The Celtic Riddle

Straight ahead of me was a staircase. For some reason, this reminded me that at one time in the royal courts of England and Europe, one's worth was reflected in the room in which one was received at court. The closer one came to the monarch's private chambers, the more important one was. I wondered if I'd make it up the stairs.

As it turned out, I got as far as the second of four floors, if I'd counted stories correctly as I'd approached from the street. Not that my progress there was entirely effortless. I had decided upon a surprise attack and came armed only with a letter from Alex, coconspirator that he was, but no appointment.

"I know this is really presumptuous of me," I said to the receptionist, a young woman with perfect fingernails, which she obviously worked on most of the day. "I'm sure that Mr. McCafferty and Mr. McGlynn are both extremely busy, but I'm in Dublin quite unexpectedly and must soon be off back to Canada, and I was wondering whether there might be any chance I could have a few moments with one or the other of them. I have some questions about Mr. Alex Stewart's inheritance from the Eamon Byrne estate." I hoped I sounded suitably contrite for this serious breach of legal etiquette. Up until the words "Eamon Byrne," she'd been regarding me with considerably less interest than her fingernails, but those, apparently, were the magic words. "Both Mr. McGlynn and Mr. McCafferty are with a client," she said in upper-crust vowels she obviously worked hard on. "I'm not sure when they'll be free."

"I'll wait," I said, plunking myself down on a very fine wing chair in the corner of the room. She looked at me for a moment or two and then reluctantly picked up the phone. What followed was one of those conversations in which the secretary pretends she is talking to an assistant when she is, in fact, talking to one of the lawyers. "There is a Ms. McClintoch here from Canada wishing to speak to Mr. McCafferty or Mr. McGlynn about Mr. Byrne's estate," she said. There was a pause. "No, she does not have an appointment." Another pause. "Yes," she said. "One of the solicitors will try to work you in," she said, hanging up the phone. "You may wait upstairs. You might want to have a look at this," she added, handing me an engraved card which listed McCafferty and McGlynn's fees for various services. They were, in a word, breathtaking.

After passing this first hurdle, I went upstairs to the library, an attractive room on the second floor, with walls of blue, stripped back to the original coat of paint, by the look of them, and lined with legal tomes by the yard. The centerpiece of the room was a marble fireplace that sported two carved rams heads, one on each side of the mantelpiece, and over it, a somewhat Italianate fresco of a country scene, probably dating to the early- to middle-eighteenth century. On the walls to either side of the fireplace, white plaster plaques depicted a blindfolded Justice, appropriately enough, robes flowing, scales in balance.

A large table had been placed in the middle of the room under an interesting chandelier with blue colored glass sprinkled through it to match the walls. It was here, I decided, that the lawyers or their assistants did their research, judging from the volumes in piles on the surface, seated in carved and intricately decorated armchairs that I believe are sometimes called Chinese Chippendale. Several choice mezzotint portraits had been hung on the walls, and placed about the room were some rather handsome pieces of furniture. Every piece was exquisite and chosen with impeccable taste or, to be more precise, taste very similar to mine.

A lovely period, Georgian, I thought. Some of the decorative touches were a trifle ornate for my taste, but overall the proportions were so pleasing, everything so elegant, I was quite enchanted.

My favorite object of all was the attractively worn Aubusson carpet. I like old carpets. They make me wonder about all the feet that have crossed them, the conversations that have taken place above them, the ghosts that still haunt them. This one was particularly fine in that regard, a worn patch where some heavy furniture had been placed for a long time, the hint of a well-travelled path, from one room to another perhaps.