’d meant to finish reading it at lunch. He remembered Henrietta’s excitement at having discovered the old flowerpot. MI5 or not, she had a charm about her and her love of gardening seemed genuine. A Balfour trait, she’d called it.

  How differently the day had started than it was ending.

  Martin had no appetite. He shut his eyes and listened to birds in the hedges outside the open window. Had the birds witnessed Davy Driscoll’s death? Had they seen him sneaking onto the farm and attempted to warn Oliver? Had they followed him in his Rolls-Royce?

  Martin sprang to his feet, chiding himself for his wild thinking. Birds. Dear God.

  He belatedly took off his shoes and placed them in the copper boot pan by the front door. He’d let his lightweight jacket fall to the floor when he’d taken it off and now hung it on the row of pegs above the boot pan. He welcomed the sense of normalcy he felt. He’d never married. He was tidy, and he had his routines and rituals, relied on them in times of stress.

  Alfred stirred, wanting a walk.

  Martin hooked the puppy’s lead onto his collar and took him behind the cottage. As if sensing the mood of the evening, Alfred got straight down to business and didn’t tug on the lead, jump, sniff or dig. He had a white, wiry coat with soft brown markings and excellent terrier features. He would be a handsome dog when fully grown, but Martin had no desire to show him or breed him and he knew Oliver would blanch at the thought.

  Although still a puppy, Alfred was also territorial and possessed his breed’s strong hunting instincts. No question he’d have yelped furiously at a stranger putting him into the cottage. Ruthie didn’t remember seeing Alfred when she’d returned from her errands.

  Had Oliver popped Alfred into the cottage before going to the dovecote?

  More questions, Martin thought in frustration.

  He and Alfred returned to the cottage. The warm hearth for the puppy. A forced bite to eat and more Lagavulin for him.

  * * *

  Henrietta took a walk to burn off her hoppy pint and the discovery of the chisel. She’d heard from the police and then Martin. Nothing, thankfully, from MI5. As she returned to her house, she remembered she’d invited the FBI agents to dinner. They were out front, admiring—or politely pretending to admire—the purple wisteria dripping by the front door and very nearly blocking a window. They greeted her warmly, and she decided to bring them around to the garden rather than through the house.

  “We can go through the gate to Cassie and Eugene’s house,” she said, leading the way through grass that needed cutting. She’d never had to maintain a house. She didn’t know how she’d ever keep up. “Did I tell you we’re having dinner at their house? They’re wonderful neighbors. They wanted to feed the boys first. You’ll want to start getting yourselves back on to East Coast time, I imagine. Five hours earlier there. I loathe jet lag myself.”

  “Jet lag’s no one’s favorite,” Emma said, glancing around the garden. “The flowers are incredible.”

  “The garden has good bone structure, doesn’t it? It’s my great-aunt’s doing.”

  Henrietta paused by a sagging rose trellis. She noticed Colin didn’t seem interested. He and Emma didn’t seem to mind that she hadn’t invited them inside. It was a complete mess. She’d never been tidy. Aunt Posey hadn’t objected provided Henrietta contain herself to her room. Any spillover received stern measures. Without her around, Henrietta could indulge herself. Plus she had to incorporate her things from London with Posey’s things, sort through what she wanted to keep and what needed to go. Oliver had never witnessed her untidy ways and she didn’t want the FBI agents reporting back to him. She wasn’t sure why. Otherwise she couldn’t have cared less what they thought of her housekeeping skills.

  “I’ve a few things to do in the garden. It’s the way, isn’t it? The garden designer’s garden is the last to be tended. My aunt always said the trick to creating a proper cottage garden is to make it appear accidental when, of course, it’s anything but. She had a simple philosophy but she took care to plant flowers where they would grow and then tend them. She’s still my inspiration. Makes one wonder about our death today, doesn’t it? Perhaps it was meant to appear accidental or at least spontaneous when it was carefully planned.”

  “It’s not for us to say,” Emma said.

  Oh, right. As if they were here to see the delphiniums.

  “Did your aunt grow up in the village?” Colin asked casually.

  “No. London. She moved here as a young woman. The Balfours had a country home here. That’s where we’re headed now. My grandfather inherited it and the Kershaws bought it after his death. Posey had already carved out this lot for herself. I loved visiting her. Freddy—my grandfather—died when I was five. My parents are lovely, but no one would call them doting. They believe in what they like to call healthy neglect.” Henrietta smiled. “I’m in the mood for oxymorons, apparently. The planned garden that appears accidental. Healthy neglect.”

  “Gets the point across,” Colin said.

  “Aunt Posey often chided me for my sprinklings of metaphors. She was a concrete sort. I think you two would have got on.” Henrietta pinched a faded scented rose. “Deadheading is endless this time of year but worth the effort. Now that’s not to be taken literally. No lost heads today.”

  Emma raised her eyebrows but neither she nor Colin commented.

  “That’s not to be taken as a metaphor, either.” Henrietta shrugged. “Sorry.”

  “No problem,” Colin said. “We heard from the police when we got here. They found the missing stone-cutting tool.”

  “I was getting to that in my tortuous MI5 way. That’s who I blame, at any rate. Yes, I got word, too. Tucked into the coleus, of all things.”

  “You didn’t put it there?” Colin asked.

  “Well. That’s direct. No, I didn’t. Neither did Martin. We were together the entire time before the police arrived, and we didn’t collude. If I’d wanted to get rid of a chisel, I assure you I could have done better than the coleus.”

  Neither FBI agent commented. Henrietta felt a kindred spirit with Colin especially, which surprised her, but she supposed it shouldn’t have. He reminded her of her early MI5 days, training and then working with operators like him—experienced, observant, skilled and quick to react. They trusted their instincts with good reason. She’d been one of them herself for a time.

  She continued past more roses. “The police finally told me it was Davy Driscoll this morning. They asked me to keep it under my hat. They must be looking for evidence Driscoll was in contact with Bart Norcross. I wouldn’t be surprised if Driscoll killed him years ago, would you? I’ve often wondered how Oliver managed to escape that Scottish ruin. Supposedly he seized the moment when Driscoll and Norcross argued. It was a long drive up from London
and they must have been on edge.”

  Emma moved to another rose blossom. “They ended up with relatively little for their night of violence.”

  Henrietta nodded. “There could have been tension between them and Oliver’s escape was the last straw. They had to know he could identify them. They were facing a lifetime on the run or in prison. Driscoll could have cracked under the pressure and killed Norcross after Oliver escaped and then pitched his body off a Scottish cliff, never to be found.” She knew she was indulging in wild speculation and the FBI agents would never comment. Part of what drove her, perhaps. She took a deep breath, getting a lungful of sweet garden scents. “How did Driscoll manage to take on his identity as Reed Warren, do you suppose? It would have been easier back then, but still.”

  “It looks as if he created a new identity rather than stole one,” Colin said.

  “I’ve seen Driscoll’s wanted photos but they aren’t that great and it’s been thirty years. I didn’t get a good look at his face given the position of the body, but obviously he’d aged. No doubt he did things to change his appearance—if not enough for Oliver not to recognize him. I suppose he could have outright told Oliver who he was.” Henrietta felt a rush of energy, fueled by unleashing her brainstorming skills. “Driscoll went decades without being detected or giving himself up. Why come here now? Why not go to London, where he committed his crimes? Why such a dramatic death, whoever is responsible? A stone-cutting tool. It couldn’t have been an ordinary kitchen knife.”

  Colin stepped past her toward the back gate. “All good questions,” he said.

  “Ruthie Burns did up the coleus pot before I came on scene. They’re getting leggy and need a proper chop but they’re in partial shade. It’s a perfect spot, really.” Henrietta swore she heard a rush of rain but she felt nothing. “I’ve never conducted a death investigation. Straight into MI5 and then gardening. Have either of you?”