Once a week on half-days like this one Pronsias would take himself off to the priest’s house at five o’clock for a refreshing glass of John Powers. Pronsias always took a fresh bottle with him, reasoning that Father O’Donovan Brady might need whatever was left to succour unhappy parishioners who had fallen foul of their God. Pronsias thought that the Powers would be more comforting than the priest in those circumstances, but he shared that thought with nobody. Father Brady was a useful fount of local information, pointing out to Pronsias who might be having trouble with the rent. It was an arrangement of mutual benefit to both sides. Both felt that whiskey in exchange for customers was a fair bargain, especially for Father O’Donovan Brady who appeared to have an inexhaustible supply of John Powers stored in his cellar, some bottles nearly full, some a third full, others half full, however hard he tried to exhaust his supply.
Lord Francis Powerscourt had collected his wife Lucy from the railway station. She brought news of the children and of her relations, one of whom had fallen into financial difficulties and might be in need of rescue. Lady Lucy had a great many relations. After the formalities were completed at Butler’s Court, Lady Lucy admiring the furniture and the decoration in their enormous bedroom, Powerscourt took her down to the river and filled her in with the details of his investigation. The Shannon was very smooth that afternoon, flotillas of baby ducks on manoeuvres by the riverside under the watchful eye of a parent, the ducklings occasionally diving in unison underneath the water and reappearing together at exactly the same time, as if an invisible conductor was teaching them synchronized swimming.
‘I didn’t like to say anything in the carriage, Francis,’ she said, taking his hands in hers, ‘but you’re looking worried. Is the case not going well? Are you not making any progress?’
Powerscourt laughed bitterly. ‘I was saying to Johnny only yesterday that I think we should give up, go home, pack our tents. We haven’t made any progress at all.’
She squeezed his hand and led him to a bench in the shade. ‘You mustn’t give up, Francis, you’ve always said that, you and Johnny.’
‘I just don’t know what to do,’ said her husband helplessly. ‘What have we got here, after all? Well, we’ve got a whole heap of empty squares on the walls of these houses. Fine, you might think, but the abandoned plaster and the black smudges where the edges of the pictures were can’t actually tell you anything. The problem with the humans is worse. Normally there are lots of people you can talk to. Here the ones you can talk to who might tell you something, the owners, don’t tell you the truth. I’m sure all three of them have had, in effect, a blackmail letter from the thieves, but they all deny it. The other ones you can talk to, the servants and the local people, may not talk to you or they may, as it were, be in the pay of the enemy.’ He told her of his sulphurous encounter with Father O’Donovan Brady.
‘But surely, Francis,’ Lady Lucy was holding firmly on to her husband’s right hand, ‘the servants and people all trust the families in the Big Houses – they work for them, after all. I’m sure that wouldn’t be a problem in England.’
‘Ah,’ said Powerscourt, ‘but this is Ireland. It’s different here. Let me tell you a story Richard Butler told me the other evening. It concerns a man called Blennerhasset, old Ascendancy family, living on a great estate down in Tipperary, family here since Elizabeth’s time, that sort of thing. Every general election this Blennerhasset was returned to Westminster with a big majority, his tenants and the people connected with the land all turning out to vote for him. Then the franchise changed. More and more people got the vote. Parnell and his crowd came along and changed the rules, Home Rule – what a comforting couple of words they are, images of a contented family sorting out their affairs in the parlour at home – now the order of the day. At the first of these elections under the new rules, Blennerhasset went off to the local town to make sure the voting was in order and check that the proceedings were properly conducted. All his tenants were very polite to him as usual. He was back home when the results were known, and he saw all the tenants having a party, a huge bonfire and fireworks in the main square. He thought it was to celebrate his victory in the normal fashion. But he hadn’t won. He’d lost. His opponent had won by a huge margin. All his tenants had doffed their caps to him, metaphorically speaking, but they’d voted for the other man. Blennerhasset was heartbroken. He couldn’t believe his tenants, his tenants, for God’s sake, had voted for the other fellow. They had betrayed him. His whole view of everything was shattered. He died not long after. Now do you see what I mean, Lucy? If you take the wrong people into your confidence you could be giving comfort and succour to the enemy and telling them what is in your mind. It’s like operating in a foreign country where you don’t know the language or where the same words have different meanings for the speaker and the listener. I’m in despair, Lucy, I really am.’
‘What does Johnny think about it all?’ asked Lady Lucy. But she never had time to find out what Johnny thought. For at that moment a huge shout of ‘Powerscourt!’ rang round the garden.
‘Powerscourt, where the hell are you?’ Richard Butler came into view, red-faced, running at top speed, panting from his exertions, waving a piece of paper in his right hand. ‘Powerscourt, Lady Lucy, thank God I’ve found you. Powerscourt, there seems to have been another one, another theft, I mean.’ He stopped and sat down on the edge of the bench. ‘Read this!’ He shoved the telegram into Powerscourt’s hand.
‘Crisis meeting tomorrow lunchtime. Ormonde House. One o’clock. Bring Powerscourt. Train from Athlone 10.15 or 11.05. My people will meet you. Ormonde.’
‘This doesn’t say anything about paintings being stolen, Mr Butler,’ said Lady Lucy brightly. ‘It could be about anything at all.’
‘Ah, Lady Lucy, but this is Ireland. If it was something unimportant you would feel free to mention it in a telegram. If it was something important, you wouldn’t dream of mentioning it. You could never tell who might be reading it, so you couldn’t.’
‘I see,’ said Lady Lucy, who didn’t.
‘Crisis, that’s the key to the thing now,’ said Butler, mopping his brow with an enormous handkerchief. ‘Crisis, Dennis Ormonde is telling us. That can only mean one thing. More paintings have gone.’
‘I fear you may be right,’ said Powerscourt. ‘We’ll find out tomorrow.’
All through that evening the word seeped through the floorboards of Butler’s Court. It travelled invisibly along the long passages. It flew up the great staircases and whispered along the attic corridors. The kitchen maids heard it in the kitchen as they prepared a great rhubarb pie for pudding that evening. The junior footmen heard it as they polished the silver in the pantry. Out in the stable block the grooms heard it as they prepared the horses for the night. More paintings have gone. Ormonde House is the latest house to be visited with the affliction. The Master and Lord Powerscourt are going there tomorrow. God save Ireland.
Rain was falling steadily as their train travelled slowly across the province of Connaught. There were glimpses of great lakes as they passed by, of dark mountains glowering across a barren landscape. Richard Butler had given Powerscourt a brief history of the Ormondes, Earls of Mayo, the previous evening, the Ormondes the greatest power in the west for centuries past, their great mansion, Ormonde House, nestling on the shores of Clew Bay some five miles from the town of Westport, the finest house in Connaught. Powerscourt was to say afterwards that his first impressions of the place were a blur, so fast had events unfolded.