The Celtic Riddle by Lyn Hamilton

glimmer of sympathy I'd felt for the widow
Byrne vanished in an instant."Then you will understand the family will
feel compelled to pursue whatever legal options we have to bring Rose
Cottage back where it belongs. My husband was very ill and didn't know
what he was doing. Otherwise, I am sure he would never have left the
cottage to Mr. Stewart." She spoke as if Alex wasn't even in the room.
    I was about to say "see you in court" or something, when Margaret
set her teacup rather firmly on the silver tray in front of her and
rose from her chair. The other two stood up immediately as well.
Fionuala, who had not uttered a single word, not even a hello, got out
of her chair and left the room without so much as a backward glance.
The audience, apparently, was at an end.
    There was one more defining moment, however, in the revelation of
Margaret Byrne's character. As she stepped forward, the slow and steady
Vigs lumbered out from under the sofa, causing her to start and lose
her balance for a moment. She clutched at the tea trolley, and one of
the delicate teacups fell over and broke. "Deirdre!" she hissed.
"Deirdre! Get this dreadful creature out of here-permanently." There
was no reply from the maid.
    "Thank you for coming," Margaret said in an imperial tone, gesturing
toward the hall. I gathered we were supposed to let ourselves out. I
was very close to losing my temper, and had to stifle an impulse to say
something truly nasty. I kept seeing in my mind the expression on
Alex's face when he first laid eyes on the little cottage. It was not
enough, I thought, that the Byrne family should have this palatial
home, more villa than house, their servants, and acres and acres of
land, with their roses and orchids and palm trees, and a stunning view
of the water. No, they had to have Rose Cottage, too. Over my dead
body, I thought, glaring at Margaret. I was suddenly absolutely
determined that Alex would not only get to keep his cottage, but he
would have the money he needed to live there comfortably. If that meant
going to court, I thought, so be it. And if living comfortably meant
snatching the treasure right out from under their noses, then we were
going to do that too.
    The trouble was, to do that we needed all the clues, and I was going
to have to think of another way of getting them. I had thought for a
few golden moments that we wouldn't need them. When I found the clue in
the little boat off shore, I had thought we were home free. We knew the
first two clues, and they pointed us to a poem by an ancient poet named
Amairgen. If each line of the poem led to a real clue, then we didn't
need their clues. We had only to try to guess the location that would
correspond to the lines of the poem and go get them.
    The clue in the boat was, however, a disappointment. It was from
Eamon Byrne, all right. At least it was his personal memo paper, with
his initials and Second Chance printed across the top. But the clue, if
that was what it was, was far from what I was hoping for. I didn't
expect something as definitive as, say, a note that told us that the
key to the safety-deposit box in Killarney train station was under the
third flowerpot on the left side of the driveway, or anything. I had,
however, expected more than the doodling that I'd found when the paper
had finally dried out, just a series of lines that looked vaguely like
a railway track, or the bones of a fish, perhaps. I'd kept the piece of
paper, if only because I couldn't believe that Eamon Byrne, or anyone
else for that matter, would bother to wrap up doodlings in plastic,
either wade, or wait till the tide was out, to the boat, and carefully
conceal it betweenthe boards. But my illusions about a quick end to
this treasure hunt had been dashed.
    I think at that point I'd have been inclined to drop the whole
matter, but the convergence of a number of events made me change my
mind. One, of course, was this interview with the Byrne women, along
with their stated intention of trying