Death of a Pilgrim (26 page)

Powerscourt turned and looked at the terrible fate of the stone glutton in the tympanum seven centuries before, being pulled towards a fire under an enormous cooking pot, the fire of hell.

‘We should go now.’ The Inspector took command, searching the top of his head once more for the vanished hair. ‘I have told the pilgrims they are to march in single file. They
are not allowed to talk to each other. It should only take a couple of hours.’

Back they went, back past the cobbled streets and the half-timbered houses, back through the Porte du Barry and over the Roman bridge pilgrims had crossed in their thousands centuries before.
Those earlier pilgrims, Powerscourt thought, would have left Conques with their spirits high, inspired or terrified by the Last Judgement and the fate of the figures in the tympanum, astonished by
the golden wonder of the statue of the saint, blessed by the mystery of the Mass. These pilgrims of 1906 were fleeing Conques like Lot and his family in the biblical story of Sodom and Gomorrah. If
they looked back they would be turned into pillars of salt. Then he remembered that one important part of the story was the wrong way round. In the Bible the refugees were fleeing from the cities
of iniquity, Sodom and Gomorrah. Here, on the road to Senergues and Espeyrac, Conques, the city behind them, was totally innocent. Iniquity lay among the pilgrims.

All through the early afternoon the pilgrims marched in silence, lost in their own thoughts or contemplating their sins. Michael Delaney knew what to do with the hotelkeeper
to secure their lodging for the night. He felt sure that word of the latest murder would reach the hotel before they did.

‘Offer him double what we paid the night before,’ he said to Powerscourt as Espeyrac and its spire came into view once more. ‘That should keep the fellow quiet.’

Shortly after they arrived the Inspector and Powerscourt began another round of interviews. Where exactly were the pilgrims when the schoolchildren arrived? Could they put a cross on the page
with the drawing of the square the Inspector had produced from memory? Did they see Stephen Lewis go round to the side of the building? Did they see anybody go with him? How well did they know
Lewis? Had they ever met him before? Had they seen anybody come back from the part of the church with the fateful coffins? As he wrote down the answers in English while the Inspector wrote them in
French, Powerscourt found that his brain had moved off somewhere else even as his pen raced across the page and his voice translated from French into English and back into French again. He had done
this so many times already. Perhaps he and Lucy were on an interpreter’s course and this was the final exam, though a part of his brain told him it was certainly not the final test. They
might be only halfway through. Maybe they would get a diploma at the end, whenever and wherever that might be. Then he noticed something else, something that worried him very much. The harsh words
of the Mayor and the priest of Conques had made the bond between the pilgrims even stronger. They looked at the Inspector as if he was an enemy and at Powerscourt as if he might be an ally who
would turn traitor and desert the cause at any moment. There was an air of hostility towards the policeman that there hadn’t been in Le Puy. Powerscourt wondered if the pilgrims were telling
them the truth. He wondered if they would lie for a fellow pilgrim even if they thought he might be a murderer. His investigation, never easy in this case, was growing more difficult all the
time.

There were more problems later that day when Jack O’Driscoll, the young newspaperman from Dublin, asked if he could have a word in the hotelkeeper’s office. The reporter looked
anxious.

‘Please forgive me for troubling you, Lord Powerscourt,’ he began. ‘I’ve got something on my mind.’

For a brief second Powerscourt felt hope flooding through him. The young man knew who the murderer was. Jack O’Driscoll had the answers. A day or two more and he and Lucy could go home to
their children.

‘You remember I’m a reporter, Lord Powerscourt, with one of the big papers in Dublin?’

Powerscourt thought he knew what was coming. He had been expecting it. ‘Of course I do, I remember you telling me all about it.’

‘It was my editor who sent me here,’ Jack O’Driscoll went on. ‘He said it would be good for me. They’ve always been good to me on the paper.’

Powerscourt thought that the customary cynicism of the newspaperman had not yet wormed its way into the O’Driscoll soul.

‘Now I think I’m letting them down, Lord Powerscourt, so I do.’

‘And why is that?’ asked Powerscourt with a smile.

‘I think you know just as well as I do.’ O’Driscoll grinned back, a rather naughty grin. ‘Here we are sitting on one of the best newspaper stories of the twentieth
century. I promised you before that I wouldn’t do anything or write anything without your approval. Well, I would like to ask you to reconsider, I really would.’

‘What do you think has changed since we spoke about this before?’ Powerscourt wasn’t going to make the young man’s life too easy.

‘It’s obvious, Lord Powerscourt. Forgive me if I talk in newspaper speak for a moment. The last time we had one dead body, thrown off the twisting path up to that little chapel in Le
Puy. One murder, even of an Englishman or an Irishman, in foreign parts doesn’t rate too highly. Small para in the news round-up on an inside page at best. Two deaths in the south of France,
a dead American added to the mix, that’s better. Mysterious murders. Corpses sent floating down French rivers in the middle of the night. That might get you half a page and a lot of words,
four or five hundred, maybe more. But three! Three dead men, sent to their end by a maniac who leaves scallop shells on the bodies of his victims. It’ll be the best murder story since Jack
the Ripper stalked the tenements of Whitechapel all those years ago. Think of the ingredients, Lord Powerscourt. American millionaire. Dying son saved from death by a miracle. A pilgrimage paid for
by Croesus for members of his family. A pastry priest from Manhattan, keener on his stomach than on the salvation of souls. Some of the most sacred places in France. A Black Madonna. A stolen
saint. Three victims all killed in different ways. A famous Anglo-Irish investigator and his wife, summoned from London to solve the mystery. The pilgrims themselves, a dying man, another on the
staff of a senator in Washington, another on the run from his creditors. What a cast! What a story! The Psychopath from Le Puy!’

Jack O’Driscoll paused, and took a deep draught of the beer he had brought with him.

‘And how would you tell the story?’ Powerscourt asked.

‘I thought about that this afternoon as a matter of fact,’ the young man said. ‘Nothing like being force-marched along the road like a bloody convict to concentrate the mind.
Originally I was going to write it up as one very long story. Then I thought of the boys in the circulation department. There’s nothing they like better than splitting a story up. If they
thought they could get away with it, they’d carry the reports of the football matches on successive days rather than the whole thing on the day after the game. Make the readers hungry for
more, they say down in circulation. Make them want to buy the paper again the next day. Then we’ll sell more copies, charge more for the advertisements. They’d love this story, Lord
Powerscourt, they’d just love it. Maybe I could write one general piece at the front about Mr Delaney’s son and the decision to make the pilgrimage. Some colour stuff about the pilgrim
routes through France. Warning in the last paragraph that things are about to go terribly wrong as they reach Le Puy. Murder starts in tomorrow’s paper. Reserve your copy of the
Irish
Times
now, that sort of thing. Then it’s a dead body a day. The Scallop Shell Murders, I quite like that for a title. What do you think, Lord Powerscourt?’

Powerscourt smiled. ‘When you put it like that, it is indeed a tremendous story, even if it does deal with the death of people we know. And I can imagine how anxious you must be to see the
story in print before anybody else gets wind of it. By all means, write the story if that is what you think best. But I must ask you not to publish it, not yet any rate.’ Even as he spoke
Powerscourt was desperately trying to think of an argument that would convince the young man to hold his fire.

‘Of course I shall pay great attention to your views, Lord Powerscourt.’ Powerscourt knew immediately what that meant. If Jack O’Driscoll decided to publish, his views would be
politely ignored.

‘Let me tell you what I think would happen, Jack.’ Powerscourt pushed out the Christian name, like an exploratory pawn. ‘There would be a tremendous fuss. The other papers
would have to decide whether to ignore it, because it came from a rival, or to send their own reporters out. English papers, French papers, American papers, the route to Compostela would soon be as
packed as a Fleet Street pub. And what would happen then? I think the French would throw us out. A few dead pilgrims in holy places, that’s a minor irritant. France mocked because its
detectives cannot solve a crime, the murderer still on French soil, there would be an outcry. And these pilgrims, who you know far better than I, would they not be cheated of their mission? Michael
Delaney would not have offered proper thanks for the salvation of his son. Shane Delaney with the dying wife, how is he going to face his Sinead when he comes home without fulfilling his goal, and
her hopes of a miracle to save her life, however improbable they might be, are dashed to the ground? A bitter cup that would be for Mrs Delaney. And what of the others whose motives are less clear?
Are they to be denied what they hoped for from the pilgrimage? And all for a few newspaper articles which might make your name but would be soon forgotten when another scandal came along to knock
it off the front pages.’

Powerscourt wondered if this would work. He felt that only an appeal to the wishes of his fellow pilgrims might succeed in stopping the young man and his story. To his astonishment Jack
O’Driscoll laughed.

‘There’s a very old sub-editor on the paper, Lord Powerscourt, who’s always telling us not to take the business of journalism and newspapers too seriously. Remember it’ll
be wrapping up somebody’s fish and chips or lining their knicker drawers tomorrow, he says. You’re right about Shane Delaney’s wife, of course. She’s much more important
than the words in a newspaper article.’

The young man looked sad all of a sudden. Powerscourt couldn’t decide whether it was because of Mrs Delaney or because he was going to have to postpone publication yet again.

‘Why don’t you write as much of it as you can?’ he suggested. ‘It can’t be easy to get the tone right first time round.’

Jack O’Driscoll looked at him carefully. ‘I might just do that, Lord Powerscourt. But tell me this, do you know who the murderer is now?’

‘Not yet,’ said Powerscourt delphically. As the young man took his leave he wondered if he had said the right thing. ‘Not yet’ implied that he might be on the verge of a
breakthrough. He didn’t want word to get round the pilgrim grapevine that he was on the verge of solving the mystery. That might not be good for his health. Maybe he should have said that he
hadn’t a clue. But that might find its way into the newspaper article and he would be made to look a fool. One other thought struck him as he went in search of Alex Bentley. He wondered if
young Jack O’Driscoll might have too soft a heart for ultimate success in his chosen profession.

Lady Lucy Powerscourt was having a very different sort of conversation with another of the pilgrims, Christy Delaney, the young man from Ireland due to go up to Cambridge in
the autumn. Christy had asked Lady Lucy to take a walk with him. He wanted some advice.

‘Now then, Christy.’ Lady Lucy smiled at the young man as they left the village and headed up the twisting road towards Entraygues. ‘How can I help?’

The young man took a deep breath. ‘I’m in love, Lady Powerscourt, I’m sure of it.’

Lady Lucy resisted the urge to laugh at his solemnity. I shall have to be very careful, she said to herself. Love can be a very serious business when you’re all of eighteen years old and
in a foreign country.

‘Might I ask who the young lady is?’

‘You may,’ said the young man. ‘It’s Anne Marie, the daughter of the hotel owner here in Espeyrac. You must have seen her, Lady Powerscourt. She helps out in the hotel
and waits at table sometimes in that black and white uniform they all seem to have.’

Lady Lucy had indeed seen Anne Marie. Even Father Kennedy had been observed staring at her as she carried away the pudding plates or served the vegetables. The girl was a beauty, tall and slim
with dark hair and light brown eyes. She had a distinguished air about her as if she might have dropped in from some fashionable salon in Paris or St Petersburg. ‘She is very
beautiful,’ said Lady Lucy. ‘But tell me, Christy,’ she resisted the urge to remind Christy how young he was, ‘have you been in love before?’

‘I have not,’ the young man replied proudly. ‘This is my first time.’

‘Well, that can be wonderful, being in love for the first time. Sometimes it can be painful too, mind you. What makes you so sure – that you’re in love, I mean.’

Christy Delaney thought hard for a moment. ‘It’s quite hard to describe, I think. I feel elated and excited every time I look at her. I think about her all the time. I hardly noticed
the time walking back from Conques this afternoon. It’s just – exhilaration, you know, Lady Powerscourt. You must remember what it’s like falling in love with somebody.’

Lady Lucy didn’t say that she was still in love with her husband. ‘I do remember, Christy, it is all very exciting. Sometimes you think you’re going mad. Have you spent a lot
of time with young ladies? Do you have any sisters at home?’

‘That’s just it, Lady Powerscourt. There are five boys in our family. And the school I went to was all boys. So I don’t suppose you could say I was experienced in these
matters.’

‘And how can I help? It’s very flattering to be taken into your confidence like this, and I’d be delighted to help in some way if you think I could be of service. How good is
your French, for a start?’