The Celtic Riddle

by Lyn Hamilton

  “It’s about Deirdre again. Where did she come from, do you know?”

  “Not really,” she replied. “As I told you, she came when Kitty McCarthy, our old housekeeper retired. I do remember we had trouble finding a replacement. We were heartbroken when Kitty left. She was getting on, of course, but we didn’t seem to notice, at least I didn’t. She’d been with us since I was a little girl. She was a hard act to follow, I suppose. We advertised, of course, in town, but my mother,” she paused and then lowered her voice. “Well, my mother isn’t the easiest person in the world to get along with. She has a warm heart under it all, really she has, but it’s not what people see, and no one in town wanted the job. So we advertised a little farther afield and found Deirdre.”

  “Did she come with references?”

  “I suppose she must have. Mother looked after all that.”

  “So you don’t know who gave her a reference?”

  “No. I suppose we could ask Mother.”

  “Would you mind? I know it would help the police in their investigation, tracing something of her life before she came to Second Chance.” It wasn’t entirely a lie. If they knew enough to ask, then the answer would be helpful to them, I was sure.

  “All right. Wait a minute. Mother!” I heard her call.

  She was back on the line in a minute or two. “Sorry for the delay,” she said. “Mother’s trying to cook. Terrible scene. She says our solicitors, McCafferty and McGlynn, helped us find Deirdre.”

  “Thank you. One last question,” I said. “Does the name Mac Roth mean anything to you?”

  “It’s a good Irish name,” she said after a short pause. “But other than that, no, I don’t think so. Should it?”

  “I don’t know,” I replied. “Perhaps. I really don’t know.”

  I hung up and dialed again.

  “McCafferty and McGlynn,” the officious voice said.

  “May I speak to Charles McCafferty?” I said.

  “Who may I tell him is calling?” she said.

  “Lara McClintoch,” I replied.

  “I’m sorry Mr. McCafferty is out of the office,” she replied. “May I take a message?”

  “I’m assisting the police in their investigations at Second Chance,” I replied. “Either put Mr. McCafferty on the line, or the police will have to call.” This was patently untrue, but I was beyond caring. Furthermore, brush-offs by imperious secretaries bring out the worst in me.

  “Really, he isn’t here,” she replied. Then why did you ask who I was, I was tempted to say.

  “Mr. McGlynn, then,” I said.

  I thought she was going to hang up, but in a few seconds McGlynn came on the line. “Ms. McClintoch,” he said smoothly, although I could hear a hint of irritation in his voice. Apparently, he didn’t like it when his receptionist was bullied by people like me. “How nice to hear from you again. How may I be of assistance this time?”

  “I’m making inquiries about Deirdre Flood,” I replied. “Margaret Byrne was telling me that you provided a reference for Deirdre and ...”

  “I do not believe that is the case,” he interrupted. “I did not know Deirdre personally.” His tone implied that he wouldn’t have anything to do with a lowlife like Deirdre. “I do recall that Margaret, Mrs. Byrne, asked us to assist her in finding someone. This is not, you will understand, the kind of thing we would normally do as their solicitors.” I got the distinct impression Ryan McGlynn considered this little task very much beneath him. “I would have thought Mrs. Byrne could have dealt with an employment agency,” he continued. “But she insisted, for some reason I do not understand. We had just snagged, I mean we had just secured, the Byrne account, and of course, wished to do anything we could to help out.”

  “Did that include checking references?” I said.

  “I’m sure it would have,” he replied.

  “She was a dry cleaner,” I said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “She had worked for years in a dry cleaning establishment, you know, throwing clothes into large machines filled with cleaning fluid, then taking them out again and putting them on hangers. What was it about this kind of work that you thought qualified her to be a maid at the home of one of your best clients?”

  “Well ... I don’t really know what you are talking about. What are you implying?” he blustered. “Of course we would have checked references.”

  “So who gave her a reference?” I asked.

  “I would hardly recall five years later, now would I?” he said. “And even if I did, and if what you say about her background is true, which I’m not aware that it is, who is to say she didn’t falsify her experience and provide bogus references?”

  “I’d have thought you’d make a more thorough check than that, for such a good client,” I said. “But perhaps you could check your files?”

  “I very much doubt we would have kept such information in our files,” he replied. “I am certain, however, that we would have taken the utmost care in selecting someone for the Byrne residence.”

  “Would you mind checking the file just in case?” I said.

  “I do mind,” he replied. “The information would be confidential in any event.”

  “Okay,” I replied. “I’ll let the police here know. If they really need the answer, they can get a warrant. But you know all that, of course.”

  “Stay on the line,” he said icily.

  A few minutes later, Ms. Officious was back on the line. “Mr. McGlynn has asked me to let you know that Deirdre Flood gave as a reference a training school called Domestic Help International. The letter says she passed her courses with distinction.”

  “Dated when?”

  “March 1, 1990,” she replied.

  “And this is a well-known institution, is it, this Domestic Help International?” It had a rather generic sort of name. Just the same, I knew I’d never heard of it. Apparently she hadn’t either.

  “Well, I don’t know,” she replied. “I don’t think I’ve heard of it, but I wouldn’t. I graduated from secretarial college, of course.”

  “Of course,” I replied. “Good for you.” I was tempted to ask her if they had special classes in imperious demeanor at her college, a subject at which she would no doubt have excelled.

  “It must be a reputable place, though,” she went on, apparently not noticing my particular tone. “It’s located in Merrion Square.”

  “That’s good, is it?” I asked. I actually knew that Merrion Square was a posh part of Dublin, but I wasn’t about to say so. I wanted her to tell me all she knew.

  “Merrion Square? Of course it is. One of the finest addresses in Dublin. Very close to St. Stephen’s Green,” she added.

  “And does it have a fine phone number too?” I asked.

  “There’s no phone number on the letter,” she replied.

  “Thanks for your help,” I said as I hung up. “And give my regards to Ryan and Charles, won’t you?”

  I checked with Dublin information, but the prestigious Domestic Help International didn’t appear to have managed to get itself a telephone. Somehow I doubted it had managed a real address for itself either. Bogus references indeed. Deirdre had apparently pulled the wool over McCafferty and McGlynn’s eyes completely, a fact that should have caused them considerable embarrassment, but didn’t. She was able to do it, I was sure, because they were miffed at having to do such a menial task for the family, but too afraid to say no to their new, rich, and powerful client. They needed the money to restore that lovely Georgian town house of theirs.

  So where did this leave me? Nowhere, I thought sadly. Absolutely nowhere. I went out for a walk to think about it some more. Large buses of the touring variety were parked on the edge of town. The music festival was about to begin. Already the streets seemed more crowded as tourists clogged the area. All the shops, thrilled no doubt by the business, had posters in their windows advertising the special events, and canned music blasted from many a store. Despite all the nois
e and excitement, I continued to noodle the problem around for some time.

  Deirdre would have been a good bet for the murders except for two things. The Byrne family, with the exception of Eamon himself, who’d apparently died quite naturally as a result of his illness, were all still alive. As Rob had pointed out, if she was bent on revenge, why kill the staff? Unless, of course, Herlihy and Michael had figured her out. That could be the explanation. Herlihy as the butler couldn’t help but notice Deirdre didn’t have a clue what she was doing when she arrived. But she’d lasted almost five years there. If he was going to rat on her, it should have been right away. And Michael? Probably much too nice to reveal her as a fraud. Somehow this didn’t work.

  All that aside, the most compelling reason for eliminating her as a suspect was that she was very dead, and a murder victim at that, a fact that almost automatically disqualified her as a candidate for perpetrator of the other deaths.

  I decided to go back to the Inn to see if I could find Jennifer and have a bite to eat with her. Aidan, the proprietor greeted me as I came in. “Miss Jennifer says you’re to read this before you go upstairs,” he said smiling and handing me an envelope.

  I tore it open. Inside was a hastily scribbled note. Aunt Lara—Dad’s here. I’m going upstairs to tell him about Paddy. Stand clear! Love, Jen.

  Chapter Seventeen

  WHO CALLS THE STARS?

  “YOU, young lady, will go to your room,” Rob shouted. “And stay there until I say you can come out. And you will never, ever, see that guy again!”

  Do we suppose Jennifer has already told her father about the boyfriend, by any chance? I asked myself.

  “But it’s the music festival,” Jennifer sulked.

  “I don’t care if it’s the Second Coming,” Rob said. “You are grounded, confined to barracks, under house arrest. Do you get my drift here?

  “As for you,” he said, his face flushed with anger, as Jennifer stomped across the hall to our room. “Have you aided and abetted in all of this? Have you set my daughter up with this Gilhooly fellow? I left her in your charge, you know.”

  “You did not leave her in my charge,” I retorted. “And I did not aid and abet. I was as surprised as you are when I found out. Yes, I may have known about it a few days before you did, but that was because I was paying attention. You, on the other hand, have totally abrogated your responsibility as her parent. And furthermore, I do not think that yelling at her about it is going to change anything.”

  “Well, what is?” he yelled. He was totally out of control. It occurred to me that with this stress and the Irish cooked breakfasts he’d been eating, he might be on the verge of a stroke. However, I couldn’t stop.

  “She’s an intelligent young woman. She’ll figure it out for herself.”

  “What if it’s too late?” he said.

  Too late? Too late for what? “Oh for heaven’s sake, Rob. Don’t be such a drip.”

  I stomped out of the Inn. It was true, I was feeling guilty. But I still thought he was handling this situation all wrong. I wandered around the town for a while, holding imaginary conversations with him and her, and trying to calm down. From time to time, I’d see almost everyone in town I knew: Conail, out of jail and still drinking, Eithne and Fionuala—I took some pleasure in knowing Fionuala had persuaded her older sister to come into town—Paddy Gilhooly, who didn’t seem to have allowed the disappearance of his young girlfriend to bother him too much. The only person I didn’t see was Breeta. I carefully avoided the rest of them, not in the mood for conversation. I needed to think what to do.

  Finally, in a fit of ill humor, I decided I was going to go to the music festival, whether I would enjoy it or not, just to spite Rob. I might even forget all about it, if I tried hard enough, I reasoned. I walked along the streets until I heard music I liked, the traditional Celtic jigs and reels, and went in.

  The bar was packed, a haze of cigarette smoke, and very, very noisy. It was a friendly crowd, most of them, I could tell, out for a special Saturday night at their local pub. Young people crowded around the bar, and pints of beer, dark and creamy, were passed across to others in the room. Most were in couples, but there was a small group of women out for an evening together, and a crowd of young men on the other side of the room looking them over furtively. For a horrible moment, I thought I saw Rob and Maeve, which would entirely spoil the place for me, but when I looked in that direction again, I couldn’t see them.

  Over in one corner, two old women sat smiling, one toothlessly, at the crowd. They were of sturdy stock, both dressed in gray, one with her white hair held back from her face with a barrette, the other’s hair covered by a small gray scarf. From time to time, the barman, a fellow with a hearty booming voice called across to them, “Ready for another round, dears?” and the two old woman would laugh and nod. The barman would then send a strapping youth to deliver the drinks to their table.

  In another corner of the room, seated on a bench, behind a large low table on which were scattered dozens of drink glasses, some empty, some full, and several ashtrays heaped with butts, were four musicians: a raven-haired woman in a black sleeveless top and black pants playing a squeeze-box; a blonde woman, casually attired in sweatshirt and jeans, on the bodhran, the Celtic drum; another woman with short-cropped hair in jeans and sweater, the fiddler; and the leader of the group, a man in jeans and wool sweater, who played the flute. It was he who announced the tunes they were to play, or tried to at least, the din in the bar making it impossible for all except those closest to hear what he said, and marked out the beat with a thump of his heel on the wood floor.

  Those patrons who wanted to hear the music crowded in a large semicircle several rows deep around the table, those in front sitting on low stools. I stood near the back of that group, cheered by the music, as the musicians began to play. The first piece was a ballad, sung by the raven-haired woman, a song that all but me seemed to know. Her voice was clear and sweet, the refrain wafting over the crowd, some of whom sang softly along with her.

  After a few minutes, the musicians broke into a jig, to a smattering of applause from the crowd, followed by a reel, then another jig. Faster and faster the music went, the fiddler leaning now into her instrument, her face a study in concentration, the bodhran thumping out the beat hypnotically, the squeeze-box wailing, the flute notes soaring, the crowd swaying, the man’s knee moving up and down like a piston marking the time.

  Then, I felt something hard pressed against my back, and a hoarse voice whispered, “Come along with me now, or I’ll shoot.” I felt myself being pulled away from the crowd, pushed down a hall, then out a door that led into an alley. Before I had any idea what was happening, or could even turn my head, I felt a cloth being placed over my mouth and the world went black.

  I awoke, or perhaps I should say became conscious, to find myself in a place with no light and no sound. Perhaps this is what death is, I thought, no clouds or wings or pearly gates, nor on the other hand, the fires and sulphurous fumes of damnation. Just eternal nothingness. I thought with regret of all the things I’d left undone, and unsaid, and wondered if it might be possible to be given another chance, a reprieve. Dimly, I wondered if Eamon Byrne was somewhere nearby, wishing, in his case, that there were thoughts he’d left unspoken.

  Gradually, however, nothingness became a cold, hard surface, the smell of dampness, waves of nausea, a glimmer of night sky way above me, and the roar of the wind outside my prison. And then, in the darkness nearby, I heard a groan.

  “Rob?” I exclaimed. “Rob, is that you?” Another groan. I pulled myself up on my hands and knees, and felt about in the direction of the sound. A few feet away from my own resting place, I found him. He was still not entirely conscious, but he was coming around. I found his hand and held it.

  “Who’s there?” he said hoarsely, coming to with a start.

  “It’s me, Rob,” I said. “You’re with me.”

  He said nothing for a minute or two, and I thought h
e’d lost consciousness again.

  “Any idea where we are?” he said finally.

  “Nope,” I replied.

  He sat up slowly and groaned again. “It’s coming back to me,” he said. “The bar, the music, and you disappearing down the back hallway: I caught just a glimpse of you. It looked odd, somehow, so I decided I’d better take a look. I got as far as the back door. I wonder if there were two of them. Hate to think I’d be overpowered by just one. Must be seriously out of practice. It’s all that desk work they’re giving me back home. Has to be. You don’t think it could be middle age, do you? Ether, probably, or something similar if I judged correctly in the split second between the time the cloth went over my mouth and I blacked out. And if this ghastly nausea I’m feeling is any indication. Primitive, but effective. I was out like a light. Whoever it was must have knocked you out first, and then got at me from behind the door, or something. Never even saw it coming. I’m definitely out of practice.”

  “It was nice of you to come after me,” I said at the end of his soliloquy.

  “That’s what we policemen do. Stop crime, save the damsel in distress, that sort of thing. Not that I’m doing such a fine job of it on this particular occasion.”

  “Did you happen to see who was pushing me out the door?” I asked.

  “Unfortunately not. I could just see the top of your head, and the back of someone else’s, but it didn’t look right.”

  “Man? Woman?”

  “Couldn’t say. How about you? Voice mean anything.”

  “No, it was deliberately disguised, though, which probably means I’d know this person.”

  “Mmmm,” he said. I heard him moving in the darkness, and in a moment, the flick of his lighter and the small flame. “See!” he said. “There are some advantages to smoking. Don’t think I didn’t notice that you don’t approve.”

  We stood up, and as Rob moved the tiny light about, surveyed our prison. We were standing in a circular structure of some kind, about ten feet in diameter. The walls, made of stone, curved inward and upward to a small hole about twelve feet off the ground. There was an opening, a small door with metal bars, and Rob leaned hard against it. It didn’t budge. He turned off the lighter. “I want to save fuel,” he said, “while I think.