David Dickinson - Death of a Pilgrim

The Sergeant replied that he had indeed served, in the Army in North Africa, and had risen to the rank of lance corporal after seven years’ service. Promotion, Powerscourt felt, might be quicker in the police rather than the military. He pressed on, anxious to make the maximum benefit of his advantage.

‘May I have the honour of presenting my wife, Sergeant? Lady Lucy Powerscourt, Sergeant Fayolle.’

Lady Lucy bowed slightly and then shook the man’s hand. The skin, she felt, was rather coarse.

‘I hope to have the honour of translating for you later today, Sergeant,’ Powerscourt went on, ‘but this morning I propose that Lady Lucy should do it. She is a most experienced translator, my friend.’ Powerscourt patted the Sergeant on the back at this point. ‘Why, only this year she translated at a joint meeting between members of your Assembly and our members of Parliament in London on the subject of African colonies, a most delicate subject, as you know.’

Lady Lucy blushed slightly. Francis had told her that morning that he might invent a previous translating career for her if he felt it would help. The Sergeant looked at Lady Lucy and reflected sadly that she was much more attractive than his own Colette whom he had left scowling at her saucepans earlier that morning. Damn it, the Sergeant said to himself, not only did the man have the scarlet uniform of a full colonel, but he had a wife to match as well.

Powerscourt was anxious now for the translation to start. New circumstances called for a new location. A small section of the dining room had been cordoned off, the rest closed in case of eavesdroppers. He led the Sergeant and Lady Lucy to their seats. Alex Bentley, who had appointed himself knight errant to Lady Lucy for today, if not for the rest of his life, brought the relevant paperwork and the list of people to be interviewed that day and sat down beside Lady Lucy. Powerscourt withdrew. Delaney winked at him. ‘Fine piece of business there, Lord Powerscourt. Reckon we’ve got the Sergeant on the back foot now. Let’s hope we can keep him there.’

‘Wish me luck,’ said Powerscourt, drawing on his cape once more. ‘I’m off to meet the Mayor, official representative of the Third Republic. Liberte , Egalite , Fraternite , that’s the motto for the day!’

Powerscourt wondered if the Mayor would have a pair of tricolours leaning against each other in his office. There they were, by one of the great windows looking out over the square. M. Louis Jacquet, the Mayor of le Puy for the past fifteen years, was a tubby man with greying hair in his early fifties. He had a small moustache and searching blue eyes. By profession he was a butcher, and although he had handed over much of the running of his business to his eldest son, he still kept a keen interest. The shop, Jacquet et Fils, Bouchers et Vollailers on the Rue Raphael, prospered greatly for the citoyennes thought it might be more advantageous to purchase their gigots d’agneau and their filet de boeuf from the Mayor than from his competitors.

Compliments were exchanged, on the military service, on the beauty of the town, on the Colonel’s colours and the ancient traditions of Le Puy.

‘Please allow me to present my credentials,’ said Powerscourt, extracting a typewritten letter, written on very expensive notepaper, from his pocket. The missive assured its readers that Lord Francis Powerscourt had a most distinguished record as an investigator in Great Britain. On a number of occasions, it continued, he had given exemplary service to his country. The letter asked the recipient to afford Lord Francis Powerscourt every possible assistance for he was a man of integrity and judgement. The signature at the bottom was Sir Edward Grey, His Britannic Majesty’s Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. Powerscourt had obtained the introduction on the day he left London. Since I was almost killed on the Foreign Office’s business in St Petersburg last year, he had said to himself, then the least they can do is to write me a letter.

‘You bring heavy artillery with you,’ said the Mayor, handing it back to Powerscourt. ‘Pray tell me, how I can be of assistance?’

‘I need advice, Mr Mayor,’ said Powerscourt. ‘I need the benefit of your experience here in this town. On the one hand, we have the pilgrims, this strange collection assembled here from two continents by Mr Delaney. I think we should remember that the whole thing has been organized by Delaney as a thank-you to God for saving the life of his son. You know, no doubt, about the dead man, fallen or pushed from the rock of St Michel. You know the pilgrims are cooped up in that hotel, unable to leave until the police interviews are completed. You know the pilgrims want to bury the dead man and move on to their pilgrimage. So, that is one set of facts, as it were.’

The Mayor nodded. ‘On the other hand,’ Powerscourt went on, ‘we have the position of the police. They have to investigate the death, or, as it may be, murder.’

‘Please forgive me for interrupting,’ said the Mayor. ‘Do you think it was murder, Lord Powerscourt?’

Powerscourt felt suddenly that considerable weight would be attached to his answer. He had no alternative but to tell the truth as he saw it.

‘I do not, as yet, know the full facts, Mr Mayor. It seems to me perfectly possible that he fell. I hope to make the climb myself this afternoon or tomorrow. But I would not rule out murder, not at this stage.’

‘Pray continue,’ said the Mayor.

‘I was speaking of the position of the police. They are looking for a possible killer. Why should they let the pilgrims go? Why not keep them locked up in the Hotel St Jacques until they find out the truth? There is deadlock here.’

‘I have been concerned about this affair ever since I first heard of it,’ said the Mayor. ‘I am concerned, above all, for the good name and reputation of Le Puy. My father too was a butcher, here in this town. He was also Mayor. So was his father before him. I would not have you believe that the Jacquet butchers are a sort of ancien regime here but we do go back a long way. During the Revolution a company of butchers, including one of my ancestors, saved the Chapel of the White Penitents up there by the cathedral from destruction. We Jacquets have always been proud of that.’

‘Could I throw in a couple of other facts that might be relevant?’ asked Powerscourt. ‘The first concerns this man Michael Delaney. I scarcely know him but I am empowered to speak for him this morning. These American millionaires, as you know, Mr Mayor, are men of almost unimaginable wealth. As they grow older they start to give their money away. They found libraries. They set up charitable foundations in their names. They amass great collections of paintings which they may leave to the nation.’

‘Are they trying to cheat death, do you suppose? To gain immortality by other means?’

‘Yes, I think that is very well put. Our Mr Delaney wishes to leave money to Le Puy. I do not know if he intends to scatter his gold across the pilgrim path like the scallop shells of old. A donation for the upkeep of the cathedral is in his mind. And some gift to the town to be made through the good offices of your own office, Mr Mayor. Maybe some assistance to look after the widows and orphans of the police force.’

‘None of which can happen’, Louis Jacquet cut in quickly, ‘if Mr Delaney remains a prisoner in the Hotel St Jacques.’

Powerscourt nodded. He thought he would play his ace of trumps. He hadn’t been sure until now. ‘Pilgrims made Le Puy rich, as you know far better than I, Mr Mayor. Pilgrims paid for the cathedral and all those fine buildings in the upper town. You must have wondered if this Delaney pilgrimage, bizarre in its origins, unfortunate, maybe even cursed in its beginning, might mark the start of a revival. Maybe pilgrims will choke the streets in future as they did in the Middle Ages. Le Puy would become even more prosperous. But I am not convinced they would come if they thought they might be locked up in their hotel for days at a time. Pilgrims might go elsewhere, they might start in Vezelay, or further south in Arles. And one last thought for your consideration.’ Here it came, the Ace of Spades, as black as the Black Madonna in the Cathedral of Notre Dame. ‘There is a young man in the Delaney party who is a newspaperman, a reporter. He is writing an article for his paper in Dublin. I have not seen it but I fear its publication would not do much for the reputation of this town abroad. They are all incensed, the pilgrims, about what they see as the incompetence of the police. I have asked him not to send it without my permission but I may not be able to hold him back for ever.’