“I’ve seen it,” Maura said. Usually a bunch of clueless people who brought in Aunt Minnie’s chamber pot and wondered if it was worth thousands.
“I’ve seen it on the BBC here,” Billy added proudly.
“So you get the general idea. Great,” Althea resumed. “Anyway, my friend, Nate Reynolds, called me and said, ‘There’s something you should see.’ And I said, ‘Can it wait?’ And he said, ‘No, it can’t.’ So I went out to Jersey to take a look at what had him so excited, and I saw what he meant. A woman had brought in a small painting, wrapped up in a blanket, and said she’d inherited it from her great-aunt but had no clue what it was. Nate had a pretty good idea, but he wanted me to take a look at it to confirm it. It was a seventeenth-century oil sketch of a young man, probably around thirty, and I’d stake my life that it’s an original Van Dyck!”
Althea looked expectantly at her audience, but Maura and Billy merely stared blankly back at her. Maura made a time-out sign. “Okay, I get it that you’re excited, but my high school didn’t teach art history, so you’re going to have to tell us who this Van Dyck guy is and why he’s important.”
“Really? You don’t know . . . ? Okay, fine. Here’s the short course: Anthony Van Dyck was a Flemish painter in the early seventeenth century. In 1620 he went to London and worked for a couple of English kings, then he went to Italy.” She paused. Billy was engrossed in using a chunk of potato to swab up the last of the gravy on his plate, and Maura still had no idea what she was talking about. “Basically, Van Dyck was a very popular portraitist who painted a whole lot of English nobility, including some of the Anglo-Irish nobility here. I talked to Dorothy Ryan, the woman who’d brought in the painting, and she said her grandmother and great-aunt were from Ireland and came to New York in the 1930s or 1940s. The thing is, the great-aunt never told anybody about the painting—Dorothy found it hidden in an old suitcase under her great-aunt’s bed when she died. She’d had a simple will leaving everything she owned—which wasn’t much—to her great-niece, and it didn’t mention the painting. Luckily Dorothy opened the suitcase, rather than just throwing it out, and found the painting. She took it home then more or less forgot about it until she saw the ad about this appraisal event and figured it might be fun to take it in and see what the experts had to say.”
Maura was beginning to see where the woman was going with her explanation. “So you’re trying to track down where the painting came from? Why did you figure it had to be Ireland?”
“Well, the old lady had lived a very dull life once she got to New York, and I couldn’t see any way she could have laid her hands on a painting like this, or even why she would want it, much less keep it for years. I checked to see if it was stolen, but nothing came close in the registry for stolen artworks. So I figured the best way to find out was to look in Ireland. I know Van Dyck worked here in this part of Ireland, so that fit.”
“But if this Dorothy’s got the painting, why are you here? In Leap, I mean.”
Althea leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Because I think what Dorothy has is just a preliminary sketch for a full portrait, one that’s been out of sight for years, maybe even centuries. A lost Van Dyck would be huge news in the art world. And I want to find it.” She sat back triumphantly and drained her glass.
Chapter 3
Maura glanced at Billy, who was beaming, but whether it was because his belly was full with a good meal and a free pint or because he was following Althea’s story was not clear. “Okay, let’s see if I’ve got this right,” Maura said. “You think this little painting you saw in New Jersey might be connected to a bigger one by the same important artist, and that one might be in Ireland, if it exists at all. In fact, you think it’s somewhere near here, which is why you’re here. Why do you care?” Maura asked.
“Because finding a long-lost painting by a master would be a really big deal, and because frankly, my job’s on the line. You know what the economy’s like. I’ve been at the museum for eight years now, ever since I got my master’s degree, but once the grant funding for this exhibit runs out, I’m out of a job. And believe me, there aren’t a whole lot of jobs for art historians specializing in seventeenth-century European paintings these days. So I figured if I could find the original painting and talk the owners into lending it to the museum for the show, and if I publicized it right, the museum would have to keep me on. Or at least I’d have a better chance of getting another job, with something big like that on my résumé.”
Ann came over to the table. “Everything all right?” she asked.
“You haven’t lost yer touch, Ann Sheahan—it was grand,” Billy said, his hands folded over his belly.
“Sweet, anybody?” Ann asked. “Billy, I know you like the apple crumble.”
“That I do. Will you join me, ladies?”
“Sure, why not?” Maura said, as Althea shook her head. “And bring Althea some coffee, will you?” Maura added. When Althea started to protest, Maura said, “The drunk driving laws around here are pretty serious, and you’ve still got to find a place to stay tonight.”
“Oh. Right,” Althea grumbled.
“Straightaway,” Ann said and turned to head for the kitchen.
When she was out of earshot, Maura turned back to Althea. “So that’s why you wanted to talk to Billy here about the local gentry.”
“Exactly. I was hoping that whoever they are, assuming there are any and they’re still alive, they might still own the painting. If it exists.”
“Why here?” Maura repeated.
“This wasn’t my first stop. Look, the woman who originally had the painting didn’t leave much information behind, and Dorothy wasn’t much help. She said her grandmother had been tight-lipped about just about everything, especially her life back in Ireland, and she didn’t even remember the great-aunt.”
Funny, Maura thought, Gran was the same way—didn’t talk about where she had come from, which was why I wasn’t ready for what I found in Leap.
Althea was still talking. “I did ask a friend to check censuses for the sisters and he found them in New York, but all the records said about where they came from was ‘County Cork,’ which as you know is kind of vague. Same with the ship’s records. At least I knew I had the right family, but there’s a lot of County Cork. Both Jane—that’s the great-aunt I mentioned—and her sister identified themselves as ‘servant’ in the records, so I’m guessing they must have worked in the big house wherever the painting was, or at least that’s what I’ve assumed. I’ve already visited a couple of dead ends. This place is my last hope, and I thought it was so out of the way that it was conceivable that a family could have had a major painting and nobody would have noticed. I know it’s an incredible long shot, but I figured it could be worth it. Yours was the first pub I came to in Leap, and I hoped somebody might know something about any manor houses around here that might fit the bill.”
Billy finally focused on the conversation. “Ah, you’ve come to the right place, young lady,” he said, rubbing his hands together in anticipation.
Althea turned to Billy. “I have?” She was interrupted by Ann depositing dishes of apple crumble drenched in heavy cream in front of Billy and Maura. Althea all but shuddered at the sight. “My God, is that cream?”
“It is. This is a dairy region,” Maura said, picking up her spoon.
“What’s the heart attack rate around here?”
“Don’t know,” Maura said, digging in. She used the time spent chewing to try to figure out the angles. Althea said this was about her job, and uncovering a lost artwork, but there had to be money involved. If this painter was such hot stuff, a new old painting would be worth a lot of money. Maybe Althea worked for a gallery that had its eye on selling the painting somewhere down the road. Maybe she was setting up an art heist. Maybe she was just plain crazy or obsessed. Who knew? Maura wondered what Billy’s take on Althea was—from what she’d seen in the pub, he seemed to be a fair judge of character, even if he did usually
give strangers the benefit of the doubt.
Billy took his time scraping the last of the cream from his bowl. Then he looked squarely at Althea. “Tell me, will any money change hands?”
Maura cheered silently, glad he’d come up with the same question she had.
Althea looked at him for a couple of seconds, as if trying to decide which story to pitch. Finally she answered, “Not for me. But maybe, possibly, for the painting’s owners. I promise you, though, this isn’t about the money. I’m looking for the attention I’ll get if I bring home the painting, not the cash. But that said, yes, if I find the painting, and if the owners want to part with it, then it’s possible that they could do very well, even in the current market for artworks, and they might be grateful to me for making it happen. But I’m not counting on it.”
“And what would you be meaning by ‘very well’?” Billy pressed.
Althea looked down at the table, avoiding their eyes. “The last known Van Dyck to come to auction was a small self-portrait, a few years ago. It sold for over thirteen million dollars.”
Billy didn’t seem surprised. “But whatever such a sale might bring, it would go to the owners, not to yourself?”
“Like I said, I might get something like a finder’s fee, but I’m not working under contract to find it, or anything like that. I’m running around Ireland—and paying out of my own pocket, I might add—to save my career, because I really like what I do, even when it brings me to godforsaken places like this. Is that enough for you?”
Billy looked at Maura, and she could swear his eyes twinkled. “Then I’d be happy to help a fine young lady like yourself. You’d be wanting to take a look at the Townsends.”
“The Townsends?” Althea repeated.
“The line goes back to the Townsends of Castletownsend, not far from here, in the seventeenth century—just about the time you’re after,” Billy said proudly.
“Hang on—let me get something to write on.” Althea rummaged through her large and expensive-looking handbag and pulled out a leather-bound notebook. “Townsends of Castletownsend, you said?”
Billy continued, “The founder, Colonel Richard, served as a soldier under Oliver Cromwell and handed him the keys to Cork city when they won the battle of Knockoness. He bought quite a bit of land over the years. In the end they held a good deal of land around here, more than three thousand acres, I hear tell, in the early days. That’d be Irish acres, not regular ones, so it’s more like two-thirds again as big. And they kept adding to it. Good thing he did, for I’m told the colonel had nine sons. I could tell you about . . .”
Maura stared at Billy. She’d had no idea he had information like this stored in his head, or what half of it meant. “Billy, how do you know all this?”
He winked at her. “I wasn’t there for the ceremony, if that’s what yer thinking. But we learned a bit about it in school. And the Townsends were well-known hereabouts. Yer gran worked at the big house, before she married and yer da came along.”
Before Maura could follow up on this unexpected piece of information, Althea interrupted. “Where would the biggest and best manor house have been?”
The glint in Billy’s eyes took on a steely cast. When he spoke, it was, if anything, more slowly than before. “Well, let me think . . . There’d be Derry House, near Clonakilty. The old house was damaged during the Troubles, but some of it still stands. Or Roury House, not far from there, but that’s not very large. There’s a few other homes scattered about, in Bunlahan, Brade, Union Hall, Ballincolla . . .”
Maura realized that Billy was toying with Althea, as payback for her insistence, and sat back to enjoy the show. Althea looked ready to burst, and finally Billy took pity on her. “Of course, the big house is Mycroft House.”
“And where would that be?” Althea demanded.
“No more than half a mile from where we sit, just over the harbor there.”
“I’ve never heard of it,” Maura said. “But then, I’m still new here, and I don’t hang around with those kinds of people.”
“Is anybody living there now?” Althea said, ignoring Maura altogether.
“Ah, it’s a bit of a sad story, it is. It might go down better with a bit of whiskey . . .” He looked hopefully at Althea.
Althea gestured to Ann. “Can you give this guy whatever he wants to drink?”
Ann gave Althea a hard look, and Maura guessed she wasn’t used to being ordered around under her own roof. “Billy, what’s your pleasure?” Ann asked.
“A drop of whiskey, with the hot water, if you don’t mind.”
“No problem. Maura, you want anything else?” Ann pointedly ignored Althea, not that the woman seemed to notice.
“No, I’m set. I need to be getting back to Sullivan’s anyway.”
“So it’s a whiskey for you, Billy. Won’t be a moment.”
“Are there still Townsends at Mycroft House that I could talk to?” Althea asked eagerly.
“There are, in a way. The family lived there the year round until the Great War, and only on holidays after that. But the one—William, it was—he came back to stay. He was a good landlord and a fair man. His daughter lives there still. Eveline, that is. She must be near ninety now, rattling around in that big old house.”
“Is she the owner now?”
“And how would I be knowing that?” Billy asked. “She has a nephew, great-nephew, something like that, who looks after her affairs, but I can’t say who holds the deed.”
“Does he live there too?”
“Nah, he’s a Dublin man now, comes down from time to time to see to things.”
“Do you know how I can reach him?”
Ann set the glass of hot whiskey in front of Billy—and set the bill for dinner in front of Althea.
Billy took a long sip of his drink. “How would I come to have his number? I’m only a poor man from the village.”
“Did this Eveline marry?” Althea pushed on relentlessly. “Or have children?”
“She never did. She used to drive around the lanes—I remember she had a sure hand with a pony cart—but she never wanted to leave the place, and she never found a match that suited her.”
“Is she still, uh”—Althea fumbled for words—“in full possession of her faculties?”
“You mean, is she past remembering what it is you want to know?” Billy said sharply.
“I guess that’s what I mean.”
“Then you’d best find out for yourself.”
Billy seemed annoyed now, and Maura thought it might be a good time to beat a retreat back to Sullivan’s. “Althea, I’ll see Billy back across the street while you settle up.”
“What? Oh, right. I’ll follow you over in a few—I’d like to talk to you some more.”
“Billy, you ready to go?” Maura asked.
Billy drained his glass. “As soon as I find my way out of this seat, I am.” He accepted Maura’s offer of a hand to steady him.
Outside the sky was still light—it was near the summer solstice, and it didn’t turn full dark until after ten. Maura accompanied Billy back to the door of Sullivan’s.
“Are you coming in, Billy?”
“I think not. I seldom have such a meal of an evening, and it’s made me ready for my chair at home. That young woman, she’s a piece of work, isn’t she?”
“She is. Did you tell her the truth?”
“About Eveline Townsend? Sure and I did. I used to share the odd word or two with Eveline, when we met on the road. She was never so full of herself that she wouldn’t talk to the likes of me. But she doesn’t go out now, and I’m told her mind’s more in the past than in the present. I doubt Althea will have any luck with her, even if she gets past the gatekeepers.”
“The what?”
“There’s a housekeeper and her husband, the O’Briens—they live in to see to Eveline’s needs. They’ve been there for years, but they don’t take any nonsense from stray visitors. I was going to warn her, but I think it’s best sh
e find that out on her own, if she goes calling at the house.”
“Do you think it’s possible the painting exists? Could it be there?”
Billy shrugged. “That’s not for me to say. I never set foot in the place, not even by way of the back door. Yer gran might have known. I’ll see you tomorrow, Maura Donovan.”
“Of course, Billy. Good night.”
Maura watched as he made his careful way to the far end of the building, where he lived in two rooms on the ground floor. Once he was safely in the door, she turned and pulled open the door to Sullivan’s. Things looked under control, with maybe fifteen people scattered around the room. Mick was behind the bar and looked up when she came in, but he was deep in conversation with two men she sort of recognized. She came around the end of the bar and stashed her bag underneath, then started collecting glasses and taking orders, greeting the regulars she recognized along the way. More of them than a month ago, she was happy to see. The longer days were bringing out the locals as well as the tourists. What’s more, somehow the rain had stopped while she wasn’t looking, and that would help too.
Althea came in a few minutes later and dropped onto a bar stool. She eyed Mick, behind the bar, with obvious appreciation. “Who’s that?” she asked, when Maura came over to talk to her.
“Mick Nolan. He works here, part-time.”
“Single?”
“Yes.”
“You aren’t . . . ?” Althea left the question unfinished, watching Maura’s expression.
“Nope. He works for me, period. You want anything else to drink?” Maura asked. She wondered what more Althea could want from her, now that Billy had told her what she wanted to know.
“No, thanks. Like you said, I’m supposed to be driving. Any idea where I can find a room for the night? Or next several nights? I was going to try the inn but I don’t think Ann Sheahan liked me much.”
“What did you expect? You were kind of rude to her. Her husband’s family has been running that place for over a century. You can’t treat her like the hired help.”
Scandal in Skibbereen (A County Cork Mystery) Page 3
