David Dickinson - Death of a Pilgrim

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.