Carla Neggers - Thief's Mark

It was clear he’d finished his story. “Thank you, Nigel,” Ruthie said. “If you think of anything else, you’ll notify the police straight away.”

“I will. They said I can go home but I can stay if you need me.”

“No, I’ll be all right. I’ll head home soon. It’s been a rough day, and I’ve no idea when the police will finish. Go on home.”

“I’ll come by and stay with you. I don’t want you home alone.” Nigel shifted to Emma. “I remember you from this winter. The man who died—he’s not one of yours, is he?”

“No, he’s not,” she said. “Any idea who he is, Nigel?”

“Not a clue. It was just a day like any other until I saw the Rolls-Royce and then my mum texted me after she called 999.” He gave an apologetic look. “Sorry I couldn’t do more to help.”

“It’ll be all right, Nigel,” Ruthie said.

He left without comment and started back up the lane toward the barn. His mother turned to Emma, gesturing vaguely toward her son. “I’ll go now, too. You ring me if you need anything else.”

“Of course,” Emma said. “Thank you.”

Ruthie Burns nodded grimly, then hurried after her son. “You’d think he was twelve,” Colin said.

Emma didn’t disagree. “It’s been a rough day. Brings out a mother’s protective instincts, maybe.”

“My mother was never that protective. She sure as hell won’t be when my brothers and I hit our forties.”

“There are four of you. She’d have worn herself out being protective.”

Martin Hambly walked up from the police car, where he’d been chatting with the officer, obviously killing time until Ruthie and Nigel left. “Were they any help? I imagine not much. The officer told me Nigel saw Oliver go toward the west gate in his car. What terrible witnesses we are. I feel as if I missed a thousand important clues that by now are beyond my grasp. To think...” He glanced at the half-filled terra-cotta pot. “To think the day started with the delightful memories this old flowerpot brings. Henrietta found it this morning. She’ll be along soon. Would you two like to sit down while you wait for her? You can take the bench. There’s not much room inside, but we can go in if you’d like.”

Emma shook her head and noticed Colin didn’t make a move for the bench, either.

Martin walked to the edge of the grass and looked at the green, sheep-dotted pasture that sloped up to the elegant farmhouse. “I hate that the police and their forensic teams have been crawling through the place. By now they must know more about what happened here this morning than I do.”

“Do you have any idea where Oliver might be?” Emma asked.

He turned to her, the strain in his face unmistakable. “None, I’m afraid.”

Colin studied him. “Would you tell us if you did?”

Martin shrugged. “Depends, doesn’t it?” He nodded to the bucket next to Emma. “I dug that dirt myself this morning,” he said absently.

“Here?” she asked.

“In back.” He pointed vaguely behind him. “I was preoccupied with other matters this morning. Ordinary matters. Now...” He paused. “The police have cleared the body, but you’ve spoken with them.”

His tone was laden with suspicion and doubts, but he didn’t go further. Emma wouldn’t be surprised if he guessed that MI5 had paved the way for her and Colin to be here. She pointed at the bucket. “It looks like good dirt.”

“That’s what I told Henrietta. She and Oliver have known each other since they were children.”

“They’re friends?”

“I wouldn’t go that far. The Balfours have deep roots in the village but Henrietta only moved here a few months ago. She and Oliver aren’t always here at the same time. He’s not...well, you know. He doesn’t often seek the company of others. Henrietta lived in London until March, but as I understand it, she and Oliver only saw each other there once or twice.”

“Was she a garden designer in London?” Emma asked.

“She worked in a financial office.”

Martin inhaled and let out his breath slowly, shutting his eyes, as if he was meditating. Emma remembered when he’d greeted her, Colin and Matt Yankowski last fall at Oliver’s Mayfair London apartment. From the moment Martin had opened the door to three FBI agents, he’d kept a professional distance, never admitting or denying what he knew or suspected about Oliver’s secret life as a thief. Emma was convinced it was a lot, if not everything.

“We look forward to talking with Ms. Balfour,” Emma said. “Are you concerned Oliver was hurt or kidnapped this morning?”

“No,” Martin said without hesitation. “I can’t explain why. I’m just not. The police haven’t found anything to indicate he was injured or taken against his will. And with the car gone...” He didn’t finish, the ending to the sentence obvious. With the Rolls-Royce gone, it looked as if Oliver had taken off voluntarily and deliberately before the police had arrived. “The police have little to go on at the moment,” Martin added finally. “The house isn’t alarmed. There’s no video of the incident. Only Ruthie and Oliver seem to have been at the house when it happened.”

With a burst of energy, Martin started tidying up the area in front of the dovecote, grabbing garden tools and setting them inside by the worktable. He left the door open and came out and grabbed the bags of soil. Emma decided it was best not to offer to help. Given his employer’s ways, Martin was accustomed to running the show at the farm, and probably in London, too. He would want to be useful in some small way and reassert a sense of control.

“How long were you down here before Oliver arrived?” she asked.

“Here at the potting shed? Forty minutes.” Martin spoke with certainty as he stood in front of the dovecote door. He tapped his watch. “I happened to look at the time. Oliver stayed perhaps ten minutes.”

“And the gardener—Henrietta Balfour? Was she here when you arrived?”

“No. I got here first. She’d been out back yesterday and wanted to show me the flowerpot she’d found. We carried it around front. I went out back again to dig loam from the hillside while she gathered her potting supplies. Then Oliver came down from the house.” Martin paused. “And Henrietta’s a garden designer, not a gardener. She’ll tell you herself.”

“I see,” Emma said.

Colin peered through a small window into the dovecote. “Did Oliver say whether he’d come straight from the house?”

“No, he didn’t, not specifically, but where else would he have come from?”

“Pasture, barn, another outbuilding, one of the cottages.”

Martin held up a hand. “Point taken.” He grabbed the rest of the tools and set them inside. He shut the door behind him, but not tightly, and dusted off his hands. “That’s done, then.”

“How long after Oliver left here did Ruthie Burns alert you?” Emma asked.

“Five minutes or so. I didn’t check my watch but it wasn’t more than that. Henrietta might know.” He sounded stronger, and his color was better. “I assume she’s walking here. She didn’t have her car this morning and the police didn’t discourage her from walking home. They haven’t said they’re investigating the death as a homicide. It could be a terrible accident, couldn’t it?” He sighed. “I know. Not for you to say.”

Colin returned to the bench, stretching out his thick legs. “The police will have a better idea of what happened once they have autopsy results. They’ll figure it out.”

“We’ve had nasty accidents on the farm,” Martin said. “Years ago a worker lost a finger. I can’t see how an accident this bloody and catastrophic could happen so close to the house. The police didn’t find blood inside the house, at least that I’m aware of. It can’t be just one of those things for a man to incur a cut that causes him to bleed to death.”