“Oh, shoot, you’re right. I’ll text him.” Althea tapped on her screen for a bit, then keyed in some text. “There, done. I said I needed to check something about Dorothy’s painting ASAP, but I didn’t say why. I know Nate lives on his smartphone, so it shouldn’t be long. I can ask if we can get together or something and see what he says—he doesn’t know I’m here.” She stood up. “I’m going to hit the ladies’,” she said and walked off toward the other end of the room.
“So, what do you think of Althea, now that you’ve spent some time with her?” Maura asked Gillian when they were alone. “Is she being straight with us?”
“You know, I think she is. She’s pushy, but I think part of that is the New York style. Does she know what she’s talking about when it comes to the art? I believe she does. I’m no expert in her area of specialization, but I know a fair amount from art school, and I know a bit about galleries and museums. She talks the talk well enough to convince me she’s legit.”
“So she’s not an international art thief?” Maura smiled, then answered her own question. “If she was, she’d be more quiet about it, wouldn’t she?”
Gillian smiled. “You mean she wouldn’t tell the whole pub, and for all I know the whole hotel in Skibbereen, all about her business? I’d agree with that. Subtle is not her strong suit.”
“You’ve got that right.”
Althea came back in and dropped back into her seat. “Now what?”
Maura scanned the room—she was supposed to be running the pub, not looking for lost paintings. Rose waved as she left for the day; Mick and Jimmy seemed to have things in hand. Maura turned her attention back to the conversation with Althea and Gillian.
“Tell me more about how this all works,” Gillian said. “Say your friend Nate finds the painting here at Mycroft House. Can he make an offer to Harry or whoever the official owner is to sell it through his auction house? Does he have that authority? And who makes the money?”
“There are a couple of different ways this works, depending on the house. He could be on salary or working on commission. He works for Goodham’s, in New Jersey—do you know it?” Althea asked. Gillian shook her head. “They’re relatively small and eager. I don’t know the details about their sales policies, but if Nate is really here in Ireland, which we don’t know for sure, and he’s hot for this painting, then I’d bet he’s working on a commission basis. Which would be a nice piece of change for him, even for the sketch. For the pair of paintings, it could be huge.”
“Why would Nate get first shot at it?” Gillian asked. “I mean, there are much bigger auction houses out there—even Harry knows that.”
“Sure, but they’d also take a bigger cut. Look, this would be a real boost for a small place like Goodham’s, and for all I know they’d waive their fees just to get the publicity. So Harry might make more on it by going with the smaller place. I’m just guessing here, but it’s a possibility.”
“In that case, why would Harry or Eveline lend the painting to you, Althea, if they could get cash in hand much more quickly by going with Nate’s auction?”
“Because if it goes into the exhibit the publicity would attract more buyers and drive up the auction price. Everybody wins. But I have to get in first, before Nate makes his pitch.”
“Althea, I know this may not come naturally to you, but why couldn’t you and Nate simply work together?” Gillian asked with a smile.
“Because if I find it first,” Althea shot back quickly, “I have some leverage. I’d be happy to let Nate and Goodham’s sell it—after I get what I want, which is the recognition for finding it. I want to save my job at the museum, because if I can’t pull off this discovery thing, I’m out on my ear when the grant money runs out. And even if I get dumped regardless, at least the local arts community will know my name, which will help if I have to find another job. Seriously, I love what I do. Of course money would be nice, but it’s not the most important thing.”
Gillian gave her a searching look before saying, “Althea, I don’t know if you’re being straight with us, but I’ll confess, I’m curious—I’d like to know if this painting really exists.”
A muffled tone sounded from Althea’s pocket. She pulled out her phone. “It’s Nate,” she said. “That was fast.”
“And?” Gillian asked.
Althea was still looking at the tiny screen. “He says he’s at the auction and can’t chat now. He hasn’t talked to Dorothy lately but he plans to see her next week. What do I tell him?”
“Do you believe him?” Gillian asked. “On either count?”
“You mean if he’s in New Jersey and if he’s planning to see Dorothy?”
“Yes.”
“What difference does it make? Right now I can’t prove he’s not there.”
“Then tell him you’d like to be there when they talk,” Maura suggested. “That way he might think you’re still in the States.”
“Good, right.” Althea keyed in a response, then hit send. She got a reply almost immediately. “Done. He agreed that I could tag along. How very friendly of him—ha!”
“So now we go back to worrying about what’s going on here,” Gillian said. “What are you going to do?”
“Find that damn painting,” Althea replied.
Chapter 11
Maura checked the crowd again: definitely growing. “I’ve got to get back to work, ladies. Let me know when you’ve figured out what you want to do.”
Gillian turned to Althea and held her gaze. “I’ll talk to Harry and lay out what we think. He can probably get me—and Maura, if she likes—into the house.” As Althea started to object, Gillian went on. “Eveline likes me, Althea, but I doubt she thinks kindly of you right now, after your last encounter, and we need her goodwill. Eveline’s moral standards are those of another age, so if you’re a guest in her home, she’d be polite to your face. You know and I know that you and Harry are willing adults, but throwing your . . . recreational activities in Eveline’s face, even by accident, was not a smart move.”
“I’m sorry!” Althea protested. “Harry didn’t warn me—we were kind of caught up in the moment. It’s not like I planned for her to see me like that. What planet are we on, anyway? This is the twenty-first century!”
“This is still Ireland, and Eveline is north of eighty,” Gillian said sternly. “It’s her house, so you play by her rules.”
Maura stood up. “Okay. Gillian, you talk to Harry and see what you can set up, and let me know. I’ve got to get to handle the bar.”
“What am I supposed to do?” Althea pouted.
“Go sightseeing, go fishing, go shopping. Just stay away from Mycroft House, all right?”
“Yeah, right.” Althea didn’t looked satisfied, but she stood up and stalked out of the pub.
“You’re welcome, Althea,” Maura called out to her retreating back. “Sorry, Gillian, but I’ve still got a pub to run. Let me know what Harry says, will you?”
“I will. Go on, then,” Gillian replied.
Back behind the bar, Maura told herself that Althea and her mystery painting really weren’t her problem, except where they involved the police. Specifically, Sean Murphy. Who had found the body, or at least been first on the scene, and who, given the small number of Skibbereen gardaí, was going to be in the thick of the murder investigation. Who had just asked her out on a date. Which meant what? She didn’t know.
She’d never had a serious long-term relationship with a guy. Back in Boston, she’d convinced herself that she didn’t have time, but the truth of it was that nobody had interested her. Most of the guys she’d met there seemed immature, and most of them had wanted nothing more than to get into her pants, and she didn’t want that, not from some townie jerk who probably couldn’t spell her name right. Sean seemed nice, but she didn’t want to lead him on. At the same time, she didn’t want to disappoint him. She had too much to sort out, what with the pub and the house, and she’d be willing to bet that after having dinner with Se
an in a public place, half the people who came into Sullivan’s the next day would ask if they’d had a nice time, and how was the food? If you messed up with someone around here, it was hard to avoid that person, which meant you had to tread really carefully.
“Hey, Maura—two pints waiting for those guys in the front.” Mick’s voice broke into her thoughts.
“Right, got it.” For the next hour, Maura worked steadily. The pub was packed wall to wall. Maura saw Gillian fight her way to the bar where she was pulling pints, one after another. Gillian shouted something at her, and Maura yelled back, “Can’t hear you!”
Gillian cupped her hand around her mouth. “Tea with Eveline, three, tomorrow, at Mycroft House. I’ll meet you here.”
Maura yelled, “Great! Thanks.”
“What’s that about?” Mick asked, when there was a brief lull.
“Gillian’s arranged with Harry to show us around Mycroft House so we can look for Althea’s painting. I’ll be off for an hour or two tomorrow afternoon.”
“Hobnobbing with the upper classes, are we, now?” Jimmy said. He’d come up behind her when she wasn’t looking. “Tea and crumpets? Think they’ll bring out the good silver for the likes of you? Oh, that’s right—they pawned it a while back to fix the roof.”
Maura was surprised at the edge in his tone. “Jimmy, what’s your problem? I’ll have a chance to see the house tomorrow, and that’s it. I don’t expect to make Eveline Townsend my BFF. What are you, a reverse snob?”
Jimmy sniffed. “That Harry—he’s been known to skip out on paying his bill now and again. Thinks he still owns the village, like back in the old days.” Jimmy picked up a couple of pints and left to deliver them.
Maura turned to Mick. “What was that about?”
“Don’t mind Jimmy—he’s jealous of Harry. Harry seems to have it all and gets away with a lot. So you’re going calling, are you?”
“I am. Shoot, I’d better wear my good pants—oops, you call them trousers here, right? Has Eveline ever even seen blue jeans?”
“On Seamus, of course.”
“Oh, right. He’d work in them, in the garden. Well, if that blasted painting is really in Mycroft House, we might be one step closer to figuring out why he’s dead.”
“I’m sure Sean Murphy will be pleased.”
Maura gave Mick a sharp look, but he’d turned away to talk to a customer, and she didn’t feel like pushing it.
• • •
The next day was moderately busy but provided no excuse for Maura to back out of her appointment for tea. Not that she wanted to. She was curious. Not many ordinary tourists had the chance to visit one of the big houses, even a crumbling one, in a social way. She didn’t assume Eveline Townsend would warm to her; in fact, she wasn’t even sure that Eveline would talk directly to her, not if Gran had worked for her family, years back. Would Eveline even remember? But as she’d said to Jimmy, she didn’t expect Eveline to become a friend; Maura wanted to be no more than another pair of eyes, and that would be the end of it.
Harry pulled up outside Sullivan’s with a flourish, in an aged but well-maintained Mercedes convertible—a relic of earlier, wealthier days?—and Gillian waved from the passenger seat. Maura told Rose, “I’m off. If I’m not back by sundown, drag the harbor for my body.”
Rose looked bewildered. “What?”
“I’m having tea with the Townsends. I shouldn’t be more than a couple of hours, okay?”
“Got it. Have fun, and mind your manners. And tell me all about it when you get back!”
“Will do.” Outside, Maura climbed into the small backseat of Harry’s sporty two-door car. “Hi, Gillian, Harry. Thanks for letting me tag along. I’ll keep my mouth shut.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” Gillian said promptly. “Eveline is a very nice woman, and she’ll be quite polite to you. Right, Harry?”
Harry concentrated for a moment on making a sweeping U-turn and heading back toward Skibbereen. “I’d guess Aunt Evie will be so glad to see a friendly new face that she won’t care who you are.”
At least as long as that friendly new face isn’t in her skivvies in Harry’s bedroom, Maura thought, but aloud said only, “Do we have a strategy?”
“I wouldn’t bring up the painting per se,” Gillian answered. “I haven’t seen much of the building, and you haven’t seen any of it, Maura. We’ll just ask for Eveline’s permission to let Harry show us the rest of the place. I think it’s better than sneaking around and possibly startling her coming around a corner, which has been known to happen.” Gillian glanced toward Harry, a slight smile on her face.
Harry ignored her jibe. “So, if the painting is there, when is it meant to have been painted again?” he asked. “I’m wondering which illustrious ancestor of mine it could be.”
“Around 1640, maybe. Who would that make it?”
“Given the era, I’d guess probably Colonel Richard Townsend, the founder of the family, or possibly one of his sons. Aunt Evie would be able to tell you—she’s the family historian, although I’m not sure how much of that she remembers now. If I recall, he was part of the court of Charles the First, in England, and he was lucky enough to grab quite a big chunk of land in Ireland. He built this house, or at least part of it. He married well and had several sons, and they outgrew this place, so he moved the family seat to Kilkenny. One of his younger sons inherited Mycroft House, and we’ve been here ever since.”
He pulled off to the left and followed a long driveway that paralleled the harbor; Maura, bouncing around in the backseat, guessed it was long overdue for paving, or at least another load of gravel. The driveway was flanked by old trees that hung over the single lane—they looked as though they could use some pruning, but Maura guessed that not too many vehicles passed this way.
“Look there, ahead, Maura,” Gillian said.
Maura leaned forward for her first glimpse of Mycroft House. She was surprised: in her mind she’d expected something far grander. At the end of the drive, the house sat on a rise and faced the gardens and the water. The white stucco-clad building with a slate roof consisted of a central part flanked by two symmetrical smaller wings, and the whole appeared to continue toward the back. The ground-floor windows extended nearly to the ground and had to be six feet high; the front door was sheltered by a covered portico. The lawns between the house and the water were punctuated with strips of formal garden, including a wealth of rosebushes, many blooming. Seamus’s work, no doubt, and their lushness was a tribute to him. Who would take over now? Maura wondered.
Theirs was the only car in sight. Maybe there were garages or stables out back, out of sight; surely the O’Briens must have some way of getting around. They could walk into Leap but not to Union Hall.
Harry pulled up in front of the door and parked. Gillian climbed out without waiting for help, then turned and offered Maura a hand to extricate her from the backseat. Harry paused in the doorway, looking for all the world as though he was posing for a society portrait. All he needed was a pipe and a dog, or maybe a waiting horse, to be the picture of the perfect Irish country gentleman.
Harry waved theatrically at the facade. “Welcome to Mycroft House, Maura. What do you think?”
Maura nearly laughed. She felt like she’d wandered into some novel, or maybe an old movie. “Oh, my, sir, it looks real grand, it surely does.” She faked a curtsy.
Gillian elbowed her in the ribs. “Maura, be nice. It really isn’t his fault that he owns a manor house.”
“And if I could get rid of it, I would, believe me,” Harry said, although he was smiling. “Are you lovely ladies ready to go in to tea?”
“Sure,” Maura replied cheerfully, “and I promise not to steal the spoons.”
As Harry opened the massive front door and ushered them into the broad central hall, Maura tried not to gawp. Her first impression was how big everything was—the entire apartment she had grown up in could fit in the entrance hall. High ceilings, a checkerboard marble f
loor, and a bunch of paintings in heavy gold frames were all she could take in quickly. The only time in her life she could recall being inside a building this big was probably some field trip to a museum when she was a kid. “You said your family has lived here for centuries. Is that true?”
Harry responded modestly, “Well, the land’s been in the family for quite a while, and, as you can guess, a lot of the ancestors took a whack at building, not always successfully. If you go down to the basement, there are actually some medieval walls from some earlier building, probably a monastery, but most of the shell is early eighteenth century, with a few later additions. My grandfather peeled off some of the worst of the Victorian efforts—although probably even those would be considered gems now. Tastes do keep changing.”
“Did you grow up here?” Maura asked, with real curiosity.
“Mostly, when I wasn’t off at school. I’m an only child—the last of my line—but there were always a lot of cousins visiting, so it was a lively place. We used to have a lovely time sliding on the hall floor here, in our socks.”
Maura looked across the vast expanse of polished marble and tried to imagine a tribe of young boys and girls scooting around. The idea made her smile.
“Ready for tea?” Harry asked.
“Yes, Harry,” Gillian said. “Let’s get this started, if you please.”
Maura hung back, feeling shy. What was she doing here? Billy had told her that Gran was a servant here, a long time back. Now she was coming through the front door—as a guest? Would she be welcome?
Harry led them through a series of increasingly smaller corridors, finally arriving at the back of the house and outside. There were more gardens here, though less formal and smaller, bordered by the thick stand of trees that hid the house from the road that Maura knew led to the village of Union Hall. Harry guided them through a gate into a small walled garden, filled with lushly blooming flowers that Maura couldn’t begin to identify. More of Seamus’s work, no doubt. The household was really going to miss him.
Scandal in Skibbereen (A County Cork Mystery) Page 10
