The Celtic Riddle

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.

I think at that point I'd have been inclined to drop the whole matter, but the convergence of a number of events made me change my mind. One, of course, was this interview with the Byrne women, along with their stated intention of trying to take the cottage away from Alex.

Added to that were a couple of developments that meant I had a little time on my hands, and we know what they say about idle hands. First was Jennifer's decision, with her father's reluctant acquiescence, to take sailing lessons every morning, from Padraig Gil-hooly, no less. Apparently, her damp and frightening introduction to the sport had merely whetted her appetite for it. As far as her father's opinion on the subject was concerned, he wasn't exactly keen on his daughter being anywhere near someone involved, even peripherally, with a murder suspect, but Padraig, it seemed, had an ironclad alibi, vouched for by his lawyer in Cork, no less.

The other was a realization that I wouldn't be seeing much of Rob for the next little while, a turn of events that had been immediately obvious the previous evening when I'd entered a bar on the main street of town with Alex, to find Rob chatting up an attractive woman, slim and rather fit-looking, with a halo of reddish hair around her face, and attractive green eyes.