Keeper's Reach (12 page)

Was Oliver in love with Aoife O’Byrne? Did he want to find out if Finian harbored any romantic feelings for her that could ultimately lead him out of the priesthood?

Was she the reason Oliver had extended the invitation to his Cotswolds farm?

Or was the man only looking to connect with people, however awkwardly?

He had peacemaking to do—with himself, with others, perhaps with God—and maybe he thought inviting an Irish priest here to his farm could help.

Finian touched the cold stone, the last of the raindrops drying in the sun. He traced the edge of a Celtic knot. It was as if Oliver had channeled the eight-year-old boy in the Scottish ruins when he had carved the symbols into the gray stone. It was that horrific experience, no doubt, that had propelled him into his solitary study of mythology, and into adopting a different identity.

Oliver Fairbairn. Oliver “fair child.”

Finian turned back through the dormant garden.

He wished he could help Oliver. Right now, the best thing he could do was to walk to the village pub and see about the American woman.

* * *

The pub was a cluster of small buildings and a walled courtyard set off the village green, complete with ducks, bantams, a playground and a shallow brook with its own little footbridge. The sun was fighting gray clouds when Finian and Oliver entered the pub, cozy with low, beamed ceilings, a wood-topped bar and an open stone fireplace, lit against the February chill. Breakfast had finished being served in a separate room.

Oliver sat on a wood stool at the bar. This was his show. Finian sat next to him and kept quiet as Oliver chatted with the waitstaff and, then, the proprietors, a cheerful young English couple. Oliver was comfortable, good-humored and friendly, but, at the same time, reserved if not distant. His relationships, Finian realized, bounced on the surface, never went deep.

But he got what he wanted.

The American woman had stayed there one night. She’d had breakfast yesterday morning—prior to discovering Martin—with another guest, a man, also American.

Separate rooms.

Oliver had more difficulty prying their names from his friends, but he finally did, at least from the husband. The wife wouldn’t budge.

Naomi MacBride and Ted Kavanagh.

Finian didn’t recognize the names but he stuck on the descriptions of the pair. “Oliver, I saw them in London.”

“Where in London?”

“They were at the gallery. Aoife’s show. They didn’t speak with each other.” Finian spoke in a low voice. The waitstaff and the couple had returned to work in another room, and he and Oliver had the bar to themselves. “They fit the description of the pair who were here.”

“FBI agents,” Oliver said, with certainty.

“You saw them, too?”

“Mmm. I told Emma. She scoffed.”

Oliver ordered two coffees and moved to a rough-wood table by the fire, motioning for Finian to join him. Reluctantly, Finian eased onto a cushioned bench opposite his British host.

“Did you speak with them?” Oliver asked.

“No, I didn’t, I’m afraid.”

“FBI agents,” Oliver said again, as if that explained everything.

Finian frowned. “Where did you see them?”

“They were in the park near my apartment.”

“Wouldn’t Emma know if two FBI agents were...” Finian faltered, searching for the appropriate words. “Wouldn’t she know if two agents were interested in speaking with you?”

Oliver grunted. “There’s no indication they wanted to speak with me, is there?” He glanced at the fire, eyes narrowed, his keen intelligence in evidence. “They must have known I was still in London when they came here.” He didn’t look at Finian. “What does that tell you?”

“They wanted to see your farm? Speak with Martin without you?”

“Perhaps.”

Finian reminded himself that the Englishman possessed a calculating mind that had helped him avoid arrest for a decade. No doubt he was alert to dangers, tricks and pursuit.

Their coffee arrived, delivered by the husband of the proprietor couple. Oliver thanked him and asked about business—the pub was bustling, the inn naturally quiet this time of year. They chatted about a quarrel over upcoming road improvements in the village. In other words, Finian thought, Oliver was communicating that he wasn’t pursuing more information about the two Americans but also that he wasn’t further explaining his interest in them.

The proprietor withdrew, and Oliver poured coffee for himself then Finian. “I once dressed up as a priest. I missed my wellies, and the collar drove me mad.”

“Dare I ask why you dressed as a priest?”

He poured cream into his coffee. “For my mythology studies.”

Finian doubted it. More likely for one of his heists.

Oliver drank some of his coffee, looking at ease, perhaps a touch excited by having the names of the pair arguably following him. “You should consider leaving the priesthood, Finian. You’re going to get into trouble with your superiors. Mark my words. What will they do? Exile you? Or are you already in exile in Maine?”

“I follow my calling.”

“Mmm. What if you discover that Aoife O’Byrne is your calling?”

The fire crackled behind him, as if it were a warning. Finian drank some of his own coffee. It was strong, hot, very good. If only he could relax and enjoy himself, but he didn’t thrive on danger and adventure quite the way Oliver York obviously did.

“What about you and Aoife, Oliver?” Finian asked.

The question didn’t seem to surprise him. “Am I in love with her, do you mean? Well, who wouldn’t be? She’s beautiful, talented and temperamental, and she doesn’t need love.”

“We all need to love and be loved,” Finian said simply.

“Isn’t that why we have God?” Oliver held up a hand. “Sorry. No theological discussions. I’m on the trail of FBI agents. What if one or both pushed Hambly down that hillside? What if one did without the knowledge of the other? What does that say?” He paused, tapping the table with one finger as he considered. “What if they didn’t do it but they know who did?” He took a breath. “I suppose neither could be responsible and they’re on the trail of who is—someone who is responsible for other misdeeds.”

“This is England. The FBI has no jurisdiction here.”

He laughed, incredulous. “Oh, yes, and that will stop them.”

“You’re cynical,” Finian said mildly.

“They could be after an American. I’ll allow that. I wonder where they are now.” He was silent a moment, then sat up straight. “Back to this notion of love. Honestly, I don’t know if I would recognize love. Feeling it, giving it. I’ve been turned inward. I can’t explain.”

“Your parents and grandparents loved you, didn’t they?”

“With all their hearts. I never doubted it, but that doesn’t mean I took it in.”

“Studying mythology must help you understand human nature.”

“Keeps me busy, anyway.” Oliver held his cup to his lips but didn’t drink. “I know you’re aware that I have...a past.”

“Yes.”

“Emma and Colin almost had me in Boston in the fall. Oliver Fairbairn nearly undid me. He can be a dolt.” He drank some of his coffee and smiled. “Tweedy types often can be dolts, don’t you think, Father Fin?”

“You realize I don’t care for ‘Father Fin,’ don’t you?”

The Englishman’s green eyes sparked. “I expected as much.”

But his mood darkened almost instantly, visibly as his shoulders slumped and he seemed transfixed by the flames. Finian found Oliver’s vaults from cheekiness and soul-baring impossible to predict and suspected his English friend did, too. For a man so accustomed to being solitary and self-contained, soul-baring—openness, honesty—was a new experience, a foreign concept. Even without two Americans following him, such a change would be bound to make him volatile, uncertain, awkward.

“Aoife doesn’t say she knows about my dual life but it’s obvious she does.”

“If she has no evidence...”

“No one has evidence.” It obviously wasn’t a point up for discussion. “You’re the man she pines for, Fin. She likes to pretend if only you would come back to her that the two of you could have a cottage on the south Irish coast and small children running about. You’d peg out your washing on Saturday mornings and tumble down to the village pub together in the evening.”

“Aoife has a full life in Dublin,” Finian said, then smiled. “I doubt she has ever pegged out her washing.”

“But she longs to. She longs to live in a quiet Irish village and lead a simple, traditional life. If she had to do it over again, I think she would stick to painting walls and the occasional shamrock for tourists and never mind being an internationally recognized artist.”

Finian wasn’t convinced, but he said nothing.

“I was always meant to be an only child. My parents had no desire to have more kids. It was to be the three of us.” Oliver glanced out a small window next to their table, set into the thick stone edifice of the old pub. “I wonder how that day would have gone if I’d had a couple of brothers and sisters. Would we have ganged up on the bastards? Would they have chosen a different family to rob and murder, or would they have killed us all?”

“I wish I had answers for you.”

“I wish you did, too, my friend.” Oliver kept his gaze on the window. Chickens roamed on the pebbled driveway, near the courtyard entrance. “I cowered that day. My mother did her best to protect me. I hid behind my father’s desk in the library. If I hadn’t—if the two men had discovered me in the midst of their killing—I believe they would have killed me, too. They were on their way out of the apartment, no doubt afraid to linger after what they’d done. When they saw me...” He paused. “Taking me wasn’t a planned act. They didn’t have a chance to think.”

Finian waited for him to go on, but he didn’t. “I’m sorry, Oliver,” he said quietly.

“Thank you.” He shifted from the window. “I sometimes wonder if they’re dead. I don’t know which would be preferable. Dead, or out there, one day to be arrested and tried for their crimes.”

“Would you recognize them?”

“I don’t know. I like to think so. You lost your family in an accident. I don’t know if it’s any better. Such a tragedy can feel like God is coming after you.”

“I know it can,” Finian said.

“My parents and I were caught in the wrong place at the wrong time with a few sick, drugged-up blokes who wanted money. They thought the apartment was empty.” Oliver pushed back in his chair but didn’t get up. “This is a morose conversation for a sunny English morning. Change the subject, shall we? Turn our attention to the matters at hand. What do you think is going on with our Emma if she doesn’t know about these two Americans?”

“Perhaps they aren’t FBI agents, Oliver.”

“I suppose it’s possible. What if we have a fight among FBI agents on our hands? Or worse.” Oliver’s expression lightened. “I say
we
because you saw them in London. No reason to think they’re following you, is there?”

“I can’t imagine.”

“Your friend Special Agent Donovan won’t be pleased that you’re here, will he?”

“I suspect not.”

“I told Emma I invited you. Do you suppose she told him?”

“Without a doubt,” Finian said.

“What do you do now, then, Fin? Call Colin about our American pair or take a long walk on the Oxfordshire Way?”

“I can do both. At the moment, I’m relieved Colin and Emma are across an ocean.”

“So am I,” Oliver muttered, then laughed as he got to his feet. “You have no idea how relieved.”

“I’m getting an idea,” Finian said, also getting up from the table.

“Better the FBI hounding me than bloody MI5.”

Oliver didn’t expand on that provocative statement as he came around the table and waved to the proprietor, who obviously kept a tab for his eccentric guest.

When they exited the pub, the sun was still shining, the day warming to springlike temperatures. Oliver took a deep breath. “It’s good to be away from London. I was tempted to invite Aoife to join us. What do you suppose she’d have said?”

“One can only imagine.”

“Ah, yes.”

As they crossed the green, a lad who worked at the pub joined them. He angled his cigarette, keeping the smoke away from Finian and Oliver. “I hear you were asking about the two Americans who were at breakfast yesterday,” he said. “That’s the only time I saw them together, but I saw the man—Kavanagh—out by your farm on Wednesday afternoon, Mr. York.”

Oliver’s brow furrowed. “What time was this?”

“It must have been close to five. I was on my way in to work. He was chatting with a courier.” The lad shrugged, flicking ash off the tip of his cigarette. “I assumed he was asking for directions.”

“Where exactly were they?” Oliver asked.

“By the gate to the track that leads to the dovecote.”

Oliver thanked him. He nodded to Finian, and they continued on through the green. “The courier arrived
after
Hambly fell,” Oliver said, pensive. “Where was our FBI agent then, I wonder? Well. We shall see. When we get back to the farm, I’ll draw out a good walking route for you, Fin.”