David Dickinson - Death on the Holy Mountain

Inside the searching party had almost finished with the main body of the shop. Powerscourt had told the Inspector that he thought it very unlikely that anything would be hidden there. But he also said that he doubted if any great attempt at concealment would be made. Mulcahy, he felt, would have thought there was about as much chance of his premises being turned over as there was of his being chosen as Tsar of all the Russias. Powerscourt retired behind the gates of Butler’s Court and checked the dates and the entries on Mulcahy’s loan ledger with the details in Harkness’s letter. A slow smile spread across his face. In one respect, at any rate, he was not wrong.

A couple of hundred yards away, further up the hill, Lady Lucy had left the book of poetry in her lap. The sun was quite warm already. She was daydreaming now, wondering if Francis was going to take her away for a holiday when this investigation was over. He usually did. She checked through various places in her mind, Rome, probably too hot, Nice, probably too crowded, Naples, too dirty. She was wondering if she could persuade him to take her to New England when she fell asleep.

Harkness’s men were in the outhouses now. There was a slight air of frustration among the constables. Various piles of stores, carefully laid in by the grocer in case they should prove to be in short supply in the near future, were kicked over. Outside in the square Mrs Mulcahy had made an appearance, wearing, not the blue suit she wore to church, but a well-worn apron over a cream blouse and a dark skirt. She advanced towards her husband, still sitting defiantly on his chair, a lawyer Delaney on either side of him in case his enemies should assail him from the left or the right. Far from offering comfort, Mrs Fionnula Mulcahy brought wrath. She came not with peace but with the sword. ‘Just look on the disgrace you’ve brought on us all! Stuck there like a common criminal in the stocks! I always told you you’d go too far. Me own father Seamus Dempsey warned me you’d bring shame down on us all and you have! Just don’t expect me to come visiting you in the jail in Athlone with little packets of barm brack and fruit cake, Pronsias Mulcahy! Don’t even expect to find me waiting for you when you come out, if you ever do!’

She shook her fist at him and returned to her home. A small cheer of support from the hurling stick youths followed her back.

At the back of Mulcahy’s they were now halfway through the outbuildings. A faint tremor of anxiety passed across Powerscourt’s face as he contemplated the fact that their prey might not be there. Inspector Harkness was sweating slightly. A party of children had arrived in the square and were playing hopscotch by the Butler’s Court gates. Three Christian Brothers joined Father O’Donovan Brady in silent prayer for their troubled comrade. MacSwiggin’s Hotel and Bar opened its doors early to cater for the demand. A potboy carried a glass of stout to Pronsias Mulcahy who seemed to be in need of refreshment. The policeman scowled but could not think of any laws or regulations that were being infringed. This was Ireland, after all.

It was Inspector Harkness who solved the problem. In the last outhouse but one he thought that the internal dimensions were less than the external ones. The area inside was smaller than it should have been. He stalked round the outside knocking on the walls with a crowbar he had apprehended in an earlier building. He looked suspiciously at what might have been a new internal wall, recently assembled in wood and draped with black tarpaulins. He pointed out his suspicions to Powerscourt.

‘Knock the bloody thing down,’ Powerscourt said, ‘and let’s see what’s on the other side.’

One of the constables had worked as a blacksmith before he joined up. He borrowed the crowbar and struck a number of fearsome blows. Quite soon he had opened up an entry, large enough for one man to pass inside. Inspector Harkness gave a shout of triumph and handed a large parcel out of the opening to Powerscourt. Five more, of different sizes, followed, then more still. Another constable returned with a torch, for the outhouse was rather dark and had no electricity of its own. Powerscourt took out his penknife and worked his way very carefully through the wrapping. After a couple of minutes he found himself looking at an eighteenth-century gentleman, almost certainly a Butler from the set of his cheekbones. He checked all the others to make sure they had not been defaced in the manner of The Master of the Hunt . Then another set of paintings appeared. These were the ones from Moore Castle whose theft had caused such upset to their owner. Inspector Harkness whistled.

‘I’ll get one of my men to saddle up the Mulcahy cart, my lord. We can take these back home.’

The Inspector arranged the transfer so that every painting was carried out right in front of Pronsias Mulcahy, still sitting by the front entrance to his shop. When the parade had finished and the paintings were safely stowed away, a constable on guard on either side of them, Inspector Harkness raised his voice till it carried to the far corners of the square. ‘Pronsias Padraig Mulcahy, I arrest you on the charge of being wilfully in receipt of stolen goods. I have to warn you that anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence against you. Take him away!’ More policemen ushered Mulcahy into a police vehicle and drove him off. One of the Delaneys started to run after it, saying there was an absence of due process, but the constables took no notice. Father O’Donovan Brady turned on his heel and took the Christian Brothers back to his house. The good Lord Himself, Father O’Donovan Brady told them, would not object if they took drink at a time like this.

A small triumphal procession made its way up to Butler’s Court. In the van was Mulcahy’s cart with the paintings and the two constables on guard. Behind that marched Inspector Harkness and his remaining forces. Behind them, a rather grubby Powerscourt, a dirty hand holding on to one of Lady Lucy’s with great pride and affection. They must have been spotted from one of the windows at the front for Richard Butler came out and eyed the cart suspiciously. He remembered the earlier painting that had returned with the faces changed.

‘They’re all right, Richard,’ said Powerscourt, ‘these are the real things. They’ve come back. After all this time they’ve come back. I think you should rehang them straight away. And you’d better tell Moore to come over as fast as he can. We’ve found his too.’

An hour and a half later Richard Butler carried two bottles of champagne into his dining room. His ancestors and his Old Masters were back on the walls. Next door The Master of the Hunt in the correct version was also back in its place. The entire family was present. Inspector Harkness had borrowed a red smoking jacket for the occasion and was puffing happily on a large cigar. Powerscourt was sitting at one end of the table.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said Butler, raising his glass, ‘I ask you to drink the health of Lord Francis Powerscourt who has secured the miraculous return of these paintings. Lord Powerscourt!’ The toasts rang out into the great hallway. ‘And now, Powerscourt, perhaps you can tell us all what has been going on!’

Powerscourt remained seated. ‘Let me begin,’ he said, ‘by saying how steadfastly everyone has behaved throughout this business. Except for Connolly. I have no brief for Connolly. I expect his pictures were guests of Mulcahy’s as yours were, but were released when he paid up. But without the courage of all of you, even when the Ormonde women were seized, this strange battle would have been lost long ago.’ He paused and looked at the Butlers and the Moores, who had only just arrived to be reunited with their ancestors.