Death of a Pilgrim

10

A frantic hammering on his bedroom door woke Powerscourt shortly after half past six the next morning.

‘Monsieur milord,’ panted Jacques the hotel owner, ‘you must come at once! At once, I say. There has been a catastrophe here, in my hotel!’

Powerscourt noticed a slight glow in the man’s cheeks as if he had already been taking comfort from the local red. God in heaven, he said to himself, it’s not yet seven o’clock.

‘Whatever is the matter, monsieur?’ said Powerscourt, buttoning his shirt and wondering if half the pilgrims in their cells had been visited by the Exterminating Angel.

‘You must come, monsieur milord. I will show you. It is terrible!’

Powerscourt could hear Lady Lucy asking sleepy questions about where was he going so early in the morning as he sped down the stairs and out into the fresh air of Estaing. Jacques led him to the pontoon where the rowing boats were tied up.

‘See, monsieur milord!’ he said, pointing dramatically to the cut rope where a rowing boat had been tethered the evening before. ‘One of these boats has been stolen! I gave my word that they would be safe in my keeping to that villainous fellow Berthier who keeps the yard at Espalion. I signed a piece of paper promising to pay a great deal of money if any of them was lost. It is more than all my life savings, monsieur! But what was I to do? I was not to suppose that any of these pilgrims here would turn into rowing boat thieves in the night!’ Jacques stared angrily at the cut rope. Then another terrible thought struck him, possibly even more serious than the loss of the boat. ‘And what will Charlotte say? What indeed! I am ruined, monsieur milord, ruined! What a way to start the day!’

Powerscourt remembered the innkeeper’s wife, Charlotte, shouting at her husband the evening before to tear himself away from the bottle and supervise the serving of the supper. She was a formidable woman, he thought, round of figure, round of face, fierce of countenance, obviously the true mistress of the hotel. On one point at least Powerscourt could offer instant reassurance.

‘Calm yourself, monsieur, calm yourself. The missing boat may be found. It may turn up later today. But if it does not, Mr Delaney will recompense you for its loss. I’m certain he will contribute enough to pay off Mr Berthier from Espalion.’

‘Mr Delaney, the elderly American gentleman? Not one of the younger Mr Delaneys, but the old one? He has enough money to pay off Berthier?’ Jacques the hotelkeeper sounded suspicious, as if men of such improbable wealth were not to be found on the banks of the Lot. Powerscourt assured him that Delaney could probably buy most of southern France if the mood took him. Relieved that his money troubles appeared to be over and another onslaught from Charlotte postponed, Jacques took his leave of Powerscourt, saying he had hotel business to attend to. He did not tell his guest that his business lay in a back pantry off the kitchen where he had a secret supply of vin rouge hidden at the back of a broom cupboard.

Powerscourt bent down and took the rope in his hand. The cut was very clean. This was no hacking job with a blunt instrument. Whoever came down here in the middle of the night came fully prepared with a sharp knife to hand. What else had the thief brought with him? Had he simply climbed into the boat and floated off downstream like the Lady of Shallott? Powerscourt cursed himself for his folly and his delay and ran at full speed towards the pilgrims’ bedrooms. Were they all there? Or had a single pilgrim abandoned the party to make his own way on the next stage of the journey?

The six cells to the left of the main hotel building were all occupied, pilgrims complaining at being woken or greeting him cheerfully as they dressed. Powerscourt stopped in the fourth cell on the other side. This had been the temporary home of Patrick MacLoughlin from Boston, just twenty-two years old and training for the priesthood. Powerscourt felt sick as he remembered the young man saying the day before that he was completely useless at any known form of sporting activity. Maybe that had been a lie, a preparation for this flight down the river in the middle of the night, but Powerscourt didn’t think so. Patrick MacLoughlin was gone. There was only one set of circumstances, Powerscourt thought, which could unite the departure of MacLoughlin and the departure of the boat. Powerscourt raced into the Lion d’Or. He told Delaney to make sure nobody moved out of Estaing. He borrowed the innkeeper’s horse and sped down the road by the side of the Lot. He prayed to God that he was wrong.

M. Berthier of Espalion’s rowing boat had a fairly uneventful career after its unexpected departure from the hotel in the middle of the night. The river glided along in the middle of its gorge, the water almost black, the cliffs rising steeply on either side, the tall trees standing firm and upright against the night sky, the local wildlife peering curiously at a boat travelling down their river without any visible means of human propulsion. It stayed in the centre of the current for a long time, twisting its way past tiny beaches and the occasional small island. Shortly before dawn a breeze arose and this was enough to nudge the boat off course. It wandered off to the right and stopped by a group of rocks, close to a tiny bay much favoured by the local fishermen, a couple of miles from Entraygues-sur-Truyere. As Powerscourt was fastening his shirt buttons in the hotel an elderly angler called Maurice Vernais was settling himself into his usual position by the riverside. He had a couple of rods, a large basket to hold his fish, for Maurice was ever an optimist, and a smaller basket containing his breakfast, his lunch and an enormous bottle of wine. Maurice had long believed that the best way to achieve domestic harmony was to be out of the domestic environment for as long as possible. Had he but known it, his wife, Marinette, shared his opinion, only wishing that her husband could fish all night as well as all day.

Maurice saw the rowing boat, turning slowly away from him. Nothing would be more likely to disturb his fish. ‘Merde,’ he said to himself and marched out in his waders to give the boat a good push. The boat swung round and came back to rest in virtually the same place it had been before. ‘Double merde!’ said Maurice. This time he seized the front of the boat and waded out into the middle of the Lot until he felt he had reached the heart of the current. ‘Off you go,’ he said, pointing the prow downstream and giving it a firm shove. He resolved to have a leg of chicken and a large glass of wine shortly to fortify himself after his ordeal. Then he settled down and prepared his rods for the day. At no point had he raised the tarpaulin to inspect the contents of the boat.

The river Lot enters the little town of Entraygues from the south-west and passes under a medieval bridge. The rowing boat passed under the middle arch of this bridge, borne along by the centre of the current, and passed a nondescript road with a couple of shops. To the right a little street led up to the town square, a handsome place shaded by plane trees with room for weekly markets in season and sporting the inevitable bakery, butcher’s and bar. To the left, across the river, the hills rose steeply towards Espeyrac and Conques. The town of Entraygues takes its name from the Occitan entre aigas, between the waters, and it was this meeting of rivers that stopped the rowing boat’s progress. Racing down from its gorges to the north, passing beneath another medieval bridge, the river Truyere joins the Lot just after a ruined castle on the left. The force of the Truyere carried M. Berthier’s boat off course right across the combined river. It came to rest on the opposite shore from the town, parked on a bank of rough stones, just out of sight from Entraygues on the opposite side. And there it remained. It’s a fisherman, gone further downstream, said any locals who looked at it in the early morning. By noon it was still nestling by the side of the river. Oddly enough, Entraygues marked the first spot where the Lot was navigable upstream in medieval times, ancient vessels called gabarres carrying produce west along the Lot and the Garonne on a ten-day journey to Bordeaux. But for the little rowing boat, property of M. Berthier of Espalion, there was no more navigation that day. It was beached. The more fanciful citizens wondered if the owner had simply gone to sleep inside his craft after an early start with his fishing rod. The bells from the church tower were pealing the Angelus when a couple of small boys, just released from school for lunch, approached the boat.

Powerscourt made inquiries in the town square. A rowing boat? A rowing boat cut loose from Estaing in the middle of the night? Goodness me, monsieur, we do not have such things here in Entraygues. The man behind the bar looked closely at Powerscourt and wondered to himself if the English monsieur had taken too much armagnac the night before. Armagnac, the barman firmly believed, was always liable to produce hallucinations the next morning if taken to excess. Perhaps, he suggested, the thief had put the boat on his cart and driven off with it. The people in the bakery wondered if some fisherman might have taken it and hidden the boat in the ground just behind the river. It was the butcher, a cheerful soul engaged in the dismemberment of a great side of beef, who gave Powerscourt the best advice. There were always, he told him, some old fellows fishing on the banks of the river, and they usually arrived there very early in the morning to get away from their wives. Had Powerscourt seen any of these characters on his ride from Estaing? Had he been travelling fast? Perhaps he should retrace his steps at walking pace. Maybe the fishermen would have seen something.

Twenty-five minutes later Powerscourt came upon the figure of Maurice Vernais, holding firmly on to his rod and glancing sadly at the empty basket meant to hold his catch.

‘Forgive me, monsieur,’ said Powerscourt, ‘could I be permitted to ask if you have been fishing here all morning?’

Maurice Vernais stared at Powerscourt. Then he spat expertly into the sand at the edge of the river. ‘What business is it of yours if I have?’

‘I just thought you might be able to help me, that’s all,’ said Powerscourt, feeling that this interview might take longer than expected. ‘I’m looking for a missing rowing boat.’

‘Rowing boat, frigate, battleship, it’s all one to me,’ said Maurice, pulling in his line and preparing to recast.

‘But did you see a rowing boat, monsieur, on this stretch of river, earlier today?’

‘Happen I did and happen I didn’t,’ said Maurice, flicking his line well out into the Lot.

‘That’s a very pretty cast,’ said Powerscourt. ‘I’m sure you’ll catch something soon. Now tell me, did you see a rowing boat or not?’

Maurice Vernais repeated his spitting gesture. Powerscourt felt it was less than helpful.

‘Nothing to do with me, monsieur,’ the Frenchman said, fiddling with his line and deciding to have another large glass of rouge when this irritating foreigner had gone away. ‘None of my business. Nor yours neither, I shouldn’t wonder.’

Powerscourt decided there was only one answer. He reached into his pocket and drew out a wad of notes. Maurice Vernais eyed them greedily for he and his Marinette had very little money, depending on the fish caught in the Lot for much of their diet.

‘I wonder if I could make some small contribution towards your fishing expenses, monsieur,’ said Powerscourt, holding out a fistful of notes but not actually handing them over. Payment, he decided, would be by results. ‘Rods and things are very expensive these days.’

‘That’s a fine collection of money you have there,’ said Maurice, holding out his hand.

‘Not so fast, my fisherman friend, not so fast.’ Powerscourt drew his hand with the bribe close to his chest. ‘If I feel you are not telling the truth, then there is no money. Do you understand? Now then, did you see a rowing boat drifting down the river early this morning?’

‘I did,’ said Maurice Vernais finally, greed overcoming the natural instinct of the French peasant to be as unhelpful as possible. ‘It must have been about seven o’clock. The damned boat was stuck on those rocks over there.’

‘And what did you do?’

‘It was interfering with my fishing, so it was. Hard enough to catch fish anyway without damned rowing boats getting in the way. I gave it a good push, so I did.’

‘Was that all you did?’

‘Good push didn’t work. It came back to rest where it had been before. So I waded out and put it back into the current. Damned boat should be in Entraygues or even beyond by now.’

‘Did you see what was in the boat, monsieur?’

‘Why should I care what was in the boat, for God’s sake? I come here to fish, not to inspect the insides of people’s rowing boats like some devil of a tax man.’

‘Was the boat empty? Could you see the bottom?’

‘Damned boat had a tarpaulin drawn up all over it. Couldn’t see what was inside. It was pretty heavy, mind you. I could tell that when I shoved it into the current.’

‘Are you telling me that you didn’t even take a peek under that tarpaulin? The cargo might have been valuable, after all.’

‘Nothing to do with me. I’ve told you that already. Now why don’t you give my money and shove off. You’re disturbing the fish, for Christ’s sake.’

With some reluctance Powerscourt decided the man was telling the truth. He handed over some notes and set off back to Entraygues in pursuit of something buried beneath a tarpaulin. As he regained the main road he heard a shout of triumph from the river bank. Maurice Vernais had caught his first fish of the day.

Jean Pierre Roche was a curly-haired youth just past his tenth birthday. His friend Auguste was slightly smaller with a gap in his front teeth. ‘Race you to that rowing boat on the stones,’ said Jean Pierre, setting off at once for he knew his friend was faster than he was. Sure enough, Auguste overtook him towards the end of the hundred-yard dash to the stricken vessel.

‘I win,’ said Auguste proudly, touching the side of the boat in confirmation of his victory. They bent down and peered inside. More or less all they could see was the tarpaulin.

‘What do you think is underneath?’ said Jean Pierre. ‘Smugglers’ stuff, maybe? Perhaps it belongs to some gang of smugglers operating in secret all over southern France.’

Auguste removed the heavy stone that held it down and pulled back the tarpaulin. They stared at Patrick MacLoughlin, his head lying to one side, dressed in the black garments of the novice priest. MacLoughlin did not speak.

‘He’s asleep,’ said Auguste, ‘better leave him alone. I’m hungry. I want my lunch.’

Jean Pierre did not think the man was asleep. He had seen death recently in his own home, a grandfather who went to sleep in his chair after Sunday lunch and never woke up. That had been a year ago and Jean Pierre never forgot the strange pallor that spread over the old man’s face. Gingerly, his hand shaking slightly, he reached inside and felt the face of Patrick MacLoughlin. It was cold, very cold.

‘He’s not sleeping,’ said Jean Pierre, pulling the tarpaulin back over the corpse, ‘he’s dead. I’m going to tell Mama. She’ll know what to do.’ He started off at full speed back to his house. ‘It’s jolly exciting finding a dead person, don’t you think, Auguste? Maybe we’ll be let off afternoon school. I still haven’t finished that maths homework.’

‘Do you think there’ll be some reward?’ asked Auguste, keeping pace with his friend rather than overtaking him. ‘I could do with some extra money.’

Madame Daniele Roche was deeply devoted to all her five children, but if you pressed her up against a wall she would probably have said that Jean Pierre was her favourite. He was so quick and so curious and so bright. But she would have been the first to say that his imagination sometimes got the better of him. Last year he had reported a sighting of a squadron of lancers trotting down the main street of Entraygues. He had been able to give a perfect description of the details of their resplendent uniforms, but no soldiers had visited the town that day. A month ago he claimed to have seen Charlemagne himself on a mighty white charger pausing in the middle of the medieval bridge and asking Jean Pierre for directions to Conques. So when her eldest son announced that he and Auguste had found a dead body in a rowing boat by the river she paid no attention at all.

‘Come along, it’s lunchtime, Jean Pierre. Auguste, you’d better run off home. Your mother will be worried.’

Jean Pierre made no move towards the lunch table where his younger siblings and his elder sister were preparing to tuck into a fragrant stew, made to a recipe from Jean Pierre’s grandmother. Auguste too held his ground.

‘Please, Mama,’ said the boy, ‘I’m not making this up, I promise you. There is a dead man in a boat by the edge of the river. I don’t think he’s French either. I think he’s foreign.’

‘And what would a foreigner be doing lying dead by the Lot in our little town? We hardly ever see any foreigners round here. Come and sit down, Jean Pierre.’

‘Please, Mama.’ Jean Pierre was holding on to her arm. ‘You’ve got to believe me. I’m not making it up. He might be important, this dead man. Maybe the police are looking for him already.’

‘Your father always says, as you well know, that respectable people like us should have nothing to do with the police.’

‘Jean Pierre is right,’ said Auguste, entering the lists on his friend’s behalf. Mothers could be so unreasonable at times. ‘I saw it too, the dead body, I mean.’

Oddly enough the support and testimony of Auguste weighed heavily with Daniele Roche. Jean Pierre was capable of any feats of fancy but she had known Auguste since he and Jean Pierre started school together. Solid, yes, she would have said, reliable, yes, but about as much imagination as a dried raisin. That was what made him an ideal foil for Jean Pierre.

‘Well, maybe,’ she said, beginning to relent, ‘but you must eat your lunch first. Auguste, you’re more than welcome to join us as you’re so late.’

‘Please, Mama,’ said Jean Pierre, tugging at her arm. ‘We must go now. It could be important. How would you feel if one of your children was lying dead in a boat and some mother refused to help because of a plate of stew?’

Daniele Roche restrained herself from pointing out that the only member of her family she could imagine being found dead in a rowing boat was Jean Pierre himself. She entrusted her children to the care of her eldest girl and followed the boys towards the boat. Once there she too touched the dead man’s face. Then she crossed herself and knelt down to say a battery of Hail Marys. She sent the boys to run as fast as they could to tell the doctor, who lived on the far side of the town square, and the local policeman. The two of them, she thought, would be believed. Jean Pierre on his own would not be regarded as a credible witness. About forty minutes later the butcher’s cart, with the doctor on board, could be seen carrying a package wrapped in a tarpaulin towards the doctor’s surgery. The rumours were flying round Entraygues faster than the wind. The body of a top politician from Lyon had been found in the boat. Nonsense, said the more fanciful citizens, it was a mass murderer from Toulouse the police had been trying to apprehend for months. Rubbish, said the party that took its news from the boulangerie, everybody knew that the dead man was American, on the run from the terrible gangsters in New York City.

Lord Francis Powerscourt noticed the tarpaulin as he rode back into town on the Estaing road. He raced up to the melancholy party. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘please forgive me. My name is Powerscourt. I am an investigator from England, currently attached to a party of American pilgrims, at present resident in Estaing up the road.’ He lowered his voice slightly. ‘One of these Americans is missing. If you have what I think you have under that tarpaulin, I may be able to identify it for you.’

Half an hour later the business was complete. Dr Lafont informed Powerscourt that the dead man had been strangled before being placed in the rowing boat. After Powerscourt’s identification a label was attached to the dead man proclaiming him to be Patrick MacLoughlin, twenty-two years old, resident in the city of Boston in the State of Massachusetts, United States of America, an American citizen. The only other thing found in the boat, apart from the corpse, was a scallop shell, solemnly handed over to Powerscourt. A police sergeant had appeared. He informed Powerscourt that the local officers had all been informed about the pilgrims by their colleagues in Le Puy. An inspector was on his way from the neighbouring town of Figeac to take charge of the investigation. He requested that the pilgrim party remain in the hotel in Estaing and its environs until further notice. Here we go again, Powerscourt thought bitterly as he rode back. Who do we start bribing first? The Mayor of Estaing, whoever he might be? The local cure or his superiors from Conques? More contributions to the widows’ and orphans’ fund of the police force in Figeac?

‘My God, Powerscourt,’ said Michael Delaney when he heard the news. ‘To lose two, as that perverted playwright put it, looks like carelessness. I’ve taken to counting them every time I see them now, the pilgrims, I mean. I did a run-through at lunchtime when they all sat down here. Tell me, Powerscourt, do you have any idea what we are going to do? Do we have to start bribing the local worthies as we did in Le Puy? I find it hard to believe we can pull off the same trick twice. Have you, as yet, any idea what is going on?’

‘I have no more idea who killed Patrick MacLoughlin than I do of who killed John Delaney back there in Le Puy. I’m sure it’s the same person, that’s all.’

‘How many people did we have to start with?’ asked Delaney. ‘Sixteen? Now it’s down to fourteen and we’ve travelled less than a hundred miles. At this rate we’ll be lucky if there’s anybody left alive by the time we reach the Pyrenees. It reminds me of a great friend of mine, used to be much richer than me but not any more. Horses were his thing. Four or five years ago he had the finest collection of racehorses in America. He was aiming to win as many of the premier events as possible, the Travers Stakes in Saratoga, the Kentucky Oaks in Louisville, the Belmont Stakes in New York. At the beginning of the season all his animals were in tip-top condition. Raring to race, he told me. Then they started to go. A fetlock here, a splint there, I’m not an expert on equine diseases, but whatever could lay you low if you were a horse his lot got it. By the middle of June they were all limping or hobbling or off their food or off their saddles or off their wits. Man never got over it. Sold all his horses on the first of July and took to stamp collecting. No bloody fetlocks there, Penny Blacks not likely to suffer from equine flu.’

Delaney paused and looked at Powerscourt. ‘Sorry, I digress. What do you think we should do?’

‘I think we need to have a meeting. I think we need to have a meeting with all the pilgrims and everybody. Obviously we all have to wait to talk to the inspector from Figeac. But I feel you should ask the pilgrims if they wish to go on. You have your very special reasons, I know, Mr Delaney, for wanting to continue. But the others may not want to. We have to give them the option of going home. I think we should put it to the vote.’

‘Vote?’ said Delaney suspiciously. ‘Ask the pilgrims? Isn’t that a bit democratic? Nothing wrong with democracy, of course, you just have to make sure your own candidates are the only ones allowed to stand.’

Powerscourt thought that the workers’ councils so beloved of extreme left-wingers right across Europe might not get off the starting line on the Delaney factory floor. He held his peace.

Half an hour later the pilgrim company assembled at the far end of the hotel dining room. Already Powerscourt, as he told Lady Lucy later, was beginning to feel that he could happily go to his grave without any further assemblies in the dining rooms of French hotels. Delaney sat at the centre of a table to the front, flanked by Father Kennedy – always happy to be in hotel dining rooms – on his right with Powerscourt on his left and then Lady Lucy. Alex Bentley basked in the sunshine on the far side of Lady Lucy. The pilgrims sat in two semicircular rows in front of Michael Delaney.

A black hotel cat shot across the floor as Delaney rose to speak. ‘My friends, fellow pilgrims,’ he began, ‘I have to tell you that another of our number has passed away. First there was John Delaney in Le Puy. This morning the body of Patrick MacLoughlin was found in Entraygues-sur-Truyere, the next town on the banks of the Lot, lying in the bottom of a rowing boat that had been dispatched downstream from this hotel. The authorities believe he had been strangled before his last journey. We have to stay here in Estaing to speak to an inspector from the French police. We are here tonight to consider what we should do next. I believe Lord Powerscourt has some thoughts he would like to share with you.’

Maggie Delaney was torn between a delicious mixture of joy and sorrow, joy that further affliction had come on her hated cousin, Michael Delaney, sorrow that a young man of God with so much life in front of him should have been taken away. She began to pray for the dead man’s soul. Powerscourt had told Lady Lucy beforehand that he wasn’t going to mince his words. He felt very strongly indeed about this question.

‘Pilgrims, friends,’ he began, ‘I was called here to look into the death of John Delaney on the rock of St Michel. Now we have a second death. I have to say that I have no idea who is responsible for these murders. They are linked by one small thread. On both bodies was found a scallop shell, symbol and guide to the pilgrims to Compostela through the ages. And Alex Bentley tells me that the body sent in a boat to Entraygues may echo the arrival of St James the Great in northern Spain, where his body was discovered in a stone boat near a place on the coast called Padron. Be that as it may, both of these young men died horrible deaths. People have asked me earlier this evening if I think there will be any further murders on the route. I have to tell you I think it is very likely, that it is almost certain.’

Powerscourt paused. There was a murmur from the pilgrims. He glanced briefly at Lady Lucy for reassurance.

‘One of you in this room here tonight is a murderer.’ He spoke very quietly. ‘It might be you,’ his finger shot out towards the middle of the second row, ‘or you or you or you or you.’ His finger travelled along the entire length of the front row and continued across the top table to take in Father Kennedy and Michael Delaney himself. ‘Only one person can feel safe in this company and that is the killer himself. Only he knows who he intends to murder next. Only he knows where he intends to do it. Only he knows when he intends to carry out his next murder. Do not console yourself with the thought that there may only be one more victim. We do not know. There could be two or three or four. The most dangerous place in any battle is in the heart of the front line waiting for an enemy attack. Tonight you are all in the heart of that front line. All of your lives are in danger.’

Powerscourt wondered if he had said enough. He carried on. It was a long time since he had felt so strongly about one of his cases.

‘So what would my advice be? My advice is very simple. Call off your pilgrimage. Go home, separately I should advise, once the police have completed their inquiries. Go home and see your loved ones. Go home to safety for this gathering is currently one of the most dangerous places in Europe. Go home while you can. Go home while you are still alive. Go home before you are thrown off some huge volcanic rock or sent strangled in a rowing boat down the Lot. In this case discretion is not merely the better part of valour. Discretion is the only way to stay alive.’

Powerscourt sat down. Lady Lucy squeezed his hand. There was a long silence. Then Michael Delaney rose to his feet once more. ‘Does anybody wish to speak?’ he asked. Powerscourt wondered cynically if this was the first time in his life that Michael Delaney had asked for contributions from the floor. There was a rustling among the pilgrims.

‘Begging your pardon, sir.’ Shane Delaney from Swindon, the man with a dying wife, had risen from his chair, shuffling nervously from foot to foot. ‘I think Lord Powerscourt forgets something. We’re not here on some walking holiday, we’re here on pilgrimage. Christian didn’t turn back, sir, because of his troubles and temptations on the way to the Celestial City. He went on. I promised my Sinead, so I did, that I would carry out this pilgrimage on her behalf. I’m here because she’s too sick to do it. It might save her life, so the priests told me, not a great chance but it might. I can’t go back, sir. I’d be letting her down. I couldn’t look her in the eye if I ran away. We have all these difficulties, like Christian. But I for one have got to go on. Like him.’

Powerscourt spoke from his chair. ‘You don’t think, Shane, that your Sinead would rather have you back in Swindon alive than dead in the south of France?’ Even as he finished he wondered if his comment had been unwise. These were not rational people after all, no rational person would set out to walk the thousand miles from Le Puy to Santiago de Compostela and think it might save his wife’s life. Forces other than reason and logic, so close to Powerscourt’s heart, were at work here.

‘I’m with Shane, so I am,’ said Willie John Delaney, the man dying from an incurable disease. ‘Forgive me for mentioning it, but my number is up in a couple of months or so whether I’m on pilgrimage or not. It’s been a great comfort to me so far, this pilgrimage, sir, so it has. As the priests might put it, I think I’d make a better death as a pilgrim travelling with all these good people here, than I would if I ran away.’

There was a muttering of approval. Powerscourt felt he was going to lose the argument.

‘I think we should carry on too.’ Jack O’Driscoll, the young newspaperman from Dublin was on his feet now. ‘You see, as most of you know, I work for a newspaper in Dublin. Before I left my editor told me the pilgrimage would make me a better person. I didn’t know what he meant then. I think I do now. I think that as we’ve made our way here we’ve stopped being a collection of individuals. We’re becoming a little community. In a perverse way the murders make that feeling stronger. I feel so close now to the other young people I’ve been walking with, closer than I do to my friends back home. I’m sure that these feelings will only get stronger.’ Maybe it’s like people who have fought together in battle, Powerscourt thought, it’s like Johnny Fitzgerald and I, bonded for life. ‘I’m only young,’ Jack went on, ‘and I don’t have that many sins. But some of us must have great burdens we wish to lay down, sins we want forgiveness for, and we won’t achieve any of that by running away.’

There was one last contribution from the pilgrims. Waldo Mulligan, the man who worked for a senator in Washington, the man running from a passionate affair with a friend’s wife, rose to his feet. He was a more accomplished speaker than the others.

‘I am not yet old,’ he began, ‘but I am one of those of whom Jack spoke a moment ago when he talked of people burdened with sins. I don’t wish to advertise my sins here this evening but as the days have passed I have come to realize that it is not all despair and guilt, that the process of pilgrimage itself, the rhythm of the days, the aching feet at the end of the journey, the deep sleep that comes with so much exercise, is helping me towards some kind of understanding. There is a long way to go. I may never be forgiven my sins but I may learn to come to an accommodation with them. I do not believe that process would continue if I ran away, as the others put it. Lord Powerscourt was eloquent, very eloquent, in making the case for our quitting. But I believe the good that may come from continuing outweighs the bad. By quite a long way. I thank Lord Powerscourt for his views but I think we should carry on.’

There was a short silence. The waiters were laying the tables for supper at the other end of the room. Michael Delaney looked quizzically at Powerscourt as if asking him whether he wished to speak again. Powerscourt shook his head. ‘Very well, gentlemen,’ said Delaney, venturing into new democratic territory, ‘I think we should put it to the vote. Would all those who think we should continue please raise their right hands.’

The vote was unanimous. Powerscourt had lost. The pilgrims had won. Later that evening he sat in a chair by the window in their bedroom and stared moodily at the Lot, gurgling and dancing on its way to the distant sea. ‘We’re on a Cavalcade of Death now, Lucy,’ he said sadly, ‘a caravan trail with murder at our side and death stalking behind us. I’ll tell you what it reminds me of. You know those stories of great expeditions into remote parts of Africa or the interior of Australia. The explorers set off in high spirits, laden down with supplies that will last for years and the very best clothing and equipment that modern science can provide. They appear in happy photographs in the magazines before they go, assuring the readers that modernity will always conquer the wilderness or the outback or wherever it is they’re going. Early reports reach the world they’ve left behind that progress is better than expected. The huskies or the sherpas or the native bearers or whoever is carrying all their stuff are doing well. Then nothing. And a further nothing. After a couple of years another expedition is sent out to find the first one. They come across a couple of bleached bones and a tin or two of food lying in the desert or the snow or the ice. All gone. All dead in the middle of nowhere.’

‘You’d better come to bed, Francis,’ said Lady Lucy practically. ‘It’s not as bad as that and you know it.’

‘Wait and see,’ said her husband morosely, temporarily locked into the role of prophet of doom.

‘Francis,’ Lady Lucy was sitting up on her pillows now, ‘you’re not doing yourself justice, you know. You were right down there, of course you were. But the pilgrims didn’t agree with you. So why don’t you think of something else, my love, and stop being so miserable.’

‘Like what?’ asked Powerscourt.

‘How about this,’ said Lady Lucy, ‘why don’t you start thinking about how you are going to keep them all alive?’