Scandal in Skibbereen (A County Cork Mystery) Page 14

  He held up his hands in surrender. “Sorry, you’re right. I’m only half awake. I’ll see if they’re in the kitchen.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Maura said, although she wasn’t quite sure why. To make sure that Harry didn’t make things worse?

  When they arrived at the kitchen, Maura saw Florence O’Brien and a man she didn’t recognize sitting at the kitchen table, with mugs of tea in front of them. They stood up quickly when Harry walked in.

  “Tom, have you met Maura Donovan?” Harry asked. “She’s the new owner of Sullivan’s, in the village.”

  “Florence mentioned her. Fáilte, Miss Donovan.”

  “Maura, please. It’s good to meet you.”

  “Did you want something, Harry?” Florence said, effectively cutting off the pleasantries. “Will you and yer guests be stayin’ for dinner?”

  “No, don’t worry about us, Florence,” Harry said. “I wanted to alert you that we’ll be poking around in the attic, so don’t worry if you hear a lot of noises. No ghosts or burglars.”

  “Thank you fer lettin’ me know. But it’s no doubt a right mess up there, with dust everywhere.”

  Harry smiled, turning on the charm. “Don’t worry yourself, Florence. I promise we won’t track ancient dust on your nice clean floors.”

  “Right, then,” Florence said, smiling grudgingly. Tom silently raised a hand as they left.

  He led Maura back to the dim entrance hall, where they rejoined Gillian, then all three headed up a set of stairs toward the back. On the second floor he stopped in front of a door, pulling a ring laden with keys from his pocket. “I warn you, it’s pretty dark and dusty up there. There’s electric light, if you count one bulb about every twenty feet, but it won’t be much to see by. Let me see if I can find some torches or rig up something. Wait here a moment.” He disappeared the way they had come, presumably in search of flashlights.

  Gillian looked at Maura. “Shall we say a prayer to St. Anthony, patron saint of lost things?”

  Maura shrugged. “If you say so. What’re the odds of finding what we’re looking for?”

  “Not so bad, now that we know the records should exist. As you may have noticed, the Townsends never threw anything away. I’ll wager the attic is full of stuff—as are the cellars. Now and again, Harry stumbles on some really nice wine left in a dark corner. You never know.”

  “Ready, ladies?” Harry stood before them, armed with not only flashlights but also lamps with long electrical cords. He held one up. “Borrowed these from Tom.”

  “Lead on, sir,” Gillian said.

  Harry unlocked the door. On the other side, a flight of narrow wooden stairs led up into darkness. Harry turned a knob on a ceramic base attached to the wall, and a feeble light drifted down from above.

  “Ah, it works. I wasn’t sure it still would.” He handed each of the women a flashlight, then led the way up. As they mounted the stairs, the air grew increasingly hot and stuffy, and Maura guessed that the old slate of the roof had held in the heat. There were partitions that broke up the rambling expanse of attic, but the ceiling rafters were exposed, with nothing like insulation. So this was what the bones of a seventeenth-century building looked like? She reached out to lay her hand on a rafter. It was darkened and twisted with age, but it felt hard, almost sinewy. Plainly this building had been built to last—and it had.

  “Coming?” Harry and Gillian were waiting some twenty feet away, and Maura hurried to catch up with them. Harry stopped before another cubicle, this one with a door. It was padlocked, and even the lock looked antique. Harry searched through his keys, then found one that would open the lock. He pushed the door inward and stepped back so Maura and Gillian could look.

  It took Maura a moment before her eyes adjusted to the dim light: there was no lighting within the cubicle, only the reflected light from the string of bare lightbulbs that ran along the roof spine. The small room looked to be about fifteen feet on each side, and the perimeter was stacked with wooden crates, a few chests, and piles of large books—nothing as modern as a cardboard box. Unfortunately there looked to be few, if any, labels on anything. They were going to have to go through the boxes one at a time.

  “Where should we even start?” Gillian said, looking around the room in dismay.

  “Depends on what we’re looking for,” Harry said.

  Gillian took a deep breath. “Best case, if I understand what Althea told me, is a bill of sale presented by Anthony Van Dyck to Richard Townsend or his representative, dated between 1632, when he was appointed court painter to King Charles the First of England, and 1641, when he died. Richard would have been around twenty, which looks right for the painting.” When the others gaped at her, Gillian said, “I wrote it down, all right? If the document’s not in English, look for anything that resembles ‘Van Dyck’—I have no idea what language they used then. Second best, a household account book of some sort from the same era listing a payment to the painter Van Dyck—that would be in English, even if the handwriting is tricky. But I’d settle for an inventory, from any era, that identifies specific paintings and calls one a Van Dyck, not just ‘large painting of the earl.’ Or a will, if it’s itemized or includes an inventory. I don’t know enough about either Irish or English history to know if there were such things as property taxes or assessments, particularly on things other than land. But we’ve got to start somewhere.”

  Gillian surveyed the room. “Can we pull a couple of these crates together to make a table or something flat we can put books on? God, I wish we had more time to prepare for this—I’m really shooting in the dark—but Althea wants this ASAP. It’s a shame we can’t do a proper inventory of all this. There must be some really interesting documents in here somewhere.”

  Harry laughed. “Ah, no mind—if we can prove the painting is authentic and sell it, I’ll hire an archivist, I promise you. How’s that?”

  The three of them separated and began to prowl around the room, prying off box lids and trying to determine which crates held the earliest materials. It was, as Harry had warned, both dark and dusty—and hot. Maura found quickly that the leather bindings of very old books tended to shed when touched, so her hands were soon covered with reddish powder that looked disconcertingly like dried blood. She wished she had any idea what she was looking for; her concept of an old book, as compared to a really old book, was unfortunately pretty sketchy. And heaven help them if the oldest ones had been rebound by some thoughtful later Townsend and now looked like merely middle-aged books. She sighed and moved on to the next box in her row.

  Gillian called out from across the room, “Here’s an old batch. Come look.” Maura and Harry joined her. Gillian had pulled out a volume that was over two feet tall, and when she opened it Maura could see its pages were covered in spidery brown writing. She guessed it was an account book of some sort, with columns of figures at the right of each page. She searched for a date and was disappointed to find the page was headed “1754”: old but still more than a century later than the papers they were looking for.

  “Let’s put that aside and look at it more carefully later,” Gillian suggested. “It’s the right kind of thing—day-to-day operations of the estate—but too late for the original painting. But it still might list the thing, so let’s put it in the ‘maybe’ pile in the middle and work through the whole lot first, before we start reading individual books.”

  Two hours later Gillian stretched and announced, “Hey, I’m good for another few hours, but I’m parched. I need to drink something to wash this dust down. Harry, anything on ice?”

  “I think there’s some cans of lager, down in the kitchen.”

  “Be a love and fetch us a couple, will you?” Gillian said.

  Harry made a mock bow and clattered down the stairs, tossing a final comment over his shoulder. “If I’m not back in an hour, send out a search party.”

  “Will do.”

  Maura noticed how much dust they had stirred up, as the motes danced in t
he wavering light of the old bulbs. She too was tired, thirsty, and filthy. She suddenly realized that she would need a shower before heading back to work—not to mention her date that evening. “How much longer do you think this will take?”

  Gillian surveyed the mess. “I think we’ve collected all the books from the right time period. But we need to go through them page by page. Do you have to go soon?”

  “I guess so. I hate to leave you with all of this, but I need to get cleaned up.” There were still many piles of old volumes and loose papers that had to be looked at.

  “Don’t worry about it. I think Harry’s gotten into it, and I can use his help, since he knows the estate.”

  Harry came up the stairs, carrying three oversized cans. “Here you go, ladies.”

  “Keep them away from the documents,” Gillian cautioned. “It wouldn’t do to spill beer on them after they’ve been safe for the last three centuries.”

  Harry looked around. “Can we get through all this today?”

  “Doubtful,” Gillian told him. “Why don’t we assemble all the likely candidates, then set them aside and read them tomorrow? Maura needs to be on her way, anyway, and I’m going cross-eyed trying to read in this light.”

  “We can keep looking if we use the dining room,” Harry suggested. “The table there seats a dozen, without adding the extra leaves.”

  “Thanks, Harry. That sounds ideal. Maura, why don’t I run you into Leap while Harry hauls this lot downstairs?”

  “Sure. Can I help carry something?”

  “We’ll take care of it. I’d hate to muddle up what little order we’ve established. I’ll be back in a short while, Harry.”

  Maura followed Gillian down the stairs and out the front once again. Daylight confirmed that she was caked with filth and a few spiderwebs; so was Gillian. “Drop me at my car, will you? I’m going home to clean up.”

  Gillian looked at her and laughed. “An excellent idea. And I’ll stop by Sullivan’s later and tell you if we’ve found anything.”

  They climbed into Gillian’s car. “What do you think, now that you’ve seen the stuff?” Maura asked.

  “I’m more hopeful than I was when we started. I hadn’t realized how interesting this stuff is, especially if you know the area the books tell about. I’d love to come back to it, after we’ve satisfied Althea.”

  “If you say so,” Maura said. She had learned quickly that she wasn’t very interested in old things, or at least, not just because they were old.

  It took them only three minutes to reach the pub, and Maura went straight to her car, then home to scrub off the dirt of three centuries. After her shower she considered her options: wear her “good” clothes all day at the pub or wear her usual jeans and shirt and bring her date clothes to change into later? The latter, she decided. No need to advertise to the entire population of West Cork that she was going on a date—as if they didn’t already know.

  She arrived at Sullivan’s at three and glared at Mick and Jimmy as if daring them to make a comment about her whereabouts—gadding about the manor house while they were working. Then she sighed inwardly: sure, she was the boss and she had every right to take time off if she wanted to. But at the same time, she had to set a good example for her staff. She was still finding out that management was a challenge. Rose winked at her but said nothing.

  Althea stayed away, which was a relief. Maybe Gillian had called her to report on their progress at the manor. Certainly Maura had nothing to add. Yes, they’d found old books and files. No, she didn’t know what was in them, how long it would take to figure that out, or whether there was anything that might relate to the painting. Maura knew that Althea must have chewed her nails to the knuckles, waiting. Or maybe not: Althea had one serious manicure, and she’d probably paid good money for it. Maura looked at her own short, ragged nails, with some dirt still embedded even after her shower and a good scrub, and grimaced.

  At six thirty Maura grabbed her bag and went into the ladies’ room to change. It didn’t take long: she had only to swap one shirt for another, and her jeans for her black trousers. No makeup—she hated the fuss. She finger-combed her hair and, thinking of Rose’s comment, tried to remember the last time she’d had it cut—and then she remembered: her gran had trimmed it, a couple of weeks before she’d gone into the hospital that last time. Maura stared at herself in the cloudy bathroom mirror, tears suddenly in her eyes. What am I doing, Gran?

  Impatiently she scrubbed the tears from her face, splashing water on it. Gran had sent her here, but Gran hadn’t been to Leap or Knockskagh or Skibbereen for a very long time, and there was much she wouldn’t recognize. She would have trusted Maura to make her own decisions and find her own way. Wouldn’t she?

  Maura straightened her new teal sweater and went back to the bar to wait for Sean Murphy.

  Chapter 16

  Maura almost didn’t recognize Sean when he walked in, and it was only Mick’s nudge that made her look again. She realized she had never seen Sean without his garda uniform. In ordinary clothes he looked . . . ordinary. But nice. And at the moment he looked nervous.

  Sean took in the whole of the room—habit? Maura wondered—then his face lit up when he saw her behind the bar. After greeting Mick and Rose, he said to her, “Are yeh ready to go, Maura?”

  “Sure. Just let me grab my bag.”

  Outside he led her to a battered small car, but at least it was newer than her own, which was actually a hand-me-down from Bridget Nolan’s late husband. Sean courteously opened the passenger door and waited until she was settled in the seat before closing it. When he climbed in the other side he said, “Seat belt,” then he blushed. “Sorry—but it is the law here.”

  “No problem,” Maura said. “I always wear mine anyway. After . . . you know.” She didn’t have to mention the accident on the hill to Sean, who’d been the one to come to her rescue, after all.

  “But that didn’t put you off driving?” he asked, starting the car.

  “Do I have a choice? If I don’t drive, I’d have to walk everywhere, and even that’s not safe, since the lanes are so narrow. If I meet anyone on the road, I’d have to climb into the hedgerow.”

  “There is that. Are you still borrowing the same car?”

  “Yes.” She looked at him, trying to guess at his interest. “Is that a problem?”

  “No, not at all, as long as Bridget Nolan has kept up the paperwork.”

  “I think Mick takes care of all that. So, where are we going?”

  “There’s a nice restaurant on Bridge Street in Skib—I know a couple of the managers there. Small, not too fancy, but the food’s great.”

  Maura’s experience with eating in nice restaurants was limited, and she wasn’t sure what she would consider “great” food, so she’d have to trust Sean’s judgment.

  “How long is it you’ve been here now?” Sean asked, skillfully navigating the roundabout.

  “Uh . . . three months? I arrived in March.”

  “And are you settling in well?”

  “I guess. I don’t have much to compare it to, since I lived all my life in the same place.”

  “With your gran, was it?”

  “Yes. In South Boston. Have you ever been to America?”

  “I have not. I joined the gardaí as soon as I left school.”

  “Do you just apply for that?”

  “You have to have certain grades in your Leaving Certificate—that’s what you get when you’ve finished your secondary schooling and passed the tests—including in two languages, one of them being Irish, with an oral test for that.”

  “I’m impressed,” Maura said. “Can you actually speak Irish?”

  “Not well, but there’s little call for it. My other language was German, since there are a good number of blow-ins from there in Cork, but I’m no better at that than the Irish.” He followed the road that looped around the town center, pulling into the parking lot behind the market. “Do you mind walking from here?”


  “Of course not,” Maura said. Out of the car, they followed a path along the small stream toward the main street. “So after you apply and you’re accepted, then what?”

  “You’re sent to the Garda College for training, and then you spend half a year at different stations. Then you’re attached to a station, and then there’s a probation period, for another two years.”

  “Do you get to choose your station?”

  “Not always, but you can make a request.”

  “Is this where you wanted to be?”

  “It is. I come from here.” He stopped in front of a small restaurant the width of a single storefront, facing the main street. “We’ve arrived.”

  Inside it smelled wonderful, even to Maura’s uneducated nose. Sean waved to a woman in a simple black dress, clutching a stack of menus, and she came over quickly. They exchanged a familiar if hurried hug. “Sean, good to see you! It’s been too long.”

  “The work keeps me busy. We’re always shorthanded these days. Marie, this is Maura—she’s just moved to Leap, to take over Sullivan’s.”

  “Fáilte romhat a Mhaire! Me da loves that place, although he says it’s not what it once was, this past couple of years. But then, he says that about a good number of things. How’s the business now?”

  “Picking up a bit, now that it’s summer. Tell your father I’ve been cleaning up Old Mick’s messes since I got here.”

  Marie laughed. “I’ll do that, and I’m sure he’ll have to go in to see for himself. American, are you?”

  “Yes. From Boston.”

  “Well, welcome. It’s good to meet a friend of Sean’s. Where’ll you sit, Sean? You’ve plenty of choices.” Only half the tables were occupied.

  “Could we sit round the corner, near the window? Maura, you can watch the kitchen from there, without all the noise.”

  “That sounds good,” Maura said cautiously. Did she want to watch the kitchen? Sean seemed to think it would be a treat.