Scandal in Skibbereen (23 page)

“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?”

S
ean 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.”

“But Harry was in Dublin that night!” Maura protested.

“Was he? He said he didn’t come down till the garda told him about the death, but we’ve talked to his mates there, and they’re having a bit of trouble remembering which night was which. Let’s say it’s not a hundred percent sure. And don’t spread this around.”

“You mean, don’t tell Gillian? If you say not to, I won’t. We’ve got some things to tell you—and Harry’s on his way too—but there’s nothing there that we can’t say in front of everyone. You can figure out how much of it you want to take to your meeting at the station.”

Sean looked past her, up the street. “Townsend,” he said neutrally.

Harry Townsend was striding purposefully toward the pub. “Officer . . . Murphy, is it? Gillian inside?” The last was directed toward Maura.

“She is. So’s Althea.” Maura watched with pleasure as he flinched, although he tried to hide it.

“The two of them? Together?”

“Yup. Let’s go on in.” Maura led Harry and Sean into the pub, and they spent a minute collecting extra chairs. Harry smiled briefly at Gillian and exchanged curt hellos with Althea, but apart from that he wisely kept his mouth shut.
Well,
Maura reflected to herself,
you made your own bed . . .

When everyone was settled, and had waited until Rose delivered drinks, with a wink for Maura, Maura said, “Sean, Harry, we’ve found some interesting stuff that might have something to do with what’s going on at the manor. Harry, you may know some of this, or maybe not. I’m sure you can fill in some of the blanks, anyway. Gillian, you want to start?”

“Sean,” Gillian began, “we should start by telling you that we’ve found the Van Dyck painting that Althea came here looking for.”

“On Sunday,” Sean said, pulling out a notebook and flipping to a page. “Maura told me Monday night. Then I was called away when a gunshot was heard at the manor.”

Gillian straightened up in her chair. “Well, then, to move on . . . After we found the painting, Althea told us that we should look for some proof that it really was a Van Dyck. We agreed to do that, and Harry and I looked through the estate records at the manor for anything that might show the purchase of the original painting. We finished up yesterday but found nothing. I came over here to cry on Maura’s shoulder. And I guess Old Billy—”

Sean interrupted. “That would be Billy Sheahan?”

“Yes. I’m sure Althea told you that what brought her here to Ireland was the smaller painting found in New Jersey. We knew that the painting had belonged to a woman named Jane Deasy, and Billy overheard and suggested we should talk to Bridget Nolan.”

“Mick’s gran?” Sean said, scribbling quickly.

“Bang on. So Maura took us over to see Bridget this morning, and Bridget said that we should talk with Jane Deasy’s sister, who’s a nun with the Brigidine Sisters over at Ballybeanrialta.”

Sean was beginning to look confused, and Maura didn’t blame him. What had begun with the murder of a gardener had somehow led to a nunnery.

“And . . .” Gillian paused a moment for dramatic effect. “Sister Benedicta told us that when Jane emigrated to America back in the 1940s, she was pregnant with Richard Townsend’s child.”

Now Harry looked shocked. “Wait—Richard? Aunt Evie’s brother? The one who died in the war?”

“The same,” Gillian said triumphantly. Althea sat quietly, looking smug.

Harry’s brow furrowed with his effort to understand. “Let me get this straight. Say Van Dyck painted that big portrait of the first Richard Townsend that’s hanging in the library. And say we accept that he also painted the little one that made its way to America. How did Jane get it? Did Great-uncle Richard give it to Jane? Or did she steal it and run?”

“Apparently the first one.” Althea finally spoke. “According to Jane’s sister the sister, Richard had no money of his own, but he thought that Jane could sell the sketch to support herself and the child. But it seems Jane couldn’t bear to part with it—she kept the painting but gave the baby, a boy, to her older sister to pass off as her own. The woman who brought the painting to the auctioneer’s open house is his daughter, and therefore Jane’s granddaughter.”

“Can you prove any of this?” Sean asked.

“Not yet, but it fits, doesn’t it?” Althea retorted. “We know Jane worked at the manor and was pregnant when she left, and we know the painting was among her things when she died. We just have to connect the dots.”

“And how does that lead us to the murder of Seamus Daly?” Sean asked.

Maura cheered silently for Sean: he’d managed to follow their patchy logic and now he’d asked the right question.

Althea’s face fell. “We don’t know. We know the big painting is worth a lot, and so’s the little one—more if we connect the two. But we can’t prove who owns the little one—all we’ve got is Sister Benedicta’s story that Richard gave it to Jane. She couldn’t have sold it anyway, not legally, without any papers. Harry, would your great-uncle Richard have given her some proof of ownership?”

Harry stared incredulously at Althea. “How should I know? He died long before I was born, and nobody in the family ever mentioned it. Hell, nobody talked about the art at all—mostly they went on about hunting and how to pay the second mortgage or which piece of land to sell off next. If the sketch was stolen, maybe somebody in the family reported it to the gardaí. Sean, would you be able to find out?”

Sean scribbled yet another note. “If there’s a record.”

“Harry, if the family didn’t want all the shameful details to come out, they might have done nothing,” Gillian said.

“Good point,” Harry admitted. “Don’t dirty the family name and all that.”

“Harry, would your aunt Eveline know something?” Maura asked before Althea could.

“We’ve never been close enough to talk about things like that, what with the difference in our ages and my not being around much. I think I remember that someone said she was close to Richard, amongst all her family members, even though she was a few years younger than he was. You know, dashing big brother in uniform and all that. I’ve never been one to stir up old trouble with her. Besides, she’s a sweetheart, but she does seem a bit out of it these days and tends to ramble on. Of course, I’m away a lot, always trying to pay that blasted mortgage—that’s why I’m so grateful to the O’Briens for keeping an eye on her.”

“Harry,” Gillian said, “her mind’s still fairly sharp. I know she tires easily, and her arthritis makes it hard for her to get around. But it’s hardly fair to her to shut her up in that big old house, with only the O’Briens to talk to.”

“She likes to garden, when she feels up to it,” Harry volunteered. “She’d take a chair out back and supervise Seamus.”

“How well did she know Seamus Daly, then?” Sean asked.

“She knew him as a servant,” Harry said. “I don’t mean to be crass, but she was of a generation that treated their hired help differently than we would. Well, except maybe Great-uncle Richard, it seems. I wouldn’t say they were close.”

Maura had been mulling over what Gillian had said, and realized that she—and Sean?—might have been assuming things about Eveline and her state of mind that weren’t true. “Harry,” she said, breaking in, “what’s if she’s not half as fuzzy minded as you seem to think? Would that change the picture here?”

Sean shot a glance at her, then leafed through his notes. “When I first spoke with the O’Briens, they told me that Eveline Townsend wouldn’t be of much use if I asked her to account for events at the house . . .” Sean looked up, his jaw set. “Perhaps I was a bit too quick to accept what I was told.”

“Surely you’re not insinuating that my elderly great-aunt had anything to do with Seamus’s death!” Harry protested.

“She could have seen or heard something that could apply,” Sean responded firmly. “I’d like to speak with her.”

“She did seem sharp enough when we had tea with her,” Maura said. “Maybe that took a lot of effort, or she stuck to what she was comfortable with, but she seemed to be all there. And if we’re looking to understand how Jane and the two paintings fit with Seamus’s death, and if her mind’s stuck in the past, she might remember what happened with Jane better than what happened last week.”

“Good point, Maura,” Gillian said. “Harry, I didn’t think she’s gone downhill much since the last time I saw her—what, last year? Maybe the O’Briens are keeping her packed away in cotton wool to make things easier for themselves. They don’t have to take her anywhere, and they don’t have to worry about entertaining guests, that kind of thing.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Harry said impatiently. “The parts of the house she spends time in are spotless; she’s well fed; she’s clean; she’s healthy, or as healthy as anyone of her age can be. Do you know how hard it is these days to find that kind of help?”

“I didn’t say the O’Briens were taking advantage of her, but how often does she see anyone else? Surely the woman’s lonely.” Gillian pressed on, “You just said ‘the parts of the house she spends time in’—obviously there are parts of the manor where she never goes, like the library where the painting is.”

“Are you accusing me of neglect, Gillian?” Harry demanded. “Or of letting the O’Briens keep her locked away for their own convenience? They’re decent people. They’ve been working in that house for years.”

“And how many raises have they had in that time?” Maura shot back. “Maybe they’re putting together a retirement fund—did you ever think of that?”

“What for all that’s holy would they do with a million-dollar painting?” Harry all but yelled at her.

“You can sell anything on the Internet, or so I hear,” Maura replied, raising her voice to match his.

Harry stared at her for a moment, then broke out laughing. “Can you imagine either of the O’Briens using the Internet?”