The Celtic Riddle Page 12

  “Ogham,” Alex said, “an ancient Celtic script and the first known written language in Ireland. Named for Ogmios, sometimes called Oghma, the Celtic god 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 cumbersome 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 ‘s’ 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 E S R U C A 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 nob es ruca,” she exclaimed, or something like that. We looked at her.

  “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 Titanic, 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 associated 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 buttered 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 butter 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 prickly, 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 space 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.

  “I’d like to treat you to tea, Deirdre,” I said, gesturing for her to put down her purse. “What did the family have a falling out over, do you know?”

  Deirdre shrugged. “I didn’t hear. Money, I expect, and the business. Mr. McHugh and Mr. O’Connor were running Byrne Enterprises between them while Mr. Eamon Byrne was ill, and they didn’t get on too well. It was all right while Mr. Byrne was in charge: he made them work together, but after...” Her voice trailed off.

  “And Conail and Fionuala? What happened to them?”

  “The usual, I expect,” Deirdre replied primly. “She was always one to be looking around, and he corrupted with drink. Bone lazy as a result of it. The Irish curse, you know. Alcohol. The English brought it on us.”

  The English got blamed for quite a few things around here, I was beginning to notice. As I was getting my wallet to pay the bill, I looked toward the bar. It looked nice, the walls deep blue, with lots of old posters, nicely framed, advertising various types of brew. Newcastle Brown Ale! one poster said. Courage! said another. Apparently they drank English beer here, their views of the English notwithstanding.

  I looked at the sign for the British brew, and then picked up one of the spoons and peered at the crest on the handle. It was a boar, rather fierce-looking with two bones crossed in its mouth. “What’s the name of this place, Deirdre?” I asked.

  “Here or the bar?” she replied. “This is Brigid’s Tea Room: That’s Brigid over there,” she said pointing to the woman who had brought the tea and who was now at the cash. “The pub’s called The Boar’s Head Arms.”

  “Give me a minute,” I said. I took a piece of paper out of my bag and scribbled a note on it. I handed both the money and the note to Brigid. She looked at it, and then me.

  “Come with me,” she said finally. She picked up a tray of tea and headed up a flight of stairs to the second floor. This was obviously the living quarters for Brigid and her family. An elderly woman sat in a large armchair in front of a television set. She looked up as we entered the room and surveyed me suspiciously.

  “Is everything all right?” she asked Brigid in a querulous voice.

  “Just grand, Mother. Here’s your tea now. How are you feeling?”

  “As well as can be expected, at my age. Is it strawberry preserves?” the woman replied, poking at the food with a spoon. Apparently satisfied, she turned to me. She was very frail, her hands almost transparent and lined with blue veins, her hair absolutely white. Despite the warmth of the room, which I found uncomfortable, she was wrapped in a blanket, and she was almost dwarfed by the large chair in which she sat. But her eyes were bright, and I had the impression she was sharp as a tack.

  “Who are you?” she demanded.

  “My name is Lara,” I said.

  “She’s come for Eamon’s clue, Mother,” Brigid said. “She has the password, ‘the boar enraged.’ ”

  “You’re not from around here. How would you know about it?” the old woman asked suspiciously.

  “A friend of mine received something from Eamon Byrne in his Will.”

  “Who is your friend, and what did he get?”

  “His name is Alex Stewart, and he was left Rose Cottage.”

  The old woman looked surprised, and then peered at me intently. “Then he must have been a special friend of Eamon’s.”

  “I suppose in some way he was,” I agreed. “Alex saved Eamon’s life long ago.”

  The woman just nodded. “He was a fine man, no matter what they say. He’s been very good to us. Wasn’t his fault what happened, you know.”

  “And what was that?” I asked, but Brigid returned from another room and handed me a piece of paper.

&nb
sp; “None of your gossip now, Mother,” she admonished her mother. “Pay her no mind,” she said to me as she lead me to the door.

  I’d have loved to ask more, but one thing about this place seemed clear. If there were secrets here, and there were enough hints they existed, people were not about to share them, at least with me.

  I walked Deirdre back to the car, and got out her bag, and waited with her until the bus came. As she was about to board, she turned and handed me the hatbox. “For Breeta, when she’s ready,” she said.

  She was almost on the bus when I thought of one more question. “Who gets Michael’s and John’s money now that they’re gone, do you know?”

  She paused, one foot up on the lower step, perplexed. “Now, that’s a question, isn’t it? I can’t say as I recall. I was so pleased to be receiving something I didn’t pay much heed to the rest of it.” She shrugged and stepped up on to the bus. “I don’t expect it’s me.”

  As the bus pulled out, I opened the hatbox. Vigs was happily munching on a lettuce leaf inside.

  “What am I going to do with you?” I asked him. The simple answer was give him to Breeta as Deirdre had suggested. There were two problems with that. In the first place, I wasn’t sure this was the best idea. Michael had gone back to Second Chance to get Vigs at Breeta’s request, and while neither she nor the tortoise could be blamed for what happened, the sight of the little creature might upset her. The second was that I didn’t know where she was. Sheila, the innkeeper, had said Breeta had been seen around looking for work and a cheap place to stay, refusing, even under the circumstances, to move back home.