Scandal in Skibbereen (A County Cork Mystery) Page 22

  Maura tried to figure out which question she wanted to ask first—apart from why Althea had chosen this moment to grow a conscience and turn herself in, when she was so close to getting what she wanted. “Why did Althea think she’d killed him? And how’d he end up in the river?”

  “Perhaps I need to make myself more clear. Althea wasn’t alone—she was with a man named Nate Reynolds.”

  “What?” Maura and Gillian said in unison.

  Sean looked startled by their response. “Do you know the man?”

  Gillian spoke first, her words coming in a rush. “We know of him, but we’ve never seen him. So he and Althea were together when this other man went over the wall? Did she explain why Nate was there? What time was this?”

  “I’ll try to answer your questions one at a time, and I’m sure you’ll be thinking of more. Althea told us that this Nate person was nearby, to her surprise, and he called her on her mobile and asked to meet with her. He came to her hotel, and they took a walk along the river, to keep their meeting private. This was close to midnight, and it was dark. Then she said that this other man appeared and confronted them both. She says there was an . . . altercation, and all three of them took part. Somehow the newcomer went over the edge of the wall there and into the river. They looked for him, but it was dark and they could find no sign of him.”

  “Why didn’t she go straight to the garda station right then?” Maura demanded.

  “She claims this Nate Reynolds begged her to wait while he sorted this through. He went back to where he was staying. She went back to her hotel, but by morning she decided to do the right thing and came to us and told us the story.”

  Kind of late for the guy in the river, Maura thought, but maybe better late than never.

  “Have you found Nate Reynolds?” Gillian asked.

  “We’ve sent a man over to Clonakilty to look for him.”

  “Sean, what are you asking us?” Maura asked carefully.

  “I wondered if you might know something more about this Nate Reynolds. But”—he hesitated—“Althea kept saying something like, ‘I’m going to miss the meeting.’ What might you know about that?”

  Maura and Gillian exchanged a glance. “After we talked to you last,” Gillian began, “we decided to meet with Eveline Townsend this morning, since you said we could. All of us, and Harry as well. It was important to Althea—we had some questions that only Eveline can answer. Althea wouldn’t want to miss it. Although what it has to do with this man in the river I can’t say.”

  “Did Althea know anyone else around here?” Sean said.

  “Apart from us and Harry Townsend? And Nate, I guess? Not really, though she’s spoken to others in town,” Maura answered. “Like Billy Sheahan.”

  “Sean,” Gillian said, “did Althea explain about Nate Reynolds?”

  “What should I know?”

  Gillian took a deep breath. “Nate’s the appraiser from New Jersey who first found the oil sketch and who called in Althea to look at it.”

  “Did she not know he was in Ireland now?” Sean asked.

  “She says she didn’t,” Maura answered, “but it’s possible he’s been hunting for the same painting as Althea, so it’s not surprising he’s here.”

  “Is this Nate a friend of hers?”

  “More like a competitor at the moment,” Maura said. “They were kind of racing each other to find the Van Dyck. That’s why we all wondered whether he was around here somewhere.”

  “And would you know what he looks like?”

  “We’ve never seen him, nor a picture of him,” Gillian said. “You might find a photo on the website for his auction house.”

  Sean made another note in his notebook. “Is there anything else you can tell me?”

  “I think that’s all we know, Sean,” Maura said. “Is it all right if we go ahead and talk with Eveline? Unless your people need to talk with her first.”

  “That interview depends on Detective Hurley, but as far as I know, you’re free to see Eveline Townsend as you planned. I’ll be needing to get back to the station.”

  “What do you do now? About the guy in the river, I mean?” Maura asked.

  “We’ll be looking for a body downstream, for a start. Maybe Nate Reynolds can put a name to him, when we find him. We’ll see what his story is and if he knew the man. Given all that’s gone before, I don’t think this was a simple assault on a pair of careless tourists. We don’t see much of that here, although if he’s an American . . .” Sean smiled to soften the criticism.

  “Yeah, yeah, we’re all thugs back in the States,” Maura countered.

  Sean stood up. “Thank you for your help.”

  “No problem,” Maura said. “Let us know what you find out, will you?”

  “I will, when I can.”

  Gillian and Maura fell silent, watching Sean leave, get into his car, and make a U-turn to go back toward Skibbereen.

  “Well,” Maura began, “I didn’t see that coming. So Althea finally decided that she’d lost control of things and agreed to talk to Nate?”

  “Perhaps. Although I’d have been less surprised if it was Nate went into the river,” Gillian said. “Maybe she only wanted to know what he knew.”

  “And this American in the river is probably connected somehow. Think he was following Nate?”

  Gillian shrugged. “The odds are good, don’t you think? Unless Althea has been lying and he’s actually her mysterious accomplice.”

  “Then why would she have gone to the gardaí? In any case, I just can’t believe that we’ve had a murder and a prowler at the manor and now an attack on Althea and they’re not all part of the same story. From what I’ve seen, Ireland doesn’t work like that. And this is all about that damn painting? Harry hasn’t been doing anything on the side, like smuggling drugs, to make ends meet, has he?” Maura asked.

  Gillian laughed. “I’m afraid Harry isn’t the type. Maybe a bet on the horses here and there, but nothing illegal.”

  “What should we do now?”

  “You mean about talking to Eveline? I guess we go ahead—we know what the questions are, do we not? I don’t know what the gardaí plan to do with Althea, but why wait? If the painting is really a Van Dyck, and if it’s worth a lot, that could make a difference to Harry and Eveline. They’d probably want to know regardless.”

  Maura looked up to see Rose, who seemed surprised to see anyone else in the pub. “Was it not my day to open?” she asked.

  “Yes, it is, Rose. We were going to meet Althea here and then go over to the manor. But then Sean Murphy came by to tell us that she was involved in . . . an attack in Skibbereen.”

  “Is she all right? Do the gardaí know what happened?”

  “As far as we know she’s all right, and the gardaí are looking into it. But Althea claims the attacker went into the river, and he hasn’t been found.”

  “Oh, my! Let’s hope they find him. Where’ll you be?”

  “With Harry Townsend and his aunt Eveline this morning, minus Althea. If the gardaí turn her loose and she happens to stop here, tell her that’s where we are. Oh, one other thing—do you remember that solo American man at the bar, the one who kept checking us out? You said something to me about it.”

  “Sure. He came in alone, and he had a pint, took his time with it. He kept looking toward you three in the corner, but he never made a move.” Rose’s expression changed. “Yer thinkin’ now that he might have been looking at Althea? And would he be the man who attacked her? I’m sorry I can’t remember more.”

  “Thanks, Rose—you remembered more than I did. I guess we’ll head out now.”

  “Don’t worry yerself—we’ll be fine here. Gillian, what should I do if someone asks after yer paintings? Are they for sale?”

  “They are. I put some stickers with prices on the backs, but let me know if anyone shows an interest—you can call my mobile. Thanks, Rose.”

  “See you later, Rose,” Maura called out as they went out the
door.

  Chapter 25

  Harry was waiting for them at the front entrance to the manor, and Maura was reminded of her first visit. Even with what she’d learned about him since, he still looked like he belonged there. He waited until Gillian had turned off the engine, then opened the driver’s door for her while Maura clambered out on her own.

  “Have you heard?” Maura asked him.

  “About what?”

  “Althea was”—Gillian seemed to struggle to find the right words—“involved in a scuffle in Skibbereen last night, and there might be another death—an American. And as it happens, she was with Nate Reynolds at the time.”

  “Nate Reynolds? The man from the auction house?” Harry sputtered.

  “The same. Sean Murphy told us the bare details, but it’s still not certain that Althea knew Nate was in Ireland, and now there’s this other thing. Althea says she didn’t know the man, but somehow he ended up in the river and hasn’t been found, and the gardaí are off looking for Nate.”

  “What’s that to do with us now?” Harry asked.

  Gillian answered, “It’s troubling, don’t you think, coming on the heels of the rest of it? But Sean said there was no reason we shouldn’t talk to Eveline about the painting.”

  Harry didn’t look very concerned. “Shall we go in?” He turned and led the way into the cool, dark interior, where his painted ancestors still loomed over visitors. “Aunt Eveline will meet us in the small sitting room. I asked Mrs. O’Brien to provide refreshments.”

  “Not to be confused with the large sitting room or one of your thirty-seven public rooms?” Gillian laughed. “Harry, you sound like someone out of a Noël Coward comedy. That’s grand. Is she expecting us now?”

  “Indeed.” Harry led them down the hall and opened a door toward the back of the building. He stood aside to let them enter, then followed. Eveline was settled on a brocade-covered settee at the far end of the room. There was a fire burning in the fireplace to her left, and the low table in front of her groaned under the weight of an immense silver tray, silver teapot, silver creamer and sugar bowl, spoons, tongs, porcelain cups and saucers, napkins, and a three-level silver thing Maura couldn’t name heaped with sliced cake and scones. Maura immediately felt terrified that she would drop, break, or spill something. The whole room looked like a stage set, and Maura wondered if she’d wandered into a PBS episode of something or other.

  Gillian took the lead. “Eveline, how lovely to see you again, and so soon.”

  “Gillian, my dear, I’m always delighted to see you, and welcome again to your friend Maura. Please, make yourselves comfortable. Now, may I offer you some tea? As you may recall, Mrs. O’Brien makes the most delightful scones.”

  It took another five minutes to get everyone settled in a chair, equipped with tea and a delicate plate with scones and butter. Clearly Eveline was in no hurry to move the conversation forward, although maybe Harry hadn’t told her what they were looking for. Maybe she was reliving the golden days of her past, acting as lady of the manor. Or maybe she was putting off for as long as possible a discussion she could guess would be unpleasant.

  Finally there were no more excuses for stalling. “It was Harry who suggested this little gathering,” Eveline began. “I gather it has something to do with poor Seamus?”

  “In part. Were you close to Seamus, Eveline?” Gillian asked gently.

  Eveline took a moment, apparently weighing her answer. “Some years ago the O’Briens came to me, as they live under my roof, and asked if they could take him in. Seamus had no family left, and he . . . wasn’t qualified for most employment. I told Tom that we needed a gardener—I was getting on in years and could no longer keep up with the heavier work, so I agreed to take him on in that role. Seamus was a very conscientious young man and a good worker. If I identified a plant as one that should be protected, he never forgot. I suppose one might say that he was a friend. He was certainly more than a mere employee. Does that answer your question, Gillian?”

  Maura noticed that Harry looked a bit startled at Eveline’s statement. Had he really assumed that Eveline and Seamus never even talked?

  “Yes, thank you,” Gillian said. “I’m sorry to ask, but have you any idea why he might have been killed?”

  “None. He seldom left the grounds here, and he had no friends, or even acquaintances, in town, to the best of my knowledge. He seemed content, and he loved his work. I can’t imagine why he met such a violent end. But I assume someone will be obliged to find out—is that right, Harry?”

  Harry ducked his head. “Yes. I’ve spoken to the gardaí in Skibbereen, but I told them you had little to add.”

  “Kind of you, dear, but not altogether necessary. I miss Seamus, and I’ll speak to the guards if I must. But no mind. What moved you to request this gathering? Please, Maura, Gillian, enjoy your tea. And Mrs. O’Brien’s shortbread is not to be missed.”

  “Aunt Evie,” Harry began, “when I suggested we all get together, I had a purpose in mind. The woman you . . . encountered in the hallway last week . . . do you recall her?”

  “The one with no clothes on?” Aunt Eveline responded, her mouth twitching as she hid a smile.

  Harry looked surprised at Eveline’s response. “Yes, that one. Well, she never had a chance to explain to you what she was doing here, beyond . . . visiting me, that is.”

  “And you believe I need to know this reason?”

  “Yes. You see . . .” And Harry proceeded to lay out the story that Althea had spun for them about the appearance of the small painting in New Jersey and her hurried search for its origins and the grand painting she hoped still existed somewhere in Ireland. “And as it turns out, she was right—the painting is right here and has been for centuries. It’s that one of the first Richard Townsend, in the library? Althea also needed to know how the smaller painting ended up in America and whether the woman who owned it came by it legally.”

  Eveline gave a small, sad smile. “I’ve been waiting for someone to ask me about that for a very long time.”

  There was a shared moment of stunned silence. Finally Harry asked, “Whatever do you mean?”

  Eveline regarded each of them in turn. “Shall I tell you the story?”

  “Please,” Gillian said.

  Eveline settled herself more comfortably on the settee and began.

  “Your parents were all born well after the war, and I can’t say how much you know of it. Here in Ireland we stayed neutral throughout the Emergency, so it hardly touched us, save that it was difficult to get some things. But my brother Richard took it into his head that it would be the honorable thing to enlist and to fight with the English. He and our father had some major rows about it, but Richard was determined. I hated the idea, but I could understand, in a way—as third son, he had few prospects here, and he did always have a romantic imagination. We were several years apart, but he would talk to me about a lot of things. Including Jane Deasy.”

  “You knew about them?” Gillian exclaimed.

  “I did. He told me, but you had only to see them together to know. Of course, the rest of the family would have been horrified, but I knew Jane—she was close in age to me—and she was a good girl. Uneducated, unpolished, but sweet and kind and hardworking. When Richard realized that I knew, I think he was relieved. He so wanted someone he could talk to about her, and he couldn’t tell the others.”

  “Did you know when she left that she was . . . ?” Gillian hesitated.

  “Pregnant? Yes. I might have been young, but I wasn’t blind or ignorant. I saw them together that summer. I don’t think the rest of the family noticed much—but I was always lurking about the house and the grounds. I didn’t have many friends, and there wasn’t a lot to do here. They looked so happy, at least at first.”

  “And then?” Gillian asked.

  “Then they weren’t happy anymore, and I came on them one day, and Jane was crying, and he was holding her, and when he saw me, he looked so angry that I just tur
ned and ran. I had never seen him look like that. He came to my room later that night to explain. He said Jane was pregnant and that he loved her, but our parents would never approve, and if they ran away together he had no way of supporting himself, much less Jane and a child. And he hated himself for being so dependent, but he couldn’t think what to do. And then she left.”

  “That was when she went to America?” Maura said.

  “I suppose. All I know is that one day Jane was gone, and my mother was angry because she had to find a replacement quickly—we were expecting houseguests that weekend and she was suddenly short a maid. She thought it was very inconsiderate of Jane to just give notice like that.”

  “So how did the painting come into it?” Maura asked.

  “I’d always loved the little painting because it looked so much like Richard and he was my favorite brother. I guess I knew about the big painting too, but there were a lot of those in the house, and they were all so dark and stuffy! The little one was tucked away in a dark corner—Richard would salute it when he passed it. Then one day it wasn’t there, so I asked Richard about it, because I knew that he liked it. He took me aside to tell me that he had given the painting to Jane, because he had nothing else to give her, and that he hoped she would be able to sell it and get enough money to take care of herself and the baby in America. And he told me that I couldn’t tell anyone, that it would be our secret and he trusted me to keep my word. And I promised that I would never tell, and I didn’t, not even after he died in the war. There didn’t seem to be any point.”

  “But what about the baby?” Maura protested.

  “There wasn’t much I could do. I didn’t know where to find Jane, and she never contacted us. She knew that our parents wouldn’t have understood. To them Jane would have been just a farm girl, no doubt looking for a settlement, or at least that’s how they would have seen it.”

  “Richard thought Jane could sell the painting?” Gillian asked.

  “Oh, he was sure she could, once she got to New York. After all, it was by an important artist.”