Thief's Mark

by Carla Neggers

  It was clear now Bart Norcross had meant to kill Deborah and Charles York and kidnap Oliver from the start. Davy Driscoll hadn’t, but he’d realized the truth at the end, if not its full ramifications until Bart slashed him with the stone-cutting chisel.

  The choice of Scotland and the ruin thirty years ago had been Driscoll’s idea. He’d believed they would hide there while the hunt cooled.

  He hadn’t realized Bart had other plans.

  Colin saw now the ripple effects of the past thirty years of questions, erroneous assumptions, uncertainties, trauma and loss. And memories, he thought. Oliver’s in particular, of a mother, a father, the boy he’d been.

  Oliver was into filling in any blanks now. “It wasn’t a confession, but Davy’s visit with Finian did have an impact on him,” he said. “Ultimately Davy wanted to tell the truth, if only because he wanted revenge against Bart for ruining his life. As if he played no part in that night.”

  Henrietta nodded. “Liars and manipulators. Davy and Bart both.”

  Colin said nothing. Neither did Emma. They both understood that Oliver and Henrietta had been through a deeply personal ordeal that reached back into their early childhoods. They needed to go through it.

  “Davy recognized Bart in January but he was more interested in why Oliver was hanging out with Wendell Sharpe, FBI agents and an Irish priest. He went back to Scotland but started putting the pieces together.”

  “It became a mission for him,” Colin said. “Fin Bracken says he was obsessed.”

  Oliver didn’t respond at once. “Davy knew my mother had painted in secret in the cottage on what had then been the Balfour farm. It was a toehold for him. He wanted to know more and came back down from Scotland. By then Cassie had found one of my mother’s paintings. Tony—Bart—was living in the cottage.”

  “Davy was looking for a way to profit from what he knew,” Henrietta said. “Must have annoyed him when he realized his partner in crime had a better life than he did.”

  “Money, a good name.” Oliver seemed transfixed by the details that had eluded him for so long. “Bart couldn’t risk exposure. Davy must have told him about his caravan. Bart needed to get there before the police did. I’ve been remembering things.” He paused, his eyes distant. “I escaped when Driscoll and Norcross argued. Driscoll thought they would just grab a few things. Norcross had bigger plans. The weapon used that night was never recovered.”

  “Until the bastard almost shot us with it,” Henrietta said.

  “They stole the gun from another client they did odd jobs for,” Oliver said. “Police always believed the gun was opportunistic—part of the spontaneity of the night rather than a vital part of a developed plan to kill the Yorks. Bart did the killing. Driscoll kept the gun, obviously. I imagine he made sure he never left any fingerprints of his own on it. He knew he would face murder charges despite not pulling the trigger himself, but he still thought it was a hold over his violent friend should their paths cross again. At least Davy knew he had a weapon if Bart ever showed up.”

  “They knew you were home that night,” Henrietta pronounced.

  Oliver nodded grimly. “Norcross knew. I always believed we surprised them, but he knew. I never got a particularly good look at him. I was mostly with Davy. My mother recognized him.” Oliver paused, splaying his fingers on his thighs. “I understand now the sense of betrayal I heard in her voice. It wasn’t just that two contract workers would steal from her. She’d seen Davy as a kindred soul, an artist like herself.”

  Colin could only imagine. Jeremy Pearson had told him about a notation on the back of the canvas police had discovered in Davy Driscoll’s caravan. Deborah York had painted the scene as a gift to her husband to celebrate their tenth wedding anniversary.

  To Charles and to many more decades together, with all my love, Deborah

  Apparently she’d brought the painting to London from her secret studio in the Cotswolds to give to her husband. But they never got the chance to celebrate that or any other anniversary.

  Police discovered photographs in Davy’s caravan of Scotland that he, like young Eugene, had given to Deborah to paint. There was also a sketchy painting Deborah had done of the ruin where, weeks later, Davy Driscoll and Bart Norcross had almost killed her son.

  That had always been part of their plan.

  “She knew,” Oliver said, his voice ghostly quiet. “After Davy died in my arms, I kept hearing the horror in her voice. The sense of betrayal. I couldn’t shake that it was directed at me. But it wasn’t. It was directed at him. He had to live with that for thirty years. It’s a small consolation.”

  “Bart followed Davy here and stole the chisel with the intention to kill him,” Colin said. “He wasn’t going to trust Davy not to tell everything once police got hold of him. He wasn’t going to trust that Davy didn’t have anything damning stashed in his caravan.”

  “Davy wanted to see me first. If he’d gone to the police instead...” Oliver didn’t finish. “Bart must have put Alfred back in Martin’s cottage to keep him from barking. He could have killed Alfred, too, and he would have, I’ve no doubt, if it hadn’t been convenient not to. Then he intercepted Davy, cut his artery and walked away. I arrived back from the dovecote and found Davy bleeding out. Bart Norcross wanted to remain a Balfour. He wanted to be Tony Balfour.”

  “Stealing Tony’s identity was part of Bart’s plan from the get-go,” Henrietta said. “He just never told Davy. He helped Davy pull together a new identity as Reed Warren and then figured they’d never see each other again.”

  “Davy might have had regrets in the end,” Oliver said, “but he was a killer.”

  “He and Bart were both killers and kidnappers.” Henrietta patted Oliver’s knee. “It’s a bit late in the day, but we’ve got the bastards.”

  * * *

  Oliver invited Emma and Colin to stay in one of his guest rooms, but, as usual, they refused. “I’m sending an Irish landscape to Wendell Sharpe as a gift, a token of gratitude, you might call it, for his years of dedicated service to the art world. He’ll know what to do with it. It’s of the church ruin on the headland above the village of Declan’s Cross. I believe the painting’s an early work by Aoife O’Byrne. I don’t remember how I came by it.”

  “You ripped it off on a dark and stormy Irish night,” Colin said.

  Oliver ignored him. “Aoife’s heart belongs to Finian Bracken.”

  Emma hadn’t touched the Bracken 15 he’d poured. “Do you have a better understanding now of why you became fascinated with all things Celtic?”

  “The workings of an eight-year-old mind. The shadows of unreliable memories. The love of parents who would sacrifice themselves to save their only child. The crosses I saw the night I was taken for ransom. The closeness I felt to death and the afterlife. Celtic myths, legends and folklore in particular resonated with me. I visited the Skelligs—I was drawn to asceticism for a time, but it was Saint Declan who hooked me. I couldn’t tell you why. I loved Ardmore. I was there several times before I discovered Declan’s Cross.”

  “Did you case John O’Byrne’s house or sneak in one night on the spur of the moment?”

  “Spur-of-the-moment has its place but so does planning. I’d sit among the crosses on the headland. Loss, loneliness, confusion built up inside me. I wanted to heal and protect.” He shrugged. “But one can only do so much. You know that from your own work, but I’d had that lesson taught to me in a horrible way I couldn’t process or accept, not bit by bit, over time, as most children do.”

  “You started helping MI5 before you were discovered,” Emma said. “You’d send them tidbits anonymously.”

  “Do you think so? That sounds rather daring.”

  “You saved lives through what you know and learned as a thief and a scholar.”

  “Plus there’s insufficient evidence agai
nst you,” Colin said, “as well as issues with jurisdiction, prosecutorial priorities and statutes of limitations.”

  Oliver smiled. “I know nothing of that.”

  * * *

  Henrietta sat across from Jeremy Pearson at the pub. It was a warm night. The fireplace was unlit, and she had on a tank top with her jacket draped on the back of her chair. “You look as if you’ve been up for twenty-four hours straight,” the MI5 officer said to her.

  “At least I don’t look as if I took on a mad killer and lost.”

  A twitch of a smile.

  But the levity didn’t last. “Poor Tony. I wonder if he’d lived if we’d have come to know each other. I’ll have him properly buried in the Balfour plot, next to his father. MI5 interviewed my family when you did a background check on me. Did you interview Tony? He’d have been Bart then. Did you miss that?”

  Jeremy was nursing a pint. “You don’t think I will ever tell you, do you?”

  “Of course not. I wasn’t thinking.”

  “You’re still MI5, Henrietta,” he said, matter-of-fact.

  “In my heart, perhaps. I can’t argue.”

  “Not just in your heart. We never put your papers through.”

  “What?”

  “You are, have been and no doubt will for some time be an officer of Her Majesty’s Security Service.”

  “You faked everything. You cheeky bastard. This calls for Scotch. An expensive one. On you.”

  “It does, but not tonight. Go on. Be with Oliver. We’ll have to sort you two but in due course. First things first.” He settled back. “Our FBI friends are joining me for a drink.”

  Henrietta left him alone at his table. The long June night hadn’t given up its light, but her energy was giving up. If indeed she was still MI5, she had to up her game. She smiled at the thought. Jeremy Pearson was truly one sneaky bastard. She had no idea if anything he told her was strictly on the level, but it didn’t matter. He was the best and he wanted her back on his team, whatever that meant. He usually got what he wanted.

  She kept walking and ended up again at Oliver’s house.

  Martin Hambly welcomed her and let her to the sitting room. Oliver had showered, and Alfred was asleep in front of the liquor cabinet. “I’ll leave Alfred with you two,” Martin said, then withdrew.

  “I’ve told Jeremy if I’m to continue to work with MI5, he needs to include Martin.”

  “And he said?”

  “He said it was a brilliant idea. He has enormous respect for Martin and knows he’s discreet. I think I might be jealous.”

  Henrietta laughed. Oliver handed her a glass of Bracken Distillers 15-year-old peated single malt. “It was rare when it was opened. Now it’s almost gone. All of it, not just this bottle. I wonder how Finian feels about that, since it was put into casks when he was still a whiskey man—and a father and husband.”

  “He seems to have made a place for himself in Maine.”

  “For now,” Oliver said.

  They sat together on the couch, and she saw that he’d placed his mother’s painting on the mantel. The police had let Oliver take it home with him. She could sense his emotion as he gazed at it. “I want to donate it to the pub in the village. It would be difficult to have it here. It wasn’t until I saw it in Davy Driscoll’s caravan that I remembered...” He cleared his throat. “Norcross thought it might be valuable. Davy knew better.”

  “It’s a wonderful painting, Oliver. It’ll be fantastic at the pub. People will love it.”

  “It’s a way to celebrate her memory and the village she so loved. It arrived a little while ago with your car.”

  “It’s good MI5 didn’t drive my car off a cliff just for sport. I stopped at the Kershaws before I went to the pub. They’re coping, as we all must do. Nigel’s doing well. I realize now they were only thirteen and fifteen thirty years ago. They seemed so grown-up when I was five.”

  “To think they tortured themselves all these years,” Oliver said quietly. “They never believed what they knew amounted to anything in terms of the investigation.”

  “Eugene was terrified his affection for your mother would be misconstrued.”

  “He was protecting her reputation as well as his own against gossip.”

  “It’s all so terribly sad,” Henrietta said. “I know that’s inadequate to say but I can’t find the words.”

  Oliver eased an arm over her shoulders and brushed his lips on her hair. “You just did, Henrietta.” He sat back slightly. “Did you have a crush on an older man at fifteen?”

  “At twelve on a fifteen-year-old.”

  “In London?”

  “Here. Dolt. You were my brooding Heathcliff.”

  His smile was there and then gone again. “Posey didn’t die alone. She had friends here. She was proud of you, Henrietta. I think she knew you were MI5.”

  “She always had an imagination. You can see it in her gardens.”

  “Is Jeremy Pearson in trouble for not figuring out Tony sooner? Must have interviewed him when did background on you.”

  “Jeremy lives for trouble, I do believe.”

  “Will you continue to live here, or will you have to go back to London?”

  “I’d like to see your London apartment. We can have a drink at Claridge’s. You’re a regular there, from what I hear. Or am I getting ahead of myself?”

  He looked at her with open affection. “Where would I be if you didn’t get ahead of yourself?”

  “In prison, I imagine.” She snuggled next to him. “Bart Norcross pretended to be my father’s only first cousin not just for a few months but for decades. No wonder he never came round until Posey was at the end. It’s awkward, isn’t it?”

  Oliver laughed softly. “I’d say awkward is an understatement. What do you want now, Henrietta?”

  “This moment, Oliver. Just this moment here with you.”

  He clinked her glass with his. “To this moment, then.”

  “I remember when your parents were killed. I was here visiting my aunt, and I saw you. We were small children.”

  “We’re not small children anymore.”

  “Go back in time and tell the frightened little boy you were that he will be okay.”

  He kissed her softly. “It’s the truth. I wasn’t okay for a long time, but I am now.”

  She smiled, content.

  “I think Davy Driscoll was truly remorseful as he was bleeding to death,” Oliver said.

  “You’ll have to ask your Irish priest friend if that counts.”

  “I will do so.”

  “I’m sorry Driscoll died here, and you went through that,” Henrietta said.

  “It was unpleasant.” He shifted to her, his eyes a dark green in the dim light. “I’m sorry, Henrietta. I left you and Martin...”

  “We managed.” She pointed her glass at the painting. “That’s your great-grandmother’s flowerpot in front of the dovecote. See it? I think it’s planted with dahlias. We have time to plant dahlias in it this season.”

  Oliver shook his head. “I don’t think it’s the same flowerpot.”

  “It is. It’s lovely. Your mother made up in heart what she lacked in technique, though, didn’t she? Technique would have come with practice, I’m sure.” Henrietta squinted at the simple painting. “I like the black sheep that’s out of the fence trotting after you and your parents on the lane. It’s a clever touch. Sweet.”

  “That’s a dog, Henrietta.”

  “Oh. Well, then.” She smiled. “I like the dog.”

  He laughed and kissed her. “I love you, Henrietta,” he said, then smiled and kissed her again. “We’re going to have fun together.”

  24

  Rock Point, Maine

  Sam Padgett stopped at Fin
ian’s office late on Saturday. “I’m heading back to Boston. I know the past few days have been difficult for you,” the FBI agent said. “For what it’s worth, thank you for your assistance.”

  “You’re welcome,” Finian said.

  Padgett nodded to Finian’s breviary. “They have that online now.”

  “I like having it with me. An e-reader wouldn’t be the same somehow.”

  “You keep the photos of your family close to you. Is that wise, Father?”

  Finian got up from his desk, picked up his breviary. “I took them out. I’ll frame them and put them in the dining room with several others I treasure. I only...” He hesitated, uncertain whether to finish. He rubbed a thumb on the worn cover of the breviary. “I put the photographs in there a few weeks ago. I wanted to keep Sally and the girls close during my daily prayers.”

  “You have doubts about your vocation, Father.”

  “I miss my family, Special Agent Padgett.”

  He nodded. “I know. The novelty of seminary and now Maine has worn off and the hurt is still there. Good luck sorting things out. Anything else I can do for you?”

  “The priest you mentioned. Was he the villain?”

  The FBI agent’s eyes darkened. “Was and is. We’ll get him one day.”

  “I know you will,” Finian said.

  “See you around, Father. Thanks again.”

  After the FBI agent left, Finian returned to the rectory. He saw he had an email from his sister, Mary, in Ireland.

  I’m in Declan’s Cross, on my way to Dublin on distillery business. Aoife O’Byrne is painting porpoises again. She says it’s Oliver York’s influence. She insists they’re not whimsical, though. She says she thinks of you when she pours her Bracken 15.

  Mary had attached a picture of a painting Aoife had given to her for the distillery. She refused any payment, saying the publicity of having one of her paintings at Bracken Distillers was enough profit given the increasing popularity of their whiskey tours.