by Lyn Hamilton
“ ’Tis true,” Kev asserted. “If they take you, don’t eat what they offer, not even a little bite, no matter it looks so good.”
“Shh,” said Malachy. “Let him finish.”
“But the man had a pact with the divil, as I’ve just told you,” Denny continued as if the others hadn’t spoken. “So he went back to the divil and says to him, ‘you promised me a son,’ he says to the divil, bold as brass, for what’d he have to lose what with his son being taken and all? ‘I gave you one,’ the divil said. ‘I didn’t say you’d have him forever.’
“Now this Kerryman was no slouch in the head, if you know what I mean, no slouch at all in that department. ‘So what do you tink people will be saying about you, if you don’t keep your promises,’ the Kerryman says. ‘I’ll be telling everybody what you done to me. There’ll be no more pacts with the divil around here when I’m done.’ ‘Hush your tongue,’ the divil says. ‘You’re worse than a woman for all your complaining. But I’ll tell you what I’ll do. You go back and get rid of the ugly child in your boy’s bed, and I’ll save your boy. But you’ll have to find him yerself, because I’ve already promised him to another.’
“The Kerryman accepts the divil’s offer. What else could he do? He goes home, and takes a sword and goes to whack the ugly boy over the head with it, and what do you know, the ugly child, seeing what he’s up to, jumps out of the cradle and runs away so fast no one can catch him no matter how fast they run.
“And the man looks all over the countryside for his wee boy, the real one, but he can’t find him for many, many years. But then he does, when the boy’s almost growed. But then the man’s wife, who’s brooded all these years over her lost boy, she won’t recognize her son, says he’s not him. But the man, he knows it’s his son, who’s been lost, and just before he dies, is reconciled with him. So ’tis a strange story, but a true one, and a happy ending of sorts.”
Denny stopped talking, and then rocking. The tale, such as it was, was over. What a peculiar story, I thought, and would have made a point of forgetting if it had not been for what was said next.
“Denny has lots of stories like that one,” Malachy said. “But that one, ’twas one of Eamon Byrne’s favorites. Brought a tear to his eye every time, didn’t it, Kev?”
“Aye, a tear to his eye every time. Very close to his heart, ’twas.”
I was about to probe this further when I heard my name yahooed from the top of the hill leading down to the pier. Michael Davis came running toward me. “They told me at the Inn they thought you’d come down here,” he puffed. “It’s gone!”
“What’s gone?”
“Breeta’s clue!” he exclaimed. “Someone’s got into the safe and stolen Breeta’s clue.”
Chapter Five
A HAWK ABOVE THE CLIFF
As wondrous as the Dagda’s cauldron might be, ’twas only one of four great gifts from the gods, one for each of the cities from which the children of the goddess Danu sprang, and each with a tale to be told.
The cauldron, the one that was never empty, was from Murias. From Falias came Lia Fail, the stone that roared and sang when the true king of Ireland stood on it. Brought, some have said, from the East by the goddess Tea to Tara, the stone, for that is what it is, the stone of destiny, is to rest wherever the high king of Scotic reigns. Many the man thought he would be king at Tara, but only a few heard the roar of Lia Fail.
It should never have left Ireland. Never have left. But Fergus, son of Erc, begged his brother, Murtagh mac Erc, to send it to him in Iona so that Fergus might be crowned king there. Filled with a care for his brother, Murtagh sent it across the sea. Then Kenneth took it to Scone.
And what happened then to it, this gift from the gods? The bloody English took it! The things the English done to us! The evil Edward carried off the stone of destiny and put it beneath the English throne. Edward thought he took the power with it, but have the English ever heard it roar, I ask you? Have they ever heard it roar?
There’s some would say the stone that rests at Tara now, right close to its center, is Lia Fail. But that one too is silent, and should it be Lia Fail, then the magic’s left us.
And then there’s them that say the English have set their royal arses over a plain old chunk of stone. And Lia Fail is hidden, waiting for a better time, waiting to be found.
“I’m afraid you may think us ungracious,” Margaret Byrne said, as she poured tea into delicate ivory cups with a practiced hand, having peremptorily dismissed a rather nervous Deirdre, who’d clattered around with the teacups in an irritating way. “The circumstances ...” she said, dropping her eyes delicately. “I hope you understand.”
Despite the refined setting, and the hoity-toity manner in which we were being served, the room was awash in tension. I had a feeling that Alex and I, who had hied ourselves off to Second Chance at the request of Michael and Breeta to ferret out the details of the disappearance of Breeta’s clue, had interrupted a scene of some drama when we’d arrived. If true, there was no mention made of it.
Margaret looked toward me, awaiting my response. She was neatly dressed, Chanel again, and black again, in a silk blouse and skirt, with expensive-looking pumps: snake, appropriately enough. The expression on her carefully made-up face was one of perpetual faint surprise, the result, I thought maliciously, of one too many face-lifts. But she was an attractive woman, nonetheless. She looked to be in her late forties, but I assumed she was probably ten years older than that. She sat framed against two oil portraits on the wall behind her, one of Eamon Byrne in happier and healthier times, another a man who was, if the thin lip line and resolute jaw was anything to go by, her father.
Seated next to her was her eldest daughter, Eithne. Eithne, who looked almost the same age as her mother, also dressed very much like her, but in a subdued shade of blue. Where Margaret looked rather smart, however, Eithne instead looked a bit old-fashioned, even frumpy, for her age. She restricted her interaction with the group to nodding favorably whenever her mother spoke and frowning when her mother did, which was often.
On the other side was Fionuala. Daughter number two had not inherited her mother’s elegance and good taste, it was plain to see. Her dress, while expensive, I’d imagine, was way too tight for someone with her tendency to softness about the middle. Her jewelry looked just a little gaudy, a rhinestone pin that might be best for evening. Her attention was focused almost entirely on her hands.
Ungracious! I thought, pondering Margaret’s opening words and the general unpleasantness of having to face the three hags across a tea tray. On the way to the house, we’d been virtually forced off the road, finding ourselves and the car in a close encounter with a fuchsia hedge, as Conail O’Connor, the predator on the cliff of the previous day, had come rocketing down the lane, his face contorted in what I took to be rage. He didn’t even slow down when he saw us. “I’d say he drives very much the way he sails,” Alex said mildly, voicing the same thoughts as mine, as I pulled the car back on the road again, the scratching of branches along the car door accompanying the maneuver. Alex and I shared the same conclusion as to the identity of the skipper of the boat that had run us down.
As well, Margaret was clearly in a very bad mood when we arrived. One of the family’s two solicitors, which one I wasn’t sure, was just leaving as we approached the front door. “I am truly very sorry about this,” I heard him say as he shook her hand, holding it rather longer than necessary, I would have thought. “Truly sorry. I will see what I can do.” He nodded curtly at Alex and me as he brushed by us.
Whatever it was he had to be sorry about, it had blackened Margaret’s already dark outlook on life. She barely spoke to us as we were ushered into the house. No, the word ungracious didn’t quite cut it when it came to describing the Byrne family.
“Of course,” I replied to her request for understanding, however. “Alex and I feel very badly that our presence may have added to the stress you and the family are feeling at such a sad time.”
Really, butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth sometimes.
“Indeed,” Alex agreed. We all nodded at each other, giving a completely erroneous impression of consensus.
The conversation continued in much the same vein for a few minutes, insincere pleasantry heaped upon cloying sentiment, Eithne nodding in support of her mother’s every word, until exhausted by the effort of being nice to each other, we edged our way toward the business at hand. As we sipped our tea, I tried to take in my surroundings. I watched through the back windows as Sean McHugh, Eithne’s husband, crossed the grounds to the rear. He was looking rather tweedy, leather patches at the elbows kind of thing, with big boots and a cap. I remembered Eamon’s description of McHugh as an English squire, and could see it was apt. Michael Davis, who was also in view, was working in the gardens casting surreptitious glances back toward the house, perhaps in a vain attempt to see how we were doing. He bent and straightened, pulled weeds, straightened plants in a nice rhythm, and I found it comforting to see him out there. He was quite the nicest thing about Second Chance.
“I understand from Breeta that there’s been a robbery at Second Chance,” I said at last, sipping tea awkwardly from the cup and saucer she’d handed me. I really dislike those delicate little teacups that don’t give you enough room to put even one finger through the handle, forcing you to hold on for dear life lest you dump the contents on the wool rug at your feet. But everything about Margaret Byrne was like that. The room was filled with delicate little ornaments of crystal and china, some balanced breathlessly on the edges of glass shelves and side tables with delicately carved legs. I found myself wondering what she and Eamon Byrne, who favored dark wood and ancient swords, had ever found in common.
“Yes,” she replied, eyes downcast once more. “At such a time ...” her voice trailed off again. It was a favorite conversational gambit of hers, I noticed, to allow others to finish off sentences for her, without having to voice the hypocrisies personally.
“Breeta says her clue was stolen from the safe in your husband’s study,” I said, ignoring her attempts at delicacy. “Who would do that, do you think?”
“But she, you, couldn’t think this robbery was about a clue,” Margaret said, her chronic expression of surprise heightened at the thought. Eithne raised her eyebrows the same way her mother did. “They were looking for money, surely.”
“Was money taken?” I asked,
“There was very little money in the safe,” she said. “Just a little housekeeping money. But yes, it was taken.”
“Was anything else stolen?” I asked.
“Nothing of value, just some of Eamon’s things,” she said. Then, thinking perhaps that might sound callous, she added, “Though, of great sentimental value, of course.”
“Of course,” I agreed. “How dreadful for you. I hope you called the police.” At least on this score I was sincere. I could hardly wait to send Rob back down to the garda station to inquire about signs of forcible entry and so on. Not that I thought there’d be any. I was prepared to bet the store this had been an inside job.
Margaret shook her head. “There was really no need to bother them about something so minor.”
“What things of your husband’s did they take?” I asked, trying to sound sympathetic, which in many ways I was. Not about the robbery, perhaps. I just didn’t believe her on that score. But the situation, her deceased husband’s rather callous remarks, and the little treasure hunt he’d concocted for his heirs must have been truly upsetting for them all. I told myself to be more understanding about their general demeanor.
“His diary, and two of his maps.”
“Surely the maps are worth something?” I went on doggedly.
“But they weren’t any of the old ones,” she said. “Perhaps the thief was unaware of the value of what he missed. My husband’s collection of weapons and manuscripts is quite valuable. Regrettably, he has left these things to Trinity College.” Her tone hardened.
“Now,” she said setting down her teacup and looking straight at me, so that I saw for the first time her eyes, hard as polished diamonds, and the firm lines around her mouth that even surgery couldn’t erase. “If I have satisfied your curiosity, I have a request to make of you. Please leave us to our grief. This treasure hunt of my husband’s is cruel and inappropriate, and the family has decided we will have nothing whatsoever to do with it.”
Really, I thought. And maybe pigs can fly, babies are brought by storks, and the Little People do live at the end of the garden. She was right, though, about her husband. His cutting words on that video must have been truly awful for them. I decided I should be more tolerant.
“I would ask you to do the same,” Margaret went on. “Please leave us to deal with our grief as best we can. Which brings me to one more matter we wish to discuss with you.” She said we, but so far, she’d done all the talking.
“Rose Cottage is a place of considerable sentimental value for the family,” she continued. Eithne nodded vigorously, and even Fionuala looked up from her study of her hands. “It was a place where Eamon ...” she paused for effect. “Where Eamon spent a great deal of time. We were somewhat surprised that someone whom Eamon had known so slightly, and so long ago, should come to possess it. We would ask that you consider returning it to the family.”
Alex looked startled, and after a second, he opened his mouth to speak.
“I don’t think we’ll be doing that,” I said quickly, before he could say anything, and as any glimmer of sympathy I’d felt for the widow Byrne vanished in an instant.
“Then you will understand the family will feel compelled to pursue whatever legal options we have to bring Rose Cottage back where it belongs. My husband was very ill and didn’t know what he was doing. Otherwise, I am sure he would never have left the cottage to Mr. Stewart.” She spoke as if Alex wasn’t even in the room.
I was about to say “see you in court” or something, when Margaret set her teacup rather firmly on the silver tray in front of her and rose from her chair. The other two stood up immediately as well. Fionuala, who had not uttered a single word, not even a hello, got out of her chair and left the room without so much as a backward glance. The audience, apparently, was at an end.
There was one more defining moment, however, in the revelation of Margaret Byrne’s character. As she stepped forward, the slow and steady Vigs lumbered out from under the sofa, causing her to start and lose her balance for a moment. She clutched at the tea trolley, and one of the delicate teacups fell over and broke. “Deirdre!” she hissed. “Deirdre! Get this dreadful creature out of here—permanently.” There was no reply from the maid.
“Thank you for coming,” Margaret said in an imperial tone, gesturing toward the hall. I gathered we were supposed to let ourselves out. I was very close to losing my temper, and had to stifle an impulse to say something truly nasty. I kept seeing in my mind the expression on Alex’s face when he first laid eyes on the little cottage. It was not enough, I thought, that the Byrne family should have this palatial home, more villa than house, their servants, and acres and acres of land, with their roses and orchids and palm trees, and a stunning view of the water. No, they had to have Rose Cottage, too.
Over my dead body, I thought, glaring at Margaret. I was suddenly absolutely determined that Alex would not only get to keep his cottage, but he would have the money he needed to live there comfortably. If that meant going to court, I thought, so be it. And if living comfortably meant snatching the treasure right out from under their noses, then we were going to do that too.
The trouble was, to do that we needed all the clues, and I was going to have to think of another way of getting them. I had thought for a few golden moments that we wouldn’t need them. When I found the clue in the little boat off shore, I had thought we were home free. We knew the first two clues, and they pointed us to a poem by an ancient poet named Amairgen. If each line of the poem led to a real clue, then we didn’t need their clues. We had only to try to guess the l
ocation that would correspond to the lines of the poem and go get them.
The clue in the boat was, however, a disappointment. It was from Eamon Byrne, all right. At least it was his personal memo paper, with his initials and Second Chance printed across the top. But the clue, if that was what it was, was far from what I was hoping for. I didn’t expect something as definitive as, say, a note that told us that the key to the safety-deposit box in Killarney train station was under the third flowerpot on the left side of the driveway, or anything. I had, however, expected more than the doodling that I’d found when the paper had finally dried out, just a series of lines that looked vaguely like a railway track, or the bones of a fish, perhaps. I’d kept the piece of paper, if only because I couldn’t believe that Eamon Byrne, or anyone else for that matter, would bother to wrap up doodlings in plastic, either wade, or wait till the tide was out, to the boat, and carefully conceal it between the boards. But my illusions about a quick end to this treasure hunt had been dashed.
I think at that point I’d have been inclined to drop the whole matter, but the convergence of a number of events made me change my mind. One, of course, was this interview with the Byrne women, along with their stated intention of trying to take the cottage away from Alex.
Added to that were a couple of developments that meant I had a little time on my hands, and we know what they say about idle hands. First was Jennifer’s decision, with her father’s reluctant acquiescence, to take sailing lessons every morning, from Padraig Gilhooly, no less. Apparently, her damp and frightening introduction to the sport had merely whetted her appetite for it. As far as her father’s opinion on the subject was concerned, he wasn’t exactly keen on his daughter being anywhere near someone involved, even peripherally, with a murder suspect, but Padraig, it seemed, had an ironclad alibi, vouched for by his lawyer in Cork, no less.
