Oliver looked around the office. It was a sad little room, wasn’t it? Not because of the old, faded furnishings, never of good quality, but because it had no personality. It was as if Finian Bracken had never moved in. Most of the books on the shelves appeared to have been there for decades, as did the wooden crucifix and the framed print of Rock Point harbor on the wall. For that matter, so did the grayed sheer curtains in the single window. Even the stapler, scissors and paper-clip holder might have been purchased when Oliver was a tot. He could appreciate tradition and continuity, if Finian had added his own books, prints and such and made the place radiate with his amiable personality, his ready Irish wit, his depth of knowledge and experience.
Oliver couldn’t put his finger on how to describe his mood. Curious? Annoyed? Filled with foreboding? Unsettled, yes, but why? No doubt his FBI friends and their powers of arrest had something to do with it.
And his MI5 handler, a man he knew primarily as Jeremy Pearson but also, just in the past week, as William Hornsby, a London art consultant. He’d sunk his teeth into Oliver a year ago and had yet to let go. Oliver was putting his particular skills and knowledge to use for UK intelligence services, and, as luck would have it, occasionally the FBI.
He was in the dark about most of this trip to Maine, but he suspected his crusty MI5 handler had been on the yacht with the outbreak of food poisoning. Henrietta had shared few details with him on their long flight across the Atlantic. He’d known from the moment she’d told him to pack for Maine this wasn’t a fun, impromptu visit with friends. Was that even possible with MI5 and FBI agents?
Oliver went around to Finian’s chair, with its duct-taped tears and creaky workings. It predated Finian’s arrival in Rock Point. Oliver would have replaced it straightaway, but his Irish friend hadn’t expected to stay in the dreary little fishing village past his one-year appointment.
“Best-laid plans, my friend.”
Oliver sat, imagining himself a priest. Saying Mass, visiting the sick, burying the dead, hearing confessions, running suppers and rummage sales to raise money. A year ago, on Oliver’s first trip to Rock Point, Finian Bracken had struck him as reasonably content in his role as a small-town parish priest, far from home in Ireland. Maybe content was too strong. Dedicated. Committed.
He noticed a thick book on the Iveragh Peninsula on the corner of the desk, a photograph of iconic Skellig Michael on the front cover. Well, then. Something Finian must have added. Oliver wanted to go to Skellig with Henrietta one day. He’d never toured its medieval Christian settlement, nine miles off the southwest Irish coast. He was fairly certain Henrietta hadn’t, either, but he left room to be corrected, as one did not just with her but any Balfour.
She knew all his shortcomings and misdeeds and yet loved him.
And he loved her, pretty, smart, irrepressible Henrietta Balfour, the fresh-faced girl next door when he was growing up in the Cotswolds—the orphaned boy raised by his grandparents. Her parents would drop her off with her great-aunt down the lane while they flitted off to Paris, Rome, Sydney. She’d followed in her grandfather’s footsteps and joined MI5, secretly, of course, but these days her heart was at least as much in garden design.
You don’t deserve her.
A persistent inner voice, and an attitude that would only annoy her.
Oliver creaked back in the chair and noted the ceiling needed a fresh coat of paint. No posting at a historic cathedral for Father Bracken. As a newly minted priest, he’d found his way here to the shores of southern Maine. Meant to be, perhaps. A lonely, isolated man, his Irish priest friend.
Or was that jet lag and his own unsettled mood at work? Oliver snapped the old chair forward and sat up straight. The man in the Mayfair London art gallery a week ago had also struck him as lonely and isolated.
Jeremy Pearson had set up the meeting. He’d found Oliver having breakfast alone at Claridge’s that morning. I’m sending a friend to you at the gallery. Talk to him. Answer his questions.
Who is this friend?
His name’s Robin Masterson. He’s a newly retired scientist. He’s indulging hobbies and interests he didn’t have time for when he was working. His daughter might show up with him. They know me as William Hornsby, an art consultant.
I see.
Keep this between us.
Henrietta?
She’s digging up dahlias in the Cotswolds, isn’t she?
Indeed she had been. She wanted to dry the tubers over the winter and then move them to a sunnier spot. Just as well, perhaps. Oliver had withheld his many questions, his usual practice when Jeremy Pearson contacted him. He finished breakfast, took a long walk in St. James’s Park and resisted ringing Henrietta to say good morning. He didn’t want to lie to her, or have her sniff out he wasn’t telling her something. He skipped lunch and arrived at the small, upscale gallery fifteen minutes ahead of Robin Masterson, who did have his daughter with him, Georgina, a chef in her early twenties. Oliver introduced himself. He’d assumed the daughter would say hello and leave her father to his chat, but she lingered, transfixed by three paintings in a new woodland watercolor series by Aoife O’Byrne.
Oh, Dad, to be able to paint something like this. How wonderful. Are you familiar with her work, Mr. York?
Oliver had stolen one of Aoife’s early paintings in his first heist a decade ago, an unsigned Irish landscape and the only work he hadn’t returned—because she didn’t want it back. It’s where it belongs, Oliver. She hadn’t told him outright she knew he was the elusive thief the Sharpes and various law enforcement officers around the world had chased for a decade, but he didn’t doubt she knew. Aoife O’Byrne was a beautiful, talented woman. She was also in love with the priest whose hospitality Oliver was now enjoying.
He stood up, restless, uncertain. A Mayfair art gallery a week ago to here, in this musty church office in a struggling fishing village...
He’d given Georgina Masterson a vague answer, and after sighing longingly at the Irish scenes, she kissed her father on the cheek and left to shop and visit friends. Robin Masterson had then turned to Oliver with an awkward smile. She’d rather I’d been an eccentric artist than an eccentric scientist. Shall we find a pub and have a pint while we chat?
In his early sixties, balding, dressed in a well-tailored but old and rumpled jacket and trousers, the man oozed eccentricity and loneliness. He and Oliver walked to a nearby pub and took a booth in a quiet corner. I appreciate Bill Hornsby setting up this meeting, and you for being here. I’m a neurotoxicologist, by the way. I specialize in the study of the effects of synthetic toxins on the nervous system.
How can I help you?
I want to talk to you about the use of various poisons in myths, folktales and legends.
Not what Oliver had expected. Advice on authenticating a Monet still-life, perhaps. Do you have any particular myths or poisons in mind?
I’m a forager. I gather wild edibles. It’s been a passion of mine for several years, and now that I’m retired, I can indulge myself. Suppose we start with poisonous plants? I could do my own research on the internet, but I prefer to consult an expert. This way I can ask questions and get pointed in the right direction for any follow-up research.
That last had sounded perfectly reasonable to Oliver. Over the next two hours, he offered Robin Masterson a wide-ranging crash course on the unusual topic. Oliver regarded the scientist across from him as eccentric but sincere, and he couldn’t imagine how an ancient tale of hemlock poisoning had anything to do with his own work for MI5. But the man was a neurotoxicologist, and given his association with a senior MI5 officer, Oliver guessed his work involved the intelligence services.
Finally, Robin Masterson collected his umbrella and waxed-cotton jacket and got to his feet. Thank you for your time, Oliver. I remember reading in the papers about what happened to you and your parents. I’m sure they’d be proud of what you’ve done with y
our life.
Rarely rendered speechless, Oliver had struggled to say goodbye. He’d watched as the scientist stopped at the bar to pay for their pints and then exited, unfurling his umbrella as he walked out into rainy London. Oliver ordered fish and chips and a coffee, and collected his thoughts. He seldom ran into anyone these days who commented on his past. At eight years old, he’d witnessed the murder of his parents in their London apartment by two handymen they’d trusted. The men had then kidnapped him, taking him to isolated ruins in a remote part of Scotland.
He escaped to safety, and his paternal grandparents raised him on their Cotswolds farm, dying within months of each other when he was at Oxford. He abandoned his formal studies, and day by day, year by year, he isolated himself, finally turning to stealing art in various cities around the world—including, unfortunately, the UK and the United States. Hence, MI5 and the FBI in his life.
A slight exaggeration, perhaps. Oliver smiled to himself and went back to the window. The sheers had snags and pills in addition to that grayish cast. They had to go. He’d put an order in himself and have new ones sent.
With Robin Masterson on his way, Oliver had eaten his late lunch–early dinner and concluded the odd little neurotoxicologist had nothing to do with him personally—with his life in London, his work, his past misdeeds, his affection for Scotch or his love for Henrietta Balfour. No, the meeting had to do with Jeremy Pearson—his work, his life and perhaps his misdeeds.
As he was finishing his coffee, his MI5 handler sat across from him, rain dripping off his hair and scarred hands. He took a napkin and dabbed at the moisture. How was your chat with Robin Masterson?
He’s fascinated by poisons, isn’t he?
Aren’t we all?
Oliver had offered to repeat their conversation, but Jeremy was a big-picture sort and hadn’t required details.
Except about the daughter.
How did she strike you, Oliver?
I only saw her for a short time—
And? What was your impression of her?
We have similar taste in art. She admired the new Aoife O’Byrne series at the gallery.
All right. Continue to keep this between us.
Still dripping, Jeremy left the bar. No explanation of the strange meeting. That was his MI5 handler, wasn’t it? It wasn’t as if Oliver had any sway over him. He was an asset. Someone to be used as Jeremy Pearson saw fit. The truth was, Oliver hadn’t wanted Jeremy to confide in him about his relationship with the Mastersons. He’d wanted to pull up dahlias with Henrietta. But he had amends to make, and it was his duty to make them, no matter the inability of prosecutors to present a legal case against him.
He sucked in a breath when he spotted Colin Donovan walking toward the church, straight to the side entrance that led to Finian’s office. He had the purposeful gait of a man on his turf, confident, strong and in no mood for obfuscation. Oliver was a master at obfuscation.
He heard Colin’s steady thump up the stairs. They’d met a year ago in Boston, where Oliver had been working under an alias he’d used as a mythology consultant for films and television. A murder investigation had eventually led Colin and Emma to uncover—without too much effort—Oliver Fairbairn’s real identity. They and their humorless boss, FBI Special Agent Matt Yankowski, had come to Oliver’s apartment in London. They’d figured out he was their elusive art thief, and also that they could never prosecute him due to lack of evidence and jurisdictional issues.
Over the winter, he’d returned all the stolen art, intact—and without getting caught. It’d taken some doing, but it was done. And now he was putting his skills, contacts and knowledge to use for the UK intelligence services.
Colin would cuff him in a heartbeat given the opportunity. Emma wasn’t a pushover, but Oliver knew she liked him better than her husband did.
He turned from the window as Colin arrived in the office doorway. “Hello, Oliver.”
“Special Agent Donovan.”
Oliver could see the FBI agent, still in the suit he’d worn to his brother’s wedding, wasn’t in the mood for small talk. Not that they’d ever engaged in much small talk.
“I didn’t expect you and Henrietta here today,” Colin said, entering the small office.
“Next time we’ll text you as well as our Father Bracken.”
“Good idea. What do you know about a British art consultant named William Hornsby?”
Oliver checked any obvious reaction. “He was one of the food-poisoning victims?”
“Uh-huh. He’ll survive. He’s being kept overnight at the hospital.” Colin glanced out the window, as if to force himself to take a moment to collect his thoughts, and then narrowed his gaze on Oliver. “You know who he is, don’t you?”
No point in dissembling. Oliver nodded.
“Did you go on board the yacht?” Colin asked.
“When people became ill?”
“At any time, ever.”
Oliver shook his head. “No.”
“What about Henrietta?”
“She can answer for herself, but no, she didn’t.”
“Then you didn’t steal a painting off this yacht.”
Oliver knew Colin was watching him for his reaction. Could he guess how little Oliver knew about what was going on? But that was what the FBI agent was gauging—how in the dark Oliver was about the man they both knew as Jeremy Pearson.
Finally, Oliver shook his head. “I did not steal a painting.”
“Did anyone ask you to steal a painting?”
“No.” Oliver motioned to the door. “You have a lot of questions. Perhaps we should go find Emma and Henrietta.”
“We’ll do that,” Colin said. “Did you know our mutual friend was on board the yacht, posing as an art consultant?”
“I’m on a need-to-know basis, Agent Donovan. It’s never otherwise with your lot.”
Not the faintest smile from Colin. “Wonder why that is. What’s your cover story for being in Maine?”
“Henrietta and I are here to visit friends,” Oliver said.
Colin rubbed the back of his neck. “Does our friend recovering from gastric distress know you’re here?”
“I haven’t spoken with him.”
“Do you know Bryce and Melodie Fanning?”
“They own the yacht in question? No, I do not.”
“Heard of them?”
“No.”
“What about a young chef named Georgina Masterson?”
Oliver was caught off guard by that one. “Did she prepare today’s ill-fated food?”
“Apparently. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you aren’t answering my questions.”
“I’ve learned the hard way you notice everything.”
Colin walked over to the desk and touched its worn wood. “All right.” He straightened, visibly tired. “Let’s find Henrietta. I gather she knows things about today that you don’t know.”
“The devil, I hope so,” Oliver blurted. “Last I saw her, she and Emma were on the way. To the rectory to prepare tea. You look as if you could use a nice cuppa and a pumpkin-shaped biscuit.”
This time, Colin managed at least a faint smile. He motioned toward the open door. “After you, Oliver.”
5
“So these are bean holes.” Henrietta peered into one of four three-meter-deep holes in the backyard of the church. “Fascinating. And these bean-hole suppers are a fund-raiser for the church?”
“That’s right,” Emma said, standing. next to her. “They’re a Maine tradition.”
Henrietta seemed genuinely interested, but the sudden urge to see the bean holes stemmed from her obvious desire to keep an eye on Colin and Oliver at the church. Emma didn’t mind. With Finian on the tour of the church, she’d held off on questioning Henrietta and Oliver about the real reasons for their presence in Rock Poi
nt. Now she’d wait for Colin and Oliver to join them.
Henrietta moved to another of the bean holes. “I saw the flyer on the table in the rectory and wondered what in heaven’s name is a bean hole? As I see now, it’s as described. One digs a hole, makes a fire in it and adds pots for the slow-cooking of baked beans.” She grinned. “I’m still a bit mystified, although not as much as I would have been an hour ago.”
“The menu hasn’t changed in decades,” Emma said.
“Baked beans, roast pork, coleslaw, applesauce, etcetera, etcetera. Do you and Colin contribute?”
“When possible. I like to bake pies. The rummage sale is part of the weekend festivities.”
“I love a good rummage sale.” Henrietta stood straight, her rich reddish curls catching the fading light. “I donated bags of Aunt Posey’s clothes for one at home. I didn’t save a single thread she’d worn. She was a brilliant gardener, though.”
Emma had been to the Cotswolds house Henrietta had inherited from her great-aunt. Posey Balfour’s death a year ago had prompted Henrietta to launch a new career as a garden designer. Or at least appear to, Emma thought. Henrietta could have pretended to exit MI5 as a ruse to keep an eye on her neighbor. Over the summer, she and Oliver had surprised themselves—and probably her MI5 superior and his MI5 handler—by falling for each other.
Henrietta smiled. “The lure of life in the country. Do you and Colin ever dream of moving here full-time, quitting the FBI, leading a quieter life?”
“Colin toys with becoming a tour boat captain.”
“Whale watches, puffins, seals? That sort of thing? I don’t know if it’d be quieter, but I could see it. Oliver would say he’d have to learn to be a bit more—what’s the word he uses? Charming? I suppose he could play the role of the curmudgeon Maine sea captain.”
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