The Celtic Riddle Read Online Free PDF Page B

said. "A drink sounds like a
very good idea."
    We were well along the driveway and almost to where I'd parked our
little rented car, when we heard footsteps hurrying across the gravel,
and turned to see Michael Davis approaching us. "Mr. Stewart, Ms.
McClintoch." He waved. "Wait for a minute."
    He smiled as he caught up to us. "Don't you want to see Rose
Cottage, Mr. Stewart?" he said. "I could show you where it is."
    I looked at Alex and shrugged. "Why not? Is it far?"
    "Not far," he replied, "but," he said looking rather dubiously at my
feet, "it's a bit of a climb, Ms. McClintoch."
    "Call me Lara, and I'm sure I'll be fine," I said tartly. I had
eschewed my normal comfortable flat shoes and squashed my feet into
something a little more fitting for such a formal occasion as the
reading of a Will at Second Chance, a decision I'd been regretting long
before this.
    "Okay, Ms. McClintoch," he said, ignoring my attempt at familiarity,
and making me feel rather old. "This way."
    We went around to the back of the house, and down toward the water,
then followed a path that led beside a hill on the right. The path
started to climb, affording us a magnificent view of both the sea and
the grounds of the Byrne estate. To one side of the house was a very
large kitchen garden, four square beds of vegetables and herbs
surrounded by a low hedge of what looked to be rosemary, and bisected
by a stone path. An arch, almost obscured by white climbing roses, led
to a cutting garden, I supposed, filled with a profusion of flowers. An
almost perfect lawn divided that from the rose garden on one side, and
a tropical setting of palms and flowers. I thought of the rather patchy
swath of grass I called a lawn at home and felt more than a tinge of
envy.
    "Do you like them?" Michael asked. "The grounds, I mean?"
    The gardens were exceptionally beautiful, and I said so.
    "I'm really quite proud of them myself." He grinned.
    "Are you… ?" I paused. Should I say gardener? I wondered.
    "The groundskeeper," he said. Of course, I thought. People like me
might have a gardener. Should have a gardener, I corrected myself,
thinking of my pathetic attempts at making something of the backyard.
The Ea-mon Byrnes of this world, however, have grounds-keepers.
    "You've done a wonderful job," I said, and Alex agreed.
    "Mr. Byrne says I have the touch," he went on. "Said," he added. "He
always said I had the touch." He looked out to sea for a moment. "He
could be a mean old bugger, I know, but I'll miss him."
    "Are those orchids?" I asked, pointing toward the palm grove, and
trying to change the subject.
    "They are," he replied, turning back to me. "This is a tiny
ecosystem," he said. "A little tropical paradise where you might not
expect it. This part of Ireland is warmed by the Atlantic currents, and
some rather unusual plants and animals are the result." He went on to
talk knowledgeably about various aspects of horticulture as we
continued our climb up and around the side of the hill. I could see why
Eamon Byrne thought Michael Davis worth supporting and sending back to
school.
    The path continued to curve around to the right and away from the
house, until we reached a headland, high above the water. Here, the
wind was in our faces, waves dashed the rocks below us, and a mass of
yellow gorse and purple heather stretched as far as we could see, a
feast for the eyes of a different kind from the carefully tended
gardens around the house. This was the wild side of the hill. I looked
back, but the house was now obscured from our view. Ahead of us was a
small cluster of houses, derelict, roofs gone, and abandoned.
    "It's not far now," Michael said. We continued along the path, which
followed the edge of the cliff, occasionally veering too close to the
edge for someone as uncomfortable with heights as I. The water lay
rather far below us. It was spectacularly beautiful. Though it was
still clear, as it had been all day, dark clouds were forming close to
the horizon, and the