The Celtic Riddle Page 19

  There was an envelope waiting for me on my return. In it was a note. I came to see you, it said. I will come back on my day off. Day after tomorrow, 11 o’clock. Please wait for me. There is something I have to tell you. Very important. D. Flood.

  Chapter Twelve

  A PIERCING SPEAR WAGING WAR

  REGRETTABLY, the Byrne family followed through on their threat to take legal action to get Rose Cottage away from Alex.

  “Lara,” the smooth voice said. “Charles, here.” I could almost smell his cologne over the telephone lines, and I confess my heart did a little dance, all my good intentions to the contrary. “I’m afraid I have bad news. Despite my efforts to persuade them to the contrary, the Byrne family has engaged the services of another solicitor and are suing Eamon Byrne’s estate for Rose Cottage. They’re claiming, as I suspected they might, that Eamon was non compos mentis due to the spread of the cancer to his brain. We will need to get together to discuss how to proceed. Ryan and I will be driving down your way later today. Do you think you could get in touch with Mr. Stewart for me, and the four of us might meet for an hour or two late this afternoon?”

  I thought we could. As irritated as I was by this development, I decided that seeing Charles again would go some distance toward making me feel better.

  We met in the lounge of the Inn, sitting at a large table so that Charles and Ryan could spread their notes about. The two of them were in lawyer uniform again, three-piece suits and all, which turned more than a few heads of the rest of the clientele in this rather more casual setting.

  “Now, Mr. Stewart,” Ryan said, smiling rather engagingly. “You really mustn’t worry about this. I can assure you the family has no case. We have copies of earlier versions of Eamon Byrne’s Will, some of them dating back several years, and you were named in all of them. So their case, the idea that Eamon was not quite right at the end, if you see what I mean, will simply not hold water. We are hopeful, I think,” he said, looking toward Charles who nodded, “that the court will find this action merely capricious and refuse to even hear it.”

  “I don’t know,” Alex said. “I’ve been thinking a great deal while I’ve been out at Rose Cottage. It’s a lovely place, but ...”

  “Of course it is,” Ryan interrupted. “A wonderful place. And Eamon Byrne wanted you to have it.”

  “I know,” Alex said, “but I don’t need it, and I’m beginning to think—I mean all the rumors in the village—that the Byrne family might...”

  “Hardly,” I interjected. “They still have Second Chance, and while they may have to sell it, they’re not exactly in the poorhouse. What could you get for a place like that these days, anyway? More money than you and I will ever see, I’m sure. And they still have control of Byrne Enterprises, even if it isn’t doing as well as it should.”

  “But if it means that much to them,” he protested.

  “Oh, no, Alex,” I exclaimed. “Don’t do this. You know you love the place. I saw you the other night, cooking over the fire. It’s the best you’ve looked in a long time. The place is good for you: the sea air, the quiet away from the city.”

  “But my friends, my life, are in Toronto,” he said. “You know that as much as I do. What would I do if I couldn’t come into the shop every day? You think I’m doing you a favor, but I’m not. I hated retirement five minutes into it. I need the activity, the sense of being needed.”

  “Well, let’s just say that we both benefit from having you in the shop. I’m glad to hear it, but that’s not the issue, Alex,” I said. “If you don’t want to use it, you can always sell it, or rent it out for some extra income, get yourself a little cottage closer to home or whatever, but as Ryan says, Eamon Byrne really wanted you to have the cottage, and those people have no business being so entirely selfish. You saved his life, Alex, and he wanted to repay you in some way.”

  “Did you now?” Charles said turning to Alex. “I’ve often wondered. Tell us about it.”

  Alex gave him a delicately edited version of Eamon’s story, telling him that Eamon had fallen off the pier in Singapore.

  “Singapore!” Ryan exclaimed. “I love that place. I had the best sweet and sour soup in the world in a little dive not far from the Raffles Hotel. And the dim sum!” I smiled, remembering Charles’s description of Ryan as a gourmand. I looked over at Charles, and he was smiling too.

  “I know exactly where you found it!” Alex said, and the two were off on a culinary tour of Singapore, then Hong Kong, then Shanghai. Charles listened with real interest, and soon he and Alex too were trading stories of places they’d been, and adventures they’d had. Charles, it seemed, had not been to the manor born, as it were, and had worked very hard to put himself through law school. There was a determination under that cultured exterior that I found quite attractive.

  After several minutes of armchair travel, Charles gently steered the talk back to the subject at hand. “Now, Mr. Stewart,” Charles said. “As enjoyable as this conversation is, we’ll need to get your direction on the lawsuit. We will accede to your wishes, of course. If you do not wish to keep Rose Cottage, then we will simply not contest the suit. But Eamon Byrne felt quite strongly that you should have it. To that I can personally attest. I had no idea why he felt that strongly, of course, not having heard the story, but I discussed the Will with him at some length, and there is absolutely no doubt in my mind as to his intentions. And he was quite lucid, I can assure you.”

  “Would you be defending the Will, then?” Alex asked. He obviously liked the two solicitors, and was coming around, much to my delight. I couldn’t stand the idea of the family taking the cottage away from him.

  “We’ll be the defendants, yes, but we will hire legal counsel to represent us, a barrister for the court work,” Charles said.

  “Won’t that be expensive?” Alex asked.

  “It will, most likely, if the case proceeds to court, which as Ryan has mentioned, we think may not happen. But you don’t need to concern yourself with that. Normally, the costs would come out of the estate, not from you.”

  “All right then,” Alex said. “If you think so, Lara?”

  “I do, Alex,” I said. “I think the Byrne family is just being mean, that’s all. They couldn’t possibly be as desperate as they look.”

  “Are you with us, then?” Ryan asked.

  “I suppose I am,” Alex said. “ I really do like that little place.”

  “Excellent!” Charles exclaimed. “Now, Ryan, I think you have something to do out at Second Chance before we head back to Dublin?”

  “I do, yes. It’s one of the anomalies of this particular situation,” he said, looking at me, “that while the family is suing the estate, and therefore us as executors, we continue to represent Mrs. O’Connor in some personal matters. Are you coming with me, Charles?”

  Charles glanced at me. There was a slight question mark in his look.

  “Perhaps not,” he replied. “Perhaps ... a drink?” he said looking at me. “Ms. McClintoch, Mr. Stewart?”

  “Sure,” I said. How nice, I thought.

  Charles went to the bar for drinks for the three of us, and we chatted for a while, until we were interrupted by Malachy. “There you are!” he exclaimed, looking at Alex. “We’ve been looking all over for you. Don’t you remember we’re to get together at Tommy Fitzgerald’s pub?”

  “My goodness!” Alex exclaimed. “I had no idea it was this late. Will you excuse me, Lara? Charles?”

  “Of course,” we said in unison.

  “I’ll see he gets home,” Malachy said. “Don’t worry.”

  Charles smiled at me. “Could we have something to eat together, do you think? It’s a long drive back to Dublin. There’s a very good fish restaurant right down the street. I always try to have some seafood when I’m here. It’s so fresh. What do you think?”

  I thought it was a very good idea, and I said so, and a few minutes later we were sitting at a table in the window, as a waiter brought a blackboard over w
ith the day’s catch listed.

  “Champagne, I think,” Charles said. “To start. A little celebration of Mr. Stewart’s decision.”

  Charles McCafferty was the kind of man I and my women friends tend to make fun of, with old world manners, rushing ahead to open doors, and choosing our food for us, as if we couldn’t do it for ourselves. For some reason, though, I found it all rather relaxing, not having to think too much about anything, and just enjoying the very fine food and wine that he picked. Ryan might have been the gourmand of the two, but Charles was no slouch in knowing what was good to eat around the place. He also gave me his undivided attention, something I found very flattering. I’ll flay myself tomorrow, I told myself, to make up for this serious lapse in feminist ideology, but tonight, I think I’ll just sit back and enjoy it. I reminded him about the shop, though, lest he think I was merely one of those ladies who lunch.

  “I do recall that,” he said. “I enjoyed showing you through our offices immensely. Do you specialize in any particular period?”

  I told him all about the place, my favorite subject, after all. It was fun to talk about it. It reminded me of my early conversations with Clive, when we were still dating, before we married and everything turned sour. It was pleasant to share an interest with someone, to be able to discuss everything in such detail with someone who was as enthusiastic about the subject as I was. I still felt a little confused about him, though. I couldn’t tell whether he was really interested in me or not. Nor could I decide if he was my kind of guy or not. We’d flirt a little, then back off, both of us, I suppose, a little ambivalent on the idea of a new romance. I had such a bad track record where men were concerned, that the idea of starting a new relationship with someone, particularly someone so far from home, was daunting to say the least. I wondered if he felt the same.

  I did find him attractive, though, no doubt about it. I found myself wishing I’d had an arrangement of some kind with Jennifer, of the college dorm variety, where a ribbon tied to the door handle meant Do Not Enter. However, if we had that arrangement, I suppose it would have to cut both ways, and I wasn’t about to condone an intimate relationship between Jennifer and Paddy.

  At some point in the conversation, I had the feeling I was being watched, not that this was unusual on this particular occasion. Charles had a commanding presence and was rather better dressed than anyone else in the place. And the bottle of champagne chilling in the ice bucket had drawn more than a casual glance. This was different somehow. I looked about me, and there, by the bar, was Rob. He had the strangest expression on his face, part nonchalance, part ... what? Jealousy? It couldn’t be! I looked again. Maybe, I thought. Well, good. I smiled at Rob and then leaned forward toward Charles, who reached across and grasped my fingers. I locked my hand with his. Rob turned back to the bar and ordered another drink. Where was Maeve, I wondered.

  No matter how the evening might have ended had we been alone, that particular option didn’t present itself. Just as we were finishing our coffee, Ryan appeared. “Ah, there you are,” he said. “Thought I might find you here. What did you have? Sea bass? Sorry I missed it. I had some awful Irish stew kind of thing out at Second Chance. Margaret made it. I hope she finds a cook soon. Dinner there is not what it once was. And that Deirdre! Kept dropping everything and clattered about. It’s a relief she left us, Charles. She’d be dumping tea in our clients’ laps more often than not.”

  “Why did she leave you?” I asked. “The way she was going on about Second Chance the day she left, I thought she’d never come back.”

  “God knows,” Ryan replies. “I certainly don’t. But she did us a favor.”

  “I think she didn’t like Dublin,” Charles replied.

  “What’s not to like?” Ryan said. “Speaking of which, what do you say? Is it time to head back there, Charles?”

  “Regrettably, yes,” Charles said, kissing my hand. I looked up to see Rob staring at me again. “Perhaps some other time, though?”

  “That would be lovely,” I said. “And thank you for helping Alex, and for a very pleasant evening.” The two men went outside to a waiting Mercedes and soon pulled away, Ryan at the wheel. Both waved and smiled at me as they left. When I looked around again, Rob was gone.

  The mention of Deirdre reminded me that I was to see her the next day. Something very important, she’d said. It was a little irritating, I’d have to say. I’d planned another day of antique hunting to get some more stuff for the store. But I resolved I’d wait for her, nonetheless. Maybe she really would have something interesting to say.

  Sometime after midnight, the phone in our room rang. It was Charles, back in Dublin. “I just called to say good night,” he said in that lovely Irish lilt of his. “It’s late, I know, but I wanted to hear your voice again. I had a wonderful evening, although it was far too short.”

  “I did as well,” I replied. Despite the fact that I’d told myself he wasn’t my type at all, I found I was pleased that he’d called.

  “We’ll see each other again. That’s one of the benefits of being sued by the Byrne family,” he chuckled.

  “Till then,” I said, hanging up.

  “Who was that?” Jennifer said drowsily.

  “Charles McCafferty,” I replied. “Go back to sleep.”

  “Dad said you were having dinner with one of those lawyers,” she said. “I think he’s jealous.”

  “I’d think he’d be too busy with Maeve to be jealous of me,” I said tartly.

  “I like you better than Maeve,” she said.

  “I didn’t know this was a contest,” I said. “Now go back to sleep!”

  The next day, Deirdre didn’t show up. After waiting for a couple of hours, I called Second Chance.

  “Is Deirdre there?” I asked. It was Sean, I thought, who answered the telephone.

  “Who’s this?” he asked suspiciously.

  “It doesn’t matter who this is,” I replied. The man irritated me no end. “It’s Deirdre I wish to speak to.”

  “It’s that Canadian woman, isn’t it?” he demanded. “The friend of that fellow who’s taken Rose Cottage from us.”

  “He’s not taking it from you. Your father-in-law left it to him,” I said. “Now is Deirdre there or isn’t she?”

  “No, she’s not,” he replied.

  “Do you know where she is? She was supposed to meet me,” I went on. I thought I probably shouldn’t have said that. It would set him off and maybe get her in trouble.

  “It’s her day off. She can do whatever she pleases. I have no idea where she is. Now don’t call this place again!” he said, slamming the phone down.

  I waited another hour or two, then headed out to an auction. Irritating woman, I thought. Irritating family, too. I wondered what Deirdre might have to tell me that was so important. The father of Breeta’s child, perhaps? Interesting, no doubt, but did it matter? And if not that, what?

  Chapter Thirteen

  A GOD THAT FASHIONS HEROES FOR A LORD

  NUADA, now there’s a man, both a man and a god. There’s the ting with the Tuatha dé Danaan, you know. They were gods in some ways, but they had the struggles of the rest of us, and they could die, too. All of them died in the end, and later all their magic too, when St. Padraig came, cursing the old gods. The three goddesses in one, Banba, Fotla, Eriu, they died, and their kings, too.

  But Nuada, as I’m saying, was a very fine god. He was king of the Tuatha dé and fought in both battles of Mag Tuired, aided by his sword from whom no one could escape once it was drawn, a magic sword from the city of Findias, one of the four great gifts of the gods. In the first battle, he defeated the Fir Bolg, banishing them west to Connacht and the Aran Islands. But in that battle, Nuada lost his hand, and because any king of the Tuatha dé had to be perfect, he could no longer be king. Diancecht the healer made him a silver hand that worked as well as his own, but still it wouldn’t do for him to be king.

  And so Nuada had to watch as the new king Bres, called the be
autiful, destroyed the kingdom. Because while Bres might be beautiful to look at, he was part Fomorian, son of the Fomorian king Elatha and Eri of the Tuatha dé, and he was not beautiful on the inside, if you catch my meaning. He was miserly with his people and demanded they pay tribute to him and to the Fomorians, to the point that even the great Dagda became a builder of raths, and Oghma was reduced to carrying fuel for the oppressors.

  And Nuada watched all this. A bitter time it must have been for him, with the gods in terrible servitude. But then his hand was restored, through the spells of Miach, Diancecht’s son, who some say obtained Nuada’s own mutilated hand, others say took a swine-herd’s arm, and reattached it to Nuada’s arm. Skin grew, the joints and muscles joined again. And once more, Nuada could be king.

  And so he held a royal banquet, and who should come to the door but Lugh Lamfada, Lugh of the Long Arm, who persuaded Nuada to lead his people in battle once again, this time against the worst of foes, the evil Fomorians. Nuada turned his kingship over to Lugh, and this time the Tuatha dé were victorious, the victory of light and life over darkness, and the Morrigan, the crow, proclaimed the victory so that it could be heard throughout the country.

  I liked Nuada the best—he seems so human, despite the magic, the weight of the oppression of his people on his shoulders, while he watched, helplessly, because he was maimed and couldn’t be king. He died at the hands of Balor the Fomorian at the second great battle of Mag Tuired. I was with him, you know. I watched the magic die.

  Yes, I liked Nuada best. Yer man, Eamon Byrne, he did too.

  Deirdre’s body washed up on the shore, not far from Second Chance. She never made it back to The Three Sisters Inn for her appointment with me, or if she did, no one there saw her. Whatever she’d wanted to tell me had gone with her to her grave.