Scandal in Skibbereen (A County Cork Mystery) Read online

  Chapter 21

  That simple statement met with stunned silence, even from Althea, who stared goggle-eyed at the elderly nun. Sister Benedicta returned her gaze calmly and finally smiled. “Yes, even in those days—you modern women, you think you’ve invented something new? Although it seems that more and more of you are skipping the marriage part these days and just having the babies. But in Ireland back then, it was a serious thing. As for Jane, I’d almost guessed it by then. I knew she was hiding something, and it had to be important. But she wasn’t keeping company with anyone from the village—that’s hard to keep secret in a small place. So it had to be someone at the house. She didn’t want to tell who. But I kept asking and asking, and then I went up to the house to see her one day.”

  Sister Benedicta paused and looked at each of them in turn. “You know, it must be hard for your generation to understand what the world was like then. And in some ways, Ireland was still in an earlier time—and there was such a big difference between the rich people like the Townsends and people like us, poor farmers. Almost medieval, looking back at it now. I hear a lot of things have changed, and change is coming faster and faster. But not for me . . . Where was I?”

  Althea said, surprisingly gently, “You went to see Jane at Mycroft House?”

  “Ah, yes. Well, I knew she wasn’t supposed to have visitors, except on her free days, which weren’t very often, so I sneaked onto the grounds and I was going to come in by the kitchen at the back. But I came upon Jane before I got there—and she was with Richard Townsend. And after that, I made her tell me what was going on, although I guessed a good bit of it.” She cocked her head at them. “Tell me, you know this young Harry? What kind of a man is he?”

  Gillian looked at the others and answered, “I know him fairly well—and I think I know what you’re asking. He’s good-looking and knows it. Smart enough, and he’s looking out for his great-aunt Eveline, which is sweet of him.”

  “And I’m guessing that he can lay on the charm thick as Irish butter.”

  Gillian laughed. “That’s a good way of putting it—and yes, he does.”

  “The Townsend men were always like that. Oh, not that they were bad sorts, really. And Richard was a decent man. He wasn’t much older than Jane, maybe twenty, and had spent some time at university, but he was home for the summer, getting ready to leave to join an English regiment. He was the third son, if I recall—his eldest brother was already married, and there was another one after him, before Richard. And Jane was lovely, fresh and sunny. I suppose you’d have to say they fell in love. Certainly they believed they were in love. I think Richard did love her—he wasn’t just having a bit of summer fun before he went off to war. When I saw them together, they sort of glowed. But there was nothing they could do. Richard had no money of his own, and his family would not have welcomed his marriage to their maid. Fair they might have been, and good employers, but there they would have drawn the line.”

  Sister Benedicta sighed. “So I saw them together when I came looking for Jane. I remember I envied them—I was sixteen myself. Ah, well, that was a long time ago. And seeing how things turned out, maybe I was wrong to envy them.”

  “What happened?” Maura asked quietly, although by now she thought she could guess.

  “Well, Jane decided she had to leave, and she wrote to Mary Margaret. Again—you young things don’t know what it was like to have a baby with no father about, in those days. Not that it didn’t happen, but it wasn’t easy for the girl. And if she’d stayed, it might have made trouble for Richard with his family. So she decided she had to go, and she told him. He didn’t want her to go, and what was worse, he couldn’t help her, because he had no money to give her. And that’s where the painting came in. Seeing as he couldn’t give her money, he thought she could take the little painting with her and sell it in America—it would be small enough to carry, and he said it would be worth more there, and easier to sell. Have you seen the painting?”

  “Yes, I have—it’s lovely,” Althea said.

  “And it’s the image of Richard Townsend. Jane slipped me up to her room and showed it to me, just before she left, when I worried about how she’d get on in New York.”

  “Jane’s Richard?” Gillian said. “Well, the family breeds true, because it’s a grand likeness of Harry as well.”

  “And here you all are, because of it, it seems. So, Jane left her post and took off for America. She’d saved up for passage, and Mary Margaret sent a bit as well. Off she went, not two months after she first decided. I don’t know how she managed it, with the war on in the Atlantic—whether Richard could find a way for her or whether she went by way of Canada. And then Mary Margaret wrote that she’d had a baby, young Joseph. First time she’d made any mention of expecting a child.” Sister Benedicta paused and looked at them, as if daring them to comment.

  Maura looked squarely at the sister, since Althea seemed to have lost her tongue at this latest revelation or was busy working out the details in her own mind. “You’re saying that Mary Margaret claimed Jane’s child as her own?”

  “I am,” Sister Benedicta said. “And they lived by that story. Mary Margaret never had another child, you know—and we never asked why. But I know that she and Jane, they drifted apart. Maybe it was too hard on Jane, watching the boy grow up, looking so much like her Richard—I saw the photos Mary Margaret used to send. Or maybe Mary Margaret held it over her—she always had a mean streak. I never had a letter from Jane after she left. I guess she didn’t want me asking any more questions.” She lapsed into silence.

  Althea spoke carefully. “I know a bit more, but it’s kind of sad, I guess. Jane never sold the painting. She kept it, in an old suitcase, probably the one she came to America with. She never married, and she worked all her life. You’re saying that Joseph Ryan was her son. Well, Joseph married, and he had a daughter, Dorothy, the one who inherited the painting. The only time she remembered seeing Jane was at her grandmother’s—Mary Margaret’s—funeral. So you’re saying that Dorothy’s real grandmother was living right there in the same city, and she never knew it? Jane left the painting to her without ever explaining anything, and it was too late to ask Mary Margaret.”

  “Would that painting be worth much?” the nun asked.

  Althea shrugged. “Quite a bit now, probably. But I think Dorothy needs to hear the story first, before she decides what to do with the painting. Don’t you?”

  That’s new, Maura thought with surprise. Although Althea probably had an endgame in mind—like bringing this information to Dorothy might make Dorothy more willing to do what Althea wanted.

  Sister Benedicta was looking at some spot beyond them all, or maybe she was looking into her own memories. “I don’t know,” she said slowly. “It was so long ago. Does it matter to anyone now?”

  Would Althea want to go over all the details? Maura worried. Some old nun’s tale about the gift probably wouldn’t carry much weight at the museum. At the very least Althea would want Sister Benedicta to make some kind of legal statement, and Maura hated the idea of putting the old nun through something like that. Maybe social conventions had changed, but what had happened in the 1940s had been distressing then, and the sister had kept her own sister’s secret for a very long time. Would she want it made public? Maura needed to talk to Althea about all this, even if it meant dragging her bodily out of the room, before she started browbeating Sister Benedicta.

  But then Maura realized there was another angle that could help. “You know, Sister, Dorothy never knew her grandmother, but you’re a relative too, and you knew Jane. Wouldn’t you like to be able to meet her?”

  The nun was silent for a few long moments. Then she said, “Perhaps you should tell her the story and let her make the choice. God willing, I’ll still be here. Most of our family lives past eighty, easy—and two of my brothers are still alive, although not around here any longer. She has more family than she knows.” She sat up a bit straighter in her chair. “Well, now, t
hat’s what I know. I hadn’t thought about all that for years. How strange to think that the story goes on and has brought you here after all these years. I hope I’ve been able to help you.”

  Althea was out of her seat before Maura or Gillian could answer. She grasped Sister Benedicta’s papery hands between her own. “You have, believe me. I never thought I’d be lucky enough to get this kind of information. Thank you!” Her statement left Maura wondering if maybe Althea was learning something from Ireland.

  “You’re welcome. And thank you for coming to me with this story. It may sadden me, but I’m glad to know what happened.”

  They left Sister Benedicta sitting in her chair, staring out the window. Remembering? Althea was barely out of earshot of the room when she started burbling, “Can you believe it? What an angle! Star-crossed lovers, a farewell gift, a woman who refused to part with it—kind of O. Henry, you know? Shoot, I wish I’d recorded it. I’ll have to come back . . .”

  “Leave Sister Benedicta be,” Gillian said. “She’s not young, and she’s told us all she knows. Telling it officially, if that’s what you need, she may not be willing to do. If you want proof that might stand up in court, maybe Harry can confirm what she’s told us. Or Eveline. I wonder how much she knew . . .”

  Thwarted in her first idea, Althea seized on Gillian’s last. “Eveline! Of course, we have to talk with her. Do you think she’ll talk to me now?”

  “No! Althea, she didn’t want to see you after she learned you were carrying on with her beloved Harry and running around the halls bare-bottomed. Why in heaven’s name do you think she’s going to share anything about her brother’s dalliance with the maid?”

  Althea would not be stopped. “Then can you talk to Eveline? Please? I know you’re more tactful than I am. You can bring up brother Richard, say how much Harry looks like him, and see what she comes up with. Maybe she’s not as dotty as you think. Wait—does she even know about the painting? What it might be worth?”

  “I can’t say,” Gillian said. “Harry hasn’t wanted to bother her about things like the state of her finances, but she has little or no money left, so he’s been carrying the costs. It’s not clear whether or not he has the right to sell the painting now, in any case—he’d have to check the terms of his grandfather’s will and how he left things for Eveline. So I’m betting that he hasn’t spoken to her about it and he’s waiting to see how things fall out. It’s not as simple as you’d like.”

  Gillian fell silent for the trip back to Leap until she pulled over in front of Sullivan’s. “You should get to work, right, Maura?”

  “I should,” Maura agreed reluctantly. In spite of herself she was getting caught up in the story of Jane and Richard and whatever had happened some seventy years earlier. Had Old Billy known something, or guessed? Was that why he had sent them to talk to Bridget Nolan? She was amazed once again at how long memories were in Ireland, even for something as vague as a rumor of some family trouble. Of course, if the Townsends were the local lords, so to speak, all of their activities would have been closely watched.

  “Come on in,” she finally said. “I’ll see how busy it is, and you two can work out what to do next. Do you want to bring Harry into it?”

  “I think we must,” Gillian said. “Althea, let’s talk.”

  Inside Maura counted heads: the pub was moderately busy, for a Wednesday afternoon.

  “Ah, there you are, at long last. Decided to grace us with your presence?” Jimmy Sweeney said.

  “I told you I’d be in late, Jimmy. Doesn’t look like you’re overworked. Anything going on that I need to know about?”

  “It’s all well in hand,” Jimmy said. “You go chat with your girlfriends there.”

  Maura debated about saying something about his tone but decided she didn’t want to get into it right now. It would keep, though it soured her mood. Maura stalked over to the table where Althea and Gillian were sitting. “Can I get you anything?”

  Gillian looked past Maura at Jimmy. “Problems?” she said in a low voice.

  “No. Just Jimmy being Jimmy. Drinks?”

  “Coffee for me,” Gillian said. “Althea?”

  “Yeah, sure, fine, whatever. Can we get moving here?”

  Maura left Gillian to clamp down on Althea’s impatience while she went to prepare the coffees. Rose emerged from the back room. “Ah, Maura, there you are,” she said. “All’s well?”

  At least Rose meant her question kindly, unlike her father. “Just fine, Rose. We visited a nunnery.”

  “Really, now? They’re still around?”

  “They are. I’ll tell you about it later. Although I’m not sure how much later—we’ve still got a couple of things to work out. Sean hasn’t stopped by, has he?”

  “Officer Sean? And why would he do that?” Rose dimpled.

  “I wondered if he’d come up with anything new about Seamus Daly’s death. That’s all.”

  “No sign of the man,” Rose said cheerfully. “Maybe you should call him and ask. About the murder, I mean.”

  “Right,” Maura muttered. She collected the coffees and joined Althea and Gillian at their table. “What’ve you got?”

  “Much as I hate to say it,” Gillian began, “I think we do need to bring Harry in now.”

  “Hey, I’ve said I’m sorry,” Althea protested. “I’m not going to crawl all over him. He’s yours if you want him.”

  “You’re too kind,” Gillian drawled, and it took Althea a moment to realize that she was being sarcastic.

  “Quit with the catfight, okay?” Maura said. “You can work that out later. Rose wondered if we should talk to Sean too, and I think she’s right. I already told him that we found the painting at the manor, and now we can add the story about Jane and Richard Townsend.”

  “And that connects to the gardener’s murder how?” Althea asked.

  “Dunno, but at least we’ve got a few facts. Let’s give them to Sean and let him figure it out. Okay? We’re not hiding anything, unless an ‘oops’ baby seventy years ago matters to anyone now.”

  “It might matter to Eveline,” Gillian said softly.

  “Then let Harry decide what to tell her or not tell her—we sure don’t have to. Call him,” Maura said.

  “And you call Sean,” Gillian shot back.

  “Meet here? ASAP?”

  “Where else?”

  Chapter 22

  Sean arrived first, in uniform and all business, and Maura went to meet him at the door, avoiding Rose’s amused look. “Thanks for coming,” Maura said.

  “You told me it had to do with Seamus Daly’s death?”

  “It does. It’s not exactly evidence, but it could help explain some of what is going on. Do you have anything new?”

  Sean took a step back onto the sidewalk, and Maura followed him. “I shouldn’t be telling you this, and don’t spread it to those two.” He looked toward the corner inside where Gillian and Althea were sitting. “The fewer who know, the better off we’ll be.”

  So why is he telling me? Maura wondered. “All right. What’ve you got?”

  “We’ve had the results of the postmortem. Seamus Daly was killed by a blow to the head, but it didn’t come from the shovel.”

  That was unexpected. “So what was he hit with?” Maura asked.

  “Something heavy, more square than flat, which rules out the shovel.”

  Maura thought for a moment. “Does that mean he wasn’t killed out on the lawn either?”

  “The postmortem wouldn’t tell us that, but I wondered that there was so little blood where he was found, outside.”

  “So the shovel was used to make it look like he was killed outside of the house?”

  “Could be,” Sean said.

  This was definitely disturbing. “Now what do you do? If he wasn’t hit outside, then you have to look inside the house? Or what if he wasn’t even killed there, but somewhere else altogether?”

  Sean seemed amused by her response. “Let’s not get
ahead of ourselves here. Seamus seldom left the grounds, so it’s good odds that he was killed there, inside or out. It does mean that we have to take a harder look at other parts of the place.”

  “You’ve got crime scene guys for that?”

  “Yeah, but they’d be coming from Dublin, and we can’t just call them in to look ‘everywhere,’ not without a bit more to tell them.”

  “It’s been nearly a week, Sean. And wouldn’t the O’Briens have noticed a pool of blood that first day?” And hadn’t Tom O’Brien said something to her about seeing Seamus lying in his own blood? But, she recalled, he hadn’t said where.

  “Look, Maura, I’ve already said more than I should. I’ll have to talk to the O’Briens again, or maybe my sergeant will. Sure, if Seamus was killed inside the house, there could be more evidence to be found, for all that it’s been a few days. But you know there aren’t many people who could have done it. One of them would be Gillian’s friend Harry.”