Thief's Mark. Carla Neggers
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here about eight o’clock. I was working on the old tractor down at the barn.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, clearly awkward and uncomfortable in his role as witness. “I came to tell you Mr. York is gone.” Nigel reddened to his ears. “Not dead. I don’t mean that. He left in his car a few minutes before the police got here. No more than that. I saw him myself.”
“Do you mean you saw the car or that you saw Oliver?” Colin asked.
“I saw them both,” Nigel said without hesitating. “Mr. York was driving. I didn’t see anyone with him.”
Ruthie twisted her hands together, as if she needed to release tension before she hit someone. “Are you sure it was Mr. York?”
“I am. No question.”
Colin put a foot on the rim of a bucket of dirt. “Where exactly did you see the car?”
Nigel pointed a thick, callused finger down the lane, in the direction of the barn, which wasn’t visible from the dovecote. “The west gate. He drove past the barn. It’s on this lane.”
“It meets up with the main road to Chipping Norton,” Ruthie added. “The public route continues across the road through a hay field but it’s strictly a walking trail. It can’t handle a vehicle.”
“I didn’t see which way Mr. York went once he reached the road,” Nigel said. “Even if I’d thought to look, I wouldn’t have been able to see from where I stood.”
Emma considered his response. “And where was that?”
“I told you—” Nigel stopped, took in a breath. “In front of the barn door facing the lane. I was up on the tractor, heard the car and took a look, since it’s odd to have the Rolls-Royce down there.”
Colin toed a small pile of spilled soil. “You recognized the Rolls-Royce by the sound of its engine? Before you saw it?”
“I did. Always’ve had an ear for an engine. I told the police.”
“They were all right with it,” Ruthie said.
Colin’s eyes narrowed slightly, and Emma knew he, too, had heard the note of defiance in Nigel’s tone and the protectiveness in Ruthie’s. “How did Mr. York look to you?” she asked.
Nigel picked up an open bag of soil that had fallen on its side and stood it upright against the dovecote. “Same as always,” he said, stepping back. “Only unusual thing was seeing him driving down by the barn. He didn’t look as if he’d been hurt or was bloody or in pain, anything like that. You know. Given what happened up at the house.”
“And the dead man?” Colin asked. “Did you see him?”
“I didn’t see anyone else, sorry. I got to the farm at ten and went to work. I drove. I know you’ll be asking. I live in the workers’ rooms at the pub. I do some work there, too. It’s temporary. My ex lives in the village with our two kids.” Nigel again shoved his hands into the pockets of his work jacket. “I’m saving for a place of my own. I’ve worked for the Yorks on and off since I was in my teens. Mr. Hambly can vouch for me. So can my mum, but, y’know—” He grinned at her. “She’s my mum.” He shrugged his big shoulders. “That’s it.”
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