The Celtic Riddle (25 page)

"Is Deirdre there?" I asked. It was Sean, I thought, who answered
the telephone.

"Who's this?" he asked suspiciously.

"It doesn't matter who this is," I replied. The man irritated me no
end. "It's Deirdre I wish to speak to."

"It's that Canadian woman, isn't it?" he demanded. "The friend of
that fellow who's taken Rose Cottage from us."

"He's not taking it from you. Your father-in-law left it to him," I
said. "Now is Deirdre there or isn't she?"

"No, she's not," he replied.

"Do you know where she is? She was supposed to meet me," I went on.
I thought I probably shouldn't have said that. It would set him off and
maybe get her in trouble.

"It's her day off. She can do whatever she pleases. I have no idea
where she is. Now don't call this place again!" he said, slamming the
phone down.

I waited another hour or two, then headed out to an auction.
Irritating woman, I thought. Irritating family, too. I wondered what
Deirdre might have to tell me that was so important. The father of
Breeta's child, perhaps? Interesting, no doubt, but did it matter? And
if not that, what?

Chapter Thirteen

A GOD THAT FASHIONS HEROES FOR A LORD

NUADA, now there's a man, both a man and a god. There's the ting
with the Tuatha de Da-naan, you know. They were gods in some ways, but
they had the struggles of the rest of us, and they could die, too. All
of them died in the end, and later all their magic too, when St.
Padraig came, cursing the old gods. The three goddesses in one, Banba,
Fotla, Eriu, they died, and their kings, too.

But Nuada, as I'm saying, was a very fine god. He was king of the
Tuatha de and fought in both battles of Mag Tuired, aided by his sword
from whom no one could escape once it was drawn, a magic sword from the
city of Findias, one of the four great gifts of the gods. In the first
battle, he defeated the Fir Bolg, banishing them west to Connacht and
the Aran Islands. But in that battle, Nuada lost his hand, and because
any king of the Tuatha de had to be perfect, he could no longer be
king. Diancecht the healer made him a silver hand that worked as well
as his own, but still it wouldn 't do for him to be king. And so Nuada
had to watch as the new king Bres, called the beautiful, destroyed the
kingdom. Because while Bres might be beautiful to look at, he was part
Fomorian, son of the Fomorian king Elatha and Eri of the Tuatha de, and
he was not beautiful on the inside, if you catch my meaning. He was
miserly with his people and demanded they pay tribute to him and to the
Fomorians, to the point that even the great Dagda became a builder of
raths, and Oghma was reduced to carrying fuel for the oppressors.

And Nuada watched all this. A bitter time it must have been for him,
with the gods in terrible servitude. But then his hand was restored,
through the spells of Miach, Diancecht's son, who some say obtained
Nuada's own mutilated hand, others say took a swineherd's arm, and
reattached it to Nuada's arm. Skin grew, the joints and muscles joined
again. And once more, Nuada could be king.

And so he held a royal banquet, and who should come to the door but
Lugh Lamfada, Lugh of the Long Arm, who persuaded Nuada to lead his
people in battle once again, this time against the worst of foes, the
evil Fomorians. Nuada turned his kingship over to Lugh, and this time
the Tuatha de were victorious, the victory of light and life over
darkness, and the Morrigan, the crow, proclaimed the victory so that it
could be heard throughout the country.

I liked Nuada the best-he seems so human, despite the magic, the
weight of the oppression of his people on his shoulders, while he
watched, helplessly, because he was maimed and couldn't be king. He
died at the hands ofBalor the Fomorian at the second great battle of
Mag Tuired. I was with him, you know. I watched the magic die.

Yes, I liked Nuada best. Yer man, Eamon Byrne, he did too.

Deirdre's body washed up on the shore, not far from Second Chance.
She never made it back to The Three Sisters Inn for her appointment
with me, or if she did, no one there saw her. Whatever she'd wanted to
tell me had gone with her to her grave.

Fortunately, I was not the one to find the body. That sad task fell
to Paddy Gilhooly, who was out in his boat early that morning, and saw
something suspicious nearer to shore.

"Can't blame Conail O'Connor for this one," Rob sighed, "seeing as
how we have him under lock and key. I suppose we'll have to let him go.
We can't hold him forever for having battered a garda's nose. Not that
we wouldn't like to, but it can't be done."

"And the rest of the family?"

"Eithne, Sean, and Margaret have, as usual, provided each other with
an alibi. All at home all night together. Way too cozy, if you ask me.
Fionuala is being coy, but I think we'll find she was with some guy,
married, no doubt, who will eventually come in here looking furtive and
asking us to promise we won't tell his wife. Now, Gilhooly, I haven't
yet talked to. He may have found the body, but that doesn't
automatically mean he's innocent, although I understand he's pretty
upset by what happened. He's still hugging the porcelain bowl after the
shock of finding her, I gather, according to Garda Minogue. We'll have
to see what he has to say for himself a little later.

"I'm supposed to check on Alex, by the way, since he's on the list
of people who got something out of the Will. I doubt he'll have anyone
to confirm his whereabouts, seeing he's staying up there all alone. And
no," he said looking at my startled face, "I do not think Alex did it.
I'm taking this note of Deirdre's, you understand. Any idea what she
might have wanted to tell you?"

I shook my head.

"When did she die?" I asked.

"Sometime in the night, or very early morning. Several people saw
her at dinnertime, including one of those lawyer types. Those two drove
back together to Dublin-I've talked to them." I was tempted to tell him
that Charles had called me at midnight from Dublin, to confirm his
whereabouts, but I decided that was unnecessary, and I was just being
uncharitable.

"The family said she went to bed at the usual time," Rob went on,
"but sometime in the night she must have crept out, to what? See
someone, I guess. Who, I have no idea.

"God, she had a rough life," he said, riffling papers in the file.
"Looks to me like years of really poor working conditions. Second
Chance, for all its faults, must have seemed like paradise. No wonder
she came back. She worked for several years in a dry cleaners before
she went there," he said, pulling out a piece of paper. "In the back,
too, with all those chemicals. Perhaps that's why she looked so morose.
Well, if you think of anything I should know, call me."

I walked back to the Inn from the garda station, thinking about
Deirdre. Despite the morbid events of the last few hours, the town
looked rather gay, with posters and banners strung everywhere
proclaiming the music festival, set to begin in less than a week.
Everyone in town was talking about it and obviously looking forward to
it. I found it impossible to get into the spirit, however. I could not
shake an overwhelming feeling of helplessness in the face of terrible
events. I just couldn't make any sense of what had happened: another
staff person killed, another individual, who hadn't even been given one
of the clues, had met a horrible death.

I kept thinking about my conversation with Moira, when she'd said
that it would be either money or passion that had led to it all. If
that were the case, there seemed to be only two possibilities for me to
explore: the treasure or Eamon Byrne's past. I hadn't found the
treasure nor knew yet what it was. There was also a lot about Eamon
Byrne I didn't know. But I did know he was always looking for the four
great gifts of the gods. I headed down to the pier. Denny sat there
talking away to a post.

"Denny," I said softly, then more loudly. "Denny!"

He looked slightly baffled for a moment. "Lara," he said finally.
"It's you."

"I brought you a bottle of whiskey, Denny," I said. "And I need to
hear some of your stories."

"Which one would you like?" he asked, looking pleased.

"All of them, Denny," I said. "I want to hear all Eamon Byrne's
favorite stories, the ones about the gods and the great battles, the
arrival of Amairgen on Ireland's shores. And I want to hear about the
lost child again, the story of the Kerryman and the child stolen by the
fairies," I added on impulse. "The one that was Eamon Byrne's favorite.
Start anywhere you like."

And he did. Eamon Byrne's favorite stories, as I suspected, were the
legends about the four great gifts of the gods. So he told me about the
Dagda's cauldron, how it was never empty, no matter how much you ate,
or how many came to dinner. He told me about Lia Fail, the Stone of
Destiny, the one that roared when the true king of Ireland touched it,
and which was now either lost or in Edinburgh; he told me about Lugh
Lamfada, Lugh Long Arm, holder of the magic spear no battle was ever
won against, and how he killed his grandfather, the Fomorian, Balor of
the Evil Eye, after entering the royal court and persuading the king to
throw off the yoke of oppression of the Fomorians. And lastly he told
me about his own favorite hero, and Eamon's too, Nuada Silver Hand,
Nuada Argat-lam, holder of the fourth gift of the gods, a magic sword,
and king of the Tuatha de Danaan, those godlike people who, after the
arrival of the Celts, were banished to the sidhe, the fairy mounds. And
for good measure, he told me the story of the arrival of Amairgen and
the Sons of Mil, the coming of the Celts to Ireland.

And then he told me about the lost child, the child stolen by the
fairies, the child whose father had made a pact with the devil to get,
only to lose him. It had a happy ending, what with the man finding the
son just before his death and their being reconciled, which for some
reason didn't ring true. It sounded like one of those stories that
started out true, but over time got all mixed up as time went by and it
got repeated. But it was Eamon Byrne's favorite. It had brought a tear
to his eye, and he was not a man to cry lightly-I could only assume-and
as such it bore some looking in to. It confirmed for me that Eamon
Byrne had a past that was not an open book. He'd moved here from Gal
way with Margaret, after spending a miserable time at sea, if Alex's
story was anything to go by. Whatever had happened to make him up and
run away like that, from the woman who later became his wife? I decided
I needed to know much more about Eamon Byrne's past. But who would tell
me? Certainly not Breeta. She was still assiduously avoiding me. And
maybe she didn't know. Maybe none of them did. Perhaps it was the kind
of thing you never told your family.

I took out the list of the clues and looked at it again.

AMAIRGEN'S SONG

I am the sea-swell (Alex)

A furious wave (Michael)

The roar of the sea

A stag of seven slaughters (Eithne/Sean)

A hawk above the cliff

A ray of the sun (Conail/Fionula)

Beauty of a plant (Breeta?)

A boar enraged

Salmon in a pool (Paddy)

Lake in a plain

A Flame of valor

Piercing spear (Margaret?)

God who fashions heroes

OGHAM CLUES

May's sunrise by Tailte's Hill is seen

A curse be on these stones

Leinster's Hag to Eriu's Seat

Clue still missing

Aine's Mount to Macha's Stronghold

Grianan Ailech to Granard down the line of the noonday sun

Raise a cup to the stone

Almu's white to Maeve's red

Axis Mundi

Due east, Partholan turned to die

All seen and seeing eye of fire

Umbilicus Hiberniae, the sacred center

Clue still missing

Did it matter, I wondered, who had had which clue? I'd thought so,
at first. Whoever owned the clue found in dead Michael's hand would be
the number one suspect in his death. It was probably either Margaret's
or Breeta's, although I was beginning to wonder whether, despite their
general unpleasantness, I'd put either down for it.

Money and passion, I thought. I was willing to bet it was more often
money than love at the root of these kinds of situations. That brought
me right back to the treasure, and so I would start with the where and
what of that. Maybe the who would follow.

"I've looked up all the references," Alex said. "I've checked the
names and wherever I could, I associated them with a place. Actually,
it was relatively easy to do."

"Okay, well, here's the map of Ireland," I said, unfolding it and
spreading it out on the floor of Rose Cottage. "I say we ignore 'Song
of Amairgen' from now on and forget who had which clue. Let's
concentrate on the second column of clues, which if my guess is right,
should lead us to the treasure. Let's go! Take them one at a time, from
the top. May's sunrise by Tailtiu's Hill is seen."

"Tailtiu was an ancient goddess, sometimes referred to as goddess of
the corn. Her hill is said to have been a royal residence in the dim
past, and it's here," Alex said pointing to a spot on the map on the
east side of Ireland, near Drogheda. "I don't understand the sunrise
reference, however, although May could refer to the ancient feast of
Beltaine on May 1. There were three other festivals: Imbolc on February
1; Lughnasa, August 1; and Samhain on November 1, although there are no
other references to them that I can see."

"Never mind. Let's just keeping going. Found it, Jennifer? Yes?
Okay, circle it. Next?"

"Next is a curse be on these stones. Haven't a clue on that one, but
the one after that is Leinster's Hag to Eriu's Seat. There's a mountain
in Leinster province called Sliab na Caillighe, or Mountain of the Hag.
That's one. Eriu, we all know, is one part of the triple goddess of
Ireland. Her seat, if that is what we want to call it, is said to be
right here in the Dingle peninsula, in the Slieve Mish Mountains.
Jennifer, Sliab or Slieve na Caillighe is not far from Tara and the
Hill of Tailte."