Page 45 of Road Trip
“Help yourself,” Therese said, pushing the plastic basket onto the other table.
Esme bit into one of the chips, and when Sinead whined, she tossed the other half to the spaniel.
“Terrible precedent,” the older woman said, shaking her head. “Spoilt little girl.”
“You were going to tell me about the IRA robbery,” Therese said, after the server brought her Guinness.
“Of course the story has been overblown over the years. The stuff of local legend,” Esme said, chomping on another chip. “There was even a horrid movie about it some years ago.”
“I’d love to hear the real story,” Therese prodded. “Can I buy you another drink?”
The older woman shrugged. “I wouldn’t say no.” She waved her arm in the general vicinity of the bar, calling out, “Rodney, be a good chap and bring me another.”
A moment later her drink arrived. “Put it on my tab, please,” Therese said, winking at the server.
“Decent of you,” Esme said, which Therese supposed was her way of saying thanks.
“Back to that robbery,” she prompted. “Were you actually there?”
Esme stared down at the drink, glassy-eyed, before taking a gulp. “Heavens, no. My then-husband hated the countryside, so we were living in Dublin, at his insistence. It was a quiet Sunday afternoon in February. Papa and Marguerite were watching the BBC in his study, and there was some commotion at the service entrance to the kitchen. The rest of the staff had the day off, but Fowler, the butler, went to the door.
“A woman was gibbering at him in something like French, and all he could make out was something about her car. A moment later, two armed men wearing black balaclavas burst in behind her. They forced Fowler, at gunpoint, to take them to Papa. They beat him senseless, then tied up Papa and Marguerite. When she objected to the tightness of the ropes, one of the men struck Marguerite with a pistol, breaking her nose and splitting her lip.”
“And?” Therese asked.
“And then they carted off our family’s most valuable works of art. A Rubens, a Turner, a Goya, a Joshua Reynolds portrait of one of my ancestors, a minor Rembrandt. Two days later, the IRA demanded that the family pay them one million pounds to ransom the art. Supposedly the money was to fight for the release of some of their gang from prison.”
“Only a million? Surely even a minor Rembrandt would be worth much more than that.”
Esme’s laugh devolved into a hacking cough. “These were IRA, not art connoisseurs. Besides, it never came to that. The police swarmed the area, and the woman and one of the men were found in a rented cottage up in the mountains. They found the paintings hidden under a bed and in the boot of their car. The miscreants were carted off to prison, and later, my father donated the most valuable pieces of the collection to the National Gallery of Ireland. For safekeeping.”
“All’s well that ends well?” Therese was still hoping for more.
“Something like that,” Esme said. She stood with obvious effort, and the spaniel scrambled back to its chair.
“G’bye then.” She nodded at her new acquaintance, then clapped her pool partner on the shoulder. “Come along, Reggie. I’ll school you again, shall I?”
CHAPTER 20
Weak beams of sunlight filtered through the drapes. Maeve smelled coffee, opened her eyes, and saw her sister sitting on the edge of the opposite bed, holding a thick china mug.
She blinked. “Where’d you come from?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” Therese said, handing her the mug. “I got back here last night, and you were passed out cold. I had to check your pulse to make sure you were still alive.”
“Jet lag finally caught up to me,” Maeve said, yawning. “And where were you coming back from?”
“I woke up starved from my nap and went looking for something to eat. The guy at the front desk suggested a place called the Willow Tree, which is kind of a local hangout. You’ll never guess who I had a pint with!”
“Colin Firth? Jude Law?”
“Much better. Lady Esme Rossington.”
“Our Lady Rossington?”
“One and the same,” Therese said. Her eyes sparkled with excitement. Maeve noticed that she was dressed and apparently ready for the day. How long had she been awake?
She ran her fingers through her mussed hair. “Only you could stumble into a bar and end up drinking with Anglo-Irish aristocracy, Therese Dunagin.”
