‘Anyway,’ Moore went on, ‘I’m not broke. Richard Butler certainly isn’t broke. Your man Connolly isn’t broke either. Between us we hold some of the finest land in Ireland. You may not know it, living across the water as you do, but the Government has been passing laws for years encouraging tenants to buy the land they rent off their landlords. They’ve just passed another one called the Wyndham Act which actually bribes the landlords to sell out. People can make a packet. There’s a whole lot of new houses going up down in Carlow and Kilkenny with Wyndham money, the bonus they call it. Well, let me tell you something, Powerscourt. They can do what they like down there in Carlow and Kilkenny, but we’re not selling. No, sir. We may not be the masters now but we’re damned if the bloody Government is going to decide the future of our property. Like the pictures, it’s our history and our heritage too.’
Powerscourt thought it was time to call a halt. ‘All right, Moore,’ he said, ‘we’ll leave it there for now. We didn’t mean any of it personally. I hope you understand that.’
‘I know you have to ask your questions,’ said Moore, pouring himself a generous glass of John Powers. ‘I’m just upset you thought I might have done it myself, that’s all.’
‘We’ve come across stranger things than that in our line of work,’ said Johnny Fitzgerald delphically.
‘I suppose you’ll want to get back to Butler’s Court,’ Moore said. ‘Let me arrange for a couple of fresh horses for you.’
Another Anglo-Irish house, Powerscourt thought ruefully, where the welcome was not as warm as it might have been. Two out of three of them were keen to get him off the premises as fast as they could.
6
Alice Bracken and Johnpeter Kilross were sitting on a bench by the river Shannon at the bottom of Richard Butler’s garden. They were both hot after an energetic game of tennis which Johnpeter had won 6-3, 7-5, coming from 5-2 down to take the second set. Maybe it was this unexpected defeat that had put Alice in a bad mood.
‘I’m sure that backhand of mine was in,’ she said grumpily, ‘the one down the line when I was leading 5-4 and 40-15 in that last set.’
‘No, no,’ said Johnpeter, patting her hand as sweetly as he knew how, ‘it was out.’
‘Didn’t look out to me,’ said the girl.
Johnpeter wished he had let Alice win the second set. He had had every intention of doing so. That, after all, was why he had let her build up such a big lead in the first place. But then she had laughed at him when he fell over at the net, trying for an acrobatic smash, and his heart had hardened. Alice began kicking the side of the bench.
‘Don’t be in a bad mood, Alice,’ he said, trying and failing to hold her hand. ‘It’s only a game.’
‘That’s what everybody says when they’ve won,’ she said. ‘I’ve never heard anyone say it when they’ve lost. Nothing’s going right for me at the moment. Everything’s so boring. There’s no sign of the Captain returning, no sign at all. And it’s months and months before the hunting season starts. And I haven’t got any money for a new hunter.’ She went on kicking the side of the bench.
‘Well, there’s all this business about the paintings,’ said Johnpeter. ‘That’s not boring.’
‘If I hear another word about those wretched paintings,’ said Alice, ‘I’m going to scream. Anybody would think the paintings were more important than everybody having a good time. Mind you,’ she turned to look around to make sure they were not overheard, ‘Richard Butler is worried sick. He’s been riding over to see that man Connolly every other day without telling anybody about it. One of the stable lads told me. Very early in the morning he goes. Maybe they’ve lost some paintings over there too, though nobody talks about it. You’d think we were in a war.’
‘Maybe we are,’ said Johnpeter. ‘And what do you make of our investigating friend, Lord Francis Powerscourt? His wife is coming tomorrow to join him for a few days, you know. I heard him discussing it with Mrs Butler. And she’s worried sick too, Sylvia Butler, though she tries to put a brave face on it. When she thinks nobody’s looking her face goes from cheerful to miserable in one second flat.’
‘They’ll turn up when nobody’s expecting them, those paintings, so they will,’ said the girl.
Johnpeter thought she might be in a slightly better mood now. ‘I know, Alice,’ he said brightly, ‘why don’t we take a boat over to the island? You know you always like it over there.’
‘I’m not in the mood for the island today,’ said Alice haughtily, as if island escapades were beneath her.
‘Do come on, Alice,’ said Johnpeter, ‘there won’t be anybody there. The children have all gone off to their cousins.’
‘I told you, I’m not in the mood.’
Johnpeter wished he could find somewhere less exposed than the island, some little place where he and Alice could be alone. More than anything, for the moment anyway, he regretted not having let her win that second set.
Pronsias Mulcahy, sole proprietor of Mulcahy and Sons, Grocery and Bar, of the main square in Butler’s Cross, was peering over his ledgers in the back room of his shop. Pronsias was a well-built man of about fifty years, his hair turning grey, his figure growing stout as if he partook too liberally of the provisions, both solid and liquid, that he dispensed in his shop. He was surrounded this afternoon by some of the raw materials of his trade, great hams hanging from the ceiling, boxes of cheeses about to make their way on to the tables of Butler’s Cross and its neighbouring villages, tinned stuff from England and America, fresh barrels of stout. Today was half-day in the shopping community, thirsty citizens having no choice but MacSwiggin’s Hotel and Bar if dehydration overcame them on a warm afternoon. Pronsias was an eldest son and had inherited the business from his father. Over time he had built it up into a thriving concern. The locals said that Pronsias was the wealthiest man in the county, even including Richard Butler. There was a black book open in front of him now where all the grocery accounts were kept, Pronsias able to work out the precise level of profit on every entry merely by looking at them. This facility was known to a select few in Butler’s Cross who had happened to see it in action, and it had gained him a remarkable reputation for financial wizardry. Any normal person, the locals said, would have to write everything down, suck heavily on the pencil, maybe have a drink or two to improve the mental powers, and then take about five minutes to complete the complex calculations. And Pronsias could do it in his head! Truly it was a gift from God.
One of Pronsias’s brothers, Declan, was a solicitor out west in County Mayo. Another was a police sergeant down in County Kerry where the police station, for some unknown reason, had one of the finest vegetable gardens in the south. A third was a priest up in Donegal. His two sisters had made good marriages, one to a schoolteacher and another to a man who worked in a bank. Next to the black book was a red one where the entries and the accounts for the bar were kept. And next to that, the most secret volume of them all, the blue book where Pronsias kept the details of his loans. By now he had a more substantial portfolio than the bank in North Street on the far side of the square. His customer base was far wider than you might have expected, reaching out into levels of society that did not normally buy their groceries in the main square in Butler’s Cross. The loan business had begun in a very small way, regular customers unable to pay at the store. From then it gradually expanded into small tenant farmers behind with their rent, worried parents anxious to pay for their sons or daughters to take passage to England or America or Australia. Weddings, he had discovered by accident, were a fruitful source of business. About half of the local receptions were now paid for by the generosity of Pronsias Mulcahy, Grocery and Bar of Butler’s Cross. Pronsias charged slightly more than the banks in interest, that was admitted, but he never foreclosed on a loan, a little help for a friend in need as he would put it to his customers. He would let the loans go on for years if necessary, fully aware that if he ever foreclosed his business might dry up. He looked on himself as a great benefactor, oiling the wheels of local commerce and giving young people a chance to make something of their lives. When necessary, the youngest Delaney of Delaney, Delaney and Delaney, solicitors in law across the way, would draw up the necessary paperwork and keep the documents in their storeroom.