Thief's Mark

by Carla Neggers

  “He was working an angle,” Padgett said.

  Finian nodded. “I’ve struggled with that question and my responsibilities. When I found out his true identity...” He opened the breviary and took out a faded color photograph of four people standing in front of a honey-stone cottage. An older man, an older woman, a younger man and a curly-haired little girl. Finian placed the photograph faceup on the table and slid it across to the FBI agent. “There’s a note on the back. It just says the Balfours.”

  “I was with the stepson of Anthony Balfour’s widow yesterday.” Padgett scrutinized the photo. “The older man and woman must be the other two Balfour siblings, Freddy and Posey. The girl must be Henrietta Balfour. The younger man—her father, maybe.” He sighed, looking up. “When and where did you get this photograph?”

  “I found it in my breviary this morning,” Finian said. “It was tucked in the back. I haven’t been as diligent about my daily prayers since Davy Driscoll’s visit. I’ve been... I can’t explain.”

  “Conflicted is my guess. He put the photo in your breviary?”

  “Yes. He must have slipped it in when I stood up to shut my office door. We didn’t discuss this photograph, Special Agent Padgett.”

  “Why did he leave it with you?”

  “He included a note for me with the photo.” Finian unfolded the note, written on stationery from the inn in Heron’s Cove where Reed Warren—Davy Driscoll—had stayed and slid it to Sam Padgett. “It makes clear his intentions. He tells me if he doesn’t do the right thing, he knows I will. He acknowledges he lied to me and he was looking for information. I believe he was fighting temptation, Special Agent Padgett.”

  “Leaving the photo with you was a way for him to try to keep his darker angels at bay?”

  “Perhaps. It could be more manipulation. The man I knew as Reed Warren never admitted to being Davy Driscoll or to killing the Yorks, and he didn’t tell me his plans. He said he was Catholic and dying, and he asked me to hear his confession. I agreed, with reservations, but I soon realized he was insincere and broke it off with a blessing. He wasn’t pleased, and I’ve been wrestling with what to do ever since he left my office.” Finian was silent a moment. “It’s been a long few days.”

  Padgett studied him. “Go on, Father.”

  “He said he knew something—a secret that tortured him—and he’d done a terrible thing in his youth. He asked about Oliver York and his relationship with Colin Donovan and the Sharpes, Emma and Wendell in particular.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “Nothing.”

  Padgett gave a curt nod. “That I can believe.”

  “I encouraged him to go to the authorities. I’m not a law-enforcement officer.” Finian was silent a moment. “We now know his death was imminent, and perhaps he knew that, too—but he wasn’t dying, was he? He didn’t have a terminal illness.”

  “Doesn’t look that way.”

  “It makes no difference. Our conversation was a lie.”

  “Why did you look up the ruin where Oliver was taken?”

  “Because this man mentioned Scotland. He said he lived there.”

  “At the ruin? Why?”

  “He said he went to the ruin with his family as a child and had good memories of it.”

  “He said that, huh?” Padgett sat forward. “That’s not the story police have gone by for the past thirty years. They have Davy Driscoll and Bart Norcross choosing the ruin where they took Oliver at random—happening on it while they were on the run after their robbery in London went wrong. It’s long been assumed Driscoll and Norcross didn’t realize the Yorks were home when they broke into their apartment. They panicked after Deborah York recognized them and shot her and her husband and took their son.”

  “They could have decided to head to the ruin at the last minute, at Driscoll’s suggestion,” Finian said.

  “Maybe.” Padgett frowned at the photograph and note in front of him on the table. “What does a photograph of the Balfours have to do with that night?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “The murders, the kidnapping, Scotland. It’s starting to look as if they were planned in advance.” Padgett peered more closely at the photograph. “Something about this photo tells us what Davy Driscoll had on his mind when he left your office and headed to Dublin and then to England. Why break into Wendell Sharpe’s home?”

  “Information,” Finian said without hesitation. “The same reason Driscoll came to Maine. He didn’t tell me his plans but it makes sense. I told him not to wait and go straight to the authorities. I offered to go with him to the Rock Point police.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said he’d consider it and then asked me if Oliver had ever been back to the ruin.”

  Padgett blew out a breath. “Yeah. Back to the ruin.”

  “This was a conflicted, angry, bitter man, Special Agent Padgett. He mentioned his mother died last year. He couldn’t attend her funeral. The police would have been watching. Even after all this time, the York murders are still an open case. He knew he ruined his life and the fault lay with him, but he blamed others.”

  Padgett picked up his coffee mug and looked out at the harbor for a few seconds before shifting back to Finian. “You must deal with tortured souls and a lack of remorse in your line of work.”

  “I’m revealing my conversation with this man just because it was filled with lies. I wouldn’t reveal mere lies. This was never a confession.”

  “A difficult spot to be in.”

  Finian sat back. “I’m satisfied I did the right thing.”

  “I am, too. Thanks for coming down here.” Padgett nodded toward the restaurant entrance. “We weren’t fast enough. Here come a few Donovans.” He leaned back, more relaxed. “Time for doughnuts.”

  21

  The Cotswolds, England

  When Emma and Colin arrived at the Kershaw farm, they had their bags in the trunk and had checked out of their room—and they’d spoken with Sam Padgett and Finian Bracken about Davy Driscoll’s “confession.”

  And then Cassie Kershaw had called and asked them to meet her at the Kershaw farm. They drove out there and she met them in the front yard. She was dressed for the day but her hair was in tangles, old mascara or liner smudged under her eyes, clothes mismatched, as if she’d grabbed whatever was heaped on a chair or by the bed and thrown it on.

  “Thank you for coming,” she said. “I didn’t know what else to do. I thought you might be able to tell me what’s going on. The FBI paid my father a visit yesterday.”

  Colin nodded. “That’s right, Mrs. Kershaw.”

  “You know already? I should have guessed.” She pointed vaguely. “Let’s go round back. Eugene’s here somewhere. The boys are with Eugene’s sister. I’m—I’m freaking out. Tea in the garden, don’t you think, and you talk and I listen?”

  She shot forward without waiting for an answer. Emma exchanged a glance with Colin, but they said nothing and followed Cassie around to the back of the house, an elegant, postcard-perfect two-story in the ubiquitous Cotswold yellow limestone.

  Cassie pushed hair behind an ear as she stopped at a table and chairs. She didn’t sit down. “Dad emailed me last night. He didn’t want to call because it was late here. I got the email when I woke up. I don’t understand. Why would this man who died visit my father in the US and ask him about our connection to the Balfours?”

  “Have a seat, Mrs. Kershaw,” Colin said.

  She shook her head. “I’m too agitated to sit. You two feel free. You look calm, cool and collected. Easy, isn’t it, when it’s not your family under the microscope by both the FBI and a killer? That’s who this Reed Warren was, isn’t it? Davy Driscoll. A killer. A kidnapper of little boys.”

  Emma placed a hand on the back of a chair but
remained on her feet. “We know he visited your father as Reed Warren last Sunday. Did he ever come round here asking about the Balfours, the history of the farm?”

  “No. I never saw him before. I told the police. We had no idea he sneaked onto our property. He never did work for us. Henrietta gets Tony and Nigel to do things for her from time to time. I don’t think she’s had anyone else there to do work since she inherited the house. Posey might have spoken with him. I didn’t keep track.”

  “What about when Freddy Balfour was still alive?” Colin asked. “That goes back thirty years, but could Driscoll have done work for the Balfours back then?”

  “I suppose he could have, but I don’t know. I wouldn’t. I was in first grade in West Hartford.” Cassie yanked out a chair and plopped into it. “My dad believed this man.” She groaned, throwing up her hands. “Idiot.”

  “This man evaded authorities and lived under an assumed name for thirty years,” Emma said. “He fooled a lot of people, Cassie.”

  She went still, the last of the color draining from her face. “He could have killed Dad, couldn’t he? Poor Dad. He and my mother are looking forward to selling the house and retiring here. They’ll start out spending half the year—they’re finalizing all the paperwork. It’s a safe village. Charming. Storybook.” She bit down on her lower lip, then gave a laugh that didn’t come close to sounding genuine. “I suppose I should have remembered that storybooks have their evildoers.”

  Emma ran her palm over the back of the chair, warmed by the morning sun. She noticed the Kershaws had a large urn of annuals on the terrace but few other flowers, relying instead on flowering trees, shade trees and a large, lush lawn. Children’s toys and equipment were scattered on the terrace and a play area. It was the home of a young family, Emma thought. Henrietta Balfour’s home with its climbing roses and “accidental” cottage garden didn’t have that feel, at least not yet.

  “Do you remember your stepgrandmother?” Emma asked.

  Cassie shook her head. “She died before I was born. She and my grandfather found each other later in life. She’d moved to the US after she was widowed but they didn’t meet until Tony had graduated high school. My grandfather lost his first wife when my dad and his sister were still in high school. I think he and Tony’s mom had a happy marriage. They were each other’s companion until she died. He died a short time later.” She threw one leg over the other, foot shaking with nervous energy. “What do the Balfours have to do with Davy Driscoll?”

  “The detectives investigating his death are going to meet us here,” Colin said. “Is Tony Balfour here?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve been pacing and obsessing. Eugene might be with him. I’ll go see.”

  She leaped up and burst across the yard toward the cottage. Emma and Colin fell in behind her. As they came to the cottage, Emma heard a noise—a groan—from around back. Cassie shot forward, but Emma grabbed her as Colin eased past them and disappeared around the back of the cottage.

  “Stay back,” Emma said firmly.

  Cassie pulled against Emma’s grip. “Why, what—is it Eugene?”

  Before Emma could respond, Colin came around the corner of the cottage. “It’s Nigel Burns. He needs an ambulance.”

  Emma let Cassie break free and run toward Colin. Emma got out her phone and hit the number of DI Lowe’s mobile phone as she followed Colin and Cassie behind the cottage. Nigel was on his side in the grass and mud by the attached woodshed. He was conscious, swearing and moaning as he struggled to sit up.

  “He was hit on the back of the head,” Colin said. “He’s been out here all night.”

  “I’m okay.” Nigel grimaced, holding his neck as he sat up. More swearing. “Sorry.”

  Emma reached the detective inspector and gave him a quick rundown of what was going on. “On the way,” the DI said, disconnecting.

  Cassie wrung her hands together. “Where’s Eugene? Have you seen him? And Tony—is he here?”

  “It’s just me,” Nigel said, then snorted. “Whoever clocked me is probably long gone.”

  Colin stayed close to him. “Did you see who it was?”

  Nigel shook his head, winced. “No.”

  “Why did you come here?” Colin asked.

  “You don’t have to answer, Nigel,” Cassie said. “They’re FBI agents but they’re American. The police will be here soon.”

  “It’s all right. No point now...” He leaned back against the cottage’s back wall. “I saw that man here in January. The one who died. He said he was looking for Cotswold scenery to paint—you know, a painting that goes on the wall, not painting the wall. It was when Wendell Sharpe was visiting Mr. York. I’m sure of it. I saw him at the dovecote—lots of the walkers take pictures of it—and I saw him here.”

  “On our farm?” Cassie asked.

  “Right here. This spot.”

  She groaned, her skin a greenish color. “Who else saw him? Who did he see? My God, Nigel, why didn’t you say something?”

  “I didn’t think anything of it,” Nigel said with a shrug. “Not until he turned up dead.”

  “Did he speak with Wendell Sharpe?” Colin asked.

  “I don’t know. I never saw them together.”

  Colin narrowed his eyes. “What else, Nigel?”

  “You don’t have to worry about Bart Norcross turning up,” Nigel said. “He’s dead.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I didn’t kill him. I saw his grave. I know that now. It’s not what I thought at the time.”

  “When?”

  “Back then. I was thirteen. Scared. I blocked it out. I was back here sneaking a smoke and came on disturbed ground. I got it in my head it could be buried treasure. I don’t know—I wanted to see what it was. Never thought...” He looked ill. “I saw it was a man’s clothes and I didn’t want to see more. I put the dirt back on them and that was that. Let someone else find them. I wasn’t going to take the blame. I really thought it was just clothes. One of the killers changed clothes here and buried them. They fit the description police gave of the clothes Bart Norcross was wearing the night he and Davy Driscoll killed the Yorks. I figured he changed and buried them here.”

  Cassie snorted. “You moron, Nigel. You withheld a key clue that could have aided the manhunt.”

  “You eventually realized it wasn’t just clothes,” Colin said quietly. “Didn’t you, Nigel?”

  He nodded grimly. “Guessed. Didn’t know. I never checked. I figured anyone in the village could have hit him on the head with a shovel or something. Everyone was upset about the Yorks. Whatever happened, the bastard had it coming. I just blocked it out.”

  “Good God, Nigel,” Cassie whispered.

  “I didn’t tell anyone. Not even my mum. I came back here last night to see if my mind had played tricks on me, if the clothes...” He shut his eyes, his face ashen. “It wasn’t just clothes.” He vomited into the grass, then leaped to his feet in a burst of panic. “I can’t stay here.”

  Colin clamped an arm on him. “Easy, Nigel. You need medical attention.”

  “No worries. My mum’s good with injuries. I’ll go see her.”

  Colin didn’t respond, just eased Nigel back onto the ground.

  “The police are on the way,” Emma said. “They know we need an ambulance.”

  Cassie was trembling next to Emma. “I have to find Eugene.”

  As she spoke, Eugene staggered around from the front of the cottage, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Nigel’s all right, then?” He stood still, sniffled. “I didn’t know... I was so afraid.” He gulped in a breath. “I’m sorry. I left him there. I thought he was going to attack me. I panicked and hid in the cottage. Tony’s not there. I haven’t seen him since last night.”

  “When did you hide in the cottage?” Emma asked.


  He lifted his gaze to her but seemed to have trouble focusing. “What?” He held up a hand. “Just before you and Cassie and Agent Donovan got here. I’ve never...” He looked down at Nigel. “How are you?”

  “I’ll be okay, I think,” Nigel said.

  Cassie stood next to her husband. “You’re a wreck. What’s going on, Eugene? Tell me.”

  “Henrietta’s gone to Scotland with Oliver. They must know by now...” He didn’t make eye contact with his wife. “I’ve known Henrietta since she was born, and Posey—she was a constant in my life, a good neighbor. I remember Freddy Balfour. He was a character. I’ve met Henrietta’s parents, but they’re city people. They remind me of my parents, but mine will tolerate an occasional weekend in the country—they’re just in Oxford, not too far. Henrietta’s parents break into a cold sweat whenever they’re here, I swear.”

  “Eugene...” Cassie said, her voice a croak. “You’re not making any sense.”

  “No, no, it’s all right, Cassie. I need to...” He sniffled again, but he seemed stronger. “Tony didn’t come round for years—I think he was here once before Freddy died. He worked in the States in his twenties. He visited when Posey got sick, at the end. I overheard a few unkind remarks in the village suggesting he was ingratiating himself to get something out of her when she died, but I never saw any evidence of that. He was always quite kind to her. He decided to stay in the area in retirement. He and Henrietta seem to get on well.”

  “Tony was never really a part of my family,” Cassie said.

  “Davy Driscoll left a photograph with a priest in the US,” Colin said. “We believe he stole it when he visited your father last Sunday. The police will show it to you. It was taken here when Freddy Balfour was alive. Do you know anything about this photo, Eugene?”

  He squeezed his eyes shut, but fresh tears oozed down his cheeks. He shook his head. “I saw it on a visit to Cassie’s family in the US. I didn’t pay any attention. It was taken a long time ago...before the Yorks were killed.”

  Cassie had gone silent. “Eugene...the paintings. You’ve been acting weird ever since I found the one of Queen’s View. What haven’t you told me all this time? Damn it, you’re hiding something. Just like Nigel.” She balled a hand into a fist. “You didn’t kill Bart Norcross, did you? Davy Driscoll—please, Eugene. Tell me you didn’t kill anyone.”