Keeper's Reach. Carla Neggers
quiet. As the church came into view again, he could see young Charles and Deborah on their wedding day, laughing as they greeted guests. There had been no question they would have the ceremony here in the village.
Martin scooped up the amaryllis pots from the wall. He needed to put aside loyalty, grief, pity and sympathy and see clearly what options were available—especially now with the bloody FBI popping into town for a visit.
He had made a promise. He couldn’t falter, and he couldn’t fail.
He glanced down the lane toward the village center, but he didn’t see the American.
Should he call Emma Sharpe or Colin Donovan and ask them about Special Agent Kavanagh and this strange visit?
Let Oliver make that decision.
A pot in each arm, Martin set off down the lane, cutting onto a public footpath that paralleled the main thoroughfare. It was part of the Oxfordshire Way, one of the many marked walking routes in the picturesque Cotswolds. On his free days, he liked nothing better than to don his walking shoes, choose a loop and set off for the day. Oliver was fit as a fiddle, but he hated to “ramble,” as he put it, preferring endless hours of solitary martial arts practice. Martin suspected his employer and friend’s distaste for country leisure walking harkened back to his kidnapping, but he had never asked—and he never would. Heart-to-hearts would only make them both uncomfortable, and Martin had decided years ago that some things he was best not knowing for certain. Guessing was enough for him.
Oliver would be in from London tomorrow. Martin would have the morning to see to errands and deliveries and get the house prepared for Oliver’s arrival. He was inviting a friend, he had said. An Irish priest Martin had yet to meet.
You’ll like him, Hambly. He’s a whiskey expert. He and his twin brother own an Irish distillery.
It was a marginal recommendation. Martin preferred Scotch.
Nonetheless, he appreciated that Oliver was making an attempt to turn over a new leaf and have real friends. Martin would be sure the guest suite was immaculate and fires were lit throughout the house, ready for their arrival.
* * *
Converting the small dovecote on the edge of the farm’s main grounds into a potting shed had been Priscilla York’s idea. Although the family employed a gardener, she had loved to putter with her pots and seeds. Martin had spent many hours helping her, although he didn’t pretend to have her knowledge, expertise or interest in gardening.
Adding a stonework studio to the dovecote twelve years ago, long after his grandmother’s death, had been Oliver’s idea. He hadn’t asked Martin for help, opinions or approval and went about stocking the studio with lapidary saws, heat guns, polishing wheels, hammers, chisels and various kinds of glue. Stone-carving became another of Oliver’s solitary hobbies. Martin had thought no harm could come of it.
One of his more spectacular miscalculations.
He set the pots on a rough-wood worktable. Deep red amaryllis blossoms would provide welcome color before spring returned. He felt his tension and melancholy lifting after meeting the FBI agent and visiting the graves. He envisioned hillsides of daffodils, fields of bright yellow rapeseed, lambs prancing with their mothers. Truly, was there anything more glorious than springtime in the Cotswolds?
He helped himself to a bottle of water he kept on the worktable and groaned when he noticed a package by the door. He had forgotten about it. Oliver had packed it himself before departing for London late Monday. Martin had no idea what was inside and wasn’t about to rip it open to find out. Surely it couldn’t contain anything provocative, since it was addressed to Emma Sharpe, one of the FBI agents from November.
Martin noticed Oliver hadn’t used Agent Sharpe’s Boston home or office address, which, to the consternation of the FBI, were in his possession. Instead, he had addressed the package to her in care of Father Finian Bracken at the St. Patrick’s Holy Roman Catholic Church rectory in Rock Point, Maine.
Oliver’s new friend, the Irish priest.
Father Bracken was also Emma Sharpe and Colin Donovan’s friend, an awkward and potentially incendiary situation in Martin’s estimation.
He rang the courier service, catching them in time to pick up the package for overnight service to the United States. He wasn’t surprised to discover Oliver had done a perfunctory, inadequate packing job. He added more tape before setting the package outside on the doorstep. He would wait for the courier. Then an early supper and some well-placed acupressure on his sore arms were in order.
He heard a rustling sound behind the dovecote, which sat atop a wooded hillside above a stream.
“Not the bloody ram again,” he muttered.
The stubborn beast refused to stay within the fence. He liked to escape the confines of his carefully maintained pasture and romp through forbidden territory. Farm animals weren’t Martin’s responsibility, but he couldn’t leave the sheep to his own devices. At the least, he could assess the situation and then call for help if necessary. If it was the ram and he wasn’t in too big a fix, Martin could manage to get him back into his pen on his own—if grumbling the entire way.
He went around to the back of the dovecote. The ground was soft and wet, no surprise given the two days of rain. At least it hadn’t been snow. He noticed with pleasure that snowdrops were in bloom, blanketing the grass around an oak tree with their tiny white flowers, a welcome harbinger of spring.
The hillside was darkened with dusk and shadows, but not so much so Martin would be unable to see a wandering sheep. Still, he saw nothing. He paused, listening, but he couldn’t make out any bleating.
Perhaps it had been a fox or pheasant he had heard, stirring with the warmer weather and now on its way.
“Well, good, then,” Martin said aloud, turning back toward the dovecote.
Then came a scraping sound...metal on metal...as distinct and unmistakable as his own breathing.
Now what?
It had to be the ram. He must have caught on something.
Martin decided to have another look then get a farmworker out here.
Then came a grunt, distinctly human and close.
“No!”
Martin heard panic and fear in his voice. His heart jumped, adrenaline surging painfully through him as he tried, instinctively, to dodge what he knew was an oncoming blow.
He was too late.
The blow came quickly, hard, to the back of his head, sending him sprawling down the hill. He couldn’t get his footing and crashed against winter-denuded trees and brush, until finally landing facedown in wet grass and dead leaves.
He was vaguely aware of the taste of mud and the stab of a twig in his cheek as pain exploded in his head.
Bastard.
Unable to breathe, he gasped in agony, fighting to stay conscious as he sank into the cold ground and the inevitable blackness.
Boston, Massachusetts Wednesday, 3:00 p.m., EST
Emma Sharpe was in love with her wedding gown. Totally, absolutely in love. It was silky, simple, flattering and exactly what she had envisioned. She took a selfie in the fitting room of the Newbury Street shop and texted it to her mother in London, who responded immediately.
It’s perfect. I’m sorry I’m not there.
Emma didn’t mind. Her father was recovering from his latest procedure to help ease his chronic back pain due to a long-ago fall on the ice, and her mother was at his side. For most of the past year, they had been living and working abroad, away from reminders of the past, and