* * *
About two hours later, the Rolls came to a stop under a portico at the side entrance to the stately York country home. Finian got out before the uniformed driver could come around and open the door for him. He let the poor fellow collect his bag but then took it from him, obviously another disconcerting surprise. Finian saw no problem. He packed light. The bag wasn’t heavy. Even during his heyday as a whiskey distillery executive, he had rarely hired his own driver. Now, as a rural parish priest on the New England coast, he seldom had reason even for a taxi. He drove himself everywhere—although he did drive a BMW, an indulgence he especially appreciated with the onslaught of the harsh Maine winter.
Oliver York opened the solid wood door to his farmhouse. “Welcome, my friend,” the Englishman said. “That’s your only bag? For some reason, I expected a priest would need more. You know, with your collars and vestments and such. Not that I have any idea. Come in, come in.”
They went down a stone-tiled hall to a spacious living room where a wood fire crackled in a stone fireplace under a beamed ceiling. Two dark brown leather sofas faced each other perpendicular to the fire, an ottoman covered in red-and-brown plaid between them. A large oil painting above the mantel depicted a lazy, bucolic scene of hounds on a tree-lined lane, probably on the York property. Shelves, tables, lamps and side chairs all had an inviting, contemporary feel.
Oliver smiled as Finian set his bag on the threshold. “You were expecting chintz, weren’t you? I had the place redecorated a few years ago. I hired a decorator and left for the winter. When I came back, it was done.” He entered the room and nodded to the painting above the mantel. “My grandparents’ dogs. They used to follow me everywhere. They knew what happened to me—to my family, Father Bracken. They knew.”
“I’ve no doubt.” Feeling distinctly out of place, Finian followed Oliver to the fireplace. Neither sat down. “Please, call me Finian.”
“I will, then, thank you. Make yourself at home. Martin is recuperating from a nasty fall yesterday on the farm. He spent the night outside on a stream bank. A miracle he didn’t die of hypothermia. I wasn’t here. If I had been, I suppose I would have wondered what he was up to and gone looking for him. I stopped by his cottage after I arrived earlier today and learned of his ordeal. He says he’ll be right as rain in the morning. I believe it’ll be a few days.”
“What kind of injuries did he sustain?” Finian asked.
“Bumps, bruises, scratches and a laceration on the back of his head. He refuses to see a doctor.” Oliver sounded more miffed than concerned. “He doesn’t remember if he lost consciousness. What does that tell you?”
“Head injuries can be dangerous, Oliver.”
He waved a hand. “I told Martin that, and he told me he had hit his head before and knew what to watch for. He spouted some rubbish his mother told him about bleeding relieving pressure and preventing infection. There might be truth in it for all I know, but I remember his mother. She looked like Queen Victoria. I’m sure she still believed in leeching.”
Finian had no idea if Oliver was serious. He had first encountered the Englishman in Boston last fall, under his alter ego of Oliver Fairbairn. He’d yet to meet Martin Hambly.
“Martin looks like hell,” Oliver added. “He reminded me this is a farm and accidents happen. He made it through last night in the open without dying, so I suppose that’s something. He lives in a cottage on the property. He ran me out. He was sitting by the fire with an ice pack and a pot of tea and planned to be there all night. A farmworker helped him get settled.”
“I’m sorry he’s in pain. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”
“You, my friend, can relax and enjoy your visit.”
Wind buffeted the windows, and Finian could hear a rush of rain in the evening gray. His reservations about accepting Oliver’s invitation eased, then dissipated altogether when Ruthie Burns, the housekeeper, who also looked like Queen Victoria, entered the room with a tray of tea, scones, cream and jam that she set on the ottoman. She poured tea, handing Oliver and Finian each a cup and saucer, then arranged two small plates with scones, jam and cream, placing Finian’s on a small table next to him, along with a knife and napkin. She did the same for Oliver. Finian thanked her. She smiled at him and made off with his bag before he realized what she was up to.
“It wouldn’t surprise me if Ruthie gave Martin a little shove down the stream bank,” Oliver said. “Those two have been in a turf battle here for forty years. They don’t think I notice.”
Oliver, Finian had discovered, noticed everything. One reason he had eluded capture as a thief for so long, no doubt. “The farm looks delightful, Oliver. Thank you for inviting me.”
“We’ll have whiskey while you’re here,” he said, settling back with his tea. “I managed to secure a bottle of single malt Bracken 15 Year Old. No peat. I wasn’t able to get the peated expression.”
“It’s almost gone,” Finian said. “It was a bit of fun for Declan and me.”
“Life was different for both of us when it went into the cask, wasn’t it, Finian?”
Back then, Oliver had been an orphan but not yet a thief. Finian had been an ambitious young man with plans. He and Declan had taken over an abandoned distillery near Killarney and dived in, learning as they went.
“Yes, life was different,” Finian said quietly.
“If only we could go back in time. You could save your wife and daughters. You could stop them from getting on that boat. Or do you believe no matter what you did, their fate was already cast—if you’d saved them from drowning, they’d have died that summer some other way?”
“I don’t ask myself such questions.”
“You’re a smarter man than I am. I’m sorry to be so blunt. I don’t mean to dredge up the past. It’s always close to me, in part because of what I endured but also because of my work in mythology. You chose the priesthood after your loss. I chose a dual life of scholarship and playing the dashing English aristocrat. Oliver Fairbairn and Oliver York.” He drank some of his tea and watched the fire. “I’ve had women, Finian. Women I’ve loved. Not many, but enough to know what I’m missing.”
“You’re still a young man. There’s time, if that’s what you want.”
He smiled. “Aoife kicked me out of the gallery.”
“She wouldn’t speak with me. Aoife O’Byrne is...”
“Out of reach, and angry at both of us. What do you think, Finian, is she angry at you more because you became a priest or because you’ve stayed a priest?” Oliver inhaled, pausing as he studied his guest, then pointed his cup at Finian. “Because you stayed. She could understand becoming a priest, even after she fell in love with you, because you were still in pain. She could rationalize seminary as part of your grief process.”
“Maybe so,” Finian said, not caring to explain. He was no longer surprised at how much Oliver knew—or guessed—about his past, including his relationship with Aoife.
“Staying in the priesthood, though. Now that really angered her, my friend. Especially after she saw you in Boston in November.”
“Aoife’s a friend.”
Oliver snorted. “And that’s all there is to it?”
“As far as I’m concerned.”
“Sometimes you can remain friends with a woman you slept with and ditched. Sometimes you can’t. In any case, our Aoife is a beautiful, talented, successful artist, and we both hurt her, each in our own way.”
“Is that why you invited me here, Oliver? To talk to me about how you hurt Aoife?” Finian tried some of his scone. It was light and simply made, good after the drive from London. He hadn’t expected Oliver to dive straight into such deeply personal matters. “Or did you invite me here so you can reassure yourself that I plan to stay a priest and the way is clear for you to pursue her?”
Oliver laughed, his eyes crinkling with good humor. “Aoife knows far too much about me to allow me into her life. No, Father Bracken, I invited you here to see the farm.
I have many acquaintances, but I don’t have many friends. I’m...” He stood abruptly, took in an awkward breath. “I’m trying to change that.”
Finian thought he understood. “Change begins with one step.”
“In my experience, one step can lead you off a cliff. Come. Ruthie will show you to your room. She’ll bring your tea and scones. You can get settled.”
“Who was your last guest, Oliver? Dare I ask?”
He grinned, setting his teacup on a side table. “Wendell Sharpe.”
Finian wasn’t surprised. He had met the octogenarian private art detective, the determined, dedicated founder of Sharpe Fine Art Recovery. For a decade, Oliver had been the thief that world-renowned Wendell Sharpe couldn’t catch. Finian didn’t have all the details—nor did he want them—but he doubted Oliver would ever be publicly identified or prosecuted as a serial art thief.
“Did you invite Wendell or did he invite himself?” Finian asked.
“A bit of both. Better to invite Wendell than find him sneaking around in the shrubbery. It’s hard to tear a Sharpe off a theory. I arranged for him to do a talk at Oxford and had him stay here.”
“The talk went well?”
“He was brilliant. He didn’t tell Emma about the visit.”
Finian very much doubted he had, either. “He keeps saying he’s retiring.”
Oliver scoffed. “That will never happen. No Oxford seminar for you, I’m afraid,” he added.
Finian laughed. “Thank goodness.”
“You might want a walk in the countryside while you’re here. There are maps in your room. You don’t suppose you can lay hands on Martin and cure his headache? Pass some sort of miracle? I need him.”
Finian smiled, getting to his feet as he polished off the last of his scone. Oliver clearly knew the liberties he was taking, but he also clearly didn’t care whether he was being offensive, never mind wrong. “I recommend that he see a physician.”
“I did recommend it, but he’s stubborn. You’ll see.”
Ruthie appeared with a small tray and loaded up Finian’s tea and remaining scone. After breakfast with Declan and then a business lunch, Finian wasn’t particularly hungry, but good scones were impossible to resist. He kept silent and followed the housekeeper down another hall. The door was open to a guest suite, in its own small wing at the back of the house. It consisted of a small living room, bedroom and private bath, done in soothing neutral colors that invited relaxation. Someone—Ruthie, presumably—had drawn the drapes, filled a water pitcher and small fruit bowl and laid out a bathrobe and slippers.
“Is there anything else you need?” she asked him.
“I can’t think of a thing, thank you.”
After she retreated, shutting the door behind her, Finian went to a window and drew back a heavy drape. It was dark now, and as he looked out at a small stone terrace, contemplating his sanity, he noticed a light from the house shining on a puddle. Having never been to this part of England, he had paid close attention to the scenery on the drive from London. Even in February, the rolling hills and honey-stone villages possessed a beauty and charm that were easy to appreciate.
He felt a pang of nostalgia for South Kerry and its brightly colored villages and stunning natural scenery. Before leaving for London, he and Declan had walked the old road, now part of the Kerry Way walking route, from Killarney to Kenmare, talking about family and whiskey, never mentioning Maine, Finian’s FBI agent friends or Aoife O’Byrne. Most of all, they had steered clear of talk of the priesthood and what Finian would do when Father Callaghan, now on sabbatical, returned to his post in Rock Point.
Sally and the girls had come into the conversation a few times, naturally, with smiles and even laughter at memories of their antics. In years past, Declan would blanch when accidentally speaking their names, as if to do so were a breach of etiquette, if not forbidden then at least an unwelcome reminder of pain and loss.
His dear Sally would have loved this place, Finian thought with a smile.
He pushed opened a glass door and stepped out onto the terrace, welcoming the brisk air and clear evening sky. He could smell the damp ground, the garden dormant now in winter. The York farm struck him as being as contradictory and unpredictable as its owner.
He went back inside, pulling the drapes again. He noticed the painting above the bed, featuring more dogs in a scene of rural nineteenth-century English prosperity. The house—this house, Finian thought—was featured in the background. During the time of the painting, his own family in southwest Ireland had struggled to survive famine and eke out a subsistence living.
He poured more tea. Although not yet convinced, he was hopeful this trip to the Cotswolds hadn’t been a bad idea after all.
9
Heron’s Cove, Maine
Thursday, 5:00 p.m., EST
Emma managed to get out of Boston by midafternoon. In less than two hours, she was in southern Maine. She had anticipated that by now she would be putting work aside and focusing on her mini retreat at the Sisters of the Joyful Heart, but instead she found herself at the small shop and art studio they ran on a side street in her hometown of Heron’s Cove. In summer, it would be difficult to find a parking space, but not on a late-February Thursday afternoon.
Sister Cecilia Catherine Rousseau emerged from the studio and greeted Emma in the shop. “Emma!” she said, smiling. She wore a wide white headband, on slightly crooked over her wispy blunt-cut brown hair, and a dove-gray tunic and skirt with dark tights and walking shoes. “I didn’t expect to see you until this evening at the convent.”
“How are you, Sister?”
“I just finished teaching a wild after-school pottery class for fifth and sixth graders. I broke up several clay fights. It must be cabin fever.” She spoke cheerfully, her passion for art education evident. “Did you just get in?”
Emma nodded, fingering a beautiful pottery bowl for sale. She’d never had a knack for pottery, although she’d tried it a few times. Her expertise as a novice had been in the convent’s work in art preservation and conservation. “I’m not staying at the convent tonight,” she said. “I’ll call Mother Superior, but I wanted to let you know myself.”
“Has anything happened? You’re all right, Emma?”
“Nothing’s happened. I’m fine. I’m heading to Colin’s house in Rock Point.”
“And that’s where you need to be right now,” Sister Cecilia said.
Emma touched the ring on her finger. There were times it still felt new, not quite real. “I guess that sums it up. I don’t belong at the convent. I haven’t in a long time. Planning the retreat helped me see that.”
“Mother Superior will understand.”
“I hope canceling won’t cause any trouble.”
“Of course not,” Sister Cecilia said with confidence. “The whole point was not to plan anything special, wasn’t it?”
Emma nodded. She’d wanted to experience the life she’d left behind—but driving to Maine, getting closer and closer to walking through the convent gates for her retreat, she had realized that she wouldn’t stay. Not tonight, not ever again. It wasn’t a question of bad timing given Oliver York’s latest news. She always had cases, developments, unfinished work.
“Are we still on for your painting lesson tomorrow?” Sister Cecilia asked.
“Absolutely. I look forward to it.” Emma smiled. She would never be much of a painter, and both she and Sister Cecilia knew it. That wasn’t the point of the ongoing, if erratically scheduled, lessons.
Sister Cecilia clapped her hands together. “Excellent. I’ll see you then. Enjoy your evening in Rock Point. Will Colin be joining you?”
“He’s on his way back to Boston from Washington. I haven’t told him I’ve canceled my retreat yet.”
“I’m going to make a bold guess that he will be pleased you did,” the young sister said, her eyes twinkling.
Relieved to have the decision about the retreat made and dealt with, Emma left Sister Cecili
a to closing up the shop. They had become friends last fall, after the murder of a longtime nun with the Sisters of the Joyful Heart and Sister Cecilia’s own close call with the killer.
Emma drove back through Heron’s Cove, a pretty southern Maine village known for its quaint shops and restaurants and sprawling summer “cottages.” She continued on to Ocean Avenue, along the tidal river and out to the ocean. Just past a marina, at the mouth of the river, she parked in front of the small, gray-shingled Victorian house where, sixty years ago, Wendell Sharpe, a museum security guard, had launched his fine art recovery business in the front room. Fifteen years ago, he had opened an office in Dublin, the city of his birth. No one had expected him to stay. His wife had died too young, too soon, and he needed a break. He would be back.
Her grandfather was still in Dublin, and Emma doubted he would ever return to Heron’s Cove to live.
At first, her father had run the Maine offices of Sharpe Fine Art Recovery, but his chronic, debilitating pain had forced Emma’s older brother, Lucas, to step in far sooner—and far more alone—than he had planned. She’d worked for her father and grandfather in high school and always expected to join the family business. Then came college and a calling—or whatever it had been—to a religious life, or, more specifically, to the Sisters of the Joyful Heart and their romantic coastal convent and work in art preservation, conservation and education.
Even before Matt Yankowski had visited her as Sister Brigid, Emma had known she would never profess her final vows. The process of discernment she’d gone through as a postulant and a novice had done its job, leading her to where she was now. She had left the Sisters of the Joyful Heart shortly after meeting Yank, then worked for her grandfather in Dublin for almost a year before heading to the FBI Academy.
Early on in her work in art crimes, she had discovered that the FBI had less than Wendell Sharpe did on a serial international art thief who had first struck in Ireland, in a tiny village on the south coast.
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