Scandal in Skibbereen (A County Cork Mystery) Read online

  “You really think she’s working with somebody? Like Nate, maybe? It would make sense—she gets the glory of discovering the painting, and when the exhibit is over, Nate sells it at the auction house for big bucks. Everybody wins.”

  “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” Gillian agreed. “But as you may have noticed, Althea doesn’t play well with others. She likes to be in control. She wanted to be the one to find the thing, which is why she kept the trip to Ireland a secret from Nate rather than sharing the work. And the credit.”

  “I know what you mean,” Maura said, laughing.

  Gillian turned in her chair to face Maura. “You know, Maura, Althea may not think so, but this discovery is as much your doing as hers. More, even. I doubt she’d have gotten this far without all your help.”

  “It’s Old Billy who has pointed us in the right direction. I can’t believe people around here remember things that happened that long ago.”

  “But from what I’ve seen, you’ve made Old Billy a friend. There are those who would’ve thrown him out as a nuisance.”

  “I wouldn’t do that. He’s a part of the place.”

  “You haven’t changed much here. Are you not planning to stay on?”

  “I haven’t decided. It’s not like I had any plans when I got here, but I’m not in any hurry to leave. I still don’t know if I can keep the business going, so I figured I’d better see what the summer season was like. I mean, I own the building and the license, but I’ve still got to pay salaries, even if they are pathetic. I kind of feel like I owe Jimmy and Rose something, and I know jobs around here are hard to find.”

  “And Mick?”

  “To tell the truth, I don’t know why he stays around, except for his grannie. Couldn’t he be doing something else, something better than tending bar part-time? Actually, I’d like to stick around long enough to see Rose find something she wants to do, beyond looking after her father. I want her to have some choices, at least. What about you? From what you’ve said, you shuttle between here and Dublin. Is that working for you?”

  “Ah, Maura, you’re very American. You think I should have a career plan laid out?”

  “Ha! Hardly. I mean, I sure don’t, and even if I had, running a pub in Ireland wasn’t on the list. I’m just going with the flow and seeing what happens. But that’s me. You’ve got talent—Althea sees it, and she should know. You want to do anything more with it?”

  “Maura, I’m happy enough, and I get by—when my work doesn’t sell in Dublin, I pick up a little extra waiting tables or the like. Summers, this is home to me. It suits me. Shall we see about hanging those pictures now?”

  Gillian had clearly shut the door on that discussion.

  “Sure, let’s,” Maura said. “Then we can see what the customers think.”

  Well, at least she’d have new pictures on the walls. The bar itself she hadn’t really touched, because the whole area—behind, above, all sides—was layered with mementos from past visitors from all over. Maybe it wasn’t very clean or tidy, but it sure was interesting. She wondered if there was anybody around who could identify who all the people in the pictures were. Somehow that wouldn’t surprise her.

  Maura and Gillian spent a happy half hour shuttling pictures around the room, drawing comments from the patrons. In the end everyone was satisfied with the layout—and Gillian had sold another painting—but then they faced the problem of driving nails into the old walls, which took another half hour to work out. They were still at it when Mick came in a bit after six.

  He stopped in the doorway to take a critical look. “Looks grand,” he said. “Livens up the old place, doesn’t it?” He came around the bar, where Maura was working the taps, and she saw Gillian slip out the door with a wave.

  “You missed the party earlier,” Maura told Mick. “We had Harry and Althea here too, and Sean.”

  “You’ve been spending a lot of time with that lot, haven’t yeh, Maura?” he asked quietly.

  “Why?” Maura shot back, suddenly defensive. “You think I’m not pulling my weight here at Sullivan’s?”

  “Nothing like that. But Harry’s never been so fond of this place, nor has Gillian. Is there something more going on? Care to fill me in?”

  Maura wasn’t sure how much Mick had overheard over the past few days, but she suspected it was quite a bit, and they hadn’t exactly been trying to keep things quiet. Still, she wasn’t in the mood to explain the whole mess. “I’m not sure who would have been fond of the place, under Old Mick. I doubt Dublin Harry would have felt exactly at home here.”

  Mick looked at her quizzically for a long moment but didn’t press. “Point taken.” He distributed a few of the pints that Maura had poured to waiting customers, then came back and picked up the conversation. “He thinks he’s too good for the likes of us,” he said.

  “What, you mean all that class stuff again?” Maura asked.

  “Just a bit. Not so much with the younger crowd, but some of the older ones remember when it mattered. The Townsends have been lording it over Leap for centuries.”

  “Well, now they’re down on their luck and hanging on by their fingernails. But now that I’ve spent some time with him, I don’t think that’s Harry’s attitude—it’s just that his head is somewhere else, like Dublin. He doesn’t live here, and when he’s here, it’s only for his aunt Eveline, right? How’s that different from the relationship between you and Bridget?”

  Mick shrugged, concentrating on washing more glasses. Finally he said, “Maybe it’s not, but the old ways die hard. Take the priests, like. They don’t hold half the power they once did, but they still command respect. The old ones, anyway—hardly anyone signs up these days. It’s the end of an era.”

  “Who the heck would want to become a priest these days?” Maura demanded. “They’ve sure gotten lousy press for a few years now, here and back in Boston. They got away with a lot, for a long time. Why was it nobody said anything when all the bad stuff was going on?”

  “Because priests used to have the power. Now we’ve all seen that they’re human and far from perfect.”

  Sister Benedicta had been a nun through those days, when priests could do no wrong—of if they did, no one talked about it. What had she known? That was a question Maura didn’t plan to ask. “Too many secrets,” she muttered and turned her attention to her job.

  • • •

  The following morning Maura walked over to Bridget Nolan’s cottage earlier than usual and didn’t find her outside yet, so she rapped on the door then waited patiently while Bridget, uttering encouraging comments about her progress along the way, made her slow way to open it. When the door opened, Maura said, “I’m not too early, am I?”

  “Of course not, unless you were wanting a bit of bread, for it’s still in the oven. Come in, come in. What did you make of your visit to the nunnery?”

  “It was kind of odd, being there. It was so quiet and so empty. Not a lot of new nuns coming along anymore.”

  “That may be. Did you speak with Sister Benedicta?”

  “We did, all of us. You were right, of course, that there was something going on with Jane at the manor. Did you know about it?”

  “About the baby? I did, although it was none of my business, and I didn’t speak of it to anyone else. But people knew, even if they kept silent.”

  “Why didn’t you just tell us and save us all a trip?”

  “That kind of story shouldn’t come from someone who wasn’t part of the family. And I thought Sister Benedicta would be glad of the visit. They’re easily forgotten these days, the nuns.”

  “I know what you’re saying. I didn’t mean to complain. The whole place was kind of cool, and sad at the same time. So Jane Deasy got pregnant and had to leave the village?”

  “She could have stayed, but there were those around here who would have looked down on her, her and the little one. Now, I’m told, things are very different.”

  “In some ways.” Maura thought of the girls s
he’d gone to high school with, more than one of whom had a toddler at home by the time she got her diploma. It wasn’t always easy for them, but it happened a lot.

  “What will you do now?” Bridget’s question interrupted Maura’s thoughts.

  “We’ll go talk to Miss Eveline, see what she knew back then. At least, that was the plan yesterday.”

  “Would it not be better to leave things be?” Bridget said gently.

  “To spare Eveline’s feelings? Maybe. But we really want to work out the story of those two paintings, and I’ve got to think that Seamus Daly’s death may be connected somehow, even if the gardaí don’t. The only way to figure out what happened, I think, is to know who knew what when. Everyone says Seamus was kind of . . . slow, wasn’t he?”

  “He was,” Bridget said with a touch of sadness. “He could handle no more than telling Tom O’Brien to order more seeds. Although I will say, he was eager to please. If you asked him to do something for you, he’d try his best.”

  “Which still wouldn’t include stealing a large painting, I’ll bet.”

  “Buíochas le Dia, no. He was always a good lad and he worked hard—gave no trouble to anyone. Have you heard anything about his funeral? His people are gone now, and there’s only the O’Briens to see to it.”

  “I haven’t heard anything. I’m not even sure the gardaí have released his body yet.”

  “Speaking of the gardaí, how’re you and young Sean getting on?”

  “Fine,” Maura replied guardedly. They’d been on exactly one date, or maybe not even a whole date, and it was a little early to decide how things were going with them.

  “I’ve not seen him at work, but I’ve heard that he’s very thorough. And careful. He doesn’t like to jump to conclusions.” Bridget hesitated, which was unusual for her. “Maura, please don’t take my interest amiss. Your gran is gone, and you’ve no mother to talk to. Seems as though it’s fallen to me to see you settled.”

  So Bridget really was playing matchmaker, wasn’t she? “Bridget, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but right now I’m as settled as I’ve ever been in my life—I have a steady job and a house. If you’re trying to marry me off, well, I’m not ready for that. Not that Sean’s not a nice guy, so if I decide I’m ready to look I’ll keep him on my list.” Maura checked her watch. “Shoot, I’d better get going—I told Gillian and Althea I’d meet them at Sullivan’s at ten.”

  “You go on your way, dear.”

  “And I promise we’ll be careful with Eveline, even if we have to sit on Althea to keep her quiet.”

  “I wish you luck. On your way, now.”

  Chapter 24

  Driving toward Leap, Maura reviewed what they now knew and wondered what they could say to Eveline Townsend. First of all, did Eveline know that the big painting at Mycroft House was by an important artist? Second, since they hadn’t found any proof of its purchase by the Townsend family, they needed to find out if Eveline had any ideas about that, if it existed at all and where to look for it. Third, Sister Benedicta had independently confirmed that the little painting that had started the whole mess had in fact come from Mycroft House and claimed it had been a gift from Richard Townsend, long deceased, to pregnant housemaid Jane Deasy. Of course, someone might ask whether Richard Townsend had had the right to give it away, but at least he’d done what he’d thought was the responsible thing, helping Jane out by giving her the painting, not realizing she’d be too sentimental to sell it. Had Eveline known anything about that? Harry said he thought she’d been close to her brother, so it was worth asking about. Maura tried to picture Jane, alone in her bleak room in a strange city, taking the painting out and gazing on the face that looked so much like the man she had loved.

  Had anyone ever told Jane that Richard had died in the war? Had she assumed that when she didn’t hear from him? Or had she figured he’d just brushed her off? Jane had cut herself off from her past and her family back in Ireland, but she hadn’t made much of a new life for herself in New York. Yet, as Sister Benedicta had pointed out, they were all here now because of that brief summer love affair so long ago.

  How were they going to tie up all the loose ends? Heck, what were the loose ends? Would the Townsends agree to lend or sell the painting? Who did the little painting really belong to now?

  And where did Seamus Daly’s death fit in? It had to be connected somehow. It seemed just too big a coincidence to think that Seamus had been killed by a random prowler. Besides, given Sean’s latest news that Seamus hadn’t been killed with the shovel, there were only a few possibilities:

  One, Seamus Daly hadn’t died on the lawn where he was found, so he had been killed by someone in the house and dumped on the lawn. That someone could have been a member of the household, but that was a pretty short list: Eveline and the O’Briens. But why would any of them have wanted to kill Seamus? He was harmless, and he was a good worker. So it still could be some unknown outsider.

  Two, Seamus had come face-to-face with an intruder who was looking for the painting in the house, and the intruder had killed him and dragged him outside to draw attention away from the house and what might be in it. Say Seamus had interrupted someone in the house who was looking for the painting. Seamus had the right to be in the house, although maybe not in the middle of the night. Maybe an intruder wouldn’t have expected to run into him, thinking all the residents were safely tucked into bed at that late hour. Had Seamus confronted this person and been killed for it? And the killer had tried to draw attention away from the house by moving his body. But the intruder hadn’t gotten near the painting, if the years of undisturbed dust meant anything. Had he come back for a second try? That would mean he was probably the same person Tom O’Brien had fired at.

  Three, someone unknown—an outsider?—had killed Seamus somewhere else altogether, then dumped his body on the lawn, thinking it would look like an ordinary crime—except that crime wasn’t ordinary here in County Cork. At least that solution would mean it had nothing to do with the painting, but why would anyone kill Seamus, who hardly ever left the grounds of the manor?

  Maura pulled up and parked outside Sullivan’s. Gillian was already there, leaning against her car. She waved in greeting.

  “Where’s Althea?” Maura called out as she approached.

  “I don’t know. I tried her mobile but she didn’t answer.”

  “Maybe she went straight to the manor,” Maura suggested.

  “I don’t think so. She knows better than that now.”

  “Have you heard from Harry?”

  “I talked to him after he spoke to Eveline last night, and she’s agreed to meet with us. Despite what Harry seems to think, she’s not all that fragile.” Gillian looked down the road to where Mycroft House lay, concealed behind thickly leafed trees. “I really don’t know where he stands on all of this. I won’t pretty it up—Harry’s weak, and he doesn’t like confrontations. And I’m not sure he’s had a genuine conversation with Eveline in years. He treats her like a piece of china that has to be handled carefully, not as a person.”

  “What’s your take on her?”

  “You mean, is she senile? I don’t think so. Are her memories intact? Possibly. That’s why we want to talk with her, isn’t it?”

  Maura looked up to see a police car pull up behind hers, with Sean Murphy at the wheel. “Good morning, Sean,” she called out. “What brings you here?”

  Sean’s expression was somber. “Maura, we might do well to take this inside, if you don’t mind?”

  Confused, Maura fished her keys out of her bag and opened the door of Sullivan’s. It was still early, and no one else was in yet. Sean let them pass, then closed the door behind him.

  “What’s wrong?” Maura said.

  Sean swallowed. “Your friend Althea Melville’s at the garda station in Skibbereen.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s worried she might have killed a man, an American. Might we sit?”

  “What?” Gillian ga
sped.

  Althea’s really put her foot in it now, was Maura’s first thought. Was it Nate? She waved toward the table in the front corner, and they all pulled out chairs and sat. “What’s the man’s name?”

  “She wasn’t sure.”

  Not sure? That didn’t make sense. “Sean, why are you telling us?” Maura asked.

  “Because of Seamus Daly’s death and what you say has been going on at the manor. Now you’ve got me thinking that this is tied together somehow.”

  Finally! “How can we help?” Maura asked.

  “Let me start by telling you how Althea described the man to us. In his forties, clean shaven, short hair, fairly muscular. Ordinary clothes. She heard him speak so she knew he was American, but she claims she’d never seen him before. Have you seen anyone of that description in Sullivan’s lately?”

  Maura suppressed the urge to laugh. She’d seen plenty of American men over the past few weeks, especially the week since Althea had arrived. Of course, not all had come in alone—could she eliminate the guys who had appeared with a girlfriend or family in tow? “There have been a few Americans, and a lot of them kind of fit that description. Wait—one guy about that age I do remember because he spent a good bit of time looking at Gillian—Rose noticed.”

  Sean smiled. “Sure and there are plenty of men who enjoy looking at Gillian.”

  “It’s no big thing,” Gillian said, ignoring his compliment. “I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary, and nobody tried to strike up a conversation with me. But, Maura—Althea was sitting at the table too. You’re sure it was me he was looking at?”

  “Actually, no. I guess it could have been either one of you.”

  “Would you remember when that might have been, Maura?” Sean asked.

  Maura shook her head. “No, sorry. Maybe I can ask Rose when she comes in. Hang on—you said Althea was just worried she’d killed this guy. Is there a body?”

  “None that we’ve found, but he went into the river in Skibbereen, and he could be anywhere downstream by now.”