but she and Henrietta were related through a circuitous connection to the Balfours. Henrietta had introduced her to Eugene Kershaw, an unhappy Oxford solicitor now a deliriously happy farmer. He and Cassie were the parents of two young boys. Eugene’s grandparents had purchased the Balfour farm from Henrietta’s father shortly after her grandfather’s death. It’d been their dream to own a Cotswold farm, but they’d never managed to make much of a go of it. Eugene’s parents were Oxford professors and had no interest in taking on a thriving farm, much less a struggling one.
By the time Eugene and Cassie took over, the property had been seriously neglected and getting it back in shape was proving to be considerably more work at far more expense than either had anticipated. The risk and effort were paying off, and now they were drawing a sufficient income that allowed Eugene to quit his outside work. Both he and Cassie worked at the farm full-time. Henrietta had never heard them complain about the vagaries of farm life. They’d helped spread the word about her garden-design business when she’d made her career change. This was the life Cassie and Eugene wanted to live, how they wanted to raise their sons.
“I’ve been in the compost pile, as you can see,” Cassie said. “Eugene and the boys love mucking about in compost more than I do, but it does feel good to work up a sweat. We only just heard about the mishap out at the York farm. The police came round to ask if we’d seen anyone about. We hadn’t, of course. The death—It was a mishap, wasn’t it?”
“I honestly don’t know,” Henrietta said truthfully. “I’m still trying to absorb everything.”
“But you’re not one to panic,” Cassie observed, making it sound almost like a criticism.
“Dealing with plants will do that.” Henrietta left it there. She wasn’t accustomed to family and friends living close by, seeing people she’d known for years—since childhood, in many cases—on a regular basis. She’d maintained a very different existence in London. “One imagines all sorts of dramatic scenarios to cope with the parts of the work that are pure drudgery. Plucking weeds gets boring after thirty seconds. I’ve imagined myself in so many dangerous situations, it was second nature to deal with a real one.” None of which was an outright lie. “I had Martin’s example. The man is unflappable.”
Cassie relaxed slightly. “I can imagine. He strikes me as the epitome of ‘keep calm and carry on.’ Do you know the man who was killed?”
Henrietta shook her head. “I never saw him before that I can recall. If the police know, they haven’t told me. Where’s Eugene?”
“He’s just back from the post office. I think he’s in the cottage we’re renovating. I’ve been so distracted since the police were here. They were gracious and professional, but you know how it is.” Cassie stopped abruptly and pointed at Henrietta’s forearm. “Is that blood?”
Henrietta glanced at her sleeve. It was blood, indeed. She hadn’t noticed until now. Neither Martin nor the police had mentioned it, but she’d had on her jacket. She must have got blood on her sleeve when she’d checked the dead man’s pulse. She lowered her arm, discreetly angling the blood smear from Cassie’s view. “Martin and I tried to help, but we were too late. There was nothing we could do.”
“How dreadful. Maybe you should have stayed in the potting shed with the housekeeper.”
“How did you know about Ruthie?”
Henrietta winced at her quick question—her MI5 past bubbling up—but Cassie didn’t seem to notice. “Nigel Burns,” she said.
Nigel was the older of Ruthie’s two adult sons, a mechanic who often worked on the equipment at the York farm. Lately he was helping renovate a traditional stone-and-timber cottage on the Kershaw farm. It predated the farmhouse. At one point, Posey had considered it for her home, but Henrietta doubted that thought had lasted long. The low ceilings alone would have done in Posey. The cottage was located just down the stone wall, amid trees that bordered a stream and a field, green with spring grass. Cassie’s parents planned to retire later in the year and move into the renovated cottage.
“Ruthie did well today,” Henrietta said. “She’s old-fashioned, dedicated, a thorn in Martin’s side and part of the furnishings as far as Oliver’s concerned, but she’s reliable. I appreciate her—I promise you I do—but if I ever get as proprietary about gardens as she does about muddy footprints and spots on water glasses, I expect you to elbow me in the ribs.”
Cassie nodded warmly, some color returning to her cheeks. “Consider it done.”
“Today wasn’t easy for her,” Henrietta added guiltily.
“I’m sure it wasn’t. You’re gaining quite a reputation throughout the Cotswolds, you know.”
“A reputation for what?”
“Garden design and a cheerful demeanor.”
Henrietta sighed. “A cheerful Henrietta Balfour. That would shock some people.”
“Life among flowers and winding paths will do that even to a jaded Londoner like yourself.” Cassie paused, studying her friend. They’d known each other for almost a decade but they’d never really spent much time together. “I’m glad you found a career that suits you, but you don’t fool me, Henrietta. You’re bored. The pace of a garden designer and a Cotswold life is different from what you were used to in London.”
“True enough.”
And more so than Cassie knew or likely would ever know, but Henrietta couldn’t explain she’d entered Her Majesty’s Security Service fresh out of university, trained and worked as an operator in the field, specializing in surveillance, and then moved up the ranks to an office in Thames House. There’d never been any job in a London financial office. She was happy not to explain, either. Best to put those years behind her.
“I’m a Balfour, Cassie. Gardening’s in the blood.” So was MI5, but Henrietta kept that point to herself. “Bored or not, I could do without what happened today. My only interest at the York farm involves annuals, perennials, herbaceous borders—”
“You can stop there,” Cassie said with a welcome laugh. “I definitely do not have the Balfour gardening gene. Eugene and I are amazed at the landscaping here, though. It’s perfect for us to build on. People say your grandfather puttered in the flowerbeds after he left MI5, right up until his death. That’s heartening somehow. He’d have been proud of you today, don’t you think?”
“I hope so.”
The lighthearted moment dissipated and Cassie turned serious again. “And Oliver York? Did he really take off?”
“I only saw him at the dovecote,” Henrietta said. “He left a short while before Martin and I found the body.”
“Just awful. Truly. Eugene and I ran into Oliver at the pub last week. He was on his own but he sat at the bar and chatted with people. He doesn’t mingle often. We tend to notice when he does. He’s quite the character, isn’t he? Good-looking and a bit mysterious.”
Henrietta pushed up her sleeves, hiding the blood. “I haven’t really thought about it,” she said casually.
“Haven’t you?” Cassie reached for her gloves. “You don’t have to answer. It’ll keep. This isn’t the time to discuss such things. I know you’re intrepid and all that, but finding a dead man must be a shock. Do you have any idea
