Death of a Pilgrim

by David Dickinson

  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?’

  ‘Inspector,’ said Powerscourt, ‘could we ask you a general question about the working of the law in your country? You are perfectly free to decline, if you so wish. Mr Lewis here is a solicitor from England.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ said the Inspector, more than happy to sing the superior virtues of the French system to that of the Anglo-Saxons.

  ‘In important cases like murder or corruption,’ said Powerscourt, ‘who decides whether to proceed with a case or not? In our country it would be a matter for the police.’

  ‘Not so in France, Lord Powerscourt. Here we have a different system. The lawyers call your system adversarial because two lawyers end up fighting it out in court. The French system is better, I think. It’s called inquisitorial. In such cases as those you mention, the conduct of the case is in the hands of a judge called an investigating judge or an investigating magistrate. His job is to find out the truth. So it is he, not the policemen, who decides whether there is enough evidence to proceed with a case.’

  ‘Thank you very much,’ said Powerscourt and escorted the Inspector to the door.

  Delaney was in belligerent mood when he returned. ‘Do you mean to tell me, my friend, that we have been buttering up the wrong people? That we needn’t have bothered with shelling out for the police widows and orphans as the police won’t decide whether to let us go or not? Should we have gone after this investigating magistrate person instead? How do you fix them, anyway?’

  ‘Don’t think it would be easy,’ said Powerscourt, ‘fixing one of these characters, as you put it. They’re probably meant to be completely independent like the judges on your Supreme Court, Delaney.’

  ‘It’s perfectly possible to fix a few members of the Supreme Court,’ said Michael Delaney happily. ‘They say some of the robber barons did it in a case involving a steel cartel back in the 1890s. Two years later relations of the judges who backed the robber barons began getting highly paid jobs in the subsidiaries of the steel companies. Nothing was ever proved, of course.’

  ‘Was there not a perfectly valid reason why these people should have got jobs in the steel industry?’ Stephen Lewis asked. Frome had seen nothing like this.

  ‘Sure,’ said Delaney. ‘One of them was a hairdresser in the Bronx. Another taught primary school in South Dakota.’

  There was one further development at twenty past seven that evening. A note arrived, addressed to Lord Francis Powerscourt. It informed him that the Mayor was delighted about his fountains.

  There was a great air of anticipation in the dining room of the Hôtel St Jacques that evening. Powerscourt talked to Michael Delaney about his son James and his progress. Only that afternoon, Delaney informed him, there had been a cable from New York to say that James was almost fully recovered and hoped to join them later in the pilgrimage. The young men were in high spirits, wondering how far they would be able to walk in a day and if they would meet any pretty girls on the pilgrim path. Lady Lucy was doing her duty by Maggie Delaney once again. ‘Look,’ the old lady whispered, her finger travelling round the diners like the beam of a searchlight, ‘one of these men is a murderer. It would have to be a man, wouldn’t it? Oh yes. Now we have a further crime to add to our burden, the bribing of the civil and the religious authorities in this holy town. When we leave, if we leave, we’ll be a travelling charabanc of sin, a mobile circus of iniquity!’ Father Kennedy was making final plans for the funeral. He decided to get Powerscourt to ask the proprietor if it would be appropriate to hold a wake in the dining room.

  The men of Le Puy, Michael Delaney thought, arrived for their meeting at nine o’clock in the Hôtel St Jacques the next morning looking like a posse from the days of the Wild West. There was The Lawman, a slim man of about forty years wearing the black robes of a French juge d’instruction. There was a priest, the local man who had conferred with Father Kennedy in the past, men of God so often at hand at the time of the final shoot-out in Abilene or Cheyenne. There was The Marshal, Mayor Jacquet himself, looking as though he might have hacked off a few flitches of bacon before breakfast. There was another Lawman, Jean Paul Claude, Deputy to the Mayor, in a lurid green tie.

  The proprietor arranged four chairs in an arc in front of the pilgrims.

  ‘Pèlerins, pèlerine,’ the Mayor began. ‘Pilgrims, Miss Pilgrim,’ Powerscourt translated, ‘thank you for your patience. I think we should hear first from Mr Toulemont, the juge in charge of the case of the late John Delaney.’

  The juge took out a pair of pince-nez and looked down over his nose at his notes. ‘It is for me to decide, gentlemen and lady, if this case should proceed. I have read the details of the interviews you all gave to the police. I have myself visited the site of the unfortunate incident. I cannot see any point in proceeding with this matter under present circumstances. There is no evidence that the laws of France have been broken. I have therefore decided that you may proceed on your pilgrimage.’ A burst of applause rang out from the pilgrims. ‘However,’ the juge held up his hand for quiet, ‘I do not think we should close the case completely. Fresh witnesses may come forward. People could change their minds. I do not think any of you should be allowed to leave France without permission. I have asked and been granted leave to ask for a bond, a form of bail, if you will. If anybody leaves without permission, or if you fail to register with the local police force wherever you may be once a week, the bond will be forfeit.’

  ‘How much?’ said Delaney from the back of the room.

  ‘Fifty thousand francs,’ said the juge, frowning at this rude interruption.

  ‘Done!’ said Delaney. ‘I’ll leave you a banker’s draft at the reception.’

  ‘Gentlemen, lady.’ The Mayor was back on his feet. ‘The matter is now closed. As of this moment you are free to leave the hotel and enjoy the sights of our town. I am asked to tell you that the funeral of John Delaney will take place at three o’clock this afternoon in the church behind the Hotel de Ville. Tonight the town of Le Puy would like to invite you to a banquet here in this hotel. The Mayor’s office will pay and look after the arrangements. Tomorrow there will be a special pilgrims’ Mass in the cathedral at nine o’clock, the service to be taken by the Bishop himself. Until this evening then. I wish you all a very good d
ay.’

  The pilgrims shot out of the room into the fresh air of the town, like children let out of school. Powerscourt saw Lady Lucy out of the corner of his eye, conversing happily with the Sergeant. Delaney was brooding at the back of the room, shaking his head sadly from time to time. ‘It’s not the money,’ he assured Powerscourt, ‘stock dividends and bond interest should clear that before lunchtime. I feel they’ve put one over on us somehow, that we’ve been conned. Me, Michael Delaney, beaten by a bunch of Frenchmen in berets.’

  Powerscourt assured the tycoon that they hadn’t lost, they had won. The pilgrims were leaving.

  ‘Maybe we could have gotten to that judge person earlier. Maybe we were thinking too small.’ The vast possibilities of the New World that had made Delaney so rich seemed to open out before him once more. ‘What do you think it would have taken to fix the man? Flat in Paris? Château on the Loire, wherever that is? Women? He looked as though he could do with a woman or two, that judge, now I come to think about it.’

  ‘I must go now,’ said Powerscourt. ‘The Sergeant is taking Lady Lucy and me to St Michel, the rock where John Delaney died.’

  ‘Careful now,’ said Michael Delaney. ‘Don’t fall off.’

  The volcanic pinnacle of St Michel d’Aiguilhe is some distance from the cathedral and the pink Corneille Rock with its huge statue of the Virgin and Child. It disappears behind other buildings as you approach, reappearing in larger and more menacing form as you draw closer. The day was overcast, with dark clouds scudding across the sky and gusts of wind tearing at their clothes. The summit was some two hundred and sixty feet above ground with a tenth-century chapel at the peak and, as the Sergeant told them at the bottom, there were two hundred and sixty-eight steps to the top.

  ‘There’s a rail most of the way,’ said the Sergeant, preparing to lead his party upwards. ‘Hold on to that. If you’re worried about heights, don’t look down.’ The Sergeant resolved to take special care of Lady Lucy. She might get blown away in the wind.

  Powerscourt was worried about heights. He always had been. He had once been forced to come down the steps that led to the roof of Durham Cathedral sitting down after vertigo struck him at the top. Lady Lucy watched him anxiously as they set off.

  ‘You will be careful, Francis, won’t you?’ she said to him. ‘Turn back if you feel queasy. I can give you a full report later.’

  Powerscourt worked out a plan he thought might take him to the top. It was, he knew, the sight of the drop that would set him off. The path clung to the outside of the rock, snaking its way round the edge of the volcanic outcrop towards the sky. There was always rock to look at on one side or the other. After a hundred steps or so they came to a little clearing. Lady Lucy asked her husband if he wanted to sit down. The drop on the left-hand side was clearly visible from the bench. Powerscourt shook his head. The Sergeant, all fifteen stone of him, was trudging steadily on, a few paces ahead of them. Powerscourt thought he was doing well. Look at the step. Look at the Sergeant’s back. Look at the blessed rock to one side of you. Look at Lady Lucy. Don’t look round. Don’t look down. Don’t look back. The rain was falling heavily now, the steps growing slippery. They passed another resting place with a bench for weary travellers. Again Powerscourt declined. He was panting now, sweat breaking out on his forehead. Just one step at a time. There. Now another one. One more. Don’t look down. Don’t look up. Don’t look across. Keep your eyes on the rock to your left or right. We must be nearly there now. A dark bird shot past just a few feet away. Powerscourt slipped slightly but then regained his bearing. It’s an omen, he said to himself. I’m going to be all right. Don’t look down. Don’t look up. Don’t look sideways. Fix your eyes on the step, on the dark blue uniform of the Sergeant, on Lucy’s feet. One step at a time. You’re wearing brown boots today. The Sergeant’s boots are black. The bottoms of the Sergeant’s trousers are frayed. One foot in front of another. Keep looking at the rock.

  He had long ago abandoned the rail and was huddling close to the rock on the left-hand side. In the past vertigo attacks crept up on him very slowly. There was always time to turn back and it would pass in a minute or two. The Sergeant did not look round. He could hear the other two coming up behind him. Lady Lucy was talking to her Francis now, very quietly. ‘You’ve done so well, my love. You’re nearly there. Don’t rush it, we’re nearly there.’ We must have done over two hundred steps now, Powerscourt said to himself, and began counting from two hundred. Two hundred and five. Don’t look down. Two hundred and eight. One step at a time. Two hundred and ten. To his right he saw for a fraction of a second the ground below, pygmies and dwarves moving along matchstick roads. He looked away. Two hundred and thirteen. Nearly there. Don’t look back. Two hundred and fifteen. The sweat was pouring down his face now. There was still rock, blessed rock on his left. Two hundred and eighteen. The pinnacle tapered as it rose to the little chapel on the top. These steps are very worn. How did they carry all the building materials to the top a thousand years ago? One step at a time. Two hundred and twenty-one. Only forty-seven to go. One of my laces is broken. Don’t look round. The rock to his right ran out. Don’t look down. A gust of wind and rain hit him full in the face. Good. Don’t look round. Don’t look up. The Sergeant’s trousers are dark blue. The bottom of Lucy’s dress is grey. Two hundred and twenty-five. There is green moss clinging to the rock. Don’t look down. Two hundred and twenty-eight. Keep your head down. Two hundred and thirty-one. Then he ran out of rock. There wasn’t any rock on his left. There wasn’t any rock on his right. Infinity loomed behind the rail. There was no warning. The vertigo hit him like a typhoon. The sky was spinning round above him. The chapel of St Michel was whirling away in the opposite direction. He felt his legs begin to go. The clouds, those dark grey clouds were accelerating above him, shooting into space. His head was going round faster and faster.

  ‘Sergeant! Quick!’ For a big man the Sergeant moved remarkably fast. Lady Lucy took one side of her husband, the Sergeant the other. Powerscourt was reeling like a drunken man. He knew what he had to do. He had to throw himself over the side. He had to jump. Then this terrible spinning sensation, this total loss of control, might stop. He had to go. He flung himself desperately towards the edge. The Sergeant took him in a bear hug. For a moment Lady Lucy thought the two of them might plunge into the abyss. Then Powerscourt tried the other side. A really determined man, his wits cascading round his head like the colours in a child’s kaleidoscope, could force his way over the left-hand side of the rock. Again the Sergeant just managed to hold him, Lady Lucy pulling desperately from the other side. Still the tempest in Powerscourt’s brain raged on, people, buildings, rock zooming away from him, swirling round and round and round and round and shooting up and down and up and down. There was another struggle. There was a brief pause. Lady Lucy thought incongruously that if her husband’s brain was stable he would be comparing this with the final conflict between Sherlock Holmes and Dr Moriarty at the Reichenbach Falls. Then the Sergeant whipped out his truncheon. He hit Powerscourt a very firm blow on the head. Powerscourt passed out two hundred and thirty feet above ground with his wife and a police sergeant for company. There were only thirty-seven steps to go.

  ‘Sergeant!’ said Lady Lucy and then she realized he might have saved her husband’s life. ‘Well done! How very clever of you to think of knocking him out!’

  ‘I wasn’t sure we could hold him,’ said the Sergeant. ‘This seemed the best thing.’

  ‘What do we do now?’ asked Lady Lucy. ‘Do we wait for him to come round?’

  ‘I don’t think so, Lady Powerscourt. I think he might be off again if we leave him up here. I’ll carry him down.’

  In ten minutes the Sergeant and Lady Lucy had carried him down. In fifteen the three of them were installed in a little café at the bottom, waiting for Powerscourt to come round.

  ‘I’m still here,’ he said at last. ‘I’ve got a very sore head. I know I had a terrible attack of vertigo up there.
’ He shuddered as he looked up at St Michel, dimly visible through the dirty windows of the café. ‘I had this irresistible urge to jump off the rock.’

  ‘The Sergeant knocked you out, Francis. Then he carried you down.’

  ‘I’m very much obliged to you, Sergeant. I think you may have saved my life.’

  As the Sergeant prepared to move off to more normal duties, Powerscourt held him back.

  ‘I say, Sergeant, I’ve only just thought of this. Do you suppose that poor man John Delaney suffered from vertigo? If he’d gone up there on his own and been sent spinning round, he’d have fallen off or jumped off just like I nearly did.’

  ‘Don’t suppose we’ll find the answer to that one, Lord Powerscourt. I don’t see how we’ll ever know.’

  ‘I shall make inquiries in England,’ said Powerscourt, resolving to send a message to Johnny Fitzgerald. ‘If I find the answer, rest assured that you’ll be the first to know.’

  Half an hour later Powerscourt and Lady Lucy were in the Cathedral of Notre Dame, staring at the Black Madonna above the high altar. Alex Bentley had given Powerscourt some of the history of this strange artefact over breakfast that morning. The statue itself was small, less than three feet high. A black ebony Virgin with staring eyes was dressed today in a white robe embroidered with fleurs-de-lis and golden roses. Halfway down, a small black Christ, wearing a crown, peeped out from under the robe.

  ‘Is it very old, Francis?’ whispered Lady Lucy.

  ‘The original was very old, Lucy. It was brought here by some Louis who was a king and saint in the late 1250s. Le Puy was famous as a Marian shrine long before that but this one up there really put them on the map. They say Louis was given it as a present by some prince in the Middle East. The Black Madonna brought the pilgrims to Le Puy. The Black Madonna was their special attraction. Nobody else had one. The Black Madonna made the town rich.’