Marie led them to a table on the far side of the restaurant, covered with a crisp tablecloth; there was a single flower in a slender vase in the center. “Here you go. Order whatever you like—I’ll give you time to decide.”
When Marie had left, Maura said, “How do you know her?”
“As a garda it’s my business to know people, but Marie and I went to school together. She went off for a few years to cookery school, then came back and opened this place a couple of years ago.”
“It is nice,” Maura said, looking around, and meant it. The decor was simple, and all the staff appeared to be about her own age and seemed to be working comfortably together in a relatively small space. “What’s good here?”
“I’ve never had a bad meal, but the set meal is a good value.”
“Fine,” Maura said, without looking at the details.
When Marie came back, Sean quickly ordered two of the fixed price dinners. Maura was doing some quick math: if he’d left whatever they called high school around here and spent two years at the Garda College and then another half year rotating through different parts of the country, just how old was he? When Sean turned his attention back to her, she said, “So, have you finished probation?”
“A few months past. The case that you were a part of, when you’d only just arrived, was my first. And my first under the detective superintendent.”
So he was maybe . . . twenty-three? A bit younger than she was. “The detective’s quite a guy. What’s he like to work with?”
“Smart. Fair. He works as hard as anyone in the station, doesn’t just pawn off tasks to the rest of us. He’s a good boss. It’s hard when we’re so poorly staffed—we’re even closing down some of the small stations out in the townlands.”
“Budget cuts?” Maura asked sympathetically.
“Yeah—orders from the top. Although in fact there’s less need for those stations now. So many of the younger lads have left, looking for work, that small crimes are down. Don’t jump on me, now—we’ve a few women gardaí as well.” A server appeared and deposited their appetizer course. “Did you want a glass of wine?” she asked. “Comes with the dinner.”
“That’d be grand. The white, Maura?”
“Sure,” Maura said. She seldom drank wine and didn’t pretend to know what was what, above what people asked for at the various bars where she had worked. She’d had few requests for wine at Sullivan’s, although she’d noticed that the market in town here sold a large variety. Maybe because Ireland was closer to the source of some European wines?
The server brought their glasses quickly. Sean picked his up and raised it to her. “Thank you for joining me.”
“Thank you for asking me,” Maura replied. “Why did you?” She didn’t think she was exactly a prize.
Poor Sean looked startled by her question. “Why are you asking?” he countered.
Now she’d embarrassed him—and herself. “Never mind—rude question. I don’t date much. Clearly. This is a date, right?”
He smiled. “That’s what I’d meant it to be. And to answer you, from what I’ve seen, yer an interesting woman. Was I wrong to ask?”
“No, not exactly. I just didn’t expect it. And I don’t know what you expect.”
“I expect a pleasant evening with someone I’d like to get to know better, nothing more.”
Something in Maura relaxed. No pressure. He was a nice guy, right? “Okay, then.” As a diversion—so she didn’t have to look at him for a moment—she dug into her appetizer. “Wow, this is good!”
“I told you, they’re great cooks here. When you’re at home, do you not cook for yourself?”
“As little as I can. I’m not even sure how to turn on the oven at my house, or if it works. It scares me.”
And the talk turned to lighter topics. Maura found herself liking the wine as well as the food. Sean proved easy to talk to, and Maura stopped worrying about his intentions or unknown social signals in a country she didn’t know well at all. She realized that he must in fact be good at his job—he was drawing her out without making it obvious, paying attention to what she said, asking good questions. She was enjoying herself.
“So, tell me—I’ve been told there are few murder investigations in Ireland. Is that true?” she asked.
“There are few murders, right. At least compared to your country.”
“What’s few?” Maura asked, curious.
“Over the last ten years, no more than three in this district, and only one of those since I came on here. You’d remember that one.”
She did, only too well. “You know, it’s kind of hard to get used to. I mean, people don’t even lock their doors around here—not that I have anything worth stealing. But it’s hard to break old habits, after living in Boston.”
“So you couldn’t trust yer neighbors, where you lived?”
Maura shook her head. “Heck, half the time I didn’t even know my neighbors. It’s not like here, where everybody knows everybody else.” This was not what Maura wanted to talk about, so she decided to change the subject. “How does an investigation work around here? Seamus Daly’s death isn’t like the last one, so in Seamus’s case, what happens? That is, if you can talk about it. Who does what?”
Sean sat up straighter in his chair, as if preparing to recite. “The gardaí receive a call reporting that a body has been found, and a uniformed officer like me is sent out to investigate. If that officer determines that the death was not natural—the deceased is found lying on the lawn with obvious injuries, say—then he will call the station and tell the sergeant. The sergeant will inform the superintendent, who will gather his officers and assign tasks. A record book for the crime will be started. The coroner will be called in, and the body will be sent for an autopsy—at the hospital in Cork. Those working on the murder will assemble at least once a day and report on their assignments, until someone is arrested. And an arrest warrant must come down from Dublin headquarters, once we’ve presented the case to them.”
“All the warrants have to come from Dublin, for the whole country?”
“They do. It’s not a large country, Maura.”
“Yeah, I keep forgetting that. I mean, this whole country has, like, half the population of New York City.”
“True, and we’ve lost many a good Irishman to that place, and to Boston as well.”
“So, what’s the progress on Seamus Daly’s murder?”
“I shouldn’t talk about that.”
“Sorry.” And then Maura realized that Sean didn’t know a lot about what Althea had told them and the wild-goose chase that she and Gillian had taken on. She looked around the restaurant—it had filled in nicely, but nobody was paying any attention to them. “Sean, I think I need to tell you a few things.”
“About the murder?”
Maura would swear that he looked disappointed, and she realized that discussing murder was not exactly the best thing to do on a first date with a guy who liked you. “Possibly. Look, it can wait. I don’t want to spoil the evening.”
“You mean you didn’t say yes to this date just so you could worm information out of me?” He was smiling, but his eyes were cautious.
“No!” Maura protested quickly. “Really. It has to do with Althea Melville. I kinda wish she’d never walked into Sullivan’s and decided I was her new best friend—or at least, that I could be useful to her. And then I made the mistake of dragging Gillian into it, and then Althea messed things up with Harry . . .”
“Hold on. I’ve lost the thread here,” Sean said. “I understand where Althea comes into it—she’s here to look for a painting at the manor.”
“Right, and you brought her in for questioning right away, because she arrived just about the time Seamus died. Not that you can seriously believe she killed a gardener she had never met.”
“I can’t say.” Official Garda Murphy was back on duty.
“Okay, okay, I get it.”
“How did Gillian Callanan become inv
olved?”
“You know her?”
“I do. She was at school with my older sister.”
“Oh, right, she told me that she’d grown up here. Well, here’s the story: Althea was hunting for that painting and she tried to get in through the front door of the manor, as you know, and was turned away by Florence O’Brien. But she’s determined, so when Harry Townsend showed up, she made a play for him, and it worked to get her into the house. Then Miss Eveline came upon her by accident and found her wearing not much and pitched a fit, and Florence threw her out again, so now she’s definitely not welcome in the house. So Althea enlisted me and Gillian to do her snooping for her. Gillian wasn’t sure about helping her at first, but then she figured if things worked out it would be good for Harry and his great-aunt, so she agreed. And yesterday we did get in, with Harry, and we did find the painting.”
Sean’s expression had changed several times during Maura’s explanation, and now he looked as though he was trying not to laugh. “Take a breath, will you, now, Maura?”
“What’s so funny?”
“I’m trying to imagine how to write this up in a report! So the painting’s been found, has it? That’s news to me. Is it what Althea was looking for?”
“Seems to be, though Althea hasn’t seen the painting because Harry won’t let her back in the house, but Gillian showed her some photos. Now we’re looking for any kind of records for it.”
“We?”
“Harry, Gillian, and me, although I’m not much help.” Maura paused to gather her thoughts. “Oh, and there’s one more thing that might help you.”
“And that would be?”
“The room where we found the painting? Everything was covered with dust. Thick dust. Clearly, no one’s gone in there for a very long time. So if Seamus Daly’s death had anything to do with the painting, whoever killed him was never in that room, and he couldn’t have seen the painting from outside because all the curtains were closed tight.”
Sean brightened at that. “That’s worth knowing. You’ve a good eye for detail, Maura.”
Maura was startled by the compliment. “Sean, I really don’t think Althea had anything to do with this death. Any other suspects?”
“That I will not tell you, Maura.” Sean’s phone buzzed in his pocket. “Sorry, I have to take this—with so few officers, we’re always on call.” He stood up and walked toward the window, keeping his back toward their table, as he spoke briefly on his phone. He returned quickly. “There’s been a report of shots fired at Mycroft House, and I’ve got to go check it out. I’ll drop you back at Sullivan’s on the way.”
“All right.” What was going on at Mycroft House? There were questions she wanted to ask, but this was not the time. Sean was all business now. No doubt someone at Sullivan’s would fill her in quickly enough. Maura retrieved her bag from under the table. Sean located Marie and spoke briefly to her about the check, though she waved him away. Maura stood awkwardly by the door until he joined her.
“Sorry about this,” he said.
“I understand.” At least she didn’t have to worry about an awkward ending for this date—did he expect a good-night kiss? Moot now. Would there be other dates? She was surprised to realize she might like that.
After they retrieved his car, Sean drove silently back to Leap and deposited her in front of Sullivan’s. She climbed out quickly, but before shutting the passenger door she leaned in and said, “If you can, come tell me what happened. I’ll be here until close.”
He smiled briefly. “If I can, I will. Got to go.” Maura shut the door, and Sean pulled onto the road, toward the drive for Mycroft House.
Chapter 17
Rose was gone when Maura walked into Sullivan’s, so she didn’t have to tell her all about her “date.” Had she blown it with Sean? A guy asks her for dinner and she ends up pumping him about police procedures? No one had ever called her romantic, but this might’ve been going too far.
“You’re back early,” Mick said. “Everything okay?”
“Fine and dandy,” Maura said. “Nice guy, nice restaurant, nice time. I’m back early because Sean got a call from the station and had to leave—something about shots heard at the manor.”
Mick’s mouth twitched. “Glad to hear you enjoyed your dinner. We’ve had no reports here of trouble.”
“Wow, you mean the grapevine doesn’t pick up everything as soon as it happens?”
“I’m sure we’ll know soon enough,” he said and went back to pulling pints.
Mick was proved right no more than a half hour later, when someone Maura didn’t recognize came in and asked for a pint. Leaning on the bar while he waited for it, he said, “A bit of trouble up at the manor.”
“And how would you know about that?” Maura said, keeping an eye on the pint she was pouring.
The man settled himself on a bar stool. “Sure and I was driving along the Union Hall road, with me windows open to the wind, and I hear a ‘boom.’ Or maybe it was more a ‘bang.’” He stopped, searching his mind for the memory.
“And?” Maura prompted, setting the glass aside to settle.
He leaned his forearms on the bar. “And I think to myself, that sounds for all the world like a shotgun. Now, who would be firing off a shotgun at the manor this late hour? I wondered.”
“A good question,” Maura said, although she had no idea how unusual this might be.
“Who indeed?” another man chimed in, coming up behind him.
“There was nowhere else it could have come from except the manor?” Maura asked. “What about the other side of the road?”
“It’s all rock there, now, isn’t it? Not a house for a mile or more.”
“So what did you do?” the second man asked.
“I was near to Union Hall when I decided it might be right to let someone know, given the trouble they’ve had up at the manor lately, so I pulled up and called the gardaí.”
“Did you, now? And did they laugh at you?” the second man said, clearly incredulous.
“No, they said they’d send a man over, to see if there was any trouble. Since there’s already been one death there of late.”
And that would be Sean, Maura thought as she topped off the pint and slid it across the bar to the man telling the story.
“Ta,” he said and slid a few euro back, then he and his companion found themselves seats across the room.
Mick looked at Maura. “Sean?” he said. Maura nodded.
It was close to closing time when Sean came in. The crowd had thinned, and Maura was wondering whether it was worth staying open, when he walked through the door and scanned the room. He smiled when he saw her, and crossed to the bar.
“How are yeh, Maura?” he asked.
“I’m grand, Sean,” she said—at least she’d figured out the right local greeting. “Are you here to tell us about the gunshots at the manor? Because we’ve already heard several versions from the guys who were in here earlier.”
Sean sighed. “I’m off duty now, so I’ll take a glass of the black stuff, if you don’t mind. I’m not supposed to talk about these things, as I told you. But so far we have no evidence of a crime, apart from an unlicensed firearm.”
Maura started his glass. “So there was a shot at Mycroft House.”
“There was,” Sean said. “Tom O’Brien fired a shotgun at what he thought was a prowler. He said he’s been feeling nervous after what happened to Seamus, and it was getting dark . . . he admitted he could have been wrong.”
“Did anyone break in?”
“Not that he could tell. If so, this person was on his way out, not coming in, when Tom fired.”
“Did he think it could be a woman?” Maura’s mind went straight to Althea. She couldn’t be that stupid. Could she?
“It was dusk, and his eyes aren’t what they once were.”
“Did he hit anything?”
“He says he fired as a warning only.” Sean accepted the glass Maura handed him and peered into
its foamy depths.
Was he avoiding her eyes? “But?”
“I took a look outside, where he said he’d seen something. There was blood.”
“Oh, my God!” That wasn’t good. “A little or a lot?”
“Not much. If he hit someone, they walked away. Of course, it could well have been a stray dog.”
“What now?” And what if it was Althea? Not that she really believed that, but still . . .
“I file a report.”
“Is it illegal to fire a shotgun around here? I mean, I don’t know anything about who’s allowed to do what, or gun registration, or all that.” She hadn’t known much about it in Boston either, although she had known people who carried firearms there, legally or otherwise. Here, not even the cops carried guns.
“Our laws are fairly strict. Most civilian firearms in the country are shotguns and hunting rifles. The shotgun Tom fired belonged to Harry’s father, and nobody’d given it a thought until after Seamus’s death, when Tom pulled it out and made sure it was in good order.”
“So the short answer is, it’s not licensed to anyone.”
“That’s right.”
“What happens now?” Maura ignored Mick, who was watching her exchange with Sean with a half smile.
“I’ve told him to register it or get rid of it. The chief superintendent has to issue any certificates, and Tom’d have to show a good reason for having it.”
“What about whoever he might have shot?”
Sean took a long drink from his pint, then pushed back his stool to look at her. “And why would you be so concerned?”
“What if it’s Seamus’s killer, come back to look for the picture again?”
“Then he’s not very smart. Maybe he thought no one would be looking out for him at the manor now, but they’re all on edge there. Possible the fella’s been hit badly and has crawled off to die somewhere, though that’s unlikely, given the relatively small amount of blood. More like, he’s only been hit by a few pellets and might get by with some sticking plasters, which he could buy any number of places.”
“What if the injury was somewhere in between, and needs stitches?”
Scandal in Skibbereen (A County Cork Mystery) Page 15