Death of a Pilgrim (19 page)

A frantic hammering on his bedroom door woke Powerscourt shortly after half past six the next morning.

‘Monsieur milord,’ panted Jacques the hotel owner, ‘you must come at once! At once, I say. There has been a catastrophe here, in my hotel!’

Powerscourt noticed a slight glow in the man’s cheeks as if he had already been taking comfort from the local red. God in heaven, he said to himself, it’s not yet seven
o’clock.

‘Whatever is the matter, monsieur?’ said Powerscourt, buttoning his shirt and wondering if half the pilgrims in their cells had been visited by the Exterminating Angel.

‘You must come, monsieur milord. I will show you. It is terrible!’

Powerscourt could hear Lady Lucy asking sleepy questions about where was he going so early in the morning as he sped down the stairs and out into the fresh air of Estaing. Jacques led him to the
pontoon where the rowing boats were tied up.

‘See, monsieur milord!’ he said, pointing dramatically to the cut rope where a rowing boat had been tethered the evening before. ‘One of these boats has been stolen! I gave my
word that they would be safe in my keeping to that villainous fellow Berthier who keeps the yard at Espalion. I signed a piece of paper promising to pay a great deal of money if any of them was
lost. It is more than all my life savings, monsieur! But what was I to do? I was not to suppose that any of these pilgrims here would turn into rowing boat thieves in the night!’ Jacques
stared angrily at the cut rope. Then another terrible thought struck him, possibly even more serious than the loss of the boat. ‘And what will Charlotte say? What indeed! I am ruined,
monsieur milord, ruined! What a way to start the day!’

Powerscourt remembered the innkeeper’s wife, Charlotte, shouting at her husband the evening before to tear himself away from the bottle and supervise the serving of the supper. She was a
formidable woman, he thought, round of figure, round of face, fierce of countenance, obviously the true mistress of the hotel. On one point at least Powerscourt could offer instant reassurance.

‘Calm yourself, monsieur, calm yourself. The missing boat may be found. It may turn up later today. But if it does not, Mr Delaney will recompense you for its loss. I’m certain he
will contribute enough to pay off Mr Berthier from Espalion.’

‘Mr Delaney, the elderly American gentleman? Not one of the younger Mr Delaneys, but the old one? He has enough money to pay off Berthier?’ Jacques the hotelkeeper sounded
suspicious, as if men of such improbable wealth were not to be found on the banks of the Lot. Powerscourt assured him that Delaney could probably buy most of southern France if the mood took him.
Relieved that his money troubles appeared to be over and another onslaught from Charlotte postponed, Jacques took his leave of Powerscourt, saying he had hotel business to attend to. He did not
tell his guest that his business lay in a back pantry off the kitchen where he had a secret supply of
vin rouge
hidden at the back of a broom cupboard.

Powerscourt bent down and took the rope in his hand. The cut was very clean. This was no hacking job with a blunt instrument. Whoever came down here in the middle of the night came fully
prepared with a sharp knife to hand. What else had the thief brought with him? Had he simply climbed into the boat and floated off downstream like the Lady of Shallott? Powerscourt cursed himself
for his folly and his delay and ran at full speed towards the pilgrims’ bedrooms. Were they all there? Or had a single pilgrim abandoned the party to make his own way on the next stage of the
journey?

The six cells to the left of the main hotel building were all occupied, pilgrims complaining at being woken or greeting him cheerfully as they dressed. Powerscourt stopped in the fourth
cell on the other side. This had been the temporary home of Patrick MacLoughlin from Boston, just twenty-two years old and training for the priesthood. Powerscourt felt sick as he remembered the
young man saying the day before that he was completely useless at any known form of sporting activity. Maybe that had been a lie, a preparation for this flight down the river in the middle of the
night, but Powerscourt didn’t think so. Patrick MacLoughlin was gone. There was only one set of circumstances, Powerscourt thought, which could unite the departure of MacLoughlin and the
departure of the boat. Powerscourt raced into the Lion d’Or. He told Delaney to make sure nobody moved out of Estaing. He borrowed the innkeeper’s horse and sped down the road by the
side of the Lot. He prayed to God that he was wrong.

M. Berthier of Espalion’s rowing boat had a fairly uneventful career after its unexpected departure from the hotel in the middle of the night. The river glided along in
the middle of its gorge, the water almost black, the cliffs rising steeply on either side, the tall trees standing firm and upright against the night sky, the local wildlife peering curiously at a
boat travelling down their river without any visible means of human propulsion. It stayed in the centre of the current for a long time, twisting its way past tiny beaches and the occasional small
island. Shortly before dawn a breeze arose and this was enough to nudge the boat off course. It wandered off to the right and stopped by a group of rocks, close to a tiny bay much favoured by the
local fishermen, a couple of miles from Entraygues-sur-Truyère. As Powerscourt was fastening his shirt buttons in the hotel an elderly angler called Maurice Vernais was settling himself into
his usual position by the riverside. He had a couple of rods, a large basket to hold his fish, for Maurice was ever an optimist, and a smaller basket containing his breakfast, his lunch and an
enormous bottle of wine. Maurice had long believed that the best way to achieve domestic harmony was to be out of the domestic environment for as long as possible. Had he but known it, his wife,
Marinette, shared his opinion, only wishing that her husband could fish all night as well as all day.

Maurice saw the rowing boat, turning slowly away from him. Nothing would be more likely to disturb his fish. ‘
Merde
,’ he said to himself and marched out in his waders to give
the boat a good push. The boat swung round and came back to rest in virtually the same place it had been before. ‘
Double merde
!’ said Maurice. This time he seized the front of
the boat and waded out into the middle of the Lot until he felt he had reached the heart of the current. ‘Off you go,’ he said, pointing the prow downstream and giving it a firm shove.
He resolved to have a leg of chicken and a large glass of wine shortly to fortify himself after his ordeal. Then he settled down and prepared his rods for the day. At no point had he raised the
tarpaulin to inspect the contents of the boat.

The river Lot enters the little town of Entraygues from the south-west and passes under a medieval bridge. The rowing boat passed under the middle arch of this bridge, borne along by the centre
of the current, and passed a nondescript road with a couple of shops. To the right a little street led up to the town square, a handsome place shaded by plane trees with room for weekly markets in
season and sporting the inevitable bakery, butcher’s and bar. To the left, across the river, the hills rose steeply towards Espeyrac and Conques. The town of Entraygues takes its name from
the Occitan
entre aigas
, between the waters, and it was this meeting of rivers that stopped the rowing boat’s progress. Racing down from its gorges to the north, passing beneath
another medieval bridge, the river Truyère joins the Lot just after a ruined castle on the left. The force of the Truyère carried M. Berthier’s boat off course right across the
combined river. It came to rest on the opposite shore from the town, parked on a bank of rough stones, just out of sight from Entraygues on the opposite side. And there it remained. It’s a
fisherman, gone further downstream, said any locals who looked at it in the early morning. By noon it was still nestling by the side of the river. Oddly enough, Entraygues marked the first spot
where the Lot was navigable upstream in medieval times, ancient vessels called
gabarres
carrying produce west along the Lot and the Garonne on a ten-day journey to Bordeaux. But for the
little rowing boat, property of M. Berthier of Espalion, there was no more navigation that day. It was beached. The more fanciful citizens wondered if the owner had simply gone to sleep inside his
craft after an early start with his fishing rod. The bells from the church tower were pealing the Angelus when a couple of small boys, just released from school for lunch, approached the boat.

Powerscourt made inquiries in the town square. A rowing boat? A rowing boat cut loose from Estaing in the middle of the night? Goodness me, monsieur, we do not have such
things here in Entraygues. The man behind the bar looked closely at Powerscourt and wondered to himself if the English monsieur had taken too much armagnac the night before. Armagnac, the barman
firmly believed, was always liable to produce hallucinations the next morning if taken to excess. Perhaps, he suggested, the thief had put the boat on his cart and driven off with it. The people in
the bakery wondered if some fisherman might have taken it and hidden the boat in the ground just behind the river. It was the butcher, a cheerful soul engaged in the dismemberment of a great side
of beef, who gave Powerscourt the best advice. There were always, he told him, some old fellows fishing on the banks of the river, and they usually arrived there very early in the morning to get
away from their wives. Had Powerscourt seen any of these characters on his ride from Estaing? Had he been travelling fast? Perhaps he should retrace his steps at walking pace. Maybe the fishermen
would have seen something.

Twenty-five minutes later Powerscourt came upon the figure of Maurice Vernais, holding firmly on to his rod and glancing sadly at the empty basket meant to hold his catch.

‘Forgive me, monsieur,’ said Powerscourt, ‘could I be permitted to ask if you have been fishing here all morning?’

Maurice Vernais stared at Powerscourt. Then he spat expertly into the sand at the edge of the river. ‘What business is it of yours if I have?’

‘I just thought you might be able to help me, that’s all,’ said Powerscourt, feeling that this interview might take longer than expected. ‘I’m looking for a missing
rowing boat.’

‘Rowing boat, frigate, battleship, it’s all one to me,’ said Maurice, pulling in his line and preparing to recast.

‘But did you see a rowing boat, monsieur, on this stretch of river, earlier today?’

‘Happen I did and happen I didn’t,’ said Maurice, flicking his line well out into the Lot.

‘That’s a very pretty cast,’ said Powerscourt. ‘I’m sure you’ll catch something soon. Now tell me, did you see a rowing boat or not?’

Maurice Vernais repeated his spitting gesture. Powerscourt felt it was less than helpful.

‘Nothing to do with me, monsieur,’ the Frenchman said, fiddling with his line and deciding to have another large glass of
rouge
when this irritating foreigner had gone away.
‘None of my business. Nor yours neither, I shouldn’t wonder.’

Powerscourt decided there was only one answer. He reached into his pocket and drew out a wad of notes. Maurice Vernais eyed them greedily for he and his Marinette had very little money,
depending on the fish caught in the Lot for much of their diet.

‘I wonder if I could make some small contribution towards your fishing expenses, monsieur,’ said Powerscourt, holding out a fistful of notes but not actually handing them over.
Payment, he decided, would be by results. ‘Rods and things are very expensive these days.’

‘That’s a fine collection of money you have there,’ said Maurice, holding out his hand.

‘Not so fast, my fisherman friend, not so fast.’ Powerscourt drew his hand with the bribe close to his chest. ‘If I feel you are not telling the truth, then there is no money.
Do you understand? Now then, did you see a rowing boat drifting down the river early this morning?’

‘I did,’ said Maurice Vernais finally, greed overcoming the natural instinct of the French peasant to be as unhelpful as possible. ‘It must have been about seven o’clock.
The damned boat was stuck on those rocks over there.’

‘And what did you do?’

‘It was interfering with my fishing, so it was. Hard enough to catch fish anyway without damned rowing boats getting in the way. I gave it a good push, so I did.’

‘Was that all you did?’

‘Good push didn’t work. It came back to rest where it had been before. So I waded out and put it back into the current. Damned boat should be in Entraygues or even beyond by
now.’

‘Did you see what was in the boat, monsieur?’

‘Why should I care what was in the boat, for God’s sake? I come here to fish, not to inspect the insides of people’s rowing boats like some devil of a tax man.’

‘Was the boat empty? Could you see the bottom?’

‘Damned boat had a tarpaulin drawn up all over it. Couldn’t see what was inside. It was pretty heavy, mind you. I could tell that when I shoved it into the current.’

‘Are you telling me that you didn’t even take a peek under that tarpaulin? The cargo might have been valuable, after all.’

‘Nothing to do with me. I’ve told you that already. Now why don’t you give my money and shove off. You’re disturbing the fish, for Christ’s sake.’

With some reluctance Powerscourt decided the man was telling the truth. He handed over some notes and set off back to Entraygues in pursuit of something buried beneath a tarpaulin. As he
regained the main road he heard a shout of triumph from the river bank. Maurice Vernais had caught his first fish of the day.

Jean Pierre Roche was a curly-haired youth just past his tenth birthday. His friend Auguste was slightly smaller with a gap in his front teeth. ‘Race you to that rowing
boat on the stones,’ said Jean Pierre, setting off at once for he knew his friend was faster than he was. Sure enough, Auguste overtook him towards the end of the hundred-yard dash to the
stricken vessel.

‘I win,’ said Auguste proudly, touching the side of the boat in confirmation of his victory. They bent down and peered inside. More or less all they could see was the tarpaulin.