Death of a Pilgrim Page 11

  ‘What happened to the original, Francis?’

  ‘Ah well,’ said her husband, ‘the original perished in the Revolution. Some say she was burnt at the Feast of Pentecost in 1794, there’s even a story that she was beheaded in the guillotine. You won’t be surprised to hear the church authorities decided to bring her back in the middle of the nineteenth century. Maybe she could make Le Puy rich again. This is a copy of the first one.’

  Lady Lucy wandered off to another part of the cathedral. Powerscourt moved forward, as close as he could get to the little ebony statue in her white robes up on the wall above the high altar. It was extraordinary how this tiny figure dominated the entire building, how your eyes were drawn to it from all over the cathedral. Powerscourt wondered what it would have meant to those pilgrims over six hundred years before. A black Madonna and a black Christ. That surely meant a black Joseph, black disciples, a black Peter, a black Mark, a black Matthew and a black Judas. Did it also mean a black God in a black heaven with black angels and black cherubim and black seraphim? And where would thirteenth-century minds have thought this black kingdom was? Did they know where Africa was? Probably not, he thought. No wonder people flocked to Le Puy in their tens of thousands even now to see the Black Madonna carried in glory through the streets of Le Puy on special religious festivals. She came, quite literally, from a different world.

  As they were leaving a young priest pressed a note into Powerscourt’s hand. It came from the Bishop. There was a prayer enclosed and a short message. ‘Dear Lord Powerscourt,’ it said. ‘Tomorrow, after Mass, I shall read this, the pilgrim’s prayer, for all making the journey to Compostela. It is very beautiful. I would not like to think that the people who are most meant to hear it will not understand it. Could you therefore stand by the pulpit and translate for the benefit of our English friends?’

  Powerscourt nodded to the young priest. ‘Please tell the Bishop that I shall be honoured.’

  Shortly before nine o’clock the next morning the pilgrims and the rest of the congregation were in their seats for the Pilgrims’ Mass. The dinner the night before had been a great success with speeches from the Mayor and Mr Delaney and a spectacular crème brûlée from the chef. It had been washed down with Châteauneuf du Pape, hidden away in the corner of the hotel cellars for special occasions, which Powerscourt thought was one of the finest wines he had ever tasted.

  Alex Bentley had placed the pilgrims in order of their method of transport by the west door of Notre Dame. At the end of the service, he had told them, when the Bishop reached the door they were to file out in pairs, the young ones who were going to walk first, the more sedentary pilgrims behind. On the other side of the nave Powerscourt noticed that there was a good cross section of the citizenry come to see them off. The Mayor and some of his staff were in the front row. Behind them the Sergeant with six of his police colleagues for company. And behind them the staff of the Hôtel St Jacques come to say goodbye to the guests they had served so well. Even the chef was there, in plain clothes.

  As the Mass flowed on Powerscourt realized that at last the pilgrims and their hosts were speaking the same language. When the service was over the Bishop, clad in his purple robes, made his way slowly into his pulpit and up the steps. Powerscourt, his copy of the prayer in his hand with his own translation underneath, stood to attention at the side.

  ‘Ici nous avons . . . ’ the Bishop began.

  ‘Here we have’, Powerscourt spoke slowly so his voice would not sound too hurried, ‘a pilgrim’s prayer that we believe goes back to the Middle Ages. It has been said over countless pilgrims as they leave this cathedral to go to Compostela. This prayer is for all of you today.’ Powerscourt paused. The Bishop carried on.

  ‘Dieu, vous avez appelé Abraham . . . ’

  ‘Lord, you called your servant Abraham out of Ur of Chaldea and watched over him in all his wanderings; you guided the Jewish people through the desert: we ask you to watch over your servants here who, for love of your name, make the pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela.’

  The pilgrims’ eyes were shooting between the Bishop and his translator at the bottom of the pulpit steps.

  ‘Be for us, a companion on the journey, direction at our crossroads, strength in our fatigue, a shelter in danger, resource on our travels, shadow in the heat, light in the dark, consolation in our dejection, and the power of our intention; so that with your guidance, safely and unhurt, we may reach the end of our journey and, strengthened with gratitude and power, secure and happy, may return to our homes, through Jesus Christ, our Lord. Apostle James, pray for us. Holy Virgin, pray for us.’

  The Bishop came down and shuffled slowly towards the west door. One of his acolytes followed, carrying a selection of objects on a silver tray.

  Wee Jimmy Delaney and Charlie Flanagan were the first to leave. The Bishop blessed them. The acolyte handed each one a copy of the pilgrim’s prayer and a scallop shell, symbol of the pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela for a thousand years.

  Waldo Mulligan and Patrick MacLoughlin followed, then Shane Delaney and Willie John Delaney, Christy Delaney and Jack O’Driscoll, Girvan Connolly and Brother White, Stephen Lewis and Maggie Delaney, Father Kennedy and Alex Bentley. Michael Delaney on his own brought up the rear. Powerscourt hurried Lady Lucy away to see the pilgrims leave. For the traditional route was down the steps by the west door, along a corridor, through a mighty ornamental gate and then down one hundred and thirty-four steps to the Rue des Tables at the bottom. They stood at the top of the steps and watched the pilgrims, some awkward, some relaxed, set out down the same steps into the same street on to the same route as their predecessors eight centuries before.

  PART TWO

  LE PUY–SAUGUES–ESPALION–ESTAING–ESPEYRAC

  Who so beset him round with dismal stories

  Do but themselves confound – his strength the more is.

  No foes shall stay his might; though he with giants fight,

  He will make good his right to be a pilgrim.

  Since, Lord, thou dost defend us with thy spirit,

  We know we at the end shall life inherit.

  Then fancies flee away! I’ll fear not what men say,

  I’ll labour night and day to be a pilgrim.

  John Bunyan

  8

  ‘I do wish we had Johnny Fitzgerald with us, Francis.’ Lady Lucy was staring sadly at the dark red covering on the walls of their bedroom, a fleur-de-lis pattern fading away, occasional marks from grease or spilt liquids staining the surface. ‘He’s always been here on the most difficult cases.’ She and Powerscourt were back in the Hôtel St Jacques preparing to compile a list of the pilgrims and their whereabouts on the day John Delaney died. It was, Powerscourt had said, time to begin the work that brought them to the Auvergne, the unmasking of a killer.

  ‘I’m sure Johnny’s time will come, Lucy. I’ve got to cable him about John Delaney, as you know,’ Powerscourt said, placing the big black notebook he had bought in the Maison de la Presse on the little table by the window. ‘Now then, you’ve got all your notes there and the ones Alex Bentley took in the interviews with our friend the Sergeant? Let’s begin with the Americans.’

  ‘Do you think they’re all suspects, Francis?’

  ‘What do you mean, all?’

  ‘Well, do you include that nice young man, Alex Bentley? Father Kennedy? Michael Delaney himself?’

  ‘For the purpose of this exercise, Lucy, we include the lot. I’d even include the cat if they’d brought one. I’m going to give each one a page to themselves. That way we can enter more information as we go along.’

  ‘Here goes,’ said Lady Lucy, pulling out a page of notes in Alex Bentley’s finest hand. ‘Maggie Delaney, spinster, in her early sixties, resident in New York City, religious fanatic, cousin of Michael Delaney.’

  Powerscourt was writing away. ‘Fanatic a bit strong perhaps, Lucy? On the religious front, I mean.’

  ‘No,’ said Lady Lucy with feeling.
‘You’ve not talked to the woman as much as I have, Francis. Fanatic possibly too weak if you ask me.’

  ‘Very good,’ said her husband and entered the word in his ledger. ‘Do we know what sort of cousin? First? Second? Some sort of larger number twice removed?’

  ‘Not clear. She only left the hotel once in the morning, she told the Sergeant. She went to buy some religious material in a shop on the Place du Plot. I’ve seen that place, Francis, it’s full of indescribably vulgar religious knick-knacks. Like you get in Lourdes only there’s no excuse here.’

  ‘I see,’ said Powerscourt. ‘What did she do in the afternoon? Prayers in the cathedral? Confession with one of the younger clergy?’

  ‘Not so,’ said Lady Lucy triumphantly. ‘She spent the afternoon in her room, reading works of religious devotion.’

  ‘God help us all,’ said Powerscourt. ‘Next?’

  ‘Father Patrick Kennedy, aged about fifty, parish priest to Michael Delaney, accompanied him, he told the Sergeant, in the dark days of the son’s illness. He spent the morning going round the cathedral. He climbed the Rocher Corneille and the St Michel. He went back to the hotel for lunch. He rested in the afternoon.’

  ‘Not surprised he took a rest if he did all that lot in the morning. The good Father must have been exhausted. Anything else we know about him?’

  ‘Great weakness for food, especially puddings, I’ve watched him at the table.’

  Powerscourt put that in too. You never knew what might be relevant.

  ‘Alex Bentley, aged twenty-four. New England family. Educated Princeton and Yale Law School. Secretary and general factotum to Michael Delaney. Went out once in the morning to take a coffee in the Rue des Mourgues. Otherwise worked in his room on the details of the pilgrimage.’

  Powerscourt looked up from his writing. ‘Related to Delaney in any way? Or just a hired hand?’

  ‘Hired hand,’ said Lady Lucy. ‘Rather charming sort of hired hand, I should say.’

  ‘Next?’

  ‘Wee Jimmy Delaney, aged about twenty-five, steelworker from Pittsburgh. Unspecified cousin of Michael Delaney, distance of ancestry unknown. Went first to St Michel Rock with Charlie Flanagan, then they went to the cathedral. After lunch they went to the Rocher Corneille and took a walk round the upper town. They returned to the hotel around four thirty.’

  Outside they could hear a heated exchange between one of the kitchen staff and a butcher’s boy delivering meat from an enormous pannier on his bicycle. It appeared that the wrong cut of beef had been delivered to the Hôtel St Jacques. The shouting match went on for about five minutes. The butcher’s boy seemed to have lost the battle.

  ‘Charlie Flanagan, aged early twenties again, carpenter from Baltimore, cousin of Michael Delaney on his mother’s side. His version of events is identical, almost word for word with Wee Jimmy’s. Do you think that is suspicious, Francis?’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ said Powerscourt. ‘Alex Bentley was writing this down. He may have made their versions word for word because he remembered the other one. Anything else we know about this Charlie?’

  ‘He makes models out of wood,’ said Lady Lucy. ‘They say he did a beautiful one of the ship they crossed the Atlantic in.’

  ‘Next?’ said Powerscourt.

  ‘Waldo Mulligan,’ said Lady Lucy. ‘Works for a senator in Washington. Looks slightly haunted some of the time. I saw him one afternoon drinking whisky in the bar all by himself. Like Father Kennedy he went to the two Rochers and the cathedral in the morning but in the reverse order. He stayed in the hotel in the afternoon. Possibly in the bar, but he didn’t say.

  ‘Our last American is Patrick MacLoughlin, aged twenty-two, training for the priesthood in Boston. He went to the cathedral in the morning and the Rocher Corneille in the afternoon. He didn’t go to St Michel at all.’

  ‘Didn’t he now,’ said Powerscourt thoughtfully. ‘I wonder why. I’d have thought that St Michel would have a greater appeal than the Rocher Corneille, Lucy, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Maybe he’s scared of heights, Francis. I’ve met one or two people round here who aren’t overfond of tall rock pinnacles.’

  Powerscourt laughed. ‘Next, my love?’

  ‘We’ve got the Irish now, but the first one lives in Swindon. Maybe he’s just moved there recently. Shane Delaney, early forties, works on the railways. On pilgrimage for his wife who’s dying of some frightful disease and isn’t well enough to travel. Spent the morning praying in front of the Black Madonna. Spent the afternoon on pilgrimage to various bars in the town with Girvan Connolly. Back at the hotel about half past four.’

  Powerscourt remembered his conversation with Shane Delaney about his letter home.

  ‘Willie John Delaney, the man who is dying from an incurable disease. Didn’t feel well after the travelling, he says. Spent the day in his room, most of it asleep.’

  ‘I’ve always thought it could be a great advantage for a murderer to be dying of some frightful disease,’ said Powerscourt. ‘You could kill off all your enemies one by one. With any luck you’d be dead before they brought you to trial.’

  ‘Francis! What a horrible thought!’

  ‘It’s a fairly horrible way to go, being pushed off that damned rock out there,’ said Powerscourt. ‘Who else has ventured forth from the Emerald Isle, Lucy?’

  ‘Christopher or Christy Delaney. Aged eighteen. Going up to Cambridge in October. He went to the cathedral and the two rocks in the morning. He spent the afternoon reading a book set by his tutor at the university, Clarendon’s History of the Rebellion.’

  ‘God help him,’ said Powerscourt. He too had had to read Clarendon before going up to Cambridge. Perhaps the syllabus hadn’t changed at all.

  ‘One last Irishman, Francis, Jack O’Driscoll, aged about twenty-five, related on his mother’s side. Newspaperman. He wandered round the town in the morning, stopping for one or two beers, and took in the sights in the afternoon. He says he left St Michel about half past four in the evening but he’s not sure. It could have been five.’

  ‘Isn’t that the last time we have for anybody leaving there, Lucy?’

  ‘I think so,’ said Lady Lucy. ‘Only four to go now, Francis. Three really if you take away John Delaney.’

  The marching pilgrims had made good progress. They had reached the village of St-Christophe-sur-Dolaison, some five miles from Le Puy, with a bakery, a bar and an ancient church in red stone topped by an open belfry with four bells on top. A horse with a very large cart was tethered right outside the bar. It looked as if the horse knew the place well. The barman, a cheerful soul with a bright blue apron on his front and a black beret on his head, waved happily at the pilgrims. The religious element pressed on towards their goal, unwilling to be diverted. Indeed Brother White, who had read widely before coming on pilgrimage, detected in the barman none other than Mr Worldly Wiseman from the town of Carnal Policy, determined to make Christian give up his pack and stray from the path to the Wicket Gate. Father Kennedy had felt very tempted by the éclairs in the bakery window but did not wish to draw attention to himself by stopping. Patrick MacLoughlin followed the others as they walked straight out of the little square with the bar and headed for St-Privat-d’Allier.

  But the other pilgrims needed no encouragement to sit down outside the bar. Jack O’Driscoll ordered eight beers. All of them stretched their legs as far in front of them as they could.

  ‘Will you look at these boots of mine, for Christ’s sake,’ said Girvan Connolly. ‘I bought them for a song from a man in a market stall in Kentish Town. They’ve more or less fallen apart.’

  Sure enough, as the pilgrims peered at the boots, they could see that the outside sections had become detached from the soles. In a few more miles they would have disintegrated completely. Charlie Flanagan, carpenter by trade, whipped a strange-looking instrument from his pack and some stringlike material from his pocket and carried out instant repairs.

  ‘There, Girvan,’ he said doubtful
ly, ‘those should take you to journey’s end today. I wouldn’t count on it, mind you. That sole isn’t strong at all.’

  ‘Does anybody know how much farther we’ve got to go today?’ asked Wee Jimmy Delaney. All the pilgrims had been given maps. All had looked at them carefully in the early stages of the march. Some had turned them upside down for better appreciation of the route. Some had peered at their map from the side, or the bottom, or the top. One or two had got down on the ground and tried to make sense of them that way. Shane Delaney had thrown his away. Only Waldo Mulligan and Christy Delaney were able to read them properly, and this gave them great prestige in the group. Neither of them had been asked to pay for the first or the second or the third beer consumed so far in St-Christophe-sur-Dolaison’s bar.

  ‘Another ten miles or so. We go out of this place and turn left,’ said Waldo Mulligan firmly.

  ‘How long till we get there, wherever there is?’ said Willie John Delaney.

  ‘I should think it’s about four hours,’ said Christy Delaney cheerfully. ‘We’ll be there in time for tea.’

  ‘Tea be damned,’ said Jack O’Driscoll. ‘I asked the barman in the St Jacques about this St Private place or whatever it’s called. I think he said it had absolutely no redeeming features, none at all. Except, the man said, it had some of the finest red wine in the Auvergne.’

  ‘Girvan Connolly, Francis, mother’s side, aged thirty-five or so. Described as merchant from Kentish Town. It’s not clear why he’s on pilgrimage at all. Spent the day with Shane Delaney. Fond of a drink, our Mr Connolly.’

  ‘How do you know that, Lucy?’

  ‘I saw him out of the corner of my eye yesterday evening. Our friend Girvan was forever topping up his glass when he thought nobody was looking.’

  ‘Well spotted, Lucy. Next?’

  ‘Brother White, late thirties, teaches at one of England’s leading Catholic public schools. He spent most of the day in the cathedral, Francis. He was praying in front of the Black Madonna, he says. Other people who went to Notre Dame say they saw him there.’