Death on the Holy Mountain

11

They didn’t find the Ormonde women the next day. Hundreds of policemen knocked on doors, checked rooms, wrote down details of who might be absent from the house in case they should prove to be the kidnappers. All of this information was laboriously copied into great ledgers whose pages began to resemble the early stages of a census, a Domesday Book of Westport and the surrounding countryside in 1905. More policemen were expected the following day and on the Monday, although their work would inevitably be confused by the pilgrimage to Croagh Patrick. The Chief Constable himself made periodic inspections of the information, making sure his systems were working properly and had not been diluted by human weakness.

Powerscourt roamed round the gardens of Ormonde House. The last Orangemen not out on the hillsides were completing the search of the woods, singing strange Orange hymns and ballads as they worked. He would sit in the meagre library from time to time, cursing himself for his failure. Lord Francis Powerscourt did not like failure. He had rarely experienced it in his professional life. For him, failure in this case would be a scar on his reputation, something he would never be able to erase. Lady Lucy tried to console him, to appease his restlessness. She knew from experience that if Francis worried away at a problem with the front of his mind, as it were, little would happen. The mysteries he set himself to solve did not often yield to a full frontal assault. In Lady Lucy’s opinion it would not be the siege engines that broke the defenders, but a flash of insight that said there must be a path up the cliff at the rear end of the castle.

‘I’m useless, Lucy,’ he said as they took tea in the library. ‘The only reason these people haven’t pensioned me off is that they’re too polite. I’ll become a tolerated guest, rather like Uncle Peter back at Butler’s Court. Maybe I should start work on the rest of his history of Ireland. He stopped in 1891, you see. That would keep me out of mischief. I couldn’t raise anybody’s hopes that I might actually improve their lot by solving the mysteries that are ruining their lives then.’

‘What nonsense, Francis,’ said Lady Lucy, who had seen him in these moods before. ‘You know you’ll solve the mystery, you know you will. You mustn’t be so hard on yourself, my love.’

‘Hard on myself?’ said Powerscourt bitterly. ‘How can I not be hard on myself when I can’t even solve the mystery of a few disappearing pictures, for Christ’s sake. It’s pathetic.’

Lady Lucy suspected that Powerscourt’s sense of himself would take a severe blow if he ever failed in a case. But then he never had. Not yet, anyway. Perhaps, she said to herself, anxious to find something that would cheer up her husband, perhaps the pilgrimage would do him good.

It was Charlie O’Malley who found the body in the oratory on top of Croagh Patrick at a quarter to four in the morning. Charlie, accompanied by two of his fleet of donkeys, Bushmills and Jack Daniels, had been making a last push towards profit from the stout. His donkeys had reached the summit laden with the stuff. The dead man was young, not more than eighteen or twenty in Charlie’s view, slight of build and with black hair. He had been shot twice, once in the chest and once in the back of the head. Dark matter from these wounds had congealed on his clothing. He had been placed, in a sitting position, with his back to the altar. Dead eyes gazed down at the empty pews and the non-existent congregation. ‘Jesus Mary and Joseph!’ Charlie had said and knelt down beside the corpse. He said two Hail Marys and one Our Father. At first Charlie thought it was a punishment sent by God to warn him of his sins and wickedness in intending to sell alcohol at greatly inflated prices to the penitents after they had attended Mass on the summit. Perhaps he should bring his prices down to those at ground level. That thought didn’t last for long as Charlie reasoned that God would not have bothered to have somebody killed just to reprove him for a few bottles of stout. He said a Creed and a couple more Our Fathers and staggered out into the open air.

The omens were not good for the pilgrims that day. Low cloud enveloped the mountain from about halfway up. A fine but persistent rain was falling. Five to four in the morning on Reek Sunday, Charlie said to himself, surely to God somebody is going to arrive soon. Charlie knew that the body would have to be moved out of the church. It couldn’t be left there, not on this day, of all days, but he felt reluctant to take the responsibility himself. And what would they do with the body when it was outside the church, for God’s sake? You couldn’t take it down the mountain to meet all these pilgrims coming the other way. Some of these buggers, religious maniacs in Charlie’s view, liked to come to the summit very early to pray. There were even, Charlie knew, some fanatics come from Australia for this pilgrimage today. Charlie wasn’t quite sure where Australia was as a matter of fact, come to think of it he didn’t think the geography Christian Brother, whose name Charlie could never remember, knew where it was either, he always shifty about the place, but Charlie did know Australia was inhabited by convicts who liked playing cricket and counting sheep. You couldn’t very well pass the time of day with one of these devout Australians or some other zealot, ‘Have a good pilgrimage, I’ve just got to take this corpse to the morgue if you don’t mind.’

Charlie thought it was an insoluble problem. He went to check his two donkeys had not run away. Then he heard a wheezing sound, as if from a man very short of breath from the climb. Walter Heneghan materialized out of the cloud. For the first and last time in his life Charlie was glad to see him. Walter Heneghan of Louisburg, chief contractor for the little chapel, had lived for most of the construction work in a tent at the top. His men were unaware of the reasons for his residence on the spot. His doctor had told him that if he went up and down Croagh Patrick twice a day for six months he would probably be dead before it was finished. And his wife, a woman with a fearful tongue, had told Walter with the candour that had so endeared her to him over the years that as far she was concerned, he, Walter, would be much more use to her living in a tent on top of a bloody mountain than he would be cluttering up her house in Louisburg. Walter did travel up and down the mountain occasionally for meetings with Father Macdonald about The Skedule but he had not attained the expertise or the fitness of Charlie O’Malley and the rest who could go up and down at speeds they never spoke of to Walter in case the working day grew even longer.

‘Is that you, Walter?’ cried Charlie O’Malley.

‘Who else would it be at this terrible hour?’ said Heneghan, sinking down for a rest by the side of the chapel.

‘Walter, brace yourself now. It’s God’s truth I’m going to tell you, so I am.’ Charlie peered at Walter to make sure he was ready for the news.

‘What is it, Charlie?’ Heneghan was rubbing his leg vigorously as if he had cramp.

‘As God is my witness, Walter, there’s a dead body in that chapel, so there is, God rest his soul.’

‘A dead body? In my chapel? How the divil did it get here? Did it walk?’

‘Can’t have walked when it was dead, Walter, might have walked up when it was alive, I suppose. Hard to tell.’

‘Come on.’ Walter rose to his feet with difficulty. ‘Show me.’

The two men tiptoed into the little church. The body was still there, like a ghost at a feast.

‘God in heaven!’ said Walter and he rattled off a quick volley of Hail Marys. ‘He’s very dead, isn’t he?’ he went on as he knelt beside the corpse.

‘What are we going to do, Walter? We can’t leave the dead bugger in here. Do you have the boy with you?’

‘He’s hanging round the summit somewhere, eating an apple.’ Heneghan made it sound as if his son had brought the Garden of Eden up to the top of the Holy Mountain. Maybe Eve was hidden in the clouds. Walter’s son Matthew had frequently been used as a runner to take messages up and down the mountain during the construction work and sometimes even spent the night in the tent.

‘Look here,’ said Heneghan, ‘we’ve got to get the body away from here. It’s no good trying to hide him a couple of hundred yards away, there’s nothing higher than a grasshopper’s knee for miles. I didn’t spend six months of my life building this damned chapel, some of it in the month of February in Christ’s name, to have the opening day ruined. It’s not for us, Charlie, to say whether or not the bloody pilgrims get told about it, that’s for Father Macdonald and the Archbishop man. I’ll send Matthew off at full speed this minute to the priest’s house in Westport. I think the big man is staying there too.’

‘You said we’ve got to get the body away from here, Walter. How do you propose to do that?’ Charlie had a sick feeling in his stomach. He didn’t know what was coming, but he knew he wasn’t going to like it. They heard a whistling noise coming up the final stretch.

‘Tim Philbin, is that you?’ Walter Heneghan shouted into the murk.

‘It is,’ said Tim.

‘Thank God you’ve come,’ said Heneghan. ‘You’re just in time to help Charlie here carry a corpse down the mountain the other way, the Louisburg route. You and Charlie and two bloody donkeys are to take our dead friend down to ground level and into the nearest police station. That’s your mission for the day.’

‘Fine, Walter,’ said Tim, fully visible now. ‘You did say corpse, didn’t you? Corpse as in dead man?’

‘I did,’ said Walter. ‘Doesn’t look too heavy a chap to me. Slight sort of corpse. You’ll be down the bottom in no time.’

News reached the clergy shortly before seven o’clock. Father Macdonald, the Administrator of Westport, and the Very Reverend Dr Healey the Archbishop of Tuam were finishing a hearty breakfast when the housekeeper showed in a rather dishevelled Matthew Heneghan. One look at him plunged Father Macdonald into despair. You knew, he thought, you just knew, looking at this sad face, that here was bad news. Terrible memories of his disastrous role in the construction of the new convent outside Ballinrobe in his previous post came flooding back to him, the building unfinished by the day of the opening, the ceremony postponed, the windows with no glass, the kitchen with no cooking facilities, the unfinished cells for the sisters. He remembered the rebukes of his superiors and the articles in the local newspaper which more or less accused him of being a fool. Well, it was just about to happen again. He felt his heart beating faster already, even before he had heard the news, and he felt certain that one of his nervous headaches was going to start very soon.

‘Well?’ said the Archbishop in his let’s be friendly with the young, they are the congregations of the future, voice.

Matthew Heneghan coughed slightly. ‘I am Matthew Heneghan, Your Grace, son of Walter Heneghan the contractor. Forgive me, Your Grace,’ his father had told him five times before he left the summit that you called an archbishop Your Grace, ‘there’s a dead body in the chapel, sir, the chapel on the summit.’

A piece of toast, well smeared with Father Macdonald’s housekeeper’s finest home-made marmalade, was arrested halfway towards the Archbishop’s mouth. ‘A dead body, lad? Are you sure?’

‘My father and the others were absolutely certain, Your Grace. The man had been shot twice, once in the chest and once in the back of the head.’

The Archbishop’s toast, rather like Father Macdonald’s spirits, sank back towards his plate.

‘May the Lord have mercy on his soul,’ he said.

‘Your Grace, Your Grace,’ Father Macdonald had turned red with worry, ‘we’ll have to cancel the pilgrimage, won’t we? We can’t go on after this terrible news.’

‘Cancel the pilgrimage? What nonsense!’ boomed the Archbishop in such a loud voice that the housekeeper dropped her second best teapot on to the kitchen floor where it broke into hundreds of small pieces. ‘People die every day, after all, let’s not forget that. Somebody probably dies in the Westport area every year on Reek Sunday. It’s just they don’t choose it to do it in the chapel on the top. God’s will works in mysterious ways and I am sure He would want the event to continue.’ The Archbishop crossed himself with great ceremony. ‘We couldn’t stop all those special trains bringing people here anyway even if we wanted to. Tell me, young man, what’s happened to the body? Is it still there? In the chapel, I mean.’

‘Oh no, Your Grace, it’s being brought down the mountain the Louisburg route, that’s the opposite route to the one the pilgrims take. Then they’re going to hand it over to the police. I have to go to the police station here in Westport, sir, after I’ve finished with your reverences. To tell them about it, Your Grace.’

‘I presume,’ said the Archbishop, resuming work on his toast, ‘that nobody as yet knows the name of the dead man?’

‘No, Your Grace, I don’t think anybody up there had seen him before.’

‘Well, thank you, young man, thank you for coming down to tell us this terrible news. We mustn’t keep you from your duties with the police. And please give my best regards to your father when you next see him.’ That message, Matthew knew, would keep his father happy for weeks. What happiness you could bring into people’s lives if you were an archbishop. Matthew wondered briefly about joining the priesthood as he set out through the early morning light for the officers of the law.

Father Macdonald’s anxiety had not abated. That little red vein he so wished he could have removed was throbbing busily in his forehead. ‘We’ll have to keep it a secret, Your Grace, the death, I mean. Nobody must know.’

The Archbishop frowned. He glanced briefly at a painting of the disciples on the wall, one of them a man called Thomas. ‘I don’t think that would do, no, not at all. I have no idea how many people were at the summit when the body was found – it sounds as if the poor man was murdered now I think about it – and I have no idea how many people young Matthew will tell here in Westport. Word will get out. Much better to let the pilgrims know. That way they can’t accuse the Church of covering up unpleasant truths.’

‘B-but how?’ stammered Father Macdonald. ‘We can’t get anything printed in time. If you tell somebody on the way up the rumour will have multiplied it into half a dozen corpses or more by the way down.’

‘I expect there may even be a ballad about it before the day is out,’ said the Archbishop. ‘The answer is simple.’ He saw he would, as so often, have to take command. ‘I’ll do it. I’ll tell them. Find me three priests or Christian Brothers to act as stewards and we’ll hold the pilgrims up for ten or fifteen minutes or so at St Patrick’s statue. Then I’ll tell that batch what happened. Ten minutes later I’ll tell the next batch and so on until I have to set off for the summit. You can take over then.’

Father Macdonald nodded feebly. The prospect of having to address a crowd of a thousand people or so filled him with dread. The little red vein was working overtime already and he wasn’t even on the mountain. Oddly enough, for a man ordained into the priesthood, Father Macdonald hated public speaking.

The route to the summit of Croagh Patrick is not one that would be taken by a flying crow. It begins at Murrisk a couple of miles from the mountain itself and the path goes up to the top of the hill and then turns right to snake its way across the scree towards the peak. At the bottom the going is fairly benign, but later on the surface is composed of loose stones where the pilgrim slips back almost as far as he advances.

By eight o’clock there was a thin trickle of penitents beginning the climb, dressed as if going to church, the youths and the men in sober suits of dark grey with white shirts and caps on their heads, the women in long skirts with matching jackets in sombre colours, and hats, often purchased specially for the occasion. Powerscourt and Johnny and Lady Lucy were all soberly dressed as they arrived to start their ascent just after half past eight.

‘Don’t go and get converted now, for Christ’s sake,’ had been Dennis Ormonde’s parting words. ‘I’d never live it down.’

‘Are you going to say any prayers on the way up?’ Lady Lucy addressed her two men in turn.

‘Think I might manage the Lord’s Prayer a couple of times,’ Powerscourt said with a smile, ‘but not in the numbers these good people have to say. They have to get through industrial quantities of Hail Marys and things, I believe.’

‘If I think I’m going to fall off the edge of this damned mountain further up in that cloud,’ said Johnny Fitzgerald, ‘I shall start praying like a bloody Jesuit.’

There was a family of four in front of them, young parents with children who must have been about eight or ten years old. The youngsters were larking about on the edge of the path, running further up to ambush their mother and father later on, the parents trying to persuade the children to conserve their energy for the more arduous territory ahead. A group of four nuns overtook them, their hands on the rosary beads, their lips moving silently. Powerscourt suspected they were going to pray all the way to the summit, and possibly all the way down, a whole day of pilgrimage and prayer and penitence. They passed an old couple, the woman bent, the man carrying a stick in his right hand and trying to help his wife with the other. Powerscourt thought they must be over seventy years old. They weren’t going to go all the way, the old woman assured Lady Lucy, just as far as their old legs would carry them and then they would have a rest. Within half an hour they had reached the statue of St Patrick, a great beacon of a thing with the bearded saint gazing out to sea. Here the procession seemed to halt. Powerscourt could see a couple of priests barring the route with a pair of long sticks held out over the path. After a few minutes, with the crowd behind them growing ever deeper, there was a great shout from one of the men in black.

‘Pray silence for His Grace the Very Reverend Dr John Healey, Archbishop of Tuam!’ The voice went right back down the mountain. Somebody seemed to have found some kind of impromptu platform for the Archbishop to stand on, raising him well above the crowd at the front and easily visible to those at the back.

‘Pilgrims of St Patrick!’ he began, his arms extended to encompass all his flock. ‘Brothers and Sisters in Christ, I welcome you to Ireland’s Holy Mountain today!’ There was a murmur of approval from the penitents. It wasn’t every day or every pilgrimage that you received a greeting in person from such a prince of the Church. The Archbishop raised his crook above him to quieten the noise. ‘I bring sad news for us all on this day. I want to tell you about it in person. Over the last six months, as many of you know, a new oratory or chapel has been constructed on the summit of this Holy Mountain. Later today we shall celebrate Mass in this place and you will have the chance to observe the skill and devotion which have gone into the construction of the building.’ The Archbishop paused for a second. The crowd were completely silent. He could ask each person to kill his neighbour, Powerscourt thought, and such was the hold of his personality, they would probably do it. ‘This morning,’ Dr Healey went on, ‘this morning of all mornings, a dead body was found resting in the chapel. It was that of a young man. He had been shot. We do not yet know his name. God moves in mysterious ways, my friends, even on the mountains devoted to his glory. I was asked if I would consider cancelling the pilgrimage in view of this terrible event. My answer was No. I could not deny you the opportunity of penitence and devotion which mark Reek Sunday. I could not deny you the chance of the spiritual nourishment and the experience of God’s grace which so many find on this barren hillside, wrapped in cloud today, symbol of God’s mystery. I ask you to pray for the soul of the dead man whose body has been taken away to the appropriate authorities. I ask you to pray that he may find peace with our Father in heaven. Finally, let me repeat what I said at the beginning. Whether you live in Westport and the surrounding villages, or whether you lodge with us from distant parts for the duration of this pilgrimage, you are most welcome. May the Blessing of Father, Son and Holy Ghost be upon you.’ With that the Archbishop made the sign of the cross very slowly and climbed down from his improvised pulpit.

Most of the crowd surged on up the hill. The very old stayed behind. There were three stations for the pilgrims to make on this climb and St Patrick’s statue was not one of them. But it became a place of prayer for those who felt they could go no further. The murmuring noises Powerscourt was to associate ever after with this day began to float upwards into the air.

‘Did you know about this young man, Francis?’ Lady Lucy whispered.

‘I did not,’ replied Powerscourt, ‘and I hope most sincerely that he is not the young man I am thinking of.’

Before Lady Lucy or Johnny had the chance to reply there was a great booming noise.

‘Lord Powerscourt! Lord Powerscourt!’ went the boom, coming down a few yards to greet them. ‘How very good to see you, even in such unhappy circumstances!’ The Archbishop shook him by the hand. Powerscourt made the introductions. ‘Lady Powerscourt, a pleasure to have you with us here today. Johnny Fitzgerald, you’re not by any chance related to Lord Edward Fitzgerald of the ’98 Rebellion?’

‘I’m afraid I am,’ said Johnny. Powerscourt and Lady Lucy looked astonished. Johnny related to one of the most famous rebels in Irish history! Why had he never mentioned this before? ‘It’s on my mother’s side,’ he went on, grinning sheepishly.

‘What an honour for us here today,’ said the Archbishop. ‘But tell me, Lord Powerscourt, do you by any chance have any knowledge or any theories about this poor young man found dead on the summit?’

‘I have only just heard of it, Your Grace. I do have a theory, I’m afraid, but I would not wish to tell anybody about it until I have more information, his age, for instance, and the people he consorted with.’ Powerscourt looked into that strong and powerful face again. If the Archbishop asked, he knew he would have to tell him. The Archbishop did not ask.

‘I must return to my duties,’ he said. ‘I hope you will feel able to tell me later, if the facts bear out your theories. Now,’ he beamed at all of them in turn, ‘I cannot tell how much it pleases me to see you here today. Thank you for coming. I must continue my mission here. I have to make my little speech every ten or fifteen minutes to tell the pilgrims what has happened. Maybe I shall see you at the summit.’ The Archbishop marched back up his hill. Powerscourt turned to look at the old people clustered round St Patrick. The noise was louder now. Snatches of prayer came across the hundred yards that separated Powerscourt and his party from the penitents.

‘Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done . . . The third day He rose again from the dead . . . The Lord is with thee, Blessed are thou among women . . . Was crucified dead and buried, He descended into hell . . . Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done . . . And blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus . . . As we forgive them that trespass against us . . . He ascended into heaven and sitteth at the right hand of God the Father Almighty . . .’

‘Quite hypnotic, those prayers,’ said Powerscourt as they renewed their ascent, the cloud beckoning a few hundred feet above them. ‘They go round and round in your head, like a top. But tell me, Johnny, I never knew you were related to Lord Edward Fitzgerald and I’ve known you for a very long time. Why did you keep so quiet about it, you old rogue?’

‘You never asked, Francis. I didn’t want to make a fuss. It can be very dangerous being related to a dead martyr in Ireland. People endlessly expect you to stand rounds of drinks in pubs and clubs in memory of your ancestor, that sort of thing. But I couldn’t tell a lie to an archbishop, for God’s sake. Not here. Not on his very own mountain. He might have turned me into a bloody statue like your man Patrick over there.’

They climbed on towards the mist. A party of six Christian Brothers, clad entirely in black, shot past them as if in a race to the summit. Now they were entering the cloud and a fine rain began to fall. Fast-moving pilgrims were clearly visible a few feet in front of them, then they vanished into the broom. The colour seemed to drain out of the day, apart from the dark red which stained the rough stones that now constituted the path, the blood of those who made the ascent in their bare feet, shoes or boots tied around their necks. Johnny Fitzgerald was panting slightly. Lady Lucy moved steadily on, holding on to her husband’s arm when the going got rough. Powerscourt heard that muttering noise again, louder this time, a hundred feet or so above them. You couldn’t make out any words yet, just a rumble ahead.

The first station the pilgrims had to make on their way to the summit was called Leach Benain and it was situated at the base of the cone that formed the final stage of the ascent of Croagh Patrick. There was a cairn of stones about the height of a man and instructions for the faithful to walk round the station seven times saying seven Our Fathers, seven Hail Marys and one Creed as they went. Powerscourt and Johnny and Lady Lucy stood to one side as a mark of respect and watched as an enormous serpent of people circled the stones, ring upon ring of them, many of them holding on to their neighbours. ‘. . . I believe in the Holy Ghost, the holy Catholic Church . . .’ Small children clutched their parents’ hands as they went round and round, not in some game in the playground but on God’s business. ‘. . . pray for us sinners now and in the hour of death Amen . . .’ The six Christian Brothers were moving very slowly now, perhaps as a mark of respect for one of the sacred places of Reek Sunday. ‘. . . lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil . . .’ One young man stifled a scream as his bare foot stamped down on a particularly sharp piece of rock and the blood spurted from his sole. ‘. . . born of the Virgin Mary, suffered under Pontius Pilate . . .’ More and more people kept joining the circling pilgrims, a thin trickle peeling off, their prayers complete, to continue their journey toward the summit. ‘Our Father which art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name. . .’

‘How long does it take their feet to get better, Francis?’ whispered Lady Lucy. ‘They must be in agony by the time they get to the bottom again, these poor people.’

‘I don’t know. I expect it’s some form of extreme penance,’ Powerscourt whispered back. ‘Maybe you get forgiven some of your sins in exchange for the bare feet.’

‘Hail Mary full of Grace . . .’ The cloud was beginning to lift now. Looking back down the mountain Powerscourt saw a human chain curling its way upwards, tiny specks further down, assuming normal size further up. ‘. . . the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins . . .’ Behind Leacht Benain, on the far side of the mountain, a barren landscape, dotted with lakes and ponds, stretched away to a grey horizon. ‘. . .give us this day our daily bread . . .’ Gazing backwards again Powerscourt saw the huge figure of the Archbishop, making great strides up his Holy Mountain, his three priests struggling to keep up. ‘. . . and in Jesus Christ, His only son, our Lord who was conceived of the Holy Ghost . . .’

The sounds followed Powerscourt and Johnny and Lady Lucy as they set off towards the summit. Johnny Fitzgerald had turned quite red and was panting heavily. Powerscourt wondered if the drink had finally caught up with him, over two thousand feet above sea level. Lady Lucy was looking serious. Her husband thought she might have been praying for their children. The Archbishop and his party passed them in a whish of ecclesiastical garments, Dr Healey waving an enormous wave as he shot past. At eleven o’clock they reached the summit. This was the second station and the faithful had to repeat the performance of the first station, and then some more. Powerscourt and Lady Lucy and Johnny watched as they prayed for the Pope’s intentions near the chapel, then made fifteen circuits of the chapel saying fifteen Our Fathers and fifteen Hail Marys, and then, just to finish off, they had to walk seven times round a relic of St Patrick with another seven Hail Marys and Our Fathers and a Creed. The crowd of pilgrims making the station was enormous. Maybe, Powerscourt thought, all this going round and round in circles is a metaphor for sin, the prayers the appeal for forgiveness. Some were lying on the ground, their eyes closed. Many of the barefoot brigade had brought water with them to bathe their aching limbs. Johnny Fitzgerald had spotted some suspicious-looking activity taking place a couple of hundred yards away. ‘Don’t tell the men of God, Francis,’ he whispered on his return, ‘but there’s a couple of fellows down there selling bottles of Guinness. Bloody expensive they are, but welcome. I’ll give them that. It’s a miracle, so it is.’ A Westport band had managed to reach the summit with their instruments and were serenading the crowd with patriotic airs like ‘The West’s Awake’ and ‘A Nation Once Again’.

Dr Healey dedicated the new church to St Patrick. Charlie O’Malley and Tim Philbin, returned from their corpse-carrying duties, had closed their makeshift bar to be there for the great moment although, as Charlie observed, if anybody had told him he and Tim would have moved a corpse out of the church on the day of its consecration he’d have knocked them down. The Archbishop paid tribute to Father Macdonald for his role in supervising the work and Walter Heneghan for the construction. He named almost all of the workmen, including Austin Rudd and Tim Philbin, but not Charlie who thought he was being punished for selling illicit liquor on the summit. But Dr Healey hadn’t finished yet. ‘Finally,’ he boomed, ‘we have to thank some other members of God’s kingdom. Some of our four legged-friends, christened, not as I would have wished, with names from scripture, but with the names of great distilleries here and overseas, had a role to play. Under the supervision of Charlie O’Malley, a team of four donkeys, Jameson, Powers, Bushmills and Jack Daniels, played their part in the great work carrying material to the summit. We thank them too.’ There was a huge cheer from the crowd. ‘Finally,’ the Archbishop’s voice, Powerscourt thought, must be carrying halfway down the mountain, ‘I want to thank you, the pilgrims. You alone have always venerated the footsteps of St Patrick and you alone have practised the fasting and prayer of which our patron saint was so bright an example.’

The journey down was more treacherous than the journey up. The loose stones on the scree threatened to throw people off balance. The sticks which had been useful on the route to the top were even more valuable now, jammed down into the ground to prevent a slide down the mountain. Johnny Fitzgerald could be heard muttering, ‘Bloody mountain,’ ‘Bloody stones,’ ‘I’m damned if I’m going to slide all the way to the bottom of this bloody thing.’

Then the sun came out and everything looked different. All those grey and black suits the men were wearing looked less sombre. The white vestments of the nuns sparkled in the light. Suddenly Powerscourt felt a moment of elation. To his left was the blue sea and the islands of Clew Bay scattered like pearls from a necklace across the waters. Above that, clear blue sky with faint wisps of white cloud spangled across the road to heaven. Ahead of him on the path thousands of fresh pilgrims marching towards the summit. In front of him another thousand, going down, circling round the third and last station on Croagh Patrick and saying their prayers to God and the Virgin. They had said so many prayers on this day, the pilgrims. They had never complained. He felt God was here among the rough stones they trod, he was immanent now among these people. In Powerscourt’s eyes the pilgrims were translated into a new kind of innocence, cleansed of their sins among the rocks and scree of Ireland’s Holy Mountain, their feet washed, not in the blood of the Lamb, but in the blood of their own wounded feet. Lucy was beside him. His oldest friend was by his side. Suddenly Powerscourt’s eyes were filled with tears. He knew now what the Archbishop meant when he had talked in Tuam those weeks before about God’s grace being present on the mountain on this day. For a brief moment, he, Powerscourt had been filled with it. Tears began to roll slowly down his face. Lady Lucy held his hand very tight, murmuring that she knew exactly how he felt. Then the moment of ecstasy passed and Powerscourt’s brain returned to his investigation.

He was trying to remember something the Archbishop had said earlier on down by St Patrick’s statue, something that might prove to be a clue in his inquiry. Dr Healey had talked about the dead body at the summit – that wasn’t it. He had talked about the need to continue with the pilgrimage – that wasn’t it either. It must have been something near the end when Powerscourt’s attention had been diverted by a group of fifteen nuns all climbing together.

‘When the Archbishop addressed the faithful, Lucy, by the statue early on, what did he say at the end?’

Lady Lucy looked at her husband closely. ‘He blessed the faithful, Francis, and I think he asked them to pray for the dead man. Why do you ask?’

‘I think it could be something important, my love, did he say anything else? Very near the end it was.’

Lady Lucy frowned. ‘He talked about the people who lived in Westport and the people who were visitors all being welcome. Hold on, he didn’t put it quite like that.’ She struggled to find the word. ‘This is it, I think, Francis. “Whether you live in Westport and the surrounding area or whether you lodge with us for the duration of the pilgrimage, you are all welcome.”’

‘That’s it, Lucy! Well done!’

‘I don’t understand, why should that be important?’

‘Lodge, Lucy, that’s what I was trying to remember. Not lodge in the sense of stay with or reside but lodge as in hunting lodge or shooting lodge or fishing lodge. Can’t you see? It would be a perfect place to hide the two Ormonde ladies, Lucy, miles from anywhere, you could see a rescue party coming from miles away, nobody would think of looking there anyway. They’re perfect hideaways.’

‘Would the people who took the pictures know about such places, Francis?’

‘They knew enough about all the big houses to come and steal the pictures. No reason why they couldn’t know about fishing lodges. Let’s see what Dennis Ormonde thinks.’

They passed the third station of Croagh Patrick, the pilgrims marching round it in circles once again. The afternoon was warm and the young men took off their jackets on the way down. Johnny Fitzgerald recovered his good humour at the easier passage at the bottom. Powerscourt still found it hard to believe that his friend was descended from one of the leaders of the ’98 Rebellion. Lady Lucy hoped that all those poor people who went up and down in bare feet could receive some attention as soon as possible. Just after one o’clock they were back in Ormonde House.