died tragically when Tony was a baby. He’d retired in April after a career as a landscaper at various public gardens throughout England. He was living in the Kershaw cottage temporarily, in exchange for overseeing the renovations, a perfect arrangement as he figured out what was next for him. Henrietta suspected gardening was perhaps a stronger Balfour family tradition than intelligence work. Divorced with no children, he hadn’t decided where to settle in retirement. He was in excellent shape and still muscular from decades of physical work, but he was clearly ready to go at his own pace and do other things.
“Henrietta, love,” Tony said, taking her by the hand and kissing her on the cheek. He was dressed in his work clothes, and she could smell plaster dust on him but saw no sign of it on his gray, paint-stained hoody. He stood back. “I heard the news. What on earth happened?”
“It wasn’t the morning I had in mind, but I’ve rallied.”
“Thank heavens you weren’t hurt. You weren’t, were you?”
“Not at all. No one was, except the man who died.”
Tony nodded, his expression a mix of grimness and curiosity. “We’ve lived quiet lives compared to Oliver York, haven’t we?”
“Henrietta’s going to take a look at the painting we discovered,” Cassie said.
“Great idea. It’s priceless in its own way. I’m sorry I’m in a rush. I need to pick up a few things at the hardware store.” He shifted again to Henrietta. “Phone me if the adrenaline wears off and you want to talk. Once a worker cut his arm and the resulting mess...” He made a face and held up a hand. “Never mind. It wasn’t a fatal accident but you don’t need to have that picture dancing around in your head.”
“I imagine not,” Henrietta said. “Thank you.”
“I’ll see you later, then.”
He headed up the path toward the Kershaw house. Henrietta had never seen anyone quite so happy to retire. Tony heartily approved of her career change and had assured her Posey would have, too. Of course, he believed she’d worked in a dull London office job.
Henrietta followed Casey into the cottage. The front room was cleared of any furniture while the plastering was being redone. Tony did most of the work, but he’d bring in professionals when needed or grab Nigel Burns or Eugene for easier jobs that needed more than one pair of hands. Since the cottage had once belonged to the Balfours, Henrietta was madly curious about the renovations but tried not to be too nosy.
Eugene emerged from the kitchen. “I was just in the village,” he said. “Everyone’s shocked at the news of the death at the York farm. I suppose it’s natural for our minds to jump to violence rather than an unfortunate accident. Oliver bolting doesn’t help, but one can understand why he might, under the circumstances. After what he went through as a boy, who wouldn’t?”
“Best to let the police sort this, Eugene,” Henrietta said.
“Yes, of course. You’re right.” He smiled. “You’re sensible like your aunt, Henrietta.”
“Posey was thrilled when you decided to take on the farm.”
“A late bloomer, I believe she called me.”
Eugene was nine years older than Cassie, a bit grayer and balder these days but in good shape from his farm work and as amiable as ever. He and Cassie had clicked the moment Henrietta had introduced them to each other, the only instance she’d successfully played matchmaker—not that she’d meant to play matchmaker. It was an accident, really. She’d looked up Cassie on a trip to Boston given their family connection, and they’d hit it off. Cassie had come to the Cotswolds to visit and Henrietta had shown her out to the old Balfour farm. Eugene had been there, cutting the grass after work. They’d ended up at the pub together and eight months later, Cassie and Eugene were married at the village church.
Henrietta had known Eugene since her visits with her aunt as a child. Her parents would drop her off in the Cotswolds for weeks while they binged on opera or scooted to Paris without her. Eugene and his younger sister, who now ran a restaurant in Oxford, had spent holidays with their grandparents on the former Balfour farm. For as far back as Henrietta could remember, Eugene had expressed his desire to revive the farm. He’d loved to talk about horses, Cotswold sheep, dairy cows and grain fields. Henrietta couldn’t say it’d ever been her ambition to move into Aunt Posey’s house full-time, but she did love the place. It had seemed like a practical, workable option when she’d quit MI5. Flowers, herbs, shrubs, pots, cutting and watering regimes. Simpler than uncovering schemes to commit mass murder.
She turned her attention to the matter at hand. “Well, what do we have?”
Cassie went into the kitchen and came out with a mounted canvas. She set it on the floor and leaned it against the wall, standing aside so that Henrietta could see it was an oil painting of a scene of a mountain and a lake. It wasn’t in the class of paintings Oliver York had stolen, but it was charming.
“It’s wonderful, isn’t it?” Cassie beamed. “A bit amateurish, I know, but I love its sensibility. It’s Queen’s View in the southern Scottish Highlands. It’s supposedly named for Queen Victoria, after she visited in 1866. I looked it up after I found the painting. That’s Loch Tummel and the Tay Forest. Eugene and I drove up there for a few days before we had children. Have you ever been, Henrietta?”
She nodded. “I went a few years ago with a churl of an ex-boyfriend.”
Cassie grinned at her. “One day I want to hear all the details of your life before you moved back here. I know so little about it.” She turned back to the painting. “It’s not signed, and there’s nothing on the back to indicate who painted it. We were wondering if you have any idea.”
“I’ve never seen it before,” Henrietta said, certain.
“Did your grandfather paint?”
“Freddy? Good heavens, no. Well, I doubt he did—I was very young when he died. My father has never mentioned Freddy painted. Posey didn’t, either, when she was alive. I remember him smoking cigarettes and rambling in the garden.”
“What about Posey?” Cassie asked. “Could she have painted it?”
“I can’t imagine she did. I never saw her paint, and I haven’t discovered any old canvases or supplies and such since I moved into her house.”
Cassie frowned. “Hmm. A mystery. Could it have been your grandmother... Freddy’s wife?”
“No one ever mentioned she painted, but I really don’t know,” Henrietta said. “I don’t remember her at all. She died when I was a baby. A shame you didn’t find it when Posey was still alive. Does Tony have any memory of it?”
Eugene shook his head. “I asked him. He said he didn’t know but he wasn’t a good one to ask. He was only a tot when his mother moved to the US with him. I suppose his father could have painted it, but he was a tortured soul—I can’t believe he’d have produced something this sweet.”
“Anthony’s been dead for sixty years, too,” Cassie added. “This cottage was pretty much in ruin then. Freddy had it restored but it’s been decades since anyone’s really used it. It’s a good thing Tony isn’t particular. Anyway, I suppose someone could have discovered the painting somewhere else and tucked it in the closet and forgot about it.”
Eugene squatted down for a closer look at the painting. “You can almost feel the sun on the loch.”
“I really do love it,” Cassie said. “If Anthony painted it, maybe Freddy or Posey found it after his death and couldn’t bear to keep it but couldn’t bear to throw away it away, either.”
“That would make sense.” Eugene rose, his eyes still on the captivating scene. “It’s not discussed but everyone knows Anthony Balfour died of alcoholism. Well. That’s not a cheerful subject any day but especially today, given what happened this morning.”
“And