David Dickinson - Death of a Pilgrim

‘I am interested in an American book that came out about twelve years ago, in 1894 I think, Mr Macdonald. Only four copies of the book were sent over to London by the New York publishers. I do not know where in London they were sent. Coming here is a long shot, a very long shot indeed.’

‘But you have come to the right place, Mr Fitzgerald! Here at Beggs we like long shots. My late father, God rest his soul, seldom went to the race meetings, but when he did he always used to bet on the long shots. He claimed it was much more profitable than backing the favourites. Do we have a name for this book? And do we know what became of the American copies? We have contacts in the United States who could help you, Mr Fitzgerald.’

The bookseller smiled at his customer. Johnny saw that his teeth were almost yellow. Perhaps it was the lack of fresh air. Another small cloud of dandruff escaped from his head and floated to the floor.

‘The book was called Michael Delaney, Robber Baron . The Michael Delaney in the title was a rich businessman who did not like the thought of what might be in the book. So he bought the whole lot and pulped them.’

‘My goodness me,’ said Macdonald, ‘does that mean these four copies are the only ones left in existence? They might be worth a fortune today. What a splendid puzzle you have brought me, Mr Fitzgerald! Now then, let me see.’

He turned and opened a cupboard behind him. Johnny saw that it was filled with row upon row of great ledgers that might have been used for the accounts of some mighty insurance company.

‘Each one of these contains the record of a fortnight. What we bought, when it sold, what the price was, whether we reordered any more from the publishers. Did you say 1894?’

‘I did.’

Macdonald began rummaging through the past. ‘Forgive me for the delay,’ he said. ‘I’ll let you know once I’ve found anything.’

Five minutes passed, then ten. There were occasional grunts from Macdonald. ‘Don’t despair,’ Macdonald advised after a few minutes, ‘it just takes time, and time, as my late father, God rest his soul, used to say, is the one thing we can never hurry.’

Johnny looked round the bookshelves and wondered if Macdonald had read all the volumes in this basement room. Perhaps he had. There was a comfortable-looking chair in the corner, by a powerful lamp. Maybe Macdonald neglected his filing and archiving duties when he was on his own and buried himself in Plato or Plautus or Petrarch. He could always hear the footsteps of anybody coming down the stairs and return to his desk.

‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’ Johnny Fitzgerald thought Macdonald sounded as if his long shot at the races had just turned into a winner. ‘They were here! Michael Delaney, Robber Baron , four copies, received from New York, the fifteen of October 1894! See the beauty of the archives and the ledgers!’

‘And what happened to them, Mr Macdonald? Don’t tell me that you still have one or two of them here?’

‘All gone,’ said the archivist, turning back to face Johnny once more, clutching an enormous ledger in his right hand. ‘There are none left. But I’m not through yet, Mr Fitzgerald. Did you say how much you would be prepared to pay for one of these Robber Barons if we could locate one?’

‘I don’t think price would be an issue,’ said Johnny loftily.

‘If we sell these books over the counter, you see, we have no idea who bought them. But consider this. Most of the population of these islands do not live in London, thank God. They may live in the Home Counties or in East Anglia or anywhere at all. Well over half of our customers are country members, as we call them. They write in, asking us to find a book or to recommend some of the latest history works, whatever it might be. We oblige. But with these customers we do keep records of the purchases, filed by both book and customer.’

Macdonald, accompanied by another snow flurry of dandruff, disappeared back into his cupboard. ‘You see, Mr Fitzgerald, we often find that some of the books our country customers buy are sought after by other clients. Maybe they have gone up in value. The customers can resell the books at a handsome profit if they wish.’

He reappeared with another enormous ledger and riffled through the pages. ‘ Michael Delaney , Robber Baron ,’ he said triumphantly, ‘bought by a Mr Ralph Daniel, 4 Royal Crescent, Bath. Pity he lives in Bath, mind you. My late father, God rest his soul, used to warn me about places beginning with B. Bath, Biarritz, Brighton. Fast, he used to say, fast, very fast.’

‘You don’t by any chance know if this Mr Daniel is still in the same place?’ asked Johnny.

‘But we do, Mr Fitzgerald, we do. Only last week he ordered some works by that man who writes about the sea, Joseph Conrad. Would you like me to write a letter of introduction for you?’

‘Please do,’ said Johnny, ‘and could you write it now? If I’m lucky I could be in Bath tomorrow morning.’

‘God bless my soul,’ said Macdonald, ‘the book is unknown and unloved for years and you have to track it down in twenty-four hours. You must want it very badly.’

‘Let me tell you, Mr Macdonald,’ said Johnny Fitzgerald, ‘and I’m not joking. This book may be a matter of life or death.’

Lord Francis Powerscourt and his wife were sitting on the terrace outside their little house in the hills. The French authorities had still not decided what to do with the pilgrims.

‘Lucy,’ said Powerscourt, staring at a herd of sleek cattle in a field opposite, ‘let me try a few theories on you about what’s going on.’

‘Of course.’ Lady Lucy put down her lists of family trees which she had been reading as if she were about to take an exam in them. She was used to these sessions by now. They often involved her husband walking up and down their drawing room in Markham Square, ticking points off with his hands as he went.

‘Theory number one, and this does seem quite possible, is that we are dealing with a madman, a psychopath who has come on pilgrimage simply to kill as many people as he can. Now he’s well on his way, he can’t stop. He’ll just keep killing until somebody catches him.

‘Theory number two goes something like this. The real victim was the first one, our window-cleaning friend from Acton who was sent to meet his maker scarcely off the train. But let’s suppose something goes wrong. Maybe he’s seen leaving the hotel with the victim minutes before the murder. Whoever saw him, if that’s what happened, has to go. So they are sent on a river cruise down the Lot. Maybe two people saw him, or maybe the third victim saw him go out in the middle of the night to put his second victim in the rowing boat. He’s for it. On this theory we could have come to the end. But there’s one flaw in it. There are probably dozens of flaws for all I know.’

‘The flaw being that we know of nobody who might want to kill a man who spent his working life going up and down ladders?’ asked Lady Lucy.

‘Precisely, Lucy. How right you are. You see, we have assumed all along that the murders must have something to do with Michael Delaney. Perhaps they haven’t.’

‘But you’d have to say that he was the most likely person to provide the key. I don’t think you make that many enemies with your mop and bucket. Well, people might get cross if you overcharged them, or left their windows smudgy, but they wouldn’t want to throw you off the side of the Rock of Ages.’

‘Which brings us back to Michael Delaney. Let’s take things in chronological order. Theory number three takes us back to the goings-on at the time of the famine. There must be lots of stories about people abandoning their relatives to save themselves, like pushing them out of the lifeboat because it was too full. But it’s a very long way from one survivor, if he did survive, and a man with a grudge against Delaney. Why wait all this time, if you’re that lone survivor? And if you were the son of the survivor, why would you wait all these years?’