David Dickinson - Death of a Pilgrim

Powerscourt and Lady Lucy were walking back to their little house in the hills when they heard footsteps behind them. It was Stephen Lewis, the solicitor from Frome. He paused every now and then to look behind him, as if to make sure he was alone. ‘I had to catch you on your own, Lord Powerscourt, forgive me, Lady Powerscourt, I didn’t want anybody listening in to what I have to say.’ He paused.

‘You can speak freely in front of Lucy, Mr Lewis,’ said Powerscourt. ‘She’s tougher than she looks.’

‘It’s probably nothing,’ said Lewis, panting slightly as they climbed up the hill out of Espeyrac, ‘but I felt I should tell you all the same. It’s only a fragment of conversation, but I think you ought to know about it.’

Powerscourt remembered that Lewis was a solicitor by profession. Heaven only knew what secrets he held about the inhabitants of Frome locked up in his office safe.

‘The other evening, in the hotel at Estaing, I felt unwell last thing at night. I thought I’d try a glass of brandy to settle the stomach. That’s often worked for me in the past. Maybe the local cooking is too rich for me. Mabel, that’s my wife, always likes to put plain food on the table. Anyway, the bar was still serving customers and I took my drink out on to the terrace. The windows were open and I could hear two men having a heated discussion at the other end of the bar. They were quite drunk, the barman didn’t understand a word of English, they had no idea I was there. I could only hear fragments of what they said.’

‘And what were they talking about, Mr Lewis?’ Powerscourt too looked back down the road. He could see nobody, only the dark shapes of the buildings and the outlines of the trees.

‘They were having an argument, I think. That’s how it came across anyway. I couldn’t even tell who they were, the voices were so thick. But one of them said something like, “God, how I hate Michael Delaney.” At least I think that’s what he said and he said it twice. I finished my brandy and crept away. I didn’t think they’d be very happy if they knew I had overheard them, and they were drunk enough for anything.’

‘Are you absolutely sure you don’t know who they were, Mr Lewis?’

‘I’m afraid I didn’t. Would it be important if I had recognized the voices?’

‘Oh yes, Mr Lewis,’ said Powerscourt, ‘it might have been very important indeed.’

Lord Francis Powerscourt was staring out of the open window of their bedroom in the house above Espeyrac. Lady Lucy was reading a book about French abbeys and cathedrals. The night air was soft and warm. The moon, three-quarters full, was shining out across the valley. Fields and groups of trees looked ghostly in the white light. Small creatures of the night could be heard rustling about on their nocturnal business in the woods to his left. The spire of Espeyrac church was crisp in the moonlight. A fox could be seen clearly, padding across the track that led back to the main road. All it needed, Powerscourt thought, was an owl. He had always been very fond of owls ever since the time he had made friends with one which lived in a barn behind his house as a small boy. The bird would stare solemnly at him for several minutes at a time before flying disdainfully away.

‘Do you think it’s important, Francis,’ Lady Lucy laid her book aside, ‘what Mr Lewis was saying on the road?’

‘It could be,’ said Powerscourt. ‘It’s a pity they were drunk, though. They might say something completely different in the morning, whoever they were. I think they put the wind up Stephen Lewis, mind you. He seemed very frightened when he looked back to make sure nobody was following us. And I don’t think he’s a man who would scare easily.’

‘Well, you might well be frightened if you were one of these pilgrims. Two of them dead so far. I don’t think I’d go on if I were them. But tell me, Francis, what do you think of this house? Isn’t it just perfect with these marvellous views?’

Suddenly Powerscourt suspected what might be about to come. Lady Lucy was always thinking about buying houses in the way he thought about making centuries at cricket or his children being happy and successful when they grew up. Another onslaught might be imminent. It could start at any moment. He regarded these attacks as a mild form of disease. None of his sisters had ever suffered from them, although one of them had recently acquired a monstrous house near the sea front at Antibes. He would be told how good it would be for the children. They could learn French. They could ride with their father in the hills. Lucy herself would be busy making the necessary improvements to the property, new carpets here, a new kitchen there, different curtains. The air would improve all their health, far from the smoke and grime of London.

‘I think it’s lovely here, so peaceful,’ said Powerscourt, leaning out to inspect a ginger cat that had just captured a small animal with a very long tail and was carrying the trophy away to some secret lair for a late supper. Then Lady Lucy disappointed him. There was no talk of property in the Aveyron. She merely said that she hoped there would be sunshine the next day. They were going to one of the most famous places on the pilgrim route, the medieval abbey at Conques.

Johnny Fitzgerald had only been back to Ireland once in more than twenty years, and that had been on Powerscourt’s business the year before with the ancestor paintings disappearing from the Anglo-Irish houses. He stared out from his boat approaching the Irish coast, trying to forget the time in the 1880s he had looked at that view, the green of the hills to the south, the lighthouses and the Martello towers, the pall of smoke hanging over the slums of Dublin. Ireland had broken his heart all those years ago. Maybe not Ireland, but a certain Mary Rose Lennox, eldest daughter of Mr and Mrs William Lennox of Delgany, County Wicklow. Johnny had first met her at a tennis party in Greystones and had been enchanted from the moment he saw her serve. She was of medium height, with light brown hair and blue eyes that shone with mischief or delight. Mary Rose hit the ball with remarkable force and was also possessed of a formidable backhand, usually, in Johnny’s experience, the weakest point in the female armoury on a tennis court. He played against her in a game of mixed doubles later that afternoon and found he was so bewitched his game went completely to pieces. It was worse than fighting, he said to himself that evening, for Johnny was home on leave from service with the British Army on the North-West Frontier. He saw her twice more that week and from then on they were inseparable. They would ride out into the Wicklow hills and Johnny would tell her wild stories about the Indians and their strange customs, and the way the heat affected the English in such a variety of different ways, some of them becoming parodies of retired colonels in Cheltenham, others learning the native languages and becoming obsessed with the local history and culture. Looking out over the two rivers at the Meeting of the Waters at Avoca on a hot July afternoon, Johnny told her he loved her. The girl was used to the flattery of young men and merely laughed a pretty laugh. He told her again after a trip to the theatre in Dublin where Johnny was so bewitched he scarcely noticed the action on stage. All through those summer days he floated through time in an ecstasy of love, counting the hours until he saw her again. Standing on the beach at Brittas Bay, looking at the waves pounding on to the sand, an unseasonal wind bowling along the beach, whirling clouds of sand as they went, he asked Mary Rose to marry him. He could remember the scene as vividly as if it had been yesterday. Johnny had rehearsed his lines often, especially last thing at night.