Scandal in Skibbereen (27 page)

“So it’s all come right in the end,” Eveline said, closing her eyes briefly. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m rather tired now. Perhaps we could talk more another time.”

Gillian was quickly on her feet. “Of course we can. I’m sorry if this has been difficult for you, but we thought it was important. I’m so glad you explained to us—”

Gillian was cut off by the abrupt arrival of Florence O’Brien. “Excuse me, but there’s a coupla gardaí here says they have to talk with you straightaway and won’t take no for an answer.”

Eveline straightened her back. “Then by all means, see them in. And please refresh the teapot, if you will.”

Mrs. O’Brien gave her an incredulous look but did as she was asked.

A
moment later a flustered Mrs. O’Brien ushered in a motley group. Maura was quick to recognize Detective Chief Superintendent Patrick Hurley, head of the Skibbereen gardaí. She’d spent some time in his company not long after she’d arrived in Ireland, when a thug had been giving her trouble for reasons she didn’t understand. But she would have remembered him anyway, because he was a good-looking fifty-something man who gave the impression of both calm and authority. To her surprise, he was followed by Althea and a man Maura didn’t recognize, with Sean Murphy bringing up the rear. Althea looked frazzled, which was not surprising under the circumstances. The man looked even worse, not to mention slightly feverish. He was younger than Althea but not by much, and his clothes, while rumpled and torn, were of good quality. Maura guessed this might be the mysterious Nate Reynolds. If so, the Skibbereen gardaí had worked fast.

Detective Hurley scanned the room before speaking. He smiled briefly when he saw Maura, but when he spoke it was to Eveline Townsend. “Miss Townsend, I’m Patrick Hurley, detective chief superintendent of the Skibbereen gardaí, and this is my officer Sean Murphy. I apologize for intruding like this, but we’ve just gotten these two together, and I thought it would save time if we heard their stories, all of us together. I’m guessing there are some things you need to hear. Perhaps we should begin with introductions all around?”

Harry stepped forward quickly. “Harry Townsend,” he said, extending his hand. “Sir,” he added belatedly. “And as you’ve already determined, this is my great-aunt, Eveline Townsend.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Townsend,” Detective Hurley said. “I believe you live here at Mycroft House?”

Eveline dipped her head graciously. “I do, and I have done my entire life, although I can’t recall having entertained a garda before now. How should I address you?”

“‘Detective Hurley’ will do fine, ma’am.” He turned to Harry. “Mr. Townsend, do you live here as well?”

Maura knew he already knew the answer to that question. Maybe he was just testing the waters to see how Harry would respond.

Harry looked squarely at the detective. “No, I live in Dublin most of the time. I came down when I learned about Seamus Daly’s death, to support my great-aunt. The O’Briens—I believe you met Mrs. O’Brien at the door—live in. Florence looks after the house, and her husband, Tom, takes care of the grounds. Seamus Daly worked for him, as a gardener. As I told your sergeant at the station.”

“And this is?” The detective turned to Gillian.

Gillian stood and held out her hand as well. “I’m Gillian Callanan. I also live mainly in Dublin, but I spend my summers here—I’m a painter. I grew up in the area, and I’ve known Harry most of my life.”

Detective Hurley shook her hand. “I’ve seen some of your work in the gallery at Skibbereen—impressive.”

Gillian looked at him with surprise. “Thank you,” she said and sat down again.

Finally he turned to Maura. “And Maura Donovan. You’ll have to tell me how you come to be involved in all this, but that can wait. I understand you all know Althea Melville.” He inclined his head in her direction. “And this gentleman”—he gestured toward the man—“is Nathan Reynolds.”

Gotcha!
Maura thought happily. “I guess he’s not in the States.”

The detective glanced at her briefly before adding, “From what we’ve learned, Mr. Reynolds has been in the country for several days.”

Eveline broke in. “Gentlemen, it sounds as though this may take some time. Won’t you please sit down? Harry, would you please find our new guests some chairs?”

“What? Oh, right.” While Harry collected side chairs from the corners of the room and arrayed them in front of Eveline’s settee, so that they were all facing each other in a rough circle, Eveline acknowledged the rest of her guests. “Althea, it’s nice to see you again, or should I say, it’s nice to see less of you?” Eveline’s eyes twinkled, and Maura stifled a laugh: Eveline had a sense of humor. She was really beginning to like the old lady.

“About that, Miss Townsend, I’m really, really sorry,” Althea said. “I never meant to offend you.”

Eveline looked at her levelly. “My dear, when you reach my age you will have seen everything at least once. You startled me, nothing more. I gather, though, that it was Florence who was the more upset.”

Althea managed a smile. “I’m so glad you aren’t angry with me.” She looked around her. “May I sit down? It’s been a rather stressful night.”

“I don’t think I can stand up much longer,” Nate said in a faint voice.

“Please, everyone make yourselves comfortable,” Detective Hurley said. “This is not a formal interrogation. We are here merely to obtain information. Neither of you is under arrest at this time. We thought we might move more quickly if we did this together.”

“I see.” Eveline nodded. “Well, then, we definitely need more tea. Harry, please go tell Mrs. O’Brien to bring more cakes as well.”

Harry left quickly, and Maura could swear that Patrick Hurley was trying hard not to smile. She felt the same way: the scene unfolding in front of her hardly matched what she knew about Boston police procedures, not that she’d ever experienced them firsthand. But she was pretty sure that Boston police officers did not take tea and scones in the drawing room when they were investigating a murder. Harry reappeared quickly. “She’ll be here directly.”

“Thank you, dear,” Eveline said, unruffled. “Now, Detective, what would you like to know?”

Detective Hurley cleared his throat. “If I may sum up briefly, Althea Melville arrived in Leap a week ago, on Thursday last, and Seamus Daly died that same night. I understand that she admitted to having visited Mycroft House earlier that evening. Miss Townsend, do you know what sparked her interest in this house?” Detective Hurley surveyed the crowd.

Eveline spoke quickly, with no sign of fatigue. “Detective Hurley, I encountered Miss Melville in the house very early Saturday morning, I believe it was. We did not speak to one another, so I was unaware of her interest in the house until the others here explained it to me just before you arrived.”

Maura spoke up. “I was the first person Althea talked to in Leap, when she came into the pub for a cup of coffee. She told me she was looking for an old established family house, the kind that might have an important portrait. I told her if she wanted to know about the families around here, she should talk to Old Billy, who was at Sullivan’s at the time.”

“That would be William Sheahan?” the detective asked.

“That’s him. Billy told Althea about Mycroft House, and I guess she headed over there after we ate dinner together, although she didn’t tell us she was going to. And she got turned away by Florence O’Brien, she told us later. Then Sean—Garda Murphy—came to Sullivan’s the next morning to tell us about the murder.”

Harry spoke up. “I drove down from Dublin as soon as I heard about poor Seamus from the O’Briens, and I stopped in at Sullivan’s, then came to the house to see Aunt Evie, and then I went to Skibbereen to talk to the guards. I met Althea at the pub. That’s also when I met Maura.”

“And I assumed Harry would be coming down, so I stopped by Sullivan’s as well,” Gillian said. “Then Harry and Althea left together.”

“Althea came back to the manor as my guest, and she encountered Aunt Evie and Mrs. O’Brien in the morning, as Aunt Evie said,” Harry volunteered.

“Under less-than-ideal conditions,” Althea added, contrite.

“I thought maybe Gillian could help Althea find the painting,” Maura said, “so I got them together Saturday. Then Harry, Gillian, and I went to Mycroft House the next day, Sunday, and we had tea with Eveline in the garden, and then we found the painting.”

“Miss Melville did not accompany you to look for the painting?” the detective asked.

“That was at my request,” Harry said. “After our encounter with Aunt Evie in the hallway, I thought Althea might not be a welcome visitor, so I told her to stay away.” He glanced at Eveline, who was contemplating the nondescript landscape painting hanging over the fireplace, although Maura wondered if she saw a hint of a smile on her face.

“I said I was sorry,” Althea muttered to no one in particular.

Detective Hurley ignored her comment. “And did she stay away?”

“As far as I know,” Maura said. “Gillian and I went back to the pub and told Althea we’d found the painting, and of course she was excited. And then she asked us to do something
else
for her.”

“And that would be?” When Althea started to interrupt, he stopped her with a gesture. “You’ve given me your version of events, Miss Melville. I’d like to hear what the others have to say.”

Maura continued, “She told us that finding the painting was great, but what she needed was some proof of what it was, more than just her guess. She wanted to put it in a show she was working on in New York, but she knew they wouldn’t use it based on only her word. She hoped that there was some record here at the manor, and she asked us to look for it. We went back to the house, to look through the records in the attic, but we didn’t find it. Oh, and I told Sean that from what I’d seen in the room where the picture was, nobody had been in the room where the painting is for a really long time.”

Detective Hurley glanced briefly at Sean Murphy. “As I understand it, on Monday night Garda Murphy responded to a report that gunshots were heard at Mycroft House.”

“That’s correct, sir,” Sean said. “I came to the house and learned that Thomas O’Brien had fired an unlicensed shotgun at someone or something. It was dark, so he wasn’t sure what it was. I thought I’d seen blood on the grass, and when I looked more closely by daylight the next morning, I found it again, but I could not ascertain whether it was human or animal. I reprimanded O’Brien about the status of the weapon.”

Detective Hurley glanced at Nate Reynolds, who was shifting uncomfortably in his chair, and Maura wondered if he was the one who’d been on the receiving end of Tom O’Brien’s blast. “What happened next?” Hurley asked the group.

Maura walked him through how they had come to find Sister Benedicta, then faltered, not wanting to embarrass Eveline with Jane Deasy’s story.

“That’s all right, dear,” Eveline said kindly. “It’s ancient history now. Detective, while she was employed here Jane Deasy became pregnant with my brother Richard’s child, and she decided to go to her sister in New York to have the baby. Richard had no money of his own to give her, so instead he gave her the small portrait, thinking she could sell it when she arrived in New York.”

“Only she never sold it.” Althea jumped in quickly. “Which is how it came to be in the possession of Dorothy Ryan, who took it to an event hosted by Nate’s auction house, and that’s how I saw it and knew exactly what it was. Which turned out to be right,” she finished triumphantly.

“Thank you all. Now—” the detective began, but the rattle of a wheeled tray interrupted the discussion. Mrs. O’Brien appeared, pushing a laden tea tray, and everyone fell silent as she swapped the first teapot for a fresh one and added clean cups to the table for the newcomers. Most important to Maura, she filled up the Pretty Silver Thing with more scones and other goodies. Then she looked around the group. “Will there be anything else?”

“Thank you, Florence,” Eveline said. “I think we’re all set for now.” After Mrs. O’Brien had left, and her footsteps could no longer be heard in the hallway, and after teacups had been refilled, Eveline turned back to Detective Hurley. “Now I expect you will explain the presence of Miss Melville and this other man?”

“I
will,” Detective Hurley replied. “As I said, this man is Nathan Reynolds, an employee of the auction house which hosted the appraisal event that brought out the oil sketch. If I may summarize, Mr. Reynolds suspected he had found something special at that open house, and he called in Miss Melville to confirm his opinion, which she did. And that led both of them to travel to Ireland, unbeknownst to each other. Mr. Reynolds arrived a couple of days after Miss Melville, but they both claim they did not see each other until late last night.”

“But it’s true!” Althea protested. “I didn’t know. I thought Nate was back in New Jersey, until he called me last night and asked to meet me.”

Detective Hurley sent her a sharp look that silenced her. “Miss Melville, we’ve already heard the outlines of your story. Right now I believe we need to hear what Mr. Reynolds has to say.”

“Wait—how did you find him?” Maura interrupted. “Did he turn himself in?”

The detective didn’t appear troubled by her intrusion. “I’ll let Garda Murphy tell it, since it was his work that tracked Mr. Reynolds down.”

Sean looked to be blushing, but his voice was steady. “When I found the blood on the lawn at the manor, I rang round to the local clinics to ask if they’d seen anyone come in with any kind of gunshot wound. None had at that time, but I asked them to keep their eyes open. Well, this morning, early, there was a call from the clinic in Rosscarbery, saying they’d had a request from the conference center there to look at a man who was bleeding but wouldn’t explain why. Being anxious to serve their guests, they insisted that he seek medical attention. He did and was found to have several shotgun pellets embedded in his . . . lower body. They were a couple of days old, but his wounds had been torn open again by some exertion on his part, and they were on the road to being infected as well. Sorry, Miss Townsend—this isn’t proper conversation to be having over tea,” Sean said apologetically.

“Young man, don’t trouble yourself. I’m as eager as you are to get to the bottom of whatever is going on. Please continue,” Eveline said firmly.

“Well, then, the clinic called me, and I went over and found our Mr. Reynolds. When I learned he was American I put two and two together and guessed he was Miss Melville’s colleague, so I brought him to Skibbereen—after he’d been patched up, of course.”

“Is he under arrest?” Maura asked.

“Uh, not exactly,” Sean said. “Right now, we’ve no more than a suspicion and some coincidences, so we’ve asked Mr. Reynolds to assist the gardaí with our inquiries, as we put it. Mr. Reynolds understands the difference, do you not?”

To Maura’s eye, Nate Reynolds looked numb—had he taken painkillers for what Maura guessed was buckshot in his butt? Or was being suspected of murder in a foreign country too much for him to handle? “Yeah, yeah, you told me,” he said glumly. “Twice. And until you arrest me, I can leave at any time, right?”

“That is correct,” Detective Hurley answered.

“So why should I tell you anything?”

“Because we’re hoping that you can help us clear up what happened to Seamus Daly, and possibly to the man Miss Melville thinks may have died in the river late last night,” Detective Hurley said. “You were with her late last night when the assault occurred?” He glanced at Sean. “Garda Murphy, would you keep the record of this discussion?”

Sean pulled a small pad from a pocket and prepared to take notes.

Once again Althea interrupted. “Nate, just tell them, will you? They already know a lot of it.”

Nate rubbed his hands over his face, which sported a day’s worth of stubble. “Okay, okay—I just want this to be over.”

“Mr. Reynolds,” Detective Hurley said. “From the beginning, if you don’t mind.”

Nate shifted uncomfortably in his chair once again. “It all began with that damn painting.”

Nate had their full attention, whether he noticed it or not. Maura thought he was too focused on his own misery, mental and physical, to care. “You want the long version or the short one?” he asked the detective.

“We’re in no hurry,” Detective Hurley replied.
Not much like Boston,
Maura thought yet again.

“Okay, let me start at the beginning. Back home I work for an auction house in New Jersey, and I go out scouting for auction items, usually estate sales—you know, like when somebody dies and the relatives want to unload the contents of the house. Once in a while we put out a call for people to bring in things they think might be valuable, and we set up in a big space and take a look. You might not believe it, but a lot of people show up, especially these days when money’s tight. Of course, a lot of what they bring in isn’t worth much at all, but there are those rare occasions when we see something special.”

He paused for a swallow of tea. “So at one of those, in the middle of the afternoon, this ordinary-looking woman named Dorothy Ryan comes in and unwraps this painting and I nearly pass out, it was that good. That’s the kind of thing we all hope for, but not many people find things like that. But I wanted to be sure before I made a big thing of it, so I called Althea to double-check. I’ve known her for years—she’s got a good eye, and sometimes she points people toward our auction house. I knew she was working on a portrait exhibit, so I asked if she’d come by and take a look at the painting. She and I met with Dorothy the next day, and Althea’s reaction was about the same as mine—basically, ‘Wow.’ But we agreed that the painting was only a sketch. When we asked Dorothy about where she thought her painting came from, she didn’t have a clue. All she could tell us was that the person she’d inherited it from, her great-aunt Jane Deasy, had come from Ireland as a young woman, but nobody in the family talked about Ireland at all. So that was all we had. I told Dorothy that our auction house would be delighted to help her sell the painting she had. She didn’t say anything at the time, but I figured out that Althea was betting that there was a finished portrait to go with the sketch. I mean, it made sense. And I knew that if she could find it, it would be really big news in the art history world. But that was later. When we were all together, I think Dorothy would have gone along with selling it right away—she’s not an oil painting kind of woman, and I think she needs the money. But then Althea told her that it would be worth more if it had a solid provenance.”

“Is that correct, Miss Melville?” Detective Hurley asked.

“Please, call me Althea. I hate this ‘Miss Melville’ thing. Okay, yeah, Nate is correct as far as it goes. But I never told him that I was going to Ireland—that idea didn’t even occur to me until later that night, after I’d done a little poking around on the Internet. And he didn’t tell me he was going to do the same thing.” Althea sat back, crossed her arms, and glared at Nate.

“Well, I didn’t plan to either!” Nate shot back. “After you left, I figured I’d talk to Dorothy Ryan and convince her that selling through us quickly was in her best interests.”

“Jerk,” Althea muttered. “And you’re wrong. Putting the two paintings together would increase the value
substantially
. You should know that.”

“But I didn’t know there was another painting!” Nate protested. “Not then.”

“So we know that Althea moved quickly and came to Ireland,” Detective Hurley said, putting the discussion back on track. “When did you decide to follow?”

“I didn’t follow her, not exactly. I don’t know what I would have done, but Dorothy went home and blabbed to her dad, Joseph Ryan, all about the wonderful things she’d found out about that old painting and how much money it might be worth. So the next day, Dad comes looking for me. He asks me if what Dorothy said was right, and when I say yes, he says something like, ‘I’ll be damned—it was true.’ Turns out his mother, or rather, the woman he grew up believing was his mother, had died a while back, and after she was gone, his so-called father thought he deserved the truth, that Joseph was really Jane’s son, but Mary Margaret Deasy had refused to tell Joseph or let her husband do it. Joseph didn’t know what to make of the story, and he had no idea where to find Jane or even if he wanted to, so in the end he did nothing. Then Dorothy told him about the painting and he realized that the story was true. He didn’t have a lot of details, but did have the name of the place: Leap. Which has only one manor house, so it was easy to find. I figured it was worth a shot, and I hopped on a plane. That’s how I got here so fast.”

Harry snorted. “I hope they’re not looking for money, because they’re going to be disappointed—we have none. Look, I’m happy to let Dorothy keep the painting and sell it if she wishes, so Nate and Althea can settle that between them.”

“So let me be sure I have this right,” the detective said to Nate. “You wanted Dorothy to sell the painting she has—through your company—as quickly as possible, and then suddenly you decided that Althea was looking for its mate, and you came chasing after her? Why the urgency?”

“Selling the painting as a ‘maybe’ Van Dyck would definitely bring in money,” Nate said, “but putting it up for sale with authentication would bring in a whole lot more, and finding the finished portrait would up the value again. I know Althea didn’t care about seeing it sold—she was thinking about her precious exhibition, and if she could find the second one she’d be on top of the world. Of course, the little sketch would sell well later, after the exhibition closed, but that would be months later . . .” Nate stopped, realizing that his own argument didn’t make sense.

“You wanted the money now,” Maura said flatly. “Why so fast, if you could make a lot more if you waited?”

Nate looked more and more uncomfortable. “Well, it’s true that I need the money. I’ll admit that some of the bigger items I’ve brought to the auction house didn’t bring as much as I’d hoped. And the auction business is struggling right now, as you might guess, although I believe it’s on the way to recovering.”

He was still dodging around something, Maura thought. “Okay, you wanted money now instead of later,” she said. “You didn’t want to wait, what, six months, a year, to make a whole lot more? Why? You’ve got a kid who needs surgery? A mother who can’t afford her nursing home? A huge drug habit?”

Nate just looked at her miserably. And then something clicked for Maura. “You’re from New Jersey. Atlantic City. You’re a gambler, and you owe somebody, big time.”

“Is that what this is about, Nate? How stupid are you?” Althea burst out. She turned to the rest of the group. “Would you believe we actually met at a conference in Atlantic City? It never occurred to me that he might be a gambler. And then he turns around and double-crosses me and goes behind my back to try to sell this thing”—she faced Nate again—“just to pay off your bookie or whatever?”

“Loan shark,” Nate muttered, looking at his feet.

Sean Murphy watched the exchange, bewildered, and Maura took pity on him. “Nate got in over his head with his gambling problem, and now somebody wants their money, fast. This woman Dorothy dropped in like a gift from heaven, and of course he wants to sell the painting as fast as he can, to settle up with whoever it is he owes. How’m I doing, Nate?”

Nate shut his eyes. “About ninety percent right. Yes, I kind of got in over my head, and, yes, that sale would put things right for me. When Joe Ryan told me where to look in Ireland, I figured I could get here before Althea and cut a deal with the owner. Assuming, of course, that the painting existed.”

“I never told you I was coming to Ireland!” Althea all but shrieked. “And I would have shared with you.”

Nate shrugged. “I figured you’d do what I’d do, and I was right, because here you are. And I couldn’t wait—I’m in for too much now.”

“Yet Althea beat you to it,” the detective said. “You knew that she was close to finding the painting?”

“Hard not to, once I got here. Everybody around here talks. God, how they talk! Lots of people in pubs around here were going on about this American lady’s treasure hunt. I worked it out that she was using Sullivan’s as her home base, so I stayed away from there. I figured the most important thing was to find out if the painting really was here in the manor, and if it was, I had to talk to the owner before she did.”

“Could you not have approached the house directly?”

“I knew that Althea had tried and had the door shut in her face,” Nate replied.

“Oh, dear,” Eveline said. “The O’Briens are quite protective. I fear they let few people in. I must have a word with them.” Harry rolled his eyes.

Detective Hurley’s eyes had grown cold. “Mr. Reynolds, you’re telling us a nice tale, but it doesn’t ring true. You say you were hard on the heels of Althea?”