The Celtic Riddle

"We have not yet decided what we will be selling," Margaret said reluctantly. "We will, of course, be getting rid of some things. We are thinking of moving to cozier quarters," she said, "and won't have the space, you understand."

"Of course," I agreed. Perhaps, I thought, the family really was as broke as everyone in town was saying. "I do hope you will decide before I leave for Canada, which I think will be very soon. By the way," I said, taking an envelope from my bag and handing it to her. "A letter of reference from my bank."

Margaret looked at it for a moment. "Come in," she said at last.

"Will you be looking for another place around here?" I asked, brightly attempting to make conversation.

"I doubt it," Margaret said. "I think I'd like to go back where I was born. It's in Connemara. Do you know it?"

"I don't," I replied, "although I've heard Conne-mara's spectacular. That's close to Galway, isn't it?"

"It is," she replied. "Absolutely beautiful. I think I might like to go back."

"Is that where you met your husband?" I asked. She nodded.

"Did you meet him after he'd been to sea, after he knew Alex?"

"Before that," she said. "We were engaged, but he went off to sea. I became engaged to another man, but then Eamon returned, and I was swept off my feet again." For a moment, she sounded sad, almost wistful, and I began to feel horribly guilty. This treasure hunt occasionally felt a little like a parlor game, and it was easy to forget that these were real people, with real feelings. It was only by concentrating on the task at hand and reminding myself that finding the treasure might be the key not only to Alex's future, but also an end to the violence, that I was able to carry on. Then she turned abruptly. "Here," she said. "My husband's study.

"The people from Trinity College have been here as you can see," she said, pointing to glass cabinets stripped bare, darker red marks showing where the weapons had rested against the velvet. "They have not left much. Are you interested in oils? These were my father's. Quite good, I believe." Not too sentimental, that woman, but perhaps she was just being pragmatic.

"Lovely, aren't they, Jennifer?" I said. Jennifer nodded vigorously. In truth, there was only one oil there that had any value beyond the sentimental, in my opinion, so I made a note of that one. While Margaret stood watching us, we carefully looked everything over, lifting objects from time to time, moving others slightly to look under them. At last I found what I wanted; at least I was reasonably sure I had. I went to the glass doors and looked outside. "Lovely day, isn't it?" I said before turning away. I was rather overusing lovely, it occurred to me, but perhaps it was because I was nervous.

My presence in the window was the signal for Alex, now hidden behind the potting shed, and who if found could claim to be crossing the property to get to Rose Cottage, to use my cell phone to call the house. The telephone rang three times. There was one in the room, but Margaret ignored it. A few moments later, Deirdre hove into view. Once again, she seemed surprised to see me. "It's for you, Madam," she said, ignoring me.

"Excuse me for a moment," Margaret said. I was elated. I was banking on the fact that Margaret would not take a call in my presence. The trouble was, Deirdre stayed put.

Jennifer walked up to her. "Sorry, but would it be all right if I used the bathroom?" she asked. Deirdre looked startled and hesitated for a moment, and I thought all was lost.

"Oh, you mean the toilet," she said finally. "Yes, please follow me." Quickly I lifted the glass case, now empty, where once Byrne's favorite spearhead, the one he attributed to Lugh Lamfada, had rested. I pulled the piece of paper out quickly, and by the time Margaret returned, I was standing looking out over the grounds once again.

"They hung up," Margaret said.

"How annoying," I said. "Ah, here's Jennifer."

I looked around a little more, extracted a promise that she'd call me if she decided to sell the old Oriental carpets in the room, then offered more than it was worth for the painting, paid cash, and told her I'd send someone around to pick it up later, if that was satisfactory. Apparently it was.

A few minutes later, Jennifer and I were sitting in Rose Cottage with the others, clue in one hand, ogham alphabet in the other, Jennifer regaling them with the story of our adventure. By the time she was through with her tale, Margaret Byrne was only microseconds away from discovering what we were after, and Deirdre about to call the police.

The story was better, or more edifying at least, than the clue: "Umbilicus Hiberniae, the sacred center" it said. Not very helpful, but there was one more clue to go, if my theory was correct. Then we'd see what there was to see.