Scandal in Skibbereen (A County Cork Mystery) Page 9

  Mick shook his head. “Seems unlikely to me. No one cares anymore. A century ago, the gentry provided jobs for a lot of farmers’ children, particularly the girls. The boys would work on the land or in the stables, and the girls’d put in a few years in service here, and then they might emigrate, with a better chance of getting a job in an American city. That went on for a very long time. Didn’t I hear that your gran worked in the kitchen there as a girl?”

  “If so, she never mentioned it.” Like so many other things, Maura thought with regret. “In the U.S. she never did that kind of work, but she sure held her share of dead-end, low-pay jobs in Boston. So Harry is more or less the end of the line, any way you look at it?” When Mick nodded, she added, “Anyway, thanks, Mick, for filling me in. All this doesn’t show up in our high school history classes.”

  Mick smiled. “Fair enough. I think your Revolution gets about three pages in our textbooks.” He looked up to see a group of men coming in. “Welcome, fellas. What can I get you?”

  Maura set to work pouring more pints and serving, and the next time she looked up, it was three o’clock. Althea and Gillian hadn’t come back. Maybe Althea was promising Gillian a show of her own in a New York gallery, or maybe they’d cornered Harry somewhere and forced him to slip them into the manor house. No matter which, Maura felt a little left out. After all, she was the one who had put them together.

  Sean Murphy, in uniform, came in the door and crossed to the bar.

  “Hey, Sean,” Maura greeted him. “Or am I supposed to call you Garda Murphy when you’re on duty?”

  “Sean is fine,” he said. “Hey, Mick.”

  “Sean,” Mick said. “Can I get you anything?”

  “Not right now. I stopped by to talk to Maura, if you can spare her.”

  “Hey, I’m his boss, not the other way around,” Maura protested. “What did you want?”

  “Would you walk with me, outside?” Sean asked.

  “Sure.” Maura wondered what all the mystery was about, but as Althea had already commented, there were a lot of eager ears in the pub, and apparently Sean wanted a private word. “Where do you want to go?”

  “How about along the harbor?” Sean suggested.

  Well, that would certainly be more private than Sullivan’s. “Okay.” She followed him in silence until they’d crossed the road and descended to the rough lane that ran along the water. “So, here we are. What is it you wanted to talk to me about?”

  Instead of replying directly, Sean pointed. “Look across the water there.”

  Maura looked. Trees, fields, cows, and a few swans on the water. “What am I supposed to be looking at?”

  “Straight on, over the water—that’s Mycroft House.”

  When Maura looked harder, she realized that, on the other side of the harbor, she could see small glimpses of a structure. “I can’t see much, but I guess I can tell there’s a building there. Why? Is this about the murder? Have you arrested anyone?”

  “We’re no further along than when we first found Seamus Daly’s body. Nobody saw anything or heard anything, and you can see why—it’s well hidden away. But nobody had reason to want him dead. He had no money, and he’d made no enemies. I don’t think any of this was about him.”

  “So, what do you think it was about, then?” Once again Maura was faced with the dilemma of whether to conceal information from the gardaí. “Uh, you talked to Althea, right?”

  “We did. She claims not to have seen Seamus, but she admitted to trying to gain entry to the house, though said she was turned away by the O’Briens, which they confirm.”

  “Well, she found a way in last night. With Harry Townsend. Do you know Harry?”

  “I spoke with him yesterday as well. He’s not been around much since I joined the guards, but I know of his reputation. But what does it matter if she was there the night after Seamus Daly’s death?”

  “I can’t say, but I thought you should know that she’s still looking for that painting, and she seems pretty determined. Did you talk to Eveline Townsend?”

  “I did not myself, nor did any other garda, as far as I know.”

  That sent off a faint alarm for Maura. “That’s weird. Shouldn’t someone have talked to her, to see if she saw or heard anything?”

  “We asked the O’Briens if she’d be up to an interview, and they warned us off, said it would upset her too much. Florence O’Brien went on to say that Eveline has been more and more vague in her mind of late—her old memories are clear, but not the newer ones.”

  “Does she even know that Seamus Daly is dead?” Maura asked, still incredulous.

  “I’d imagine the O’Briens would have broken the news to her, carefully. Maura, you have to remember, the lady’s not young.”

  “Well, yeah, but I’m just wondering . . . Look, maybe I’m out of line saying this, but it seems like there’s still a class thing going on here. I mean, ‘She’s the fine lady from the Big House, so she shouldn’t worry herself about one of the hired help getting killed right under her nose’? And then your people don’t want to bother her, not even to solve a crime?”

  Sean stiffened. “We spoke with those who know her best, and they said she wasn’t up to it. Did you want us to barge in and harass a poor old woman? And there’s none of us competent to assess her mental state. What is it yer asking?”

  “Shoot, I don’t know. I’ll be willing to say that Eveline Townsend didn’t take a shovel to the gardener in the middle of the night, but she still might know something useful.” Maura once again thanked the stars that her own grandmother had remained mentally alert to the end.

  “Maura, let the gardaí do their jobs, will you? Was there anything else?”

  In for a penny, or whatever the silly slogan was. “Do you really think that Althea is a suspect?”

  Sean sighed. “Truth be told, no. And she hasn’t been all over us asking to go home. If she’d whacked someone, I’d expect her to clear out as fast as she could, if she had the chance.”

  “Like I said, she really wants that painting, and I don’t think she’s leaving until she’s sure it’s not at Mycroft House. And it seems to me that if the painting is there in the house, Seamus’s murder could be somehow related to that. Has anybody come up with a better idea?”

  “I shouldn’t be telling you what I’ve already done. Will you be speaking with Althea again?”

  She noticed that he hadn’t exactly answered her question. “Yes. You want me to tell her something?”

  “She’s cooperated with us so far. We have no right to tell her what to do, seeing as she’s a private citizen, and an American one at that. But if she comes upon something about this painting, could you ask that she tell us?”

  “Of course. I think she’ll be happy to cooperate, especially if she knows she’s not a suspect. She wants to find this painting, but as far as I can tell, she wants to do it legally and as publicly as possible. She wants the credit for finding it.”

  “I understand.”

  “Was that all?” Maura asked. “Because we’re expecting another busy night and I should get back.”

  “Well, yes, there was, in a manner of speaking. Not garda business. You see . . .” He hesitated, and Maura noticed a red flush creep up his face. “I was after wondering . . . might you be wanting to have dinner with me one night?”

  Well, that sure wasn’t what she’d been expecting! Sean Murphy was asking her for a date? A real date? Maura wasn’t sure she’d ever actually gone on a real date—people her age back in Boston had mostly just kind of hung out together, which was kind of hit-or-miss. Maybe things were different in Ireland. And now here was Sean, in his slightly too big uniform, his blue eyes anxious, asking her out. Did she want to date an Irish cop? Maura, it’s one dinner, not a lifetime commitment. Would people in Leap talk? Of course they would. There’d be no hiding it. Was she okay with that? Maybe. Yes. “If you’d rather not, it’s no big thing,” he hurried to add, and Maura realized she’d been silent for t
oo long.

  “Sorry, it’s just that you surprised me. Sure, I’d be happy to have dinner with you,” she said firmly, before she could change her mind. “When?”

  Sean Murphy looked like a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He also looked about fifteen years old. “Grand. I know you’re busy weekends. Monday, maybe?”

  “Sounds great.”

  A date with Sean Murphy. Who would have thought?

  Chapter 10

  Maura and Sean said their good-byes before she went back into Sullivan’s. As they’d walked back toward the pub, it hit Maura: she had exactly nothing to wear on a date. She’d have to ask somebody about that.

  Althea and Gillian were back and had snagged a corner table, opposite Billy’s chosen spot. They beckoned Maura over. Maura checked to see that someone was taking care of the taps and raised a hand to Jimmy Sweeney, but everything looked under control, so she joined them. “What’s up?”

  “Gillian’s been giving me the whole history of the manor house,” Althea said. “The dates fit, if the painting has been there since it was painted. But I still don’t get why you haven’t been inside it, Gillian.”

  “That’s not the way things are done around here. Well, let me explain a bit. I’ve been inside, as Harry’s guest, and once or twice to have tea with Eveline, but it’s not like she gave me a guided tour of all the rooms. I think Eveline and I got along well—at least, I didn’t offend her.” Gillian shot a pointed look at Althea, who looked away. “Besides, it’s Harry that’s my friend, and he isn’t around much, so that’s limited my access. Maura, as I’ve told Althea, if the painting is there, it’s probably in one of the rooms they’re not using anymore. Florence O’Brien might know where it is but may just see it as a big old painting on a wall somewhere, not as a priceless possession. I doubt she’d recognize a specific artist.”

  “Oh, God,” Althea moaned. “I can just see the painting moldering away. Too cold in winter, too hot in summer, and isn’t every place in Ireland damp? With my luck, all the paint has already fallen off the canvas. We’ve got to find it before it’s too late!”

  “I’d say be patient, Althea, but I’m guessing that’s beyond hope.” Gillian winked at Maura. “Have you found anything new, Maura?”

  “Sean Murphy stopped by while you were out.” Maura debated with herself about telling them that Sean had asked her out, and decided that she wasn’t ready to go there. “The gardaí have no suspects and no leads. They’ve talked to both of the O’Briens and to Harry, but not Eveline. They are officially stumped. I can’t say that I blame them.”

  “Well, my gut still says it’s got to be about the painting,” Althea said firmly.

  “Althea, we don’t even know if there is a painting!” Maura protested, “and if there is, that it’s in that house!”

  “No one would kill a harmless gardener without a good reason,” Althea insisted. “A very valuable painting is a good reason. Ergo, Seamus was killed because of the painting, which therefore must exist.”

  Gillian laughed. “That is the most circular piece of reasoning I’ve heard in a while!”

  “You have anything better?” Althea demanded. “Anything? Huh?”

  “Cool it, you two,” Maura said. “What’s your next step, Althea?”

  Althea slumped in her chair. “I don’t know. I was thinking about calling my buddy Nate at the auction house and seeing if I’ve missed anything. Maybe Dorothy Ryan shared something with him that he didn’t pass on to me—he could have been in contact with her who knows how many times, while I’ve been running around here.”

  “Wait, isn’t he one of the only other people who knows about the oil sketch?” Gillian asked.

  Maura refrained from pointing out that half of West Cork must have heard by now—but Nate had known earliest.

  “How much do you trust him?” Gillian asked.

  “As much as I trust anybody in the art world in the greater New York area, which isn’t saying a heck of a lot.”

  “How well do you know him?” Gillian asked.

  “We don’t hang out together socially. We see each other at professional events sometimes, and we have mutual friends. Look, he knew enough about me to get in touch with me when he saw the oil sketch, and I was definitely the right person to consult. I don’t think he had anything underhanded in mind—at least, not at the time. He could have changed his mind.”

  “Is this auction job full-time, or does he do something else for a living?” Gillian asked.

  “That’s it. It’s a small house in New Jersey. They’re trying to get established, but this is a lousy time for it. Or maybe not—the big auction houses are stuck in New York with a lot of overhead costs, just when people are counting their pennies and not spending big on artworks the way they used to, or they’re looking for a really good deal. Either way, the income of the big houses is down. So being in Jersey, with lower overhead and a younger, less expensive staff, may be a plus. And he may be hungry for business.”

  “So why’d he pass the question on to you?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he didn’t trust his own judgment and wanted somebody to confirm what he thought he had, and because he knew about this show I was working on, he thought of me first. My eye would already be tuned to a Van Dyck frequency, so to speak.”

  “Did you tell him you thought the sketch really was a Van Dyck?” Gillian asked. “Who brought up the name first?”

  “He let me take a look at the painting first, without giving any hints. But it was obvious to me immediately, and then he said he thought it might be a Van Dyck work but he wasn’t sure.”

  “No poker face, huh?” Maura said.

  “Hey, I was excited, all right? It was so cool to handle the painting, up close, and to find even a hint of a major work that isn’t even in the catalogue raisonné would be huge. It just came out of my mouth.”

  “Uh, English please?” Maura said.

  “What? Oh, you mean catalogue raisonné? That just means all one artist’s works—everything he’s done in his life, as far as is known.”

  “Okay, got it,” Maura said. “So the guy knows you think the sketch is for real, and nobody in your museum or auction world knows about it, and Nate knows that the owner came from Ireland originally. If—and that’s still not for sure—if he came up with the same idea that you did, that there’s a bigger, more important painting somewhere, this would be the first place he would look for the painting too. Have I got the outline about right?” When Althea nodded, Maura asked, “And if he thought like that, what would he do next?”

  “The same thing I’m doing, of course,” Althea said glumly. “If he wants his auction house to have the right to sell the sketch, it would be a whole lot more valuable if he can prove it really is a Van Dyck. It would definitely be worth it to him to at least take a stab at finding the final painting.”

  “And he knows as well as you how to research the provenance of an artwork,” Gillian said. “Are you sure he isn’t in Ireland right now?”

  Althea glared at her. “You two really know how to cheer a girl up! You’re right—he could be on the same trail, right here.”

  “And he could be involved in Seamus Daly’s death!” Maura said, exasperated. “Did you tell the gardaí about him?”

  “Well, no. I told them the facts—why I was here, why I wanted to get into Mycroft House. They didn’t ask about anyone else. Can they find out if he’s here, if I tell them?”

  Maura sat back and sighed. “The local garda station is about twice the size of this room and has at most ten guys on staff. I sincerely doubt they have the resources to see if your pal has entered the country or to track his mobile phone to find out exactly where he is or whatever. In theory I guess they could, but not easily, and it would probably require a lot of paperwork. So that’s not happening, not without a good reason. Besides, why would they look? It’s not like they have any reason to think this Nate guy is involved in a crime.”

  “But you�
��re the one who keeps telling me how small this place is!” Althea protested. “Wouldn’t Nate be easy to find, if he’s here somewhere?”

  Maura looked at Gillian. “Help me out here, will you? You must know more than I do about how this works.”

  Gillian reflected a moment, then said slowly, “Like Maura said, if somebody was looking, they might be able to find him. But it’s tourist season. There are lots of unfamiliar people about. If—still an if—your Nate is in this area, there aren’t many places he could stay, but it’s not as if the gardaí have any reason to go looking for him. Why don’t you just call the guy?”

  “What, now? This minute?”

  “Why not? Catch him off guard—ask him where he is.”

  Althea stared at Gillian. “What time is it in New Jersey?”

  “Five hours earlier than here,” Maura replied promptly.

  “Oh, but it’s Saturday. Isn’t it?” When Maura said yes, Althea went on, “The only number I have for him is his work number, and he may not be there on a Saturday.”

  “Don’t they hold auctions of a Saturday?” Gillian asked.

  “Well, yes, I think so.”

  “So somebody should be answering the phone there. At least you can find out if he’s in town.”

  Althea hesitated for a long moment, then said, “You’re right.” She rummaged around in her large handbag and pulled out a small notebook as well as her phone. She held up the phone. “Will this work here?”

  Maura recognized the type of phone. “Wait, hold on. Does that have international calling?”

  “Uh, yeah, because I work with museums all over the world,” Althea said. “Why?”

  “Because whatever number comes up on his end might tip him off about where you are.”

  “But it’s my regular number—he’d recognize that.”

  “Yes, but there are international prefixes and the like, aren’t there?” Gillian asked.