Scandal in Skibbereen (A County Cork Mystery)

by Connolly, Sheila

  “I really don’t know. I mean, he never struck me as much of a go-getter, but then, he may never have had such a valuable item in his hands. All I can say for sure is that he hasn’t gotten in touch with me.” Althea swirled her empty coffee cup, staring at the grounds. Then her head snapped up. “Wait—are you saying you think this person who killed the gardener, assuming it’s not Nate, might come after me?”

  “Not if he—or she—finds the painting first. Let’s say it is Nate, or someone like him, and he shows up here—what would his pitch to Harry be?”

  “Something like ‘It’s worth millions . . . spotless provenance . . . I know an auction house that would jump at the chance to sell it . . . yadda yadda.’”

  “Provenance?” Maura asked.

  “Where it came from, where it’s been. Odds are, this painting has been in the family since it was painted—if it’s there.” She ran her hands through her hair in frustration. “This is ridiculous! We aren’t even sure the painting exists. I have to get into that house—or someone with a good eye does.”

  “And that would be me,” Gillian said, sliding onto the stool next to Althea. She stuck out her hand. “Gillian Callanan. You’re Althea?”

  “I am.” Althea shook Gillian’s hand enthusiastically. “Gillian, great to meet you. Maura here says maybe you can help me? Let me say before you start: I don’t deserve it, and I will be forever grateful. If there’s any money involved, I’ll see that you get your share.”

  Gillian cocked her head. “You really are American, aren’t you? I’m not looking to be paid for whatever I can do. I’ve told Maura, I’ve known Harry all my life, and I like Eveline. If finding this thing and seeing that it sells, now or down the line, can help them, that’s enough for me.”

  Althea looked uncomfortable, and Gillian pressed, “Is there something you’re not saying?” She glanced briefly at Maura, and Maura wondered if she had winked.

  “Well,” Althea began, clearly embarrassed. Then her words came out in a rush. “Last night I went home with Harry Townsend, and early this morning his aunt Eveline caught me coming out of his room with not much on and now she’s mad at me and will probably never let me near the place again, ever. And that Mrs. O’Brien threw me out for a second time. I’m sorry. You don’t have to help me. I know it was stupid of me.”

  Maura held her breath, waiting to see how Gillian would react. Gillian managed to surprise her: she burst out laughing. “Wouldn’t I love to have been a fly on the wall? Yes, I’m sure Eveline was not at all pleased—she belongs to a very different generation. And it is her home. Sounds like you managed to bollocks this up.”

  “Huh?” Althea said, confused.

  “You messed up, wouldn’t you say, Maura?”

  “I would, Gillian,” Maura agreed happily.

  “What about Harry?” Althea said meekly.

  Gillian laughed. “I’ve known Harry forever, so I can’t say I’m surprised. You aren’t hoping for anything more from him, are you?”

  “No. No way. Not that he’s a bad guy or anything,” Althea hurried to add. “But I’m not interested in anything longer term. And I’m pretty sure he isn’t either.”

  “You’d be right about that.”

  “Gillian, are you still willing to help me?”

  Gillian studied Althea’s face. “Before I make up my mind, tell me why you’re so sure this painting is here.”

  Althea took a moment to gather her thoughts. “The woman who had the little painting when she died—she came from Cork, although the records I found didn’t say where. I knew that Van Dyck had worked in Cork, or at least he had Cork connections. There’s a nice portrait by Van Dyck of Richard Boyle, the first earl of Burlington and the second earl of Cork, in the National Gallery in London. Boyle was born in Youghal, and that painting dates to around 1640. There aren’t a lot of surviving manors, or at least old families, in Cork from that period, and Mycroft House is the last one that I haven’t seen. The timing and the connections fit, don’t you think?”

  “You may well be right,” Gillian said. “Have you a picture of it?”

  “Of course.” Althea reached into her large handbag and pulled out an envelope, from which she extricated a glossy photograph. “This is Dorothy’s painting.” She passed it over to Gillian.

  Gillian studied it. “Nice. I can see why you’re excited. But I haven’t seen a larger painting with that likeness in my visits to Mycroft House, though there are plenty of rooms, even on the ground floor, that I haven’t visited. Do you think it resembles Harry?” She handed the picture to Maura, who looked at it briefly—to her it just looked like a kind of dull painting of a guy with long hair—then returned it to Althea.

  Althea looked at it again. “You know, that never occurred to me. But I think you’re right.”

  Gillian went on, “So, where do things stand with you and the gardaí? What did they ask you?”

  While Althea reviewed the events of the past day for Gillian, Maura went back to working, going around the room, greeting people who had come in recently, and collecting glasses. Somehow Billy had slipped in while she wasn’t watching and was settled in his chair by the fire, a pint glass on the table next to him. Rose must have taken care of him.

  Maura perched on the arm of his chair. “Hello, Billy. How are you on this fine day?”

  “Happy to be here. I see that our artist has come home for the summer.”

  “That makes her sound like a bird. I should have figured you know her.”

  “Only since she was as high as my knee. Knew her father before her, and her grandparents as well, may they rest in peace.”

  “She a relative of yours?” Maura asked, only half joking.

  “Well, her mother’s sister married a nephew of mine . . .”

  “She asked if she could put up some of her paintings here, maybe sell a few. Will anybody object?”

  “Nah, she does good work. I don’t think Old Mick would mind.”

  “You think he’s keeping an eye on things from up above?”

  “I’m sure of it.” Billy took a swallow of his stout. “Those two look thick as thieves.” He tilted his head toward Althea and Gillian, who seemed to be getting along well.

  “All things considered. If you haven’t heard already, Althea has also now managed to tick off not only Mrs. O’Brien but even Eveline Townsend herself, so I don’t think she has a chance of getting into Mycroft House again. But Gillian can.”

  “Gillian is a generous woman indeed.”

  “Have you had any other ideas about Seamus Daly’s death?”

  Billy sighed. “Nothing’s come to me. He wasn’t the full shilling, but he was a harmless lad. Most likely he startled someone in the act . . . but the act of what, I can’t say.”

  If this was one of those boring English novels Maura had been forced to read in high school, Seamus the gardener would have come upon a poacher with a couple of rabbits, and the poacher had dealt him a fatal blow. Of course in this case, the stakes might be a lot bigger than rabbits. Maura wondered how the Irish police handled forensics. If this was CSI, somebody would announce that Seamus had been hit with an antique shovel used for digging turf, bearing traces of rust and a waterweed that could only be found along twenty-two feet of harborfront. And the person wielding the shovel was five foot ten, left-handed, and had grown up in Albania. If there still was an Albania. Maura’s sense of geography was a little fuzzy.

  “You’ve customers waiting, Maura,” Billy reminded her gently. “I’ll be here for the afternoon, and I’ll see what people have to say.”

  “Thanks, Billy. I hope it helps.”

  She went back behind the bar to help Rose fill orders. Business was picking up again, and it looked to be a busy afternoon.

  When she came around the bar, Rose nudged her. “There’s a fella over there—no, don’t look—who’s been keeping an eye on the three of you women.”

  “Why shouldn’t he?” Maura asked. “From what I’ve seen, Gillian attr
acts a lot of attention.” And Althea in her New York clothes and shoes simply looked out of place in a shabby pub.

  “Dunno,” Rose replied. “Oh, here he comes now.”

  Maura checked him out. He had close-cropped hair and a cheap leather jacket, and he didn’t quite look like a typical sightseer. Whether or not he noticed Maura’s examination, the man came up and leaned against the bar. “Can I get another?” American, Maura noted, as he pushed his empty glass toward her.

  “Sure. You’re American?” Maura asked conversationally. This couldn’t be Nate, could it? she wondered, then immediately stopped herself. Good grief, Maura, you’re running a pub! See a stranger, assume he might be a murderer? You can’t be suspicious of every unfamiliar face that walks in!

  He gave her a perfunctory smile. “Yeah. First trip to Ireland. You’re American too, aren’t you? What’re you doing here?”

  Maura watched the pint she was filling. “Actually, it’s my first trip too.” She grinned. “Came over and never left. I’m behind the bar because I own the place now. Are you enjoying your visit?”

  “Kinda quiet. I’ve only been here a day or two.”

  “I’m Maura,” Maura offered. “And you?” His eyes kept drifting toward Althea and Gillian. Of course, Gillian was a striking woman by any standard, and Althea was dressed to attract attention.

  He turned back to Maura. “Oh, uh, Ray. You sound like you’re from Boston.”

  “Southie, born and raised.”

  “Ah,” Ray said. “So, what should I see?”

  Maura topped off his pint and pushed it back toward him. “On the house, for a fellow American. Have you thought about visiting the Blarney Stone?” Their talk shifted to touristy things, and the man proved to be clueless about what to see, leaving Maura wondering why he had chosen this end of the country for his first visit, rather than someplace like Dublin. Maura made some suggestions, based on her own scant three months’ worth of knowledge, and he seemed interested—but his gaze kept returning to the corner table where Gillian and Althea sat with their heads together. Well, if he wanted female company, Maura wasn’t about to set him up. If he was lonely, he could go over and introduce himself. Maura was pretty sure that both Gillian and Althea could brush him off if they wanted.

  As the afternoon wore on and local people drifted in, talking about the death of Seamus Daly, Maura didn’t see the American leave.

  Chapter 9

  Gillian and Althea went off to strategize their approach to Harry and Mycroft House. There was finally a lull in midafternoon, and Maura realized she hadn’t ever eaten lunch. “Did you eat, Rose?”

  “I brought a bit from home. There’s some left, if you like.”

  “If you’re sure you don’t want it.”

  “Most recipe books have recipes for at least four people, and there’s only the two of us at home, when we’re at home at all. Please, help yourself.”

  “Thanks.” Maura rummaged in the small refrigerator and came up with a half-full container of something that smelled wonderful when she opened it.

  “It’s better hot, but it’s fine cold.”

  “As long as I didn’t have to make it, I’m happy,” Maura said.

  “You don’t like to cook?” Rose seemed to find that idea surprising.

  “Let me put it this way. I can cook, well enough to keep myself going, but I don’t enjoy cooking. You do?”

  Rose beamed. “I do. When . . . me ma was sick, a few years ago, I kind of took it over. She’d tell me what to do, and after a while I started trying things out. You know me da expects his supper, though I never know when.”

  Maura sat down at the end of the bar with the container and a spoon and tasted it. It seemed to be a cross between a soup and a stew, but whatever it was, it tasted really good. She looked closely at it: there wasn’t anything she couldn’t identify, but she’d never managed to put those ingredients together in a way that tasted like this. “Rose, you can cook!” she said. “This is great.”

  “Ah, it’s nothin’ special.” Rose blushed and concentrated on polishing the already shining top of the bar.

  Maura wondered again if there was some way to fit a kitchen, even a tiny one, in the back of the building. It was clear that Rose had a knack for cooking, and it would be a shame to waste it, but she had a feeling that even trying to add a new electric outlet in the old building could be a nightmare. Still, she’d keep the idea in the back of her mind.

  Mick unexpectedly appeared from the back. “What are you doing here?” she asked. “You aren’t on the schedule until five.”

  “Just checking supplies. You’ve been busy?”

  “We have. It’s an awful thing to say, but death is good for business.”

  “Too bad about Seamus. He never did anyone harm, and to go like that . . . it’s not right.”

  “No, it isn’t.” They both paused respectfully for a moment. Then Maura asked, “You have a minute?”

  “You need something?”

  “I have some more stupid questions, and I’d rather ask you than a stranger.”

  “There’s nowhere I need to be, if you don’t mind a minute while I make meself a cup of tea,” he said. “Want one?” Maura declined, and he went around behind the bar and fixed himself a mug, then came back and sat down. “What did you want to know?”

  “I guess I’m kind of confused by this whole class thing—you know, the big manor house, and who gets to go in the front door and who has to go around back. We don’t exactly have that in the States. I know that here it’s kind of a holdover from another time”—as was a lot that she had seen in Ireland, Maura added to herself—“but it seems kind of relevant right now, doesn’t it?”

  “You mean Mycroft House and the Townsends?”

  “Yes. I mean, they still have servants, right? Wasn’t that what Seamus was?”

  “More or less.” Mick stopped to think for a moment. “I’ll give you the short course on Irish cultural history, shall I? Starting with Harry Townsend.”

  “You don’t much like him, do you? You were kind of, I don’t know, stiff with him, when he was in here.”

  Mick answered carefully. “I don’t know him well. I don’t like his type. Do you want the history or not?”

  “Sorry. Go ahead.”

  Mick sipped his tea. “Harry’s the bitter end of an old Anglo-Irish family that’s been settled here since the late seventeenth century, although most of the house is a bit newer than that. The Anglo-Irish used to be the important people—socially, politically, legally—and they owned much of the land in Ireland. They were Irish but they weren’t, you know what I mean? Most of them were English, if you went back far enough, or even Norman, and most were Protestant. They didn’t have much to do with our kind, except to hire us to work on their estates.”

  Maura was surprised at the faint bitterness in Mick’s tone. The Irish held on to their grudges for a long time, it seemed—centuries, even.

  Mick went on, “Like most wealthy people, they built a lot of grand houses—a lot of the city of Dublin too. They did do some good—the Anglo-Irish were very involved with Trinity College there, and they produced plenty of writers. Jonathan Swift, for instance—surely you’ve heard of him?”

  Maura replied, tartly, “I’m not a total idiot, you know. We had to read Gulliver’s Travels in school. So these Anglo-Irish families, they were sort of the big fish in a small pond, huh?”

  “That’s about the shape of it. Like I said, the Townsends were one of the old families, and they held some power in the old days, but Harry’s branch was pretty junior. You know, third son of a third son sort of thing—and they just gradually faded. They didn’t put enough back into their estates to make them productive, and to make ends meet they sold off bits and pieces of land, which didn’t help. They apparently thought the good life was going to go on forever. I guess a lot of people thought that until the bottom fell out after World War One. Actually Harry’s family was lucky that they’ve been able to hang on
to the house this long. But the land around the manor’s all that’s left of the estate. Eveline is the last of her generation, and from what I hear, Harry’s having trouble enough keeping the roof over her head. To his credit, I’ve never heard talk of him trying to move her out of the only home she’s ever known, but aside from a few rooms, most of the place is closed up because they can’t afford to heat it, and of course it’s also falling down. The roof leaks, the plaster’s crumbling, and so on.”

  Maura shook her head. “This whole class thing is so sad and stupid. Why didn’t the Irish rebel against the way the Brits treated them? In America we fought back and forced them out. Why not Ireland?”

  “They did, but they weren’t very successful. You have to remember, until nearly the end of the nineteenth century, most of the Irish had no rights. They couldn’t own land. They couldn’t learn their own language. Your country is, what, a couple thousand miles away from England? It’s different when your oppressors’ seat of power is right next door. Here the British could all but spit at us. Do you not know that in the Famine, the landlords insisted that the Irish keep paying their rents and shipping the crops? When their tenants were starving?”

  Mick was as angry as she’d ever seen him. “I’m sorry, but how was I supposed to know?” Maura protested. Maybe it was time to get away from history and back to the present. “Harry has a job in Dublin, right? Gillian told me that he’s an accountant.”

  Mick took a moment to calm himself, then said, “She did, did she?”

  Maura debated asking Mick about Gillian’s relationship with Harry, but decided that would be tacky. Besides, he might not even know anything; men could be kind of blind about things like that. She went back to the topic at hand.

  “Mick, my question is, does any of this matter, here and now? Okay, you’ve got this big old house, even if it is falling apart, and you’ve got the last two heirs hanging on by their fingernails, with a couple of servants or whatever you want to call them. And now one of them has been killed. But do you think it has anything to do with class?”