Scandal in Skibbereen (26 page)

“Perhaps. Although I’d have been less surprised if it was Nate went into the river,” Gillian said. “Maybe she only wanted to know what he knew.”

“And this American in the river is probably connected somehow. Think he was following Nate?”

Gillian shrugged. “The odds are good, don’t you think? Unless Althea has been lying and he’s actually her mysterious accomplice.”

“Then why would she have gone to the gardaí? In any case, I just can’t believe that we’ve had a murder and a prowler at the manor and now an attack on Althea and they’re not all part of the same story. From what I’ve seen, Ireland doesn’t work like that. And this is all about that damn painting? Harry hasn’t been doing anything on the side, like smuggling drugs, to make ends meet, has he?” Maura asked.

Gillian laughed. “I’m afraid Harry isn’t the type. Maybe a bet on the horses here and there, but nothing illegal.”

“What should we do now?”

“You mean about talking to Eveline? I guess we go ahead—we know what the questions are, do we not? I don’t know what the gardaí plan to do with Althea, but why wait? If the painting is really a Van Dyck, and if it’s worth a lot, that could make a difference to Harry and Eveline. They’d probably want to know regardless.”

Maura looked up to see Rose, who seemed surprised to see anyone else in the pub. “Was it not my day to open?” she asked.

“Yes, it is, Rose. We were going to meet Althea here and then go over to the manor. But then Sean Murphy came by to tell us that she was involved in . . . an attack in Skibbereen.”

“Is she all right? Do the gardaí know what happened?”

“As far as we know she’s all right, and the gardaí are looking into it. But Althea claims the attacker went into the river, and he hasn’t been found.”

“Oh, my! Let’s hope they find him. Where’ll you be?”

“With Harry Townsend and his aunt Eveline this morning, minus Althea. If the gardaí turn her loose and she happens to stop here, tell her that’s where we are. Oh, one other thing—do you remember that solo American man at the bar, the one who kept checking us out? You said something to me about it.”

“Sure. He came in alone, and he had a pint, took his time with it. He kept looking toward you three in the corner, but he never made a move.” Rose’s expression changed. “Yer thinkin’ now that he might have been looking at Althea? And would he be the man who attacked her? I’m sorry I can’t remember more.”

“Thanks, Rose—you remembered more than I did. I guess we’ll head out now.”

“Don’t worry yerself—we’ll be fine here. Gillian, what should I do if someone asks after yer paintings? Are they for sale?”

“They are. I put some stickers with prices on the backs, but let me know if anyone shows an interest—you can call my mobile. Thanks, Rose.”

“See you later, Rose,” Maura called out as they went out the door.

H
arry was waiting for them at the front entrance to the manor, and Maura was reminded of her first visit. Even with what she’d learned about him since, he still looked like he belonged there. He waited until Gillian had turned off the engine, then opened the driver’s door for her while Maura clambered out on her own.

“Have you heard?” Maura asked him.

“About what?”

“Althea was”—Gillian seemed to struggle to find the right words—“involved in a scuffle in Skibbereen last night, and there might be another death—an American. And as it happens, she was with Nate Reynolds at the time.”

“Nate Reynolds? The man from the auction house?” Harry sputtered.

“The same. Sean Murphy told us the bare details, but it’s still not certain that Althea knew Nate was in Ireland, and now there’s this other thing. Althea says she didn’t know the man, but somehow he ended up in the river and hasn’t been found, and the gardaí are off looking for Nate.”

“What’s that to do with us now?” Harry asked.

Gillian answered, “It’s troubling, don’t you think, coming on the heels of the rest of it? But Sean said there was no reason we shouldn’t talk to Eveline about the painting.”

Harry didn’t look very concerned. “Shall we go in?” He turned and led the way into the cool, dark interior, where his painted ancestors still loomed over visitors. “Aunt Eveline will meet us in the small sitting room. I asked Mrs. O’Brien to provide refreshments.”

“Not to be confused with the large sitting room or one of your thirty-seven public rooms?” Gillian laughed. “Harry, you sound like someone out of a Noël Coward comedy. That’s grand. Is she expecting us now?”

“Indeed.” Harry led them down the hall and opened a door toward the back of the building. He stood aside to let them enter, then followed. Eveline was settled on a brocade-covered settee at the far end of the room. There was a fire burning in the fireplace to her left, and the low table in front of her groaned under the weight of an immense silver tray, silver teapot, silver creamer and sugar bowl, spoons, tongs, porcelain cups and saucers, napkins, and a three-level silver thing Maura couldn’t name heaped with sliced cake and scones. Maura immediately felt terrified that she would drop, break, or spill something. The whole room looked like a stage set, and Maura wondered if she’d wandered into a PBS episode of something or other.

Gillian took the lead. “Eveline, how lovely to see you again, and so soon.”

“Gillian, my dear, I’m always delighted to see you, and welcome again to your friend Maura. Please, make yourselves comfortable. Now, may I offer you some tea? As you may recall, Mrs. O’Brien makes the most delightful scones.”

It took another five minutes to get everyone settled in a chair, equipped with tea and a delicate plate with scones and butter. Clearly Eveline was in no hurry to move the conversation forward, although maybe Harry hadn’t told her what they were looking for. Maybe she was reliving the golden days of her past, acting as lady of the manor. Or maybe she was putting off for as long as possible a discussion she could guess would be unpleasant.

Finally there were no more excuses for stalling. “It was Harry who suggested this little gathering,” Eveline began. “I gather it has something to do with poor Seamus?”

“In part. Were you close to Seamus, Eveline?” Gillian asked gently.

Eveline took a moment, apparently weighing her answer. “Some years ago the O’Briens came to me, as they live under my roof, and asked if they could take him in. Seamus had no family left, and he . . . wasn’t qualified for most employment. I told Tom that we needed a gardener—I was getting on in years and could no longer keep up with the heavier work, so I agreed to take him on in that role. Seamus was a very conscientious young man and a good worker. If I identified a plant as one that should be protected, he never forgot. I suppose one might say that he was a friend. He was certainly more than a mere employee. Does that answer your question, Gillian?”

Maura noticed that Harry looked a bit startled at Eveline’s statement. Had he really assumed that Eveline and Seamus never even talked?

“Yes, thank you,” Gillian said. “I’m sorry to ask, but have you any idea why he might have been killed?”

“None. He seldom left the grounds here, and he had no friends, or even acquaintances, in town, to the best of my knowledge. He seemed content, and he loved his work. I can’t imagine why he met such a violent end. But I assume someone will be obliged to find out—is that right, Harry?”

Harry ducked his head. “Yes. I’ve spoken to the gardaí in Skibbereen, but I told them you had little to add.”

“Kind of you, dear, but not altogether necessary. I miss Seamus, and I’ll speak to the guards if I must. But no mind. What moved you to request this gathering? Please, Maura, Gillian, enjoy your tea. And Mrs. O’Brien’s shortbread is not to be missed.”

“Aunt Evie,” Harry began, “when I suggested we all get together, I had a purpose in mind. The woman you . . . encountered in the hallway last week . . . do you recall her?”

“The one with no clothes on?” Aunt Eveline responded, her mouth twitching as she hid a smile.

Harry looked surprised at Eveline’s response. “Yes, that one. Well, she never had a chance to explain to you what she was doing here, beyond . . . visiting me, that is.”

“And you believe I need to know this reason?”

“Yes. You see . . .” And Harry proceeded to lay out the story that Althea had spun for them about the appearance of the small painting in New Jersey and her hurried search for its origins and the grand painting she hoped still existed somewhere in Ireland. “And as it turns out, she was right—the painting is right here and has been for centuries. It’s that one of the first Richard Townsend, in the library? Althea also needed to know how the smaller painting ended up in America and whether the woman who owned it came by it legally.”

Eveline gave a small, sad smile. “I’ve been waiting for someone to ask me about that for a very long time.”

There was a shared moment of stunned silence. Finally Harry asked, “Whatever do you mean?”

Eveline regarded each of them in turn. “Shall I tell you the story?”

“Please,” Gillian said.

Eveline settled herself more comfortably on the settee and began.

“Your parents were all born well after the war, and I can’t say how much you know of it. Here in Ireland we stayed neutral throughout the Emergency, so it hardly touched us, save that it was difficult to get some things. But my brother Richard took it into his head that it would be the honorable thing to enlist and to fight with the English. He and our father had some major rows about it, but Richard was determined. I hated the idea, but I could understand, in a way—as third son, he had few prospects here, and he did always have a romantic imagination. We were several years apart, but he would talk to me about a lot of things. Including Jane Deasy.”

“You knew about them?” Gillian exclaimed.

“I did. He told me, but you had only to see them together to know. Of course, the rest of the family would have been horrified, but I knew Jane—she was close in age to me—and she was a good girl. Uneducated, unpolished, but sweet and kind and hardworking. When Richard realized that I knew, I think he was relieved. He so wanted someone he could talk to about her, and he couldn’t tell the others.”

“Did you know when she left that she was . . . ?” Gillian hesitated.

“Pregnant? Yes. I might have been young, but I wasn’t blind or ignorant. I saw them together that summer. I don’t think the rest of the family noticed much—but I was always lurking about the house and the grounds. I didn’t have many friends, and there wasn’t a lot to do here. They looked so happy, at least at first.”

“And then?” Gillian asked.

“Then they weren’t happy anymore, and I came on them one day, and Jane was crying, and he was holding her, and when he saw me, he looked so angry that I just turned and ran. I had never seen him look like that. He came to my room later that night to explain. He said Jane was pregnant and that he loved her, but our parents would never approve, and if they ran away together he had no way of supporting himself, much less Jane and a child. And he hated himself for being so dependent, but he couldn’t think what to do. And then she left.”

“That was when she went to America?” Maura said.

“I suppose. All I know is that one day Jane was gone, and my mother was angry because she had to find a replacement quickly—we were expecting houseguests that weekend and she was suddenly short a maid. She thought it was very inconsiderate of Jane to just give notice like that.”

“So how did the painting come into it?” Maura asked.

“I’d always loved the little painting because it looked so much like Richard and he was my favorite brother. I guess I knew about the big painting too, but there were a lot of those in the house, and they were all so dark and stuffy! The little one was tucked away in a dark corner—Richard would salute it when he passed it. Then one day it wasn’t there, so I asked Richard about it, because I knew that he liked it. He took me aside to tell me that he had given the painting to Jane, because he had nothing else to give her, and that he hoped she would be able to sell it and get enough money to take care of herself and the baby in America. And he told me that I couldn’t tell anyone, that it would be our secret and he trusted me to keep my word. And I promised that I would never tell, and I didn’t, not even after he died in the war. There didn’t seem to be any point.”

“But what about the baby?” Maura protested.

“There wasn’t much I could do. I didn’t know where to find Jane, and she never contacted us. She knew that our parents wouldn’t have understood. To them Jane would have been just a farm girl, no doubt looking for a settlement, or at least that’s how they would have seen it.”

“Richard thought Jane could sell the painting?” Gillian asked.

“Oh, he was sure she could, once she got to New York. After all, it was by an important artist.”

Harry spoke for the first time, surprised. “He said that? He knew?”

“Oh, yes,” Eveline said quickly. “He took an art course at university, and when he was home, he looked it up in the estate records. The artist was Van something—I’ve forgotten now.”

Gillian said, “Van Dyck?”

Eveline shrugged. “Perhaps. The name meant nothing to me then, but Richard had asked me to look after the record of it, and it was the least I could do.”

“But we looked through the books, up in the attic, and we didn’t find anything about that painting,” Gillian said.

“Oh, but the book wasn’t upstairs—Richard kept the book in his room, after he’d looked up the painting and knew what it was. He was afraid it would get shuffled off to the attic, and no one would ever find it again.”

Maura and Gillian exchanged a look: so Althea’s proof did exist, and she wasn’t even here to hear it. “And what happened to the book?” Gillian asked.

“When Richard went to war, he gave it to me to keep. I’ve always kept it in my room. I promised Richard I’d look after it. I can show it to you later.”

“Wait, I’m still confused,” Maura said. “How did Richard think Jane was supposed to sell the painting in New York, without any kind of proof that she owned it? Like you said, she was a farm girl. Wouldn’t anyone have taken one look at her and at the painting and called the cops?”

“I think perhaps I can guess,” Harry said thoughtfully. “You have to remember, photocopying hadn’t been invented yet. Even if there were a photostat of the original, Richard wouldn’t have wanted to tip his hand to your parents by bringing in a solicitor or something like that. He couldn’t exactly give her the original book, since you still have it upstairs. I have no idea how Jane managed to carry the painting on the ship, but the book as well? Not likely.”

“Richard did have a will,” Eveline said, “not that there was much to leave. It may well be that he left instructions for Jane with the same solicitor and he’d told her to contact him when she was ready to sell her painting.”

“How very sad,” Gillian said. “Eveline, Jane lived a long life—she died only last year. And she always kept the painting. Perhaps because it reminded her of Richard, so I guess she really did love him. It was the only thing of his that she had left.”

“Not the child?” Eveline said softly.

“We understand that Jane gave the baby to her married sister in New York to raise as her own. It was a son, and it was his daughter who inherited the little painting when Jane died. That’s how Althea came to be here—she saw the painting and knew it was special, so she came to Ireland to find the big painting.”