“Okay, I’m done,” Gillian said. She turned to Maura. “Ready to go?”
“Sure.” On the way to the car, out of Harry’s hearing, Maura said in a low voice, “What are you going to tell Althea?”
“I’m . . . not sure. I suppose I could text her one of the photos of the picture, but I’d really like to see Althea’s face when we tell her we’ve found the painting. Let me text her and have her meet us at Sullivan’s, all right? I won’t give her any details.”
Maura grinned at her. “You want to make her suffer, right?”
“Just a bit,” Gillian said. “After all, she’s the one who thinks the rest of us have to drop everything just to do what she wants. She can wait a bit longer.” She raised her voice. “Harry? Let us break the happy news to Althea, will you? We want to surprise her.”
“And I’d be in the way, eh?” He didn’t look very upset.
He was right, whether or not he was joking. Getting together with both Althea, after their recent, rather embarrassing encounter, and Gillian, with their long history, could prove uncomfortable for almost everyone involved.
“You would,” Gillian said decisively. When they were settled in the car, Gillian turned to Harry again. “Would you consider selling the painting, now that you know what it could fetch?”
Harry stared straight ahead as he started the car and didn’t answer right away. “I’d be curious to know what anyone thinks it might be worth,” he said carefully.
Gillian swatted his arm. “Harry, that’s not answering the question. Althea’s going to want to know whether she can borrow it for her museum’s precious exhibit, and once the word gets round, there’ll be a lot of interest—the cat’ll be out of the bag. If the painting passes all the authenticity tests, you’ll want to be alerting potential buyers.”
Harry turned to her. “You mean after all this running around, you’re not sure it’s genuine? It’s been in the family since it was painted!”
“That may be, Harry, but it could have been done by a pupil or a follower of Van Dyck’s, not the man himself, which would make it worth less. And appraisals take time. Now, if Althea were to convince her museum to ship it to New York for this exhibit—at their expense—then there’d be plenty of chances for the experts to take a good look at it.”
“They’d pay, eh? Assuming the poor old thing survived being taken off the wall and shaken up a bit.” The car was running, but Harry made no move to drive. After a moment he said, “Gillian, let me think about this, will you? I’m not asking that you keep it a secret from Althea, even if you could, but I need to consider how to tell Eveline any of this, and what she might want to do.”
“Fair enough. After all, it is your painting, and it’s yours to deal with. But you already know that Althea will be leaning on you to act fast.”
“That I do. What’s the saying, ‘a New York minute’? I think she needs to see what an Irish minute looks like.”
He finally engaged the clutch, and the car shot down the drive, back toward Leap. Gillian was busy texting on her mobile phone. “Will it be quiet at Sullivan’s, do you think?”
“Sunday evening? Probably. Why?” Maura asked.
“I don’t want to tell her we’ve found the painting in front of a room full of gossips.”
“I know what you mean. I’ll find you a quiet corner.” She could tell Gillian to go see Althea in Skibbereen, where she had a hotel room that would offer some privacy, but Gillian was right: she wanted to see Althea’s reaction too. She felt personally involved in this hunt. “Should we tell the gardaí what we’ve found?”
“I hadn’t thought about that,” Gillian said, putting her phone away. “Maybe we should. But will it change anything? We’ve found no tangible connection between the painting and Seamus’s death.”
“Yet,” Maura replied. “But if the gardaí don’t look for one, they won’t find it.”
“There is that,” Gillian agreed. “I’ll leave it to you, then, since you seem to be on good terms with them. Harry, take us back, will you, now?”
“My pleasure,” he said, but Maura thought he looked like he was thinking of something else. What would this discovery change for him?
Chapter 13
Gillian and Maura had been back at Sullivan’s no more than five minutes when Althea rushed in. Maura hadn’t had time to respond to the curious looks from Rose, Mick, and Jimmy, but she knew she’d have to report on her tea with Eveline when the dust settled, as soon as Althea left. Sometimes Sullivan’s felt like a fishbowl, with everyone watching your every move. The interest wasn’t exactly unfriendly, but it did take getting used to.
Stopping just inside the door, Althea scanned the room. Maura caught her eye and gestured toward Gillian, seated at the table in the corner. “I’ll be . . . over there,” she muttered to no one in particular and headed to join the two women at the table.
Althea was talking before she sat down. “So? What did you find?”
Gillian regarded her levelly. “What makes you think we found anything?”
“Because if the answer was ‘no’ you would have just said so. Okay, tell me.”
Instead of saying anything, Gillian pulled out her mobile, opened the photo app, and handed it to Althea. Althea stared intently at the first picture, then scrolled through the next few, and by the time she was done she could barely sit still. “Yes, yes, yes! I knew it! I told you, didn’t I? Didn’t I? Damn, why didn’t you get better pictures? This is like looking at a postage stamp. But it looks right. Doesn’t it, Gillian?”
Maura suppressed a smile: everyone in the place was sneaking glances at Althea, and a few were watching openly.
“How does it compare with the oil sketch?”
“I think it’s a good match. What do you think, Maura?”
“If it was a police lineup, I would have recognized the guy from the sketch.”
Althea looked at her with a bemused expression, then burst out laughing. “You know, that’s a good way of putting it. I’ll have to remember that. So, tell me all about it.”
“The painting measures something less than two by three meters—oh, for you that would be . . . three by eight feet, at a guess—and the frame looks original. As near as I could tell, it’s in good condition, although the varnish is soupy, as you might expect after three centuries. Harry says it’s been hanging there forever, in what he called the library, which isn’t used now. The good news is, the room is kept dark; the bad news is, it’s unheated. But I’d guess the conditions are pretty stable, and I don’t think the painting’s condition is too bad.”
“Good, good . . . Did Harry know anything about the subject?”
“A bit. He thinks it might be Richard Townsend, some earl back up the line. He’s not much into family history, although he thought Eveline might know more.”
“Great work, you guys,” Althea said. “Okay, there’s just one more thing . . .”
Gillian and Maura looked at each other. Why do I think this isn’t over yet? Maura wondered. She answered herself, Because that would have been too easy, and this is Althea.
Althea leaned forward with an air of conspiracy. “What we have to do now is find the contract.”
“What?” Gillian and Maura said at the same time. “Althea,” Gillian said, “we found the painting for you. What you do from here is your business. There is no ‘we.’”
“No, look, please . . .” Althea fumbled, then took a deep breath. “I’m sorry; you’re right. You’ve been great. So if I want anything else, I need to ask you. Nicely. It’s just that this is so important to me, and I’m so excited. Please, Gillian, can’t you help me just a little more? Maura, give a hand to a fellow American in need? Sisterhood and all that?”
When Maura just stared at her, Althea turned to Gillian. “You—you know how important this work could be to the art world. You know what it could be worth and how Harry and his aunt would benefit. And a work like that shouldn’t be left to molder in the dark in a backwater like this.
It should be taken care of and shown to the public. It’s a treasure.”
Gillian sat back in her chair and smiled. “Althea, you are not to be believed. You waltz in to this ‘backwater,’ as you so graciously call it; you pump everyone you can for information; then you try to sleep your way into the house to get what you want. And when that doesn’t work, you enlist us to do your work for you. I’m not sure why we should agree with whatever scheme you’ve cooked up. Do you agree, Maura?”
“You’ve got that right,” Maura answered. “To be blunt, why should we, Althea?”
Althea’s eyes narrowed. “You want money?”
“This isn’t about money,” Maura protested. “I know I haven’t been here all that long, but I’ve seen it over and over—people here have gone out of their way to help me. If you don’t change your attitude, no one will step up.” She glanced at Gillian, who nodded her encouragement. “Gillian and me, we’ve already taken time from our jobs or our lives to do you a big favor, so don’t act all surprised when we expect something in return, especially when you decide you want more.”
To her surprise, Althea didn’t protest. After a long moment, she said, “You’re right—again. I’m sorry—again. And I’m guessing getting credit in a footnote in an exhibition catalog isn’t going to mean a whole lot to either of you. What do you want, if you help me?”
Gillian spoke first. “A bit of respect would be nice. Beyond that . . . you could get some of my paintings into a New York gallery. That could make a world of difference to me.”
“Whoa! You seriously think I can get you a show in New York?”
“Did I say anything about a show? But you can put me in touch with the right people, maybe get a few of my paintings into the right places. If you’ve got the job you claim to have, you ought to be able to do that much at least.”
Althea didn’t answer immediately. Then she said slowly, “I’d have to see your work. If it sucks, though, there’s no deal.”
Gillian smiled. “I wouldn’t expect anything less. I’ll be happy to show you what I’ve done.”
Althea turned to Maura. “What do you want?”
Maura thought hard. “Publicity.” Althea arched an eyebrow in question. “You said you wanted to make a big splash when you go public with your find, right? Make sure you get some stories in the Irish papers too. And mention Leap—and Sullivan’s. Tell whoever writes about the painting that Leap is a beautiful, unspoiled area with friendly natives and lots of history and full of surprises like your long-lost Van Dyck portrait. And great pubs. Why not tell ’em Michael Collins stopped in for a drink when he happened to be passing by? That’ll bring ’em in.” Maura had to fight a case of the giggles.
“When did Michael Collins drink here?” Althea sputtered.
“Hey, we don’t know that he did, but he came from near here, and the building’s been here for a long time, so it’s possible—barely. Can you prove he didn’t? Be creative, Althea.”
“You know, that’s a smart idea, Maura,” Gillian said with admiration. She turned back to Althea. “And it won’t cost you a penny—you just have to contact the right people, and I’m sure your museum can make it happen. So there’s the deal. If you want our help.”
“You two aren’t as dumb as you look.” When she looked at their expressions, Althea was quick to add, “Joke! If I can do what you ask, it’s a deal—and I promise I’ll try my best. Now can I tell you what I need?”
Maura held up a hand. “Before we move on, there’s one thing we keep leaving out: Seamus Daly’s murder. Even if it has nothing to do with the painting, it still makes things more complicated. Look,” Maura began, then hesitated—was she right to share what she had seen, or rather, not seen? She decided it was easier simply to tell everybody everything, excepting the bar patrons. “When we were in the library and Gillian was drooling over the painting, I was looking around the room. The place was really dusty—Harry said nobody’s used it for years, and all the draperies have been closed for who knows how long. But there was dust on everything, including the floor. Which means that if somebody else was looking for the painting—and we’re still not sure about that—that person never got into the room where the painting is and never saw it. Maybe Seamus ran into someone sneaking around the grounds and tried to stop them and got whacked, and the killer left in a hurry. So they still don’t know that the painting is there for sure. Unless, of course, someone here blabs to the rest of the world.” Maura raised her voice. “Think you can keep a secret, boys?”
“Will it get us a free drink?” someone called out.
“When the official headline shows up in the Irish Times, the first round’s on the house.” Maura’s announcement was met with cheers. Mick looked at her from across the room and shook his head, but with a smile.
Maura turned back to Althea. “Okay, what is it you want us to do?”
“I have to back up a bit to explain,” Althea began. “I believe with all my heart—and my gut—that this is a real Van Dyck. But at the museum, I’m not considered one of the experts, I’m just a midlevel employee. If somebody identifies what may be an important find, they go to the scholars, the academics, usually more than one, and even they don’t always agree. If I come back with photos of this painting and say to my bosses, hey, I’ve found this great picture that I really believe is a long-lost work by Van Dyck, and I think it has to go into the exhibit that we’ve been planning for two years and which is going to open, like, tomorrow, they’re going to laugh in my face.”
“Wait a minute,” Maura interrupted. “Isn’t that why you’ve been looking for this in such a big hurry? To get it into the exhibit?”
“Well, yes. I know, bad timing, but the sketch surfaced very recently, and when I saw it I figured it was worth taking a chance. If it doesn’t work out with the painting, I’ll probably lose my job for going AWOL right now when I know it’s crunch time. But I’d be losing it anyway after this show is up, so I figured, why not go for it?”
“So what’s going to make a difference now?” Maura demanded.
Althea leaned in and said in a lower voice, “The people at the museum aren’t going to take my word for it that this is the real thing, and we don’t have time to go through an official review process. But I could jump right over that if I could show them the original contract, a letter to the artist, something from the period that establishes the commission and purchase of the portrait. If that proof exists.”
“What makes you think the Townsend family would’ve kept a piece of paper from sixteen-whatever?” Maura asked. “They’ve got the painting, and they don’t seem to care who painted it. They sure didn’t treat it like it was anything special.”
“I know, it’s a real long shot. It’s one of the things I wasn’t even going to bother worrying about until I was sure I’d located the painting. Now I’m hoping somebody maybe stuck the estate records someplace and forgot about them, so they’re still there. Do you think it’s possible, Gillian?”
“Maybe,” Gillian said dubiously. “We’d have to ask Harry, and I have trouble seeing him ferreting around in a batch of dusty old documents from sixteen-whatever about managing the estate. You may have noticed he has a rather short attention span. What’s more, he has no interest at all in his own family’s history, and I’m sure you’ve already noticed he’s never looked at the paintings in the manor.”
“He wouldn’t help even for something this important? Not to mention valuable?” Althea exclaimed. “Fine, I’d be happy to look for them myself.”
“Althea, you know that’s not going to happen,” Gillian said. “If we agree to help you—again—you will have to tell us exactly what we’re looking for. What kind of paper, what language it’s written in. Details like that. And even if we find something that looks like a contract for a painting with the right date, what if it says no more than ‘Big picture, eight hundred of . . . whatever was currency of the day’? Will that be of any use to you?”
“Maybe. It would
be better than nothing. And can you do this fast?”
Gillian sat back and looked at Maura in disbelief. “Is it only me, or is she really this thick?”
Maura made a face. “Althea, didn’t anybody ever teach you any manners? You don’t exactly make people want to help you, no matter what you dangle in front of them.”
“Maura, being pushy has gotten me where I am today. Somebody once said, ‘I’d rather beg for forgiveness than ask for permission,’ and that about sums it up for me. You know how many unemployed art historians there are? I have a job. I want to keep that job. And I’ll do whatever it takes.”
“Including murder?” Gillian said quietly.
“No, not that,” Althea said, contrite. “I’m sorry if my shtick doesn’t play well here, but that doesn’t mean I’m a killer. I’ll swear on as many Bibles as you want that I had nothing to do with the death of Seamus the gardener and I have zero knowledge of what happened aside from what you and the police have told me. Is that good enough for you? Are you in?”
Maura waited for Gillian’s answer. This was much closer to her territory—art and Harry both. Of course, she herself knew nothing about historic documents—she’d never even seen one, unless she counted photos of the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence in her high school textbooks. The most she could add to the hunt would be an extra set of eyes.
“All right,” Gillian said at last. “I’ll help. But as I said once before, I’m doing it for Eveline and for Harry. Were things different, I’m not sure I’d cross the street to help you, Althea, the way you’re acting. Maura, will you help?”
Scandal in Skibbereen (A County Cork Mystery) Page 12