Thief's Mark

“Thank heavens you weren’t hurt. You weren’t, were you?”

“Not at all. No one was, except the man who died.”

Tony nodded, his expression a mix of grimness and curiosity. “We’ve lived quiet lives compared to Oliver York, haven’t we?”

“Henrietta’s going to take a look at the painting we discovered,” Cassie said.

“Great idea. It’s priceless in its own way. I’m sorry I’m in a rush. I need to pick up a few things at the hardware store.” He shifted again to Henrietta. “Phone me if the adrenaline wears off and you want to talk. Once a worker cut his arm and the resulting mess...” He made a face and held up a hand. “Never mind. It wasn’t a fatal accident but you don’t need to have that picture dancing around in your head.”

“I imagine not,” Henrietta said. “Thank you.”

“I’ll see you later, then.”

He headed up the path toward the Kershaw house. Henrietta had never seen anyone quite so happy to retire. Tony heartily approved of her career change and had assured her Posey would have, too. Of course, he believed she’d worked in a dull London office job.

Henrietta followed Casey into the cottage. The front room was cleared of any furniture while the plastering was being redone. Tony did most of the work, but he’d bring in professionals when needed or grab Nigel Burns or Eugene for easier jobs that needed more than one pair of hands. Since the cottage had once belonged to the Balfours, Henrietta was madly curious about the renovations but tried not to be too nosy.

Eugene emerged from the kitchen. “I was just in the village,” he said. “Everyone’s shocked at the news of the death at the York farm. I suppose it’s natural for our minds to jump to violence rather than an unfortunate accident. Oliver bolting doesn’t help, but one can understand why he might, under the circumstances. After what he went through as a boy, who wouldn’t?”

“Best to let the police sort this, Eugene,” Henrietta said.

“Yes, of course. You’re right.” He smiled. “You’re sensible like your aunt, Henrietta.”

“Posey was thrilled when you decided to take on the farm.”

“A late bloomer, I believe she called me.”

Eugene was nine years older than Cassie, a bit grayer and balder these days but in good shape from his farm work and as amiable as ever. He and Cassie had clicked the moment Henrietta had introduced them to each other, the only instance she’d successfully played matchmaker—not that she’d meant to play matchmaker. It was an accident, really. She’d looked up Cassie on a trip to Boston given their family connection, and they’d hit it off. Cassie had come to the Cotswolds to visit and Henrietta had shown her out to the old Balfour farm. Eugene had been there, cutting the grass after work. They’d ended up at the pub together and eight months later, Cassie and Eugene were married at the village church.

Henrietta had known Eugene since her visits with her aunt as a child. Her parents would drop her off in the Cotswolds for weeks while they binged on opera or scooted to Paris without her. Eugene and his younger sister, who now ran a restaurant in Oxford, had spent holidays with their grandparents on the former Balfour farm. For as far back as Henrietta could remember, Eugene had expressed his desire to revive the farm. He’d loved to talk about horses, Cotswold sheep, dairy cows and grain fields. Henrietta couldn’t say it’d ever been her ambition to move into Aunt Posey’s house full-time, but she did love the place. It had seemed like a practical, workable option when she’d quit MI5. Flowers, herbs, shrubs, pots, cutting and watering regimes. Simpler than uncovering schemes to commit mass murder.

She turned her attention to the matter at hand. “Well, what do we have?”

Cassie went into the kitchen and came out with a mounted canvas. She set it on the floor and leaned it against the wall, standing aside so that Henrietta could see it was an oil painting of a scene of a mountain and a lake. It wasn’t in the class of paintings Oliver York had stolen, but it was charming.

“It’s wonderful, isn’t it?” Cassie beamed. “A bit amateurish, I know, but I love its sensibility. It’s Queen’s View in the southern Scottish Highlands. It’s supposedly named for Queen Victoria, after she visited in 1866. I looked it up after I found the painting. That’s Loch Tummel and the Tay Forest. Eugene and I drove up there for a few days before we had children. Have you ever been, Henrietta?”

She nodded. “I went a few years ago with a churl of an ex-boyfriend.”

Cassie grinned at her. “One day I want to hear all the details of your life before you moved back here. I know so little about it.” She turned back to the painting. “It’s not signed, and there’s nothing on the back to indicate who painted it. We were wondering if you have any idea.”

“I’ve never seen it before,” Henrietta said, certain.

“Did your grandfather paint?”

“Freddy? Good heavens, no. Well, I doubt he did—I was very young when he died. My father has never mentioned Freddy painted. Posey didn’t, either, when she was alive. I remember him smoking cigarettes and rambling in the garden.”

“What about Posey?” Cassie asked. “Could she have painted it?”

“I can’t imagine she did. I never saw her paint, and I haven’t discovered any old canvases or supplies and such since I moved into her house.”

Cassie frowned. “Hmm. A mystery. Could it have been your grandmother... Freddy’s wife?”

“No one ever mentioned she painted, but I really don’t know,” Henrietta said. “I don’t remember her at all. She died when I was a baby. A shame you didn’t find it when Posey was still alive. Does Tony have any memory of it?”

Eugene shook his head. “I asked him. He said he didn’t know but he wasn’t a good one to ask. He was only a tot when his mother moved to the US with him. I suppose his father could have painted it, but he was a tortured soul—I can’t believe he’d have produced something this sweet.”

“Anthony’s been dead for sixty years, too,” Cassie added. “This cottage was pretty much in ruin then. Freddy had it restored but it’s been decades since anyone’s really used it. It’s a good thing Tony isn’t particular. Anyway, I suppose someone could have discovered the painting somewhere else and tucked it in the closet and forgot about it.”

Eugene squatted down for a closer look at the painting. “You can almost feel the sun on the loch.”

“I really do love it,” Cassie said. “If Anthony painted it, maybe Freddy or Posey found it after his death and couldn’t bear to keep it but couldn’t bear to throw away it away, either.”

“That would make sense.” Eugene rose, his eyes still on the captivating scene. “It’s not discussed but everyone knows Anthony Balfour died of alcoholism. Well. That’s not a cheerful subject any day but especially today, given what happened this morning.”

“And it’s such a cheerful painting,” Cassie said with a sigh. “Well, I don’t care who painted it, really. I was just curious. Freddy Balfour’s housekeeper could have bought it at a yard sale and a ten-year-old painted it, and it wouldn’t matter—I love it. I’m going to frame it and hang it in here when we’re done with renovations. I’m sure Mum and Dad will love it, too.”

Henrietta followed Cassie and Eugene out of the cottage. Cassie explained she’d invited Henrietta to dinner. Eugene seemed to be as keen on the idea. “The boys always love to see you,” he said cheerfully. “They got into nettle the other day. You can explain it to them.”

“Every country girl and boy needs to understand nettle,” Henrietta said. “I learned the hard way myself when I decided to investigate the field across the stream on one of my visits with Aunt Posey. It’s like the nettle was lying in wait for me.”

“It’s brutal stuff,” Eugene said, grinning at her. “I remember that day. Both your legs were covered in welts. Didn’t Oliver rescue you?”

“He thinks he did. He was twelve and I was nine.” Henrietta grinned. “It was the worst.”

Eugene said he’d see her later and returned to the cottage, but as Henrietta started back to the gate, she noticed worry return to Cassie’s face. “Let us know if you hear any news about the investigation, won’t you?” She motioned vaguely toward the compost pile. “I’ll get back to work before it rains.”

Henrietta went back through the gate. As she brought her lunch dishes to the kitchen, she contemplated polite ways to get out of dinner. She wanted to go. She should go. Be with friends after a difficult day. At the same time, she didn’t want to go.

The definition of ambivalent.

She’d shower and go see what the FBI agents wanted.

5 (#u951240e0-74d3-5ee9-b773-8a019319d286)

A rail-thin man in his fifties introduced himself as Detective Inspector Peter Lowe and took Emma and Colin through what he knew so far. The body had been removed, but the forensics team was still working on the immediate scene. “We haven’t identified the deceased yet,” Lowe said as they stood on the edge of the taped-off area around the side entrance. “He didn’t have a wallet or phone on him. We don’t know how he got onto the property. We haven’t found a vehicle. He could have walked. We’re checking the village.”

“What shape’s the house in?” Colin asked.

“Untouched as far as we can tell so far. All the blood is right here. He didn’t go far once he was wounded.”

“How was he wounded, do you know?”

The DI shook his head. “He wasn’t shot. We know that much. The artery was in bad shape. It appears to have been cut with an extremely sharp instrument. There’s no guarantee it was a survivable injury even with applied pressure and timely medical intervention.” Lowe’s eyes narrowed on Emma. “Now, Special Agent Sharpe, tell me about your call from Mr. York.”

Emma did so, repeating Oliver’s words verbatim. It wasn’t as if there’d been many to remember. The DI twisted his mouth to one side, taking in the information. He and the investigative team had been professional and courteous, but it was clear they didn’t appreciate two FBI agents turning up, even with MI5 having paved the way—through whatever means, direct or indirect. Emma understood their reluctance. She and Colin had a personal and professional history with Oliver that could help, but it also complicated matters. The personal history irked Colin but Oliver deliberately exaggerated their relationship. Despite his attempts to forge a friendship, Emma considered her relationship with their unrepentant art thief entirely within her role with the FBI.

“And this break-in at your grandfather’s house in Dublin?” the DI asked. “Relevant?”