The Celtic Riddle

"In each of the envelopes, there is a clue that, taken with the others, will lead to something of great value. One clue in itself will not get you there. Some lead to information about the object itself; others point to its location. In other words, to find it, you must work together. I am not trying to be even remotely subtle about this. If you need a reason to participate, let me remind you of what I have already said. For some of you there is nothing from me on my death, for others, not as much as they might like. Those who have received something of value from me may well find that what I have left you has become worthless. This object has, if you find it, sufficient value to help you all. I would urge you to learn to work and live in harmony. I very much doubt that you will be able to do so, but I sincerely hope you will prove me wrong. If you do not, then something truly remarkable and priceless will remain hidden, possibly forever. That is all I have to say."

With that, the face raised one hand in what could be interpreted as a gesture of dismissal, either for the cameraman or all of us. The camera drew back from the face slightly to reveal yet more tubes and hospital paraphernalia, rows of pill bottles on a bedside table. From Byrne there came no expressions of affection, not even a good-bye, just the picture of a dying man lying there, lines of pain etched into his face, slowly fading to black.

For a minute or two, we all sat looking at the blank screen as we contemplated the last words of Eamon Byrne, no sound save a vague hiss from the television the ticking of a clock in the hall, a muffled call of bird the rustle of palm fronds, and somewhere far away, faint roar of a wind-swept sea.

Breeta bestirred herself first. "Effing brill, Da," si sighed, hoisting herself out of the chair and heading for the door. "Just effing brill."

"What does effing brill mean?" Alex, looking pe plexed, whispered to me, as we watched Breeta's exit.

"I think the second word is 'brilliant,' and the first begins with an f," I whispered back.

Alex looked over at Breeta's rather large departir rear and shook his head disapprovingly. I stifled smile. Alex was, for many years, a purser in the me chant marine, no less, but I have never heard an ol scenity pass his lips, nor have I ever heard him swea I, on the other hand… But so much for stereotypes.

Tweedledee nervously cleared his throat as a sign; that the more formal part of the proceedings was begin. "Most unusual," he began. "I suppose it is necessary for Miss Breeta Byrne to attend?" he said, looling over at Tweedledum.

"Highly unusual. Should be here," Tweedledum replied. Tweedledee shuffled papers uncomfortably for moment or two, as Deirdre pulled open the curtains, could see Breeta heading down through the garden toward the sea.

"May I suggest we all take a short break," Tweec ledum said. "Perhaps Deirdre," he said, turning to th maid, "you would bring us some fresh tea, and M Davis," he said, thinking better than to ask John to d anything too taxing, seeing as how he'd backed out ( the room several times during the proceedings, "yo might go and ask Miss Byrne to oblige us by returnin to the house."

The fabulous five in front of us arose as if one unit and in single file, left the room. Needless to say, no one bothered to suggest we join them or have a tour of the house or anything, leaving Alex and me and Padraig Gilhooly's lawyer to fend for ourselves, while Tweedledum and Tweedledee fussed with papers and envelopes. Gathering that we were to stay where we were, I gratefully unfolded myself from the uncomfortable chair, and being no longer obliged to watch out for the tortoise, Breeta having taken the creature with her, stretched and looked about me as Michael Davis, visible through French doors on to the patio, jogged off in the direction where we'd last seen Byrne's youngest daughter.

It perhaps goes without saying that the reason I am in the antiques business is that I love antiques, and once I'd adjusted to the chaos in Eamon Byrne's room, and freed from the acid glances of his family, the place was a real feast for the eyes and the soul for someone like me.

You can tell a lot about people from the art they collect, and while I was sticking with my snap analysis that life for Byrne was a battle of some kind, I began to see a thread of coherence in what he'd amassed. I decided after a few minutes that the paintings were the anomaly. They'd probably been in the family, his or hers I wasn't sure, for a long time, and they'd been positioned where Byrne, sitting at his desk, wouldn't see much of them.