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.
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?”
“I don’t know,” Emma said. “The Irish police are investigating.”
Lowe nodded. “We’ll speak with them.”
Colin watched two members of the forensic team finishing up by a stone bench across the driveway from the entrance. “How close are you to identifying the deceased?”
“Not close enough. We’ll know when we know. I don’t guess, Special Agent Donovan.”
“Duly noted. Thanks for your time.”
They left the DI to his work and walked down to the dovecote, taking the same route DI Lowe had described Ruthie Burns had taken from the house to alert Martin Hambly and Henrietta Balfour. The gray weather only seemed to make the sloping fields look greener, a contrast to the grim events earlier in the day. Emma had been here in February on FBI business, winter in the Cotswolds different but still beautiful.
“I smell roses,” she said.
Colin shook his head. “Not me.”
“What do you smell?”
“Sheep.”
She smiled, appreciating the light moment. She watched a lamb prance in the grass on her right, near the fence. She could imagine whiling away an afternoon out here, enjoying the views of bucolic fields, listening to sheep baaing. She doubted Oliver made much of an income off the farm, but she knew it met expenses. Her grandfather had given her that information when he’d visited in January.
A police car was just down the lane past the dovecote, an officer at the wheel. Emma was familiar with the dovecote, built to house pigeons at a time when they were a pricey, sought-after delicacy. Pigeons had fallen out of favor on the dinner plate, and now only a comparatively few dovecotes remained. The York dovecote was on the smaller side as dovecotes went, but it was well-suited to its modern purpose as a potting shed. Ruthie Burns was out front, frowning at the mess Emma assumed Henrietta and Martin had left behind—bags of potting soil and composted manure, a bucket of what appeared to be freshly dug loam, an array of garden tools and a cracked terra-cotta pot. It was as if the ordinary work of the day would resume at any moment.
The DI had let them know Ruthie wasn’t doing well emotionally, but she’d agreed to talk with them. “Please, ask whatever questions you’d like,” she said even before Emma could greet her. “I’d be happy to answer them. DI Lowe said I should.” She paused, her eyes red and puffy from tears, her skin ashen from the shock of the morning. “You and Special Agent Donovan are Oliver’s friends.”
Emma didn’t voice any objection to the housekeeper’s characterization of her and Colin’s relationship with her missing boss. Now wasn’t the time, and she saw that Colin agreed. “We want to help if we can,” she said.
“I understand. I’m sorry you’re not here under better circumstances.”
“I am, too.”
“Mr. York didn’t know you were coming?”
“We called this morning and left a voice mail. I don’t know if he received it.”
“You called on his mobile?”
Emma nodded. “Yes.”
Ruthie bit her lower lip, crossed her arms tight on her chest and lowered them again. “I don’t know what to do with myself—stay here, go home, be alone, be with people. I can’t make sense of today.” She spoke more to herself than to Emma. “I keep seeing the blood—so much blood—and Mr. York, desperately trying to help. You hear about such things but never expect to see something like it yourself.”
Ruthie pointed up the lane to a thickset man shambling toward the dovecote. “That’s my son, Nigel. He’s a mechanic.”
“Was he here this morning?” Emma asked.
“He was, yes. He was at the barn, working on one of the tractors.”
Nigel reached the dovecote, coming up the rudimentary flagstone path to the entrance. He rubbed the back of his hand across his jaw and its two-day stubble of beard, mostly dark but splotched with gray. No sign of gray in his thick, fair, curly hair. He looked to be in his early forties, a solidly built man in oil-smeared work clothes. He addressed his mother. “Police said I should come down here and tell the FBI agents what I saw