The Celtic Riddle

As occupations go, service to the Byrne family fit into roughly the same category-particularly if you took into account the opportunity for a long and healthy retirement-as fiddle player on the Titanic, a fact not lost on Deirdre Flood. Deirdre was well on her way to the Bus Eireann pick-up point in Dingle Town that would take her to Tralee train station, and thence to the farthest point in Ireland she could contemplate, when I overtook her on the road. She was dragging along with her a large and dented suitcase and what looked to be a hatbox. It was a few days after Michael's funeral, and Deirdre was making a run for it.

She was reluctant to accept my offer of a lift into Dingle Town, but eventually the weight of her bag and the long stretch of road ahead won her over. "I've given my notice," she said, as we got under way, her eyes straight ahead, her hatbox clutched tightly on her lap. "There's nothing in the Will says I have to work there forever. I asked those solicitors, Mr. McCafferty and Mr. McGlynn, and they say I can leave whenever I wish. I'm using my holidays as notice," she added defensively. "They can't say as I'm taking advantage, but I won't stay another day under that roof. The cook left too. They'll have to fend for themselves." I enjoyed a fleeting, but satisfying, image of Margaret Byrne in black Chanel suit and snakeskin pumps attempting to boil water.

"I don't blame you, Deirdre," I said. "I'd want to leave too. But what about the police? Do they know you're leaving? You know there's an investigation going on." I avoided the word murder in connection with the investigation. Deirdre looked rather skittish, and I wasn't sure she was up for it.

"I've told Ban Garda Minogue," she said. "She knows where she can find me."

"What time is your bus, Deirdre?" I asked, as we pulled into Dingle Town.

"Twenty of four," she replied.

"That's over an hour. Why don't we leave your bag in the car and have a nice cup of tea somewhere?"

She hesitated for a moment. She was quite obviously very nervous with anyone associated with the Byrne family in any way. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt," she said at last. "There's a lovely cream tea down the street."

The place was charming, a tearoom on one side of the entrance, a pub on the other. In the tearoom, the tables were set with Irish linen, china in a pretty green and cream pattern, and silver spoons, real silver, with a crest of some kind on the handle. Nicely executed watercolors of the surrounding countryside and harbor graced the walls. A pleasant-looking woman bustled about, with help from a young man I took to be her teenaged son, bringing large pots of tea, and plates of scones, with jam and thick cream. A lovely cream tea it was, and all terribly, well, English, although it would probably be worth my life to say so in such an Irish town. We took our place in a table by the window where we could watch the life on the street through lace curtains.

"Deirdre," I said, as she poured milk into her teacup and carefully buttered herself a scone. "A few days ago, when Alex Stewart and I were out at Second Chance, you were good enough to warn us to stay away from the place." I waited for a second or two, but she did not acknowledge that I'd said anything. A meticulous person was Deirdre. She made sure the butter covered every last bit of the surface of the scone.

"I know they aren't very nice people there, some of them, but what was it that you wanted to warn us about, Deirdre?" I went on.

"Just as you said. They aren't very nice people."

"But you said the place was cursed, Deirdre. That's quite a different thing from unpleasant people." She did not reply. "Please," I said. "Alex Stewart is a really good friend of mine, and although he never expected anything from Eamon Byrne, he got Rose Cottage. And now Michael's dead, and so is John Herlihy, and if Alex is in some danger, then I need to know what it is."

"I'm not entirely certain," she said reluctantly. "Maybe something happened a long time ago, before I gained employment there."

"How long ago was that?"

"Going on five years," she replied. "Since the last maid retired."

"So what do you think it was that happened?"

"Something bad," she said. "Somebody died, you'd have to tink, and since then, the place is cursed. You should stay away like I told you." "Who would know about this, Deirdre? Are there other people who worked there who would remember? You mentioned a cook, the other maid."

"The cooks don't last long in that place," Deirdre snorted. "Not with that family! Never satisfied. Mrs. O'Shea stayed a year or more. That was the longest."

"But you stayed nearly five years, Deirdre. How was that?"