David Dickinson - Death on the Holy Mountain

‘Good afternoon, Lord Powerscourt, how can I be of assistance?’ Father O’Donovan Brady was a short tubby man of about forty years, red of face, bald on top and with small suspicious eyes. His tone was polite but cold. Powerscourt thought he looked like Mr Pickwick, a billiard ball of a man, might have done had he been employed in the rack and thumbscrew department of the Inquisition, a priest more interested in sniffing out sin than in offering the consolation of salvation.

‘Thank you very much for seeing me at such short notice, Father,’ Powerscourt began. ‘I am staying with the Butlers up at Butler’s Court.’

Father Brady interrupted him. ‘I know who you are, Lord Powerscourt, and I know the nature of your business here with us.’ Of course, Powerscourt remembered. Word of his arrival and his mission would have travelled down the long drive to the little town as fast as the kingfishers that flew across the river. Johnny Fitzgerald had once observed that the sending of telegrams or maybe even important and interesting letters was not a safe practice in Ireland – the contents might have been read long before they reached the intended recipient.

‘A fine family, in spite of their religion, the Butlers,’ the priest went on. ‘The local people will always remember them for the work they did here in this barony at the time of the famine, slaughtering their cattle and handing over their crops to feed the starving. Not that you could say that about most of the landlord class, not by a long way.’

‘I was wondering, Father,’ Powerscourt was picking his words very carefully now. He had spoken more truthfully than he knew when he talked to Mrs Butler earlier that day about entering enemy territory, ‘if you could offer me any advice about the missing paintings, whether or not this has happened before, that sort of thing.’

Father O’Donovan Brady walked over to his sideboard and took out a full decanter and two large glasses. ‘Would you care for a small glass of sherry, Lord Powerscourt? I normally take one myself at this time of day.’

Powerscourt noted with interest that the Reverend’s glass was filled to a much higher level than his own. He wondered if the need for alcohol could overcome suspicion or even dislike of Protestants.

Father Brady sat down with his glass and drank deeply. ‘I fear,’ he shook his bald head as he spoke, ‘there will always be mischief in Ireland as long as the landlords are here.’ Powerscourt wondered suddenly if the man was actually a Fenian, or a secret member of the vicar’s Irish Republican Brotherhood, inciting revolt from the pulpit perhaps, withholding the sacrament from supporters of the status quo. ‘You ask if I can be of assistance to you in your sordid inquiries. Would you have me incriminate members of my own congregation, if I knew anything germane to the matter, which I do not? Are you asking me, in effect, to become an informer, virtually a spy for the Intelligence Department up at Dublin Castle?’

Tout, informer, Judas, there were few more dangerous words in Ireland where hatred of informers was as prevalent as the willingness of the native Irish to betray their own for money. The United Irishmen, Powerscourt recalled, had been riddled with informers, like a rotting honeycomb.

‘Of course I would not ask you to incriminate one of your own flock, Father. I was merely seeking information of a more general sort,’ said Powerscourt, watching Brady take another deep draught of his pale sherry.

‘Perhaps we can be clear about things, Lord Powerscourt. I cannot complain if you come to me looking for help in your squalid activities. But I am under no obligation to help you. I refuse to incriminate or betray any member of my congregation. I understand you reside most of the time in England now, Lord Powerscourt. Perhaps it would be better for this poor benighted country if all the Protestants, even the Butlers, went to live in England. Ireland is a land largely populated by Catholics, it always has been. One day, I am sure, God willing, it will be a proper Catholic nation. Whether or not there will be any significant place in that Catholic nation for other faiths is not for me to say, thank God.’

He went and poured himself a generous refill. He did not offer one to his guest but Powerscourt’s glass was hardly touched. ‘We have had landlords too long in Ireland, Lord Powerscourt, far too long.’

Powerscourt thought the time had come to beat a retreat. ‘Thank you very much for your time, Father,’ he said, heading for the door. ‘I can see little point in continuing this conversation.’

The priest showed him out. ‘We have conversion classes here in this house every other Thursday, Lord Powerscourt. Church of Ireland Protestants, Presbyterians, Methodists, all are welcome. It is never too late to welcome the sinner and the heretic into the true faith.’ With that he slammed the door shut. As he left Powerscourt was just able to see through the window Father O’Donovan Brady pouring himself another refill. It was only a quarter to six.

As he approached the steps leading up to Butler’s Court Powerscourt was passed by a carriage travelling at considerable speed. The passenger rushed inside. As Powerscourt entered the great white hall with its glorious staircase he heard Richard Butler cry, ‘Oh no! Oh, my God! How dreadful! How truly dreadful! How many this time?’

‘Ten altogether this time, Richard,’ the man from the carriage said. ‘Seven ancestors, all male, a Titian and couple of Gainsboroughs, well, maybe Gainsboroughs or attributed to Gainsborough as they say. I never did understand anything about this damned painting business.’

‘Allow me to make the introductions,’ said Richard Butler. ‘Lord Francis Powerscourt, come to investigate the theft of the earlier pictures, Mr William Moore, of Moore Castle in the neighbouring county.’

Just as they were shaking hands, they heard the sound of another pair of boots racing up the steps. The boots appeared to be in as great a hurry as the carriage had been earlier.

‘Francis,’ said a panting Johnny Fitzgerald, nodding politely to the others. ‘I have news. Important news, I think.’ He fished a note from his pocket. ‘This,’ he said, ‘from a leading New York newspaper several days ago. The text was sent over by cable. “Eight Anglo-Irish portraits by distinguished Irish and English artists, eighteenth to nineteenth centuries. Four full-length, four half. Available for sale as a group or individually. Price on application to Goldman and Rabinowitz, Picture Restorers and Dealers in Fine Art, 57 Fifth Avenue, New York City.”’

Richard Butler led them rapidly out of the hall, talking loudly about a horse he had seen that morning. The beast, he declared, was a most promising animal, the finest he had seen since the German-bred Wolfgang years before.

‘Didn’t want the women to hear,’ he said, panting slightly as he reached the security of his study. ‘Sylvia would be on the first boat to Holyhead if I told her this evening, so she would. God, this is terrible news.’

Further introductions were effected, William Moore telling Johnny Fitzgerald that he had known a cousin of his at school. ‘Tell us, William, in God’s name,’ said Butler, ‘tell us when it happened, how it happened.’

‘The theft took place sometime in the middle of the night. There’s a broken window down in the kitchen. That’s where they came in, I think. One of the footmen noticed the vanished pictures on his rounds first thing this morning.’

‘Was anything else taken?’ asked Powerscourt, sitting himself down on a small sofa by the fireplace.

‘Nothing at all,’ said Moore, a small wiry man with red hair and a bright red beard, ‘and the silver in that room is worth a fortune, far more than the bloody pictures.’