Death of a Pilgrim

by David Dickinson

  ‘Thank you for being so frank,’ said the Mayor. ‘It is a most tricky problem.’ He stared out of his window into the Place du Martouret outside. ‘Let me ask you a most improper question, Lord Powerscourt. I give you my word that your answer will not go beyond these four walls where we sit now. You are known as a man of integrity. Let me ask you for your opinion, your advice, if you were not a man of integrity. Please pretend to be Machiavelli for a moment, if you would.’

  Powerscourt thought very fast. Should he decline the gambit? Should he take it? He looked briefly at a portrait of the current President of France, Armand Fallières, on the wall. History would come to help him. He took the gambit.

  ‘When I was young, Mr Mayor,’ he began, ‘I was fascinated by two of the great cardinals who gave such wise, if devious, advice to their kings, Cardinal Richelieu and Cardinal Mazarin. Even looking at their portraits you could tell that they too were Machiavellian in their approach. I speak now as Cardinal Mazarin. This is what I think he would say. Get rid of the pilgrims as fast as you can. Suppose the police do find the murderer, if there is one. There will have to be a trial. Do you want these witnesses to take up permanent residence in the Hôtel St Jacques? Do you want the English and American newspapers writing articles about St Michel, Crag of Death? Horror Strikes in Holy City? Let the murderer be found in some other place, some other town. Let them have the problems of solving the crime and the problems of the prosecution. Put the wretched pilgrims on the first train, carriage or horse you can find and bid them God speed.

  ‘Once they know they’re going,’ Mazarin Powerscourt was getting into his stride now, ‘you can start on Michael Delaney. He would feel grateful, would he not, for the liberation of his friends. Take him for every charity you can think of. Separate him from as many dollars as you can. Sleep easier in your beds. The problem is not with you any more, the problem is en route to the little town of Saugues, next stop, I think, on the pilgrims’ way.’

  Powerscourt laughed. ‘How was that, Mr Mayor?’

  Louis Jacquet laughed. ‘Very good, Lord Powerscourt. I think you’re in the wrong profession. You should have been a politician. There’s still time, mind you, there’s still time.’

  Back in the Hôtel St Jacques things were moving fast. With Lady Lucy as translator and Alex Bentley as transcriber the witnesses were being polished off at remarkable speed. Lady Lucy was using all her wiles on the Sergeant, a little smile here, an occasional request for assistance with a particular word there, interested queries about his grandchildren in the intervals between witnesses. The Sergeant was captivated. Had she but known it, Lady Lucy was surrounded on both sides by admirers, though the Sergeant did not fit the description of knight errant as well as Alex Bentley. Father Kennedy was surprisingly nervous as he gave his account of the day of John Delaney’s death. Brother White was monosyllabic, thinking perhaps of all the possible beatings he was going to miss during his time away on pilgrimage. The clearest witness was Stephen Lewis, the solicitor from Frome in Somerset. He had only had occasional dealings with the criminal classes of Frome. One of his colleagues looked after those, but he knew what was required, clear and unambiguous reporting of his activities that day, refusal to be drawn into any speculation about any of the other suspects, a pleasant and open countenance. As she listened to them all Lady Lucy thought that any one of them could have been a murderer. All their statements, even a few days after the event, were woolly about exact times. The Sergeant even allowed the last interview to run on beyond the sacred hour of twelve o’clock, lunchtime for all God-fearing Frenchmen, and ended the morning session at four minutes past. There was only one interview left now, Michael Delaney himself, due at two o’clock sharp.

  After he left the Town Hall, wondering if he had given too much away, Powerscourt climbed up the Rue Meymard and the Rue Cardinal de Polignac to the Bishop’s Palace beneath the cathedral. It was uphill all the way to the house of God. His interview was short for the Bishop was old and frail and suffering from a heavy cold. Powerscourt introduced himself as an investigator working for Michael Delaney. He passed on Delaney’s wish to make a donation to a fund for the restoration of the cathedral. The Bishop was very grateful.

  ‘I have to tell you, however, Lord Powerscourt, that I am more concerned with the souls of the pilgrims than I am with Mr Delaney’s gold. We have made arrangements to hold the funeral of that poor soul in St Michael’s Church behind the Hôtel de Ville every afternoon now for the past two days. But the police won’t let us bury him. Maybe we can conduct the service tomorrow. Every day since I heard it, I have thanked God for the return of the pilgrims. I pray that these ones are but the first detachment of a mighty army of Christian soldiers marching to Santiago. Did you know that the very first pilgrim to Compostela was one of my predecessors, a Bishop of Le Puy in the tenth century? Remember that as you march out down the cathedral steps, young man. A thousand years of pilgrimage will be with you in spirit.’

  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.’

  7

  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.’

  Powers
court 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.’