Death on the Holy Mountain Read Online Free PDF Page B

were great fountains, houses with obelisks in their grounds, gardens guarded by forts with cannon to fire salutes on family
birthdays, conventional orangeries and unconventional casinos, ornate gardens, Japanese gardens, Chinese gardens, Palladian follies, in one case a herd of white deer to mark the exclusivity of the
Big House and the Big Garden.
    This, Powerscourt thought, was architecture as political statement, an arrogant damn your eyes architectural declaration of superiority. We are the masters here. Don’t even think, any
Irish Catholic peering through the trees at the house over the top of the wall, that one day this might be yours. It won’t. And yet, Powerscourt thought, and yet . . . The temples and the
churches and all the great palaces of Rome were still standing the day before the barbarians came to town. He wondered if those stone sphinxes that adorned the Ascendancy Big Houses might not have
one or two riddles left for their masters, riddles that might rather speak of Descendancy.
    ‘Mr Connolly is in the library, sir,’ the butler said, rousing Powerscourt from his reverie, as he ushered him into a handsome room with great gaps on its walls. The word library can
have many different meanings in Ireland, Powerscourt remembered. Put a great many books in them and nobody will ever use the room in case they’re meant to read a book. But hostesses like to
have libraries in their houses. It adds an air of learning to the predominant themes of hunting and shooting. Hence there are many libraries in these houses with very few books in them. And as
Peter Connolly rose to give him a very short and rather perfunctory handshake, Powerscourt realized he was in the latter category of library. He had seen bedrooms in England with more books in
them. A solitary bookshelf, no more than waist high, gave its name to the room.
    ‘Thank you for coming to see us, Lord Powerscourt. How can I be of assistance?’
    Even before the man finished the first sentence, Powerscourt knew something was wrong. There was a coldness that was on the edge of rudeness. Never mind the traditional Irish hundred thousand
welcomes, he was hardly getting a single one in the Connolly household.
    ‘I would like to see where the pictures were, and any details you have of them, who the artists were, that sort of thing.’ He noticed suddenly that there were four picture cords
hanging from the rail above, but no paintings in them. Connolly noticed his glance.
    ‘The police asked us to leave everything as it was,’ he explained. ‘Not that they will be any use. The oldest Connolly was placed just above the fireplace, the others followed
him in line of inheritance. The last two of the sequence were in the dining room with the Titian and the Rembrandt in the gold drawing room.’
    ‘Do you have any details of the artists who did the portraits? Do you have any records of what the gentlemen were wearing?’
    ‘I fail to see how that is relevant,’ said Connolly coldly, looking pointedly at his watch.
    Powerscourt felt he was on the verge of losing his temper.
    ‘Look here, Mr Connolly, I presume you want to get your pictures back. Suppose the thief sells them in Dublin or they are carried over to one of the big London firms. The proprietors know
that six male Connolly ancestors have gone missing and a couple of Old Masters. I have made it my business to see that they are so informed. If one of your ancestors were to appear, how in
God’s name are they going to know that he is a Connolly? He could be an Audley or a Fitzgibbon or a Talbot or anybody at all in Christendom. Without descriptions the whole attempt to recover
them is a waste of time.’
    Connolly looked at him very coldly. ‘I do not believe the pictures will ever be recovered. The villains will destroy them. Soon they will come back here for more, whether for more pictures
or for the people who live here, I do not know. Our time has come, Lord Powerscourt, and all that