“It’s not the cleverest metaphor. Yank warned me you’re independent to a fault, not very analytical or much of a team player. He said it’s one of the reasons you do well working long-term deep-cover assignments.”
“And you say?”
“I say you do whatever Yank says.”
“Ha. That’ll be the day.”
Emma started to get up, but Colin hooked an arm around her and pulled her next to him. She settled against him, noted his warmth, the strength of his arms, his legs. “The media will be all over the Davy Driscoll story once it gets out,” she said. “MI5 might be able to keep it quiet if it suits their purposes, but it’s an open secret in the village that Reed Warren was Driscoll’s alias.”
“We’ll be in London or home by the time this breaks. Not sure what we’ll do without a breakfast buffet every morning, but we’ll manage.” He winked at her. “The clock’s striking midnight on your warm scones and clotted cream.”
“Not going to get up early and make them for me, are you? It’s the cut-up fruit I’ll miss most. Left to my own devices, I’ll grab a banana or apple instead of cutting up a variety of fruit. We won’t be having time off for a while.”
“We didn’t need another Oliver York sideshow.”
“Or another Sharpe sideshow. The FBI agents who are friends with Oliver York, the traumatized boy from thirty years ago.” Emma snuggled even closer to Colin. “Being married to a Sharpe is already putting pressure on your undercover career.”
“I could get promoted to a desk for real.” He patted her hip. “It wouldn’t be so bad.”
“I’d rather it not be my grandfather’s friendship with Oliver that pushes you into doing puffin tours, but if you’re out, I’ll be out, too.”
“You can pack the lunches for the puffin tours.”
She sat up next to him. He remained stretched out, watching her. “You’re serious,” she said.
“Absolutely. I even have sample menus. I figure we’d offer gluten-free, shellfish-free, nut-free, sugar-free menus. I’d hate to be allergic to lobster but some people are.”
“You’ve thought it all through?”
“What else am I supposed to do on lonely nights undercover?” He grabbed her by the waist and pulled her down again. “Emma, Emma. Nothing’s happened with your family and their contacts that Yank didn’t predict and allow for.”
“What about you?”
“I didn’t predict you to start with. If anyone told me a year ago I’d be married to an ex-nun, lying here in a cute English village worrying about an art thief, I’d have laughed.”
“But here we are,” Emma said, settling again next to him.
He rolled onto his side, facing her. “We’re not about our work, whether it’s the FBI or puffin tours.” He lowered his mouth to hers. “We’re about each other.”
* * *
Colin awoke to a text from Sam Padgett.
Driscoll visited Cassie Kershaw’s father in W. Hartford Sunday as RW, before heading to Maine. Told Kershaw he learned about Balfours while looking for place to retire in Cotswolds. No details. Dad didn’t know RW/DD dead.
How’d he take it?
Not well. I didn’t tell him RW was DD.
Colin knew Padgett would inform the British investigators. Before he could respond, another text popped up on his screen.
What are you doing up? Don’t answer. I’m going back to Maine. Try again with FB.
Finian Bracken. Colin gritted his teeth. Good luck.
Excuse to have Hurley’s donuts. Later.
Colin thanked him and slid his phone back on the bedside table. Emma stirred, placing a palm on his chest. “That was Sam.” He told her about the texts. “What are the odds Sam can get Fin to talk?”
“If Davy Driscoll genuinely confessed to him? It won’t happen. Finian won’t talk.”
He placed his hand over hers. She snuggled closer to him, and he could see them in Maine, laughing with Fin Bracken over whiskey, clam chowder and wild blueberry pie. “Do you think this confession will ruin our friendship with Fin?” he asked, staring up into the dark room.
“Not if we respect his vows as a priest. He respects what we can and can’t say as federal law-enforcement agents.”
“I could tell him things in confession but I don’t.”
“You’re friends,” she said, as if that settled it, explained it.
“I wish to hell Davy Driscoll had chosen another priest.”
“But he didn’t.” She rose up, her hair hanging within inches of his face. “He didn’t because it wasn’t a confession, Colin. Finian wasn’t in his role as a priest hearing a conversation between a penitent and God. He wasn’t in his role as a pastoral counselor. He was in his role as your friend, my friend and Oliver’s friend. That’s why Davy chose him.”
“Fin will see that?”
“I think so, yes. It’s not up to us. Only he knows what was said.”
Colin curved an arm around her. “You’ve been thinking about this, haven’t you?”
He saw her smile in the moonlight. “I’m always thinking,” she said.
He pulled her closer. “Not always.”
She lowered her mouth to his. “So true.”
19
Southern Highlands, Scotland
“If one’s going to do a mad, all-night drive to Scotland, best to do it in June,” Henrietta said, stifling a yawn. “It’s light already, isn’t it?”
Oliver shrugged next to her. “I’m not sure it ever got dark.”
He was driving. He’d taken over the wheel before they’d reached Edinburgh. She’d dozed off. Really rusty, she thought, if she couldn’t stay awake with a possible murderer in the car with her. Which she knew was absurd, but still.
Now they were cruising on the A9 motorway north of the city. Henrietta was positive Oliver hadn’t slept at all on their interminable drive. She hadn’t even caught him in a yawn, but he didn’t strike her as particularly fatigued.
She forced herself to sit up straight. Easier to shake off sleep that way. “Were you tempted to invite your FBI friends to join us?”
Her out-of-the-blue question didn’t seem to throw him. “I wouldn’t want to put them in a difficult position.” He glanced at her, and she was struck by how good-looking he was, how alert with his black-lashed, deep green eyes focused on her for that brief few seconds before he turned back to his driving. “What about you? Did you ring Jeremy Pearson and tell him you and I were on the way to Scotland?”
“I didn’t tell anyone, actually. I don’t know if that’s an act of trust or stupidity. You have a lot of stone-carving tools. You could have tucked one in a cup holder when I wasn’t looking.”
“But you did a search,” he said calmly.
“You know what they say. Trust but verify. And don’t think I’m intimidated by your martial-arts skills,” she added. “You black-belt types never count on us non-black-belt types being able to defend ourselves.”
“Aunt Posey’s tapestry bag would fell me.”
Henrietta grinned, amazed how comfortable she felt with him—for reasons she couldn’t fathom, either. “I should never have told you it was her bag. I only packed a change of clothes and toiletries. I’m not spending a week in Scotland with you. I can’t leave clients in the lurch.”
“I’m your major client at the moment.”
“I have to make plans. If you want to stay on in Scotland longer than I’m able to, I can take the train back.”
“Decent of you, but you didn’t answer my question. Jeremy Pearson vetted you for MI5, didn’t he? And you put him onto me.”
“For what?”
He kept his hands at a proper ten and two on the wheel. “I won’t insist you drop this garden-designer act but I won’t pretend yo
u’re not MI5, either. Martin knows. I’m sure of it.”
“Martin knows everything. You shouldn’t feel guilty about him, by the way. He’s old-school. He’ll view guilt as belittling. He’s not the sort to waste time on regrets. You should follow his example.” She stared out her window, the Scottish scenery coming into view as dawn took hold. “Of course, if you weren’t the mopey type, I wouldn’t have had this long trip north with you.”
“You snored.”
She laughed, turning to him. “I hope so.”
“Did you want to be a garden designer before you decided on MI5?”
“Garden design is my dream job.”
“Another of your parsed answers,” he said. “Posey never coddled me as a boy after my parents’ murder. She told me not to dwell on it because life would hand me more setbacks.”
“When you were eight?”
“Around then. It wasn’t long after I was orphaned.”
“This from a woman with a trust fund, a home in a beautiful and safe part of the world—” Henrietta broke off. “I’m sorry, Oliver. You deserved only kindness and understanding.”
He was silent a moment. “I might argue that Posey was being kind and understanding. She was right, you know. She could have phrased her advice a bit differently, I suppose.”
“A bit?”
“She meant well.”
“I adored her, but she wasn’t one to beat about the bush.”
“It was refreshing,” Oliver said. “Even now, most people don’t know what to say to me given my history.”
Henrietta stretched her lower back. They’d stopped three times, never for more than a few minutes. She’d let herself get carried away with a sense of urgency that didn’t exist. “Frankly, Oliver, I think that’s in your head. Most people don’t think about you at all. Sorry, but it’s the truth. And if they are awkward, it could be because you don’t like being around people and spend your time studying things like ancient Celtic death rituals. I wouldn’t be surprised if you have a bog body tucked in a back room.”
His mouth twitched but he didn’t turn to her. They were off the A9 now—she’d barely noticed—and were driving through the tourist village of Pitlochry, dead quiet so early in the morning. “Have you ever seen a bog body, Henrietta?” Oliver asked.
“On BBC. As close as I care to come to one. Have you?”
“I have, although I don’t make a point of studying death rituals.”
“Saint Declan of Ireland is your type,” she said.
“He was a healer.”
She put her feet up on the dash. She’d have hung them out of the window if she could have managed, but there wasn’t enough room. “I’m glad you didn’t boot me out of the car and leave me in the dark.”
“You’d have managed. I’ve no doubts whatsoever.”
He sounded distracted, and she noticed the tension in his forearms as he clutched the wheel. She put her feet back on the floor and sat up straight. “Are we getting closer?”
He nodded but grew quiet as they pushed north. “Do you know Scottish history?” he asked.
“Some.”
Without warning, he pulled into a small picnic area just past a caravan park. “This is where the Battle of Killiecrankie took place. It was part of the Jacobite uprising meant to restore the Stuarts to the throne. That didn’t work, of course. Blair Castle isn’t far. Balmoral Castle, summer home to the royal family, is a bit farther up the road.”
“We could chuck seeing the ruin where you were taken and tour castles instead.”
“Have you spent much time in Scotland?”
“The occasional weekend holiday since I left home.” Henrietta decided not to mention her visit with her churl of an ex-boyfriend. “My parents and I never visited when I was growing up. My parents tended to go on holiday without me. They thought I would be bored.”
“That’s why you spent so much time with your aunt. Was she good company?”
“She practiced what she liked to call healthy neglect. She didn’t hover. I was able to roam about and do as I pleased for the most part. She didn’t own a television or a computer. I found that stifling or liberating, depending on my mood.”
“I wish I’d known her better. My grandparents and Martin always spoke well of her.”
“She’d have liked that,” Henrietta said.
It was clearly difficult for him to speak. He took a breath and turned to her with a smile. “A short walk to welcome the new day?”
“All right.” She pointed to the back seat where she’d set a small rucksack. “And breakfast.”
“You have food?” His smile broadened to a grin. “Brilliant. MI5 thinks of everything.”
“An accomplished international art thief who’s never been caught must think of food.”
“I often forget food,” he said without, she noted, admitting he was a thief.
She reached for her rucksack. “Not me. I never forget food.”
* * *
They ate while sitting across from each other at a roadside picnic table. Henrietta set out a thermos of tea, cups, apples and bacon sandwiches. Two of everything. “I have protein bars if you’re still hungry,” she said. “I didn’t unpack them.”
“Let’s walk down to the river.”
They took a well-traveled trail that wound through the trees, down a steep hill to a river. Their trail ended at another, wider trail that ran parallel to the river, wide, shallow and slow-moving here.
“We’re not far from Soldier’s Leap,” Oliver said. “It’s the spot where a Jacobite soldier is said to have jumped across the river, a near superhuman feat. He was being chased by hostile forces, so he was highly motivated.”
“It’s one of the scenes in Davy Driscoll’s car.”
“Yes.”
“The police showed the paintings to you.”
It was a statement, but he nodded without looking at her. He stared at the river in the milky light.
“I didn’t get a good look at all of them,” Henrietta added. “You’re the art thief. Are they any good? Did our anonymous painter of Scottish scenes go on to become a famous artist?”
Oliver continued to stare at the river, as if its steady, relentless flow soothed him.
“Oliver?”
Still he said nothing.
Henrietta swore under her breath. “You recognized the paintings? Did Davy Driscoll do them? Then how did the one of Queen’s View get into the Kershaw cottage? Oliver.” She took a breath. “Whose work are they?”
He turned to her, his breathing ragged.
She touched his shoulder. “Please don’t make me guess. Just tell me.”
“They’re my mother’s work.”
Henrietta lowered her hand from his shoulder. As far as she knew, none of the paintings in the car had a signature. The one of Queen’s View certainly didn’t. The truth was, she had no idea if Oliver was being straight with her. She hadn’t seen the detectives at his house, or coming or going, when she’d returned with her car for this mad trip to Scotland.
“If you’re making this up, I’m going to throw you in the river,” she said.
“I’m remembering.”
“What does that mean?”
He gave her a faint smile. “I love that you don’t coddle me.”
“I only coddle hybrid roses and clematis. Oliver, anyone could have put the paintings in the cottage, assuming that’s where Driscoll got the ones in his car. It seems likely. Could he have painted them?”
“They’re not his work.”
“Why do you think they’re your mother’s work? What are you trying to remember?”
“I’m trying to clear the fog,” he said. “It’s like thinking you heard Santa Claus in the parlor and then trying to figure out wha
t it was and how you could have been so wrong.”
“Because you were eight. You experienced a violent, traumatic event and your mind locked onto images that you don’t know now were real.” Henrietta stared at the river now, too. “Santa Claus is a bad analogy, by the way. Seriously. You think back on footsteps in the parlor and know it was your dad. You’re thinking back on...what?”
“Hiding in the library.”
“Before your parents were killed,” she said softly.
He nodded. Henrietta didn’t know what else to say. What did Jeremy Pearson know about the paintings? Had he told her everything? She rubbed the back of her neck, feeling the strain of their hours on the road. She listened to a red squirrel chattering high in an evergreen on the edge of the picnic area and, beneath the chattering, down the steep hillside, she could make out the soothing sounds of the river flowing downstream. The beautiful setting was a disconcerting backdrop to the raw intensity of the man next to her.
“What else, Oliver?” she asked finally.
He turned away from her and peered up at the evergreen, as if trying to spot the chattering squirrel. “Since yesterday...” He paused, lowering his gaze again to the river. “I’m missing something. I’ve been missing it all these years. It’s as if old and new images are jumbled together and I can’t make sense of any of them.”
“Don’t try. Just let them be. Accept them.”
He glanced at her, his eyes lost in the early-morning shadows. “Do you think that will help?”
“Yes.”
“Always so confident.”
“It’s training, Oliver. Experience. Force can make things worse. What do you see?”
“I see us walking on the farm by the dovecote. My mother, my father and me. We’re holding hands. It’s not a memory. I think it must be an image I held in my head to keep me calm.”
“Even if it’s not a memory, it’s real. You’re the type of family that would hold hands and walk on the farm together.”
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