The Celtic Riddle

"What's she doing here?" Fionuala demanded to know, looking at me. It was the second time since I'd arrived that question had been asked. Deirdre, however, assumed Fionuala was asking about her, and her mouth moved soundlessly a couple of times. I knew Fionuala meant me.

"Now you know we can't answer that," Ryan McGlynn said in a soothing tone. "Allow me to take your coat, Mrs. O'Connor, won't you, and then we'll go upstairs." I turned away from her and busied myself with paying the bill, a feat that required a fair number of travellers checks to accomplish. I could feel her eyes boring into my back.

"Charles," Fionuala said in a breathless voice, having established to her satisfaction that I was on the way out. "I really need your help with something."

"I'll do whatever I can, of course," he replied, in the same familiar tone of voice he'd adopted with me just a few moments earlier. I felt a twinge, just a twinge, of jealousy.

"Won't you come upstairs?" he continued, taking Fionuala's arm and then directing her up the stairs ahead of him. When she was almost to the top, he turned to me for one last time, and leaning close enough that I had the full benefit of the marvelous cologne, said, sotto voce, "Tell Mr. Stewart that I pride myself on writing airtight Wills." Then he hastened up the stairs after Fionuala. I headed out the door.

I still had a few minutes to kill before I was to meet Jennifer, and was very glad of it. I felt off balance somehow. I actually found myself wondering what it would be like to live in Irish Georgian splendor, and where exactly Ballsbridge was. It annoyed me that I felt this way. I like to think that by and large I have a very firm grip on reality, but I felt myself losing my hold on it. The strange thing was that although there seemed to be some mutual attraction there, I wasn't sure how far it went. Indeed, the sexual energy was, I thought, more on my part than his, that his passion was directed elsewhere. At Fionuala, perhaps? I could hardly bear to think it. I decided that while it had been fun, and I was pleased to think he would be on our side if we ended up in court with the Byrnes, this was a deadend relationship, and anyway, I was happier when I was on my own. I told myself to forget him.

I resolutely turned my attention to thinking about what I had learned about the Byrne family and the treasure hunt, admittedly not that much, and certainly nowhere near what I had hoped. I still didn't know for certain who had hidden the clues; nor did I know for certain that it mattered, although I had a feeling it did. It couldn't have been one of the participants who had received a clue: they would simply have looked at them all before hiding them. After all, I would have. That let out the family members, Padraig Gilhooly, Michael himself, and Alex.

Was it John Herlihy? Could have been, I suppose, either him or Deirdre, which might explain why she was always looking so terrified. Malachy or Kevin? They had known Eamon Byrne; they'd told me as much. But I couldn't see them being so deceptive in their dealings with us, somehow. Their excitement at finding the clues seemed absolutely genuine to me. Denny didn't seem to be any more likely than his two pals. And so, unless it was a complete stranger, that left McCafferty and McGlynn as the most likely candidates for the job.

The next obvious question was, who had hidden the treasure itself, whatever it was? Eamon Byrne in earlier, healthier times was one possibility. Perhaps he had found it a long time ago and hidden it then. I had a vague recollection that hoards of treasure had been found in the bogs of Ireland-I'd have to do some research on that score-and so he, big landowner that he was, might have found something and left it hidden. But if it had required hiding at the same time as the clues, the big question was who had hid it, and was it still there, temptation being the powerful motivator that it is.

I arrived at the gates of Trinity College several minutes before the tour was due back, and could see no sign of Jennifer. I decided to walk a little farther, to get Charles McCafferty out of my system and soon found myself passing a statue of a woman with a wheelbarrow that I could only assume was Molly Ma-lone of cockles and mussels alive alive-o fame, and then on into Grafton Street, a busy shopping street closed to cars for several hours of the day. At every corner, there was something else to see, nice old buildings, lots of store windows, and flower sellers with huge pails of really spectacular blooms, most notably lilies in white and pink, their heady scent lingering in the air as I strolled by.