“But Harry was in Dublin that night!” Maura protested.
“Was he? He said he didn’t come down till the garda told him about the death, but we’ve talked to his mates there, and they’re having a bit of trouble remembering which night was which. Let’s say it’s not a hundred percent sure. And don’t spread this around.”
“You mean, don’t tell Gillian? If you say not to, I won’t. We’ve got some things to tell you—and Harry’s on his way too—but there’s nothing there that we can’t say in front of everyone. You can figure out how much of it you want to take to your meeting at the station.”
Sean looked past her, up the street. “Townsend,” he said neutrally.
Harry Townsend was striding purposefully toward the pub. “Officer . . . Murphy, is it? Gillian inside?” The last was directed toward Maura.
“She is. So’s Althea.” Maura watched with pleasure as he flinched, although he tried to hide it.
“The two of them? Together?”
“Yup. Let’s go on in.” Maura led Harry and Sean into the pub, and they spent a minute collecting extra chairs. Harry smiled briefly at Gillian and exchanged curt hellos with Althea, but apart from that he wisely kept his mouth shut. Well, Maura reflected to herself, you made your own bed . . .
When everyone was settled, and had waited until Rose delivered drinks, with a wink for Maura, Maura said, “Sean, Harry, we’ve found some interesting stuff that might have something to do with what’s going on at the manor. Harry, you may know some of this, or maybe not. I’m sure you can fill in some of the blanks, anyway. Gillian, you want to start?”
“Sean,” Gillian began, “we should start by telling you that we’ve found the Van Dyck painting that Althea came here looking for.”
“On Sunday,” Sean said, pulling out a notebook and flipping to a page. “Maura told me Monday night. Then I was called away when a gunshot was heard at the manor.”
Gillian straightened up in her chair. “Well, then, to move on . . . After we found the painting, Althea told us that we should look for some proof that it really was a Van Dyck. We agreed to do that, and Harry and I looked through the estate records at the manor for anything that might show the purchase of the original painting. We finished up yesterday but found nothing. I came over here to cry on Maura’s shoulder. And I guess Old Billy—”
Sean interrupted. “That would be Billy Sheahan?”
“Yes. I’m sure Althea told you that what brought her here to Ireland was the smaller painting found in New Jersey. We knew that the painting had belonged to a woman named Jane Deasy, and Billy overheard and suggested we should talk to Bridget Nolan.”
“Mick’s gran?” Sean said, scribbling quickly.
“Bang on. So Maura took us over to see Bridget this morning, and Bridget said that we should talk with Jane Deasy’s sister, who’s a nun with the Brigidine Sisters over at Ballybeanrialta.”
Sean was beginning to look confused, and Maura didn’t blame him. What had begun with the murder of a gardener had somehow led to a nunnery.
“And . . .” Gillian paused a moment for dramatic effect. “Sister Benedicta told us that when Jane emigrated to America back in the 1940s, she was pregnant with Richard Townsend’s child.”
Now Harry looked shocked. “Wait—Richard? Aunt Evie’s brother? The one who died in the war?”
“The same,” Gillian said triumphantly. Althea sat quietly, looking smug.
Harry’s brow furrowed with his effort to understand. “Let me get this straight. Say Van Dyck painted that big portrait of the first Richard Townsend that’s hanging in the library. And say we accept that he also painted the little one that made its way to America. How did Jane get it? Did Great-uncle Richard give it to Jane? Or did she steal it and run?”
“Apparently the first one.” Althea finally spoke. “According to Jane’s sister the sister, Richard had no money of his own, but he thought that Jane could sell the sketch to support herself and the child. But it seems Jane couldn’t bear to part with it—she kept the painting but gave the baby, a boy, to her older sister to pass off as her own. The woman who brought the painting to the auctioneer’s open house is his daughter, and therefore Jane’s granddaughter.”
“Can you prove any of this?” Sean asked.
“Not yet, but it fits, doesn’t it?” Althea retorted. “We know Jane worked at the manor and was pregnant when she left, and we know the painting was among her things when she died. We just have to connect the dots.”
“And how does that lead us to the murder of Seamus Daly?” Sean asked.
Maura cheered silently for Sean: he’d managed to follow their patchy logic and now he’d asked the right question.
Althea’s face fell. “We don’t know. We know the big painting is worth a lot, and so’s the little one—more if we connect the two. But we can’t prove who owns the little one—all we’ve got is Sister Benedicta’s story that Richard gave it to Jane. She couldn’t have sold it anyway, not legally, without any papers. Harry, would your great-uncle Richard have given her some proof of ownership?”
Harry stared incredulously at Althea. “How should I know? He died long before I was born, and nobody in the family ever mentioned it. Hell, nobody talked about the art at all—mostly they went on about hunting and how to pay the second mortgage or which piece of land to sell off next. If the sketch was stolen, maybe somebody in the family reported it to the gardaí. Sean, would you be able to find out?”
Sean scribbled yet another note. “If there’s a record.”
“Harry, if the family didn’t want all the shameful details to come out, they might have done nothing,” Gillian said.
“Good point,” Harry admitted. “Don’t dirty the family name and all that.”
“Harry, would your aunt Eveline know something?” Maura asked before Althea could.
“We’ve never been close enough to talk about things like that, what with the difference in our ages and my not being around much. I think I remember that someone said she was close to Richard, amongst all her family members, even though she was a few years younger than he was. You know, dashing big brother in uniform and all that. I’ve never been one to stir up old trouble with her. Besides, she’s a sweetheart, but she does seem a bit out of it these days and tends to ramble on. Of course, I’m away a lot, always trying to pay that blasted mortgage—that’s why I’m so grateful to the O’Briens for keeping an eye on her.”
“Harry,” Gillian said, “her mind’s still fairly sharp. I know she tires easily, and her arthritis makes it hard for her to get around. But it’s hardly fair to her to shut her up in that big old house, with only the O’Briens to talk to.”
“She likes to garden, when she feels up to it,” Harry volunteered. “She’d take a chair out back and supervise Seamus.”
“How well did she know Seamus Daly, then?” Sean asked.
“She knew him as a servant,” Harry said. “I don’t mean to be crass, but she was of a generation that treated their hired help differently than we would. Well, except maybe Great-uncle Richard, it seems. I wouldn’t say they were close.”
Maura had been mulling over what Gillian had said, and realized that she—and Sean?—might have been assuming things about Eveline and her state of mind that weren’t true. “Harry,” she said, breaking in, “what’s if she’s not half as fuzzy minded as you seem to think? Would that change the picture here?”
Sean shot a glance at her, then leafed through his notes. “When I first spoke with the O’Briens, they told me that Eveline Townsend wouldn’t be of much use if I asked her to account for events at the house . . .” Sean looked up, his jaw set. “Perhaps I was a bit too quick to accept what I was told.”
“Surely you’re not insinuating that my elderly great-aunt had anything to do with Seamus’s death!” Harry protested.
“She could have seen or heard something that could apply,” Sean responded firmly. “I’d like to speak with her.”
“She did seem sharp en
ough when we had tea with her,” Maura said. “Maybe that took a lot of effort, or she stuck to what she was comfortable with, but she seemed to be all there. And if we’re looking to understand how Jane and the two paintings fit with Seamus’s death, and if her mind’s stuck in the past, she might remember what happened with Jane better than what happened last week.”
“Good point, Maura,” Gillian said. “Harry, I didn’t think she’s gone downhill much since the last time I saw her—what, last year? Maybe the O’Briens are keeping her packed away in cotton wool to make things easier for themselves. They don’t have to take her anywhere, and they don’t have to worry about entertaining guests, that kind of thing.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Harry said impatiently. “The parts of the house she spends time in are spotless; she’s well fed; she’s clean; she’s healthy, or as healthy as anyone of her age can be. Do you know how hard it is these days to find that kind of help?”
“I didn’t say the O’Briens were taking advantage of her, but how often does she see anyone else? Surely the woman’s lonely.” Gillian pressed on, “You just said ‘the parts of the house she spends time in’—obviously there are parts of the manor where she never goes, like the library where the painting is.”
“Are you accusing me of neglect, Gillian?” Harry demanded. “Or of letting the O’Briens keep her locked away for their own convenience? They’re decent people. They’ve been working in that house for years.”
“And how many raises have they had in that time?” Maura shot back. “Maybe they’re putting together a retirement fund—did you ever think of that?”
“What for all that’s holy would they do with a million-dollar painting?” Harry all but yelled at her.
“You can sell anything on the Internet, or so I hear,” Maura replied, raising her voice to match his.
Harry stared at her for a moment, then broke out laughing. “Can you imagine either of the O’Briens using the Internet?”
Gillian smiled, then said, “Is there even a computer in the house, Harry?”
“Not that I know about,” he replied.
“What if it was Seamus who was hunting for the painting?” Before anyone could protest, Gillian added, “No, I’m not pretending that Seamus knew anything about old art, but he could have been persuaded to look by someone else. After all, Seamus had the access, didn’t he?”
“But how would he have known what he was looking for?” Harry asked. “He was a nice fellow, but we all know he was a few sandwiches short of a picnic.”
“Maybe someone showed him a photo of something similar,” Gillian countered. “You know, like the one we had.”
Everyone turned to look at Althea, who held up her hands. “Hey, not me. I wasn’t going to go spreading any photos around until I knew I had the right place. And I never even met Seamus, remember?”
“You arrived in Leap before his death, and you went to the manor,” Sean reminded her.
“But why would I kill him if he hadn’t finished his job and found the picture?” Althea protested. “It had to be someone else. It’s your job to find him.”
“What about whoever Tom O’Brien shot at on Monday night?” Maura asked. “If Tom wasn’t shooting at a dog or a fox, and he says it wasn’t.”
Sean turned to look at her. “You’ve spoken with him?”
“He came into the pub yesterday, so I asked him about it. He said it was definitely a man, not a dog.”
Sean wasn’t happy about this last revelation. “Look, you lot, I’m getting a bit put out that you keep giving me bits of information when you think you’re ready. Let’s be straight about it: Is any one of you suggesting that Eveline Townsend killed Seamus Daly? Or has knowledge of his death?”
His question was met with silence, even from Harry, who looked bewildered at the turn of the conversation.
“What about the O’Briens?” Sean demanded. “Does any of you have reason to believe that they know something they haven’t said?” He glanced quickly at Maura, but she had nothing to add.
More silence.
Sean continued, “Maura here has told me that no one had visited the library at the manor or the painting until you three this past week. Is that correct?”
When Gillian and Harry turned to Maura, she said, “I told him about the dust.”
Sean ignored Maura’s interruption. “Does any of you have reason to believe that Eveline Townsend knows anything about that painting?”
“I couldn’t say,” Harry said. “I haven’t discussed it with her. She may think it’s just another old canvas hanging on the wall, if she thinks of it at all. I mean, for her it’s just part of the decor, as it always has been.”
“But, Harry, she may know something about the sketch that’s now in New York, right?” Maura said. “Shouldn’t we find out? Ask her?”
Sean Murphy shut his notebook with a crisp snap. “I’m sorry, Maura, but I still can’t see my way to connecting this old painting and the death of Seamus Daly. I thank you for the information you’ve provided, but I need to get back to the station now. I’ll have to remind the superintendent that no one has spoken directly to Eveline Townsend and that it is my opinion that someone should, officially.”
“Sean, would you get into any trouble if we went ahead and talked to Eveline about the paintings?” Maura asked.
“Only if she turns out to be a murderer,” he said, and Maura wasn’t sure if he was joking. “I’ll see myself out.”
“Who’s ‘we’?” Althea demanded when he was gone.
“You want to talk to Eveline with the rest of us?” Harry asked, looking pained.
“If I promise to be nice? If I apologize six ways from Sunday for embarrassing her and making a fool of myself? Please?” Althea pleaded. “Look, either she knows about the painting or she doesn’t, and so far nobody’s asked her. Right?”
“I guess that’s true,” Gillian said.
“And you can ask about the painting without asking about Seamus’s death, right? So we’re not messing with the police investigation.”
“I’m less sure of that,” Harry said, looking troubled. “We have no proof that the two are connected, but the reality of it is, Mycroft House was a very peaceful place until you came poking your nose in last week, Althea.”
Chapter 23
Rose cleared the empty coffee cups from the table, leaving Maura, Althea, Gillian, and Harry sitting there in a funk. Customers were beginning to drift into the pub, Maura noted. Soon she’d have to get back to work. “What now?” she asked.
Harry shook his head. “I’m still trying to make sense of all this. Seamus Daly is dead, and nobody knows why. It may or may not have something to do with a painting that could be worth millions that’s been hanging in the library for three hundred years collecting dust. And you three seem to think Aunt Eveline might know something that would help sort all this out.”
“That’s about it,” Althea said. Her mood seemed to have improved. “Can we go talk to her now?”
“No,” Harry said firmly. “Not now. I want to think this through. I want to have a word first with the O’Briens and with Aunt Evie. You can talk with her in the morning.” Harry looked straight at Althea. “Don’t nag. You’ll get your chance, but not yet.”
“How much will you tell her?” Gillian asked.
Harry turned to Gillian. “I haven’t decided. I’ve come to realize that I’m not sure myself what her mental state is. You may be right to think that seeing more people would be a good thing for her. Maybe I’ve just taken the easiest path, leaving her to the O’Briens’ care, but that may not be what’s best for her. Thank you.”
“For what?” Gillian asked, surprised.
“For making me see it. I could have been around more, but I do have a job to keep. God knows, if this painting is worth what you say it is, it would make a world of difference, but I’m not counting the euros just yet.”
“What about the little painting that started all this?” asked Maura. “
If it was stolen in the forties, are you going to want it back? It’s going to be worth something too.”
Harry was shaking his head. “I don’t know. The woman who has it now, she did nothing wrong, if Jane’s sister is to be believed—and would a nun lie? But the woman in America doesn’t know any of this—what we’ve found out—does she, Althea? What do you think her expectations are?”
Althea shook her head. “As of this minute, Dorothy has no expectations of anything. Nate and I were both careful not to commit to anything, and she was so boggled by what she was hearing that I doubt she took in much of it anyway. I certainly never told her that I was going to Ireland. I don’t know what Nate told her. But you do realize, if what Sister Benedicta said is true, that makes Dorothy a cousin of some sort to you, Harry, so it’s still in the family.”
Harry stood up abruptly. “I’ve got to get out of here—I’m going home. I’ll speak to Aunt Evie and if she’s willing, we can all meet with her in the morning—say, ten? Does that suit all of you?”
Althea looked frustrated at yet more delays. Gillian said, “Call my mobile and let us know.”
“You want me there?” Maura asked.
“Of course we do,” Gillian said before Harry could respond. “You know as much about all this as any of us.”
“In the morning, then.” And Harry turned and left. Gillian watched him go, and once again Maura wondered just what their relationship was—or what Gillian wanted it to be.
“Shall we meet here, Maura?” Gillian said. “Althea, I can pick you up, or you can meet us here and we’ll go together.”
“Still want to keep an eye on me, huh?” Althea said. “I’ll meet you here, just before ten o’clock.” She stood up quickly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
After Althea left, Maura turned to Gillian. “Where do you think she’s going?”
Gillian sighed. “Who knows? Chasing after Harry? Meeting with her accomplice to get their stories straight? Looking for thugs to help her steal the painting tonight? Or maybe she’s just going to go stew at her hotel.”
Scandal in Skibbereen (A County Cork Mystery) Page 20
