The Celtic Riddle

The group was rounded out by two lawyers who were looking after Eamon's estate, a maid by the name of Deirdre-I'd mentally named her Deirdre of the Sorrows because of her morose expression, whether habitual or brought out for the occasion I didn't know, and because, as a loyal retainer at the Byrne estate, she was apparently entitled to the use of only one name- and another indentured individual by the name of John, also of one name only, who smelled of stale booze and whose hands shook as he pointed everyone in the direction of their seats. John kept backing out into the hall from time to time for what I assumed to be a wee nip from a flask, something I might not have noticed, save for the fact that his shoes, black lace-ups, squeaked when he walked. Nor should I fail to include in my list of those present, the tortoise, a family pet that had the run, or should I say the slow walk, of the house. It was a new experience for me, having to keep a sharp eye out to avoid stepping on a pet tortoise, and it gave me a whole new appreciation for the way Diesel, Official Guard Cat for the antiques store I co-own, manages to stay out of everyone's way.

Aside from the tortoise, what I found interesting sitting there watching all of this reasonably dispassionately, was that, although I could not see the faces of the five family members seated in front of us, except from time to time in profile or on the rare occasion on which they chose to acknowledge our presence by hissing at us, it was still quite possible to get an impression of how they felt about everything, and everyone.

It was quite evident from the back, for example, that while they were seated together for the occasion, and despite their similarities in appearance and attitude, most notably a chilly disdain, if not outright ill will toward Alex, they didn't get along. All the marks of a warring family were there. They rarely looked at each other, all the women sitting ramrod straight, heads resolutely forward, the men slouched down but never looking at anyone except their partners next to them. They also assiduously avoided looking at Breeta, although she from time to time glanced their way, and they absolutely ignored Michael and the mystery lawyer. It must have taken a great effort of will not to look about the room or to turn one's head as the door banged, but iron will was something they apparently had in abundance.

It should be evident by now that I was not fond of these people. If any of them, with the possible exception of Michael Davis, had any redeeming qualities whatsoever, I hadn't come across them so far. As I glared back at the three women, I began to wish I hadn't come to Ireland at all, a thought I immediately regretted. If Alex Stewart felt the need of my presence here, then my presence he would have.

Alex Stewart is a very dear friend of mine, a retired gentleman who lives a couple of doors away from me and who comes in on a regular basis to help us out at Greenhalgh McClintoch. That's an antiques and design shop in a trendy part of Toronto called Yorkville, so trendy, in fact, that we probably can't afford to be there. Some months earlier, Alex suffered a blow on the head and what the doctors described as a very tiny stroke during his convalescence. It barely slowed him down, just a little numbness on one side for a few days, but it scared the living daylights out of me. I'd been clucking and fussing over him ever since in a way that I'm sure nearly drove him mad.

So when Ryan McGlynn, solicitor with the firm of McCafferty and McGlynn of Dublin, no less, had called to tell Alex that his presence at the reading of the Will of one Eamon Byrne was required, and Alex had expressed some reservations about going, I insisted upon coming along with him. To keep from embarrassing him, I told him I needed a holiday, and indeed, much to my own surprise, the idea of me taking a vacation being an even more novel idea than a tortoise for a pet, I decided to have one. In addition, I'd managed to convince a friend of mine, a sergeant in the Royal Canadian Mounted Police by the name of Rob Luczka, and his daughter Jennifer, to come along with us. The four of us planned to tour about Ireland after the reading of the Will.

Alex said he didn't know why he'd been summoned, but I was hoping that he'd come into a minor fortune of some kind so he could spend the rest of his days in luxury. I could think that knowing he'd continue to come into the store to help out anyway, that being the kind of person he was, but at least I wouldn't have to worry about whether or not he could afford to live on his pension and the paltry sum we were able to pay him.