Archeological Mystery: Celtic Riddle Part 7

"I will," he replied. "I'll take him to my place."

"Tonight!" she said.

"Yes, all right. Tonight," he agreed.

Alex and I walked them to the door. "Can I give you a lift?" I said.

"No, but thanks," she said.

"I'll walk you to the bus, Bree," Michael said.

She smiled at him. "Only if you promise me you'll go to the house and get Vigs afterwards," she said.

"I promise," he said. "I'll go tonight for certain. I'll creep in, so the family won't hear me, and spirit old Vigs away. I'm going to start looking for the treasure tomorrow," he called back. "First thing. It's my day off. Will you help us find it?"

I looked at Alex. He nodded. "Okay," I said. "Why not?"

"Do you promise?" Michael asked.

"Yes, I promise," I said.

He grinned. "Good. Let's get an early start. I'll be here at eight tomorrow morning. Okay?"

"Okay," Alex and I said in unison.

The street was slick with rain, but only a light drizzle was now falling. The air felt fresh and good after the heat and smoke of the pub. Several people were out on the street, their collars turned up against the damp. A few yards away, Fionuala was getting into her car, and idly, I wondered where her husband, soon to be ex, was. It was definitely, I decided, none of my business.

Alex and I stood watching Breeta and Michael until they were almost out of sight, he walking his bicycle with one hand, holding Breeta's hand with the other. It was the happiest I'd seen her, and him for that matter, and I couldn't bring myself to tell them that Amair- gen's clues led just about nowhere, that the second clue, retrieved with such drama, contained the same old chicken scratches the first one did. It could wait until tomorrow.

"Eight o'clock tomorrow," he called back again, just as they were about to round a corner. "I'll be at your door at eight."

As I watched them disappear around the corner, I had this flash of insight the way you sometimes do. It was hard to tell with that layer of insulation about her, but I was pretty sure I knew who the all of us that Michael had room for were. It was Michael, Breeta and her as yet unborn child. Breeta Byrne was pregnant.

Chapter Seven.

THE BEAUTY OF A PLANT.

WE found Michael in his garden, among the roses, out of sight of the house. Eight o'clock had come and gone; then eight-thirty; then nine. He was lying facedown, and from the look of the tracks in the mud behind him, he had dragged himself a hundred agonizing yards before he died. There was not a mark on him that I could see. But if John Herlihy had not fallen forty feet onto a pile of rocks, perhaps there'd have been no mark on him either.

Better trained eyes than mine found the tiny tear in the fabric of his jeans, the puncture in the skin behind his knee. "Poison," they said. "If only someone had found him in time."

In his rigid hand, Michael held a torn piece of paper so tightly it was as if he'd wrestled the Devil himself for it. EONB, it said, and Second Cha. The ragged clue was marked as the seventh, 'The beauty o.' "

I remember two things about that horrible moment when we found him. One is the light. The sun, preter-naturally bright, seemed to have sucked the color from all the flowers, the blood from the roses, the heart from the purple hydrangeas, the living breath from the ivy. The other was the sound: Breeta, beside me, making small animal noises, like a kitten being drowned or a child's pet strangled.

And then, some days later, I found myself in a churchyard. It was raining, a bone-chilling drizzle, as it d.a.m.n well should have been. Michael's coffin, adorned with the flowers he had coaxed into life-a bunch of white roses, a spray or two of tiny orchids- was lowered into the ground. He was buried less than a hundred yards from where he was born. The priest spoke of dust and ashes. I could taste both of them in my mouth.

I looked about the churchyard. There were many among the mourners I did not recognize, townspeople, Michael's friends. Breeta was there, standing apart from the others. Her eyes were strangely opaque, and she twisted her handkerchief over and over. Sometimes her lips moved, but no sound came out. At some point, I edged over to try to comfort her, but she turned away.

My friends were there: Alex with a look of inconsolable sadness; Jennifer, ashen, realizing for the first time, perhaps, that people her age can die. Looking at her, I remembered the feeling of suffocating panic as I lost her for a moment in the cold sea. I looked at Rob who, as a policeman should know sudden death, but whose face barely hid his pain. I came to know as I stood there that it is not possible to be inured to the death of anyone, let alone someone so young, so fine, as Michael. I knew Rob was thinking of Jennifer too. Maeve Minogue was there, in uniform, her face solemn and sad, but also watchful.

Padraig Gilhooly stood way to the back, dark, enigmatic, and solitary. From time to time, he looked over toward Breeta, but made no move in her direction. Ma-lachy, Kevin, and Denny clung to each other as if together they could outwit death.

On the other side of the churchyard was the rest of the Byrne family, all in black, protected from the rain by large black umbrellas that reminded me of black sails on death ships. Deirdre of the Sorrows stood with them, but alone. She looked as if her heart would break. I saw Margaret, who reminded me of nothing so much as a large black crow; Eithne, more tremulous than ever; Fionuala, a little startled somehow. Conail O'Connor was not among them nor anywhere to be seen. Sean McHugh was, though, looking bored, as if there from a sense of n.o.blesse oblige alone, the lord of the manor at the funeral of his va.s.sal.

As I looked across at him, I had a stirring of memory of that fateful morning, which was coming back to me slowly and in flashes, under the careful prodding of Rob and Garda Minogue: Sean McHugh, who appeared at the sound of our cries, tapping Michael's body with his foot. In my head, I knew he was trying to see if he could wake him. In my heart, I saw it as the most callous of gestures, one that ripped open McHugh's soul for all to see, a shrivelled and blackened sh.e.l.l.

I looked at the Byrne family across the great gulf that was Michael's grave and coffin, and I realized, that with the exception of Deirdre, I hated them. He'd asked what there was to lose, looking for the treasure, and now the answer was clear. I knew in that instant that if I could bring every single one of them down, I would. I came to terms with the fact that I was very, very angry. I would avenge him if I could. But even more than that, I had a suffocating sense of a creeping evil that threatened everyone I held most dear: Alex, who as one of the recipients of Byrne's largesse, was surely a potential victim; Jennifer, who might have drowned that day on the water, a careless casualty in a vicious game.

Then I remembered I had made a promise to Michael Davis. I told him I would help him find the treasure. I felt I would do anything to fulfill that promise, not just because I had made it, but because to find the treasure seemed the only way to put an end to the horror. But even as I thought this, I knew I had no idea where or how to start. All I had was a chant, an ancient spell, perhaps, recited by a Celt who might or might not have existed, and two clues the poem had led us to, clues that told me nothing, just scribbling, a cruel joke perhaps, of a bitter, dying man.

The priest was talking about G.o.d, and I concentrated on that, and on the ancient Celtic deities, the Dagda, Lugh the Shining, the triple G.o.ddess, Banba, Fotla, and Eriu. And I thought whoever or whatever is out there, I could use a little help.

Then the wind whipped the sea into whitecaps, and the rain swept in undulating sheets across the land, like a lace curtain in the breeze, and I had a horrible feeling that in looking for divine a.s.sistance I had blasphemed, and the G.o.ds were warning me with this rain. The service over, people headed for cover, some to the church, others to their cars to steal away. Denny left with some people I took to be his family. Rob walked Maeve to her car.

Alex, Malachy and Kevin, Jennifer and I ducked under some trees to wait it out, hoods pulled over our heads, shoulders hunched against the damp. It was inexpressibly dreary.

"Very bad day," I said to Kevin. It was all I could manage to say.

"The worst," he sadly agreed. Then, just as suddenly as it began, it was over. The sun came out, and with it, not one, but two rainbows arched across the sky. It was breathtakingly beautiful, almost painfully so, the world's colors back again, huge drops of rain on the large leaves of a plant nearby. I thought of Amairgen's ray of sun and the beauty of a plant. I looked out across the little cemetery, the headstones worn until the names on them could barely be deciphered, the carved figures fading with time, now just a little clearer because of the rain. At one corner of the graveyard, just a few feet away, stood a single stone, a miniature and rough obelisk, about three or four feet high. Carved on one face at the top of it, I could see a Celtic cross. Below that a series of cuts, some straight, some angled, had been slashed into the stone along one edge. I turned away, but then looked back again. I knew my prayer had been answered. I saw that help had come. Alex followed my glance across the graveyard. "Good heavens!" he exclaimed.

"Ogham," Alex said, "an ancient Celtic script and the first known written language in Ireland. Named for Og-mios, sometimes called Oghma, the Celtic G.o.d of poetry, eloquence, and speech, and the supposed inventor of the script. It's thought to have originated in this part of Ireland and is apparently based on the names of trees. As I understand it, it's a linear script composed of groups of lines, up to five of them, either horizontal or angled from upper left to lower right, across a vertical spine or stemline. In the case of the standing stone we saw in the cemetery, the sharp edge on one of the front corners of the slab was the vertical stemline. The slashes, if you'll remember, went to either side of that edge of the stone.

"Now, each group of lines can be made to correspond to a letter in the Roman alphabet. Some groups of lines cross the vertical stem, others are restricted to either the right or left of it. The position of the lines relative to the vertical is important. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"I do, and it's brilliant," Jennifer said.

"I think I do too," I said. "But just to clarify, are you saying that it makes a difference whether the lines are to the left or right of the stemline?"

"I am. For example, five horizontal lines to the right of the vertical make an 'n'; five horizontal lines to the left is a 'q.' A group of five horizontal cuts right across the stemline is an 'i.' Five diagonal lines across the stemline make an 'r.' It's not very sophisticated, I suppose, as written languages go, rather c.u.mbersome in fact, and I think it was mainly used for commemorative purposes, inscriptions and the like, rather than as a daily, working language, but I should think it will work well enough for our purposes.

"Now, here are the letters," he said, pointing to a chart. "I got them from the local library. Let's get out the clues and see what we can see."

My hands were almost trembling with excitement as I got out Malachy and Kevin's slip of paper with Byrne's initials and home address at the top and carefully smoothed it for Alex's study.

"I think this is the most exciting thing I've ever done in my whole life," Jennifer sighed. "What does it say, Uncle Alex?"

"We'll have to see, won't we?" Alex replied. "Here we go. Four lines to the right of the vertical is... "- he paused and looked at his chart.-"an 's.' Then there's four lines that go straight across the spine which is," he paused again, "an 'e.' Then five to the right, an 'n.' Are you getting this all down, Lara?" "I am," I replied, showing him the piece of paper on which I'd written SEN.

"All right then, let's go on. Two horizontal lines running across the stemline: an 'o.' Then three horizontals, to the left of the line which is a 't.' Another V is next, I believe, then another 'e,' then an 's.' No wait, it's a 'u,' another 'e,' then one to the left: an 'h.' "

And so it went until Alex had deciphered them all. There were lines to the left, lines to the right, horizontals, verticals, and diagonals. In the end, I looked at my piece of paper. SENOTSESEHTNOEB ESRUCA was what I had written. My heart sank.

"Do you think it's Gaelic?" I asked no one in particular.

"I'm not sure, but it's not Latin," Alex said. "That I do know. An anagram perhaps?"

Jennifer peered at it. "Senat seset n.o.b es ruca," she exclaimed, or something like that. We looked at ner.

"A curse be on these stones!"

Chapter Eight.

A BOAR ENRAGED.

As occupations go, service to the Byrne family fit into roughly the same category-particularly if you took into account the opportunity for a long and healthy retirement-as fiddle player on the t.i.tanic, a fact not lost on Deirdre Flood. Deirdre was well on her way to the Bus Eireann pick-up point in Dingle Town that would take her to Tralee train station, and thence to the farthest point in Ireland she could contemplate, when I overtook her on the road. She was dragging along with her a large and dented suitcase and what looked to be a hatbox. It was a few days after Michael's funeral, and Deirdre was making a run for it.

She was reluctant to accept my offer of a lift into Dingle Town, but eventually the weight of her bag and the long stretch of road ahead won her over. "I've given my notice," she said, as we got under way, her eyes straight ahead, her hatbox clutched tightly on her lap. "There's nothing in the Will says I have to work there forever. I asked those solicitors, Mr. McCafferty and Mr. McGlynn, and they say I can leave whenever I wish. I'm using my holidays as notice," she added defensively. "They can't say as I'm taking advantage, but I won't stay another day under that roof. The cook left too. They'll have to fend for themselves." I enjoyed a fleeting, but satisfying, image of Margaret Byrne in black Chanel suit and snakeskin pumps attempting to boil water.

"I don't blame you, Deirdre," I said. "I'd want to leave too. But what about the police? Do they know you're leaving? You know there's an investigation going on." I avoided the word murder in connection with the investigation. Deirdre looked rather skittish, and I wasn't sure she was up for it.

"I've told Ban Garda Minogue," she said. "She knows where she can find me."

"What time is your bus, Deirdre?" I asked, as we pulled into Dingle Town.

"Twenty of four," she replied.

"That's over an hour. Why don't we leave your bag in the car and have a nice cup of tea somewhere?"

She hesitated for a moment. She was quite obviously very nervous with anyone a.s.sociated with the Byrne family in any way. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt," she said at last. "There's a lovely cream tea down the street."

The place was charming, a tearoom on one side of the entrance, a pub on the other. In the tearoom, the tables were set with Irish linen, china in a pretty green and cream pattern, and silver spoons, real silver, with a crest of some kind on the handle. Nicely executed watercolors of the surrounding countryside and harbor graced the walls. A pleasant-looking woman bustled about, with help from a young man I took to be her teenaged son, bringing large pots of tea, and plates of scones, with jam and thick cream. A lovely cream tea it was, and all terribly, well, English, although it would probably be worth my life to say so in such an Irish town. We took our place in a table by the window where we could watch the life on the street through lace curtains.

"Deirdre," I said, as she poured milk into her teacup and carefully b.u.t.tered herself a scone. "A few days ago, when Alex Stewart and I were out at Second Chance, you were good enough to warn us to stay away from the place." I waited for a second or two, but she did not acknowledge that I'd said anything. A meticulous person was Deirdre. She made sure the b.u.t.ter covered every last bit of the surface of the scone.

"I know they aren't very nice people there, some of them, but what was it that you wanted to warn us about, Deirdre?" I went on.

"Just as you said. They aren't very nice people."

"But you said the place was cursed, Deirdre. That's quite a different thing from unpleasant people." She did not reply. "Please," I said. "Alex Stewart is a really good friend of mine, and although he never expected anything from Eamon Byrne, he got Rose Cottage. And now Michael's dead, and so is John Herlihy, and if Alex is in some danger, then I need to know what it is."

"I'm not entirely certain," she said reluctantly. "Maybe something happened a long time ago, before I gained employment there."

"How long ago was that?"

"Going on five years," she replied. "Since the last maid retired."

"So what do you think it was that happened?"

"Something bad," she said. "Somebody died, you'd have to tink, and since then, the place is cursed. You should stay away like I told you." "Who would know about this, Deirdre? Are there other people who worked there who would remember? You mentioned a cook, the other maid."

"The cooks don't last long in that place," Deirdre snorted. "Not with that family! Never satisfied. Mrs. O'Shea stayed a year or more. That was the longest."

"But you stayed nearly five years, Deirdre. How was that?"

"I needed the money, why else? Kitty, the maid before me, she stayed a long, long time. And despite what they say, Mr. Byrne was not a bad employer. There was always a touch of sadness about him, but he was a generous man, giving me extra money at Christmas and my birthday, and telling me not to tell that woman, Mrs. Byrne. John, too, he liked. John had been there forever. They had the odd drop of drink together after the others had gone to bed."

"Where's Kitty now?" I asked.

"Don't know," she replied. "I never met her."

"And Michael? Did he get along well with Mr. Byrne?" I asked.

"Michael," her voice caught, and she paused for a minute before continuing. "Yes, Michael and Mr. Byrne got on too. When he was really ill, dying, he liked to watch Michael work out in the garden. Michael was sweet on Breeta, you know. Perhaps you noticed. He was not so good at hiding it. He was heartbroken when she left. She was a mere slip of a thing then, not fat at all, and really lovely. She looked so bad at the funeral," Deirdre said. "Very bad. Michael stayed because he liked Mr. Byrne, and because he was waiting for Breeta, hoping she'd come back. Do you think she'll recover? She looked-at the burial-a wee bit strange."

"Why did she leave, do you know?"

"It was over a young man. Breeta was seeing someone in the village, and her father didn't like it. They had a terrible row, Mr. Byrne ranting, and Breeta yelling. Terrible, it was. Breeta left and wouldn't come back. I heard she'd broken up with her young man not long ago, but she didn't come back."

"Do you know who the young man was?"

"Paddy Gilhooly," she said. Funny how that name kept coming up again and again. Eamon Byrne had apparently liked him well enough to give him a boat, but not enough to let him date his daughter.

"Did you see Michael that night? The night he... " My voice trailed off at the sight of Deirdre's stricken face.

"I did not," she replied. "Why would I? He was off for the night. And he lives in the staff quarters down the road. I lived in the big house," she added. "On the top floor. Snug little spot. Mr. Byrne had it fixed up for me."

"I just wondered if he had gone back to the house for some reason. He was found in the garden, nearer the main house than his flat, so I thought he must have gone to the house." Of course he had, I thought. He'd promised Breeta he'd go right back for Vigs, and he was a man of his word.

"Not that I am aware," she said.

"Would he have a key to the main house, do you think? I mean, could he get in without waking anyone?"

"I suppose he must," she replied. "All the staff had keys. Not to the front door, mind you, but the service entrance around the back. But what are you getting at?"

"Nothing," I said. "It's just that I saw Michael at the pub before he died, and I got the impression he was going back to the house." Deirdre looked at her watch. "It's time I was going," she said.

"I'll walk you back to the car for your bag. Where are you going? Have you some place to stay?"

She looked at me suspiciously. "It's okay, Deirdre," I said. "I'm not going to follow you, and you don't have to answer the question. I just wanted to know that you'll be all right."

"I'll be staying with my nephew in Dublin until I can find another position," she replied, finally. "I'll manage."

"I'm sure you'll do just fine," I said soothingly. She was rather p.r.i.c.kly, and there was more I wanted to know. "Do they all live in that house? The daughters and their husbands, I mean?"

"Eithne and Mr. McHugh live in the house. Fionuala and Mr. O'Connor used to live there too-there's plenty of s.p.a.ce in that big house-but they had a falling out with the rest of the family, at least Mr. McHugh and Mr. O'Connor seemed not to get along, and they moved to a smaller house, still on the property, but down the road a bit, not too far from the staff cottages. Well, she lives there still. Mr. O'Connor, I hear he's getting a flat in town now," she said, reaching for her handbag.