Scandal in Skibbereen (A County Cork Mystery)

by Connolly, Sheila

  “You aren’t about to take off on them, are you?”

  “Of course not.” Althea glanced around quickly; the other patrons had apparently lost interest and returned to their own conversations or to the soccer match on the television. “I still haven’t figured out if the painting is somewhere around here,” she said in a low voice. “You think the murder has anything to do with that?”

  “Why are you asking me? We don’t get a whole lot of murders around here—fewer than you could count on one hand, over the past ten years, or so I’m told. But don’t underestimate the guards. They’re not stupid. I’m pretty sure they think it’s suspicious that you show up asking about Mycroft House and the gardener ends up dead a few hours later. Wouldn’t you?”

  “I guess, but why would I bash the gardener?” Althea demanded. “I still can’t believe I’m a murder suspect just because I wanted to ask whoever lives there if they had anything that fit the bill for the painting.”

  “Wait . . . tell me you didn’t go there last night.”

  Althea looked sheepish. “I did. It was so close, and all I wanted to do was ask . . .”

  “How did you find it?” Maura asked. She’d never known it existed, much less where it was.

  “I asked someone at that gas station you told me about. It’s just down the road.”

  “So what happened at the manor?”

  “Nothing, really. I went up and knocked on the door, and this woman answered, but she wouldn’t even let me talk. She just said, ‘Whatever you’re selling, we don’t want any,’ then slammed the door in my face.”

  “Did you see Seamus?”

  “Who?”

  “The gardener. The man who died.”

  “I think there was someone somewhere outside there. I didn’t pay any attention or talk to him. If that was him, he was definitely alive when I left, poking around the bushes.”

  “And you went straight to the hotel in Skibbereen from there?”

  “Yes. Thank God they had a room for me. I had a drink in their restaurant there. Several people saw me.” Althea sighed deeply. “It’s actually a nice place, although it’s pretty small. I went up to my room, read for a while, watched the news, and went to bed. This morning I took a walk around town, just to get the feel of it—which took me all of fifteen minutes from one end to the other—and when I got back to the hotel, a policeman was waiting for me. Are they all twelve years old?”

  “Clean living and lots of Irish rain—keeps the skin young,” Maura joked.

  Althea smiled wanly. “I’ve done this all wrong. You were right before—I’ve been rude to almost everybody I’ve met. Why should anyone want to help me?”

  Maura took pity on her. “Because they’re good people and they’re happy to help, if you ask them nicely. I don’t think anybody around here is going to steal your precious discovery and publish it before you can get home. Trust them.”

  “Am I supposed to buy a round of drinks all around? Would that help?”

  Why does she keep missing the point? Maura wondered. “Why don’t you just relax and talk to people? You don’t have to bribe them, you know.”

  “Right,” Althea said dubiously.

  Maura leaned on the bar. “Why are you in such a hurry?”

  “Weren’t you listening yesterday? The exhibit is almost ready to go up, and the catalog is at the printer’s. I begged them to wait a couple of days. I even said I’d pay for a rush order—that’s how important I think this is. And now I’m running out of time, and I have nowhere else to look if the painting isn’t here.”

  Maura considered. Her explanation didn’t make much sense in Leap, but maybe it did in New York.

  “What time is it?” Althea asked. “I’m starving. You don’t serve food, do you? I don’t think I can face driving back to the hotel right now. I had to go around that stupid roundabout twice last night before I figured it out.”

  “Sorry, no food here, beyond a few bags of chips. You could go get something at the express market at the gas station, or go back to the inn, or there’s the Motorcycle Café down the street.”

  “I think I’ll try the gas station—it’s not far, right?”

  “Not far. It’s across from the church—you can’t miss it. Look, if you want me to, I can try to soften up the regulars, tell them about why you’re here . . .”

  Althea stood up. “Would you? I sure don’t have much to lose at the moment. And thank you. See you in a few.” She strode out the door. Maura was happy to see that her shoes were slightly more sensible than the ones she had arrived in the day before.

  “What’s going on?” Rose whispered.

  Maura cocked an eyebrow at her. “As if you didn’t hear every word we said.”

  Rose blushed. “Well, she has a loud voice. It’s not like I was hangin’ about to listen in. So now we’re all in the hunt for this missing art thing?”

  “Seems we are. Call it a treasure hunt.”

  A few minutes later Billy arrived. He was warmly greeted by several of the men in the place as he made his slow way to his favorite chair. Maura poured his pint and took it over to him. “You’re in late today, Billy. I was beginning to worry about you.”

  “I was chatting with the gardaí, I was. They asked me what I knew about the Townsends, and what I told that nosy woman.”

  Maura noticed that Althea had been demoted from “lady” to “woman” in Billy’s eyes. “You didn’t tell them you thought Althea killed the man, did you?”

  Billy took a long, slow pull on his pint. “Now, why would I do a thing like that?”

  Maura grabbed a chair and set it next to Billy’s. “What can you tell me about the Townsend family that I didn’t hear yesterday? Are they broke?”

  “In a manner of speaking. They’re what you’d call land rich but cash poor. The estate is mortgaged, and it’s only Harry Townsend’s money that keeps it going. But Eveline is well up in years, and when she’s gone . . .” He didn’t finish his sentence. Maura realized that Eveline and Billy must be relatively close in age.

  “Would there be any buyers for it these days?”

  Billy didn’t seem particularly worried. “Could be. It’s near enough Rosscarbery that it might catch some of the overflow for the conference center there—maybe some business folk who want a pretty view of the harbor. And I hear there’s a new place in Glandore as well. But they’d have to put money into the house—it’s in sad shape now.”

  Maura thought for a moment. “You think they’ve already sold everything they could lay their hands on?”

  “I’m not the one you should be asking. I see Tom O’Brien now and then—he says they’re trying to keep things much as they’ve always been for Eveline’s sake. I don’t how what state she’s in, but she’d probably notice if the furniture disappeared out from under her.”

  Or a large painting, Maura added to herself. “Do you know anyone who would want to do harm to Seamus Daly or the O’Briens?”

  “Seamus was never quite right, I told you. He was touched in the head—something happened when he was born. But he never crossed anyone that I know of, and he didn’t stray far from the estate—might have come in here the odd time or two. Set in his ways, he was, but he did his job well. Hard to make enemies when you see so few people.”

  “What about the O’Briens? Could someone have had it in for one of them?”

  “Florence has a sharp tongue, but Tom would be lost without her—she rules the place. Besides, the ground around here would be littered with corpses if people were killed for that. And why would they have gone after Seamus?”

  Maura thought for a moment. “Okay, so if the reasons weren’t personal, it’s probably a case of Seamus having tried to stop someone who shouldn’t have been there, and that person grabbing the handiest weapon—Seamus’s own shovel.”

  “I’d wager that’s how the gardaí would see it,” Billy agreed.

  “Would anyone have noticed someone sneaking around the property?”

 
“I’d be well surprised. The family wanted their privacy, and they made sure the house was set well back from the road, from the beginning. You’ve never seen it from the road, have you?” When Maura shook her head, he added, “The only other way in is from the harbor.”

  “By boat? I hadn’t thought of that. Are there lots of boaters around in the summer?”

  “Not for the fun of it. Most who stop here are serious about their fishing, and powerboats upset the fish. There’d be fishing boats over to Union Hall, but they don’t come up here, they go out to the open water. Some fancy yachts at Glandore, now, but why would they stop in here?”

  “Billy, if you don’t know, I won’t even try to guess.” Maura grinned at Billy, then asked skeptically, “Can you see Althea doing it?”

  “She’s very sure of what she’s after, though I can’t see her swinging that shovel. But it could be that she has a friend to help her—or an enemy who’s after the same thing she’s looking for.”

  “I wondered about that. Well, let the gardaí figure it out. But tell me, who else around here could Althea ask about this painting of hers? If she still wants to find it, after what’s happened.”

  “Him.” Billy tipped his head at a newcomer who had just entered.

  Maura sized up the newcomer quickly: about six feet tall, past thirty but wearing it well, and . . . hot. Maybe a little too pretty for her taste, but undeniably good-looking. From the look on Rose’s face, Maura knew this had to be Harry Townsend. She stood up and walked over to the bar, conscious of the man’s frank appraisal of her. At least he wasn’t ogling teenage Rose, who was staring mutely at him from behind the counter.

  The man smiled, showing very white teeth. “I heard Old Mick passed on. Would you be the new owner, then?”

  Maura extended her hand. “I am. Maura Donovan.”

  He shook it, holding it a fraction of a second too long. “American, by the accent. Yours must be an interesting story. I look forward to hearing it.”

  “And you must be Harry Townsend.”

  “Bang on. Called down by the Skibbereen gardaí to sort out this sad mess at Mycroft House. Poor Seamus—he wouldn’t hurt a fly. Well, flies maybe, if they got into the roses. But no person. I can’t quite wrap my mind around it, that he’s dead.”

  “Have you talked to the gardaí already?” Maura asked.

  “I was on my way there when I thought I might stop in for a quick pint. I’ve been on the road for hours now and I needed the break.”

  Maura studied him but didn’t move.

  Harry looked deeply into her eyes. “That pint?”

  Maura shook herself. “Of course. What’ll you have?” The door swung open again and Althea bustled in, carrying a couple of bags. “You know what, the food there didn’t look half bad. I . . .” Then she noticed Harry, slouching gracefully against the bar as he waited for his pint—and he noticed her.

  Maura’s mouth twitched. “Althea Melville, meet Harry, the heir of the Townsends.”

  “Well, hello,” Althea purred. “What a pleasure.”

  Maura passed Harry his pint and settled back to watch Althea go to work on him.

  Chapter 6

  For once Maura regretted that the pub was beginning to fill up with both Friday regulars and a smattering of less-familiar faces who all clearly wanted to talk about the murder, because she was enjoying watching the soap opera unfolding in front of her. The presence of Harry Townsend in the midst of the crowd provided an added spark, and Maura guessed that he wouldn’t have to pay for many drinks. He looked to be great craic, as the locals would say. As Harry drained his pint, he turned to the group. “I’ve an appointment with a sergeant in Skibbereen, and I must call in on my poor auntie and make sure she isn’t devastated by this terrible event. But I promise I’ll be back later and give yeh the whole story, or as much as I know.”

  Althea laid a hand on Harry’s arm. “Oh, please do come back later. I really want to talk to you.”

  “How could I pass up the chance to talk with such a lovely American? You’ll be here at Sullivan’s?”

  “You could meet me at the hotel in Skibbereen,” Althea suggested quickly.

  “After I’ve promised to tell the tale to my good friends here?” Harry replied, ducking her implied invitation neatly. “I’ll be back after I’ve tucked Aunt Eveline in for the night, count on it. Maura Donovan, it’s a pleasure to meet you as well. Ta!”

  He made his exit, watched by every woman in the room. Althea’s expression was a bit calculating, as if she were already plotting some strategy, while Rose sighed. Maura could see why. Harry certainly had charm, and she suspected that he probably could sweet-talk any woman he met. Even without having met Miss Eveline, Maura could picture the elderly aunt doting on this handsome nephew.

  But Harry had avoided Althea’s obvious come-on. Maybe he had some brains to go with those undeniable good looks . . .

  Stop it, Maura! She scolded herself. Her life was complicated enough right now without someone like Harry Townsend in it. Besides, why would someone like him even look at her? He probably had a string of women waiting for him back in Dublin, and he’d be going back there as soon as he’d taken care of things here, which shouldn’t take him long.

  Mick Nolan and Jimmy Sweeney came in together from the back, arguing about something, but they stopped talking when they noticed Maura. Jimmy turned to Rose. “Goin’ to be a busy night, Rosie, love. Why don’t you go home and see to supper? We’ve got this covered.”

  Maura expected Rose to whine “Do I have to?” but instead she agreed quickly. “You’ll stop by to eat, Da?”

  “I will. Take care, love.”

  Althea had watched the exchange, and after Rose left and Mick and Jimmy moved on, she asked Maura, “Just how old is that kid?”

  “Sixteen going on twenty-five. Jimmy’s her dad. Her mom’s dead, so it’s just the two of them.”

  “Is she even legal to work here?”

  “There are rules, I gather, but there’s some kind of loophole if you’re a relative, and she and Jimmy are related somehow to the former owner. Besides, she’s finished whatever the local version of high school is. Jimmy’s worked here since long before I showed up. So has Mick.”

  “And now you’re the owner? How’d that happen?”

  “It’s complicated.” Maura waved a hand. “Basically, I inherited the place from an old friend of my grandmother’s. She came from around here originally.” She didn’t want to get into all the details.

  “Got it. And that gorgeous guy was Harry Townsend?”

  “So it seems. I haven’t met him before.”

  “Married? Attached?”

  “How am I supposed to know? Why? You think if you find your painting, you can marry your way to it?”

  “It’s a thought,” Althea quipped. “So, I got some food. Mind if I eat it here?”

  “Go right ahead. I’m going to go out and find something myself, plus I need the fresh air. It may be a long night. People will come in to talk about the murder. At least the local people will. I pity any tourists who walk into the middle of it—they’ll get an earful.”

  Mick came up behind Maura, and Maura asked, “Have you met Althea?” He shook his head, so she introduced them. “I saw you in passing,” Mick said. “Fáilte.” When Althea looked confused, Mick added, “That’s ‘welcome’ in Irish. You’ll hear it a lot.”

  “Well, thank you, Mick. Maura, I’m beginning to like this place—lots of handsome men. So, Mick, is this part of the world your home?”

  She’s flirting again, Maura thought in amusement. Was Althea man-crazy or just working any angle that might get her into Mycroft House? She’d find out soon enough that Mick couldn’t help her—at least, she didn’t think so—but in the meantime, Maura was hungry, and as she’d said to Althea, it was probably going to be a long night.

  Mick and Althea didn’t notice her leaving. She walked across the street to the inn, which was moderately crowded, and found herself a stoo
l at the bar. Ann was filling glasses, but when she had a free moment she came over to say hello. “You’ll be wanting supper?”

  “Yeah. Whatever’s easy—I like your soup, and your bread.”

  “Done.” Ann darted into the kitchen.

  While she waited, Maura watched the crowd. Not so different from the people at Sullivan’s—more men than women in the bar area, some couples, some groups of men. The ages were a mix of old and youngish, although few people her own age. Where were all the twenty-somethings? Skibbereen? Or were they all off looking for work somewhere else, somewhere there were actually jobs? She’d heard a lot of younger people had gone off to Australia, since there was nothing for them in Ireland.

  Ann returned a couple of minutes later with a steaming bowl of vegetable soup and a plate loaded with brown bread. “Where’s your friend?”

  “Althea? Not, repeat, not my friend. She just walked into the pub yesterday. Now the gardaí are looking at her for that murder at Mycroft House.”

  Ann snorted. “Her, kill someone! Sure and she’d find a man to do the work for her.”

  Maura smiled. “You feel that way too? Well, I can’t blame the guards for talking to her, because I told them that she really wants to get into Mycroft House—she thinks there might be an important painting in there somewhere.”

  “I’ve heard that Florence O’Brien shut the door on her.”

  “How does everyone know everything so fast around here? I only just heard.”

  “Tom O’Brien stopped in for a pint earlier.”

  “Why is it he stops in here, rather than at Sullivan’s? I don’t think I’ve met him.”

  Ann shrugged. “Habit, maybe? He’s not much of one for the pint, and his wife keeps him on a short lead.”

  “Did he say anything useful? Like, does he have an idea who might have killed Seamus?”

  “Poor man, no. I don’t think Florence lets Tom think—she does it all for him. It was brave of him to come in for that pint. He told Florence he needed something from the hardware store up the road. But they were good to Seamus, the two of them. Looked out for him. He’ll be missed. The gardens there are huge—so big they can’t even care for them all—and Seamus worked for little more than his room and board and some pocket money. They’ll not replace him easily.”