The Celtic Riddle

"That's just one of Denny's stories," he replied. "You shouldn't pay much heed to them. He's not quite right in the head, you know, although I am still proud to call him my friend. He thinks he was there, way back then, when all the battles were fought. The magic ones, between the Tuatha de Danaan and the Fir Bolg and the Fomorians. As far back as that."

"Then I want to know all about the Byrne family," I said. "Where they came from, what they did before they got here, everything. There must be someone who would know."

"Kitty McCarthy," he said. "Although she's getting on a bit. She was with them when they came here, many years ago. The housekeeper and nanny for the children. Denny's sister."

"Where do I find her?"

"The pub," he replied.

"She lives in a pub?" I said.

"Not in a pub," he said, laughing. "Over a pub. Over the Boar's Arms and Brigid's place. The tearoom. Brigid's Kitty's stepdaughter, Denny's niece."

I made my way along the main street, and into the door that separated the bar and the tearoom, and then quickly up the stairs. I knocked on the door where I had first met Kitty McCarthy. Brigid answered.

"I'd like to talk to your mother," I said to her.

"Whatever for?" she asked, perplexed.

"About the Byrne family," I replied.

"She'll not want to be talking about that," Brigid replied.

"People are dying, Brigid."

"I've noticed," she said tartly. "People who worked there, too. So my mother won't be talking to you, or anybody else on that subject."

"Who is it, dear?" a quavering voice inquired.

"Nobody, Mother," she called back in to the room.

"It's me, Mrs. McCarthy, Lara. The person who was here for Eamon Byrne's clue." Brigid glared at me. "I want to talk to you about the Byrne family."

"Come in, then," Kitty replied. "I like to have visitors."

"Mother!" Brigid exclaimed. "We decided you wouldn't speak to anyone about the Byrne family. It's dangerous, remember."

"I'm practically dead already, in case you hadn't noticed, Brigid, so let the young lady in," Kitty said. She had a tone to be reckoned with. I expect she used it to good effect with the Byrne girls.

"Thank you," I said to Kitty, as she gestured to a seat on the sofa next to her chair. Brigid sat across from us, her face rigid with anxiety.

"I'm sorry," I said to Brigid, "but there are too many people dying. I feel that if I could just understand what is happening to this family, if the police knew, then maybe the killing would stop."

"What do you want to know?" Kitty asked, her hands trembling as she held the blanket around her, but her eyes still bright and intelligent.

"I want you to start at the beginning, when you first met the Byrne family, and I want to know why Deirdre thought the family cursed."

"All right," she said. "From the beginning. I was housekeeper to Eamon Byrne's father, Michael, known as Mick. Mick was a widower, his wife had died when the children were young, and he needed someone like me to look after his home."

"Was it around here?"

"Oh, no, farther north, near Galway. The children were almost grown up when I went there. Eamon was in his early twenties, and Rose, the daughter, was about eighteen."

"Rose Cottage!" I exclaimed. "I've always wondered why it would be called Rose Cottage when there aren't any roses around."

The old woman nodded. "Rose Cottage was named for her. Eamon doted on his little sister."

"Where is she now?"

"Dead. Long gone and buried," she said sadly, shaking her head.

"Go on," I said.

"There was very bad blood between Mick Byrne, and another man by the name of Mac Roth, Oengus Mac Roth, a landowner up farther north, by Sligo. Had been for years, generations even. We Irish can hold a grudge for a very long time. I'm not even sure what was at the basis of it. Sometimes, it doesn't matter what started it really. It just takes on a life of its own. Even those involved can't recall why it all began. Probably an argument over some sheep or something like that, way back many years, or generations, before. Perhaps it was over a dun cow."

She hesitated for a moment, and then laughed a little. "That was by way of a little joke. There's a very ancient tale in Ireland called the 7am bo Culainge, The Cattle Raid of Cooley. It tells the story of a huge war between the forces of Connacht, led by Queen Maeve and her king Ailill, and the forces of Ulster, with their hero Cuchulainn. It all started with a disagreement over a dun cow. But you understand what I mean, don't you? In any event, the two men were rivals, and their families were too, although as far as I know, they never had a chance to meet. At least not right away."

The old woman coughed a little, and her daughter brought her some tea. "Here, Mother," she said. "You mustn't talk too much." I thought she had tears in her eyes.

"I want to talk, dear," she said, waving her away. "I've been wanting to talk about this for years. I promised Eamon Byrne I never would, but I don't suppose it matters much anymore.