‘Tell me, Powerscourt,’ Moore was speaking very quickly, as if he thought the remains of his ancestor on the wall might hear him, ‘what does it mean?’
‘Come away, man,’ said Powerscourt. ‘We can talk better away from the poor chap on the wall.’
Moore led them into the sitting area at the back which had once been the entrance hall. He ordered coffee and a stiff whiskey for himself.
‘Let me say first of all,’ Powerscourt draped himself in an elegant chair and stared out at the lawns and the fountain that led down to Moore’s little river, ‘that in one sense it is the same as the Butler picture. That isn’t the original, I’m virtually certain of it. So, with luck we may recover the real thing in the end and your grandfather can go back on his walls. That picture in there is a copy, maybe done by the same man who painted the different version of The Master of the Hunt for Butler’s house. And the artist has used some very inferior paint, or he’s treated it with some fancy chemical so the paint fades away completely in a week. Some of the Old Masters, you know, in the days before commercially manufactured paint, used to mix their own. Sometimes the very same thing happened to them as has happened to yours – the work just faded away in a very short time.’ Powerscourt hoped that Moore might take some comfort in being bracketed with the likes of Albrecht Durer and Filippo Lippi, but if he did he was hiding it well. He continued scowling at his floor. ‘As to what it means, it’s the same thing as Butler’s. You’re not wanted. Your ancestors and what they stand for are repudiated. Your view of history and your family’s view of history and your class’s view of history are discredited, not valid any more. But it means something else as well, I think.’ Powerscourt paused to take a sip of his coffee. A great peacock was strutting outside on the lawn.
‘Can I just take you up on one thing you said earlier, Powerscourt? You said you thought we might recover the real painting in the end, that we might get my grandfather back again. Do you really believe that?’
‘I do, Moore, I believe it very strongly. I have a feeling, no, more than a feeling, that the paintings are safe. People who manipulate pictures and their significance as cleverly as these thieves must have an understanding of what they mean. They’re not likely to destroy them.’
‘You were about to say something more when I interrupted,’ said Moore, looking slightly happier though Powerscourt suspected it might be due to the whiskey which was disappearing at a rapid rate.
‘Yes,’ said Powerscourt, ‘I must ask you a question. In the original blackmail letter there was a deadline, a day by which you were meant to have done whatever it is they wanted you to do. Is that correct?’
Moore nodded.
‘And has that day arrived, or are we very close to it?’
There was a pause. Powerscourt looked over at Lady Lucy who never took her eyes off Moore’s face.
‘It’s very close,’ Moore murmured, ‘but it’s not quite yet.’
‘And have you given in to their demands, the blackmailers?’
‘No, I have not.’ Moore was firm and defiant now.
‘Very good,’ said Powerscourt, ‘then that is the other message from the disappearing grandfather next door. It’s a warning. They’re trying to frighten you. If you don’t agree to our demands, terrible things are going to happen to you. Vanishing relations in the family portraits for a start.’
‘You don’t think some more of my paintings are going to come back with things wrong with them, do you, Powerscourt?’
‘No, I don’t,’ said Powerscourt firmly. ‘I don’t think they’ll try that particular stunt again.’
Just what the thieves were going to try next became apparent all too soon. Ormonde House was in chaos when Powerscourt and Lady Lucy returned there in the late afternoon. Groups of Orangemen were searching the woods to the side of the house. Other Orangemen could be heard clumping about in the attics, opening doors and rooms that had not seen a visitor in years. Clouds of dust floated down from the top storey on to the floors below. The butler, Hanrahan, gave them the news. ‘It’s Mrs Ormonde and her sister Winifred that just came to visit her today, sir, they’ve disappeared. We can’t find them anywhere. The Chief Constable’s in with Mr Ormonde now, sir, if you’d like to join them.’
‘I don’t think we’ll do that just now,’ said Powerscourt, his brain reeling from the news. The pictures were only a start. Then it’s the people. Your own wife, even. He took Lady Lucy’s hand absentmindedly into his own.
‘Do we know when they disappeared? Do we know where they were when they were taken? If they were taken, that is.’
Hanrahan coughed. ‘I’m afraid it’s not altogether clear about when they were last seen, sir. Some people thought they went out on to the lawn. Others think they saw them after that in the house.’
‘They didn’t say if they were going out for a walk with a picnic perhaps, something like that? They didn’t go off in one of the carriages, did they?’
‘We’ve checked all that, sir. There was no picnic ordered and the carriages are all there still now.’
They heard the clatter of boots coming from the library. The Chief Constable was introduced, a former military man, Powerscourt decided. ‘Colonel Fitzwilliam, Lord Powerscourt.’ A grim-faced Ormonde made the introductions.
‘Delighted to meet you, Powerscourt,’ said the Colonel. ‘Heard you were roaming in these pastures. Aren’t you the chap who did all that intelligence work in South Africa?’
‘I am,’ said Powerscourt ruefully. ‘I feel I was more successful out there against the Boers than I am here with these thieves.’
‘Nonsense, man.’ The Colonel at least was in cheerful mood. ‘You’ll get the hang of it soon enough.’
Powerscourt did not like to admit that he had been working on the case for many weeks now and did not feel any more advanced than on the day he started.
‘Ormonde will fill you in on the plans. I’ve got to get some sort of system organized for finding the women. Won’t do it without a system. I’ve always believed in systems, getting things properly organized. Nothing happens otherwise, civilians even worse than military.’
With that Colonel Fitzwilliam clattered off out of the front door and was driven away at great speed toward his systems. Ormonde drew them into the drawing room. Powerscourt remembered the flood of uncontrollable anger that had swept through this man when he realized his paintings had gone from his walls. He wondered if the reaction would be the same this time, or worse. But he seemed calm at first. Powerscourt thought he could see the terrible wrath lurking just beneath the surface, waiting to explode.
‘Let me ask you one thing straight away, Powerscourt,’ he began. ‘Do you think they’re alive, my wife and her sister, I mean?’
‘I do,’ said Powerscourt firmly. ‘Let me tell you why I believe it. This whole affair is about blackmail. The thieves took one lot of chips, if you’ll pardon the expression, when they stole the pictures. They thought that would be enough to persuade you to do what they want. It wasn’t. So they’ve helped themselves to some more chips. But they have to keep the two hostages alive, it seems to me. They’re no use to them dead. You might get years in prison for stealing paintings and hijacking people. You hang for murder.’
‘Thank you,’ said Ormonde gravely. Lady Lucy didn’t feel she would like to be referred to as a chip as if she was part of a poker game but she let it go. ‘Now then, I’ll tell you the plan. The Chief Constable is planning a great sweep through a fifteen-mile arc around this house. Every house, great and small, is to be visited, the inhabitants questioned, notes taken about every single dwelling. Just as well Mayo is one of the least populated parts of the country. He’s bringing in extra policemen from all of Connaught and further afield if he needs them. Each force will have its own particular area to work on. The working day for policemen is to be extended until eight o’clock in the evening. The Orangemen are to abandon their defensive duties and search as much of the mountain and wasteland as they can in the time. Fitzwilliam wasn’t at all keen on their knocking on doors. I’ve got to go and talk to these Orangemen now, if you’ll forgive me. I shall return soon.’