Death of a Pilgrim

5

Father Kennedy began praying. ‘Pater noster qui es in caelis, Our Father who art in heaven . . . ’ The Sergeant and his men closed their eyes. Michael Delaney continued staring sadly at the dead man’s papers. Latin, Alex Bentley thought, the last universal language left. Maybe it would be easier to conduct the whole thing in Latin, the trial, if it came to that, adorned with Cicero returning from the dead in his finest toga to entertain the jury with his florid prose for the prosecution. When prayers were over, the Sergeant grabbed Michael Delaney by the arm and pointed to the map.

‘St Michel d’Aiguilhe,’ he shouted three times. Delaney stared at him.

‘He’s drawing our attention to that great pinnacle of rock, St Michel, sir,’ said Bentley. ‘Maybe that’s where he died, the poor man.’

As if he had understood, the Sergeant drew a fat finger very slowly almost all the way to the top of the pinnacle. He had been making climbing noises with his feet. Then his finger dropped suddenly down the side.

‘Tombe, peut-etre?’ he yelled.

‘He fell, perhaps?’ said Bentley, trying to put a question mark into his voice.

‘Ou pousse!’ The Sergeant turned round and pushed one of his men firmly in the back.

‘Or he was pushed,’ said Bentley.

‘On ne sait pas,’ the Sergeant said in a quieter tone with a Gallic shrug.

‘We don’t know.’

‘Alors,’ the Sergeant went on,

‘Anyway,’ said Bentley, feeling he was becoming proficient in translating one word at a time.

‘ . . . le monsieur ici . . . ’

‘ . . . the gentleman here . . . ’

‘ . . . est trouve au fond de St Michel.’ He pointed now at the very bottom of the rock, stabbing his finger into the surface of the glass repeatedly. ‘A huit heures ce soir. Il est mort, naturellement.’

‘I think he’s saying the body was found at the bottom of the rock at eight o’clock this evening, sir, but I’m not sure.’ Alex Bentley felt you could have understood what had happened from the sign language alone. Maybe he hadn’t done as well as he thought.

‘Aussi . . . ’ The Sergeant brought something out of his trouser pocket. He pointed twice to a jacket pocket and twice to the dead man. He handed the object over to Delaney. It was an Atlantic scallop shell, symbol of the pilgrim journey to Santiago for over a thousand years.

‘I think they found it in the jacket pocket, sir.’ Delaney held it in his hands. The dead man hadn’t even started on his pilgrimage.

Delaney led them back to the dining room. He made signs to the Sergeant that he was about to speak. One constable had been put on guard duty at the door. The pilgrims were turning into prisoners.

‘Friends, fellow pilgrims,’ he began, ‘I have some terrible news to give you. I have as yet, very few details. John Delaney,’ he pointed sadly at the empty chair, the unopened napkin, the cutlery still in the correct position, the wine glasses untouched, ‘John Delaney is dead. I believe the body was found at the bottom of the most distant rock pinnacle from here, the one they call St Michel.’

The pilgrims crossed themselves. Maggie Delaney hunted desperately for her rosary beads but couldn’t find them. She made a grimace and started praying anyway. Stephen Lewis, the solicitor from Somerset, wondered if there were legal angles to come he could assist with. Then he reflected sadly that he didn’t know very much about French law. He didn’t think there were any French speakers in Frome. Probably there weren’t any English speakers in Le Puy.

‘For now, I think we should wait here until we can discover what the French authorities propose to do.’

Michael Delaney was a veteran of strange meetings, of meetings sulphurous and meetings argumentative and meetings violent. One of his competitors had once enlivened proceedings by pulling a gun on the Delaney company secretary. But he didn’t think he had ever been in one as unusual as this. For the moment he was calm. The Sergeant was now sucking on his pencil and inspecting them all silently. The other constable had stationed himself by the kitchen doors as if to prevent escape through the stoves and pots and pans. And it was from the unlikely quarter of the kitchens that assistance came.

The head waiter was fairly sure that Alex Bentley was much happier with written rather than spoken French. He had after all translated the written menus very quickly earlier that day. The head waiter remembered a tribesman who was fluent in French for some reason, a legendary translator during the head waiter’s days with the military in the Maghreb who had lost his tongue in some tribal vendetta. But his knowledge of Arabic and French was unimpaired. The French officers would make their prisoners write down their statements or their confessions in Arabic. Sitting cross-legged in his tent the man with no tongue would write the translations down in French and hand them over to his employers.

He wrote a brief message to Alex Bentley. He heard, but did not understand, the translation.

‘Our friend here has a suggestion, sir,’ said Alex. ‘He will ask the Sergeant to write down in French what he wishes to say. I think I’ll be able to translate most of that all right. Then you tell me in English what you want to say and I’ll write it down in French. It might work, sir.’

Michael Delaney stared at him thoughtfully. ‘Might take a lot of time. Never mind. Let’s try it.’

The head waiter and a colleague departed briefly to the rest of their dining room and returned carrying a medium-sized table able to take four chairs. They brought a large writing book whose pages, Alex Bentley noticed, were not blank or ruled but filled with those impenetrable squares the French are so fond of. Alex wrote a brief message for the Sergeant. The Sergeant looked at him for a moment as if he thought the American was mad and then a slow look of recognition dawned on him. He grabbed a pen and began to write very slowly, pausing regularly to suck the bottom of the pen. French composition had never been his strong suit at school. Alex Bentley noticed that just as people shouted louder when speaking to foreigners, the Sergeant was writing in extra large letters. The pilgrims watched, spellbound. Girvan Connolly thought it would be permitted to refill his glass again; alcohol was always useful in the absorption of shock. Father Kennedy was staring sadly at his plate of congealed stew. It would never be the same now. At last the Sergeant stopped and passed the book over to Alex Bentley.

‘This is it, sir,’ Alex Bentley began, pausing every now and then to look down at his page, ‘the Sergeant here is operating under the assumption that this may be a suspicious death. People in Le Puy, he says, don’t go around pushing each other over the edge of St Michel. Nor do they go round throwing themselves off it. Most of them never go near the place. There hasn’t been a death of any kind, murder or suicide, up there for at least twenty years. For the time being, we are all under suspicion, all of us here in this room. Nobody, for the time being, is allowed to leave Le Puy. Nobody is allowed to leave the hotel. The process of interviewing all the suspects, as he calls us, will begin in the morning, one person at a time.’

There was a moment of stunned silence. All the pilgrims began to talk at once. Jack O’Driscoll had been watching Michael Delaney very carefully all evening. Jack had made extensive inquiries about Delaney before he set off and knew the man had a fearful temper. After this piece of news, he felt, Delaney might be about to blow.

Michael Delaney banged his fist on the table. ‘Quiet, please, quiet! Alex,’ he shouted, ‘this is monstrous! Monstrous! It’s intolerable! We’ve come on a pilgrimage, for God’s sake. Why can’t we bury the poor man and move on? Haven’t they got a policeman in this place who speaks English? Tell him I want to speak to the Chief Police Officer in the morning.’

Alex wrote as fast as he could. The reply was short.

‘You’re not going to like this, sir. He says the Chief Constable will not be available in the morning. The Sergeant is going now. He says he’s late for his supper. It’s always bad for his digestion, the Sergeant says, to be late for his supper. His wife doesn’t like it either. He will see us here in the morning. His two men will be on duty here in the hotel all night, sir. To make sure nobody leaves.’

As Alex Bentley finished speaking, the Sergeant rose slowly to his feet and marched out of the room. One of his constables took up a position in the centre of the doors leading to the hotel foyer and the outside world. Delaney restrained himself with difficulty. He downed a glass of red wine at breakneck speed. A French priest, presumably the local cure, came in and began talking quietly to Father Kennedy in a corner of the room. Brother White joined his companions of the cloth. Wee Jimmy, who was closest to them, thought they were conversing about the funeral in a kind of prayer book Latin.

‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ said Michael Delaney at last. ‘Let’s try and approach this thing in a businesslike manner.’ It is one of the many differences between the French and the American character that the French attach great value to collective action. Fraternity. The Americans are suspicious of the state, and all in favour of individual initiative, of citizens taking responsibility for their own lives, rather than depending on others to do it for them.

‘Damn French police,’ Delaney began. ‘Useless, completely useless. If I don’t do anything else I’m going to get my own man to look into this death. Pinkerton’s, Alex, what chance of Pinkerton’s here in this dump?’ Michael Delaney had an account with the great detective agency Pinkerton’s in New York, enabling him to spy on his competitors all across the United States.

‘I doubt if there are any Pinkertons to be found anywhere in Europe, sir.’

‘Damn! We’ve got to find the top man,’ said Delaney firmly, ‘top private investigator fluent in English and French, able to drop whatever he’s doing and start immediately. Money no object. Anybody got any ideas?’

He turned to Father Kennedy. God might have some ideas. Plenty of contacts, God. ‘Your friend there, Father. Does he speak English?’

‘I’m afraid not, Michael,’ said Father Kennedy. ‘We’re conversing in Latin here.’

‘God in heaven,’ said Delaney. ‘Alex, can you take your ouija board over there and ask the man to help us find this bilingual detective. Tell him to ask his bishop, for God’s sake. And ask the bishop to ask his archbishop if he doesn’t know. Not sure where we go after the archbishop. Anybody else got any suggestions?

Oddly enough, it was the youngest member of the party who had the best idea. He might have been only eighteen years old but Christy Delaney was a very intelligent young man. His parents moved in sophisticated circles in Dublin.

‘Why don’t you ask the Ambassadors, sir? Telegraph them in the morning. Ask them to find you such a man.’

Delaney, unusually for him, didn’t understand at first. ‘Ambassadors?’ he said, looking at the young man in rather a patronizing way. ‘Ambassadors plural? Why plural?’

‘Sorry, sir,’ said Christy, ‘I didn’t make myself clear. Telegraph the American Ambassador in Paris and the American Ambassador in London. They may not know the name of such a person but they will certainly know someone who will.’

‘Excellent, by God!’ said Michael Delaney. ‘Well done indeed. I’ll do it first thing in the morning.’ He wondered about offering the young man a job in the Delaney organization on the spot.

As the pilgrims made off towards bed, Father Kennedy was the last to leave. The food had all been cleared away. Looking wistfully at the doors leading to the kitchen he wondered what he had missed for pudding.

The French telegraph system was busy the following morning. Alex Bentley sent Delaney’s messages to the two American Ambassadors very early in the day. The priest sent word to his superiors. The Bishop of Le Puy was concerned not just about the death of a pilgrim in his diocese but about the damage that could be done to the good name of the town and its cathedral and the practice of pilgrimage itself. When he had dispatched his pleas for help to his brothers in Christ, the Archbishops of Lyons and Bordeaux and the Cardinal Archbishop of Toulouse, he sent word to the beleaguered pilgrims in the hotel. The Church, he assured them, would pray for their safe journey onwards in every service in the cathedral from this morning on. He himself proposed visiting the pilgrims in their hotel and, if possible, organizing some sort of service for the soul of the departed Delaney.

The American Ambassador in Paris, Bulstrode P. Wilson, had been in post for a number of years now. He knew France well. He thought he had dealt with every difficulty his fellow countrymen could encounter on their voyages to the strange lands of Europe. Pilgrims were new to him. He sighed wearily to his assistant that morning. ‘Get me the Minister of the Interior on the phone,’ he said, ‘then the President’s Private Secretary. And now I think about it, I’d better speak to the British Ambassador when I’ve finished with them.’

The Archbishop of Lyons did not speak English. He knew of no detectives. Privately he did not approve of these foreigners coming to France and murdering each other on French soil. To the Bishop of Le Puy he conveyed his inability to offer assistance on this occasion. The Archbishop of Bordeaux wanted very much to help these pilgrims for they and their successors would pass through some of his diocese on their way to Compostela. Honour and fame would attach themselves to his archbishopric. His congregation could only benefit, materially and spiritually, from the passage of these devout souls. But the Archbishop knew no English, he knew no policemen, he could only guess what a private investigator actually did. He too sent his regrets.

In the hotel the pilgrims were remarkably sanguine. Delaney had wondered if there would be a call to rebellion, people wanting to pack in the whole thing and return home. Father Kennedy reassured the doubters that they were doing God’s work. Alex Bentley and his notebook began the long process of translating for the Sergeant, returned to the St Jacques shortly after ten in the morning, as he began the interviews with every member of the party. Charlie Flanagan found himself another fine piece of wood in the hotel woodshed and began another carving. Jack O’Driscoll and Christy Delaney went to work on improving their French by ordering more beers in the hotel bar.

The Cardinal Archbishop of Toulouse was a more worldly sort of churchman. He was a secret devotee of the works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. In his mind’s eye, for he knew Le Puy well, he could see Sherlock Holmes, cane in hand, striding up the little path that led up to the summit of St Michel, Dr Watson panting at his heels. The Cardinal was a veteran of ecclesiastical politics. He liked to think that his work in God’s cause had led to the election of the previous Pope. His enemies – and he had many – called him a plotter and an intriguer. He preferred to think of his activities as guiding his colleagues who might suffer from confusion and uncertainty into the right path, into voting for his candidate. The Cardinal hoped to live long enough to take part in the next Conclave to elect another Pope when the current one was called home. Maybe he should stand himself. The quest for this detective touched a distant chord with the Cardinal. Somewhere, he knew, at some international gathering not very long ago, he had met a fellow Prince of the Church who had talked to him of such a man, but he could remember for the moment neither the name of his colleague nor the name of the investigator. He sent word that he was making inquiries and praying for God’s guidance. He would be in touch.

Whitelaw Reid, the American Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary to the Court of St James’s, had enjoyed a long and distinguished career in journalism and politics. He had served as the special representative of the US Government at the coronation of Edward the Seventh. He had been Ambassador in Paris before his present posting. He too summoned his assistant. ‘Get me the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police,’ he said. ‘Tell them it’s urgent. Tell them they’re to pull him out of whatever damned meeting he’s in and bring him to the phone.’

Sir Edward Henry, the Commissioner, came on the line straight away. He listened carefully as Reid put forward before him the little he knew.

‘You’ve come to the right place, Mr Ambassador,’ he began. ‘I believe we do have such a man in this country, though I do not know if he is available at present. Let me fill you in on his career. He served in the Army as an intelligence officer. Then he took up work as an investigator. He was involved some years ago – this is for your ears only, Mr Ambassador – in some delicate work involving the household of the then Prince of Wales. He was sent by Prime Minister Salisbury to reorganize Army Intelligence in the Boer War. He’s solved murders in the world of art and in a leading West Country cathedral. Recently he was dispatched by our Foreign Office to look into the mysterious death of a British diplomat in St Petersburg where, as you know as well as I do, he will have had to speak French. He’s charming, he’s clever and he has a very attractive wife.’

‘What’s his name?’ said Reid.

‘Our friend is called Lord Francis Powerscourt. I have been looking for his address for you while we speak. He lives at 24 Markham Square, Chelsea.’

‘Commissioner, I am more than grateful. If there’s anything my country can do for you in return, just let me know.’

‘Just one other thing, Mr Ambassador,’ said the Commissioner. ‘If you want a second opinion, could I suggest you get in touch with Lord Rosebery, our former Prime Minister? He’s long been a great friend of the Powerscourt family.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said the Ambassador. ‘Thank you so much.’

‘Right, young man,’ Ambassador Reid turned to the languid young man beside him, ‘this is what I want you to do. Take a cab. Go to 24 Markham Square. Find me Lord Francis Powerscourt and bring him straight back here. Immediately. You got that?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said the young man, heading for the door at considerable speed.

‘You’d better take him this cable so he can see what’s going on.’ James Whitney took the message from his master and hurried off through the wet streets of London. It was shortly after eleven o’clock in the morning.

Lord Francis Powerscourt was sitting in his favourite armchair by the fireplace in his upstairs drawing room reading a pamphlet by the suffragettes. He was just under six feet tall with curly brown hair and deep blue eyes that inspected the world with interest mixed with irony. He found some of the suffragette arguments quite convincing. His wife Lady Lucy was looking at the catalogue for a forthcoming auction of antique furniture. There was a loud knock at the front door and Rhys, the Powerscourt butler, slipped into the room.

He coughed. Rhys always coughed. ‘There’s a young man to see you, sir. From the American Embassy, sir. Mr James Whitney.’

The young man strode into the room and shook Powerscourt and Lady Lucy firmly by the hand.

‘Please forgive me for rushing in like this, sir, but my mission is most urgent. Ambassador Reid has sent me here to bring you to him at once. It’s terribly urgent, sir.’

Powerscourt smiled at the young man. ‘Am I being kidnapped by American forces, Mr Whitney? May I not learn something of what all this is about?’

‘My orders are to bring you at once, Lord Powerscourt. I have a cable for you to read on the way. My cab is waiting.’

‘Well,’ said Powerscourt, ‘I will come with you. You will remember, Lucy, the circumstances of my departure, virtually taken prisoner by our young friend here.’ With that he kissed her goodbye and was escorted off towards the American Embassy.

As they rattled along in their cab Powerscourt found himself fascinated by the little he learned from Delaney’s cable. The case interested him. A band of pilgrims marching towards a holy shrine as people had done in centuries past to Canterbury or Rome. Some of these towns on the route he knew already, Conques and Figeac and Cahors. He had always wanted to see the cloisters at Moissac. Roncesvalles in the Pyrenees spelt high romance with the death and the Chanson de Roland. Pamplona, he thought, had something to do with bulls.

‘Lord Powerscourt.’ Ambassador Reid had risen from his desk to greet his visitor. ‘Thank you so much for coming so promptly. Thank you indeed.’

‘I had little choice, Mr Ambassador,’ said Powerscourt with a smile. ‘Your young man here virtually carried me off at gunpoint.’

The Ambassador laughed. ‘Tell me, Lord Powerscourt, now you have read that cable you know about as much as we do. What do you think of it?’

‘I think the immediate position is difficult, Mr Ambassador. They can be very obstinate, these French policemen, and the French bureaucracy is never quick. Maybe Mr Delaney needs to put his hand in his pocket.’

‘What do you mean, put his hand in his pocket?’ said the American quickly. He didn’t want to see his Embassy and his country dragged through the courts of Le Puy on charges of bribery and corruption.

‘I don’t mean pressing notes into the hands or the pockets of this Sergeant and his men, Mr Ambassador,’ said Powerscourt with a smile. ‘I was wondering about a contribution to the restoration fund of the cathedral, maybe. These ancient buildings swallow money whole, as you know. Another contribution or even the endowment of a charity to look after the widows and orphans of the local police force, something like that, perhaps?’

Whitelaw Reid had known as soon as he heard the Commissioner’s description that this was his man. Now he was certain.

‘Lord Powerscourt,’ said Ambassador Reid, ‘let’s not beat about the bush. Will you take the case?’

‘I will,’ said Powerscourt.

‘Excellent,’ said the Ambassador. ‘May I tell Delaney the news?’

‘You may,’ said Powerscourt.

‘Is it too soon to ask how soon you will be able to depart?’

‘Well,’ said Powerscourt, ‘let me see. I would like, with your permission, to bring my wife along in the first instance. Her French is better than mine. Two translators will be better than one. I have one or two commissions I would like to perform before we go. I wish to brief my companion in arms Johnny Fitzgerald about the case and to leave him here for now. It may be necessary to pursue various inquiries here or in Ireland about the background of some of these pilgrims. I hope we could set off this afternoon, Mr Ambassador.’

‘Very good, Lord Powerscourt, that all sounds in order. May I thank you again for taking the case on. Let me quote the words of your poet John Bunyan, if I may, with yourself in the role of the pilgrim:

He who would valiant be

’Gainst all disaster,

Let him in constancy

Follow the Master.

There’s no discouragement

Shall make him once relent

His first avowed intent

To be a pilgrim.

‘May I wish you God speed, Lord Powerscourt.’

‘Thank you,’ said Powerscourt. ‘Who knows? Perhaps we shall meet true valour on the way.’