‘What do you mean, you think they all died?’ said Johnny, thinking that perhaps a glass of John Jameson might be rather welcome now.
‘Well, this is the strange thing,’ said the old man, pausing to pour himself a refill, ‘they managed to keep some sort of records in these parts, records of the dying, I mean. Maybe the workhouses got paid for the dead as well as the living. In some parts of the country they’ve no records of the dead at all, it’s as if the poor people had never been here at all. We know there were twenty-four Delaneys, men, women and children, brought into the workhouse. But there are only records of twenty-three of them dying. One of them managed to get away, to survive, though God knows how they did it.’
‘Do you know which one it was, Mr McGurk? Man, woman, boy, girl?’
‘That’s a very intelligent question,’ said McGurk. ‘It was a boy of about twelve years.’
‘Do we have a name?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Do you know what happened to the Brian Delaney family? The bad ones? Are their descendants still here?’
‘They’re not. I don’t know if there was bad feeling against them but they left for America a couple of years after the famine.’
‘I don’t suppose you know which part they went to?’ said Johnny.
‘I’m afraid I don’t,’ the old man replied, closing his book. ‘Are you sure you won’t have a drop to keep me company before you go?’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Johnny, wondering what size of glass the old soak would pour him. He stared in astonishment as the bottle was tipped up into a fresh tumbler. Couple of inches, standard measure in an Irish bar, four inches, double, six inches, treble, eight inches and the recipient would probably fall down. McGurk stopped just after eight. ‘I hope that’s not too small for you,’ he said. ‘I can’t see much point in a half-empty glass myself.’
Johnny could see why Sean McGurk might not be at his best by the evening. As he thanked the old man and left him a five-pound note for his pains, he wondered if the historian would live long enough to build another pyramid of empties. Maybe he could be buried inside one, like the Egyptian kings all those years before. Making his way back to the hotel, just on the right side of sober, he saw a well-dressed woman walking down the street towards him. Johnny’s heart began to pound and he didn’t think it was the whiskey. People can change their hairstyles, he said to himself, their faces change of their own accord, but their walk remains the same. Coming down the street towards him, less than fifty yards away now, was Mary Rose, once the love of his life, now the wife of another.
Two hours after his escape from the cellar, Powerscourt was discussing his ordeal with Lady Lucy as they walked from the little house in the hills down to the Espeyrac hotel. The Inspector had discovered the winemaker bound and gagged in a barn beside his house. He told the policeman he had no idea who his assailant had been.
‘That invitation last night was so loud that anybody could have heard it, anybody at all,’ said Powerscourt, smelling his collar anxiously to make sure his clean clothes didn’t also reek of drink.
‘But why should the murderer decide to kill you now?’ said Lady Lucy. She wished more than anything that she could spirit Johnny Fitzgerald to her husband’s side. The knot of anxiety that tormented her when she knew Francis was in danger was churning round inside her. ‘What has changed in the last day or so? He could have made the attempt a long time ago.’
‘I’ve no idea. Maybe it was saying to Jack O’Driscoll that I don’t know who the murderer is. I think I said not yet. Maybe that got around among the pilgrims. Maybe the murderer interpreted not yet as meaning that I was on the verge of a breakthrough.’
The hotel keeper greeted them anxiously as they reached the Auberge des Montagnes. ‘Monsieur, monsieur,’ he said in a worried tone, ‘Mr Delaney is most anxious to speak with you. Immediately. And this cable came for you first thing this morning, monsieur. I’m afraid it seems to have been opened by mistake. I’m truly sorry, monsieur. Let us hope the message is not important?’
‘Do you know who opened it?’ said Powerscourt sternly.
‘I’m afraid not, monsieur, it was lying on the front desk in the reception. I suppose anybody could have read it.’
Powerscourt didn’t think anybody could have mistaken the name Powerscourt for the names of any of the pilgrims. Delaney, Mulligan, O’Driscoll, Flanagan, even a Frenchman would not be likely to mix those up. So, maybe the enemy was reading his post. He, Powerscourt, had often opened other people’s mail during his years in Army Intelligence. But then, he said to himself, Johnny Fitzgerald and I always covered our tracks. Nobody would have known we were reading their letters and sealing them up again. That way, you kept the advantage. Once the enemy knew you were intercepting their messages, the exercise lost all its value and could even become counter-productive if your opponents arranged to have false information sent to themselves through a third party. This could completely fool the interceptors, who would believe it to be genuine. Then the tables would be turned indeed. Powerscourt stared down at his cable. An intelligent man, he reckoned, could have sealed it up again quite easily, or sealed it up so the recipient could not be sure whether it had been tampered with or not. He wondered if the message was so dangerous for the murderer that he had to take immediate action, that his own position was now so exposed that he didn’t think about sealing it up again.
I don’t suppose I’ll ever know the answer, he said to himself, leading Lady Lucy to a seat in the sunshine some hundred yards from the Auberge des Montagnes. The message came from Franklin Bentley, Alex’s brother who worked for a law firm with offices in New York and Washington. ‘Some progress,’ it began. ‘Copies of book on Delaney’s life that was pulped years ago may still be at large. Total of four sent to London dealers before Delaney intervened. Publishers presumably hoped for sale to Americans in London. New York firm that published it went bankrupt years ago. No records found so far. Presume you investigate London end. Waldo Mulligan believed by rumour to be having affair with colleague’s wife. Not clear if sent away by senator who knew about it, or left in fit of morality. Morality fit unlikely behaviour in Washington DC. Unconfirmed, very unconfirmed rumour that Michael Delaney was married before the arrival of the second wife, mother of James. Not clear what happened. Wife dead? Couple divorced? Delaney bigamist? Inquiries continue. Good luck. Franklin Bentley.’
‘God bless my soul,’ said Powerscourt, and handed the cable over to Lady Lucy. ‘I’ll say this for Alex Bentley’s brother, he’s a good worker, and a quick one.’
The sun was bright overhead as Lady Lucy read the message. ‘Do you think we’ll be able to find one of those books in London, Francis?’
‘I suppose we’ll have to wait until Johnny gets back,’ said Powerscourt sadly. ‘I would love to get my hands on a copy of that book. Let’s hope he makes good progress over there in Ireland.’
‘I’ve got a second cousin, twice removed mind you,’ Lady Lucy put in, ‘whose husband works in publishing. I think he’s a director of some firm or other only I can’t for the moment remember which one. I’m sure he’d be able to help, Francis.’
Powerscourt had always known that whether he ended up in heaven or hell a selection of his wife’s relations would be there to greet him and demand the latest news about other members of the tribe. He hoped they might be closer than second cousins twice removed.
‘We don’t have an address, though, do we, my love? If we were in London I’m sure we could find out in a matter of hours but it’s not so easy over here. Let’s wait for Johnny. I’d better go and see Michael Delaney, Lucy. I don’t think he likes to be kept waiting.’
Two policemen were on duty in the hall of the hotel. Another one patrolled the ground floor. Yet another wandered in and out of the bedrooms, not bothering to knock before entering, just marching in as if he had a search warrant. Michael Delaney was drinking coffee in his private sitting room looking out over the valley.
‘Good day to you, Powerscourt,’ he said, inspecting an enormous cigar rather doubtfully. ‘Sorry to hear you might have been killed over there. The Inspector told me about it. Bad business. It must go with the job in your line of work, I suppose. Rather like going bankrupt in mine.’
He paused briefly and lit his cigar. ‘Now then. We’re all to stay here for another day. Only allowed out one at a time as before. There’s some damned conference this afternoon in that place Fidgack or whatever it’s called. Church, police, mayors along the route, a couple of local congressmen – deputies, I think they’re called – have got in on the act. I’m not invited. I just told the Inspector to remember that whoever is being killed, they’re not Frenchmen. No apparent danger to the local citizens if you ask me. But I’ve had an idea, Powerscourt. I’d like to hear what you think about it.’
‘Fire ahead,’ said Powerscourt, watching as a plume of smoke floated out towards the hotel flower bowl.
‘You’ll remember how it was in the Wild West,’ Delaney continued, ‘or if you don’t remember, you’ll surely have read about it. When the sheriff and the authorities wanted to catch a villain, bank robber, cattle rustler, murderer, that sort of character, they used to put up a poster in the town. Wanted, Dead or Alive, that sort of thing.’
Powerscourt thought his brains must have been addled in the wine cellar. He couldn’t see where this was leading.
‘And under the dead or alive section, they’d put Reward, Five Hundred Dollars, or whatever they could afford. Greed’s always a good motive for betrayal, my friend, I’ve seen that so many times in business. So why don’t we put up a notice here in the hotel, offering a huge reward to anybody who provides information that leads to the apprehension of the killer? Money only handed over on conviction, mind you. I’m not going to put my hand in my pocket just because some fellow comes in with a tall story. What do you think?’
‘It’s certainly ingenious,’ said Powerscourt. Lady Lucy or either of Powerscourt’s elder children could have told Michael Delaney from that opening remark that Powerscourt did not think this was a good idea. ‘How much money were you thinking of?’ he continued, playing for time.
‘A colleague of mine in New York tried this once when somebody in his firm was leaking business secrets to his competitors. He reckoned it had to be pretty big to work. What do you say to fifty thousand dollars?’
‘Fifty thousand dollars?’ Powerscourt was amazed at the size of the sum. ‘Why, Mr Delaney, a man might not need to work again if he had that sort of money!’ He knew there was no point in asking if Michael Delaney could afford it.
‘Well, at least he’d still be alive to enjoy it if we got our man. So would a lot of other people. So would you, Powerscourt, come to think of it, after this morning’s escapade.’
‘Well,’ said Powerscourt, ‘I think it deserves serious consideration, your proposal, Mr Delaney, I really do. I’ll have to see what the good Inspector thinks about it. We are on his turf, after all. I do have one reservation, I have to say. In those days in your Wild West, when people rode around on horses with gun belts and big hats and rifles strapped to their saddles, there were characters called bounty hunters, I seem to remember, who made a living out of catching the wanted men, the dead or alive people. And sometimes, in their enthusiasm, they might finger the wrong man in order to get their hands on the cash. Is that not so, Mr Delaney?’
‘Early version of free enterprise, bounty hunting,’ said Delaney. ‘All part of the American way of life, get your hands on as many dollars as you can. I don’t see your problem.’
‘It’s this. What happens if five or six of these pilgrims all decide to finger one of their colleagues to pick up the fifty thousand? They make up stories about their companions, a different person every time. The Inspector and I have to check them out. In the meantime the real killer continues undetected because we are following a whole lot of false leads.’
‘Forgive me for saying this, Powerscourt, but your investigation isn’t exactly proceeding at lightning speed at present, is it?’
‘Nobody is more conscious of that than I am,’ Powerscourt replied, ‘that is absolutely true, and it is perfectly proper to remind me of it. But let me talk to the Inspector, Mr Delaney. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. I do think I have earned the right to have some say over the way this investigation is conducted, mind you. After all, I could have paid for it with my life.’
Johnny Fitzgerald felt his face turning red, maybe even purple. Mary Rose, the girl he had proposed to all those years ago, the girl who had rejected him in favour of another, was now but ten feet away. Christ in heaven, he muttered to himself, this is worse than battle with the shells going off and the guns firing and the dervishes yelling their battle cries. Mary Rose took the initiative.
‘Goodness me,’ she said brightly, ‘it’s Johnny Fitzgerald, isn’t it? I’d have known you anywhere. How are you, Johnny? What are you doing in these parts?’ Mary Rose spoke calmly as if she were talking to an old school friend she hadn’t seen for years. Johnny was in turmoil.
‘I hope you’re well, Mary Rose,’ he stammered. ‘I’m here on business.’
‘Really?’ said Mary Rose. ‘You’re not still in the Army then?’
‘No, I’m not.’ Johnny was sure his face was still lighting up the street. Two middle-aged ladies on the other side of the pavement slowed their walk to funeral pace to catch as much as they could of the conversation between the lady from the big house and the stranger. Word would go round the town before lunchtime, but it was unlikely that even the most farfetched explanations would be as bizarre as the truth about the meeting of the former lovers.
‘How are the family?’ Johnny couldn’t bring himself to speak her husband’s name.
‘They’re all fine,’ said Mary Rose. ‘I’ve got three boys and three girls now. Jonathan’s just been made Master of the Hunt, you know. He’s got rather plump with the passing of time, Jonathan has. I tell him it’s the cream. We have to find bigger horses to carry him every year.’
It was the word Jonathan that finished Johnny off. Even after all those years he could still see the cold print in the marriage columns of The Times. Jonathan still alive. Jonathan still married to his Mary Rose. Jonathan plump. Jonathan Master of the Hunt. Jonathan taking too much cream. Damn Jonathan. Damn him to hell.
‘You’ll have to excuse me, Mrs Osborne.’ Johnny was stammering again, and stepping past her as he spoke. ‘I’m in a great hurry. I’ve got to get back to London. My business won’t wait.’
‘But won’t you come to lunch? Won’t you come to stay? I’m sure the children would love to meet you. They’re always interested in everybody’s past.’
But her invitations were in vain. Johnny was striding up the street the way she had come as fast as he could. ‘Wait, Johnny, wait!’ she called after him.
Johnny just resisted the temptation to shout at her that waiting was the one thing she hadn’t done for him in the past, that she had promised to wait for him until his return from Army service but had betrayed him and his love and his offer of marriage with another instead. Wait indeed. Jonathan indeed. Too much cream indeed. Johnny didn’t wait. He headed for the railway station as fast as he could and waited two and a quarter hours for the next express to Dublin. He was leaving Ireland as fast as he could. He would wait no more.
Christy Delaney felt his French was improving. He knew now the word for tree. He knew the word for leaf, for cow, for sheep, for grass, for horse, for mouth, for face and for nose and for eyes. In some dim recess of his brain he was beginning to grasp noo, voo, too, eel and el. Somme was not a river in the north but had something to do with the word to be. His first proper encounter with Anne Marie as she cleared away the plates after lunch in an empty dining room had gone well. He had learnt her name and been informed that she would go for a walk with him later that day. Christy did not know it but Lady Lucy had smoothed his path by having a word with the girl’s mother.
> ‘Mightn’t he be a murderer, like all the rest of them? I don’t want my girl being involved with a killer, heaven forbid,’ had been the reaction of Marie Dominique, the mistress of the hotel.
Lady Lucy had assured her that she didn’t think Christy was a murderer. ‘He comes from a good family in Ireland, as far as I can make out,’ she continued innocently. ‘I believe they own a lot of land.’
‘Do they, indeed,’ replied Marie Dominique. ‘I see. How very interesting.’
Their walk had taken them up into the hills. They had sat on the grass and looked at the view and into each other’s eyes. They made another date. Christy decided that he needed to improve his vocabulary yet further. He resolved to set up another tutorial with Lady Lucy. It was just one word he was interested in this time, the word for love.
16
Cable from Johnny Fitzgerald to Lord Francis Powerscourt:
Have found the story about Delaney family in famine years. Old man married to whiskey bottles has interviewed surviving locals. Three poor Delaney families, one better off. Potatoes give up ghost. Poor Delaneys on verge of giving up ghost. Appeal to richer Delaney family. They refuse aid of any kind. All twenty-four poor Delaneys repair to workhouse and die of plague, dysentery, despair etc. But one survived. Boy, about twelve years in 1846–48. Fate, country of residence unknown. Richer Delaneys later went to America, possibly unpopular with surviving locals. Reckon this survivor would be in late sixties, early seventies. Unknown if he had any children. Unknown place of residence. Obvious motive. Do you have any elderly pilgrims who look as if they might have fled the famine? Regards, Fitzgerald.
Death of a Pilgrim Page 23