The Celtic Riddle

Everyone sat looking at their envelopes, nice creamy linen ones with the initials EONB embossed on the flap, as if opening them might set off a letter bomb. All except Alex that is. He opened his immediately and stood up. "I'm not sure I approve of this," he said, "but, in the interests of getting it over with, mine says T am the sea-swell.' "

The rest of them all sat there for a moment staring at their hands, not looking at Alex, nor anyone else for that matter. Then they got up, every last one of them, and clutching their envelopes, unopened, hastened from the room.

Chapter Two. THE FURIOUS WAVE

"NlCE," I sighed. "Very nice," I added. "Lovely people. I think I've had about enough of this place for now. How about you?" I said, turning to Alex, who like me was watching the family beat their hasty, and nasty, retreat. "Why don't I buy you a drink back at the Inn?" I went on. "Rob and Jennifer are probably back from sight-seeing by now, and we can hear about their adventures. There isn't anything you need to do here right now, is there?"

"I don't think so, although I suppose I should ask," he replied, tucking the envelope and its obscure contents into his jacket pocket. We looked about us, but Tweedledum and Tweedledee were nowhere to be found. "I can always telephone later," he said. "A drink sounds like a very good idea."

We were well along the driveway and almost to where I'd parked our little rented car, when we heard footsteps hurrying across the gravel, and turned to see Michael Davis approaching us. "Mr. Stewart, Ms. McClintoch." He waved. "Wait for a minute."

He smiled as he caught up to us. "Don't you want to see Rose Cottage, Mr. Stewart?" he said. "I could show you where it is."

I looked at Alex and shrugged. "Why not? Is it far?"

"Not far," he replied, "but," he said looking rather dubiously at my feet, "it's a bit of a climb, Ms. McClintoch."

"Call me Lara, and I'm sure I'll be fine," I said tartly. I had eschewed my normal comfortable flat shoes and squashed my feet into something a little more fitting for such a formal occasion as the reading of a Will at Second Chance, a decision I'd been regretting long before this.

"Okay, Ms. McClintoch," he said, ignoring my attempt at familiarity, and making me feel rather old. "This way."

We went around to the back of the house, and down toward the water, then followed a path that led beside a hill on the right. The path started to climb, affording us a magnificent view of both the sea and the grounds of the Byrne estate. To one side of the house was a very large kitchen garden, four square beds of vegetables and herbs surrounded by a low hedge of what looked to be rosemary, and bisected by a stone path. An arch, almost obscured by white climbing roses, led to a cutting garden, I supposed, filled with a profusion of flowers. An almost perfect lawn divided that from the rose garden on one side, and a tropical setting of palms and flowers. I thought of the rather patchy swath of grass I called a lawn at home and felt more than a tinge of envy.

"Do you like them?" Michael asked. "The grounds, I mean?"

The gardens were exceptionally beautiful, and I said so.

"I'm really quite proud of them myself." He grinned.

"Are you… ?" I paused. Should I say gardener? I wondered.

"The groundskeeper," he said. Of course, I thought. People like me might have a gardener. Should have a gardener, I corrected myself, thinking of my pathetic attempts at making something of the backyard. The Ea-mon Byrnes of this world, however, have grounds-keepers.

"You've done a wonderful job," I said, and Alex agreed.

"Mr. Byrne says I have the touch," he went on. "Said," he added. "He always said I had the touch." He looked out to sea for a moment. "He could be a mean old bugger, I know, but I'll miss him."

"Are those orchids?" I asked, pointing toward the palm grove, and trying to change the subject.

"They are," he replied, turning back to me. "This is a tiny ecosystem," he said. "A little tropical paradise where you might not expect it. This part of Ireland is warmed by the Atlantic currents, and some rather unusual plants and animals are the result." He went on to talk knowledgeably about various aspects of horticulture as we continued our climb up and around the side of the hill. I could see why Eamon Byrne thought Michael Davis worth supporting and sending back to school.

The path continued to curve around to the right and away from the house, until we reached a headland, high above the water. Here, the wind was in our faces, waves dashed the rocks below us, and a mass of yellow gorse and purple heather stretched as far as we could see, a feast for the eyes of a different kind from the carefully tended gardens around the house. This was the wild side of the hill. I looked back, but the house was now obscured from our view. Ahead of us was a small cluster of houses, derelict, roofs gone, and abandoned.