David Dickinson - Death of a Pilgrim

‘Maybe’, said Lady Lucy, ‘he didn’t know about the New York Delaney and all the other Delaneys until Alex Bentley began looking for them. If you lived on the edge of some rain-drenched Irish bog you’d hardly know what was happening in Dublin, never mind the other side of the world. And I think there’s another flaw.’

‘What’s that, my love?’

‘Well, if you look closely at these family trees you realize something fairly obvious. One single Delaney couldn’t have produced this pack of cousins and second cousins we have down at the hotel. It’s impossible given the way reproduction works. There were lots of other Delaneys who will have gone from Ireland to England or America in those times.’ Lady Lucy looked down again at her family trees, handwriting legible and not so legible, letters large and letters small, some of the words in capitals, some of them underlined. ‘We’ve got Delaneys here from Macroom and Mullingar and Newport and all over the place.’

‘You forget’, said Powerscourt, keen to hang on to the shreds of his theory before it was completely demolished, ‘that it was Maggie Delaney herself who mentioned a saga of betrayal and death in the famine years in Macroom, the place where Johnny has just been to confirm the story. Anyway, let’s mark that theory as doubtful. Theory number four is that it has to do with the ruined businessman, the one Delaney stole all the money from. Let’s suppose he ends up poor, a broken man, and his son sets out to take revenge, inspired again by Alex Bentley’s researches. This too suffers from the why wait until now problem. I don’t think we’re doing very well here, Lucy. Theory number five says it has to do with the hypothetical earlier marriage, though how that fits in I have no idea. It could be, of course, that one of these pilgrims is actually a hired killer, sent by some person or persons unknown, to commit these crimes. But that’s not very likely either.’

‘If it’s any consolation, my love, I get more confused every time I study these family trees. Some, maybe all of these people are related to one another, we just need to go one more generation back. But that’s the bit they don’t know about. Do you suppose, Francis, that somewhere, probably in Ireland, there was once a prototype Delaney, the first one of all, from whom the rest are descended? I like to think he looks something like Michael Delaney does today.’

‘Not quite sure how the first one gets here, if you see what I mean, Lucy. No mention of Delaneys in the Garden of Eden as far as I know, Adam, Eve, Cain, Abel, Delaney doesn’t sound quite right, does it, so there must have been a time when there were no Delaneys in existence at all. But I have no idea how the first one arrived. The only thing we can be sure of is that there are now three less of them in this world than there were a month ago. And, unless we sort ourselves out, their numbers may shrink even further before we’re through.’

Early next morning Powerscourt and Lady Lucy were wakened by a frantic knocking on the door just after seven. Alex Bentley had borrowed a bike from the hotel and was panting slightly from his exertions.

‘You’re to come at once,’ he said, ‘please. It’s chaos down there at the hotel.’

‘There hasn’t been another murder?’ said Powerscourt, pulling a shirt over his head.

‘No, no,’ said Bentley, ‘it’s not as bad as that. The Inspector is there and about half a dozen of his men. They’ve brought four police wagons that look as though they take prisoners to jail or to court or something like that. The Inspector says, I think, that we are all to leave in half an hour, bags packed, that sort of thing, stuffed inside these wagons like criminals!’

‘And how is Mr Delaney taking all this?’ asked Powerscourt.

‘Not well, sir, not well at all. I couldn’t have translated most of what he shouted at the Inspector and that’s a fact. I didn’t know he could swear like that. He wants you, sir, now if not sooner. If you care to take the bicycle down the road I’ll escort Lady Powerscourt when she’s ready.’

‘But I am ready, Mr Bentley.’ Lady Lucy smiled at her young admirer. ‘Men are always surprised when women can dress themselves in the morning as fast as their husbands. I’m sure we won’t be packed away in one of these carriages. I wouldn’t miss this for the world.’

Powerscourt set off at full speed towards the Auberge des Montagnes. From well over a hundred yards away he could hear shouting. The Inspector sounded as if he was replying in kind to the American.

‘I’m going to telegraph to the American Ambassador!’ Delaney yelled. ‘I’m going to get word to our President – God knows the man owes me a favour or two . . . ’ Powerscourt could hear every word as he entered the village. There followed a sound that might have been a table being thumped.

‘Powerscourt!’ shouted Delaney, as the investigator strode into the dining room. The pilgrims were huddled together by the door into the kitchens, whispering to each other. Maggie Delaney was fingering her rosary beads at Olympic speed. Father Kennedy had obviously decided that the only prudent course of action was to eat as much breakfast as possible in the shortest time. He seemed, Powerscourt noticed, to have opened negotiations with the waitress for fresh supplies of bread and jam. Inspector Leger shook him by the hand in the manner of French morning greetings. Perhaps he had shaken hands with them all.

‘Good morning, Lord Powerscourt. Communication has been difficult this morning. The young man, Bentley, he tries hard, but I do not think he understands everything. Let me explain to you what is to happen. Then perhaps you could translate it for the pilgrims.’

Inspector Leger spoke for a couple of minutes. Powerscourt could feel the wrath of Michael Delaney surround them all, like a lion’s breath. Powerscourt grabbed a cup of coffee and looked round at his audience.

‘I do not know how much you have gathered of what the Inspector has told you. I would ask you to remain calm, however difficult the circumstances. Our French friends can be very stubborn when they feel like it. Hostility and complaint can only make things worse for the present. The position is this. This is what the authorities, temporal and spiritual, have decided to do. You are to leave here in twenty minutes, with your bags packed. The four carriages outside will take you to the railway station at Figeac. Each carriage will have a policeman in it to secure your safety. From Figeac a special train, open only to people in this room, will take you on your way. Your train will take you along the route traversed by the pilgrims all those years ago. As a gesture of goodwill, you will be allowed to stop and visit a couple of places of special historic or religious interest on the route.’

There was a muttering among the pilgrims. They seemed to be asking Jack O’Driscoll to speak for them. Powerscourt held up his hand. ‘I haven’t quite finished,’ he said. ‘The train will take you to the Spanish border where you will be placed under the care of the authorities in the province of Navarre. The Inspector here does not know what they will decide.’

There was a brief moment of silence as Powerscourt sat down. Lady Lucy and Alex Bentley slipped into the room and went to stand by Michael Delaney. Powerscourt thought you could feel the temperature rise as the tycoon got to his feet.

‘I am an American citizen,’ he began. ‘Five of us here are American citizens. We are a free people under the law. Our ancestors crossed the Atlantic to enjoy freedom, democracy and free enterprise. These others are citizens of the British Empire, subjects of King Edward, people who believe in fair play and natural justice.’ Powerscourt felt this was boardroom Delaney, maybe businessman advocate Delaney making his case before some vast concourse of investors, politician Delaney. ‘You have no rights at all to carry out these actions, to treat us as if we were criminals. I said before and I will say it again, I intend to let the American authorities at the very highest level know what is going on. You may have precipitated an international incident here this morning, Inspector. Neither the American public nor the British public like to hear of their fellow citizens being ill treated by Johnny Foreigner. You may have packed your finest off to the guillotine in covered carts in days gone by, Inspector, but you cannot do it to us here today. I refuse to go along with this plan. Now, let others speak.’