David Dickinson - Death of a Pilgrim

They reached the Spanish border in the middle of the afternoon. Lady Lucy spent much of the time asleep, hands folded neatly on her lap. Johnny Fitzgerald was reading a small book called The Birds of Europe , checking out what he might find in Spain. Powerscourt continued with Michael Delaney, Robber Baron . As they moved out of France the landscape was dominated by the jagged peaks of the Pyrenees, blessed with many waterfalls and home, as Johnny informed his companions, to large numbers of vultures and brown bears. Inspector Leger came to say his farewells. He wished Powerscourt all the luck in the world with the rest of his investigation. He was to telegraph immediately once the mystery was solved. He was gallant with Lady Lucy, saying what a pleasure it had been to meet her. As he led his men out of the border station, he took them first into the nearest bar.

‘I’m going to buy you boys a drink, maybe two,’ he announced. ‘We’ve got rid of those bloody pilgrims at last. Thank God I didn’t listen to those fools in the Town Hall in Moissac or we’d still be there. France is well shot of them.’

‘Do you know who the murderer is, sir?’ asked one of his men.

‘I haven’t a clue. I don’t think our English friend has either. Let’s hope the pilgrims kill each other before they get to Santiago.’

The Spanish Inspector spoke perfect English. His name was Felipe Mendieta, son of an English mother who had fallen in love with a Spanish waiter and married him in Spain. The father Mendieta had now graduated to owning his own restaurant. The tapas, his son assured them, were the finest in Navarre. He brought a priest with him, Father Olivares, who opened religious negotiations with Father Kennedy in Latin. The Spanish authorities, Inspector Mendieta assured them, took the same position as the French as far as the pilgrims were concerned. This train would take them all the way to Santiago. Nobody else would be allowed on board. Overnight accommodation would once again be in the town jail or the police cells, whichever could accommodate them. Maggie Delaney would be accommodated in hospital or nunnery as before. It was for their own safety. The Spanish authorities were most anxious that the pilgrims, having endured so much on their journey, should find spiritual satisfaction at the end. Inspector Mendieta trusted that the presence of Father Olivares would lend spiritual comfort. Powerscourt and his party were, of course, free to come and go as they pleased.

The Inspector made his way down the train to make himself known to the pilgrims. There was a sudden cry from Powerscourt. ‘Listen to this,’ he said, ‘here’s another Delaney crime! This author doesn’t treat the subject chronologically, he treats it by industry. We’re in oil now. This must have happened twenty or thirty years ago. Delaney and two other people, Richard Jackson and Ralph Singer, buy up an oil concession in Ohio. Delaney runs it. He tells the other two after a year or so that it’s no good, the prospector teams haven’t found anything, they’re not going to get rich this time. So they all agree to sell out to a company called Michigan Oil. So far so good. Three months later Jackson and Singer discover that the owner of Michigan Oil is none other than Michael Delaney. And, surprise, surprise, the land in the concession is dripping with oil, it’s worth fortunes. Delaney has cheated them; God, he’s a bad man. I’ll have to ask Father Kennedy if he can be forgiven this many sins.’

‘What did the other two characters do, Francis?’ asked Johnny Fitzgerald. ‘Did they drink themselves to death like the other fellow in New York with the socially ambitious wife?’

Powerscourt held up his hand while he finished the chapter. ‘Jackson and Singer never recovered from this betrayal, the man says. Their business careers failed. One ended up working for the US Mail and the other one earns his daily bread as a clerk in a hardware shop. This is what the man says: ‘“Think of how their careers might have been different if they had not been defrauded by this wicked man. Think of the turn their lives and the lives of their families might have taken had they not been swindled out of what was rightfully theirs. Think of the sad end to their days, when the American Dream, for them, turned into the American Nightmare, the promise of a better future that is the birthright of all Americans turned to dust in the earth of Ohio. Think of yet another crime entered in Delaney’s ledger of wickedness, think of the misery his greed has brought on those who cross his path. Think of what his fate may be.”’

‘Children, Francis?’ asked Lady Lucy. ‘Any sons who could have lived on to take revenge?’

‘The book doesn’t say,’ said Powerscourt. ‘This is like all the other possible shades from Delaney’s past. Why wait so long? And why, if you want to do away with Delaney, do you kill all these others first? I don’t think it adds up,’ he said sadly, putting the book down on the table. ‘There is one thing about Michael Delaney, Robber Baron . It makes you look at the man in a totally different light.’

They were pulling away from the mountains now. The train stopped at a tiny station in the middle of nowhere and a message was handed over to Inspector Mendieta. He laughed as he rejoined the Powerscourt party at the back of the train.

‘The pilgrims are going to be happy on their night in Pamplona!’ he said with a smile. ‘The town jail is full, the police cells are full, so my boss has kicked a load of people out of one of the town’s finest hotels to put the pilgrims on the upper floors.’

‘Is there a crime wave in the town?’ asked Johnny Fitzgerald.

The Inspector laughed. ‘You could call it a crime wave, I suppose. Today is Tuesday, the tenth of July and Pamplona is in the middle of Fiesta, or Festival. People come from all over for the bullfights and the religious services and the parties and the bands and the excitement. And, I nearly forgot, for the running of the bulls. Fiesta is held at the same time every year, from the sixth to the fourteenth of July. Because all the thieves and pickpockets in southern France and northern Spain know these dates, they come too for their own festival of crime. Every year the jails are full at this time. The hotel will probably have its own share of bands and jugglers and other entertainers passing through this evening. Even though the pilgrims will not be allowed out, the fiesta will come to them. The patron saint of Fiesta is San Fermin. Among other things he is the patron saint of wineskins. They sell in the thousand at this time for people to refill at the little wine shops in the side streets. They say some people don’t go to bed at all for the entire duration of the festival.’

Their dinner later that day in Pamplona seemed to consist of tens of courses, served at irregular intervals. Johnny Fitzgerald maintained that the waiters popped out into the street for half an hour or so between courses. A brass band came through, some of the musicians swaying slightly as they blew. A team of jugglers danced their way through the tables, the lemons flying over the diners’ heads. A pair of troubadours serenaded them, the boy playing the guitar and the girl singing the sad song of her only true love, a matador who perished in the ring through thinking of her rather than concentrating on the bull which gored him to death. Throughout the proceedings, as dish followed dish and the rough local red flowed on, the Inspector’s men never left their posts, eyes fixed on the exits to the dining room, hands never far from the pistols in their belts. The Inspector himself was by the main door, sometimes conversing with the kitchen staff or the waiters, sometimes checking on a list of names in the dark blue notebook he brought out from time to time. The pilgrims were all named in his book and a series of little ticks by the side of each one showed that Inspector Mendieta had recorded their presence.