Keeper's Reach. Carla Neggers

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      Kavanagh. Special Agent Ted Kavanagh. That was his name.

      Martin supposed it could be the case.

      The American flashed his FBI credentials as he gave his name, but Martin, carrying clay pots planted with amaryllis bulbs in each arm, didn’t examine them.

      Kavanagh tucked his credentials back into his overcoat, a sturdy but inexpensive dark gray wool. He had intercepted Martin on the narrow lane in front of the small village church, an oft-photographed favorite with the few tourists who ventured this deep into the Cotswolds countryside.

      “Mr. York isn’t here,” Martin said.

      “‘Here’ meaning his farm, the village or England?”

      “He’s in England.”

      Martin shifted the amaryllis pots in his arms. He had picked them up from friends who ran a flower shop in nearby Stow-on-the-Wold. His decades-old Barbour jacket, wool cap and waterproof walking shoes were adequate for the twenty-minute walk to and from the York farm on a chilly February afternoon, but not for standing still for a long, awkward chat.

      “I will tell Mr. York you were asking for him,” Martin said with a deliberate note of finality.

      “Okay. Thanks.”

      The FBI agent—if, indeed, that was what he was—made no move to continue on his way. Martin didn’t notice a car that could have belonged to him, or a partner lurking down the lane or in the churchyard. In the fall, three FBI agents had arrived at the York apartment in London. Matt Yankowski, Colin Donovan and Emma Sharpe. Martin had expected Oliver to refuse to let them in, but he had instructed Martin to have the agents join him in the library. It was the same library where, twenty-nine years ago, eight-year-old Oliver, an only child, had witnessed the murder of his parents.

      Martin decided not to mention the previous agents to this new agent.

      “Quiet village,” Kavanagh said.

      “Yes, it is. Stow-on-the-Wold isn’t far. It’s a market town with shops and restaurants, if you need anything. Are you staying in the area?”

      “Off to Heathrow and home tomorrow.”

      It wasn’t an answer, was it?

      Martin felt the weight of the pots and now regretted not bringing the car. After two days of rain, he had looked forward to a good walk.

      “Why do you suppose they buried people in the churchyard?” Kavanagh asked, nodding to the age-worn gravestones, many standing crookedly, covered in white lichens. The church itself was constructed of the yellow limestone characteristic of countless structures in the rolling Cotswolds countryside west of London. It dated as far back as the twelfth century, but, of course, had been added to and reworked over the ensuing centuries.

      “It was the thing to do, I imagine. I’ve never thought about it.”

      Kavanagh grinned. “Stupid question from an annoying American?”

      “I didn’t say that, sir.”

      “You didn’t look surprised when I recognized you. Then again, you’re obviously a man of great self-control. How long have you worked for Oliver York?”

      Martin saw no reason not to answer. “I was twenty when Mr. York’s grandparents hired me.”

      “You’re what—a valet? A manservant?”

      “Agent Kavanagh, if you have a card with your contact information, I can give it to Mr. York.”

      “I don’t, in fact.” The American smiled. “Long story.”

      Martin doubted that. “I should get cracking. Enjoy your stay, and have a good flight tomorrow.”

      “Thanks.” He made no move to go on his way. “You met a few of my colleagues in November. Agents Yankowski, Sharpe and Donovan. Any contact with them since then?”

      So, Agent Kavanagh knew about the November visit. “We exchanged Christmas cards,” Martin said, immediately regretting his sarcasm.

      Kavanagh laughed. “A smart-ass under all that English formality, aren’t you, Martin?” He nodded at the pots. “What color amaryllises?”

      “Both are bloodred.”

      “Surprised I know an amaryllis bulb from a tulip bulb, aren’t you? In fact, I don’t. It says so on the little stick in the dirt.”

      Chuckling to himself, the American resumed course down the lane, back toward the village, away from the church. Martin debated finding out whether Special Agent Kavanagh was booked at the village pub, which also let rooms.

      “Best not,” he said under his breath.

      Restless now and decidedly ill at ease, he set the pots on the low wall in front of the church. He was sixty-three and in excellent shape, but the pots were heavier than he had anticipated. A short break was in order before he continued on to the farm. He stretched his arms as he walked in the opposite direction of the FBI agent. The lane ended at the entrance to a cemetery, which adjoined the churchyard but was separate from its scatter of gravestones.

      A breeze stirred, and he noticed the sun, a welcome sight earlier in the day, was giving way to a gray, still dusk. Martin watched a lone bird—he couldn’t say what species it was—float above a barren field past the cemetery and disappear over the horizon, as if it wanted to get away from the dead.

      His imagination, of course.

      He veered off the paved walk, slowing his pace as he cut down a muddy footpath, past bare-branched trees and more graves. He had grown up in the village and had family buried here, but it wasn’t their graves that drew him.

      He came to a far corner of the cemetery and paused at a low stone wall that bordered the field. He pulled off his cap and felt the breeze in his graying hair as he breathed in the cool air and tried not to let emotion overcome him.

      Finally, he leaned forward and touched the name carved on a cold, gray stone.

       Priscilla Farley York.

      He shut his eyes, his fingertips on the letters. He could feel Priscilla’s bony, aged hand as she clutched his wrist, and he could see the pain in her dying eyes. She had been frail then, a ghost of the woman who had put him to work. Yet undiminished were the will, the determination and the faith that had seen her through more than any mother and grandmother should have had to bear.

       Look after Oliver, won’t you, Martin? He’s suffered so much. Promise me you’ll look after him.

      Martin hadn’t hesitated, although he had known, even then, it wouldn’t be an easy promise to keep. He could hear his certainty and sincerity as he answered her. I will look after Oliver. I promise.

      Priscilla had died a few hours later.

      The next day, Oliver had dropped out of Oxford.

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