The Celtic Riddle Page 14

  “Oot em,” I agreed.

  Chapter Nine

  A SALMON IN A POOL

  DEIRDRE almost dropped the tea tray when she saw me. And a shame it would have been too, as it would have fallen on an exquisite antique Aubusson carpet, and dashed to pieces some very fine porcelain cups. I suppose it might actually have cost her her job, the obsession of her new employer being what it was.

  While nobody in these parts talks about it much, there was a period of time when Dublin was the second city of the British Empire, rivalling, and in some ways surpassing, London in grandeur and conspicuous consumption. London had its Thames, Dublin its Liffey, both cities taking advantage of strategic maritime positions to ensure a vibrant trade in goods from the far-flung reaches of the Empire, and in Dublin’s case, a corresponding outflow of its magnificent craftsmanship, silver, porcelain, glass, and textiles, to grace stately English homes across the Irish sea.

  In addition to bitter memories of repression and sectarian violence, that period left Dublin with some impressive public monuments—broad sweeping avenues, soaring bridges and architectural gems like the Four Courts, home of the Irish law courts since 1796, and the Custom House with its graceful arcades, columns and soaring dome—together with some glorious urban spaces like St. Stephen’s Green, a perfect Georgian square surrounding a pleasant little park, where the offices of McCafferty & McGlynn, Solicitors, were to be found.

  While Deirdre Flood might have thought that Dublin was sufficiently far away that she would never have to see any of us associated with Second Chance again, it was, in reality, only a few short hours’ train ride from Tralee.

  Jennifer had mentioned several times that she’d like to see Dublin, and I’d managed, quite easily, to persuade Rob to let me take her there for a couple of days’ sight-seeing. This little excursion of ours worked well for a number of reasons, not the least of which was that we were all getting on each other’s nerves. What no daughter of Rob’s was to do, apparently, was to cut her hair, buy herself dark lipstick and black clothes—tights, turtleneck, and a short skirt that she wore with her trusty Dr Martens—and, horror of horrors, put a rhinestone stud in her nose. Telling Rob that almost every girl Jennifer’s age had done something similar fell on deaf ears, and so I’d resorted to calling him an old poop to his face, as I’d promised myself that I would if he didn’t listen to reason, a statement that, while true in my opinion, did not exactly endear me to him. A little space between us for a while seemed an awfully good idea.

  The second reason was that the less-than-subtle search of our room had unnerved us all, although to be truthful, I was having more trouble dealing with scum having touched my stuff than Jennifer was. She’d been pacified by a new room and once-laundered clothes, immediately taken care of by Aidan and Sheila, the innkeepers, who had, if anything, been more upset than we were. I, however, found myself surreptitiously making my way to a laundromat to wash everything for a second time. A little space between me and whoever had trashed our room at The Three Sisters Inn seemed a good idea too.

  I suspect Rob thought that keeping me away from the Dingle, and the Byrne family treasure hunt and ensuing murder investigation in particular, and his daughter from Padraig Gilhooly’s sailing classes, was also an excellent plan. He would therefore have been disappointed to learn that my reason for going to Dublin was to pay a visit to McCafferty and McGlynn, Tweedledum and Tweedledee, and that after seeing Jennifer off at the gates of Trinity College on a two-hour walking tour of historic Dublin, I headed directly there.

  Eamon Byrne had said the two solicitors, or legal bookends as he’d referred to them, had become too accustomed to the good life in St. Stephen’s Green to refuse him any request, and I could see that would be easy enough to do.

  Their offices were located in a town house on the square right in the heart of the city. The exterior was pure Georgian, white, with a cheerful red door flanked by two columns, and crowned by a magnificent arched fan light above. Similar town houses, each entrance just a little bit distinctive, stretched out on either side, and all around the square: doors in every color imaginable from black to yellow to pink to lilac, some with similar fan lights, others with sidelights. A brass knocker on this one matched the discreet nameplate, C. B. McCafferty and R. A. McGlynn, Solicitors.

  The door opened into a foyer of black and white marble floor tiles, black urns and white walls, with lovely decorative rococo plasterwork on the ceiling. A bust, vaguely Roman looking, a Caesar, perhaps, occupied one corner. It was as if one had entered the town home of a wealthy Irishman in the middle of the eighteenth century, the only jarring note the receptionist’s computer and telephone. Jarring or not, McCafferty and McGlynn were doing quite nicely, thank you, that much was clear.

  Straight ahead of me was a staircase. For some reason, this reminded me that at one time in the royal courts of England and Europe, one’s worth was reflected in the room in which one was received at court. The closer one came to the monarch’s private chambers, the more important one was. I wondered if I’d make it up the stairs.

  As it turned out, I got as far as the second of four floors, if I’d counted stories correctly as I’d approached from the street. Not that my progress there was entirely effortless. I had decided upon a surprise attack and came armed only with a letter from Alex, co-conspirator that he was, but no appointment.

  “I know this is really presumptuous of me,” I said to the receptionist, a young woman with perfect fingernails, which she obviously worked on most of the day. “I’m sure that Mr. McCafferty and Mr. McGlynn are both extremely busy, but I’m in Dublin quite unexpectedly and must soon be off back to Canada, and I was wondering whether there might be any chance I could have a few moments with one or the other of them. I have some questions about Mr. Alex Stewart’s inheritance from the Eamon Byrne estate.” I hoped I sounded suitably contrite for this serious breach of legal etiquette.

  Up until the words “Eamon Byrne,” she’d been regarding me with considerably less interest than her fingernails, but those, apparently, were the magic words. “Both Mr. McGlynn and Mr. McCafferty are with a client,” she said in upper-crust vowels she obviously worked hard on. “I’m not sure when they’ll be free.”

  “I’ll wait,” I said, plunking myself down on a very fine wing chair in the comer of the room. She looked at me for a moment or two and then reluctantly picked up the phone. What followed was one of those conversations in which the secretary pretends she is talking to an assistant when she is, in fact, talking to one of the lawyers. “There is a Ms. McClintoch here from Canada wishing to speak to Mr. McCafferty or Mr. McGlynn about Mr. Byrne’s estate,” she said. There was a pause. “No, she does not have an appointment.” Another pause. “Yes,” she said. “One of the solicitors will try to work you in,” she said, hanging up the phone. “You may wait upstairs. You might want to have a look at this,” she added, handing me an engraved card which listed McCafferty and McGlynn’s fees for various services. They were, in a word, breathtaking.

  After passing this first hurdle, I went upstairs to the library, an attractive room on the second floor, with walls of blue, stripped back to the original coat of paint, by the look of them, and lined with legal tomes by the yard. The centerpiece of the room was a marble fireplace that sported two carved rams heads, one on each side of the mantelpiece, and over it, a somewhat Italianate fresco of a country scene, probably dating to the early- to middle-eighteenth century. On the walls to either side of the fireplace, white plaster plaques depicted a blindfolded Justice, appropriately enough, robes flowing, scales in balance.

  A large table had been placed in the middle of the room under an interesting chandelier with blue colored glass sprinkled through it to match the walls. It was here, I decided, that the lawyers or their assistants did their research, judging from the volumes in piles on the surface, seated in carved and intricately decorated armchairs that I believe are sometimes called Chinese Chippendale. Several choice mezzotint portraits had
been hung on the walls, and placed about the room were some rather handsome pieces of furniture. Every piece was exquisite and chosen with impeccable taste or, to be more precise, taste very similar to mine.

  A lovely period, Georgian, I thought. Some of the decorative touches were a trifle ornate for my taste, but overall the proportions were so pleasing, everything so elegant, I was quite enchanted.

  My favorite object of all was the attractively worn Aubusson carpet. I like old carpets. They make me wonder about all the feet that have crossed them, the conversations that have taken place above them, the ghosts that still haunt them. This one was particularly fine in that regard, a worn patch where some heavy furniture had been placed for a long time, the hint of a well-travelled path, from one room to another perhaps.

  Whoever had renovated and decorated the place had done so with meticulous attention to detail, a real sympathy for the Irish Georgian style, and a thoroughly lavish budget. I could only just imagine how much it would cost to accomplish the look. It was very impressive, and a little intimidating, and I decided this was intentional. If the fee schedule you were given upon entry to the building didn’t deter you, then this room might prove an effective winnowing process for all but the spectacularly financially endowed or, like me, the profoundly stubborn. After a few minutes here, one would be either impressed and prepared to pay big for Tweedledum and Tweedledee’s clearly exceptional services, or would have skulked away, convinced one couldn’t afford them. I stayed the course, hoping I wouldn’t have to take out a second mortgage on my house, or worse yet sell my half-interest in Greenhalgh & McClintoch, to pay the fees.

  After several minutes of cooling my heels and being suitably cowed by the decor, I heard footsteps and voices coming down the stairs from above, someone more important than I, apparently, then a few minutes later, footsteps coming up the stairs, and Deirdre entered with the tea tray. We were both surprised to see each other.

  “What are you doing here?” she gasped, cups rattling and the tray precariously balanced. I immediately remembered my promise in Dingle Town that I wouldn’t follow her to Dublin. But how was I to know?

  “I’m here to see one of the solicitors about Alex Stewart’s inheritance,” I said in my most soothing tones, reaching out to steady the tray. “It’s lovely to see you again, Deirdre. I’m delighted to see that you’ve been able to find some employment right away. I hope everything is working out well for you.”

  “Yes, thank you,” she said regaining her composure. “Would you like a cup of tea and a biscuit?” She poured tea from a silver tea service into two faintly iridescent cream-colored cups, Beleek most likely, mine clear, and another drowned in milk. Seconds later, the solicitor entered the room.

  I rose from my chair. “Mr....” I began. Which one was it? McCafferty or McGlynn, I wondered, frantically. Tweedledum or Tweedledee?

  “Ms. McClintoch, I’m Charles McCafferty,” he said, extending his hand. “Thank you, Deirdre. You may leave us. How may I be of service?” he said looking first at me and then at his watch. Was it my imagination, or could I hear a meter ticking away?

  He was dressed just as formally as he had been that day at Second Chance, dark three-piece suit, white shirt with impeccably starched collar, silk tie and puff, this time in a classic maroon with a crest of some kind. I wondered what his partner was wearing, maroon tie with stripes perhaps? He smelled nice, though, a subtle cologne that made me think of fresh sea breezes blowing across fields of heather, and leather armchairs in front of roaring fires.

  Get a grip, Lara, I told myself. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice,” I said, shaking his hand.

  “A pleasure,” he said graciously, gesturing me toward a chair, and sitting opposite me.

  For several minutes, it was all business. We talked about Irish taxes, land ownership by foreign residents, the question of the right-of-way across Byrne’s land, and so on, all things Alex might legitimately need to know. McCafferty made a few notes with his expensive but refined fountain pen, in a little notebook with gold-edged pages and a leather cover, and from time to time dispensed advice which, considering how much we’d have to pay for it, I hoped would be useful for Alex.

  I had a rather delicate matter I wanted to discuss with him, and it took me a minute or two to work my way around to it. It was a subject on which Alex seemed surprisingly passive, but I was not about to give in. “The Byrne family has indicated that they may be contesting the Will in an effort to get Rose Cottage back,” I said finally. “I don’t want to put you in a bad position,” I added, “and I know you have represented Mr. Byrne’s interests for some time, but whose side would you be on, in that regard? And if not ours, could you recommend another solicitor? We don’t know anyone here, of course.”

  “The heirs would sue the estate, and as executor of that estate, I would be obliged to defend it,” he said. “We would enlist the services of a barrister, of course, to represent us in court. I sincerely hope it will not come to that, however. I think that would be quite unfortunate. And so, yes, I would be on your side, to use your terminology.”

  “Thank you,” I said, rising from my seat. “By the way, what happens to the money that would have been paid to John Herlihy and Michael Davis?”

  “Unfortunately, Mr. Stewart does not benefit,” he said.

  “I assumed that,” I persisted, “but who does?” This was, after all, one of the things I’d come to Dublin to learn.

  “Essentially, the money reverts to the family and is allocated amongst them. There’s a very complicated formula,” he added, giving me a don’t-worry-your-pretty-little-head-about-it look. I believe he was actually flirting with me.

  I wanted to say, “try me,” but instead took a different approach and flirted right back. “Your offices are just wonderful. Georgian, isn’t it?” I said looking about me. “Did you restore the place yourself?” My words were quite sincere, although my motives were not. On the assumption that he must be very proud of the decor, I was hoping to soften him up in order to angle my way around to a number of other questions I had.

  Charles perked up immediately. “Yes,” he replied. “My partner, Ryan McGlynn, and I found this house in terrible disrepair. Shocking, really, it was so badly damaged. We’ve been working at it for years now. We found some skilled craftsmen, and we’ve been doing it a little at a time, acquiring the furniture piece by piece. The original paint, you know,” he added.

  “I thought it must be,” I said, giving him what I hoped was my most attentive look. “The carpet is my favorite,” I added. “Aubusson, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Mine too,” he agreed. “There is something about carpets, isn’t there? I like to think about the people who walked on them over the years.”

  I was quite nonplussed. The law offices of McCafferty and McGlynn were just about the last place I’d expect to find a kindred spirit. It made me see him in a whole new light, and I momentarily forgot what I’d come to Dublin to find out, and instead found myself trying to recollect whether or not he was wearing a wedding ring. He wasn’t. It’s not conclusive, of course, but a good start.

  “Do you use all four floors as offices?” I asked.

  “Three,” he said. “Ryan and I have our offices on the next floor up. We meet with our clients either in our offices or here. Ryan has a flat on the fourth floor. I live in Ballsbridge,” he added. I had no idea where that was, but I assumed I was supposed to be impressed.

  “With your spouse and family?” I asked. Admittedly, subtlety is not my long suit.

  “Regrettably, I have neither,” he replied, with a slight smile.

  “Nor I,” I said. We held each other’s glance a little longer than necessary. He was very attractive in many ways, with a faint hint of gray at the temples, and a nice build, about my age, or a little younger.

  “Tell me about this piece,” I said, breaking away and pointing to a piece of furniture against one wall. I knew perfectly well what it was, this being my business after
all, a rather handsome writing cabinet dating to about the mid-1700s, I’d have said, but I didn’t want the conversation to end. I’ll admit I enjoy a little flirtation from time to time. It is, after all, in the right circumstances, perfectly harmless and rather pleasurable to let someone know you find them attractive, and to enjoy their admiration in return. It was all very formal, of course. I was Ms. McClintoch, he Mr. McCafferty, but it made it all the more fun, somehow.

  I told him I owned an antiques shop in Toronto.

  “Do you indeed!” he exclaimed. “Then please permit me to give you a little tour. Everything here is authentic to the time, the real thing where possible,” he said, gesturing toward the chairs and sliding his hand across the fabric in a way I found quite suggestive. He had nice hands, I noticed. He then pointed out each object in the room and gave a little of its history, where he’d found it, what great family had owned it, what it cost him. I tried to look impressed, which was not difficult, because frankly, I was. When I wasn’t making eye contact with him, and enjoying the way he touched everything, I was mentally launching a new line in the shop—Irish Georgian—complete with accompanying design service to make sure our clients got the look just right. It was a good, no a great, idea: Irish anything was in style, thanks to some pseudo-Celtic dancers and singers very much in vogue. I was a little unsure how to get the look of the original paint, but I knew someone who could do it, if I could bring myself to ask him: Clive, who’d been my first employee, a designer, before I made the mistake of marrying him. That problem aside, I thought I had a sure-fire winner, although some of the sums McCafferty mentioned as purchase prices were daunting.

  If I could find fault with McCafferty’s offices at all, it was that it was all too perfect. People who decorate like this don’t just sweat the details, they are obsessed by them. I found myself longing for a jarring note, an object out of place or out of time, so he’d seem more human to me, somehow. There wasn’t one. I have customers like this, whose requirement for authenticity is absolute, and who, in many ways, keep me in business. Personally I prefer a little more relaxed approach, more mixing of complementary styles. Moira, whose taste in decorating is best described as eclectic—she changes the decor in her salon cum spa about every six months, often with my help, making her not only my best friend, but the shop’s best advertisement—would call the offices of McCafferty and McGlynn the product of a diseased mind. Maybe he’d become too set in his ways as a bachelor, I thought.