‘Could I throw in a couple of other facts that might be relevant?’ asked Powerscourt. ‘The first concerns this man Michael Delaney. I scarcely know him but I am empowered to speak for him this morning. These American millionaires, as you know, Mr Mayor, are men of almost unimaginable wealth. As they grow older they start to give their money away. They found libraries. They set up charitable foundations in their names. They amass great collections of paintings which they may leave to the nation.’
‘Are they trying to cheat death, do you suppose? To gain immortality by other means?’
‘Yes, I think that is very well put. Our Mr Delaney wishes to leave money to Le Puy. I do not know if he intends to scatter his gold across the pilgrim path like the scallop shells of old. A donation for the upkeep of the cathedral is in his mind. And some gift to the town to be made through the good offices of your own office, Mr Mayor. Maybe some assistance to look after the widows and orphans of the police force.’
‘None of which can happen’, Louis Jacquet cut in quickly, ‘if Mr Delaney remains a prisoner in the Hotel St Jacques.’
Powerscourt nodded. He thought he would play his ace of trumps. He hadn’t been sure until now. ‘Pilgrims made Le Puy rich, as you know far better than I, Mr Mayor. Pilgrims paid for the cathedral and all those fine buildings in the upper town. You must have wondered if this Delaney pilgrimage, bizarre in its origins, unfortunate, maybe even cursed in its beginning, might mark the start of a revival. Maybe pilgrims will choke the streets in future as they did in the Middle Ages. Le Puy would become even more prosperous. But I am not convinced they would come if they thought they might be locked up in their hotel for days at a time. Pilgrims might go elsewhere, they might start in Vezelay, or further south in Arles. And one last thought for your consideration.’ Here it came, the Ace of Spades, as black as the Black Madonna in the Cathedral of Notre Dame. ‘There is a young man in the Delaney party who is a newspaperman, a reporter. He is writing an article for his paper in Dublin. I have not seen it but I fear its publication would not do much for the reputation of this town abroad. They are all incensed, the pilgrims, about what they see as the incompetence of the police. I have asked him not to send it without my permission but I may not be able to hold him back for ever.’
‘Thank you for being so frank,’ said the Mayor. ‘It is a most tricky problem.’ He stared out of his window into the Place du Martouret outside. ‘Let me ask you a most improper question, Lord Powerscourt. I give you my word that your answer will not go beyond these four walls where we sit now. You are known as a man of integrity. Let me ask you for your opinion, your advice, if you were not a man of integrity. Please pretend to be Machiavelli for a moment, if you would.’
Powerscourt thought very fast. Should he decline the gambit? Should he take it? He looked briefly at a portrait of the current President of France, Armand Fallieres, on the wall. History would come to help him. He took the gambit.
‘When I was young, Mr Mayor,’ he began, ‘I was fascinated by two of the great cardinals who gave such wise, if devious, advice to their kings, Cardinal Richelieu and Cardinal Mazarin. Even looking at their portraits you could tell that they too were Machiavellian in their approach. I speak now as Cardinal Mazarin. This is what I think he would say. Get rid of the pilgrims as fast as you can. Suppose the police do find the murderer, if there is one. There will have to be a trial. Do you want these witnesses to take up permanent residence in the Hotel St Jacques? Do you want the English and American newspapers writing articles about St Michel, Crag of Death? Horror Strikes in Holy City? Let the murderer be found in some other place, some other town. Let them have the problems of solving the crime and the problems of the prosecution. Put the wretched pilgrims on the first train, carriage or horse you can find and bid them God speed.
‘Once they know they’re going,’ Mazarin Powerscourt was getting into his stride now, ‘you can start on Michael Delaney. He would feel grateful, would he not, for the liberation of his friends. Take him for every charity you can think of. Separate him from as many dollars as you can. Sleep easier in your beds. The problem is not with you any more, the problem is en route to the little town of Saugues, next stop, I think, on the pilgrims’ way.’
Powerscourt laughed. ‘How was that, Mr Mayor?’
Louis Jacquet laughed. ‘Very good, Lord Powerscourt. I think you’re in the wrong profession. You should have been a politician. There’s still time, mind you, there’s still time.’
Back in the Hotel St Jacques things were moving fast. With Lady Lucy as translator and Alex Bentley as transcriber the witnesses were being polished off at remarkable speed. Lady Lucy was using all her wiles on the Sergeant, a little smile here, an occasional request for assistance with a particular word there, interested queries about his grandchildren in the intervals between witnesses. The Sergeant was captivated. Had she but known it, Lady Lucy was surrounded on both sides by admirers, though the Sergeant did not fit the description of knight errant as well as Alex Bentley. Father Kennedy was surprisingly nervous as he gave his account of the day of John Delaney’s death. Brother White was monosyllabic, thinking perhaps of all the possible beatings he was going to miss during his time away on pilgrimage. The clearest witness was Stephen Lewis, the solicitor from Frome in Somerset. He had only had occasional dealings with the criminal classes of Frome. One of his colleagues looked after those, but he knew what was required, clear and unambiguous reporting of his activities that day, refusal to be drawn into any speculation about any of the other suspects, a pleasant and open countenance. As she listened to them all Lady Lucy thought that any one of them could have been a murderer. All their statements, even a few days after the event, were woolly about exact times. The Sergeant even allowed the last interview to run on beyond the sacred hour of twelve o’clock, lunchtime for all God-fearing Frenchmen, and ended the morning session at four minutes past. There was only one interview left now, Michael Delaney himself, due at two o’clock sharp.
After he left the Town Hall, wondering if he had given too much away, Powerscourt climbed up the Rue Meymard and the Rue Cardinal de Polignac to the Bishop’s Palace beneath the cathedral. It was uphill all the way to the house of God. His interview was short for the Bishop was old and frail and suffering from a heavy cold. Powerscourt introduced himself as an investigator working for Michael Delaney. He passed on Delaney’s wish to make a donation to a fund for the restoration of the cathedral. The Bishop was very grateful.
‘I have to tell you, however, Lord Powerscourt, that I am more concerned with the souls of the pilgrims than I am with Mr Delaney’s gold. We have made arrangements to hold the funeral of that poor soul in St Michael’s Church behind the Hotel de Ville every afternoon now for the past two days. But the police won’t let us bury him. Maybe we can conduct the service tomorrow. Every day since I heard it, I have thanked God for the return of the pilgrims. I pray that these ones are but the first detachment of a mighty army of Christian soldiers marching to Santiago. Did you know that the very first pilgrim to Compostela was one of my predecessors, a Bishop of Le Puy in the tenth century? Remember that as you march out down the cathedral steps, young man. A thousand years of pilgrimage will be with you in spirit.’
Powerscourt asked if the Bishop hoped the pilgrims could start on their way soon.
‘Of course I do,’ the old man replied, ‘but we have to render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s. The civic authorities must decide. I do hope they walk, mind you.’ The Bishop looked very concerned about the walking. ‘Somebody told me that some of these pilgrims are going to take the train or be ferried about in carriages like the fashionable ladies in Paris.’