The Celtic Riddle (4 page)

"I told him a life was a terrible thing to waste, and he told me his
wasn't worth saving. Then I told him he was a coward, doing what he
did, no matter what had happened to him. He said it was his life, and
up to him what he did with it. I wasn't making too much headway until I
noticed he was wearing a small cross around his neck. I told him he'd
roast in hell if he died by his own hand. I remember he just looked at
me, then said he'd roast in hell for much worse things than that. But
it seemed to do the trick. He pulled himself together. In the end, he
forgave me for saving him, I guess. He said something to the effect
that it wasn't my fault because a man could only go when he was called,
and that he hadn't been called that day in Singapore. Nice fatalistic
touch, really, the idea that your day of death is preordained.
Superstitious people, the Irish, in many ways."

"No hint of what he'd done that was so terrible, then?" I asked.

"He said he'd broken something actually, although I can't recall
what it was."

"Just a minute," I said. "Are you telling me he tried to kill
himself because he'd knocked over the family's favorite Royal Doulton
figurine, or something?"

"It would be more likely to be the Waterford crystal here in
Ireland, don't you think?" Alex smiled. "No, I think it was something
more like a taboo. He used a word I didn't recognize, it wasn't
English. I wish I could remember it, because someone around here might
be able to tell me what it was. Maybe it will come back to me. The
memory isn't what it used to be, unfortunately. Old age, I'm afraid."

"It's still better than mine," I replied. "So then what? Obviously
you were successful in talking him out of suicide."

"I got him a job as a deckhand, and for the next few months we
sailed together. It's backbreaking work, you know, on those ships, but
it was what he needed, I guess, and he was a good worker. When we got
back to Europe, he took his wages, which he'd managed not to drink, and
left the ship. He made me promise I'd never tell anyone about what he
called his moment of weakness, and I never have until this very moment.
And I don't think I'll tell his family now, quite frankly, even though
it doesn't much matter, I suppose, now that he's dead.

"I can't say I really got to know him, we'd never be close friends,
and we lost touch soon after. I'd never seen him again until today. If
you count that video as seeing him, that is. That and his picture in
one of those business magazines about five years ago: he was being
touted as a big success in one of those international roundups or
whatever they call them. I recognized him, although he looked a whole
lot different. To be honest with you, I have no idea why he should
remember me in his Will, really. I did very little for him, and I
certainly wasn't expecting to be given anything when he died."

"He said you'd refused compensation before," I said.

"He sent me a letter about ten years after we'd parted company with
a check for ten thousand Irish punt in it-his fortunes had clearly
improved over the intervening years-but no return address. I never
cashed it. There was no reason for him to do that, really."

"It makes perfect sense to me," I said. "As he said, you gave him a
second chance. He even named his house and property Second Chance,
didn't he? It was an important moment, a watershed of some sort in his
life." Alex shrugged. "I wonder where this Rose Cottage of yours is," I
added. "I hope it's nice."

At this moment Michael Davis hove into view. "I didn't find Breeta,"
he said. "I looked everywhere. What'll we do?"

Michael's news required a major consultation on the part of
Tweedledum and Tweedledee, but in the end they opted to proceed with
the reading of the Last Will and Testament of Eamon O'Neill Byrne of
County Kerry, Ireland. There were no surprises, except perhaps to learn
that both Deirdre and John had two names, like tne rest of us: Flood in
Deirdre's case, Deirdre Flood, and Herlihy in the case of John. Michael
Davis looked suitably grateful for the gift Eamon had bestowed upon
him, John Herlihy surreptitiously poured himself a congratulatory drink
from a crystal decanter on a side table, and even Deirdre of the
Sorrows showed something akin to a small smile when she heard what she
would get. They were reasonably generous sums, Deirdre's not being as
large as John's, which I took to mean she had joined the staff at
Second Chance rather later than he had. The lawyer for Padraig Gilhooly
sat stone-faced through the whole affair, and shoulders stiffened once
again when Tweedledee came to the part about Alex and Rose Cottage. The
sons-in-law squirmed with pleasure when their wives' inheritance of
Byrne Enterprises was confirmed and Margaret looked suitably shocked,
as her husband had predicted, by the mere pittance, though plenty by
most standards, that he'd left her. There were the usual puts and
takes: an unbelievably complicated formula on how, if any of them died,
where the remaining funds were to go, and so on. I confess I didn't pay
much attention.

Then came the moment, considered unorthodox even by Byrne himself,
when the two lawyers went about the room handing all those named in the
Will, an envelope with their names on it scrawled in a shaky hand:
Eamon Byrne's, no doubt, written with one last dying effort. Margaret
got one, as did both Eithne and Fion-uala, and also, surprisingly,
since this was to have been a family exercise, Alex, Michael, and
Padraig Gil-hooly's lawyer. Only one envelope remained unclaimed:
Breeta's, since she wasn't there to receive it. Tweedledum took that
one and, with fanfare, locked it in the safe in the wall of Byrne's
office.

Everyone sat looking at their envelopes, nice creamy linen ones with
the initials EONB embossed on the flap, as if opening them might set
off a letter bomb. All except Alex that is. He opened his immediately
and stood up. "I'm not sure I approve of this," he said, "but, in the
interests of getting it over with, mine says T am the sea-swell.' "

The rest of them all sat there for a moment staring at their hands,
not looking at Alex, nor anyone else for that matter. Then they got up,
every last one of them, and clutching their envelopes, unopened,
hastened from the room.

Chapter Two

THE FURIOUS WAVE

"NlCE," I sighed. "Very nice," I added. "Lovely people. I think I've
had about enough of this place for now. How about you?" I said, turning
to Alex, who like me was watching the family beat their hasty, and
nasty, retreat. "Why don't I buy you a drink back at the Inn?" I went
on. "Rob and Jennifer are probably back from sight-seeing by now, and
we can hear about their adventures. There isn't anything you need to do
here right now, is there?"

"I don't think so, although I suppose I should ask," he replied,
tucking the envelope and its obscure contents into his jacket pocket.
We looked about us, but Tweedledum and Tweedledee were nowhere to be
found. "I can always telephone later," he said. "A drink sounds like a
very good idea."

We were well along the driveway and almost to where I'd parked our
little rented car, when we heard footsteps hurrying across the gravel,
and turned to see Michael Davis approaching us. "Mr. Stewart, Ms.
McClintoch." He waved. "Wait for a minute."

He smiled as he caught up to us. "Don't you want to see Rose
Cottage, Mr. Stewart?" he said. "I could show you where it is."

I looked at Alex and shrugged. "Why not? Is it far?"

"Not far," he replied, "but," he said looking rather dubiously at my
feet, "it's a bit of a climb, Ms. McClintoch."

"Call me Lara, and I'm sure I'll be fine," I said tartly. I had
eschewed my normal comfortable flat shoes and squashed my feet into
something a little more fitting for such a formal occasion as the
reading of a Will at Second Chance, a decision I'd been regretting long
before this.

"Okay, Ms. McClintoch," he said, ignoring my attempt at familiarity,
and making me feel rather old. "This way."

We went around to the back of the house, and down toward the water,
then followed a path that led beside a hill on the right. The path
started to climb, affording us a magnificent view of both the sea and
the grounds of the Byrne estate. To one side of the house was a very
large kitchen garden, four square beds of vegetables and herbs
surrounded by a low hedge of what looked to be rosemary, and bisected
by a stone path. An arch, almost obscured by white climbing roses, led
to a cutting garden, I supposed, filled with a profusion of flowers. An
almost perfect lawn divided that from the rose garden on one side, and
a tropical setting of palms and flowers. I thought of the rather patchy
swath of grass I called a lawn at home and felt more than a tinge of
envy.

"Do you like them?" Michael asked. "The grounds, I mean?"

The gardens were exceptionally beautiful, and I said so.

"I'm really quite proud of them myself." He grinned.

"Are you… ?" I paused. Should I say gardener? I wondered.

"The groundskeeper," he said. Of course, I thought. People like me
might have a gardener. Should have a gardener, I corrected myself,
thinking of my pathetic attempts at making something of the backyard.
The Ea-mon Byrnes of this world, however, have grounds-keepers.

"You've done a wonderful job," I said, and Alex agreed.

"Mr. Byrne says I have the touch," he went on. "Said," he added. "He
always said I had the touch." He looked out to sea for a moment. "He
could be a mean old bugger, I know, but I'll miss him."

"Are those orchids?" I asked, pointing toward the palm grove, and
trying to change the subject.

"They are," he replied, turning back to me. "This is a tiny
ecosystem," he said. "A little tropical paradise where you might not
expect it. This part of Ireland is warmed by the Atlantic currents, and
some rather unusual plants and animals are the result." He went on to
talk knowledgeably about various aspects of horticulture as we
continued our climb up and around the side of the hill. I could see why
Eamon Byrne thought Michael Davis worth supporting and sending back to
school.

The path continued to curve around to the right and away from the
house, until we reached a headland, high above the water. Here, the
wind was in our faces, waves dashed the rocks below us, and a mass of
yellow gorse and purple heather stretched as far as we could see, a
feast for the eyes of a different kind from the carefully tended
gardens around the house. This was the wild side of the hill. I looked
back, but the house was now obscured from our view. Ahead of us was a
small cluster of houses, derelict, roofs gone, and abandoned.

"It's not far now," Michael said. We continued along the path, which
followed the edge of the cliff, occasionally veering too close to the
edge for someone as uncomfortable with heights as I. The water lay
rather far below us. It was spectacularly beautiful. Though it was
still clear, as it had been all day, dark clouds were forming close to
the horizon, and the sky on this side was a very dark gray, almost
black. From time to time, the sun would pierce through the cloud,
almost like a spotlight, and a bright circle of light would appear on
the water below. As I watched a heron swooped low, skimming the water
below us, "Next stop is America," Michael said, pointing out to sea. It
was true, when I thought about it. There really was nothing but water
between this point and North America. "I'd like to go there some day,"
he said wistfully, then more practically, "Rain coming. Weather comes
up very fast here. We won't stay long."

Stay where, I wondered, but then I saw it. It was not quite as I'd
imagined it: Rose Cottage. In every way, in fact, it was quite
inappropriately named. Heather House, perhaps, or even Gorse Cottage,
but not a rose to be seen. Instead, there was a wind-weathered house a
hundred yards inland, its face to the sea, and its back to a mountain.
It was not large, not compared to Second Chance, that is, and in many
ways rather plain. Instead of the thatched roof of my reverie, the roof
was slate. The walls were whitewashed and two rather tired-looking
wooden chairs sat out front.

I turned to Alex. He stood almost transfixed by the sight of it, as
if he could not believe his good fortune. He loved the place, I could
tell, and even though I knew this might mean I'd lose his company back
home, I felt a rush of happiness on his behalf.

"Take a pew, why don't you?" Michael said, gesturing to the chairs,
"while I get the key." Alex sat on the sturdier-looking chair of the
two and gazed about him. I looked around as well, out to sea, and then
beyond the cottage to a patch of trees. When I looked back, Alex had a
small smile on his face and was nodding his head.

"It's great, isn't it?" I said, feeling just so pleased for him.

"Quite wonderful," he replied, having found his voice at last.

Michael continued his search, lifting a couple of old pails on the
porch and feeling up into the rafters. "What's the problem?" I asked
him.

"The key," he replied. "It's usually around here somewhere. I
thought Mr. Stewart would like to see inside."

I tried the door, and it opened. Michael shrugged. "Last one here
forgot to lock up, I guess. No harm really. There's never anyone about,
and there's nothing in here worth much."

We stepped inside into the main room. It may not have been the
little jewel I'd imagined, but I immediately fell in love with it. On
our left was a stone fireplace, cold stubs of candles stuck in wine
bottles on the mantel, melted wax making little sculptured beehives at
their base. Facing it was an old couch, not the perfect chintz I'd
pictured, but satisfyingly comfy, and it right angles to it, two large
chairs, the kind you yearn to flop down in. Another chair had been
placed beside Dne of the two windows facing the sea, turned slightly as
to best capture the view. And what a view it was, across the heather to
the cliffs and then as far as you could see over the water. I turned my
gaze out to sea. It was one of those times when the light is
extraordinary, when the sun is shining, but the sky and the water are
almost black, the circling gulls slashes of white against the
approaching dark. The wind dropped suddenly, the shriek of gulls as
well, and the world fell silent, a kind of morbid stillness, as if
breathless, waiting for something terrible to happen.