The Celtic Riddle (10 page)

It should never have left Ireland. Never have left. But Fergus, son
of Ere, begged his brother, Murtagh mac Ere, to send it to him in lona
so that Fergus might be crowned king there. Filled with a care for his
brother, Murtagh sent it across the sea. Then Kenneth took it to Scone.

And what happened then to it, this gift from thegods? The bloody
English took it! The things the English done to us! The evil Edward
carried off the stone of destiny and put it beneath the English throne.
Edward thought he took the power with it, but have the English ever
heard it roar, I ask you? Have they ever heard it roar?

There's some would say the stone that rests at Tara now, right close
to its center, is Lia Fail. But that one too is silent, and should it
be Lia Fail, then the magic's left us.

And then there's them that say the English have set their royal
arses over a plain old chunk of stone. And Lia Fail is hidden, waiting
for a better time, waiting to be found.

"I'm afraid you may think us ungracious," Margaret Byrne said, as
she poured tea into delicate ivory cups with a practiced hand, having
peremptorily dismissed a rather nervous Deirdre, who'd clattered around
with the teacups in an irritating way. "The circumstances…" she said,
dropping her eyes delicately. "I hope you understand."

Despite the refined setting, and the hoity-toity manner in which we
were being served, the room was awash in tension. I had a feeling that
Alex and I, who had hied ourselves off to Second Chance at the request
of Michael and Breeta to ferret out the details of the disappearance of
Breeta's clue, had interrupted a scene of some drama when we'd arrived.
If true, there was no mention made of it.

Margaret looked toward me, awaiting my response. She was neatly
dressed, Chanel again, and black again, in a silk blouse and skirt,
with expensive-looking pumps: snake, appropriately enough. The
expression on her carefully made-up face was one of perpetual faint
surprise, the result, I thought maliciously, of one too many
face-lifts. But she was an attractive woman, nonetheless. She looked to
be in her late forties, but I assumed she was probably ten years older
than that. She sat framed against two oil portraits on the wall behind
her, one of Eamon Byrne in happier and healthier times, another a man
who was, if the thin lip line and resolute jaw was anything to go by,
her father.

Seated next to her was her eldest daughter, Eithne. Eithne, who
looked almost the same age as her mother, also dressed very much like
her, but in a subdued shade of blue. Where Margaret looked rather
smart, however, Eithne instead looked a bit old-fashioned, even frumpy,
for her age. She restricted her interaction with the group to nodding
favorably whenever her mother spoke and frowning when her mother did,
which was often.

On the other side was Fionuala. Daughter number two had not
inherited her mother's elegance and good taste, it was plain to see.
Her dress, while expensive, I'd imagine, was way too tight for someone
with her tendency to softness about the middle. Her jewelry looked just
a little gaudy, a rhinestone pin that might be best for evening. Her
attention was focused almost entirely on her hands.

Ungracious! I thought, pondering Margaret's opening words and the
general unpleasantness of having to face the three hags across a tea
tray. On the way to the house, we'd been virtually forced off the road,
finding ourselves and the car in a close encounter with a fuchsia
hedge, as Conail O'Connor, the predator on the cliff of the previous
day, had come rocketing down the lane, his face contorted in what I
took to be rage. He didn't even slow down when he saw us. "I'd say he
drives very much the way he sails," Alex said mildly, voicing the same
thoughts as mine, as I pulled the car back onthe road again, the
scratching of branches along the car door accompanying the maneuver.
Alex and I shared the same conclusion as to the identity of the skipper
of the boat that had run us down.

As well, Margaret was clearly in a very bad mood when we arrived.
One of the family's two solicitors, which one I wasn't sure, was just
leaving as we approached the front door. "I am truly very sorry about
this," I heard him say as he shook her hand, holding it rather longer
than necessary, I would have thought. "Truly sorry. I will see what I
can do." He nodded curtly at Alex and me as he brushed by us.

Whatever it was he had to be sorry about, it had blackened
Margaret's already dark outlook on life. She barely spoke to us as we
were ushered into the house. No, the word ungracious didn't quite cut
it when it came to describing the Byrne family.

"Of course," I replied to her request for understanding, however.
"Alex and I feel very badly that our presence may have added to the
stress you and the family are feeling at such a sad time." Really,
butter wouldn't melt in my mouth sometimes.

"Indeed," Alex agreed. We all nodded at each other, giving a
completely erroneous impression of consensus.

The conversation continued in much the same vein for a few minutes,
insincere pleasantry heaped upon cloying sentiment, Eithne nodding in
support of her mother's every word, until exhausted by the effort of
being nice to each other, we edged our way toward the business at hand.
As we sipped our tea, I tried to take in my surroundings. I watched
through the back windows as Sean McHugh, Eithne's husband, crossed the
grounds to the rear. He was looking rather tweedy, leather patches at
the elbows kind of thing, with big boots and a cap. I remembered
Eamon's description of McHugh as an English squire, and could see it
was apt. Michael Davis, who was also in view, was working in the
gardens casting surreptitious glances back toward the house, perhaps in
a vain attempt to see how we were doing. He bent and straightened,
pulled weeds, straightened plants in a nice rhythm, and I found it
comforting to see him out there. He was quite the nicest thing about
Second Chance.

"I understand from Breeta that there's been a robbery at Second
Chance," I said at last, sipping tea awkwardly from the cup and saucer
she'd handed me. I really dislike those delicate little teacups that
don't give you enough room to put even one finger through the handle,
forcing you to hold on for dear life lest you dump the contents on the
wool rug at your feet. But everything about Margaret Byrne was like
that. The room was filled with delicate little ornaments of crystal and
china, some balanced breathlessly on the edges of glass shelves and
side tables with delicately carved legs. I found myself wondering what
she and Eamon Byrne, who favored dark wood and ancient swords, had ever
found in common.

"Yes," she replied, eyes downcast once more. "At such a time…" her
voice trailed off again. It was a favorite conversational gambit of
hers, I noticed, to allow others to finish off sentences for her,
without having to voice the hypocrisies personally.

"Breeta says her clue was stolen from the safe in your husband's
study," I said, ignoring her attempts at delicacy. "Who would do that,
do you think?"

"But she, you, couldn't think this robbery was about a clue,"
Margaret said, her chronic expression of surprise heightened at the
thought. Eithne raised her eye-brows the same way her mother did. "They
were looking for money, surely."

"Was money taken?" I asked,

"There was very little money in the safe," she said. "Just a little
housekeeping money. But yes, it was taken."

"Was anything else stolen?" I asked.

"Nothing of value, just some of Eamon's things," she said. Then,
thinking perhaps that might sound callous, she added, "Though, of great
sentimental value, of course."

"Of course," I agreed. "How dreadful for you. I hope you called the
police." At least on this score I was sincere. I could hardly wait to
send Rob back down to the garda station to inquire about signs of
forcible entry and so on. Not that I thought there'd be any. I was
prepared to bet the store this had been an inside job.

Margaret shook her head. "There was really no need to bother them
about something so minor."

"What things of your husband's did they take?" I asked, trying to
sound sympathetic, which in many ways I was. Not about the robbery,
perhaps. I just didn't believe her on that score. But the situation,
her deceased husband's rather callous remarks, and the little treasure
hunt he'd concocted for his heirs must have been truly upsetting for
them all. I told myself to be more understanding about their general
demeanor.

"His diary, and two of his maps."

"Surely the maps are worth something?" I went on doggedly.

"But they weren't any of the old ones," she said. "Perhaps the thief
was unaware of the value of what he missed. My husband's collection of
weapons and manuscripts is quite valuable. Regrettably, he has left
these things to Trinity College." Her tone hardened.

"Now," she said setting down her teacup and looking straight at me,
so that I saw for the first time her eyes, hard as polished diamonds,
and the firm lines around her mouth that even surgery couldn't erase.
"If I have satisfied your curiosity, I have a request to make of you.
Please leave us to our grief. This treasure hunt of my husband's is
cruel and inappropriate, and the family has decided we will have
nothing whatsoever to do with it."

Really, I thought. And maybe pigs can fly, babies are brought by
storks, and the Little People do live at the end of the garden. She was
right, though, about her husband. His cutting words on that video must
have been truly awful for them. I decided I should be more tolerant.

"I would ask you to do the same," Margaret went on. "Please leave us
to deal with our grief as best we can. Which brings me to one more
matter we wish to discuss with you." She said we, but so far, she'd
done all the talking.

"Rose Cottage is a place of considerable sentimental value for the
family," she continued. Eithne nodded vigorously, and even Fionuala
looked up from her study of her hands. "It was a place where Eamon…"
she paused for effect. "Where Eamon spent a great deal of time. We were
somewhat surprised that someone whom Eamon had known so slightly, and
so long ago, should come to possess it. We would ask that you consider
returning it to the family."

Alex looked startled, and after a second, he opened his mouth to
speak.

"I don't think we'll be doing that," I said quickly, before he could
say anything, and as any glimmer of sympathy I'd felt for the widow
Byrne vanished in an instant."Then you will understand the family will
feel compelled to pursue whatever legal options we have to bring Rose
Cottage back where it belongs. My husband was very ill and didn't know
what he was doing. Otherwise, I am sure he would never have left the
cottage to Mr. Stewart." She spoke as if Alex wasn't even in the room.

I was about to say "see you in court" or something, when Margaret
set her teacup rather firmly on the silver tray in front of her and
rose from her chair. The other two stood up immediately as well.
Fionuala, who had not uttered a single word, not even a hello, got out
of her chair and left the room without so much as a backward glance.
The audience, apparently, was at an end.

There was one more defining moment, however, in the revelation of
Margaret Byrne's character. As she stepped forward, the slow and steady
Vigs lumbered out from under the sofa, causing her to start and lose
her balance for a moment. She clutched at the tea trolley, and one of
the delicate teacups fell over and broke. "Deirdre!" she hissed.
"Deirdre! Get this dreadful creature out of here-permanently." There
was no reply from the maid.

"Thank you for coming," Margaret said in an imperial tone, gesturing
toward the hall. I gathered we were supposed to let ourselves out. I
was very close to losing my temper, and had to stifle an impulse to say
something truly nasty. I kept seeing in my mind the expression on
Alex's face when he first laid eyes on the little cottage. It was not
enough, I thought, that the Byrne family should have this palatial
home, more villa than house, their servants, and acres and acres of
land, with their roses and orchids and palm trees, and a stunning view
of the water. No, they had to have Rose Cottage, too. Over my dead
body, I thought, glaring at Margaret. I was suddenly absolutely
determined that Alex would not only get to keep his cottage, but he
would have the money he needed to live there comfortably. If that meant
going to court, I thought, so be it. And if living comfortably meant
snatching the treasure right out from under their noses, then we were
going to do that too.

The trouble was, to do that we needed all the clues, and I was going
to have to think of another way of getting them. I had thought for a
few golden moments that we wouldn't need them. When I found the clue in
the little boat off shore, I had thought we were home free. We knew the
first two clues, and they pointed us to a poem by an ancient poet named
Amairgen. If each line of the poem led to a real clue, then we didn't
need their clues. We had only to try to guess the location that would
correspond to the lines of the poem and go get them.

The clue in the boat was, however, a disappointment. It was from
Eamon Byrne, all right. At least it was his personal memo paper, with
his initials and Second Chance printed across the top. But the clue, if
that was what it was, was far from what I was hoping for. I didn't
expect something as definitive as, say, a note that told us that the
key to the safety-deposit box in Killarney train station was under the
third flowerpot on the left side of the driveway, or anything. I had,
however, expected more than the doodling that I'd found when the paper
had finally dried out, just a series of lines that looked vaguely like
a railway track, or the bones of a fish, perhaps. I'd kept the piece of
paper, if only because I couldn't believe that Eamon Byrne, or anyone
else for that matter, would bother to wrap up doodlings in plastic,
either wade, or wait till the tide was out, to the boat, and carefully
conceal it betweenthe boards. But my illusions about a quick end to
this treasure hunt had been dashed.