Seated next to her was her eldest daughter, Eithne. Eithne, who looked almost the same age as her mother, also dressed very much like her, but in a subdued shade of blue. Where Margaret looked rather smart, however, Eithne instead looked a bit old-fashioned, even frumpy, for her age. She restricted her interaction with the group to nodding favorably whenever her mother spoke and frowning when her mother did, which was often.
On the other side was Fionuala. Daughter number two had not inherited her mother's elegance and good taste, it was plain to see. Her dress, while expensive, I'd imagine, was way too tight for someone with her tendency to softness about the middle. Her jewelry looked just a little gaudy, a rhinestone pin that might be best for evening. Her attention was focused almost entirely on her hands.
Ungracious! I thought, pondering Margaret's opening words and the general unpleasantness of having to face the three hags across a tea tray. On the way to the house, we'd been virtually forced off the road, finding ourselves and the car in a close encounter with a fuchsia hedge, as Conail O'Connor, the predator on the cliff of the previous day, had come rocketing down the lane, his face contorted in what I took to be rage. He didn't even slow down when he saw us. "I'd say he drives very much the way he sails," Alex said mildly, voicing the same thoughts as mine, as I pulled the car back onthe road again, the scratching of branches along the car door accompanying the maneuver. Alex and I shared the same conclusion as to the identity of the skipper of the boat that had run us down.
As well, Margaret was clearly in a very bad mood when we arrived. One of the family's two solicitors, which one I wasn't sure, was just leaving as we approached the front door. "I am truly very sorry about this," I heard him say as he shook her hand, holding it rather longer than necessary, I would have thought. "Truly sorry. I will see what I can do." He nodded curtly at Alex and me as he brushed by us.
Whatever it was he had to be sorry about, it had blackened Margaret's already dark outlook on life. She barely spoke to us as we were ushered into the house. No, the word ungracious didn't quite cut it when it came to describing the Byrne family.
"Of course," I replied to her request for understanding, however. "Alex and I feel very badly that our presence may have added to the stress you and the family are feeling at such a sad time." Really, butter wouldn't melt in my mouth sometimes.
"Indeed," Alex agreed. We all nodded at each other, giving a completely erroneous impression of consensus.
The conversation continued in much the same vein for a few minutes, insincere pleasantry heaped upon cloying sentiment, Eithne nodding in support of her mother's every word, until exhausted by the effort of being nice to each other, we edged our way toward the business at hand. As we sipped our tea, I tried to take in my surroundings. I watched through the back windows as Sean McHugh, Eithne's husband, crossed the grounds to the rear. He was looking rather tweedy, leather patches at the elbows kind of thing, with big boots and a cap. I remembered Eamon's description of McHugh as an English squire, and could see it was apt. Michael Davis, who was also in view, was working in the gardens casting surreptitious glances back toward the house, perhaps in a vain attempt to see how we were doing. He bent and straightened, pulled weeds, straightened plants in a nice rhythm, and I found it comforting to see him out there. He was quite the nicest thing about Second Chance.
"I understand from Breeta that there's been a robbery at Second Chance," I said at last, sipping tea awkwardly from the cup and saucer she'd handed me. I really dislike those delicate little teacups that don't give you enough room to put even one finger through the handle, forcing you to hold on for dear life lest you dump the contents on the wool rug at your feet. But everything about Margaret Byrne was like that. The room was filled with delicate little ornaments of crystal and china, some balanced breathlessly on the edges of glass shelves and side tables with delicately carved legs. I found myself wondering what she and Eamon Byrne, who favored dark wood and ancient swords, had ever found in common.
"Yes," she replied, eyes downcast once more. "At such a time…" her voice trailed off again. It was a favorite conversational gambit of hers, I noticed, to allow others to finish off sentences for her, without having to voice the hypocrisies personally.
"Breeta says her clue was stolen from the safe in your husband's study," I said, ignoring her attempts at delicacy. "Who would do that, do you think?"
"But she, you, couldn't think this robbery was about a clue," Margaret said, her chronic expression of surprise heightened at the thought. Eithne raised her eye-brows the same way her mother did. "They were looking for money, surely."
"Was money taken?" I asked,
"There was very little money in the safe," she said. "Just a little housekeeping money. But yes, it was taken."
"Was anything else stolen?" I asked.
"Nothing of value, just some of Eamon's things," she said. Then, thinking perhaps that might sound callous, she added, "Though, of great sentimental value, of course."
"Of course," I agreed. "How dreadful for you. I hope you called the police." At least on this score I was sincere. I could hardly wait to send Rob back down to the garda station to inquire about signs of forcible entry and so on. Not that I thought there'd be any. I was prepared to bet the store this had been an inside job.
Margaret shook her head. "There was really no need to bother them about something so minor."
"What things of your husband's did they take?" I asked, trying to sound sympathetic, which in many ways I was. Not about the robbery, perhaps. I just didn't believe her on that score. But the situation, her deceased husband's rather callous remarks, and the little treasure hunt he'd concocted for his heirs must have been truly upsetting for them all. I told myself to be more understanding about their general demeanor.
"His diary, and two of his maps."
"Surely the maps are worth something?" I went on doggedly.
"But they weren't any of the old ones," she said. "Perhaps the thief was unaware of the value of what he missed. My husband's collection of weapons and manuscripts is quite valuable. Regrettably, he has left these things to Trinity College." Her tone hardened.
"Now," she said setting down her teacup and looking straight at me, so that I saw for the first time her eyes, hard as polished diamonds, and the firm lines around her mouth that even surgery couldn't erase. "If I have satisfied your curiosity, I have a request to make of you. Please leave us to our grief. This treasure hunt of my husband's is cruel and inappropriate, and the family has decided we will have nothing whatsoever to do with it."
Really, I thought. And maybe pigs can fly, babies are brought by storks, and the Little People do live at the end of the garden. She was right, though, about her husband. His cutting words on that video must have been truly awful for them. I decided I should be more tolerant.
"I would ask you to do the same," Margaret went on. "Please leave us to deal with our grief as best we can. Which brings me to one more matter we wish to discuss with you." She said we, but so far, she'd done all the talking.
"Rose Cottage is a place of considerable sentimental value for the family," she continued. Eithne nodded vigorously, and even Fionuala looked up from her study of her hands. "It was a place where Eamon…" she paused for effect. "Where Eamon spent a great deal of time. We were somewhat surprised that someone whom Eamon had known so slightly, and so long ago, should come to possess it. We would ask that you consider returning it to the family."