“What happened?”
All trace of red disappeared from his aura. Bright blue threaded itself through the yellow. “We heard rumors Cicero’s owner planned to sell him out of state. The family would have been torn apart. We found some people, abolitionists, who could help Constance and Cicero get away over land. But they were afraid the journey would be too dangerous for Patience. She was fourteen by then but still too young for such an arduous journey. So I agreed to take her on my ship. I’d bring her to her parents later, when they were safe.”
“But that never happened.”
Captain Lochlan’s aura deepened to a mustard yellow.
“There was a storm. I lost her. She sacrificed—it should have been me.”
A man’s voice interrupted. “Gethsemane Brown?” The captain vanished. A bald man climbed the steps and showed Gethsemane his identification. Another garda. An inspector this time. “May I ask you some questions?”
“You have got to be kidding—what happened? Did everyone else in town invoke their right to remain silent and I’m the only one left to interrogate? What is it this time? A missing grand piano? Did someone steal the Guinness Brewery?”
“Someone murdered Andrew Perryman.”
“Dr. Brown has nothing to say until after I’ve had a chance to consult with her.” Cecily stood between Gethsemane and the inspector.
“Dr. Brown has nothing to hide.” Gethsemane turned to her brother-in-law beside her on the church steps. “Jackson, I don’t need a solicitor.”
“She’s here to help, Sissy.”
“I don’t need help. I didn’t kill anyone, including Andrew Perryman.”
“You’re not a suspect, Dr. Brown,” the bald garda said.
“I’m not?”
“She’s not?”
He shook his head.
“You may be a witness, though. We found a receipt with your name on it at Mr. Perryman’s gallery. He was seen alive at a bookshop about thirty minutes after the time on the receipt. He wasn’t seen alive again. Early this morning, the boy who delivers his newspaper found him stabbed to death.”
Gethsemane, Jackson, and Cecily all chorused, “My God,” “That’s awful,” “Poor Andrew.”
“When you were at the gallery, Dr. Brown,” the inspector asked, “did you see anything or hear anything unusual? Anything at all you remember. It may not have seemed that unusual at the time. Did anyone call? Was anyone else in the gallery?”
“I was there with a friend, Frankie Grennan, but—wait, I remember, I did see someone.”
“Go on.” The inspector readied his pen.
“Just before I left, I noticed a man looking through the gallery window. Andrew ran out into the street after him, but he’d gone.”
“Can you describe the man?”
“I can do better than that. I can tell you his name. Ronan Leary.”
Twelve
“Are you sure you saw Ronan Leary through the window?” Yseult asked Gethsemane at the Ballytuam garda station. Yseult tracked her down after she gave her statement to the homicide investigator. They sat in the now familiar interview room.
“I’m positive. The scar’s hard to miss. Who is Ronan Leary? He keeps turning up in weird places then vanishing. Like a stalker. I heard he has a criminal record.”
“He’s no one you need concern yourself with.” Yseult waved a dismissive hand.
“Jackson said you think Ronan’s his partner. That does concern me.”
Yseult’s eyes widened and her hand flew to her chest. “I think they’re partners? Have you heard me make that claim?”
“No, not you, specifically. The Ballytuam constabulary in general.”
“Ronan Leary co-owned a gallery in New York with Andrew Perryman. They closed the gallery and Andrew left New York. Ronan left soon after. And, yes, Ronan has a criminal history, which is why you shouldn’t concern yourself with him.”
“When did they close their gallery?”
“Nine, ten years ago? Why?”
“Didn’t the FBI suspend their investigation into the New York-Dublin art crime ring about nine or ten years ago? Is it coincidence Andrew and Ronan closed their gallery around the same time? Were they involved? Or was Ronan involved in the scandal that sent Andrew packing from New York?”
“Scandal?”
“Involving a client’s husband.”
“Who have you been talking to, Dr. Brown?”
“No one. Just party gossip.”
“You shouldn’t listen to gossip, Dr. Brown. It can mislead you.”
She’d done well by it so far.
“Speaking of the party,” Yseult extended a hand, “I’ll have to ask for the camera back.”
Gethsemane still wore the pendant. She’d forgotten it was anything other than jewelry. She handed it over to Yseult. “If Olivia really did will the Freeman sampler to Jackson’s museum, no way she knew it was a fake.”
“You’re right. She most likely owned the genuine sampler at some point. Someone with access to her house switched it for the fake, careful to place the fake in the frame and replace the frame on the wall. The fake was unlikely to be detected as long as it remained in Olivia’s collection. The real sampler went straight to the black-market.”
“But if the fake went to a museum, it would be removed from the frame and authenticated.” At least it would be if it went to a museum with a conscientious curator who consulted with the FBI on art crimes.
“The thief must have known, or suspected, as much. He or she attempted to get rid of the fake before that happened. If we hadn’t discovered it in the bushes, whoever hid it there would have retrieved it and destroyed it.”
“Do you think Ronan Leary brokered the black-market sale of the original?”
Another dismissive hand wave. “Leary is one of those sad little men doomed to always be on the outside looking in. Don’t concern yourself about him. Really.” It sounded more like an order than a suggestion.
She ran into Kenneth O’Connor on the way out of the station. The redhead smiled and spoke before she could ask him why he was there. “Did the guards run you in, too? I’ll tell you a secret. The number of folks they haul down for questioning is directly proportionate to their level of cluelessness.”
“I gave a statement about seeing Ronan Leary outside Andrew’s gallery. They seemed to know each other.”
“You’re sure you saw Leary?”
She traced the pattern of his scar on her cheek.
“Yeah, well, you’d do well to stay clear of that one. He’s a bad bit.”
Maybe Kenneth knew something. Time to play dumb. “I heard he was just a small-time gallery owner.”
“Small-time gallery owner, big time hood. Rumor is, he fled the Big Apple late at night one step ahead of the Feds. Mixed up in theft and forgery.”
“The New York-Dublin art crime ring I read about in the paper?”
Kenneth shrugged. “Nothing ever proven. Just rumor running through the art world like a trophy wife through money.”
“If art gossip’s like village gossip, there’s usually some truth to it. And it can ruin you.”
“Can’t argue with that.”
“What’s Ronan’s connection to Andrew? They didn’t seem to be friends.”
“The Ronan Learys of the world don’t have friends. He and Andrew probably had an old business rivalry. The art world is scary competitive.”
She wasn’t the only one playing dumb. Andrew and Ronan’s gallery partnership was no secret. She knew, law enforcement knew. A savvy buyer’s agent, an art world insider, should know as much as a musician-turned-schoolteacher and the country cops. Why was he holding out? Who was he protecting? Andrew? Ronan? Himself? “What’s your connection to Leary? He doesn’t like you.”
“Leary doesn’t like anyone. And the feeling�
�s mutual. He hates me because he claims I cheated him out of a Caravaggio. Truth is, I got there first. Leary’s a sore loser.”
“Do you think he’d get sore enough to stab someone?”
“I don’t know about that. Seems extreme, even for him,” Kenneth said. “Still, you never can be too sure about people. The ones you least expect to cross the line are often the ones who commit the worst crimes.”
“What about you? Would you ever get sore enough to kill someone? Or kill someone over a priceless piece of art? Did you kill Andrew Perryman?”
“Bottom line up front, huh? You don’t pull punches. No, I didn’t kill Andrew. Or Olivia, in case you were wondering.”
“Sorry, had to ask.”
“Be dog wide when you go around asking such bold questions. Not everyone is as easygoing as I am. They might take it the wrong way.”
Gethsemane left the Ballytuam garda station and headed up the hill toward Essex House. She’d sent Jackson home. She needed to return to retrieve the change of clothes she’d left in the tower room the night of the party. An ominous air had settled over the place since then. The night of the party was the night of Olivia’s death. Of her murder. She felt sure Olivia had help going over that deep balcony with its sturdy stone railing. She didn’t simply stumble or lean out too far and fall. But was her murder connected to art crime or to the missing will? Or were those things somehow related?
A newsstand caught her eye. A headline sprawled across the front page of the Ballytuam Bugle announced, “Dead Heiress Involved in Art Fraud Scam.” She squinted at the byline: “Finn Conklin, special to the Bugle.” Apparently, the fellas in Ballytuam hadn’t plugged their leak.
The somber mood of the house hit her as soon as the butler, black band around his arm, admitted her. Party decorations had been removed. The grand piano and music stands no longer occupied the great hall. Black crepe hung over mirrors. Gethsemane sniffed. She hoped to catch a whiff of Captain Lochlan’s Bay Rum, but she only smelled the cloying sweetness of flowers. Floral arrangements dotted the house. All wore black or white or deep purple ribbons labeled “With Sympathy.” She caught a glimpse of crime scene tape on the patio as she followed the butler past.
They reached the tower. The butler excused himself to attend to his other duties and left Gethsemane to gather her things. Nothing was where she left it. Her dress, which she’d hung in the wardrobe, lay bunched on the bed. Her shoes had been neatly lined up next to the dresser. Now one lay on its side. The safety pin and ballpoint on the floor next to her bag meant someone upended and shook it.
Who searched her things? And why? What could they have hoped to find?
Maire appeared in the doorway as Gethsemane finished repacking. Did she ever smile? “’Bout done? I’ll show you out.”
Gethsemane pulled the zipper on her bag closed. The maid was either psychic or she spied. Gethsemane didn’t believe in psychics. “I understand you and your late employer were very close. I’m sorry for your loss.”
Maire narrowed her eyes. “Are you?”
“Of course I am. A dreadful thing happened to Mrs. McCarthy-Boyle. It was a terrible, tragic end to a remarkable life. And, for the record, I had nothing to do with her death. I didn’t push her. What reason would I have to kill your employer? I’d just met her the night she—the night of the party.”
“What reason would you have for poking around her office?”
Aside from being put up to it by a forensic examiner with secrets of her own on special assignment from some unnamed agency? “I wasn’t poking around. I, um, wanted to see the Freeman sampler.”
“Which went missing the same time you turned up.”
“I had nothing to do with that either.”
“All I know is, everything was fine ’til you got here. You show up and bad things start happening. Things disappear. People die.”
“Like Andrew Perryman? I suppose you suspect I’m involved in his murder, too.”
“Are you? Word around town is you were at his gallery.”
Ballytuam’s gossip mill rivaled Dunmullach’s. “I did go to his gallery. I shopped there. I didn’t kill him. He was alive when I left him.” Maire didn’t miss much. Maybe she’d seen Andrew at Essex House. Gethsemane feigned interest in straightening the bed covers. “Did you know Andrew?”
“Let me do that.” Maire jostled Gethsemane out of the way. “Why would I know him? What have I got to do with art galleries?”
Gethsemane shrugged. “Small town. You might have run into him at the pub. Or seen him here.”
Maire let the bed cover fall and stared at Gethsemane. “What would Andrew Perryman be doing at Essex House?”
“Attending one of Mrs. McCarthy-Boyle’s affairs. Lots of gallery owners attended. Auctioneers and collectors, too.”
“Antique dealers, important gallery owners, not small-time locals dealing that modern crap like Andrew. He’d never be invited to one of Mrs. M-B’s parties.”
“It’s just that I found something here that I think belonged to him.”
“What could you possibly have found of his?”
“A silver button. Quite unique.”
“Can’t be his, ’cause he’s never been here.” She went back to making the bed and spoke with her back to Gethsemane. “Why don’t you give me the button? I’ll ask around, see if I can find who it belonged to.”
“I don’t have it with me. And you needn’t trouble yourself. You’ve got enough to deal with. I’ll turn it over to the gardaí. It looks quite valuable, so I’m sure someone will report it missing.”
“You do that.” Maire finished with the bed. “If you’re ready, the exit’s this way.”
“Is Mr. Delaney in?”
“What do you want to see him for?”
What was she, his wife? How did she get away with being this rude and keep her job? “I want to offer him my sympathies.”
Maire hesitated, then admitted he was in the library. “Cataloging books.”
“Not searching for a copy of Mrs. McCarthy-Boyle’s will? Wouldn’t finding it be priority number one?”
“The will’ll turn up, I’m sure of it. I’ll find it myself. I know where the missus kept all her things.”
No doubt because she’d snooped through all of them. “If you’ll take me to Mr. Delaney, I won’t be but a minute.”
“This way.” Maire scowled.
Gethsemane shouldered her bag. “Out of curiosity, how do you know what kind of art Andrew sold through his gallery?”
“What?”
“You said Andrew sold modern crap.”
“He did.”
“But you said you didn’t know anything about art galleries.”
Maire reddened. “Small town, ain’t it? Everybody knows everybody’s business. C’mon if you’re coming. Ain’t got all day.”
Gethsemane followed the maid back to the main part of the house. Maire led her through a formal dining room with space for two dozen and several parlors, each filled with a different style of antique. Staff, the men wearing black armbands, passed them going back and forth. None of them took notice of Gethsemane or Maire. Except for the dour atmosphere and the funerary flora, Essex House didn’t seem like a place whose mistress had just died unexpectedly and violently. Business appeared to be running as usual.
Maire stopped as they crossed the main hallway. The solicitor’s assistant lingered by the front door like a lost puppy.
He stepped forward. “Maire—”
The maid cut him off. “What’re you doing here?” She called to the butler. “Who let him in? He’s got no business here.”
“I came to see how you were.” He clasped his hands and pleaded with Maire with his eyes. “You’re not returning my calls. I was worried.”
“I didn’t return your calls because I have nothing to say to you. Why can’t you
get that through your thick head? We’re done. We’re over.” She yanked the door open. “Goodbye.”
The solicitor’s assistant shuffled out. On the porch, he turned back toward Maire. She shut the door in his face. “Maggot,” she mumbled. She gestured across the hall. “Library’s through there.” She left Gethsemane to find her own way.
Gethsemane crossed the hall and stepped through an arch into a bibliophile’s paradise. Books filled shelves from floor to ceiling in a room the size of a small city. Ladders of various heights stood ready to be rolled into position and scaled to reach books far above the arm span of even the tallest man. A delicate wrought-iron spiral staircase led to a catwalk around the upper edge of the room to allow access to the uppermost volumes. Ray looked down at her from the top of the spiral stair.
“Dr. Brown.” He set down the stack of books in his arm and descended. They shook hands. “How are you?”
“That’s what I came to ask you. I know everyone at Essex House is having a rough go of it.”
“Yes, thank you. We’re soldiering on. The world doesn’t stop in the face of tragedy, even if one sometimes wishes it would.”
“You’ve been dealt bad news on top of bad news. Olivia’s death, then the theft of the sampler. Then Andrew Perryman’s murder coming so soon after all that. Did you know him?”
“Not at all, I’m afraid. But what a ghastly way for him to go. Stabbed, I hear. Oh, and allow me to apologize.”
“Apologize for what?”
“For accusing you of pushing Olivia over the balcony rail. The night of the party? When I came looking for you and found you in her office? It was the shock of discovering her. I didn’t mean it.”
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