Liar's Key (11 page)

“To you, maybe. I suspect you're familiar with a few of my friends in MI5 and MI6 and they could have told you I was in Ireland. They weren't pleased when they found out. I got a proper tongue-lashing when I returned to London earlier this evening. They're a rough lot.”

Colin tried not to smile. He knew Oliver's handlers, and they
were
a rough lot. One in particular, who had, in fact, checked in with him as well after he'd landed in London.
Sharpes, Deverells, Oliver York and ancient Byzantine mosaics. What do you know?

No mention of Alessandro Pearson, the dead archaeologist. Colin had put off the MI5 agent, at least for the time being. “Are you alone, Oliver?”

“Intensely. Always.”

“I mean here now in London. No guests?”

“Except for Martin, no guests.”

“And Ireland—were you alone there?”

“On my own. I didn't have a travel companion. Martin was at the farm and arrived in London about an hour before I did. I did see Kitty O'Byrne, Mary Bracken and old Paddy Murphy in Declan's Cross. Paddy offered to buy me a pint, if you can believe it. I explained to my MI5 handler if he'd tried to follow me or bug a headstone in the Irish ruins, Detective Garda Murphy would have found out, and you and Emma would have found out.
I'd
have found out, and you'd all never see me again. I'd disappear into the wind.”

“That'd be a feat,” Colin said. “Slipping into the run-down O'Byrne house and making off with a few artworks is different from cutting out on the UK intelligence services.”

“And the FBI.”

“That assumes we give a damn, doesn't it? If you put a toe out of line, your MI5 handler will see to it you're arrested and prosecuted for breaking into a London home and helping yourself to two prized oil landscapes.”

Oliver grunted. “Least of my worries with him.”

No doubt. Colin set the Scotch glass on the table. “What's your game, Oliver?”

“No games.”

He recorked the Scotch and set the bottle on the table. Colin waited, if not patiently. He hadn't seen Oliver since winter. He had nothing to do with the English thief from day to day, although he was aware Oliver was working with MI5. It made sense, given Oliver's particular expertise with art crimes. Emma was in a position, both as an agent and as a Sharpe, to know more about what Oliver York was up to these days.

“One day you, Emma and I will have to have a proper tour of Bracken Distillers,” Oliver said. “We can have a wander in Killarney at the same time. The national park is a treasure trove of adventures. One can imagine leprechauns hiding in the ancient oak forest, or hearing the wail of a banshee in a remote glen. Have you ever been out to Innisfallen Island in Lough Leane?”

Colin gritted his teeth. “No, Oliver.”

“Early medieval monks had a monastery there and wrote down pre-Christian Irish tales. Of course they added their own spin to them, but they still are of enormous value. You can get a boat ride out there from Ross Castle, another fascinating place.”

“Let's save the history of leprechauns, banshees and Irish monks for another time.”

Oliver sighed, his gaze leveling on Colin. “We're never going to be friends, are we, Agent Donovan?”

“Probably not.”

“If I do succeed in talking Emma into inviting me to your wedding, you won't have me barred at the convent gate?”

“Whatever makes her happy.”

Oliver smiled. “I knew you'd say that.” He raised a hand. “Not to worry. I'm in no way suggesting I can read you or know you well. I understand you FBI agents like to be inscrutable.”

Colin recognized that he'd walked in here tired and surly, without sufficient information or clarity. His purpose was unfocused, a mix of personal and professional—and likely to get him in a mess if he didn't get a handle on himself and what was going on.

“Tell me about Claudia Deverell,” he said.

Oliver sprang to his feet. “I wondered if Mary would tell anyone else about her. I assume Detective Garda Murphy got it out of her. I'm afraid I'm not going to be of much help. I don't know Claudia. I'm learning about her. Her family on her mother's side has a history with Heron's Cove and the Sharpes. They helped Wendell establish his name. That by itself is curious, but Claudia also has a history with Gordon Wheelock.” Oliver turned to Colin, who was still seated. “Are you familiar with our venerable retired art-crimes investigator, Agent Donovan?”

Colin gave a curt nod. “Of course.” He looked for any sign Oliver was manipulating, fishing or giving him plain old BS, but saw none. Which, he knew, meant little. “What history?” he asked.

“Agent Wheelock consulted Claudia here in London before he retired last year. He was working on a case involving fraudulent antiquities. That's about all I know.”

“You left yourself wiggle room with that answer.”

“Did I? I wouldn't know. I don't pay attention to such nuances because I have nothing to hide. I don't know Agent Wheelock personally. Emma worked with him for a short time.”

“He came close to catching you.”

“Catching me... I have no idea what you mean.”

Another act Colin didn't buy. “Was Agent Wheelock in London last week because of Claudia Deverell?”

“I wouldn't know. I saw them together at the tea at Claridge's on Sunday.”

“Why was MI5 there?”

Oliver walked over to the tall windows that overlooked St. James's Park. “I don't ask questions.”

“You just do as you're told,” Colin said, not bothering to hide his skepticism.

“That is correct. The Tower of London looms large in my imagination.”

“Right. I can get in touch with your handler, you know.”

Oliver glanced back at Colin with another sigh. “Or no flight to Boston and no party at Heron's Cove on Saturday? Is this what you call playing hardball, Agent Donovan?”

“Not even close.”

“Ha. Touché, my friend.”

Colin ignored him.

“All right, then. My handler learned I would be at the party and stopped by to make sure I behaved. I think he worries I'll break down at any moment and start throwing glasses and cutlery, but I'm very stress-resilient.”

No doubt true. Colin got to his feet. He could feel his fatigue, and he thought of Fin Bracken's cottage in the Kerry hills. He should be there now, enjoying a quiet glass of whiskey by the fire, or asleep in the loft. But he was here, trying to get information out of a solitary man who wasn't accustomed to telling anyone anything about himself, his plans, his whereabouts or anything else. Oliver York liked to be in control. Colin pictured him as a young boy, in this very room, hiding while his parents were murdered in front of him. A desire to be in control wasn't that hard to figure out or understand.

“Where does Claudia live in London?” Colin asked.

“She has an apartment in Kensington.”

“Why was she at Bracken Distillers last week?” Colin asked.

Oliver gave a tight shake of his head. “Other than stumbling on the Bracken-Sharpe connection, I have no idea.” He stifled an obviously fake yawn. “I look forward to seeing the rocky Maine coast again. How is Rock Point these days?”

“Warming up,” Colin said, aware of Oliver studying him keenly.

The Englishman drew the heavy drapes, his back to Colin as he continued. “You haven't been home in a while, have you?”

“It's May. It's warming up in Maine. Way it works. Don't read anything else into it.”

Oliver turned as he finished closing the drapes. “Mr. Friendly,” he said with the smallest of smiles. “Did your personal business in Ireland include arranging your honeymoon with our fair Emma?”

“I'm not talking to you about my travels, Oliver. Or my honeymoon.”

“Definitely testy.” He eased back to his chair, his expertise in martial arts showing in his fluid, controlled movements. “I am a patriotic Englishman. I don't need to tell you the perils of the antiquities trade. Even the legitimate trade can serve as the gateway to serious crimes. It's easy to be fooled, or to fool others. Someone shows up in London with artifacts he says were discovered in his grandmother's closet after her death, but it turns out they were pillaged from an archaeological site in North Africa. There are international protocols, but not everyone adheres to them. Ancient works end up in the wrong hands. Money ends up in the wrong hands, funding thieves, scoundrels and murderers. Throw in regional and international conflicts, and we can end up with a profoundly dangerous mess on our hands.”

“Do you believe Claudia Deverell is involved in the illegal antiquities trade?”

“I can't say for certain. Of course, some believe any trade in antiquities is unethical. But that's a different fight, isn't it? Talk to Emma,” Oliver added, picking up his Scotch glass. “When do you go home?”

No reason not to tell him, Colin decided. “Tomorrow. We're not on the same flight.”

“Thank goodness. Do you need a place to stay tonight? Martin can prepare the guest room.”

Colin had no idea where he was staying, but it wouldn't be under the same roof as Oliver York. “I'm good but thanks.”

“Take the book,” Oliver said, handing Colin the volume by Alessandro Pearson. “You can read about ancient mosaics on your flight. There are some spectacular photos, too. I'm not implying you aren't up to reading books without pictures.”

“Of course not.” Colin noticed Martin Hambly in the doorway and took the cue. “Good night, Oliver. Thanks for talking with me.”

“Anytime. As you can see, Martin has recovered from his ordeal this winter.”

“Bashed on the head and left for dead, you mean?” Hambly asked, giving Colin a faint smile. “I do try to be precise in the description of my various ordeals.”

Oliver rolled his eyes. “The drama. Martin's been spending more time at the farm. He's training a puppy. Martin insists Alfred is my puppy, but he isn't. He's an ill-tempered wire fox terrier, but he's helped Martin enormously in his recovery.”

“Maybe a dog would help you, too,” Colin said.

“I could get you and Emma a puppy for your wedding.”

“Stick to sheepskins.”

* * *

London was cool, damp and dark, but it wasn't raining. Colin walked to Claridge's, an upscale art deco hotel in the heart of Mayfair London. He was convinced that Oliver hadn't told him everything, perhaps at MI5's insistence. If so, Colin didn't blame MI5. If he had a guy like Oliver by the short hairs, he wouldn't want him conferring with anyone else, either.

When he arrived at Claridge's, he settled into a comfortable booth in the main-floor bar. Timothy Sharpe, waiting on a stool at the bar, brought his drink over to the table. Colin noticed Tim's stiff gait, the slight wince as he settled into the booth. He was only in his fifties, but the chronic pain he'd suffered for a decade had taken its toll. “Hello, Colin,” he said. “Good to see you.”

“Same here. Thanks for meeting me.”

“Faye sends her regards. She was relieved when you called, I think. I'd been pacing—just my usual aches and pains, nothing to do with my father's return to Heron's Cove.” Tim smiled, although the hint of pain in his green eyes didn't ease. “I suppose there's time yet for that. I doubt I've considered all the possible ramifications of Wendell Sharpe being back on Maine soil for the first time in a decade.”

“Emma's there now, too,” Colin said.

“Yes. I hope her grandfather's presence doesn't get her into trouble with her FBI superiors. Faye and I saw him last week—he attended a friend's funeral.”

“Alessandro Pearson.”

“Of course. I shouldn't be surprised you already know.”

Colin ordered a beer. For half a nickel, he'd stretch out on the cushioned bench and take a nap. He hadn't slept on his flight, the express train to Paddington Station or the cab to Mayfair, and the walk from Oliver's apartment, while not physically taxing, had relaxed him enough that it was all he could do not to drop his head onto the table and nod off.

He and Tim Sharpe exchanged a few pleasantries before getting down to business. “The tea here on Sunday was a relatively small gathering,” Tim said. “We received our invitation on Wednesday, so there wasn't much notice, but everything went off beautifully, as perfect and elegant as one would expect.”

“Was it a fund-raiser?” Colin asked.

“Definitely not, at least not overtly so. It was sponsored by a small charity—I didn't pay much attention, frankly.”

“I don't want you ruffling feathers, but I'd like to know more details. Would you mind taking a closer look?”

“Happy to.”

Colin took another sip of his beer, a high-end brand that his future father-in-law had recommended. “See what you can find out about who was behind the party, why now, the guest list—again, without drawing attention to yourself. I don't want you in hot water with MI5 or anyone else. It's not worth it.”

“I don't know how a tea-and-champagne celebration of a show at the Victoria and Albert could get me in hot water, but I'll be careful. I always am. It was an unusual event but in no way alarmingly so. Faye and I had a good time.”

Tim went on to describe their short stay at the party, including brief encounters with Oliver York, Gordon Wheelock and Claudia Deverell. He'd heard the rumors about stolen mosaics. “I told Emma when I spoke to her earlier—I don't have anything on them. I can't rule out or verify a theft, I have no idea what the identity of the collector might be or even if there is a collector.”

Colin placed the book Oliver had loaned him cover-down on the table and noted the color photograph of the elderly author, dressed in desert khakis, standing at some dusty ancient ruin. “What's your take on Pearson's death occurring around the same time these rumors of stolen mosaics started?”