Professor Blythe couldn’t help but admire the intricate beauty of the tapestry panels before he even began examining the pieces or applying his knowledge to the process. He wiped his spectacles with a handkerchief and then pushed them back on the bridge of his nose as he leaned forward and stared from one exquisitely woven piece to the next.
His gaze settled on the center panel.
“What Rose sent me was an electronic photo of this.” He gently touched one edge. “We both needed assistance in the communication—she in taking and sending the photo and I in viewing it. What you young people can do with technology is a mystery to me.” He shook his head in wonder. “But I digress. Seeing this in person, studying its detail—it truly comes alive. Fiona, your great-grandmother was an extraordinary artist as well as a gifted storyteller.”
“Thank you,” Fiona said. “But I really need to understand the story she’s trying to tell, not only through the center panel but through all the panels combined. Can you help me?”
He sat back and pursed his lips. “Forgive me for being blunt, but I’d expected this conversation to be strictly between you and me. How much of what we’re about to discuss is Forensic Instincts privy to?”
“All of it. Their investigation into Rose’s murder includes the significance of the tapestries.” Fiona didn’t miss a beat. “And before you ask, let me tell you what we already know, or at least what we think we know.”
She proceeded to lay out the details: that the tapestry panels joined together in a specific order they had yet to figure out, but that led to a mysterious hoard discovered by her great-grandparents on their property in County Kilkenny—a hoard they’d secretly transported to New York in 1920.
“We know they hid the treasure and want us to find it,” she added. “And we’ve taken a stab at deciphering the meaning of some of the panels. But we don’t have your knowledge of Celtic symbols or archeological expertise. And we’re floundering.”
Professor Blythe’s brows had risen. “Not nearly as much as I’d expected you to be. I was only aware of the fact that you’d been researching the tapestries for your new jewelry line. Clearly, you’ve come a long way since then. In fact, you’ve answered some questions I myself still had.” He folded his hands in his lap. “Do you know why neither your grandparents nor your parents were able to find the hoard, or why your great-grandmother chose to weave the secret into tapestry panels?”
“Yes.” Fiona quickly filled him in on the genealogy research Ryan had done.
“That makes sense.” James nodded. “All right, it’s my turn. Let me supply you with some of the legendary facts of the Vadrefjord Hoard.”
“Is that the name of the hoard?” Fiona asked eagerly.
“It is.”
“I could find nothing on it,” Patrick said. “And I scoured the internet.”
“That’s because, as you know, hoards are named after the places where they’re discovered. And since this treasure was never officially unearthed, it remained unnamed and was referred to only as a vast legendary hoard. To those of us who were passionate about its contents and history, as well as about determining its whereabouts, we referred to it by the name of the town where it was originally stolen—Vadrefjord, now Waterford.” James tapped the panel that held the crystal bowl cradled by the lotus. “That would lend meaning to this panel. Clearly, your great-grandmother knew her history.”
“The lotus blossoms wrapped around the crystal symbolize the fact that the treasure is hidden, safely nurtured,” Claire murmured.
James cocked his head in her direction. “That would be a good supposition.”
“Claire doesn’t suppose,” Fiona said. “She knows. She’s a claircognizant.”
Rather than looking skeptical, the professor looked intrigued. “That must be both a blessing and a curse.”
“It is,” Claire replied simply.
“You’ll have to share some of your other insights with me as we go through this process. In the interim, here’s the history I was referring to.”
He went on to tell them about the high king of Ireland Cynbel Ó Conaill and how his treasure was stolen in the ninth century during the Viking invasion, during the Battle of Bawncullen.
Fiona hung on to his every word. “Waterford isn’t far from Kilkenny,” she said. “It would have been reasonable for the Vikings to hide the treasure on what became my great-grandparents’ farm in the hopes of returning later to claim it.”
“Precisely. Which obviously never happened.”
Casey pointed to the panel groupings, arranged the way they’d puzzled them out. “We assumed Fiona’s great-grandmother was telling the story in some sort of chronological order. So we put the Irish imagery here.” She indicated one area on the coffee table. “And the New York imagery here.” She pointed to the section beside it. “Of course, all this is up for interpretation. Plus it leaves us with gaping holes—panels that don’t clearly fit into either category.”
James pushed his spectacles higher on his nose and leaned forward again, studying the Irish panels one by one. “The farm seems to be self-explanatory; it’s where the hoard was found and where the McKays’ story began. The stones probably have a double meaning—the farm’s landscape and the hoard’s contents.”
“Do you know what those contents are?” Fiona asked.
“I know there are over two hundred pieces in it, including coins, beads, loose stones, and jewelry, some pieces more valuable than the others.”
She gasped. “That many!”
He nodded. “However, as legend has it, the chalice itself is worth a fortune. Although your great-grandmother depicted it in crude form on her tapestry panel—my guess would be as a precaution in case someone outside the family were to see it—the real chalice is solid gold, small, hammered, and hollow, with a fitted lid. Even the stem is hollow in order to accommodate all the small items concealed within.” He warmed to his subject. “I’ve read differing descriptions in my ancient archeological volumes, but they all agree that the chalice has a raised design of Celtic knots and spirals in the body and the lid. One text highlights that the lid has a ruby in the handle with intricate woven gold designs around it. Another source claims that there are gemstones in the base of the chalice, including rubies, emeralds, and sapphires, again with woven designs.”
“It sounds exquisite,” Fiona breathed.
As she spoke, James’s trained eye was captured by the panel featuring the decorative stone carving. “On the subject of chalices… this is fascinating,” he murmured. He brought the panel closer to his face. “Are you familiar with the Ardagh Hoard?”
“Yes,” Fiona replied instantly. “In fact, I told the FI team about it when we first realized we were dealing with our own hoard. I know the Ardagh Hoard was buried sometime around 900 AD and that there was a chalice among its pieces. I think it was copper. I don’t know where it was discovered but I do remember it was found by a couple of kids digging in a potato field.”
“County Limerick,” James supplied. “And you’re correct about everything except the exact composite of the chalice. It’s an astonishing work of art. Some consider it to be the most beautiful of all Irish artifacts. It’s a mere seven inches tall, nine-and-a-half inches in diameter, and its bowl is four inches deep.”
“That’s much smaller than I realized.”
“Indeed. Yet it consists of three hundred fifty-four parts, six metals, and forty-eight different designs. Copper is one of those metals, but there’s also gold, silver, bronze, brass, and lead.” James continued staring at the panel in his hands. “The Ardagh Chalice has many embellishments, but one in particular has always stood out to me: there are two gold medallions, both of them center points on the front and back sides of the chalice.”
“And how does that relate to the panel you’re looking at?” Marc asked. “Are you saying it’s a medallion, not a stone carving?”
“I believe it’s both.” James ran his finger along the different contours on the panel. “The shorter, separate color yarn that defines the sharp outer angles conveys the appearance of a stone carving. But the actual image is a woven replica of one of the medallions on the Ardagh Chalice.” He pursed his lips, intent on his study.
“Like the Ardagh Chalice, the weave is depicting a gold medallion outlined in silver with four silver petals inside. The gold areas have scroll patterns. At points north, south, east, and west, four small cloisonné enameled jewels are represented. And at the center of the medallion is another enamel of an ancient medieval design. I’ve seen the same design on a famous brooch in the British Museum. Fiona’s great-grandmother clearly knew of the Ardagh Chalice. I suspect she was showing you the parallel between the two hoards. Although legend has it that the Vadrefjord Hoard is even more valuable than the Ardagh Hoard.”
“It is also a stone carving, though. It actually exists,” Claire breathed softly. “It’s a decorative wall piece of some kind. Its image keeps flickering in and out of my mind.” She gave a slight shake of her head. “I just can’t get an insight as to where it is.
“This is all great,” Ryan interrupted. “But putting aside symbolic and metaphysical interpretations, we’re talking about what sounds to me to be a priceless treasure, one that would prompt an onslaught of people to go after it.” He gave James an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, Professor Blythe. It’s not that I don’t appreciate artistic beauty, it’s just that I’m the pragmatist in the family. As much as I enjoy learning about the hoard, I’m more worried that someone is willing to kill for it—and that my sister is the next target.”
“No need to apologize,” James replied. “You love your sister. That’s as it should be. I’m sure your great-grandparents would be proud.” He smiled faintly. “But you want me to get back to my analysis so you can find your answers. And so I shall.” He lowered his head to study the panels again. “We’ve covered the farmhouse, the stones, the coins, and the stone carving,” he murmured.
“And the Galway sheep not only herald Ireland, but their colors are those of gemstones,” Fiona added.
“What about the high Irish crosses?” Casey asked, her puzzle-oriented mind hard at work. “That panel has been bothering me. I realize those are religious symbols, but how do they relate to the hoard? Their colors don’t seem to be significant. And why two crosses, one smaller than the other? That panel just doesn’t seem to fit. Ryan and Fiona’s great-grandmother was a woman with a mission—to lead the family to the hoard. Why weave an entire panel with no connection to the hoard, but just to herald their country, especially when they were fleeing it? Is there some meaning I’m missing?”
“I see your point, but I have no answer.” James gave an apologetic shrug. “All I can do is interpret meanings where I see them. I’m afraid the problem-solving is up to you.”
“Why don’t we skip to areas that fall under your expertise,” Marc suggested, cutting to the chase. “The Irish crosses and the New York symbols are our problem. So is this long, dark corridor lit solely by torches, since I see no symbols woven on it. Let’s get to the others. Also, we have to explore the light at the end of the tunnel symbol that appears repeatedly on all the panels.”
Again, James smiled faintly. “Another pragmatist. Very well, I’ll try not to digress. Judging by the name you just ascribed to the symbol, I’m guessing Rose was able to pass that information along to Fiona before she… departed.”
Fiona produced the two text pages and the Post-it Note Rose had sent her. “This is all I know.”
A quick perusal. “It’s all I know, as well. I considered that the symbol might be figurative—meaning that by finding the hoard, you’d make your way through the darkness and into the light. On the other hand, I considered that the symbol might have a more tangible meaning—that the hoard itself is buried in a place of immense darkness.”
“Maybe the meaning is even less abstract than that,” Ryan said impatiently. “Maybe the hoard is actually buried in a tunnel. That would explain the corridor panel Marc was talking about.”
James looked dubious, but he asked, “There are several large tunnels in New York City, are there not?”
“Large, traffic-jammed ones, yes,” Patrick replied. “The Lincoln Tunnel, the Holland Tunnel, and the Midtown Tunnel, for starters. But none of them existed in 1920.”
“Plus, we’re veering away from the truth.” Claire shut the door on that theory. “The concept of a tunnel is significant but not literal.”
“Significant how then?” Ryan demanded.
“I don’t know.” Claire dragged both her hands through her hair. “I just don’t know—at least not yet.”
“What about this panel?” Emma asked, pointing to the gravestone shaded by the tree. “Does this mean the hoard is in or close by a cemetery? Cemeteries are dark. And is the tree important?”
“Another reference to the Tree of Life,” James murmured. “Growth, strength, connection to family. And in this case, with the tree being tall and eclipsing the gravestone, I’d say life triumphing over death, new beginnings triumphing over endings.”
He picked up the panel and placed it on his lap. “I must say that this is the panel I was most looking forward to studying. Not because the hoard is necessarily hidden in a cemetery but because the gravestone is being used to discreetly show tiny symbols woven around its arch.” He pointed, running his finger around the entire arch.
Casey rose and went to stand behind him, leaning forward, her gaze following the area he was designating. “I assumed they were an embellished border that Fiona’s great-grandmother wove into the panel.”
“No, they’re definitely symbols.” James squinted. “You wouldn’t by any chance have a magnifying headset or even an old-fashioned magnifying glass?”
Casey shot a questioning glance at Ryan.
“I’ve got a magnifying headset somewhere in my lair,” he replied, half rising. “I’ll just have to scrounge around—”
“Don’t bother.” Fiona jumped up. “It’ll take you an hour to find anything in that clutter. I have one. It’s with my stuff in the den. Give me two minutes.”
She was back in less time than that, shooting an odd glance over her shoulder as she came in. “I think your aide is either restless, bored, or hungry. He was pacing around when I blew by.”
Emma stood. “I’ll go check. Don’t have any great revelations till I get back.”
James chuckled. “I’ll try not to.”
“Here you go.” Fiona handed the headset over to James as Emma dashed out the door.
“Excellent.” He immediately settled the tool on his head and peered through the lenses at the now-magnified symbols. “Fascinating. Four symbols in all, three of which are repeated on either side of the arch and a sole one at the top.” He placed the panel in the center of the table. “I have old eyes. You all have young ones. I’ll describe what I’m seeing, and once you focus on them as symbols and not a random design, you’ll be able to view them without the magnification.”
“I can do better than that,” Ryan said. “Yoda,” he instructed, “please display this panel. Zoom in on the archway of the gravestone and follow the professor’s descriptions by indicating each symbol he describes.”
“Yes, Ryan,” Yoda responded.
The poor professor nearly leapt out of his seat. “Who was that?” he asked, his voice shaky.
Claire leaned forward and placed a gentle hand on the professor’s forearm. “Yoda is our artificial intelligence member,” she said with a smile. “I don’t understand him much better than you do. But Ryan built him and he’s pretty close to omniscient. He’ll make your job easier.”
As she spoke, the zoomed image of the arch on the tapestry panel appeared across the broad stretch of monitors covering the far wall, directly across from the love seat where the professor sat.
“See?” Claire urged him to look in that direction.
James removed his headset and blinked in amazement. “It’s like magic.”
“I think so,” Ryan complimented himself.
“Let’s get down to business.” Casey swiveled her tub chair around, gesturing for the rest of the team to reorient themselves so they were all facing the monitors.
Emma popped back into the room just as everyone had finished resituating themselves. “Mr. Murphy was just stretching his legs,” she announced. “He’s working on his iPad now.” A quick glance at the screens. “What did I miss?”
“Nothing,” Claire assured her. “We’re about to hear the professor’s insights into these symbols.”
Emma scooted over and perched behind Casey’s chair.
James was still murmuring in disbelief, although he was visibly relieved at the much larger view.
“There’s that medallion again,” Casey said, eyeing the top of the headstone. “It’s the only symbol that’s not replicated elsewhere on the arch. So either the stone carving or its similarity to the Ardagh Hoard must be significant.”
“I agree,” James said.
Patrick’s brow was furrowed. “And there’s the Waterford bowl with the lotus leaves, one on each side. Another reminder of the name Vadrefjord Hoard, along with the fact that it’s hidden away and protected.”
Casey’s gaze was shifting rapidly, and a puzzled look crossed her face. “What’s that odd symbol that also repeats itself on either side of the arch?” She pointed at the symbol, which was three thick lines of different lengths. Two were intersecting at forty-five degree angles. One had a pointed tip; the other was squared off on each end. And bisecting those two lines was the third line, which went straight up and down and had a stubby rectangular shape on top.
“Is this an emblem of some kind? Because that’s what it looks like.”
“And the vertical image looks like a shovel,” Ryan said. “Could that be a reveal about how our great-grandfather buried the hoard? And where? Underground?”
A pensive look crossed James’s face, and he stared intently at the symbol. “I’ve seen that particular symbol before,” he murmured as Yoda zoomed in closer. “Fifty years ago, when I was a young man and a newly hired professor teaching art history.”
“You remember fifty years ago?” Emma asked, her eyes wide with astonishment. “I can’t remember what I wore yesterday.”
James chuckled. “I have somewhat of a photographic memory.” He paused, deep in thought. “Now the significance… give me a moment.” He let the images come, rolling through his mind like an old movie reel, playing backwards in time.
And suddenly, there it was—total recall.
“Ah!” he exclaimed. “Three images, the basics of a stonemason’s tools. A chisel, a straight edge, and a mallet. The emblem is ancient yet current, since those tools haven’t changed for centuries.”
Fiona frowned. “Why would my great-grandmother weave that symbol into the gravestone arch?”
“To put emphasis on her husband’s trade?” Patrick suggested. Even as he spoke, he shook his head. “That would seem to be superfluous, since your family all knew his occupation.”
“She’s telling us something,” Claire said, leaning forward to let her fingers brush against the tapestry panel. “A stonemason, gemstones, a stone carving—they’re all related somehow.”
“That makes sense,” James said. “Now we have to figure out how.” He took off his spectacles and rubbed his eyes.
The gesture wasn’t lost on Casey. It was obvious the elderly man was getting tired. And she wanted as much of his expertise as possible before her instincts told her it was too much for his health and his strength.
He’d gone back to gazing at the tapestry panel, his mind clearly preoccupied with something he saw. “The final image totally mystifies me. It also appears on either side of the arch.” He waited as Yoda zoomed in.
“It’s a series of four intersecting lines,” Marc noted. “It looks like an asterisk.” He squinted. “And there are two vertical wavy lines on either side of the asterisk. What does that symbolize?”
“Nothing I know of,” James replied. “Which makes it even more puzzling. Not to sound immodest, but there are few ancient symbols, even obscure ones, that are totally foreign to me. It makes me suspect that Fiona’s great-grandmother created her own symbol here.”
“Yes.” Claire continued to run her fingers over the actual panel. “Not a true symbol, but symbolic. The image is a sum of its parts.”
“You have more insight in this case than I do.” James’s voice was starting to fade, as was he. “I wish I could tell you more.”
“You’ve already told us a great deal, for which we’re grateful,” Casey said, rising from her chair. “It’s been a taxing day for you, and I can see how spent you are. I’ll ask Mr. Murphy to take you back to your hotel.”
James’s nod was reluctant, although his eyes widened when he took out his old-fashioned pocket watch and saw the time. “My goodness, it’s after three. I didn’t realize we’d been talking for so long.”
“The complex analysis you were doing here was far more intense than just talking,” Casey amended. “Given how emotionally taxing your morning was and how mentally exhausting your afternoon was, it’s no wonder you’re so depleted.”
“Nevertheless, I apologize for my limited strength. I feel as if there’s more I might be able to do for you when I’m rested. May I come back?”
“I’d be so grateful if you would,” Fiona replied, her expression torn between compassion for the elderly man and her fervent desire to continue this interpretation session right now. “Please call my cell any time of the day or night.”
“I shall.” The professor reached for his cane, and Casey helped him rise, signaling Emma with her eyes to go get Mr. Murphy.
Moments later, the aide was helping James walk to the door, simultaneously explaining that his car—along with its handicap permit—was parked right outside FI’s offices.
Still, the entire team stood and watched until James had been settled into the comfortable back seat, and with a friendly nod, Thomas had climbed into the driver’s seat and eased away from the curb.
“You were right, Claire,” Casey said. “He’s a good man. Now it’s time to take his analysis and do some of our own.”