The Celtic Riddle

by Lyn Hamilton

  Aside from the tortoise, what I found interesting sitting there watching all of this reasonably dispassionately, was that, although I could not see the faces of the five family members seated in front of us, except from time to time in profile or on the rare occasion on which they chose to acknowledge our presence by hissing at us, it was still quite possible to get an impression of how they felt about everything, and everyone.

  It was quite evident from the back, for example, that while they were seated together for the occasion, and despite their similarities in appearance and attitude, most notably a chilly disdain, if not outright ill will toward Alex, they didn’t get along. All the marks of a warring family were there. They rarely looked at each other, all the women sitting ramrod straight, heads resolutely forward, the men slouched down but never looking at anyone except their partners next to them. They also assiduously avoided looking at Breeta, although she from time to time glanced their way, and they absolutely ignored Michael and the mystery lawyer. It must have taken a great effort of will not to look about the room or to turn one’s head as the door banged, but iron will was something they apparently had in abundance.

  It should be evident by now that I was not fond of these people. If any of them, with the possible exception of Michael Davis, had any redeeming qualities whatsoever, I hadn’t come across them so far. As I glared back at the three women, I began to wish I hadn’t come to Ireland at all, a thought I immediately regretted. If Alex Stewart felt the need of my presence here, then my presence he would have.

  Alex Stewart is a very dear friend of mine, a retired gentleman who lives a couple of doors away from me and who comes in on a regular basis to help us out at Greenhalgh & McClintoch. That’s an antiques and design shop in a trendy part of Toronto called Yorkville, so trendy, in fact, that we probably can’t afford to be there. Some months earlier, Alex suffered a blow on the head and what the doctors described as a very tiny stroke during his convalescence. It barely slowed him down, just a little numbness on one side for a few days, but it scared the living daylights out of me. I’d been clucking and fussing over him ever since in a way that I’m sure nearly drove him mad.

  So when Ryan McGlynn, solicitor with the firm of McCafferty and McGlynn of Dublin, no less, had called to tell Alex that his presence at the reading of the Will of one Eamon Byrne was required, and Alex had expressed some reservations about going, I insisted upon coming along with him. To keep from embarrassing him, I told him I needed a holiday, and indeed, much to my own surprise, the idea of me taking a vacation being an even more novel idea than a tortoise for a pet, I decided to have one. In addition, I’d managed to convince a friend of mine, a sergeant in the Royal Canadian Mounted Police by the name of Rob Luczka, and his daughter Jennifer, to come along with us. The four of us planned to tour about Ireland after the reading of the Will.

  Alex said he didn’t know why he’d been summoned, but I was hoping that he’d come into a minor fortune of some kind so he could spend the rest of his days in luxury. I could think that knowing he’d continue to come into the store to help out anyway, that being the kind of person he was, but at least I wouldn’t have to worry about whether or not he could afford to live on his pension and the paltry sum we were able to pay him.

  Alex’s airfare was to be covered by the Byrne estate, apparently, and I cashed in a few thousand frequent flyer points, of which I have approximately a billion, to get tickets for myself and Jennifer Luczka. I have that many points because the merchandise Sarah Greenhalgh and I sell in the shop is purchased all over the world. I do almost all the buying, since Sarah doesn’t really enjoy that part of the business, on at least four major trips a year.

  I don’t know why I don’t use my points more often. I tell people I’m saving them for a round-the-world trip, which I know I’ll probably never take. Why should I? I’m doing what I love and get all the travel anyone could want just doing my job. The truth is I’m rather superstitiously keeping the points in case Sarah and I are ever so broke that the only way we can stay in business is for me to travel free. My best friend Moira, who owns the swank beauty salon cum spa down the street, says that the accountants or actuaries who are paid to worry about such things as people hoarding enough points to bankrupt an airline will send someone to kill me one day.

  We’d only been in Ireland for twenty-four hours or so, and I was already beginning to regret using those points. There we were, seated in the gloom of a room in Eamon Byrne’s estate, which, according to a discreet sign out at the road, was called Second Chance. The house was quite beautiful, pale yellow stucco with black roof and white trim, an impressive long and curving drive, and acres and acres of grounds stretching toward the sea. The driveway was lined with hydrangea bushes laden with stunning pink, blue, and purple flowers so heavy they almost touched the ground. Across the back of the house was a sunroom, all done up in white wicker and green chintz, with a view of absolutely gorgeous gardens, and farther away, across a stone patio and staircase lined with white plaster urns, the blue of Dingle Bay. It was remarkably light and airy, quite in contrast with the general mood of the place.

  We, however, were in the library, which suited the occasion perfectly. A rather large and impressive room also at the back of the house, off the sunroom, it was panelled in very dark wood, with oversized black leather chairs and a desk so large they must have had to build the house around it. The library had apparently also served as Eamon Byrne’s study. On this occasion, the curtains, of bordello red velvet, floor to ceiling, were pulled across the very large windows to keep out the daylight, and regrettably both the air and the view, all the better to enjoy the show. The room had, to my occasionally oversensitive nose, a faint smell of antiseptic.

  In contrast to the quiet elegance of the exterior of the house, this room was cluttered, almost to the point of chaos. Byrne, it appeared, was an inveterate collector and not necessarily a discriminating one. This is not to say that what he collected wasn’t good—a cursory glance about me when we’d first arrived indicated he knew what he was collecting very well—but he didn’t appear, at first glance anyway, to restrict himself to a specialty. If there was a unifying theme to his collecting, it was not immediately apparent to me. There were paintings, prints, books, hundreds of them, many of them leather-bound and quite old, on shelves, piled on the furniture and on the floor, which itself was covered by three oriental carpets of real quality.

  The paintings that adorned the walls, oils all of them, were dark, primarily of large sailing ships battling either the elements or enemy ships at sea. Along one wall were glass cases in which were displayed some very old weapons, largely swords and spear tips, and on the bottom shelf of the case were rather extraordinary iron pots or bowls, some of them at least twelve inches in diameter, others even larger; Iron Age cauldrons, I decided. All were laid out against a red velvet backdrop, a perfect match for the curtains. I figured, as I looked about me, that it must have taken tens of thousands of dollars and about a mile of red velvet to do the room. A single sword, its blade eaten away in places by time, was mounted on the wall behind the desk, and another, obviously special, was mounted under glass on the desk. It was an impressive collection to be sure, but it did lend a rather menacing air to the proceedings. It made me think that, for Eamon Byrne, on the assumption it was he who’d amassed the paintings and the weapons, life was one long battle of some kind.

  The television and VCR were placed on the credenza behind the massive desk, the TV raised on a stack of books. It was placed just slightly to one side of the desk chair, which gave the impression, from the angle at which I was sitting, squashed with Alex at the back of the room behind the more important people in Eamon’s life, that the talking head was where it would have been had Eamon been alive, a sight that would normally have made me giggle, had the situation not been so lacking in humor.

  With the exception of Breeta, flopped in the large armchair folding and refolding a lace handkerchief, the rest of us were perched on rathe
r uncomfortable metal folding chairs in two semicircles around the desk. The VCR was being handled by Charles McCafferty, one half of McCafferty and McGlynn. At least I think it was McCafferty. He and his partner wore virtually identical rather expensive-looking suits, dark, nice cut, matching vests with watches and fobs, and white shirts with very starched high collars and French cuffs with silver cuff links. They also sported almost identical designer haircuts and expensive-looking reading glasses that allowed them to peer down their noses at the rest of the world. One distinguished them, apparently, by the pattern on their silver-gray ties, one diamonds, the other stripes, their idea, I suppose, of rugged individuality. I’d mentally named them Tweedledum and Tweedledee. I shouldn’t do this, I know, make up monickers, often, but not always, disparaging, for people all the time. But, let’s face it, I’m dreadful at remembering names. And no matter what I called them, McCafferty and McGlynn appeared to be doing quite nicely, thank you. They had that prosperous look to them, lack of sartorial originality notwithstanding. It was humbling to think that for what they had both forked out to dress themselves, I could probably pay off my mortgage.

  “You’ll be hearing shortly from either McCafferty or McGlynn—they’re virtually interchangeable as far as I’m concerned—about the terms of my will,” Eamon Byrne continued after another long pause for breath. Tweedledum looked uncomfortable with Byrne’s notion that he and Tweedledee were indistinguishable, although I could not have agreed more. The three hags, as I’d already come to call them, turned their attention from us back to the television.

  “Not to keep you in suspense, you will find that I have left my company, Byrne Enterprises, to my daughters Eithne and Fionuala, or Eriu and Fotla as I liked to call them when they were small, and de facto, I suppose, to their husbands Sean and Conail. Sean and Conail have, of course, been running, or should I say running down, the business during my illness, seeing as how they prefer warming the seats of their favorite bar stools to an honest day’s work, in Conail’s case, or swanking around like an English squire, in Sean’s.” The two men shuffled angrily in their seats, as the face, drawn with the effort, continued speaking. “I expect that unless my daughters see their way clear to turfing the two laggards out, their inheritance will quickly become worthless.

  “To my wife Margaret I have left Second Chance, including the land, the house, and all its contents, with two exceptions, Rose Cottage, which I will speak of later, and my collection of antique weapons, maps, and manuscripts, which, by previous arrangement, I leave to Trinity College, Dublin. I have also provided her with an allowance that most would consider generous, but which she will no doubt consider miserly. Being responsible for the upkeep of the house and grounds should be instructional for Margaret, who may begin to have some appreciation for what it took to keep her in the style which she felt her due. Unless she can find herself another husband of some means in short order, I expect she’ll be selling it soon.” Judging by the knots at the back of Margaret’s jaw, accompanied as they were by a sharp intake of breath, she was less than amused.

  “To my youngest daughter, Breeta, who, until she left home in a fury two years ago, was my favorite, my little Banba—I’m sure I’m not telling my other two something they didn’t know—I leave nothing. She said she despised my money, and so she gets none of it.” Breeta said nothing, only bending, perhaps to hide her face, to pick up the tortoise as he began to amble under her chair. She sat stroking its little head as if this was the only thing in the world there was to do.

  “I have settled upon what I hope is a generous sum for the staff of Second Chance. In addition, I have made arrangements for a monthly stipend to be paid to Michael Davis, if he agrees to go back to finish his schooling. I sincerely hope he will take me up on my offer and make something of himself. He has eased the burden of the last few weeks for me considerably.” All eyes turned to Michael, none that I could see friendly. Michael looked charmingly grateful for his good fortune, but his furrowed brow indicated he wasn’t sure how he’d eased Eamon’s burden.

  “Rose Cottage, its contents, and the land on which it sits, I leave to Alex Stewart of Toronto, who I hope is here today. It is Alex who gave me my second chance which, despite everything, I am grateful for, no matter what I said at the time, and while he has refused my offer of compensation during my lifetime, I hope he will accept this now. Rose Cottage has been a place of great pleasure to me, and I hope that Alex will enjoy it too.”

  Rose Cottage, I thought. Not quite the small fortune I’d had in mind for Alex, perhaps. He certainly looked somewhat taken aback by the notion. I had a sudden vision of a stone cottage, its front yard ablaze with flowers, a miniature version of the grounds at Second Chance. Roses in profusion, that was its name after all. White and pink, I decided, ramping up trellises, arching over the entranceway. A thatched roof, of course. Inside, whitewashed walls and dark, exposed beams, a huge stone fireplace, logs blazing, a carved wooden swan on the mantelpiece. Huge comfy sofas, down-filled, perhaps, covered in chintz in what? A soft, hazy green? Celadon, perhaps? No, wait, rose, dusty rose. It would have to be rose. But large and soft and squishy. Sofas to sink way down into, a good book and a glass of sherry at hand. Alex would have to modernize the kitchen and plumbing, no doubt, but that would be fine. I’d help him. And there’d be a shortage of closets, but I’d ship over a couple of antique armoires from the store as a present. Minor details. In short, it was perfect. The floors would probably need refinishing, wide planks, stained dark, with area rugs, dhurries, I’d think, that would pick up the rose, with the celadon and cream ...

  My mental excursion through the ozone was disturbed by the crackle of psychic tension in the room. When I came to, as it were, Margaret was so tense that cords stood out on her neck, and even from the back I could tell her jaw was rather firmly clenched. Breeta sobbed just once, out loud. Her older sisters’ shoulders were hunched up to their ears. As Eamon spoke about Alex, the anger in the room, kept in check so far, threatened to boil over. They may not have been too thrilled about Michael’s good fortune, but Alex’s, for some reason, really bothered them.

  The face, undeterred, stopped only for a moment to sip liquid through a straw. “There is one other person who may be here, but who, fearing the wrath of my family, may send a representative instead.” The hags turned and looked at the lawyer seated to our right. He nodded and smiled somewhat less than pleasantly in their direction.

  “I have, with regret, acceded to my family’s wishes and have left nothing for Padraig Gilhooly in my estate.” The lawyer, who I surmised was representing this Gilhooly fellow, whoever he was, frowned; Margaret’s back relaxed a little. The face continued. “I want Padraig to know that nothing would have made me happier than to have him accepted in our household. Perhaps he will sue for a share of the estate. It is one of the benefits of being dead that I will not have to deal with this. I leave that family squabble and all the others I have had to endure, to the living.

  “It is a source of considerable pain to me that there is so much strife in this family. In an effort to address this, even in death, I have designed an exercise that will require you to work together.” Shoulders stiffened all around the room.

  “As unorthodox as this may be, I have some hope for it, the foolish optimism of a dying man, if you will. I have asked that after the Will is read, McCafferty and McGlynn give each of you an envelope. These two legal bookends have objected, of course, that this is not appropriate. Their protestations, mild as they were, were intended no doubt to protect their backsides should anything untoward occur, while still permitting them to collect the additional fee they require for this endeavor. They are too accustomed to the lush lifestyle of St. Stephen’s Green to refuse my request, particularly when I told them I would find other executors for my estate if they did so.

  “In each of the envelopes, there is a clue that, taken with the others, will lead to something of great value. One clue in itself will not get you there. Some lead to informati
on about the object itself; others point to its location. In other words, to find it, you must work together. I am not trying to be even remotely subtle about this. If you need a reason to participate, let me remind you of what I have already said. For some of you there is nothing from me on my death, for others, not as much as they might like. Those who have received something of value from me may well find that what I have left you has become worthless. This object has, if you find it, sufficient value to help you all. I would urge you to learn to work and live in harmony. I very much doubt that you will be able to do so, but I sincerely hope you will prove me wrong. If you do not, then something truly remarkable and priceless will remain hidden, possibly forever. That is all I have to say.”

  With that, the face raised one hand in what could be interpreted as a gesture of dismissal, either for the cameraman or all of us. The camera drew back from the face slightly to reveal yet more tubes and hospital paraphernalia, rows of pill bottles on a bedside table. From Byrne there came no expressions of affection, not even a good-bye, just the picture of a dying man lying there, lines of pain etched into his face, slowly fading to black.

  For a minute or two, we all sat looking at the blank screen as we contemplated the last words of Eamon Byrne, no sound save a vague hiss from the television, the ticking of a clock in the hall, a muffled call of birds, the rustle of palm fronds, and somewhere far away, the faint roar of a wind-swept sea.

  Breeta bestirred herself first. “Effing brill, Da,” she sighed, hoisting herself out of the chair and heading for the door. “Just effing brill.”

  “What does effing brill mean?” Alex, looking perplexed, whispered to me, as we watched Breeta’s exit.

  “I think the second word is ‘brilliant,’ and the first begins with an f,” I whispered back.