Death of a Pilgrim (30 page)

‘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.

Cable from Johnny Fitzgerald to Lord Francis Powerscourt:

Cable from Lord Francis Powerscourt to Franklin Bentley:

Cable from Lord Francis Powerscourt to Johnny Fitzgerald.

Cable from Johnny Fitzgerald to Lord Francis Powerscourt:

As he inspected his messages Powerscourt knew there was one avenue he had to explore, an avenue he had been dreading. The man who knew most about Michael Delaney’s past
was here, Michael Delaney himself. He had, after all, organized the pilgrimage. But Powerscourt doubted if he would tell him the truth. He found Delaney inspecting a pile of cables of his own.

‘Steel stock going up, Powerscourt, oil too. I’ve got big interests in both. I’m a lot richer today than I was yesterday!’ He looked up from his armchair in the private
sitting room. ‘Can I be of assistance? Is there any news about the French pow-wow? Might we be able to leave soon?’