Scandal in Skibbereen (20 page)

“You know, I agree with her. And thinking practically, the watercolors will get kind of lost in here—it’s pretty dark most of the time. The others will make more of an impression, catch the eye, that kind of thing. You have any bigger ones?”

“Yes, at the studio. Why?”

“I’d put a big flashy one on either side of the chimney there, and then scatter some of the smaller ones around. People will notice the big ones, but maybe they’ll buy the small ones.”

“Maura, that’s brilliant. I think you’re getting the hang of this.” Gillian turned to Billy, who had shuffled his slow way up behind them. “What do you think, Billy?”

“That one.” He pointed to one of the bolder abstract pictures. “That’s Ballinlough in the morning, isn’t it?”

Gillian stared at him. “Spot on, Billy. How on earth did you know?”

“I used to fish there, when I was younger. You’ve caught the light just right.”

Maura tilted her head and squinted her eyes but couldn’t see whatever Billy saw. Still, the painting would look good in Billy’s corner, and he might be inspired to spin more tales about it. He’d make an excellent salesman. “Gillian, go ahead and bring in a couple more and we’ll decide where they’d look best.”

“I’ll do that. Thanks, Maura.”

Althea interrupted. “Hey, this is all nice—but you called me, remember? Since you weren’t screaming with glee, I assume you don’t have good news.”

Gillian sighed. “Let’s sit in the corner there and I’ll tell you.”

A group of men came in the door, so Maura went back to the bar while Gillian and Althea settled around a table. As she served the men—strangers to her—she kept an eye on the women, neither of whom looked happy.

Rose came in at four. “How’s it been?” she asked.

“Quiet.” Maura surveyed the room. The latest arrivals had taken a table in the corner away from the fireplace; Billy was still settled in his favorite chair, with a half-filled pint in his hand, dozing; and Gillian and Althea were speaking in low, urgent voices in the corner. Maura hoped business would pick up in the next couple of hours. “Is Jimmy coming in?” she asked Rose.

“He may be in later. I left his supper for him, and he said to call him if there’s a rush here.”

Luckily she paid Jimmy only for the hours he put in. “Did Mick say anything?”

“He’ll be in at six, he told Da.” She nodded at the paintings still arrayed against the bar. “They’re Gillian’s, aren’t they? You’re thinking of putting them up here? I like the bright ones. The others make me think of me gran.”

Maura laughed. “I see what you mean. And we all think the bolder ones will work better. Gillian’s going to bring in some bigger ones too.”

She slid out from behind the bar and joined Gillian and Althea in the corner.

Althea looked depressed. “I don’t know what to do now.”

“Your museum isn’t going to take your word for it that the little painting is related to the big painting?” Maura asked.

“Ha!” Althea said. “You know how long authentication takes? No, of course you don’t. Nobody’s going to commit to saying either painting is a Van Dyck without a hell of a lot of analysis. There are all sorts of tests they can run these days to make sure the canvas and the wood and the paint are all right for the period. And then there are the
other
experts who have to study the style and the brushwork and all that stuff. Short answer? Even if everybody is on the same page with it, it would take months, maybe even years, to decide. I don’t have months—the exhibit opens in October.”

“And having a document would jump over all this?” Gillian asked.

“Maybe. It would make my case a whole lot stronger, anyway. If I could convince the right people to look at the two paintings together, I think they’d see the connection immediately. But I have to get them to take me seriously first.”

“What is it you want to do with the painting?” Maura asked.

“I told you, I’m pretty sure Dorothy Ryan would give permission to include her oil sketch in the show. Of course, it would help if we could show she owns the thing legally—that it wasn’t stolen sometime in the past three hundred years. But if that’s not a problem, I could tell her it would be worth a whole lot more money if it got that kind of exposure. I’ve talked to her, and I’d bet she’d be happy to sell it in a minute. Anyway, in the best of all possible worlds, I’d hang the two pictures together and get the story out there—great human interest angle. That is, if we knew the story . . .” Now Althea looked depressed again.

“You mean, how the sketch ended up under a bed in New York?” Maura asked.

“Yes. How do we get from here to there? The big painting is here; the oil sketch is there. Why? How?”

Maura thought for a moment. “What do you know about the woman who owned it? Dorothy’s great-aunt?”

“Not a whole lot. I think I told you everything I know the first time we met. I found her immigration record and a couple of local censuses, but that’s all I had time for. There’s a Social Security record for her death.”

“Humor me,” Maura said. “Run through it again, will you?”

Althea sighed. “A forty-something woman named Dorothy Ryan brings an old painting she’s inherited to an open appraisal. Nate Reynolds, the appraiser, calls me, I look at the painting, I think, ‘Wow.’ I talk to Dorothy, but she knows next to squat. Her best guess is that her great-aunt Jane Deasy brought the painting with her when Jane joined her sister in New York in the 1940s but never told anybody about it. The great-aunt left all her meager belongings to Dorothy, one of those do-it-yourself wills that says ‘I leave everything to’ without any details. The painting was in a suitcase, and Dorothy brought it home and stuck it in the attic. When she saw an ad in her local paper about the appraisal day, she figured what the heck and took it in.”

Gillian picked up the thread. “Nate the appraiser and you agreed that her painting was a Van Dyck, and, knowing the great-aunt came from Ireland, and that Van Dyck had worked here, it fit.”

“Exactly. But apparently nobody in Dorothy’s family ever talked about where in Ireland they were from. The ship’s records said only ‘County Cork,’ so I had to do a lot of legwork just to narrow down the possibilities in County Cork, and Leap here was my last stop. If there was a major finished painting for which the little painting was kind of a preliminary version, I had to look for someone who could have afforded a Van Dyck back in the day. And it was here!”

“But you still can’t connect the woman who had it with the Townsend family?” Gillian asked.

“Nope.”

Gillian thought for a moment. “It might be a good idea to find out if this Jane Deasy ever worked in Mycroft House. But how did she end up with the painting? If she stole it, then the great-niece Dorothy has no right to it and it should come back to the Townsend family, I’d guess.”

“Would there be a police report if it was stolen?” Maura asked.

“Possibly, but maybe nobody missed it,” Gillian suggested. “Based on what Harry told me, they didn’t even know the little painting existed. But then, they didn’t know they had the big one, either. You’ve seen that house—you think anybody’s been keeping track of anything there in the last century? Especially if nobody thought it was valuable?”

Althea smiled ruefully. “Good point.”

“You need somebody who does research into family history,” Maura said suddenly.

“What?” Althea said.

“Somebody who can look at the history of the Deasys—and the history of the woman, right? I mean, if she worked there, shouldn’t there be employment records or something? When did she leave? Was she ever accused of stealing? There’s got to be some trail. I wouldn’t know where to find it, but a genealogist would.”

“Harry and I can check the household account books for the twentieth century,” Gillian said slowly, “although I don’t know that they recorded details like that. But we should check. And Maura, you can ask Sean if the gardaí have any records of a theft, or an accusation, going back that far.”

“I could. You said her name was Jane Deasy?”

Althea fished in her purse and pulled out a small notebook. She leafed through it and said, “Yes, Jane Deasy. Spelled D-e-a-s-y, although I’m not sure I’ve been pronouncing it right.”

“Or you might do well to talk to them as remembers the Deasy family hereabouts.” Billy spoke up out of nowhere.

The three women turned to him in unison. “Do you, Billy?” Gillian asked.

“Bridget Nolan might.”

A
lthea looked between her two companions. “Who is Bridget Nolan?”

“A friend of Billy’s, from way back,” Maura said, then added, “And a neighbor of mine. And the grandmother of Mick Nolan, who works here.”

Althea still looked confused. “Uh, okay. Why would she know anything about this Jane Deasy person?”

Gillian and Maura exchanged a glance. “Because,” Maura began, “most people around here have lived here their whole lives, and they remember a lot of things.” She turned to Billy. “You want to join us, Billy?”

He waved a dismissive hand. “I’ve said enough, and in truth, I don’t know much more. I only know there was some trouble, a long time ago, and Jane went to the States to live with her sister. Bridget was closer to the family—you’d best talk with her.”

“Okay. Can we go
now
?” Althea demanded.

Althea wasn’t a very fast learner, Maura thought. “Althea, in case you haven’t noticed, I have a business to run here. Plus, Bridget is in her eighties, and late afternoon is not her best time. Bridget’s a friend, and I respect her privacy. In fact, I should go with you, so if you want to hear whatever Bridget has to say, you’re going to have to wait until tomorrow morning.”

Althea glared at Maura, then turned to Gillian. “What about you? Do you know her?”

Gillian glanced at Maura. “No, and I agree with what Maura says. You want something from Bridget Nolan, you’re going to have to approach her politely, not go barging in making demands.”

“Is that what you think I do?” Althea said, a bit more loudly than necessary.

“Yes,” Gillian and Maura replied in unison.

“That’s why you’re barred from the manor, remember?” Gillian reminded her. “You got turned away at the front door, so you tried to sneak in the back door with Harry, so to speak, rather than waiting and doing it the right way. And look how well that turned out. You need to play by Irish rules, Althea. On an Irish schedule.”

Althea threw up both hands. “All right, all right, I get it. But look at it from my side: the clock is ticking. If I don’t find the paperwork here, the whole thing might fall apart and I’ll be out of a job in a couple of months. I live in Manhattan, and I can’t afford it without a job. I’d have to go back and live with my parents in Delaware!”

Maura swallowed a smile. “Althea, a lot of people around here are in the same boat, living with their family, because they don’t have a choice. So don’t expect us to feel sorry for you.”

“Fine, whatever,” Althea muttered. “So, when in the morning can we go see Bridget?”

Maura smiled at her. “Say, nine thirty, ten? Meet me at my house and we can walk over together.”

“Where’s your house?” Althea demanded.

“Uh . . .” Maura quailed at trying to explain to a New Yorker how to get to her house from Skibbereen.

Luckily Gillian stepped in. “I’ll pick you up at your hotel in Skibbereen, Althea. The lanes can be a bit tricky if you don’t know them well.”

“All right, I’ll be waiting,” Althea replied. “Thank you, both of you.”

Maybe Althea is learning something after all,
Maura reflected. At least she’d said “thank you.”

The evening rush, such as it was, began shortly after that, and Maura was kept busy for a while. Mick came in shortly after six, and in a quiet moment, Maura took him aside and asked, “Will Bridget mind if I bring Gillian and Althea to see her in the morning?”

“Sure, she’ll be glad for the company, as long as you don’t wear her out.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll keep an eye on Althea, and Gillian and I can drag her out of there if she won’t leave on her own.”

“That I’d like to see. What’s this about?”

“We’re hoping she can tell us something about a family who used to live around here.”

“And who might they be?”

“The Deasys?”

Mick shook his head. “Don’t know the name.”

“It has to do with that painting Althea is so hot to find, of course. The woman who had the smaller painting in America was named Jane Deasy, and Billy said that he remembered some story about the woman but he didn’t know the details and said we should talk to Bridget.”

“Ah,” Mick said, as though Maura’s explanation made sense to him. Which was good, because she wasn’t sure what Billy thought Bridget might know. “When would all this have happened?”

“Nineteen-forty-something, I think. Bridget would have been, what, ten? Fifteen?”

“Even children listen. What’s more, if there’s a story to be told, people repeat it—you’ll remember there was no telly then, so storytelling was all we had.”

Maura looked hard at him to see if he was joking, and couldn’t decide. Still, if Billy and Mick agreed that Bridget might know more, it was worth following up. “If you say so.”

• • •

T
he next morning Gillian pulled up outside Maura’s cottage with Althea. Maura had left her front door open so she could hear them arrive and came out to greet them. “Gillian, I remembered after you left that I hadn’t told you where I lived.”

“Ah, I knew you had Old Mick’s place—those of us who grew up around here know each and every house.”

Althea was looking around. “Jeez, you really are out in the country here. Are those cows?” She pointed to a field a few hundred feet away.

“Yeah, Althea, those are cows,” Maura said with exaggerated patience. “This is a dairy farming area. In fact, Gillian lives in what used to be a creamery.”

“A what?”

“Where they collected the farmers’ milk, made butter and the like,” Gillian said absently. “Have you talked to Bridget yet, Maura?”

“No. Though I probably should have warned her that she’d have some unexpected guests—she’ll want to serve us tea.”

“Not to worry,” Gillian said, holding up a paper bag. “I picked up some fresh scones in Skib before I collected Althea.” She turned to Althea. “Now, remember what I told you: let us introduce you and explain what we’re doing here. Don’t just jump in with your questions.”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t beat up on the old lady,” Althea said impatiently.

“Althea,” Maura snapped, “you’ll be a guest in Bridget’s home, and you want something from her, so let her take whatever time she wants, okay? Just keep your mouth shut and drink your tea.”

“All right! Can we get on with this?”

Maura and Gillian exchanged a look, and Maura was relieved that it was the two of them against Althea. She valued Bridget’s friendship, and she didn’t want to spoil that by letting Althea trample all over her.

“Let’s go.” Maura led the way down the lane, stifling a laugh as she watched Althea try to make her way through the mud and the ruts in her fancy city shoes. Bridget’s house was only a minute or two away—depending on your shoes—and they found her sitting out in front of her house enjoying the sun.

“Bridget,” Maura called out as they approached, “I’ve brought you some company.”

“How lovely, dear. Is that Gillian Callanan? I haven’t seen you for quite some time. And who’s this?” she asked, looking at Althea.

“This is Althea Melville. She’s from New York, visiting here. It’s her first trip to Ireland.”

Bridget looked critically at Althea. “Welcome. Are you having a good visit?”

“Thank you, yes. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Althea said politely, then shut up, to Maura’s relief.

“Gillian’s brought you some scones,” Maura said. “Would you like me to make some tea to go with them?”

“That would be lovely, dear. You know where everything is. So how’s your mother keeping, Gillian?”

Maura left the women outside and went into Bridget’s kitchen to make the tea. She put the kettle on to boil, then collected cups, the sugar bowl, and a pitcher of cream as well as plates for the scones, butter, and knives. When the water was hot she poured it over the tea leaves, then carried everything to the low table in the big room.

Back outside, she said, “All set, Bridget. Can I help you inside?”

Bridget waved off her offered hand. “I’m fine. It’s a good day for me. Gillian and I were talking about some of the neighbors’ children she knew, years ago.” Bridget stood up slowly, then led the way into her home, and the others followed. “Please, sit down. Maura, would you pour?”

“Happy to, Bridget.” It took a few minutes to serve tea to everyone, and Maura smiled inwardly: this was not a fast process, and Althea must be going nuts with the pace. She was doing a good job of holding it together, though, for which Maura was grateful.

When Maura finally took her seat, Bridget asked, “So, Althea, what brings you here? Do you have family in Cork?”

“No, it was something else.” Althea looked at Maura and Gillian for approval before plunging on. “You see, I work in a museum in New York, and I came here looking for an old painting, to put in a show. It turns out that it belongs to the Townsends.”

Bridget’s eyes were bright with curiosity. “Now, isn’t that interesting? And have you seen your painting?”

“I found it, yes. But there’s something else I wanted to ask you.”

“And what would that be? Oh, please, help yourself to more tea. Maura, might you want to make another pot? Will we be a while?”

“Of course, Bridget,” Maura said, ignoring Althea’s imploring look.

When she returned with the refreshed teapot, Maura took her seat again and winked at Gillian, who signaled to Althea to pick up the thread. “Why don’t you tell Bridget what you’re looking for?”

“Thank you!” Althea recounted to Bridget the story and explained her need to prove that the small painting hadn’t been stolen. “Billy at Maura’s pub said that you might know something about the woman who had the painting when she . . . passed away not long ago. We wondered if she might have worked at the manor.”

Bridget had been following Althea’s story closely, nodding from time to time, but now Maura thought she looked troubled.

“And would you know her name?” Bridget finally asked.

“Jane Deasy.”

“Ah,” Bridget said, then she fell silent.

Althea looked desperately between Maura and Gillian, asking for her next move. Maura gave a quick shake of her head, trying to tell Althea to wait.

Finally Bridget spoke. “We wondered what had happened to Jane. The Deasy family lived not far from here, closer to the village. None live here now—at best you might find a few stones in the Kilmacabea cemetery. I knew Jane from church, but we weren’t close—she was a coupla years older than me. You’re right that she went to work at the manor for a bit. And then she was gone . . .”

Althea looked ready to speak, but Maura placed a warning hand on her arm, then asked, “Do you know what happened?”

“She never said. Just left. She had a sister in New York, and it was said that she’d gone to join her, that her sister would find her a better job. It was a common enough story. Neither she nor her sister ever came back to visit. I suppose I never gave it much thought after a time. And you say she’s just died?”

“A year or so ago,” Althea said. “According to her great-niece Dorothy, the one who inherited the painting, Jane never married or had any children, so she left what little she had to Dorothy. The only important thing she left was that painting, and Dorothy had no idea what it was. I want to make sure Jane had a right to it and that it’s really Dorothy’s now.”

“Yer thinking that Jane might have stolen it?” Bridget’s gaze was less than friendly now, and Althea hurried to mollify her.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to dirty Jane’s memory, but if the painting is what I think it is, it’s very valuable. She might have taken it thinking she could sell it in New York and nobody would think twice about it. The Townsends certainly don’t seem to have missed it.”

“But she never did sell it, yer telling me. She kept it always. So what’re you askin’?”

“Whether she came by it rightfully. If not, the heir will have to return it—that’s only fair. But if it truly was Jane’s, there must be a story behind it.”

Bridget’s eyes had turned vague again as she searched her memories. “There was something, I know, but . . .” Then her expression sharpened. “If I’m right, it’s not my story to tell. But Jane had a younger sister who would know more.”