Death of a Pilgrim (12 page)

Powerscourt asked if the Bishop hoped the pilgrims could start on their way soon.

‘Of course I do,’ the old man replied, ‘but we have to render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s. The civic authorities must decide. I do hope they walk, mind you.’
The Bishop looked very concerned about the walking. ‘Somebody told me that some of these pilgrims are going to take the train or be ferried about in carriages like the fashionable ladies in
Paris.’

Powerscourt thought he made the fashionable ladies of Paris sound like the whores of Babylon.

‘Please tell them from me, young man,’ he said to Powerscourt as he hobbled to the door to bid him farewell, ‘tell them they’ve got to walk. It won’t do their souls
any good at all if they take the train. It really won’t.’

Michael Delaney finished his interview at half past two. The Sergeant gathered up his papers and prepared to return to his police station. He told Lady Lucy that he would
return in the morning to take her and Powerscourt to the St Michel rock. He wanted to show them the site of the incident in person.

Alex Bentley went to his room to write up his notes of the interviews. He wanted to make a good impression on the investigator from London. Princeton men could organize their data just as well
as the young gentlemen from Oxford or Cambridge.

Powerscourt’s interview with the Chief of Police was postponed. When he returned to the hotel he found a chess tournament in progress in the dining room. Charlie Flanagan had discovered
that the Hôtel St Jacques had four sets of chessmen and vigorous battles were being fought all over the room. Willie John Delaney, the Irish pilgrim suffering from an incurable disease, was
master of the board, dispatching all who faced him with a checkmate within fifteen or twenty moves. Lady Lucy was deep in conversation with Maggie Delaney in a far corner of the room. Maggie was
holding forth on the subject of human wickedness. It made her very happy. If it wasn’t bad enough that all these pilgrims were so burdened with guilt at the crimes they had committed that
they had to travel across the Atlantic in a desperate quest for forgiveness, here they were now, virtually encased in the flames of hell. Maggie Delaney was convinced that John Delaney had been
murdered. The wrath of God must surely come upon them. Lady Lucy told Powerscourt later that day that Maggie Delaney was a living example of how the contemplation of other people’s sins can
make you happy.

‘Any news, Delaney?’ said Powerscourt to Delaney. ‘Did the Sergeant say anything before he left?’

‘He did not,’ said Delaney cheerfully. ‘How about you? Have you given comfort to the enemy?’

‘Well,’ replied Powerscourt, ‘I’ve been trailing my coat. I’ve virtually invited them to come here and help themselves to as much of your money as they can. In
exchange for our release, of course. I hope I didn’t overdo it with that Mayor. He’s very shrewd, the Mayor. He’s a butcher by trade, name of Louis Jacquet, and his family have
been mayoring here since before the Revolution. I think somebody may be along to see us fairly soon; I could be wrong.’

Powerscourt was not wrong. Shortly after four o’clock a small anonymous-looking middle-aged man in an unremarkable suit presented himself at the hotel reception. He asked to speak with Mr
Delaney and Lord Powerscourt. He was led to a table in the corner of the dining room, closed off from the chess players.

‘Good afternoon, gentlemen,’ Powerscourt translated. ‘I am Pierre Berthon of the firm of
notaires
of Berthon Berthon and Berthon of Le Puy. We represent the interests of
the Bishop and the Cathedral of Notre Dame.’

‘Powerscourt,’ said Powerscourt.

‘Delaney,’ said Delaney, shaking the
notaire
’
s
hand very firmly.

M. Berthon took out a large black notebook from his bag and a silver pen from his pocket. Powerscourt saw to his astonishment that the page was not filled with squares. It was ruled. There were
lines going across it. He had looked in vain that morning in the Maison de la Presse for such a thing. Did the lawyers of Le Puy have their own secret supplies of proper notebooks, denied to the
rest of the citizens?

‘I understand,’ M. Berthon went on, ‘that you gentlemen are anxious to leave Le Puy and continue your pilgrimage?’

‘That is the case,’ Powerscourt nodded.

‘And that you would welcome the support of my lord Bishop in these proceedings?’

‘Such support would be more than welcome, coming from such a distinguished quarter.’ Powerscourt bowed slightly to the lawyer to show his respect for his employers.

‘Tell the little man’, said Delaney, keen to move things on, ‘that it’s not the Bishop who’s holding us up, it’s the damned police.’

‘The Bishop bids me tell you that under certain circumstances he would be happy to assist your cause. I understand, furthermore,’ Berthon pressed on, making an entry on his page with
the silver pen, ‘that you wish to make a contribution to the restoration fund of our cathedral here in Le Puy?’

‘We do,’ Powerscourt nodded once more.

‘How much?’ said Berthon.

Powerscourt and Delaney had discussed figures just before the lawyer arrived.

‘Ten thousand francs,’ said Powerscourt.

One of the notaire’s eyebrows arched upwards in a quizzical fashion. He didn’t say a word.

‘Fifteen thousand,’ said Powerscourt. Delaney had been making gestures with his fingers going upwards.

The eyebrow rose a fraction further. The question mark hung in the air. Powerscourt looked at Delaney who made a tiny upward gesture.

‘Seventeen thousand five hundred,’ Powerscourt increased his offer. He wondered flippantly if they could keep going to thirty or even forty thousand so the lawyer’s eyebrow
would disappear right off the top of his forehead.

The eyebrow managed yet another upward motion. The man must practise at home in front of a mirror, Powersourt thought.

‘Twenty thousand.’ M. Berthon recalled his eyebrow. He made a note in his book.

‘Done,’ he said with a thin smile. ‘I accept on behalf of the Bishop and the cathedral, gentlemen. Perhaps you could leave a banker’s draft at the reception here in the
morning. I must go and tell my lord Bishop. He will be delighted. Those gargoyles have been troubling him for years. I am much obliged to you gentlemen. Rest assured that the Bishop will do all he
can to assist your cause. Good afternoon to you both.’ M. Berthon departed. A careful observer would have noticed that he did not seem to be going back in the direction of the Bishop’s
Palace or his own offices in the Rue de Consulat. He was going in a different direction altogether, towards the Place du Martouret and the Hôtel de Ville, headquarters of the Mayor.

Well, well, Powerscourt thought. God has opened the batting. Who’s coming next? Mammon or the law? ‘What did you make of our friend the Bishop’s man and the Bishop’s
move?’ he asked Delaney.

‘Quite remarkable eyebrows the man had,’ said Delaney, ‘I’ve never seen anything like it. I’ve found over the years that’s it’s always best to start low
on the money side of things on these kind of occasions. Once the other fellow thinks he’s doubled his money, he’ll settle for that. I bet our friend thinks he’s done well. If I
was a betting man, Powerscourt, I’d say that the next man up to the plate will be the Mayor or the Mayor’s man of business. If I was playing their hand I’d keep the law till the
end.’

Powerscourt and Delaney had already agreed that they would offer the Mayor something other than money. Twenty minutes after the departure of M. Berthon, about the time it would take for a man to
walk to and from the Hôtel St Jacques to the Hotel de Ville with a five-minute meeting in between, another, younger man in his mid-thirties was escorted to the table in the corner of the
dining room. He was wearing a dark grey suit with a plain white shirt and a rather loud tie. Powerscourt didn’t think Lady Lucy would have let him out of the house wearing such a thing.

‘Jean Paul Claude, gentlemen, of the firm of Raffarin and Barre,
notaires
to the Mayor and the town of Le Puy. At your service.’

‘Powerscourt,’ said Powerscourt.

‘Delaney,’ said Delaney, delivering another of his bone-crushing handshakes.

Jean Paul Claude had a small notebook and a gold pen. ‘I understand you gentlemen are anxious to leave Le Puy and continue your pilgrimage,’ he began.

Powerscourt nodded.

‘And I understand that you are anxious to secure the support of the Mayor in this enterprise?’

Powerscourt nodded again.

‘I am pleased to be able to tell you that under certain circumstances, the Mayor would be willing to back you in this matter.’

Powerscourt wondered if they had all learned their lines together, these lawyers, sitting in the Mayor’s parlour with the crossed French tricolours and the portrait of the President.

‘What circumstances?’ he said amiably.

‘I believe that there has been some discussion about a possible contribution to the Mayor’s office for the good of the town of Le Puy.’ Claude thought things were going well so
far.

‘I think you’ll find’, said Powerscourt, ‘that our thinking has changed slightly on that.’

‘In what way?’ said the lawyer, looking anxious.

‘Well,’ said Powerscourt, ‘Mr Delaney here would like to bequeath something permanent to the town, something that would commemorate the name of the Mayor for generations to
come.’

‘What is that?’

‘A fountain,’ said Powerscourt, ‘or rather two fountains. One at the north-east part of the town where the pilgrims enter, and one at the south-west end where the pilgrims set
off for Compostela. Think how these pilgrims will bless the name of the Mayor in years to come when they can quench their thirst on arrival and have a last drink or fill their water bottles as they
leave. It will be a lasting memorial. We envisage that they should be called the Jacquet Fountains with an inscription round the top with the name of the Mayor and the date of construction. Mr
Delaney’s name would only be mentioned in much smaller type at the bottom. Is it not a good plan?’

Claude knew in his bones that the Mayor would like such a proposal. He stuck to his script.

‘
Et encore
?’ he asked.

‘
Encore
?’ said Powerscourt.

‘
Et encore
?’ Claude stuck to his guns.

‘Fellow’s turned into Oliver Twist, Delaney. He’s asking for more.’

‘To hell with his encores,’ said Delaney, ‘this is way out of order. Perfectly decent offer, two bloody fountains, if you ask me. Is the cupboard completely bare, my friend? Do
we have anything we could throw at them?’

‘We do,’ said Powerscourt.

‘Throw it,’ said Delaney.

‘Mr Claude,’ Powerscourt began, speaking as reasonably as he could. ‘We are all men of the world here. I would remind you that we have in our party of pilgrims a young man who
is a journalist on the
Irish Times
, one of the foremost newspapers in Ireland. Their articles are syndicated all over the world. He has nearly finished his story. He proposes to be highly
critical of the police force here in this town. I’m sure you wouldn’t want him writing that the Mayor was greedy as well.’

Silence reigned in the corner of the dining room. The hotel clock chimed in the entrance hall. Outside the rain beat down on the pavements of Le Puy.

Jean Paul Claude turned the same colour as his tie, a rather disagreeable pink.

‘This article,’ he stammered, ‘this article . . . ’

‘This article need never see the light of day, Mr Claude. We have an element of control over its publication. The young man need never hear about our encounter this afternoon. Why
don’t you go back to the Mayor and tell him about the fountains. “This fountain was given to the town and the pilgrims of Le Puy by Louis Jacquet, Mayor, in the Year of Our Lord
1906,” the inscription might say. “I was thirsty in the desert and ye gave me drink.” I’m sure we could find some such biblical quotation to give the thing resonance.
Perhaps the Bishop would bless them once they’re in place?’

‘Very well, gentlemen,’ said Claude, trying to rescue some of his dignity. ‘I shall go back to the Mayor. Thank you for your time. We shall be in touch shortly.’

Delaney laughed when he heard what Powerscourt had thrown at them. ‘Didn’t know you had a newspaperman in your back pocket, Powerscourt. That should make the bastards sit up for a
moment or two. If I want to give the damned place a fountain, why shouldn’t I give the damned place a fountain? Don’t see why I should hand over cash to the Mayor so he can build an
extension to his butcher’s shop where he can hang a few more sides of beef and store the local pigs’ trotters.’

The gap between the departure of M. Claude and their next visitor was rather longer than the previous one. Perhaps the Mayor’s party were having a council of war. It was just after half
past five when the next visitor arrived. This was Inspector Jean Dutour, who numbered among his many roles that of representative of the police federation for the widows and orphans of serving or
retired officers. He too said he understood that Mr Delaney wished to make a contribution to the fund. The conversation followed exactly the same path as that with M. Berthon, except the Inspector
did not have a movable eyebrow. He regaled them instead with piteous tales of young police widows with tiny pensions and numerous children, virtually unable to feed their families, of retired
constables whose wives had passed away and were scarcely able to look after themselves. He too settled for twenty thousand francs. He had an important announcement to make before he left.

‘I am asked to inform you, gentlemen, that representatives of the police and the public prosecutor’s office wish to see you in the morning. They propose that the meeting should start
at nine o’clock. A very good day to you, gentlemen, and thank you again for your contribution.’

Before Inspector Dutour could leave, there was a knock at the door. Stephen Lewis, the solicitor from Frome, poked his head apologetically round the corner.

‘Forgive me, Lord Powerscourt, Mr Delaney, I saw our policeman friend here arrive a few minutes ago. I wonder if we could ask him to clear up a procedural point about the French legal
system. I think it has bearing on our particular circumstances. I was taught this years ago in college but I only remembered it this afternoon. Could you ask the Inspector who decides whether to
proceed or not in important cases like murder or corruption in France. Is it the police, or is it somebody else?’