Death of a Pilgrim (15 page)

‘Charlie Flanagan, aged early twenties again, carpenter from Baltimore, cousin of Michael Delaney on his mother’s side. His version of events is identical, almost word for word with
Wee Jimmy’s. Do you think that is suspicious, Francis?’

‘No, I don’t,’ said Powerscourt. ‘Alex Bentley was writing this down. He may have made their versions word for word because he remembered the other one. Anything else we
know about this Charlie?’

‘He makes models out of wood,’ said Lady Lucy. ‘They say he did a beautiful one of the ship they crossed the Atlantic in.’

‘Next?’ said Powerscourt.

‘Waldo Mulligan,’ said Lady Lucy. ‘Works for a senator in Washington. Looks slightly haunted some of the time. I saw him one afternoon drinking whisky in the bar all by
himself. Like Father Kennedy he went to the two Rochers and the cathedral in the morning but in the reverse order. He stayed in the hotel in the afternoon. Possibly in the bar, but he didn’t
say.

‘Our last American is Patrick MacLoughlin, aged twenty-two, training for the priesthood in Boston. He went to the cathedral in the morning and the Rocher Corneille in the afternoon. He
didn’t go to St Michel at all.’

‘Didn’t he now,’ said Powerscourt thoughtfully. ‘I wonder why. I’d have thought that St Michel would have a greater appeal than the Rocher Corneille, Lucy,
wouldn’t you?’

‘Maybe he’s scared of heights, Francis. I’ve met one or two people round here who aren’t overfond of tall rock pinnacles.’

Powerscourt laughed. ‘Next, my love?’

‘We’ve got the Irish now, but the first one lives in Swindon. Maybe he’s just moved there recently. Shane Delaney, early forties, works on the railways. On pilgrimage for his
wife who’s dying of some frightful disease and isn’t well enough to travel. Spent the morning praying in front of the Black Madonna. Spent the afternoon on pilgrimage to various bars in
the town with Girvan Connolly. Back at the hotel about half past four.’

Powerscourt remembered his conversation with Shane Delaney about his letter home.

‘Willie John Delaney, the man who is dying from an incurable disease. Didn’t feel well after the travelling, he says. Spent the day in his room, most of it asleep.’

‘I’ve always thought it could be a great advantage for a murderer to be dying of some frightful disease,’ said Powerscourt. ‘You could kill off all your enemies one by
one. With any luck you’d be dead before they brought you to trial.’

‘Francis! What a horrible thought!’

‘It’s a fairly horrible way to go, being pushed off that damned rock out there,’ said Powerscourt. ‘Who else has ventured forth from the Emerald Isle, Lucy?’

‘Christopher or Christy Delaney. Aged eighteen. Going up to Cambridge in October. He went to the cathedral and the two rocks in the morning. He spent the afternoon reading a book set by
his tutor at the university, Clarendon’s
History of the Rebellion
.’

‘God help him,’ said Powerscourt. He too had had to read Clarendon before going up to Cambridge. Perhaps the syllabus hadn’t changed at all.

‘One last Irishman, Francis, Jack O’Driscoll, aged about twenty-five, related on his mother’s side. Newspaperman. He wandered round the town in the morning, stopping for one or
two beers, and took in the sights in the afternoon. He says he left St Michel about half past four in the evening but he’s not sure. It could have been five.’

‘Isn’t that the last time we have for anybody leaving there, Lucy?’

‘I think so,’ said Lady Lucy. ‘Only four to go now, Francis. Three really if you take away John Delaney.’

The marching pilgrims had made good progress. They had reached the village of St-Christophe-sur-Dolaison, some five miles from Le Puy, with a bakery, a bar and an ancient
church in red stone topped by an open belfry with four bells on top. A horse with a very large cart was tethered right outside the bar. It looked as if the horse knew the place well. The barman, a
cheerful soul with a bright blue apron on his front and a black beret on his head, waved happily at the pilgrims. The religious element pressed on towards their goal, unwilling to be diverted.
Indeed Brother White, who had read widely before coming on pilgrimage, detected in the barman none other than Mr Worldly Wiseman from the town of Carnal Policy, determined to make Christian give up
his pack and stray from the path to the Wicket Gate. Father Kennedy had felt very tempted by the éclairs in the bakery window but did not wish to draw attention to himself by stopping.
Patrick MacLoughlin followed the others as they walked straight out of the little square with the bar and headed for St-Privat-d’Allier.

But the other pilgrims needed no encouragement to sit down outside the bar. Jack O’Driscoll ordered eight beers. All of them stretched their legs as far in front of them as they could.

‘Will you look at these boots of mine, for Christ’s sake,’ said Girvan Connolly. ‘I bought them for a song from a man in a market stall in Kentish Town. They’ve
more or less fallen apart.’

Sure enough, as the pilgrims peered at the boots, they could see that the outside sections had become detached from the soles. In a few more miles they would have disintegrated completely.
Charlie Flanagan, carpenter by trade, whipped a strange-looking instrument from his pack and some stringlike material from his pocket and carried out instant repairs.

‘There, Girvan,’ he said doubtfully, ‘those should take you to journey’s end today. I wouldn’t count on it, mind you. That sole isn’t strong at
all.’

‘Does anybody know how much farther we’ve got to go today?’ asked Wee Jimmy Delaney. All the pilgrims had been given maps. All had looked at them carefully in the early stages
of the march. Some had turned them upside down for better appreciation of the route. Some had peered at their map from the side, or the bottom, or the top. One or two had got down on the ground and
tried to make sense of them that way. Shane Delaney had thrown his away. Only Waldo Mulligan and Christy Delaney were able to read them properly, and this gave them great prestige in the group.
Neither of them had been asked to pay for the first or the second or the third beer consumed so far in St-Christophe-sur-Dolaison’s bar.

‘Another ten miles or so. We go out of this place and turn left,’ said Waldo Mulligan firmly.

‘How long till we get there, wherever there is?’ said Willie John Delaney.

‘I should think it’s about four hours,’ said Christy Delaney cheerfully. ‘We’ll be there in time for tea.’

‘Tea be damned,’ said Jack O’Driscoll. ‘I asked the barman in the St Jacques about this St Private place or whatever it’s called. I think he said it had absolutely
no redeeming features, none at all. Except, the man said, it had some of the finest red wine in the Auvergne.’

‘Girvan Connolly, Francis, mother’s side, aged thirty-five or so. Described as merchant from Kentish Town. It’s not clear why he’s on pilgrimage at
all. Spent the day with Shane Delaney. Fond of a drink, our Mr Connolly.’

‘How do you know that, Lucy?’

‘I saw him out of the corner of my eye yesterday evening. Our friend Girvan was forever topping up his glass when he thought nobody was looking.’

‘Well spotted, Lucy. Next?’

‘Brother White, late thirties, teaches at one of England’s leading Catholic public schools. He spent most of the day in the cathedral, Francis. He was praying in front of the Black
Madonna, he says. Other people who went to Notre Dame say they saw him there.’

‘Why would you spend most of the day praying to the Black Madonna? Does she have any special educational powers, as far as you know?’

‘I don’t know the answer to that, Francis. But there’s something rather horrid about Brother White. I can’t put my finger on it just yet.’

‘Then we have the late John Delaney himself. Cousin again of Michael Delaney. He went to St Michel and the Rocher Corneille in the morning, and the cathedral in the afternoon. The last
sighting we have of him was about four thirty when two of our pilgrims saw him going into the hotel.’

‘And nobody saw him go out after that?’

‘No,’ said Lady Lucy. ‘You’re going to like this last one, Francis. Stephen Lewis, mid-fifties, mother’s side again, solicitor from Frome in Somerset. Come on
pilgrimage for the sake of his immortal soul and because he likes trains. Our Mr Lewis, if his story is to be believed, and I think it is, did not go to the Rocher Corneille. He did not climb the
two hundred and sixty-eight steps to the chapel at the summit of St Michel. Nor he did he go up or down the one hundred and thirty-four steps that lead up to the Cathedral of Notre Dame.’

‘So what did the man do, in heaven’s name?’ asked Powerscourt.

‘Mr Stephen Lewis, solicitor, from Frome in Somerset, went to the railway station in Le Puy. He looked at the engines for some time. Then he took a train south, travelling first class he
tells us, to the next port of call, a stop called La Bastide St Laurent Les Bains. It’s on the Nîmes line, apparently. Our Mr Lewis took lunch in the Hôtel Bristol in the main
square, some local pâté with
cornichons
, duck à l’orange, and returned to Le Puy on the 2.55, arriving just before half past four. He said he didn’t have time
for coffee or he’d have missed his train.’

‘He may have had a more interesting day than the rest of them,’ said Powerscourt cheerfully. ‘I don’t suppose anybody can corroborate any of that?’

‘Well,’ said Lady Lucy, ‘one or two people did see him coming back into the hotel. They report that Mr Lewis was carrying a book of timetables.’

‘Excellent!’ said Powerscourt. ‘A little bedtime reading, no doubt.’

‘I’ve forgotten one person,’ said Lady Lucy, ‘Michael Delaney himself. He went briefly to the cathedral in the morning. He didn’t go to either of the rocks. During
the afternoon he was in the hotel, working on the plans for the pilgrimage with Alex Bentley.’

‘Well, Lucy,’ said her husband, rising from his little table and pacing about the room, ‘these witness statements are about as much use to us as the smile on the face of the
Sphinx. This is what I think we should do tomorrow. Could you have another word with our friend Maggie Delaney before she leaves in the carriage? If Michael Delaney has any great sins in his past
she may know something about them. Could you see what crimes she comes up with? And ask her about how all these people are related. I’m going walking tomorrow with the young ones and the men
of God. Let’s see what they’ve got to say for themselves on the pilgrim trail and the — ’ Powerscourt stopped suddenly in mid-sentence. He looked at Lady Lucy. ‘Wait
here a moment, darling. I’ve been a fool, a stupid, stupid fool.’ He headed for the door.

‘Where are you going, Francis? What’s the matter?’

‘Only this, Lucy. Here we have all these statements about people coming in and out of the hotel. All of them refer, unless I’m very much mistaken, to the front door. What about the
back door? Side doors? Fire escapes? Balconies? We may have been looking in the wrong direction altogether.’

Jack O’Driscoll and Christy Delaney were in a great hurry. They were both very thirsty, completely parched as Christy put it. They had left their own party far behind.
They sped past the religious brethren who had stopped to pray at a wayside shrine to St James. As they drew near to St-Privat-d’Allier a passer-by would have noted that Jack kept writing a
couple of phrases in a small notebook which he passed to his companion.

‘I think this is it,’ he said finally, as they passed an ancient mill on the side of an old bridge.

‘Oon boo tile van rouge, seal voo play, that should do it.’

‘Oon boo tile van rouge, seal voo play,’ Christy repeated.

‘Good,’ said Jack.

‘And I presume on core stays the same?’

‘On core oon boo tile van rouge seal voo play might be better,’ said Jack.

‘
Bien, très bien
,’ said Christy.

Powerscourt returned from his inspection of the entrances and exits to the Hôtel St Jacques in sombre mood.

‘It’s hopeless, Lucy, quite hopeless,’ he said to his wife. ‘The place has got more ways in and out than a honeycomb. Round the back there are two back doors, not locked
during the daytime, a rickety fire escape, and rooms on the ground floor all of which have windows that open wide enough for a man to get out. All this work’, he waved helplessly at the
notebook, ‘is rendered null and void. Anybody could have got in and out without being seen. All of that evidence is all right for the front but not for the back.’

‘What do we do now, my love?’ asked Lady Lucy.

‘God knows,’ said her husband.

Lady Lucy Powerscourt was taking morning coffee the next day with Maggie Delaney in a corner of the dining room at the Hôtel St Jacques. She noticed that her companion
ladled in three spoonfuls of sugar.

‘Can you tell me how you are related to Mr Michael Delaney, Miss Delaney?’ she began brightly.

‘That walking heap of wickedness?’ Maggie peered crossly at Lady Lucy as if she had just taken the name of the Lord in vain. ‘It goes back to our grandparents, I don’t
know the precise details. I’ve tried, of course. But it isn’t easy to find out what happened in Ireland in the famine years. There’s a story that Delaney’s father did
something incredibly wicked in a place called Macroom, wherever that is, something to do with the workhouses. I wouldn’t be surprised. Like father, like son.’

‘So when did your own particular interest in your cousin and his activities begin?’

Maggie inspected Lady Lucy once more. ‘Twelve years ago, it would have been. Somebody on the parish committee for the reclamation of fallen women mentioned that he’d seen the Delaney
name in the papers. That’s when I started to read those money pages in the newspapers.’

‘Money pages?’ said Lady Lucy. Had Maggie been picking up tips on domestic thrift,
How to Make Your Household Budget Go Further
and
Keep a Happy Husband
? She had
not.

‘I believe the proper term is the financial and business pages of the
New York Times
,’ she said primly.

‘You read those pages every now and again, Miss Delaney? That’s very advanced, if I might say so.’