Not exactly wandered, Emma thought.
“It’s warmer here than Boston, anyway,” Padgett said, easing in next to her.
Hambly walked past them and stopped a few feet down the wooded hill. “It wasn’t an accident,” he said, half to himself. “I was standing here...and I heard metal on metal. Then I was struck from behind.” He placed his fingertips on his neck where he’d been hit. “I’d just returned from the village. I remembered the package and set it out for pickup. Then...” He turned to Emma, his face pale. “Someone was here, Agent Sharpe.”
She glanced at Oliver. “May we take a look at the area?”
“By all means.”
She went left and Padgett went right. The ground was soft, wet, with signs of spring here and there. Emma scanned the underbrush for footprints, anything that would confirm that someone had, indeed, attacked Hambly and could lead police to his attacker.
She came to the bank of the stream. It flowed softly over rocks and a coppery bottom. She could have sat there for hours, listening to the sounds of the water, breathing in the smells.
Not today.
She jumped onto a rock in the middle stream, steadied herself and then leaped to the other side. Her right foot settled into mud, but her left foot landed in a dry spot. She continued up the hill to a cluster of small evergreens. The ground behind the trees was stirred up, as if someone had staked out a spot for a quick nap or a night in the woods.
Emma returned to the edge of the stream and called to Padgett. “I’ve found something.”
He and Finian took the same route across the stream, but Hambly and Oliver, in Wellingtons, walked right through the shallow water.
Emma nodded to the makeshift campsite. “It doesn’t look like an animal’s doing. Someone could have hidden here and spied on the dovecote, slept, had a picnic.”
Oliver narrowed his gaze on the spot. “Bloody bastard.”
Martin squatted down. Padgett touched his shoulder. “Best if you don’t touch anything. Let’s save it for the local police.”
“What if I don’t want to contact the local police?”
“Then I will on your behalf,” Padgett said, matter-of-fact.
Emma squinted through the trees toward the dovecote. It wasn’t a particularly good view of anyone at the dovecote or coming from the farm, but when she looked to her left, she could see the dirt track. Whoever hid here would have been able to see Martin Hambly walking to the dovecote with his amaryllis pots.
“This attacker feels chaotic, emotional, opportunistic,” Oliver said. “Maybe not desperate, but not cold and calculating. Do you think this is the same person who attacked you, Emma?”
“I never said...”
“Please.”
She nodded. “Yes.”
Oliver looked grim. “A simple gift of sheepskins and a cross...” He took in a breath. “I’m so sorry. Martin. Emma. I had no idea.”
Martin stood, unsteady. He reached for one of the evergreens but lost his balance. Padgett grabbed him and helped him to his feet. “I’ve no information to offer,” the Englishman said.
Emma nodded. “I understand.”
Padgett’s eyes connected with hers. She could see he understood, too. They had to figure this out without Martin Hambly implicating Oliver as an art thief, because that wasn’t going to happen. Martin would lie about what happened out here first, even to the local police—who could take him in for questioning, arrest him. Emma and Padgett couldn’t. They were on Oliver’s property only with his permission.
“We don’t need to dig into your affairs,” Padgett said. “We’re not here to bring in whoever attacked you. We’re here to find out who stuffed Agent Sharpe into a trunk and then locked her in a shed without food and water.”
Oliver raised his eyebrows. “Wouldn’t want you to sugarcoat it, would we?”
Martin gasped. “There it is,” he said in a hoarse whisper, pointing to a spot by the evergreens. “The would-be murder weapon, I daresay. Blast. I swear I can see my blood on it from here.”
Padgett stepped in front of him. “We need to leave it for—”
“For the police,” Martin said.
Emma could see a pair of old garden shears lying in wet, brown leaves. The metal-on-metal sound must have been Martin’s attacker opening and shutting the blades.
“It could have been worse, Martin,” Oliver said. “The bastard could have lopped off body parts.” He sighed. “I’ll ring the police myself. Just not right this minute.” He turned to Emma. “Shall we make a quick visit to the village first?”
* * *
Finian stayed at the farmhouse with Hambly, who was clearly worn-out after their trek to the dovecote. Emma and Padgett rode with Oliver in his Rolls-Royce. He drove, Emma up front as he chatted amiably, pointing out sights. When they arrived at the pub, a waiter showed them to a table by an open fire near the bar. Breakfast in the next room was done for the day, but their table was set with bowls of cut fresh fruit, natural yogurt, scones and York farm’s’ own gooseberry jam.
“Ruthie, my housekeeper, called ahead,” Oliver said. “A proper breakfast will do you good after your flight. You didn’t eat on the plane, did you? Airline food is a notch above poison.”
“I didn’t think it was bad,” Padgett said, but dug into the fruit and yogurt.
The waiter brought a pot of tea and two coffee presses. Emma had tea and then nibbled on a grape. She wished she’d had a chance to talk with Ted Kavanagh and Naomi MacBride herself before she’d left Maine, but getting here—talking with Oliver and Martin, seeing the dovecote—had taken on an urgency she seldom felt. Her work usually allowed, even demanded, that she go methodically, step-by-step, putting often disparate pieces together. Choosing, carefully, when and how to act. She’d had times when she’d had to rely on her instincts and act quickly, but not as often as the deep analytical work she did day-to-day. She’d spent many hours with the files on a serial international art thief who had eluded her and her grandfather for a decade.
Now here she was, across the table from him with a scone and gooseberry jam.
She’d figured her art thief for an intelligent, perhaps well-off man, but she’d never imagined Oliver York.
He tapped the tray of scones with his knife. “Help yourself, Emma. You need to eat.”
“Oliver...”
“I’m right. Eat.”
She gave in and tried a scone, cream and jam. He was right, of course. She did need to eat.
“There,” he said, smug, and turned to Padgett. “Did you say you had a list of names for us to check?”
“I did, indeed,” Padgett said, pulling out his phone. “It’s right here. I put together names and photos last night at the airport.”
They went through them, but Oliver only recognized Ted Kavanagh and Naomi MacBride. He drew a blank on the other names and faces. He took Padgett’s phone and called over the waiter, flipping through the list with him while Padgett stewed but kept quiet. The waiter pointed to Naomi MacBride, Ted Kavanagh and Reed Cooper. Nothing new there. All three had already admitted to being in the village.
“Cooper here—” Oliver tapped his photo “—picked up MacBride on Thursday, after she found Hambly. Could he have driven in from London on Wednesday?”
“I didn’t see him,” the waiter said.
“And he didn’t stay here?”
“I don’t think so. I’d remember if I’d seen him. It’s quiet this time of year.”
Oliver thanked him, then got up and went into a small reception area to find the proprietors, a young couple who eyed Emma and Padgett warily. “These are friends of mine,” Oliver said cheerfully. “Emma and Sam.”
Emma could see Padgett was having none of that. Keeping quiet with the waiter had tested him, but no way was he going to be Oliver York’s American friend Sam. He rose and introduced himself. “I’m Special Agent Sam Padgett and this is Special Agent Emma Sharpe. We’re with the FBI. We’re looking into an attack on an agent in th
e US.”
“Whoever did it also attacked Martin with garden shears,” Oliver added.
Padgett leveled a look at Emma that said he never should have gone along with delaying a call to the local police. But this was Oliver York. The frumpy, awkward Oliver Fairbairn she, Colin and Finian had met in Boston was also this man—cheeky, wily and able to turn on the charm when it suited him.
But Oliver’s comment worked, and the properly horrified proprietors agreed to look at the names and photos. Oliver left it to Padgett and rose, motioning for Emma to join him. Padgett gave her a dark look, but he said nothing as she followed Oliver out the main door. They went across the green, ducks gathering in the stream, small children chasing each other on the chilly Saturday morning.
Oliver wore an expensive leather jacket open over a dark sweater. He walked with the confidence and poise of a man well-practiced in Tai Chi and Tae Kwon Do, his martial arts of choice, but Emma also felt his familiarity with this small English village. He led her up a lane, past a row of small attached houses that he explained were mostly owned nowadays by Londoners. It was clear he distinguished himself from weekenders, people with no roots in the area.
They came to the church where Martin Hambly had chatted with Ted Kavanagh. Emma breathed in the cool air, taking in the pretty surroundings. “I wonder if anyone witnessed the exchange, or saw Kavanagh meet someone else—or saw someone spying on them.”
“We could knock on doors and ask,” Oliver said.
“I can’t.”
He sighed. “Rules.”
“Oliver...” Emma hesitated before she continued. “I didn’t realize until this morning at the dovecote that Martin knows you’re a serial art thief.”
“You’ve infected him with your suspicions, I’m afraid.”
“I only saw him that one time in London in November, and we barely spoke.”
“Three FBI agents showing up at the front door? What was he to think?” Oliver glanced at her. “Do you expect me to confess?”
“No, I don’t. You’ve had years to confess. It’s been months since you’ve known we figured out you’re our thief. No, Oliver, I want the two Dutch landscapes back in Amsterdam where they belong. I’m not a Dutch official, but that’s what I want.”
“And then sin no more?”
“It’s been a while since your last heist. I think you’ve already decided to ‘sin no more.’ Or perhaps you’ve just lost a step.”
“Lost a step? Well. There you have it. You didn’t put Agent Kavanagh on me, Emma. You have bigger fish to fry than a British citizen you consider to be a harmless, washed-up art thief.”
Emma rolled her eyes. “Give it up, Oliver.”
He nodded up the lane, past the church. “Come on. I want to show you something.”
They went into the cemetery adjoining the churchyard. He was silent, a slight breeze catching the ends of his hair as he took her to a far corner of the cemetery and the York family plot.
“Martin comes here regularly,” he said, staring at the gravestones. “I come on Easter Sunday. One of my most vivid memories of my mother is her wearing her last Easter hat.” He smiled. “It was horrid.”
“I’m sorry for your loss, Oliver.”
“It’s been a long time. I just turned thirty-seven. It’s time to absorb the past instead of fighting it, don’t you think?”
“Is that why you invited Father Bracken here?”
He frowned. “Maybe. I told myself it was because we got on, but we have a tragic past in common, don’t we?” Before Emma could answer, Oliver turned from the graves and winked at her. “And Aoife O’Byrne, of course, though I believe she’d take garden shears to us both if she could.”
He spun away from the graves. The moment of insight had passed. Emma followed him back to the lane and the church.
Oliver buttoned his jacket. “MI5 is sniffing around. Do you know anything about that, Emma?”
“Anything involving the British Secret Service is not my doing.”
“A fine-tuned answer. You don’t think they could be responsible for stealing the package?”
“They’d have been tidier, don’t you think? More professional.”
He grunted. “You and Martin did survive your ordeals, that’s true. If it’d been bloody MI5, we’d have never found your bodies. They’re coming for me, Emma.”
“Mythology, extensive travel, martial arts expertise, a master at breaking and entering.” Emma shrugged. “You could do some good, Oliver.”
“I’d want a ‘double O’ number.”
“But of course.”
“Apparently priceless Middle Eastern antiquities have been stolen by bad people and sold to bad people, and MI5 thinks I might know something about that.”
“Do you?”
He turned to her. “If I do, it’s because I’m a well-traveled mythologist.”
“You have at least two perfect covers as a bored aristocrat and tortured mythologist.”
“‘At least two’? You believe there are more?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“Anyway, they’re not covers. I am Oliver York, and taking a pseudonym for my Hollywood consulting work made perfect sense.”
“I’m staying out of it. I doubt Agent Kavanagh’s presence here involved MI5.”
“What about Naomi MacBride’s presence?”
“I can’t say.”
“Mmm. My point.”
They returned to the pub. Padgett had set off on foot.
“You drive the Rolls,” Oliver said. “I’ll phone the police.”
Emma hesitated.
He nudged her toward the driver’s seat. “It’ll do you good. Right back in the saddle after your ordeal.”
She didn’t argue. She knew he was right.
And the Rolls practically drove itself.
“Why the cross, Oliver?” she asked when they arrived back at the farm.
“Saint Brigid was an accomplished woman and she’s a fascinating saint. I know you carry her in your heart. You’re not fighting your past, Emma. Sister Brigid is a part of who you are now.”
Emma smiled. “Yes, she is.”
“And the cross is damn fine work. I’m proud of it. You can hang it above your front door and ward off fires. Think of the fires you face, figuratively if not literally. You come across as a thoughtful, analytical ex-nun who specializes in art crimes for the FBI, but it’s not that simple, is it, Emma? You like your fires.”
“I look forward to seeing this cross,” she said.
He smiled knowingly as they joined Padgett, Martin Hambly and Finian Bracken by the fire.
28
Southern Maine Coast
Saturday, 8:00 a.m., EST
Colin had gone out with Andy on his lobster boat early, catching the sunrise and a good view of the Plum Tree Inn and the lightkeeper’s house. Mike hadn’t been in touch yet, but Emma had. She and Padgett had arrived in the English Cotswolds and had confirmed that Martin Hambly had been attacked. Hambly and Oliver York were “more or less” cooperating.
An interesting thief, Oliver York was.
“Colin.” Andy tapped their table at Hurley’s. “Whoa. Where are you right now?”
He smiled. “Having bacon and eggs with my lobsterman brother.”
“Think Mike knew we were out there catching the dawn light?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if they all knew.”
“Naomi MacBride wants Hurley’s to put grits on the menu. She and Mike...”
“Yeah.”
“I’m glad my life is simple.”
“Right. This from the man who hooked up with Julianne Maroney. When does she get back from her Irish internship?”
“Early May. She wants me to fly to Ireland with her grandmother.”
“You and Franny Maroney on a six-hour flight together.” Colin grinned. “That’s worse than Emma and Sam Padgett. Franny wouldn’t sleep a wink.”
“She’s excited about seeing the land of her anc
estors. I just want to see Julianne. She and Franny are tight. I’ll figure it out.” Andy nodded toward the restaurant’s entrance. “You’ve got company.”
Matt Yankowski joined them at their table. He’d flown into Boston last night and driven up to Maine early. He wasn’t as thrilled about catching the sunrise. He ordered coffee, then glanced at Andy.
Andy grinned. “I’ll let you guys talk FBI stuff.” He got to his feet, grabbing his jacket off the back of his chair. “Good to see you, Agent Yankowski.”
“Don’t let me run you off,” Yank said.
“I’m good. It’s late by my standards. See you around.”
Yank watched Andy cross the restaurant, then turned to Colin. “Ted Kavanagh lost a CI in Afghanistan. An American who got mixed up with some rough people. Drug dealing, arms trafficking and money laundering. He was killed ahead of an operation to capture the bad guys. He wasn’t supposed to be there. Two dealers were killed along with him. An American and an Afghani.”
“The CI got burned?”
Yank nodded. “The bad guys knew about him and the operation. Naomi MacBride found out and warned the team they were walking into an ambush.”
“Mike,” Colin said.
“Yeah.”
“She saved his life?”
Yank’s coffee arrived. He took a sip. “She exposed herself in the process. Two months later, a couple of the bad guys who slipped the net grabbed her. Mike was part of the team that rescued her.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah. Ouch. In my opinion, Ted Kavanagh is crispy, and he’s been looking for someone to blame for his CI and Naomi besides himself.”
29
Naomi grabbed her suitcase and set it on her bed, still made up—a reminder of where she’d spent the night. As if she needed one. She’d slipped into her room to shower and change clothes. She’d meet Mike downstairs. More guys were due in that morning. She’d clear out. She had no regrets about making love to Mike last night, but she’d opened herself up to him again and that she did regret. How could she resume her life in Nashville, knowing he was in his cabin out on the Maine coast, working, living his life—alone?
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