The Final Cut

He stole a look at his grandfather, who appeared to be ignoring all of them, still studiously eating his oatmeal. He was eighty-three, his back ramrod-straight, his eyes still the rich Drummond brown, always sharp and assessing. The only real acknowledgment of his age was his thi

Nicholas was the grandson of a baron; there were no two ways around it. The heir twice removed, as Penderley had sometimes called him if he was feeling jovial. There were responsibilities to come in his future, but not now. His grandfather was hale and hearty, his father as well.

No, not now.

Finally, his grandfather put down his spoon and met his eyes. “Don’t forget where you come from, Nicholas. This is your home, and it always will be.” He said again, “Don’t forget.”

Nicholas smiled. “Never.”

EPILOGUE

Farrow-on-Grey, England

Friday morning

They walked in unison out of the thirteenth-century Norman church, a slow march in step with the beatings of their hearts, hands clasped in front of their belt buckles, the heavy coffin on their shoulders. Nicholas felt the edge of the wood digging into his neck, a last co

He’d seen Mike sitting in the middle of the church, her head covered with a ridiculous confection hat she’d told him she’d found near Harrods in London. She’d laughed, adding that the enthusiastic saleswoman had assured her it was just the thing for a stylish funeral. Elaine would have loved it, since she couldn’t wear hats and was wildly jealous of women who could. Elaine’s mother, who looked rather marvelous in hats, sat with her companion near Mike. She now had a much-needed $200,000 safe in her bank. Kitsune had seen her friend done rightly by, at least.

Nicholas thought she understood what was happening, though he wasn’t really certain. She’d been mentally clear, though, when, taking his big hand in her small ones, she’d said to him, “Please bury my daughter here, Nicholas, in Farrow-on-Grey. She loved it so.” And then she’d sort of faded away, back into the soulless prison in her mind.

Nicholas looked over the top of the coffin at Ben Houston, his head bowed, grief pouring off him, and he felt his own throat close.

Elaine was being buried as a decorated officer, with all honors, as she deserved. Her friends and fellow officers from London were here, all still in shock, not really understanding what had happened, since she was in New York to be a minder, not a police officer. And Penderley, silent, bearing the weight of Elaine’s coffin on his shoulders.

He heard a throat clearing and looked over at his uncle Bo, walking in front of Ben. Nicholas was grateful for his presence. It would make the next few days easier, having him here.

When it was done, when Nicholas had said a silent prayer over her grave, the sky opened and rain began to fall in heavy sheets, crying for him, crying for them all.

Friends from the Yard were going around to The Drunken Goose, Farrow-on-Grey’s fifteenth-century pub, with its small windows of square-cut glass, ancient oak beams, and hot, sweet air, Penderley with them! But Nicholas didn’t want to go, he wanted to go home and strip off the damn funeral suit, take a shower, and have a drink. He crossed the church graveyard to Bo, who laid a hand momentarily on his shoulder; then the two of them turned to wait for Mike and Ben. Once they were together, Bo said, “Let’s get out of here.”

The drive to Old Farrow Hall took only a few minutes. They were all silent.

Cook Crumbe had prepared a spread for them, of course, so when they arrived, all shaking umbrellas and ducking out of the way of Mike’s enormous hat, Horne shepherded them into the dining room and saw to it everyone had a drink and some food.

Nicholas nodded to the old man who’d taken such care of him and his family for so many years. He cleared his tight throat. “Thank you, Horne.”

Horne only nodded and said in his most formal voice, “Of course, Master Nicholas, of course.”

“Inspector York told me she appreciated your kindness to her.”

Horne bowed his head, then said, his voice austere, “She was a young woman deserving of kindness. I will miss her.”

Mike watched Nicholas speaking to the Drummond butler—butler!—she still couldn’t get over having a butler in the modern world. She’d noticed his accent was deeper, his voice more clipped, when he was at home. It had been a hard day on him—a hard week, really, what with telling his parents he was joining the FBI. She would have loved to be a fly on the wall when he’d made that a

And then he’d arranged for Elaine’s funeral, seen to Elaine’s ill mother. Mike was very pleased that Elaine had had time to send her mother the $200,000 before she’d been killed.

She knew this huge rambling house with its hundreds of years of life and all its endless dramas was a deep part of him, and would always be his touchstone. As for her parents, she’d told her dad how his heroine, beautiful Mitzie Drummond, was a gracious, loving woman who solved mysteries in her spare time.

Mike looked at Mitzie across the room. She’d left it all behind, fame and fortune, to marry Nicholas’s dad, a man very unlike his son. Tall, aloof, but when he smiled, it warmed his face and made you smile in return.

Nicholas’s wily old grandfather had asked her if she intended to take care of his grandson. And not five minutes later, Nicholas’s mother had asked her the same thing. And not five minutes after that, Cook Crumbe had stirred from the kitchen and asked if she would take care of Master Nicholas. She told them all the same thing: yes, she would take care of Nicholas Drummond, they could take that to the bank.

She ate one of Cook Crumbe’s delicious shrimp prepared with some sort of curry and watched and listened.

Horne waited until Nicholas had eaten and had a few sips of single malt before handing him a thick package.

“A woman came with this while you were out.”

Nicholas only glanced at it. “Can’t it wait?”

“She said no, sir. She wanted you to open it the moment you came home.”

Something in Horne’s tone made Nicholas look up sharply. “Who was she?”

“I couldn’t say. She was small, though, with dark hair. Bo

Nicholas thrust his drink into Horne’s hand and grabbed the package from him, ripped it open. Everyone stopped to watch him. He pulled the thick stack of paper from the envelope; saw the familiar blue backing indicating a legal document.

Mike asked, “Nicholas, what is it?”

He thumbed through the pages, then started to laugh. “It’s a deposition. Almighty God in heaven, it’s a bloody deposition.”

“From who? About what?”

“There are hundreds of pages. I will be damned. This contains information on Mulvaney’s thefts, all the murders, everything she promised.”

He looked up and said simply, “Kitsune. She’s alive, and she kept the bargain.”

London

March

The rooftops were slick with frost, the sun just begi