David Dickinson - Death of a Pilgrim

‘That knife must have been very sharp, the cut is so clean,’ said Powerscourt, anxious to show that he too had taken note of the rope.

‘How did he do it, I wonder?’ Inspector Leger picked up the end in his left hand and made a quick cutting movement with the index finger of his right. ‘Like that perhaps. Pity we cannot tell if our killer used his left or his right hand. Our work would be nearly over if he was left handed, but no. God is not that kind to us today. But tell me, Lord Powerscourt, what did he do with the knife? Would these pilgrims be carrying round knives this sharp? Would he have pinched it from the hotel kitchen? Perhaps I should ask our friend the hotelkeeper who likes his red wine so early in the morning that his breath smells of it even before breakfast. Would you take such a knife back to the kitchens? Or back to your room? We shall see.’

‘If our murderer was a careful murderer,’ said Powerscourt, looking at the Lot flowing past them, ‘he would have thrown it into the river. Even if it was found, there would be nothing to prove that it was the murderer who put it there.’

Inspector Leger too stared at the river. No sharp knives could be seen glinting on the bottom. ‘Maybe I shall get my men to search the river after they have finished with the rooms. But come, Lord Powerscourt, you can tell from the noise that they are now sat down to breakfast. A quick search of their rooms, I think.’

The Inspector shot through the rooms like a man possessed. Drawers were opened, rucksacks searched, clothes felt and shaken. Powerscourt thought he was hoping to find the knife. In Jack O’Driscoll’s little cell, he found a notebook which he thrust into Powerscourt’s hand. ‘What do we have here? Is this the great novel perhaps? A love letter, a very long love letter?’

‘It’s a diary,’ said Powerscourt, riffling through the entries. ‘There’s an entry for every single day of the pilgrimage, some much longer than others.’

‘Really,’ said the Inspector, staring at the impenetrable English that filled the pages. ‘I think we should ask if we can borrow it, Lord Powerscourt. Maybe you or your good wife would be so kind as to translate it for us.’

Then the Inspector found a knife. It was in a leather case placed beneath an exquisite carving of a model ship. Beside it was a new work, not yet finished, that looked as if was going to be a crucifix of elegant proportions when it was completed.

‘The knife and the carving belong to a young American called Charlie Flanagan,’ Powerscourt told the Inspector. ‘He spent the Atlantic crossing carving a model ship. I believe he has a commission to make another one.’

‘Feel how sharp this knife is, my friend,’ said the Inspector, staring intently at the blade. ‘I cannot see any shards of rope on it, mind you. But then the murderer would probably have wiped it afterwards.’ He began riffling through Charlie Flanagan’s clothes but found nothing of interest. In the Flanagan pack he found a large notebook with pages and pages of sketches. Powerscourt found himself transported back to the cathedral steps of Le Puy, to the bridge at Espalion and the great castle at Estaing. There were drawings too of pillars and stone coffins and the view along the Lot from just outside the hotel. Powerscourt remembered Charlie telling him that his real interest was architecture rather than carpentry.

‘What a good eye the young man has,’ the Inspector murmured, leafing through the notebook and checking on his bald patch once more. ‘There’s nothing incriminating here.’

Powerscourt was relieved to find that all Charlie’s possessions were innocent. He rather liked the young man from Baltimore.

‘Now then,’ said Leger, ‘before I speak to the pilgrims, I must speak to the man in charge in private, I think. M. Delaney, he is the man?’

Powerscourt led the way to a small office behind the dining room and brought in the American millionaire. Delaney looked as though he had passed a troubled night.

‘Inspector,’ he began, ‘our apologies for causing you so much trouble. Rest assured that we will do everything in our power to assist you. Do we need to contact any of the other authorities round here?’

He’s trying to find out if we have to start bribing people again, Powerscourt said to himself. He wondered briefly what it must be like to have unlimited amounts of money to spend. The Inspector’s reply astonished them both.

‘Do not think that we wish to detain you here any longer than is necessary, Mr Delaney. The local priest will be here soon to arrange for the funeral and burial of the unfortunate young man. I believe you have your own cure with you who can liaise with Father Cavagnac. He plans to hold the service tomorrow afternoon. After that you will be free to leave, to continue with your pilgrimage. I and my men will come with you, for I am based in Figeac which is on your route.’

Suddenly Powerscourt thought he could see it all. The Mayor of Entraygues, unwilling to enter into negotiations about a fountain or a series of seats for the elderly and the footsore on the banks of the Lot, saying to the police that he wanted these wretched pilgrims out of his town as fast as possible before there were any more murders. Father Cavagnac, keen to bury one as fast as he could before he had to bury any more. The local police force, unhappy with one murder, unwilling to wait for the next one, handing the responsibility over to the larger force in Figeac. Nobody wanted them. They were pariahs, modern lepers shunned by society, doomed to continue their bloody journey across southern France until they passed into the lands of the Spanish.

All that morning and into the afternoon Inspector Leger interviewed the pilgrims. Powerscourt and Lady Lucy translated. Not one of them had heard anything unusual in the night. All had slept straight through. They did not learn very much about the dead man, for he had not been popular and had not mixed very much with the others. The Inspector’s men made a thorough search of all the rooms. They waded happily in the river for a couple of hours. They found nothing. Lady Lucy began translating Jack O’Driscoll’s diary. The young newspaperman had been very careful about what he committed to paper after the events in Le Puy. In the late afternoon the Inspector summoned Powerscourt for a conversation in the hotelkeeper’s sitting room.

‘It’s not easy,’ he said sadly, sending his right hand on a doomed mission to find more hair on his head, ‘this case, I mean. But then murders seldom are. I could go on talking to the pilgrims for days and days. One of them might crack but I doubt it. My men can make further searches but I do not hold out much hope. We might be able – I shall certainly keep trying – to find the murderer from evidence gathered here but without that knife, without anybody telling us anything, it is very difficult. We are always told to look for motive in these affairs. Who might want the victim dead, that sort of thing. I do not think the motive is to be found in Le Puy or in Espalion, or Estaing, or in Conques.’

Inspector Leger stared sadly at the frayed carpet on the hotelkeeper’s floor. ‘Where is it, the motive? You tell me, my friend, for I am sure you reached the same conclusion some time ago.’

‘I did,’ said Powerscourt, ‘and this is what makes this case so very difficult. The motive is hundreds and hundreds, if not thousands of miles from here. It’s in Ballina or Roscommon or Longford or Galway, or it’s in Hammersmith or Kentish Town or in Birmingham or it’s somewhere on the eastern seaboard of America in New York or Boston or Pittsburgh, the city of steel. But it’s not in France.’

Shortly before dinner Powerscourt found Lady Lucy standing on the little jetty where the rowing boats were tied up. She was staring intently down the river. She smiled at her husband. Powerscourt thought she looked very beautiful this evening.