smiled. “Everyone’s warned me about you.”
“Ah.” Oliver’s lively eyes sparked with humor. “Let me guess. I’m an eccentric, solitary Englishman steeped in the language of myth, legend and folklore.”
“Also that you’re a teller of tall tales and, like Fin, friends with dangerous types—such as the two FBI agents who were at the gathering here in February.”
“Egad.” Oliver shuddered. “Agents Emma Sharpe and Colin Donovan would throw me in irons if I referred to them as friends. That’s only the slightest exaggeration, mind you.” He kicked a clump of mud off the toe of his boot. “Does your work with Bracken Distillers put you in contact with many dangerous types?”
“Not me personally, no, but we had a brush with smugglers last spring, just as Fin was moving to America. The smugglers used an abandoned section of the old distillery for their illicit activities. They were caught with help from Fin. I missed most of the excitement, or whatever you want to call it.”
“Sean Murphy was injured in the fracas.”
For reasons to which Mary wasn’t privy, Sean didn’t approve of Oliver York. She didn’t know if his reasons were personal or professional, as an elite garda detective.
She angled a look at the Englishman. “You seem to know a lot about us.”
“I suspect Detective Garda Murphy and the FBI know far more about me than I do them. Shall we walk back to the village together, or do you want to ramble some more? I wasn’t joking about the mud up on the hill.”
“I’ll walk back to Declan’s Cross with you.”
The lane was the only route on the headland to the village. Oliver didn’t seem at all out of breath as he walked with her, the breeze picking up as they emerged from the protection of the wall and ruins. Mary found it curious if not suspicious that he’d shown up in Declan’s Cross as she was leaving for Maine to see her brother. She didn’t know if Emma Sharpe and Colin Donovan would be there, but she expected they would be.
Oliver slowed as they came to the Murphy farmhouse. Paddy, Sean’s uncle, had returned from the fields and was cleaning off the tractor in front of the barn. Sean owned the farm, but Paddy mostly worked it.
“I love listening to the lambs,” Oliver said. “Can you hear them?”
Mary smiled without looking at him. “I can.”
“I have a farm in England. I inherited it from my grandparents.”
“It’s in the Cotswolds, isn’t it? I’ve been there—to the Cotswolds, I mean. Obviously I haven’t been to your farm. I did one of those inn-to-inn walking tours.”
“More rambling,” Oliver said with a wry smile. “You went on your own?”
“Yes. It was after the deaths of my sister-in-law and nieces in a sailing accident. I was on summer break before my final year at university in Cork. I needed...” Mary broke off, searching for the right words. “I suppose you could say my solitary walk in the English countryside was good for the soul. Are you here in Ireland alone?”
The wind caught the ends of his tawny hair. “I am, yes.”
“Is your visit because of mythology or because of the dangerous types you know?”
“Perhaps both.”
He spoke lightly, but Mary detected an edgy undertone, as if her question had struck a nerve. She wondered if his response might be the truth. “When did you arrive in Ireland?” she asked.
“Yesterday. I flew into Dublin.”
“And you’re leaving tonight. That’s a brief visit.”
“I’d hoped to see Wendell Sharpe but discovered he’d already left for America. Do you know him?”
“Not personally, no.”
“He’s gone home to Maine for the first time in years. He’s attending the open house for the new Sharpe Fine Art Recovery offices.”
“Wonderful,” Mary said. “Fin and I will be there. Did you know the Sharpes investigated an art theft at the O’Byrne house about ten years ago?”
“I’ve heard,” Oliver said.
“It wasn’t a hotel then. Kitty’s uncle owned it. It was a drafty old place, I understand. The thief made off with several valuable artworks, including two landscapes by Jack Butler Yeats that are worth a fortune now.”
“He was the younger brother of William Butler Yeats. A talented family.”
“Most of the stolen works mysteriously reappeared last fall.” Mary could hear the drama in her voice, but she didn’t care. It was a captivating tale. “Only a landscape painting of the crosses and ruin out on the headland is still missing. It’s unsigned and probably of little value. Some people think it’s an early work by Aoife O’Byrne, but she hasn’t claimed it. She says she became an artist in part because of the theft.”
“I’m a great fan of her work.” Oliver looked out at the sea, past a narrow strip of pasture between the lane and the cliffs. “I own one of her porpoise paintings.”
Mary hadn’t known that but hid her surprise. “Aoife was at the gathering in February, too. You two, you aren’t...”
“We’re friends. At least I think of her as a friend. I’m a simple mythologist, Mary.”
“I doubt there’s much about you that’s simple.” She nodded back toward the church ruin. “Do you have a particular interest in the three crosses on the hilltop?”
“I’m not working on a scholarly paper, if that’s what you mean. The church that’s in ruin is named after Saint Declan. This is Saint Declan country. He’s one of the great patron saints of Ireland.” Oliver smiled, the hint of awkwardness a moment ago vanishing. “Fin’s twin brother is named Declan.”
“It’s a traditional Irish name,” Mary said. “I’m not religious. I certainly don’t believe Saint Declan was led to this part of Ireland by a bell atop a boulder floating on the Irish Sea.”
“Not literally, perhaps—”
“Rocks sink.”
“But think of rocks flung about in a fierce storm. Perhaps they could appear to float. In any case, I see the power of Saint Declan’s story not in its literal truth but in its human truth.”
“Now you sound like Finian.”
“Also the name of an Irish saint,” Oliver said with a wink. “There’s no chance of you entering a convent, is there?”
Mary laughed. “None at all. I’d have said there was no chance of Finian entering the priesthood, but obviously he did.”
“He’s a very good priest.”
“He was a good whiskey man, too. And a good father and husband.”
“You don’t approve of his vocation?”
“It’s not for me to approve or disapprove.”
“But you don’t approve.”
She sighed. “Let’s go back to discussing art. It’s much safer, don’t you think?”
“That all depends,” Oliver said.
“Oh, right—helps not to be a thief or the victim of a thief.”
He said nothing. The lane descended steeply into the village with its brightly painted homes and shops. Mary found herself wishing again she were staying here through the weekend, enjoying the spa at the O’Byrne House Hotel, indulging in scones, whiskey and full Irish breakfasts. She could wander to Ardmore with its sand beach, stunning cliff walk and impressive medieval round tower. Saint Declan was said to have been buried