Chapter 19 #2
“Rarely. Er, sometimes. We love each other, but we’re … very different.”
“Geoffrey and I were nothing alike, and we weren’t keen on each other as friends either.” She nuzzled her chin against the top of the dog’s head. “Sinead is all the family I need.”
“Geoffrey, your brother? Where is he now?”
“In hell, if there’s any justice on this earth.”
“And yet, he talked your father into just giving up your family home?”
“After he talked my father into bankrolling half a dozen of Geoffrey’s other rubbish schemes. The ostrich farm in Cumbria, the solar-powered golf carts—in Ireland, a country where we don’t see the sun for seemingly months on end…”
Therese giggled despite herself.
“He told Father the estate was a drag on the family fortune, would never ever turn a profit, even though I had financials all in order to turn it into something along the scale of Powerscourt Gardens,” Esme said.
“What about your mother? She couldn’t make your father believe in your vision?”
“They divorced when I was nine,” Esme said. “She remarried and moved to New Zealand. And my stepmother was never a fan of mine, so no help there.”
Esme sighed and wrapped her arms around the small dog’s frame.
“The real nail in the coffin was that IRA robbery, back in the ’70s.
Papa never really felt safe living at Tarrymore after that.
It didn’t help matters that the villains pistol-whipped Marguerite and shot up her Aston Martin as they made their getaway. ”
“An IRA robbery? Wow! What happened?”
The older woman polished off her drink and raised her empty glass in the air. A moment later, their server arrived with another gin and tonic. He nodded at Therese. “Anything for you?”
“Why not,” Therese said, shrugging.
Esme took a long sip of her own drink, nearly emptying the glass. She pointed at Therese’s half basket of chips. “Are you going to eat those?”
“Help yourself,” Therese said, pushing the plastic basket onto the other table.
Esme bit into one of the chips, and when Sinead whined, she tossed the other half to the spaniel.
“Terrible precedent,” the older woman said, shaking her head. “Spoilt little girl.”
“You were going to tell me about the IRA robbery,” Therese said, after the server brought her Guinness.
“Of course the story has been overblown over the years. The stuff of local legend,” Esme said, chomping on another chip. “There was even a horrid movie about it some years ago.”
“I’d love to hear the real story,” Therese prodded. “Can I buy you another drink?”
The older woman shrugged. “I wouldn’t say no.” She waved her arm in the general vicinity of the bar, calling out, “Rodney, be a good chap and bring me another.”
A moment later her drink arrived. “Put it on my tab, please,” Therese said, winking at the server.
“Decent of you,” Esme said, which Therese supposed was her way of saying thanks.
“Back to that robbery,” she prompted. “Were you actually there?”
Esme stared down at the drink, glassy-eyed, before taking a gulp.
“Heavens, no. My then-husband hated the countryside, so we were living in Dublin, at his insistence.
It was a quiet Sunday afternoon in February.
Papa and Marguerite were watching the BBC in his study, and there was some commotion at the service entrance to the kitchen.
The rest of the staff had the day off, but Fowler, the butler, went to the door.
“A woman was gibbering at him in something like French, and all he could make out was something about her car. A moment later, two armed men wearing black balaclavas burst in behind her. They forced Fowler, at gunpoint, to take them to Papa. They beat him senseless, then tied up Papa and Marguerite. When she objected to the tightness of the ropes, one of the men struck Marguerite with a pistol, breaking her nose and splitting her lip.”
“And?” Therese asked.
“And then they carted off our family’s most valuable works of art.
A Rubens, a Turner, a Goya, a Joshua Reynolds portrait of one of my ancestors, a minor Rembrandt.
Two days later, the IRA demanded that the family pay them one million pounds to ransom the art.
Supposedly the money was to fight for the release of some of their gang from prison. ”
“Only a million? Surely even a minor Rembrandt would be worth much more than that.”
Esme’s laugh devolved into a hacking cough.
“These were IRA, not art connoisseurs. Besides, it never came to that. The police swarmed the area, and the woman and one of the men were found in a rented cottage up in the mountains. They found the paintings hidden under a bed and in the boot of their car. The miscreants were carted off to prison, and later, my father donated the most valuable pieces of the collection to the National Gallery of Ireland. For safekeeping.”
“All’s well that ends well?” Therese was still hoping for more.
“Something like that,” Esme said. She stood with obvious effort, and the spaniel scrambled back to its chair.
“G’bye then.” She nodded at her new acquaintance, then clapped her pool partner on the shoulder. “Come along, Reggie. I’ll school you again, shall I?”