The Celtic Riddle (15 page)

"I do, and it's brilliant," Jennifer said.

"I think I do too," I said. "But just to clarify, are you saying
that it makes a difference whether the lines are to the left or right
of the stemline?"

"I am. For example, five horizontal lines to the right of the
vertical make an 'n'; five horizontal lines to the left is a 'q.' A
group of five horizontal cuts right across the stemline is an 'i.' Five
diagonal lines across the stemline make an 'r.' It's not very
sophisticated, I suppose, as written languages go, rather cumbersome in
fact, and I think it was mainly used for commemorative purposes,
inscriptions and the like, rather than as a daily, working language,
but I should think it will work well enough for our purposes.

"Now, here are the letters," he said, pointing to a chart. "I got
them from the local library. Let's get out the clues and see what we
can see."

My hands were almost trembling with excitement as I got out Malachy
and Kevin's slip of paper with Byrne's initials and home address at the
top and carefully smoothed it for Alex's study.

"I think this is the most exciting thing I've ever done in my whole
life," Jennifer sighed. "What does it say, Uncle Alex?"

"We'll have to see, won't we?" Alex replied. "Here we go. Four lines
to the right of the vertical is… "- he paused and looked at his
chart.-"an 's.' Then there's four lines that go straight across the
spine which is," he paused again, "an 'e.' Then five to the right, an
'n.' Are you getting this all down, Lara?" "I am," I replied, showing
him the piece of paper on which I'd written SEN.

"All right then, let's go on. Two horizontal lines running across
the stemline: an 'o.' Then three horizontals, to the left of the line
which is a 't.' Another V is next, I believe, then another 'e,' then an
's.' No wait, it's a 'u,' another 'e,' then one to the left: an 'h.' "

And so it went until Alex had deciphered them all. There were lines
to the left, lines to the right, horizontals, verticals, and diagonals.
In the end, I looked at my piece of paper. SENOTSESEHTNOEB ESRUCA was
what I had written. My heart sank.

"Do you think it's Gaelic?" I asked no one in particular.

"I'm not sure, but it's not Latin," Alex said. "That I do know. An
anagram perhaps?"

Jennifer peered at it. "Senat seset nob es ruca," she exclaimed, or
something like that. We looked at ner.

"A curse be on these stones!"

Chapter Eight

A BOAR ENRAGED

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?"

"I needed the money, why else? Kitty, the maid before me, she stayed
a long, long time. And despite what they say, Mr. Byrne was not a bad
employer. There was always a touch of sadness about him, but he was a
generous man, giving me extra money at Christmas and my birthday, and
telling me not to tell that woman, Mrs. Byrne. John, too, he liked.
John had been there forever. They had the odd drop of drink together
after the others had gone to bed."

"Where's Kitty now?" I asked.

"Don't know," she replied. "I never met her."

"And Michael? Did he get along well with Mr. Byrne?" I asked.

"Michael," her voice caught, and she paused for a minute before
continuing. "Yes, Michael and Mr. Byrne got on too. When he was really
ill, dying, he liked to watch Michael work out in the garden. Michael
was sweet on Breeta, you know. Perhaps you noticed. He was not so good
at hiding it. He was heartbroken when she left. She was a mere slip of
a thing then, not fat at all, and really lovely. She looked so bad at
the funeral," Deirdre said. "Very bad. Michael stayed because he liked
Mr. Byrne, and because he was waiting for Breeta, hoping she'd come
back. Do you think she'll recover? She looked-at the burial-a wee bit
strange."

"Why did she leave, do you know?"

"It was over a young man. Breeta was seeing someone in the village,
and her father didn't like it. They had a terrible row, Mr. Byrne
ranting, and Breeta yelling. Terrible, it was. Breeta left and wouldn't
come back. I heard she'd broken up with her young man not long ago, but
she didn't come back."

"Do you know who the young man was?"

"Paddy Gilhooly," she said. Funny how that name kept coming up again
and again. Eamon Byrne had apparently liked him well enough to give him
a boat, but not enough to let him date his daughter.

"Did you see Michael that night? The night he… " My voice trailed
off at the sight of Deirdre's stricken face.

"I did not," she replied. "Why would I? He was off for the night.
And he lives in the staff quarters down the road. I lived in the big
house," she added. "On the top floor. Snug little spot. Mr. Byrne had
it fixed up for me."

"I just wondered if he had gone back to the house for some reason.
He was found in the garden, nearer the main house than his flat, so I
thought he must have gone to the house." Of course he had, I thought.
He'd promised Breeta he'd go right back for Vigs, and he was a man of
his word.

"Not that I am aware," she said.

"Would he have a key to the main house, do you think? I mean, could
he get in without waking anyone?"

"I suppose he must," she replied. "All the staff had keys. Not to
the front door, mind you, but the service entrance around the back. But
what are you getting at?"

"Nothing," I said. "It's just that I saw Michael at the pub before
he died, and I got the impression he was going back to the house."
Deirdre looked at her watch. "It's time I was going," she said.

"I'll walk you back to the car for your bag. Where are you going?
Have you some place to stay?"

She looked at me suspiciously. "It's okay, Deirdre," I said. "I'm
not going to follow you, and you don't have to answer the question. I
just wanted to know that you'll be all right."

"I'll be staying with my nephew in Dublin until I can find another
position," she replied, finally. "I'll manage."

"I'm sure you'll do just fine," I said soothingly. She was rather
prickly, and there was more I wanted to know. "Do they all live in that
house? The daughters and their husbands, I mean?"

"Eithne and Mr. McHugh live in the house. Fionuala and Mr. O'Connor
used to live there too-there's plenty of space in that big house-but
they had a falling out with the rest of the family, at least Mr. McHugh
and Mr. O'Connor seemed not to get along, and they moved to a smaller
house, still on the property, but down the road a bit, not too far from
the staff cottages. Well, she lives there still. Mr. O'Connor, I hear
he's getting a flat in town now," she said, reaching for her handbag.

"I'd like to treat you to tea, Deirdre," I said, gesturing for her
to put down her purse. "What did the family have a falling out over, do
you know?"

Deirdre shrugged. "I didn't hear. Money, I expect, and the business.
Mr. McHugh and Mr. O'Connor were running Byrne Enterprises between them
while Mr. Ea-mon Byrne was ill, and they didn't get on too well. It was
all right while Mr. Byrne was in charge: he made them work together,
but after…" Her voice trailed off.

"And Conail and Fionuala? What happened to them?"

"The usual, I expect," Deirdre replied primly. "She was always one
to be looking around, and he corrupted with drink. Bone lazy as a
result of it. The Irish curse, you know. Alcohol. The English brought
it on us."

The English got blamed for quite a few things around here, I was
beginning to notice. As I was getting my wallet to pay the bill, I
looked toward the bar. It looked nice, the walls deep blue, with lots
of old posters, nicely framed, advertising various types of brew.
Newcastle Brown Ale! one poster said. Courage! said another. Apparently
they drank English beer here, their views of the English
notwithstanding.

I looked at the sign for the British brew, and then picked up one of
the spoons and peered at the crest on the handle. It was a boar, rather
fierce-looking with two bones crossed in its mouth. "What's the name of
this place, Deirdre?" I asked.

"Here or the bar?" she replied. "This is Brigid's Tea Room: That's
Brigid over there," she said pointing to the woman who had brought the
tea and who was now at the cash. "The pub's called The Boar's Head
Arms."

"Give me a minute," I said. I took a piece of paper out of my bag
and scribbled a note on it. I handed both the money and the note to
Brigid. She looked at it, and then me.

"Come with me," she said finally. She picked up a tray of tea and
headed up a flight of stairs to the second floor. This was obviously
the living quarters for Brigid and her family. An elderly woman sat in
a large armchair in front of a television set. She looked up as we
entered the room and surveyed me suspiciously. "Is everything all
right?" she asked Brigid in a querulous voice.

"Just grand, Mother. Here's your tea now. How are you feeling?"

"As well as can be expected, at my age. Is it strawberry preserves?"
the woman replied, poking at the food with a spoon. Apparently
satisfied, she turned to me. She was very frail, her hands almost
transparent and lined with blue veins, her hair absolutely white.
Despite the warmth of the room, which I found uncomfortable, she was
wrapped in a blanket, and she was almost dwarfed by the large chair in
which she sat. But her eyes were bright, and I had the impression she
was sharp as a tack.