Death in D Minor

by Alexia Gordon

  The solicitor’s bird-like secretary flitted among the crowd and fretted about the size of the conference room and the number of available chairs. Another assistant, a man in his mid-twenties with stringy hair and bad skin, trotted in the opposite direction, making notes. The solicitor, an intense woman with close-cropped hair, steel gray eyes, and a take-no-prisoners suit, held a hushed conference with the parish priest (who Gethsemane overheard confide to Olivia’s cook that he expected to be able to repair the steeple after the will had been read), then announced the meeting’s relocation to the church a few doors down.

  Once at the church, several people headed straight into the nave to claim pews down front. Others mingled in the narthex. Gethsemane convinced—begged—Jackson to go in without her and find seats. She stood to one side, partially hidden behind a statute of Saint Jude, and watched. Everyone gathered profited from Olivia’s death in some way. “Would any of them profit enough to kill her?” she asked aloud.

  “Put money on that one.” A whiff of Bay Rum accompanied Captain Lochlan’s voice. He materialized and pointed at Curtis Boyle. “A bacon-fed belly-gut if ever I laid eyes on one.”

  Gethsemane looked at the portly man, now sober, his brown hair styled in a comb-over that drew attention to its thinness. He’d caused a scene at the party, but she’d taken him more for a man of bluster than action. She couldn’t imagine him being involved in art forgery or theft. Or in anything to do with art unless the art featured poker-playing dogs painted on velvet. “You really think Curtis Boyle would push his aunt off a balcony?”

  “I saw his behavior the night of the party. Disgraceful. Any man who goes about in public in a drunken rage is a reprobate, capable of any sort of perfidy. And I’ve known men to do far worse than push a woman from a balcony for far less than Essex House.”

  “You’ve got a nerve, coming here after the trouble you’ve caused.”

  Gethsemane turned toward the angry voice and faced Maire, her cheeks flushed and eyes narrowed. Wisps of hair framed her head in a wiry halo that reminded Gethsemane of the sparks Eamon and the captain gave off during rages.

  Gethsemane stepped back. A buzz shot through her as she passed through Captain Lochlan’s chest. Maire held her ground and kept her eyes locked on Gethsemane. If she saw the ghost, she didn’t let on.

  “Trouble I’ve caused?” Gethsemane asked. “I haven’t done anything.”

  “You call lyin’ about being a musician to worm your way into Essex House not doin’ anything? The whole town knows your brother-in-law was caught stealing. What were you doing? Looking to add to his take? Did she catch you at it? Is that why you pushed her?”

  “I’ve never raised my hand to a woman,” Captain Lochlan said, “but in her case—”

  “Maire! That’s enough.” Ray came up behind her.

  Maire stared at her feet. “Sorry, Mr. Delaney.”

  “I know you were fond of Mrs. McCarthy-Boyle, we all were, but hurling careless accusations helps no one.”

  “It’s my grief talking, Mr. Delaney. ’Tis a terrible thing what happened. Mrs. M-B wasn’t always the easiest woman to work for—she knew how she wanted things done, and she weren’t afraid to say so—but she was a decent person. She didn’t deserve to—for someone to—” Maire’s voice caught.

  Ray laid a hand on her shoulder. “Be brave, girl. We don’t know for sure foul play occurred. Mrs. McCarthy-Boyle may have fallen off the balcony, a tragic accident. Nothing official’s been determined yet.”

  Maire glared at Gethsemane. “’Tweren’t no accident. Someone pushed her.” She shook Ray’s hand off and walked away. The solicitor’s pock-marked assistant tried to put an arm around her, but she brushed him off, too.

  “You’ll have to forgive her. She was one of Olivia’s favorites. She’s taking her death particularly hard.”

  “How’re you holding up?” Gethsemane asked. “You must have been close to your employer, being her personal assistant.”

  “I’m devastated, of course.” His hand disappeared into his pocket and reappeared with his cigar lighter. “But, unlike young Maire, I came up in an era when emotions were kept under wraps. Appearances mattered.” He flipped the lighter back and forth.

  “The famous British stiff upper lip.”

  Ray’s ears flushed bright red. He pursed his lips, then pulled out his pocket square and passed it over his face.

  “Sorry. I forgot where I was. My gram would rise from her grave to beat me shite-less if I spat in church. I’m Irish, not English. Named Raymond after Redmond O’Hanlon, fearless leader of the Rapparees.”

  “I meant no offense.”

  “You weren’t to know. The complexities of Anglo-Irish relations are probably as of much interest to you as American football is to me.”

  “Don’t tell anyone because they might not let me back in the States, but I can’t stand American football.”

  Ray refolded his pocket square, slipped it back into his breast pocket, and straightened his jacket. “Will you tell me something? Why did you crash the party? Surely you weren’t desperate to play songs about teddy bears while grown men and women sipped pink cocktails and nibbled animal crackers.”

  How close could she come to the truth without exposing Yseult’s investigation? Or herself? “I heard Ronan Leary would be at the party. I don’t trust him. He acted shifty at the auction. I thought he might have had something to do with planting that miniature in my brother-in-law’s coat pocket. The police were more interested in Jackson, so I decided to check out Leary myself. I thought—hoped—maybe I could catch him up to no good. I know I should have left it to the police, but…” She shrugged.

  “That’s the only reason? To spy on Leary?”

  “And I did want to see the Patience Freeman sampler. It’s kind of like the Mona Lisa of the antique textile world.” She shifted the discussion. “Do you know who inherits it? Who would have inherited it?” She nodded at Curtis. “The nephew, I suppose.”

  “That bollix? Olivia would no sooner have left such a rare and beautiful specimen to that gobshite than she’d have left dynamite to a baby. He’d have lost it to a bookie before the frame came down from the wall,” Ray said. “Olivia left the Freeman sampler to your brother-in-law.”

  “To Jackson? You’re sure?”

  “I know the will’s contents. Damned difficult to keep a secret in Ballytuam, let alone Essex House.”

  Gethsemane felt giddy. She swallowed a giggle. Olivia left Jackson the Patience Freeman sampler. If she’d left him the Holy Grail or the Shroud of Turin, he wouldn’t be more over the moon. Alarm replaced excitement. If Jackson inherited it, he’d have motive to kill. That’s what the police would think. That’s what anyone who’d ever read an Agatha Christie novel would think.

  Ray touched one elbow, Captain Lochlan the other. Electric shocks ran up that one. “Are you all right?” they asked simultaneously.

  She directed her reply to Ray. “I just don’t understand why she’d will something so valuable to a man she never met.”

  “Technically, she left it to his museum along with several other pieces in her collection. Dr. Applethwaite’s made quite a name for himself over the past decade. Olivia may not have known him, but she knew his reputation. She followed his career for the past four or five years and liked what he’d done with the museum. She believed he’d earn needlework the respect as an art form it deserved, and she hoped the Freeman sampler would be a catalyst. And, between you and me, she relished the thought of being remembered for such a generous legacy.”

  Which meant she couldn’t have known the Freeman sampler was a fake. She’d never risk giving a fake to a museum where it was sure to be examined for authentication and ruin her reputation when the fraud was discovered. But what about the Creech miniature? Would she sell a fake at auction to get rid of it before any museum curators had a chance to look too closely? And w
here did the Koors painting fit in?

  Eleven

  The church bell pealed. Ray looked at his watch. “We’re running late. Not like Cecily.”

  “Who?”

  “Cecily Dowling, Olivia’s solicitor.” He headed for the nave.

  The priest shepherded the remaining crowd in after him. Captain Lochlan followed Gethsemane.

  “You’re allowed in there?” she whispered.

  “I set foot inside once or twice while I lived. I’m no heathen. Well, not a complete one, anyway.”

  Gethsemane found Jackson and slipped into the pew next to him. She debated telling him about Olivia’s bequest to the museum but decided to let Ms. Dowling break the news. The captain perched on the altar. The frontal’s embroidered pattern shown through his legs. Gethsemane said a prayer and held her breath. No lightning bolts struck.

  Ms. Dowling moved to the pulpit once the crowd settled down. “Ladies and gentlemen, I apologize for the delay, and I thank you for your patience. I realize this is a trying time for many of you. Reading the deceased’s will before the funeral is an unusual occurrence, but the guards felt—” She broke off at a motion from her secretary. The little woman hopped up to the pulpit and whispered in her boss’s ear.

  “Are you sure?” the solicitor asked.

  The secretary nodded.

  The solicitor addressed the crowd, “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m sorry, but,” she looked at her secretary again, “there seems to have been some sort of mishap. Olivia McCarthy-Boyle’s will has gone missing.”

  Gethsemane stretched out on a pew in the rear of the narthex and watched Jackson pace. The police refused to let anyone leave and they’d waited an hour.

  “Sorry you gave up smoking?”

  “Right about now, for the first time in twelve years, yes.”

  Jackson stopped pacing and Gethsemane sat up as two police officers approached them. She groaned as she recognized Sergeant Heaney’s approach.

  The passage of time had done nothing to improve Heaney’s demeanor. “Why is it that every time something goes missing I turn ’round and find you in the midst of it?”

  “Luck? Skillful plotting?”

  “Make fun if you like but know that I’m handling this one. Yseult Grennan won’t be coming to your rescue.”

  “Is that tone necessary, Sergeant?” Jackson looked down on her. “My sister-in-law and I have waited patiently—”

  “Why is she even here?” Sergeant Heaney turned to Gethsemane. “Did you convince the deceased to leave you a party favor in her will before you pushed her over the rail?”

  Jackson protested. “Sergeant, really, that’s uncalled for. I’ll be reporting your behavior to your superiors. I’m the one named in Mrs. McCarthy-Boyle’s will. Sissy just came with me for…” He faltered.

  Gethsemane jumped in. She looked past the sergeant at the other officer. “I came because I had a hunch Sergeant Heaney would be here, and I wanted to make sure she got a chance to practice her people skills today.”

  The second garda unsuccessfully hid a grin behind her notebook and stepped forward. “Were you aware, Dr. Applethwaite, that Mrs. McCarthy-Boyle left several items in her collection, including the missing textile known as,” she checked her notebook, “the Patience Freeman sampler, to your museum?”

  “What?” Jackson sank into a pew. “She left—she—the Freeman sampler? To my museum? I had no idea. No idea.”

  “Mrs. McCarthy-Boyle’s solicitor,” the garda read her notes again, “Ms. Dowling, gave us the names of the will’s major beneficiaries. Your museum’s on the list.”

  “I don’t understand,” Jackson said. “I never met Mrs. McCarthy-Boyle. She’d never been to the museum. Why would she—”

  “That’s what we’re asking you.” Heaney snapped open her notebook and pushed past her colleague.

  “I can’t answer that, Sergeant.”

  “You could answer,” Captain Lochlan said to Gethsemane. She wished he had ribs to elbow.

  “And you can’t tell us anything about the will’s disappearance?”

  “Of course not. I didn’t know of the will’s existence until last night. And why would I steal the will if it benefitted me?”

  “So we wouldn’t think you had motive to do away with Mrs. McCarthy-Boyle. If we didn’t know you were a beneficiary, we’d be less likely to suspect you of involvement in her death.”

  “If you think I’d destroy that will and sacrifice the Patience Freeman sampler just to avoid prison,” Jackson said, “you know nothing about museum curators, Sergeant.”

  Both officers’ eyebrows shot up. Gethsemane cringed and waited to hear, “You’re under arrest.” She exhaled audibly when a commotion on the opposite side of the church distracted them.

  “I am Olivia’s rightful heir!” Her nephew, Curtis, pounded a pudgy fist on a pew. “I am her husband’s next of kin. If she’s died without a will, Essex House—”

  “There is a will, Mr. Boyle,” Ms. Dowling said. “It’s just been misplaced.”

  “Don’t you have a duplicate copy of the will, Cecily?” Ray asked.

  The solicitor reddened. “Er, that seems to have been misplaced as well.”

  “Stolen, you mean.” Maire shook her finger under Curtis’s nose. “Him’s the one that took it. He knew Mrs. M-B wouldn’t leave a Euro to his manky self so he stole the will. Probably burnt it up.”

  “Why, you little—” Curtis huffed out his chest. “You’re the hired help. How dare you accuse me? You may consider yourself unemployed when I claim what’s mine by rights.”

  “You won’t be claiming nothing but de social. There’s another copy of the will up at the house. I’ve seen it. Mrs. M-B always kept copies of important papers at the house.”

  “You’re right, Maire, she did.” Ray twirled his lighter. “There should be a copy of the will somewhere at Essex House.”

  Gethsemane leaned toward the pleasant garda. “Say the original will isn’t found and there are no copies. What’s at stake? Aside from the artworks?” No harm in planting the suggestion someone other than Jackson had motive to get rid of the will. And Olivia.

  “Essex House, of course. Quite a large sum of money. The distilleries, one here in Ballytuam and one over in Dunmullach. The land may be valuable, but the buildings aren’t worth shite. They’re both abandoned, derelict. The only spirits you’ll find in them now are the kind that go boo.”

  Captain Lochlan stood behind the sergeant and shouted “boo” in her ear. Gethsemane forced herself to look away from him.

  The officer continued. “I hear there’s some American developer been asking ’round about buying them. Maybe he can get them cheap.”

  Gethsemane and Jackson stepped out onto the church’s porch. They’d given their statements and avoided arrest. Jackson went down to the street to hail a taxi. Gethsemane leaned against one of the columns supporting the portico. Captain Lochlan leaned into an adjacent one.

  Gethsemane made sure no one could see her—who knew what Sergeant Heaney would do with reports of her talking to herself. Then she asked the captain, “What did you mean when you said you killed Patience Freeman?”

  A faint blue glow appeared around his edges. “I never said such a thing.”

  “You did. When we met, you said you were as responsible for Patience Freeman’s death as if you’d killed her with your own two hands.”

  The captain’s glow morphed into a despondent yellow. “I sailed into Jamestown and Yorktown on my regular route. While I waited to collect my full load of tobacco, I’d travel up to Williamsburg to attend to legal matters.”

  “Did you get sued a lot?” She meant it as a joke.

  The captain answered in a serious tone, “Planters were a contentious lot. I availed myself of what the town offered during my stays. I confess a weakness for Raleigh’s ginger cakes. T
he coffee at Charlton’s did me no harm, although I can’t say the same for Williamsburg’s many excellent taverns.” He stopped, lost in a two-hundred-fifty-year-old memory. A faint happy red edged the yellow in his aura.

  Gethsemane nudged him back to the present. “You didn’t meet Patience in a tavern.”

  “No, but I met her mother, Constance Freeman, in front of one. A discussion with another ship’s captain over the relative speeds of our vessels devolved into fisticuffs. The tavern’s proprietor threw me out bodily onto the street. I landed at Constance’s feet. Specifically, on her left foot. I tore my coat and she offered to repair it for me. She worked for one of the milliners.”

  “That’s how you met Patience? Through her mother?”

  “Aye.” The captain nodded. “Constance and I got to talking when I went to the shop to claim my coat. She had a sharp mind, a quick wit, and more sense than any man I knew. I visited her whenever I came up to Williamsburg. I bought more neckerchiefs and shoe buckles than any man had need of just to have an excuse to stop at the milliner’s shop.”

  “You grew fond of her,” Gethsemane said.

  “It’s not what you’re thinking, Miss Brown. I’d be a dishonest man if I denied Constance was a great beauty, but she was also a respectable woman. She was with Cicero.”

  “Cicero?” Gethsemane recalled Yseult mentioned Patience being the daughter of an enslaved silversmith. “Patience’s father?”

  “His owner hired him out to the silversmith. Cicero was a brilliant artist. The things he did with a silver ingot made angels weep. He lived in town with Constance and Patience.”

  “When did you meet Patience?”

  “She was eight. Her first day at the Bray school, she runs into the milliner’s excited to see her mother, runs smack into a table, and upsets a box of pins. I helped her pick them up. We remained friends ever after. She reminded me of my sister’s child back home in Cork.” Captain Lochlan smiled. “I’d walk Patience to school sometimes. She’d babble at me about disguising herself as a boy so she could go to sea. She was pretty and sweet and smart as her mother. A wee bit mischievous. She’d draw caricatures of the town’s more colorful residents and slip ’em in my coat pocket for me to find later. I called her my little imp.”