by Lyn Hamilton
Needless to say, I did not voice my opinion in this regard. “You’ve done a wonderful job restoring the place,” I said. “You are obviously successful at everything you do. You have your pick of clients,” I went on. “People like Eamon Byrne. I am most grateful you took time out of your busy schedule to see me.”
“I’m delighted to have been of assistance,” he said, self-consciously straightening his lovely tie. He was enjoying every minute of this, just as I was.
“And very kind of you to give Deirdre Flood employment,” I said. “I was delighted to see that she’d landed on her feet.”
“Not at all,” he replied. “Dreadful business, those deaths. The poor dear was quite terrified. I’m glad I could help her out, under the circumstances.”
“He must have been a challenging client, Eamon Byrne, I mean,” I said, prattling on, “judging from that video. Not the easiest man in the world to get along with. I never met him, of course, but Alex Stewart knew him a number of years ago, when he was in the merchant marine. Did you know him long?”
“No,” he replied, rather tersely. I waited for further clarification, saying nothing, but just looking at him. It’s an old reporter’s trick, I’m told, leaving a long enough silence that the interrogated person feels compelled to fill it. Finally he said, “We took over from his former solicitor about five years ago.”
Too bad, I thought: not long enough to know about an old family curse. “What business was he in? Byrne Enterprises, I mean.”
“Many things. It was a group of several different businesses. Land holdings, originally. He owned large tracts of boglands. Very profitable.”
“Are bogs profitable?” I said. I was genuinely surprised.
“Oh, yes,” he replied. “Quite. Peat is a major source of fuel here in Ireland. There is a huge commercial operation, of course: Bord na Mona. But there are smaller, private ones as well. Eamon Byrne leased out parcels of bog property for three months at a time. Renters cut as much peat as they can for fuel, and take it away to heat their homes, then Byrne rented the property out again to the next person. He had huge land holdings, so the supply was never exhausted, and there was a very nice, steady income. He used that to branch out into other businesses. Import/export for one. Medical supplies, for another. All very successful.”
“Mr. Byrne didn’t seem to have much confidence in the ability of his sons-in-law to run the business successfully,” I said, hoping that now that McCafferty’s guard was down, he’d prove to be someone who enjoyed being in the know and telling everyone about it.
“No,” he replied. “And with good reason. The two of them don’t get along, and aren’t very good businessmen. It was fine while Eamon Byrne was running the businesses, but when he became ill, well, things deteriorated right away. Too bad, of course, but there is nothing we can do about it. Amazing how they can make such a bollocks of it. Forgive my language, please. It upsets me to see what they’re doing. The peat business practically runs itself, and still they can’t seem to make a go of it.”
“I heard Fionuala and Connor split up,” I said, conspiratorially. There’s nothing like discussing other people’s relationships when you’re toying with the idea of getting into one yourself.
“I heard that too,” he said. He actually giggled as he said it. I gathered he was in some way rather enjoying the family’s tale of woe.
“What do you think that will mean? Who do you think will take over the management of the company?”
“I’m not sure,” he replied, “but it will be interesting to see, won’t it?”
“Extraordinary thing, that treasure hunt, isn’t it?” I said. I may have been enjoying the flirtation, but I wasn’t so far gone that I had entirely forgotten what I’d come for. Not yet, anyway.
“Yes,” he said, suddenly solemn. “You noticed, I’m sure, that Byrne said we didn’t approve of it. We stayed in, not because, as Byrne said, we wanted his money, but because we felt we had to bring a modicum of good sense to the whole process.”
“So what did you have to do? Do you know what all the clues are?”
“We did not,” McCafferty averred, looking at me with some suspicion. He wasn’t that far gone, either. “Byrne asked us to distribute the envelopes to his heirs on his demise, that is all.”
“And you didn’t take a peek?” I asked, adopting what I hoped was a playful tone.
“Absolutely not,” he said, looking offended. “They were sealed when we got them.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” I said. “It seems a little dangerous to know the clues. Michael Davis was found with part of one clue in his hand. I’m thinking it wouldn’t be too much of a stretch to assume that whoever had that clue was his killer.”
“The police have already asked us that question,” McCafferty replied. “Unfortunately, we were unable to help them.” He was watching me very carefully now.
“Something struck me as a bit odd about it,” I went on, as if oblivious to his glance. “I mean, who hid the second set of clues? Not Eamon Byrne surely. He was very ill. He couldn’t possibly have climbed up Mount Eagle to the ring fort, neither could he have climbed down to the cove and out to the boat to place the first clue.”
“Perhaps he did it some time ago, when he was well,” McCafferty said. I noticed he didn’t seem surprised by my reference to the ring fort and the boat, nor by the reference to a second set of clues.
“But Deirdre here told me he had suddenly fallen ill, very ill. Why would he have been out placing the clues that would be given to people when he died, when he was quite well and not expecting to die soon? There would be too much danger they’d be lost, wouldn’t there, especially the ones outside?”
“I don’t really know,” McCafferty replied. If I had struck a chord with him, it didn’t show. “It doesn’t really matter who hid them, does it?” he continued. “As long as the family works together to find the treasure as Byrne wished.”
“But it does matter,” I said. “I think that whoever placed them might well have looked at them. They weren’t sealed, just stuck in plastic. And I think that person might have inadvertently placed their name on a death list. You will be careful now, won’t you, Mr. McCafferty?” I said looking him right in the eye.
“Charles, please,” he said. “Of course, I will be careful,” he said, placing his hand on my arm.
It was the first time since the initial handshake that he’d touched me. I suddenly felt as if I was falling into something I might not be able to control. “My,” I exclaimed, looking at my watch. “I really must be going. I have to meet a young friend of mine who’s on a tour of historic Dublin. I mustn’t keep her waiting. I’ve really enjoyed the tour of your offices, though.”
“I have enjoyed it as well,” he said as we descended the stairs to the front door. “I hope you’ll come and visit us another time. Perhaps our paths will cross again. I have to be at Second Chance from time to time to assist the family with various matters.”
“Perhaps we will.” I smiled. So much for my intention to call this one off.
“Good,” he said. “If I needed to find you for some reason, the legal challenge to the Will, for example?”
“The Three Sisters Inn in town.”
“I know the place,” he said, as we descended the steps to the main floor.
Deirdre and Tweedledee, Ryan McGlynn, were in the foyer, a fact that brought our flirtation, or was it seduction, to a close. As I had predicted, they were dressed very much alike once again. I searched the two men’s faces for some family similarity, but the resemblance seemed to stop at their age, which was about the same, their clothes and demeanor. McGlynn was a little heavier, not quite in such good trim as Charles, and more relaxed in outlook. He was smoothly seeing a stately dowager out the door, telling her not to worry, that everything would be taken care of. She looked pathetically grateful, considering what she was going to have to pay to be able to stop worrying.
“We’ve met, have we not?” he said, turni
ng his charm on me. “Ms ...?”
“McClintoch,” McCafferty said. “Ms. McClintoch is here to see to details about her friend’s inheritance from Eamon Byrne’s estate.”
“Of course, Second Chance,” he said, shaking my hand.
“I must compliment you on your offices,” I said. “Mr. McCafferty has been showing me around.”
“They are grand, aren’t they?” McGlynn responded. “All Charles’s doing. He’s the connoisseur. I just go along with whatever he suggests.”
“Ryan is rather more interested in good food,” McCafferty smiled.
“Food,” McGlynn agreed, patting his stomach, “and wine.” He gave me a wink. Neither of these gentlemen, it seemed, were short at all on charm.
The good-natured jousting came to an end as the front door opened, and Fionuala Byrne O’Connor walked in. She did not look pleased to see me. But then Deirdre didn’t looked pleased to see her either, adopting her scared rabbit look the moment she set eyes on Fionuala.
“What’s she doing here?” Fionuala demanded to know, looking at me. It was the second time since I’d arrived that question had been asked. Deirdre, however, assumed Fionuala was asking about her, and her mouth moved soundlessly a couple of times. I knew Fionuala meant me.
“Now you know we can’t answer that,” Ryan McGlynn said in a soothing tone. “Allow me to take your coat, Mrs. O’Connor, won’t you, and then we’ll go upstairs.” I turned away from her and busied myself with paying the bill, a feat that required a fair number of travellers checks to accomplish. I could feel her eyes boring into my back.
“Charles,” Fionuala said in a breathless voice, having established to her satisfaction that I was on the way out. “I really need your help with something.”
“I’ll do whatever I can, of course,” he replied, in the same familiar tone of voice he’d adopted with me just a few moments earlier. I felt a twinge, just a twinge, of jealousy.
“Won’t you come upstairs?” he continued, taking Fionuala’s arm and then directing her up the stairs ahead of him. When she was almost to the top, he turned to me for one last time, and leaning close enough that I had the full benefit of the marvelous cologne, said, sotto voce, “Tell Mr. Stewart that I pride myself on writing airtight Wills.” Then he hastened up the stairs after Fionuala. I headed out the door.
I still had a few minutes to kill before I was to meet Jennifer, and was very glad of it. I felt off balance somehow. I actually found myself wondering what it would be like to live in Irish Georgian splendor, and where exactly Ballsbridge was. It annoyed me that I felt this way. I like to think that by and large I have a very firm grip on reality, but I felt myself losing my hold on it. The strange thing was that although there seemed to be some mutual attraction there, I wasn’t sure how far it went. Indeed, the sexual energy was, I thought, more on my part than his, that his passion was directed elsewhere. At Fionuala, perhaps? I could hardly bear to think it. I decided that while it had been fun, and I was pleased to think he would be on our side if we ended up in court with the Byrnes, this was a dead-end relationship, and anyway, I was happier when I was on my own. I told myself to forget him.
I resolutely turned my attention to thinking about what I had learned about the Byrne family and the treasure hunt, admittedly not that much, and certainly nowhere near what I had hoped. I still didn’t know for certain who had hidden the clues; nor did I know for certain that it mattered, although I had a feeling it did. It couldn’t have been one of the participants who had received a clue: they would simply have looked at them all before hiding them. After all, I would have. That let out the family members, Padraig Gilhooly, Michael himself, and Alex.
Was it John Herlihy? Could have been, I suppose, either him or Deirdre, which might explain why she was always looking so terrified. Malachy or Kevin? They had known Eamon Byrne; they’d told me as much. But I couldn’t see them being so deceptive in their dealings with us, somehow. Their excitement at finding the clues seemed absolutely genuine to me. Denny didn’t seem to be any more likely than his two pals. And so, unless it was a complete stranger, that left McCafferty and McGlynn as the most likely candidates for the job.
The next obvious question was, who had hidden the treasure itself, whatever it was? Eamon Byrne in earlier, healthier times was one possibility. Perhaps he had found it a long time ago and hidden it then. I had a vague recollection that hoards of treasure had been found in the bogs of Ireland—I’d have to do some research on that score—and so he, big landowner that he was, might have found something and left it hidden. But if it had required hiding at the same time as the clues, the big question was who had hid it, and was it still there, temptation being the powerful motivator that it is.
I arrived at the gates of Trinity College several minutes before the tour was due back, and could see no sign of Jennifer. I decided to walk a little farther, to get Charles McCafferty out of my system and soon found myself passing a statue of a woman with a wheelbarrow that I could only assume was Molly Ma-lone of cockles and mussels alive alive-o fame, and then on into Grafton Street, a busy shopping street closed to cars for several hours of the day. At every comer, there was something else to see, nice old buildings, lots of store windows, and flower sellers with huge pails of really spectacular blooms, most notably lilies in white and pink, their heady scent lingering in the air as I strolled by.
Partway along the street I found myself in front of Bewley’s Oriental Cafe, a landmark three-story building, and an establishment famous for its coffees and teas for almost a century and a half, apparently. I stood back to admire the facade and noted through the reflection on the glass, a couple seated at a table in the window up on the second floor. It was kind of sweet, the way they had their heads together, holding hands on the table. As I watched he leaned over and planted a kiss on her lips, and for a second or two I could see them both clearly.
Rob is going to kill me, was all I could think.
“Not you too,” Jennifer wailed. “I’m eighteen! Lots of girls my age are married already. With kids,” she added.
“How old is he?” I demanded. “Thirty-five? Thirty-six?”
Jennifer bit her lip. “That’s twice as old as you are,” I huffed. “Padraig Gilhooly is way, way too old for you.”
“He’s sophisticated,” she argued. “Not like those stupid boys at school.” Sophisticated was not a word I would have associated with Padraig Gilhooly, but I suppose it’s all relative. Certainly, he would have to be more worldly than the boys her age at home, which was a real worry. Also, I didn’t think his relative sophistication was the issue here. While age eighteen was a dim memory for me, I remembered enough to know that Gilhooly’s dark hair, blue eyes, and fair skin, to say nothing of his brooding manner, would be powerful attractions. How far had this gone?
“I hope you haven’t done something you will regret, Jennifer,” I said. My, I sounded like an old prune, but I couldn’t stop myself. Maybe I shouldn’t have called Rob a poop.
“Paddy’s a gentleman,” she sniffed. I hoped that meant what I thought it did. That had been some kiss he’d planted on her in the upstairs window of Bewley’s, and she hadn’t appeared even remotely reluctant. I wasn’t sure gentlemanly was going to last for long.
“Don’t tell Dad, okay?” she said beseechingly. It was tempting to agree, I’ll admit, but I knew I couldn’t.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, that I lied about going on the walking tour and everything. It’s just that Dad is so weird about the guys who ask me out.” She snuffled. I sighed. Neither of us, when it came right down to it, had been honest with the other when it came to our motives for the trip to Dublin. And, let’s face it, it was true what she said about her father. He was really nuts where his daughter and boys were concerned. She was a very sensible young woman, and was being more truthful than I was prepared to be. But Paddy Gilhooly! Twice her age!
“I asked Paddy about Lost Causes,” she said. “I didn’t want to date someone who drove his
boat like that. He left his boat in for repairs while he went into Cork to see his lawyer. They, the boatworks people, left it outside their place with the keys in it, so that Paddy could pick it up after hours when he got back, because he’d need it really early the next day. Someone had chartered his boat to go fishing for an hour or two right about dawn. The boatworks closes at four. So anyone could have taken it and then just put it back where they’d found it.”
“That’s reassuring,” I said. “Did he tell you why he’s feuding with the Byrne family and why they kept him out of the Will?”
“He hasn’t told me yet,” she replied. “I asked him about the family, but he just got mad, so I dropped it. I told him about the treasure hunt, though,” she said after a pause. “And how well we’re doing with the clues and everything.”
Bad idea, I thought, but predictable, I suppose, under the circumstances.
“Anyway,” she said triumphantly. “He told me his clue. A salmon in a pool. He says that now that I’ve explained to him how the clues work, he thinks he can find the one that goes with his clue when we get back. He’ll bring it to us to decipher the ogham because he doesn’t know how to do it. I knew I could convince him to help.”
You’d think after my performance not even an hour earlier, I’d consider Jennifer a woman after my own heart. I didn’t. In fact, I was aghast. “You mean to tell me you held his hand and let him kiss you to get his clue!”
