Chapter 15
“Where are we headed?” Therese asked, after they’d cleared customs, claimed their baggage, and were in the rental car about to leave the Dublin airport.
“Did you even look at the itinerary I gave you last week?” Maeve asked, not bothering to tamp down her annoyance.
“Could you just refresh my memory and spare me the lecture?”
Maeve clipped her cell phone to an air vent on the dashboard. She’d already typed in the address for their destination. A woman’s voice with a slight British accent directed her to something called the ring road, and she tried to quell her nervousness about driving on the wrong side of the road.
“First, we head to Wicklow, where Kathleen was born, in a village called Tarrymore. We’re booked into an inn on the Tarrymore House property for the week,” Maeve said.
“Tarrymore is the manor house the portrait came from?”
“Supposedly. I tried to email Lady Esme Rossington—her family is the one who actually deeded Tarrymore over to the National Trust, and I think they have something to do with the inn.”
Therese’s interest was instantly piqued. “So, they’re the family we’re related to? Why would they just give away a castle like that?”
“We don’t actually know that we’re related to them,” Maeve reminded her.
“My guess? Estate taxes. A house that size, thirty-eight thousand square feet, on twelve thousand acres, must be a huge tax burden. And realistically, it probably costs a fortune to maintain and staff it. Who needs a house with seventeen bedrooms, a banquet hall, ballroom, gun room, and a billiards room?”
“So, Lady Rossington, did she agree to meet with us? To talk about our portrait?”
“She didn’t answer. Not that I expected her to. And I deliberately didn’t mention the portrait. It’s probably a pretty touchy subject with the family.”
Still keeping her eyes on the road, Maeve handed her sister the file folder she’d compiled containing tourism brochures, maps, restaurant recommendations, and relevant news articles that she’d researched.
“Look at the printout on the top of the stack,” she commanded.
Therese read the headline out loud.
IRA HEIST AT IRISH MANSION: MILLIONS IN ART STOLEN IN DARING RAID.
“Whaaaat?” Therese exclaimed. “What kind of art? When was this?”
“Read the article.”
“I can’t. This print is tiny. And the ink’s faded. Plus, I think I left my reading glasses on the plane. Just give me the Reader’s Digest condensed version.”
“This happened back in the mid-1970s. Back when the previous Lord and Lady Rossington still lived in the house, and they had hot and cold running servants. This was during what the Irish call the Troubles, back when the IRA was waging guerilla war against English rule. The Rossingtons were in their study one night, listening to chamber music or whatever the hell English aristocracy did back then, when they heard someone banging on the door to the servants’ entrance.
The butler answers the door and this young woman who’s babbling in something like French tells him her car’s broken down and she needs help.
“Then, suddenly, three masked gunmen burst into the house. They make the butler take them to the owners, tie everyone up, ransack the place, and make off with eleven priceless paintings. A Goya, a Turner landscape, a Vermeer, a Rembrandt etching…”
“And a portrait of Lady Geraldine by a famous artist,” Therese guessed.
“Bingo. A day later, they receive a letter demanding two million pounds in ransom money—plus the release of two IRA terrorists who’re being held in a jail in Belfast for a bombing that killed four people.”
“Fascinating. Keep talking,” Therese said.
Maeve pointed at the map on her phone screen. “Okay, but there’s a haha coming up in a couple miles and I need you to tell me which road to take.”
“What the French toast? What’s a haha?”
“I had to look it up too. It’s like a roundabout, or a rotary, which is what they call them in England. We need to take the second exit. Don’t let me miss it.”
As they approached the intersection, Maeve bit her lower lip, trying to concentrate on not careening into a huge truck coming from the opposite direction.
“Turn here! Turn left!” Therese screeched. She grabbed for the steering wheel, but Maeve slapped her hand away.
“Jesus H. Christ!” Maeve somehow maneuvered onto the correct exit. She clutched at her chest. “You almost gave me a heart attack.”
“You almost got me skewered by an eighteen-wheeler,” Therese retorted.
“Don’t ever do anything like that again,” Maeve said, her teeth gritted.
They rode in silence for a few miles.
“Well?”
“Well, what?” Maeve asked.
“Are you going to tell me about the art heist or not? Did they get the paintings back?”
“The thieves weren’t exactly rocket scientists,” Maeve said.
“The police mounted a massive manhunt. They found the group’s ringleader—the woman who was speaking in faux French—in a rented cottage up in the mountains.
Her lover had gone into the village to buy some fish and chips.
They found most of the paintings in the trunk of her car and two more hidden in the house.
The cops arrested the lover when he got back to the house, but the lookout evaded arrest until later. ”
“You said ‘most.’ What happened to the rest? Were they recovered? What about Lady Geraldine?”
“Local lore says that the paintings were buried, somewhere up in the mountains.”
“And Lady Geraldine?” Therese persisted.
“The stories I’ve read don’t mention her either way.”
“Hmm,” Therese mumbled.
Maeve looked sideways. Her sister had nodded off. She would have to be her own navigator. Which might be a blessing.
Two hours later, Maeve spotted the turnoff for Tarrymore.
The road narrowed and she found herself driving through what felt like a tunnel of green in an old-growth forest. Shafts of sunlight barely penetrated the thick tree canopy.
Once she spotted deer grazing placidly at the edge of the woods.
It was like driving through a fairy tale.
At any moment Maeve expected Robin Hood or Peter Pan to flit through the treetops.
She slowed the car and turned onto the road for Tarrymore Estate and Inn.
The surface was gravel and bumpy, and as she grew closer to the hotel the forest gave way to a thick carpet of emerald-green grass and curving manicured flower beds bursting with blooming roses, peonies, and tiny blue and pink flowers she couldn’t identify.
Over the tops of the trees, in the distance, she saw the soaring roofline of what must be the Tarrymore mansion.
When she saw a sign for guest parking she turned into the lot. “Therese,” she said, tapping her sister’s shoulder. “Hey, Terri. Wake up. We’re here.”
“Wow…” Therese said as they wheeled their suitcases toward the inn’s entrance. They were approaching an imposing stone-and-brick Tudor edifice. “This isn’t even the main house, right?”
“This was originally the gamekeeper’s lodge, if you can believe it,” Maeve said. “It has fourteen rooms.” The lodge had obviously suffered well-meaning but clumsy modernizations, including a carport-type addition rising above the valet parking driveway.
The front doors were heavy and dark oak, and when they pushed through they were in the lobby, which featured more dark oak paneling and stained-glass window panels depicting hunters in pursuit of deer, pheasant, and boars.
The sisters approached the reception desk. An older man wearing an ill-fitting burgundy blazer with a Tarrymore Estates embroidered crest on the breast pocket looked down at them through wire-rimmed glasses. “May I help you?”
Maeve gave them her name and he typed it into a computer terminal and frowned. “We weren’t expecting you for another two hours. I’m afraid your room isn’t ready.”
“But I asked, and paid extra for an early check-in time,” Maeve protested. She plucked a printout from her folder and placed it on the countertop. He glanced at it and shrugged.
“Sorry. Staff shortages, you know, but you’re free to have a seat in the lounge, and I’ll come right over to let you know as soon as your room is ready.”
“Gaaaawd,” Therese groaned.
“No scenes, please,” Maeve said under her breath, steering her sister by the elbow away from the desk.
The “lounge area” consisted of four easy chairs upholstered in worn burgundy velvet. Maeve planted her suitcase beside one and Therese took the opposite chair. “Is this what you call shabby chic?” Therese asked, looking around.
The interior of the hotel was not nearly as impressive as the exterior. Here, the veneer of luxury seemed to have been rubbed thin. The oriental rugs were threadbare in places and the heavy drapes at the windows looked dusty.
But there was a roaring fire in the fireplace warming the chilly lobby air, and the chairs were deep and comfortable. Maeve unlaced her tennis shoes and extended her feet toward the warmth of the fire.
A minute later, another uniformed staff member appeared, a skeletal woman with jet-black hair scraped into a severe bun. She extended a large silver tray holding two heavy cut-glass tumblers and a crystal decanter holding an amber liquid.
“Would you care for a complimentary taste of our Olde Tarrymore whiskey? It’s distilled right here on our property,” she said in a posh accent.
Maeve waved away the glass. “No thanks. It’s a little early for me.”
Therese took the glass that was offered, knocked it back, and reached for the glass her sister had refused. “Don’t mind if I do.”
Maeve waited until the server wandered away. “Try not to get shit-faced, please. I’ve booked us a two o’clock tour of the estate.”
Therese yawned theatrically and closed her eyes. “Wake me when the room’s ready.”
An hour later they were admitted to their room. Therese looked around, unimpressed. “I’ve stayed in nicer rooms at a Motel Six in Myrtle Beach.”
Maeve didn’t disagree. The walls were painted battleship gray, the drapes at the single narrow window were a shiny synthetic burgundy brocade, and the quilted bedspreads were made of the same fabric.
The furniture consisted of a pair of twin beds and a flimsy four-drawer faux mahogany dresser with a matching single nightstand placed between the beds.
Therese flung the drapes aside. “Oh, look, a great view of the parking lot.”
She opened the bathroom door and peeked inside. Gray linoleum floor, old-fashioned claw-foot bathtub, and a serviceable pedestal sink. “At least it’s clean.”
When Therese sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress sagged. “I think this thing might be the only true antique in the joint.”
“It’s all they had in our price range,” Maeve said, feeling defensive. “The only other option was a youth hostel by the train station in the next village over, where we’d have to share a bathroom—probably with high schoolers backpacking across Europe.”
“No thanks. Been there, done that.” Therese began unpacking her suitcase, tossing clothing into the dresser drawers.
“We’ve got about forty minutes before our tour of the estate,” Maeve said. “If we hurry, maybe we can grab some lunch at the pub in the lobby.”
The pub had a low, beamed ceiling, scarred wooden tables, and a bar that ran the length of the room.
The sisters sat down on backless wooden stools and the bartender handed them menus.
They settled on what he assured them would be their quickest option, shepherd’s pie.
Therese ordered a pint of Guinness, and Maeve asked for a Coke, which arrived with a single ice cube.
“This isn’t half bad,” Therese said, after her first forkful of the meat-and-potato casserole. “Reminds me of school-cafeteria potato turbate.”
“It kinda does,” Maeve agreed, smiling at the memory.
The bartender came back. “Would madam care for a pudding?”
Therese did a double take. “Pudding? What, chocolate? Butterscotch?”
“Sorry, no time,” Maeve said, pushing her empty plate away. “Can you put the charges on our room?”
“Of course, madam.”
“I really wanted some pudding,” Therese grumbled as they headed for the door.
“He didn’t mean literal pudding. It’s what they call desserts over here. Come on, the tour group leaves at two sharp.”