Scandal in Skibbereen (A County Cork Mystery)

by Connolly, Sheila

  “Sounds like it’s expensive to keep the place going.”

  “That it is. The old families, they built on a grand scale, knowing they had the staff to take care of it all. Now . . . there’s no money left and no one who wants that kind of work—they’d rather run computers in a city somewhere.” Ann leaned closer and said, “Everyone’s waiting for Eveline Townsend to die.”

  “That’s sad,” Maura said. “What do they think will happen then? Does Harry inherit the place?”

  “She has lifetime rights, but he’ll be glad to wash his hands of it, I’m sure. And there’s hope that whoever buys it will bring some money into the village. I will say, Harry’s been good to her, for all that he’s not around much.”

  “You know that Harry’s arrived?”

  “Has he, now? You’ve seen him?”

  “Uh, yeah. He came into the pub. He’s hard to miss.”

  “He is that. Half the girls in the village have made a run at him, with no luck.”

  “He isn’t, uh, gay, is he?”

  “From all that I’ve heard, no.” Ann laughed. “But he has no plans to live here—he likes the city. Sure and there’ll be some broken hearts in the village if he ever settles down.” Ann shook herself. “I’d better tend to business. Enjoy your supper.”

  As she ate, Maura pondered. So Harry Townsend was the playboy of West Cork, or at least this small corner of it. But it was hard for her to see how his romantic liaisons could have anything to do with poor Seamus’s murder. Seamus was his employee, one he seldom saw, and he worked for pennies. Maura could see no motive for Harry, but then, she had no motive for anyone else either.

  She let her thoughts run wild. Maybe Harry had stumbled upon Seamus with a girl from the village, and the girl had looked upset about it. Or maybe Seamus hadn’t known when to stop. What would Harry have done? But if that had been the case, then there’d be a girl, who would talk . . .

  Maura, get a grip! Here she went, condemning poor Seamus, whom she’d never met. Ridiculous! Who was it that had said the simplest solution was usually the right one? But what was the simplest solution here? The Townsend household had more or less kept to themselves and muddled along for quite a while. It was too much to believe that Althea’s appearance was not connected to their sudden notoriety. Which kind of hinted that the painting might actually exist. But was finding it—or keeping it hidden—worth killing for?

  Maura finished her supper quickly, left some euros on the bar, and went back to Sullivan’s. The crowd had grown. Maura spotted Althea in a corner, talking with two men who were hanging on her every word. Jimmy was working the room and Mick was behind the bar, chatting with a red-haired woman Maura had never seen before, though she and Mick clearly knew each other, from the way they were bantering.

  Mick looked up and saw Maura, then beckoned her over. “Ah, there you are, Maura. Come meet Gillian Callanan, our resident artist. She’s just back for the summer.”

  Gillian had turned when Mick called out to Maura, and now she extended her hand. She was a few years older than herself—early thirties?—and casually dressed, her red hair cut short and carelessly mussed. Maura could tell she was tall even while she sat on a bar stool. “Mick’s been filling me in on what’s happened in the last few months. I’m glad you decided to keep the place going, Maura—I’d miss it. Although I’d guess you’re quite the change from Old Mick.”

  Maura slid onto a bar stool next to Gillian. “You knew Old Mick?”

  “Everybody knew Old Mick—he was a local institution. The place won’t be the same without him.”

  “I never met him, but his legend lives on. I know I can’t fill his shoes, but there was definitely some room for improvement. So far all I’ve managed to do is clean the place and update the accounting. You live around here?”

  “Part of the year, at least. I spend the winters in Dublin, but my family’s from one of the townlands, and I rent a place near here, summers—costs too much to keep it warm in the winter.”

  “Mick said you’re an artist?”

  “I am that. I make pretty pictures for the tourists, which pays the bills, and paintings that please me the rest of the year, which don’t sell near as well. But I get by, with the odd paying job or two. I was trying to talk Mick into hanging a few in here, looking to sell them, but he said you’re the boss and to talk to you.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Maura glanced at Mick. “Can I see some of your work?”

  “Of course. Stop by my place in the morning, if you don’t mind the mess. Like Mick said, I’m just back this minute from Dublin.”

  “I’ll do that, if you’ll tell me how to get to your place. I still get lost in the lanes around here, especially after dark.”

  “You’re living up at Knockskagh, are you? I’m just over the hill from you, at the old creamery in Ballinlough, by the water. Half of it is falling down, but there’s plenty of room, and I love the light there.”

  “Sure, I know where that is. But I’ll take the long way around—I’m not a fan of the road down that hill. It’s in rough shape.” Gillian probably wouldn’t know about her run-in with a thug who tried to shove her car down the hill on that stretch of road, and she wasn’t about to explain.

  “Grand! I’ll expect you in the morning—but not too early.”

  “Deal.”

  The door opened again, and Harry Townsend walked in. The men in the room only glanced at him and looked away, but Maura could have sworn that Althea’s ears pricked up like a cat’s. And at the same time Gillian’s face lit up. Harry came straight to the bar. “Gillian, my love—I was wondering if you’d show up.” They exchanged what Maura would label “friend” kisses, on the cheek, though Gillian’s eyes lingered on him for a bit after.

  And it was pretty clear that Althea noticed. She said something to her two companions, then stood up and came over, laying a hand on Harry’s arm. “Harry, you’re back! Did the police grill you mercilessly?”

  “Nah, it wasn’t too bad. I couldn’t tell them much, after all, seeing as I was in Dublin at the time of the murder.”

  “What’s going on?” Gillian interrupted.

  “You haven’t heard? There’s been a death up at the house—Seamus, the gardener. He was killed by a blow to the head. Tom O’Brien found him on the lawn this morning.”

  “How sad,” Gillian said and sounded like she meant it. “Do the gardaí know what happened?”

  “Not yet.”

  Althea, not to be distracted, said, “Harry, I’m sorry to bother you at such a difficult time, but I really need to talk to you. Can I buy you a drink?”

  “Sure, darlin’. Gilly, I’ll ring your mobile when I know what’s what and we’ll get together, all right?”

  “Fine, Harry.”

  Gillian smiled, but Maura watched her gaze follow Harry and Althea to the farthest corner of the room. Uh-oh, Maura thought.

  Gillian turned back to the bar and finished the glass in front of her. “I’d best be going—I still have masses of unpacking to do. Maura, I’ll see you in the morning. Mick, good to see you again.”

  “Glad to have you back, Gillian.”

  When Gillian had left, Maura turned to Mick, then tilted her head toward Harry, sitting close to Althea. “Trouble?”

  Mick shrugged. “Maybe. Harry and Gillian have a long history. But it’s none of my business if Althea seems to have set her sights on Harry.”

  “Is that going to be a problem?”

  “Depends on who you ask. He’s not one for, uh, long-term relationships.”

  “I don’t think that’s what Althea’s looking for,” Maura said wryly.

  “No more do I,” Mick replied. “So I wouldn’t waste my time worrying on it.”

  Maura agreed, then recalled something she’d meant to ask earlier. “What were you and Jimmy arguing about when I came in?”

  Mick shrugged. “The same. He’s still upset about what Old Mick did, shutting him out of the will.”

  “Like that’s
my fault?” Maura muttered.

  Mick noticed. “No, but it falls to you to keep him in line. You’re the owner here now.”

  “I’ve never managed anyone in my life. You think he’d be better off somewhere else?”

  “That’s not for me to say. And there’s Rose to consider.”

  “I know, I know. I want to help her, but I don’t know how.” Maura looked up to see more people arriving. This was a discussion that would have to wait.

  Chapter 7

  The evening passed quickly, as Maura, Mick, and Jimmy kept busy filling glasses and collecting empties. While she worked, Maura overheard snippets of information about the death, but no one seemed to have any idea who would have wanted poor Seamus Daly dead. The Townsend family received mixed reviews: most people liked Harry well enough, but he hadn’t lived here “for donkey’s years,” and the last resident Townsend, his great-aunt Eveline, had been nearly a recluse for years, so no one seemed to know her. The manor house itself, concealed from the road behind a thick forest, had been all but forgotten by local residents.

  Maura also learned a bit more about the O’Briens, since they had to come out and buy supplies occasionally, although there were some grumblings that they took their trade to Union Hall instead. The consensus was that they kept to themselves, and they were seldom if ever seen in any of Leap’s pubs. Maura wasn’t exactly surprised: they had sole charge of caring for Eveline and keeping a large, crumbling estate going, not to mention the large gardens—a job made more complicated now that Seamus was gone. When would they have time to socialize?

  Maura had seen Althea and Harry leave together, shortly after ten. They hadn’t come back. She drew her own conclusions. Now it was a bright summer morning, and Maura was pottering around in her own kitchen. Her kitchen, in her house. She still wasn’t used to that. Nor was she used to the silence and the solitude—she’d spent her whole life in a cramped apartment in an old triple-decker in South Boston, surrounded by people and cars and buses, and now here she was practically alone in the midst of rolling green fields. The old building was small and no-frills, but it was structurally sound and had what people around here called “mod cons,” as in “modern conveniences,” like electricity and indoor plumbing, thank goodness. The small stove was fueled by a propane tank out back, not that she used it much. There was electric heat, and a few times in the early spring Maura had been tempted to build a fire in the massive open fireplace that took up one end of the building, but in the end she’d just put on another sweater and waited for summer. Maybe she’d reconsider her heating options when winter came. It was looking more and more like she’d still be around then.

  She had a few neighbors on the Knockskagh hill. She had learned that “knock” meant hill anyway, and the “skagh” part mean white thorn, a kind of bush or tree that she couldn’t identify yet. Most of the neighbors had hooves, but Mick Nolan’s grandmother, Bridget, lived just down the lane. Bridget had known Maura’s grandmother, and she loved sharing her memories, so Maura tried to see her as often as possible, usually in the mornings when Bridget was most alert and before Maura had to be at the pub.

  Maura was not surprised when Bridget rapped on her door frame. “Have you had yer breakfast yet? I’ve made two loaves of bread and I thought you might like one.”

  “Just getting around to it now, Bridget.” Maura still felt funny calling the older woman by her first name, but Bridget had insisted that “Mrs. Nolan” was too formal. “It’s nice to see you out and about.”

  “Ah, I love the summer,” Bridget said, settling into a chair at the table. “I’m awake with the birds, and my bones don’t ache as much.” She unwrapped the crusty round loaf of bread from the tea towel she had brought it in and laid it on a pretty china plate on the table. “I hear there’s been some excitement in the village.”

  “Did Mick tell you about it?” More likely one of the friends who kept an eye on Bridget when Mick couldn’t, Maura thought.

  “No, one of the neighbors stopped by for tea yesterday.”

  Maura found two clean if mismatched plates and pulled butter out of her tiny refrigerator and set them all on the table. “Did you ever know the Townsends?” she asked.

  “The likes of me and the likes of them? I might have had work there, when the house was full, but my husband didn’t want to see me working. Different times, they were. Now all you young girls have jobs and go everywhere on yer own.” Bridget laughed briefly. “I might have met Eveline Townsend a time or two. She wasn’t a Lady Muck, stickin’ her nose in the air like the rest of the family. Ah, but they’re all gone now, except for her.”

  “What about her great-nephew, Harry?”

  “Now, there’s a lad. A wild one, he was, when he was younger. And now he’s off to Dublin for work.”

  “He’s back in town now, because of the murder.”

  “Poor Seamus Daly. He was a good boy. Mebbe a bit touched, but no trouble to anyone. I knew his mother, years ago. When she died, the O’Briens looked after him. It’s a shame.”

  “It is.” Maura sliced some of the still-warm, crumbly soda bread and placed slices on each plate. “Will you join me?”

  “Is there tea made?”

  “There is.”

  They enjoyed their simple breakfast, then Maura checked her watch. “I hate to rush you, but I said I’d meet Gillian Callanan at the old creamery before I open at Sullivan’s. Do you know her?”

  “She’d be the artist over the hill? I can’t say I’ve seen much of her since she was a child, and a lovely thing she was. Sure and her family’s from up near Reavouler, not far. She’s stayin’ in the old creamery?”

  “That’s what she tells me. I thought it was abandoned.”

  “Time was, all the farmers here delivered their milk to that place, by horse cart. Now it’s all big trucks over to the new place in Drinagh.”

  “I’ve driven past that one. It’s a big business.”

  “That it is. It’s good they’ve done well. People do still want their milk and butter, don’t they?” Bridget stood up carefully. “I’ll be on my way, then. Mick said he’d stop by later in the day. Slán agat.”

  “Slán abhaile.” Maura smiled. Bridget kept trying to teach her a few phrases in Irish, even though languages had always been hard for Maura in school. It felt a little funny to be wishing her “safe home” when home was only a couple of hundred feet away. Still, she admired Bridget for holding on to her home—and her independence, despite Mick’s gentle pressure on her to move in with his sister.

  Maura glanced again at her watch and speeded up her pace, wrapping up the bread and collecting the breakfast dishes, dumping them beside the sink. She could worry about washing them later. She had to get going to Gillian’s place. She’d never met a real artist before, and she was curious about the woman.

  She collected her bag, keys, and a sweatshirt to wrap around her shoulders—it was still cool in the morning, before the sun reached the old stone house—and set off. The lane that ran along the south side of Bridget’s property led to the Ballinlough road and brought her quickly to the former creamery, next to the small lake that had given the road its name. She knew that “lough” meant lake, much like the more familiar Scottish “loch,” but she wasn’t sure about the “Ballin” part—person or thing? She’d have to ask Bridget. She could already see a few fishermen in rowboats out on the water. She pulled off the road in front of the creamery, which had once been painted an unlikely shade of bright blue, now faded. As Gillian had said, one end, where the milk had probably been delivered years ago, was falling apart, leaving the interior visible and cluttered with large pieces of unfamiliar rusty machinery, the big doors hanging precariously, windowpanes broken. But around to the left, there was a people-sized door, in front of which sat a couple of chairs and a parked car. Maura headed for that door.

  The brightly painted door—a sunny yellow—was open, and Maura could hear music inside. She knocked on the doorjamb and called out, “Hello?” A
voice inside called out, “Coming!” and thirty seconds later Gillian appeared, wiping her hands on a dirty and colorful rag and bringing with her a strong smell of turpentine. She gave her hands one last scrub and extended one to Maura.

  “Come in, come in.” Gillian stood back to let Maura enter. “Can I offer yeh a cup of tea?”

  “Sure.” Everywhere she went, Maura found people offering her tea, and it always seemed rude to say no. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

  “Come on through. No, I was just finishing something up, and I’m ready for a cup myself.” She led Maura toward the back of the building.

  The smell of turpentine grew stronger. They stepped into a single large room than ran parallel to the road and the shoreline.

  “Wow! I can see why you like it,” Maura said. The space had been cleared of whatever milk-processing equipment had been there, leaving a single open space with a patchy concrete floor. At the back a bank of large windows opened onto the lough. The light that flooded the space was clean and bright, with a bit of a sparkle from the reflections off the water.

  Gillian was watching her with a smile. “Grand, isn’t it? As you’ll see, no one could live here in winter—it’s impossible to heat. But I like to spend summers here. Mostly I camp out. I’ve an old mattress in the corner there, behind a screen, and an electric kettle for tea. I don’t do much cooking, and if I want a real meal I go to Skibbereen.”

  “Do you own this place?”

  “The owner’s a friend who has no use for it, but he keeps the power and water on and I pay for it when I’m here. It works just fine for me. Let me see to that tea.”

  While Gillian filled the kettle then rinsed out some cups, Maura wandered around the room. At one windowless end, Gillian had hung a variety of unframed canvases as well as some watercolors. The latter were clearly more commercial, with views of hillsides and sheep, or what she recognized as the harbor at Leap, but painted with a quick, sure hand—Maura could easily see tourists wanting one. The oils were more intense in color and more abstract, but still compelling. Together they made the echoing space come alive.