Page 101 of Road Trip
“Yes,” Esme said.
“But why not return it to your father? Why risk getting caught with it and having your cover blown?”
“I always rather admired that painting. There was something about Lady Geraldine, don’t you think?”
“Agreed. I’ve stared at that painting my whole life. I used to make up stories about her when I was a little girl.”
“She has that elusive, sort of bemused expression, as though she’s just heard a witty story, that makes her seem human,” Esmesaid. “Besides, I was aware that the painting was insured. Papa got a nice payout, and he was none the wiser.”
“Where did you hide her?”
“Upstairs, in my washroom. I’ve been something of a recluse since I moved here, into the cottage. I don’t have visitors, certainly not ones who’d venture upstairs. Seeing her there every evening as I had my bath, and every morning as I scrubbed my teeth, it struck me as my own private joke. Which I quite enjoyed.”
“Then why sell her now?”
“Jokes are amusing, but they don’t pay the bills, do they? The taxes and upkeep on this cottage are prohibitive. Last year I had to replace the roof, and this year, I needed a new boiler. My Land Rover was dying too. Everything all at once, it seemed. It was time. I had an old friend from my London days. Her son is an art dealer. He made the arrangements for the sale. I must say, I was shocked at the amount of the winning bid. Of course it was whittled down extensively once I paid my art dealer, and the auction house took their commission. But still, all in all, I was pleased.”
Esme finished her drink and stubbed out her cigarette on the plate.
“Any more questions?”
“I don’t know what to say,” Therese admitted. “Maeve and I suspected that you must have had some kind of a connection to the IRA heist, especially after she met Starr’s son, but I never dreamed that you would just admit to all of it.”
“Why not? This is a secret I’ve carried around for more than fifty years. Everyone connected to the original crime is dead. It feels… freeing to speak about it finally. And do you know why I feel that way?”
“I can honestly say I don’t.”
“All my life, because I’m a woman, everyone underestimated me. My teachers at boarding school; my so-called husband; my lover; my parents, especially my father; and my brother, everyone really, overlooked and misunderstood me. But the joke is on them, isn’t it? I’ve outlived them all, and on my own terms.”
Therese had no comeback for that. Just one more question.
“What about your husband? I know you use your maiden name these days. But what happened to him?”
“Poor dear Sheff,” Esme said. “Papa was resolutely opposed to allowing me to divorce him, until Sheff got careless. There was a police raid at one of those clubs he frequented, and he was arrested. Not even the combined pressure of his father and mine could keep it quiet. It was in all the London papers, quite a scandal at the time. So, I got my divorce and Sheff did some time in prison, and after he was released, he proceeded to drink himself to death. A shame really, he was only forty-two.”
Esme began to stand up, and Sinead scrambled to the floor. “This has been an interesting conversation, dear, but I find myself unaccountably fatigued. You can show yourself out, can’t you?”
“Yes, of course.” Therese was still half-dazed by the intensity of the afternoon’s wide-ranging conversation, but her curiosity still wasn’t completely satisfied.
“Esme, aren’t you even a little nervous about the implications of what you’ve just admitted to me? You were an accessory to the robbery at Tarrymore. You conspired with the IRA. Your lover died, and the others went to prison. And you’ve just defrauded an insurance company to the tune of seven figures.”
“Not concerned at all. I’m an old lady. When you’re my age, people believe you’re a helpless, drooling idiot. Look at me.” She gestured at her grubby attire. “Who’s going to believe that I helped mastermind a robbery or did any of those other things? And certainly you’re not going to tell anyone, are you?”
She fixed her guest with that icy blue stare, the one Therese had begun thinking of as the Rossington death stare.
“Thank you for the drink,” Therese said finally. “And the enlightenment. Just one more question, then I really will leave you alone.”
“Anything to be rid of you,” Esme said.
“Be honest, please. Who do you really think killed Lady Delia?”
“That again? You really are like a nasty little terrier with a rat between its teeth, aren’t you?”
“I’ve been called worse,” Therese said. “Please? Maeve and I leave for home in three days. It’s the last piece of the puzzle.”
Esme leaned unsteadily against the kitchen counter. “Not that it matters, but I doubt it was my father. Papa could be awful in many ways, but he hadn’t the stomach for killing, wouldn’t even shoot a rabbit causing havoc in the garden. I suppose Uncle David could’ve killed her, but if you must know, my money’s always been on my grandmother. She was not a woman to be crossed, under any circumstances.” She straightened her shoulders. “Papa used to say I was Fiona made over.”
CHAPTER 44
