“I don’t believe so, no.”
“With Thames House?”
Henrietta tossed her head back. “The fog’s quite mysterious and lovely, isn’t it? A different quality to it here on the coast. I can feel the sun wanting to break through the gray.” She studied a red spot on her right index finger. “I suppose I should stop before a proper blister comes up. I don’t do nearly enough raking at home. Oliver and Martin get the farm workers to do the heavier work there, and I’ve let Aunt Posey’s garden go to ruin, I’m afraid.”
“Busy days chasing after a boss who’s gone rogue,” Colin said.
“He’s not gone rogue,” she snapped back, then shrugged. “Not quite.”
“A matter of opinion?”
“He hasn’t broken any laws in America. The rest is none of your concern. And he’s not my boss. He didn’t take Robin’s death well, but it wasn’t a surprise.” She squinted up at the changing leaves on the maple tree. “It’s a fantastic old hardwood, isn’t it? Imagine what it’s seen in this spot since it was a sapling.”
“Henrietta,” Emma said. “We need to know what’s going on here between the Mastersons and Jeremy, and between you and Oliver and Jeremy.”
“It’s my belief we’re intruding into what amounts to a personal situation. Jeremy tried to help patch up things between Robin and his daughter. Robin ingested death cap mushrooms, and here we are.”
“Why did you go to Dublin?” Colin asked.
She lowered the rake and stabbed at a scatter of freshly fallen red-orange leaves.
Emma felt chilled in the fog but noticed Henrietta was sweating from her raking. “Robin isn’t the one who went to Dublin to buy the painting for his daughter. You know that, don’t you, Henrietta?”
“He did. He just did it through Jeremy.” She stopped abruptly, stood up the rake again. “He and Robin were more friends than anything else. I didn’t know that. So I flew to Dublin to sniff around—and to see a friend and do a bit of shopping.”
Colin gave her a skeptical look.
“I told you, Colin. That wasn’t a lie.” Henrietta rubbed a thumb along her reddened finger. “Don’t assume I know everything about what’s going on because it’s not what I’m assuming.”
“We try not to make assumptions,” Emma said.
Henrietta softened slightly. “The likeliest scenario is that Robin was depressed about retiring and killed himself after he had a good visit with his daughter. It’s not the only scenario, but perhaps their visit crystalized what he’d sacrificed for his work. He knew there was no going back and putting things right. I’m speculating. I didn’t know him.”
“He was already beyond hope when Jeremy arrived in Boston,” Colin said.
“Robin was beyond hope when Jeremy found him in the park. Jeremy delivered the painting to Georgina as a friend, without telling anyone. It was wrong of him to do things the way he did, but human. Some would be surprised he has a human side never mind let one get the better of his judgment.”
Colin put out a hand and she gave the rake to him. “Any chance Robin taught Georgina how to whip up a batch of nerve agent?”
“It’s a good thing you have my rake or I’d knock you on the head with it. Honestly, Colin. No. It’s completely outrageous and ridiculous to think she has any interest in chemical weapons or knowledge of their production, distribution or use.”
He shrugged. “And you never asked that question yourself, huh?”
She ignored him. “It sounds as if Robin regretted giving up so much for his work, but it seems to me it was his way. If he’d become an art professor instead of a scientist, he’d still have hyperfocused and shortchanged his personal relationships. I’m not close with my parents, but it’s not because they were overly absorbed in their work. They were dedicated to having fun without me.”
Colin set the rake against the tree trunk. “My parents are trying to rope me into helping clean out the cellar and attic at the inn. They shoved stuff in them when they renovated, figuring they’d get to it eventually.”
“And now ‘eventually’ has arrived. I suppose I should be careful what I wish for,” Henrietta said with a quick smile. But it didn’t last. “I’m truly sorry about Robin. It must be awful for Georgina.”
“When did you realize something was up with Jeremy and the Mastersons?” Colin asked.
“Oliver didn’t tell me. He kept his word to Jeremy.” She picked up a pair of pink-flowered garden gloves next to her pile of leaves. “I found them in drop-offs for the rummage sale. They don’t do any good if I don’t wear them, but they’re too small. They’re unused. I’m sure they’ll sell.”
“Henrietta,” Colin said.
She walked over to the steps and placed the gloves next to the rake. “Martin Hambly told me Oliver had to go to London unexpectedly, and I took it upon myself to find out why. Jeremy avoided me. I don’t like to be avoided.” She pushed her tangled hair behind her ears. “When I got back to London from Dublin, Robin was fighting for his life. Georgina was in Boston by then. Jeremy had returned from Dublin on Monday night with the Aoife O’Byrne painting and discovered Robin the next morning. He took measures to keep himself out of any investigation, but he got Robin immediate medical attention. As we now know, there wasn’t much to be done.”
“And then Jeremy took the painting to Georgina himself,” Emma said. “That’s quite a gesture.”
“Yes, it is. He told her he hadn’t seen the painting himself, but that was only because he didn’t want her to know his role. It was a gift from her father. In Jeremy’s view, that’s all she needed to know.” Henrietta waved a hand. “He’s better today. Best you speak with him.”
They went into the rectory through the front door. Oliver was alone in the kitchen, at the table with a mug of tea. “Finian had work to do at the church. I offered to sort rummage. I don’t think he believed I was serious. Tea, anyone?”
Henrietta said she wanted some, but Emma left her and Oliver to it and followed Colin to the den. The door was ajar, and he rapped on it as he pushed it open. “Look at you. Shaved, in clean clothes and sitting up.”
The senior MI5 officer was tucked under an Irish wool blanket, reasonably awake and alert, his color improved since last night. “I won’t be upright for long. I’m done in. I need a nap.”
Colin sat on Finian’s lounger, close to Jeremy. “You can take a nap after you talk to us.”
“What if I don’t want to talk to you?”
“We can turn you over to Maine law enforcement for questioning about a report of a missing painting. My brother would be glad to get involved. He’s a nice, easygoing guy, but don’t let that fool you.”
“I shouldn’t forget he’s a Donovan, too.” Jeremy winced, placed a palm on his abdomen. “I’m still a sick man. What do you want?”
“Tell me about you and Robin Masterson.”
“I told you—”
“What you told me isn’t good enough, Jeremy.”
He shifted to Emma as she sat on a chair near his feet. “I’ve known Colin since his first undercover assignment, did he tell you? Green as a frog.”
“Compared to a grizzled old spook like you, yeah,” Colin said. “Emma doesn’t distract easily. Trust me.”
Jeremy sank back against his pillows. “I met Robin when I was a young SAS officer, a few months before I joined the intelligence services. Robin was helping dismantle the Soviet Union’s massive stockpiles of chemical weapons. He and his wife were good to me.”
“This was in England?”
“Mostly. Valerie Masterson was a research chemist. She was studying antidotes to various nerve agents when she developed a brain tumor. She died within weeks of diagnosis. It was sudden, brutal and tragic. Georgina was seven. Robin went to pieces. He was already a workaholic, but to cope with Valerie’s death, he buried himself even deeper in his work.”
Emma could see the pain in Jeremy’s face—not from his mushroom poisoning, but remembering that long-ago loss. “Did you stay in touch with him?”
“On and off. I had my own work. Georgina isn’t wrong or exaggerating when she says he was a crap father. He was. He’d tell you so himself. She took it a step or two outside the lines by convincing herself doctors would have caught her mother’s tumor sooner if he hadn’t been so absorbed in his work. I don’t think she still believes that, but she did through her teen years, at least.”
“She felt abandoned,” Colin said.
“Robin would say he did abandon her. It wasn’t what he wanted to do, but it’s what he did.” Jeremy licked his raw-looking lips. “She was a sweet little kid.”
“Did someone miss something with the mother?” Colin asked. “The brain tumor—did she come into contact with a toxic substance in her or Robin’s work that caused the cancer, and you feel you owe her husband, her daughter?”
“Your mind, Colin,” Jeremy said. “No. It was just one of those things. Bad luck, genes, I don’t know. It had nothing to do with neurotoxins or anything similar. We were friends. It happens even in our line of work.”
Colin shook his head in that stubborn, confident manner Emma knew well. “Nope. There’s more to it. You posed as Robin, flew to Dublin the day after he and Georgina admired Aoife O’Byrne’s paintings and bought an expensive one so your friend could give it to his daughter.”
“It was a favor.”
“Why didn’t he go to Dublin himself?”
“Because I was at a loose end and offered.”
“Why pose as him?”
“It kept things straightforward. I didn’t want to get into the middle of his relationship with his daughter, but I wanted to help.”
“You went to a lot of trouble to help. Why the urgency?”
Emma expected the quick back-and-forth to tire Jeremy, but he paused only for a half beat. “Robin rarely had a clue what to do for Georgina. He’d missed most of her birthdays. He wanted to get her the painting after seeing how she’d reacted to Aoife O’Byrne’s work. He was going to ship it to her, but when he fell sick—I went. The painting was still in my possession. It was simpler just to fly to Boston and give it to Georgina myself.”
“Was Robin worried about her and this foliage cruise?” Colin asked.
“He was worried about her in general. I think he saw her visit as a chance to mend their relationship, and it didn’t work out quite the way he’d hoped. He thought they could have a few meals together, she could sleep in her old room, they could forage for wild mushrooms—and after two or three days, all would be well.” Jeremy reached for his water glass. “Robin realized it was going to be harder work than that.”
“No magic wand to make things better,” Emma said. “But progress?”
“When I left for Dublin to buy the painting, I’d have said yes.”
Jeremy took a sip of water but lost his grip on the glass. Colin grabbed it before any water spilled and set the glass back on the table. “Did you speak with him after you left?”
“No.”
“Did he know you were going to Dublin to buy the painting?”
Jeremy didn’t answer at once. “Not specifically, no.”
“But he okayed it—he knew you were buying an expensive painting for his daughter, on his behalf.”
“There you have it,” Jeremy said, his voice hoarse now. “It’s my personal business, Colin. It has nothing to do with my work, his work or your work.”
Colin folded his hands on his middle, a gesture Emma knew to be deceptively casual. Probably so did Jeremy Pearson. “Quite a bond between you and Robin to go to the trouble of sneaking to Ireland, buying a painting and personally taking it to Boston. What name did you use to go to Ireland?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“You used William Hornsby to sneak into the US without telling me.”
“I didn’t sneak anywhere.”
“Eye of the beholder,” Colin said.
“I approached Aoife O’Byrne as Robin. Otherwise...”
“You were William Hornsby, a man who doesn’t exist.”
“He exists. I’m right here.”
“Why didn’t you stay at Robin Masterson’s bedside, if he was seriously ill and you two were such good friends?”
“Did I say we were good friends? Don’t take advantage of a sick man, Colin.”
Colin scratched the side of his mouth. He glanced at Emma. He was used to men like Jeremy Pearson. In many ways, she knew, he was one himself. But he hadn’t been doing this work as long, and she wondered if he worried one day he’d go too far—sacrifice too much.
He shifted back to the senior intelligence agent. “You aren’t convinced Robin committed suicide. A neurotoxicologist with his experience in wild mushroom foraging doesn’t accidentally ingest a deadly poisonous mushroom.”
“No.”
It was all Jeremy said. Emma knew Colin could wait a week and his British friend wouldn’t say more. “That leaves homicide. Murder, Jeremy.”
“It does, doesn’t it?”
“What direction does the evidence point, then?”
“It points to suicide or accident.”
“Round and round,” Colin said. “Henrietta found out you went to Dublin and followed your trail. Then you’re off to Boston, and she grabs Oliver and follows you. Either you’re directing her or leading her on, or you went AWOL on her and she’s trying to save your skin.”
“I don’t need anyone to save my skin. Does Georgina know about her father? You’re going to see her? I’ll go with you.” Jeremy threw his blanket to the floor and staggered to his feet. He teetered unsteadily and grabbed the arm of the sofa. “I’m bloody useless.”
“You need time to recover,” Emma said, touching his arm. “Can I get you anything?”
He shook his head. “When people first started getting sick, I thought it might be the same thing that made Robin sick. These death cap mushrooms.”
“Onset of symptoms was too fast for death caps,” Colin said.
A thin smile from his friend. “The things we’ve learned about mushrooms, eh?”
“You’re not going anywhere, my friend,” Colin said, helping him back to the sofa. “Rest up. I’m sorry about Robin’s death.”
“He died alone. For a long time I thought I would, too. I might yet if my wife disowns me.”
“Just one more question before I scoot. Why did you put Robin in touch with Oliver? Did you know they were going to talk about poison art?”
“He said he wanted to talk to someone familiar with mythology and art. He didn’t mention poisons to me, just to Oliver. He was retired and curious, he said. I didn’t believe that was all there was to it, but I wasn’t alarmed. I assumed his interest had something to do with Georgina and her visit. I still do.” Jeremy sank against the sofa cushions. “Anything else? Thumbscrews next?”
“We’ll talk later.”
“Georgina...”
“I’ll give her your best.”
“She knows me only as Hornsby.”
“But she has good instincts,” Colin said. “Spooks, she called us last night.”
“She might be slightly built and emotional right now, but she has a spine of steel. No one should underestimate her, including me.” Jeremy raised his bloodshot eyes to Colin and Emma. “But we know some bad actors, the three of us. Henrietta and Oliver, too. See to it she’s okay, won’t you?”
“We will,” Colin said.
“Rest,” Emma said. “Get well.”
They returned to the kitchen. Oliver was looking out the back-door window, contemplating bean holes, he said. “I can try my hand at a pie, too. I discovered recipes in a folder. Apparently, the menu for the supper hasn’t changed in decades.”
Henrie
tta was at the sink, up to her elbows in water and suds. “Is Heron’s Cove next on your agenda?”
Emma nodded. She knew it would be on Henrietta’s agenda, if their situations were reversed. Colin thrust a finger at Oliver. “You, go with Emma. I’ll meet you there. Henrietta, stay here with Jeremy. I don’t want to leave him alone, and I don’t want to leave Fin Bracken alone with him. He’s not Fin’s responsibility.”
Oliver turned to her. “Henrietta?”
“Go,” she said. “I’ll be fine here.”
Colin leveled his gaze on her. “Don’t leave church property. We’ll be back.”
She pulled her wet, heat-reddened hands out of the dishpan and took a towel off a hook. “As you wish.”
Oliver raised his eyebrows, obviously surprised by her acquiescence, but he didn’t comment. He grabbed his jacket from a row of pegs and kissed her goodbye. Colin pulled open the back door, letting Oliver and Emma go ahead of him.
When they reached Emma’s car, Oliver paused. “Why do you want me in Heron’s Cove?”
“Because you’re an art thief,” Colin said. “We need someone who thinks like an art thief to help us figure out what happened to that painting.”
Emma unlocked the car doors while Colin headed for his truck. “We’d appreciate your help and cooperation, Oliver.”
He smiled as he got into the car. “Happy to do what I can to help the FBI.”
* * *
Richie Hillier was smoking a cigarette on the pier by the yacht when Colin, Emma and Oliver arrived. “Agent Donovan, Agent Sharpe. I can’t say I’m glad to see you. It’s been another terrible morning with news of the death of Georgina’s father.” The captain tossed his cigarette into the river. “Sorry, a bad habit—smoking and tossing the butts into the water. I hope you won’t fine me. To be honest, I can’t wait to get out of here.”
He brought them up to the sundeck, where Bryce Fanning occupied a lounge, a blanket over his outstretched legs, a glass of ice and an open bottle of an upscale local ginger ale at his side. And Nick Lothian, in khakis and navy polo shirt. “Is there anything else I can get you?” But Bryce dismissed him with a curt shake of the head. “Rough morning,” Nick said in a half whisper as he passed Colin and headed across the sundeck to the bar.
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