Powerscourt thought he made the fashionable ladies of Paris sound like the whores of Babylon.
‘Please tell them from me, young man,’ he said to Powerscourt as he hobbled to the door to bid him farewell, ‘tell them they’ve got to walk. It won’t do their souls any good at all if they take the train. It really won’t.’
7
Michael Delaney finished his interview at half past two. The Sergeant gathered up his papers and prepared to return to his police station. He told Lady Lucy that he would return in the morning to take her and Powerscourt to the St Michel rock. He wanted to show them the site of the incident in person.
Alex Bentley went to his room to write up his notes of the interviews. He wanted to make a good impression on the investigator from London. Princeton men could organize their data just as well as the young gentlemen from Oxford or Cambridge.
Powerscourt’s interview with the Chief of Police was postponed. When he returned to the hotel he found a chess tournament in progress in the dining room. Charlie Flanagan had discovered that the Hotel St Jacques had four sets of chessmen and vigorous battles were being fought all over the room. Willie John Delaney, the Irish pilgrim suffering from an incurable disease, was master of the board, dispatching all who faced him with a checkmate within fifteen or twenty moves. Lady Lucy was deep in conversation with Maggie Delaney in a far corner of the room. Maggie was holding forth on the subject of human wickedness. It made her very happy. If it wasn’t bad enough that all these pilgrims were so burdened with guilt at the crimes they had committed that they had to travel across the Atlantic in a desperate quest for forgiveness, here they were now, virtually encased in the flames of hell. Maggie Delaney was convinced that John Delaney had been murdered. The wrath of God must surely come upon them. Lady Lucy told Powerscourt later that day that Maggie Delaney was a living example of how the contemplation of other people’s sins can make you happy.
‘Any news, Delaney?’ said Powerscourt to Delaney. ‘Did the Sergeant say anything before he left?’
‘He did not,’ said Delaney cheerfully. ‘How about you? Have you given comfort to the enemy?’
‘Well,’ replied Powerscourt, ‘I’ve been trailing my coat. I’ve virtually invited them to come here and help themselves to as much of your money as they can. In exchange for our release, of course. I hope I didn’t overdo it with that Mayor. He’s very shrewd, the Mayor. He’s a butcher by trade, name of Louis Jacquet, and his family have been mayoring here since before the Revolution. I think somebody may be along to see us fairly soon; I could be wrong.’
Powerscourt was not wrong. Shortly after four o’clock a small anonymous-looking middle-aged man in an unremarkable suit presented himself at the hotel reception. He asked to speak with Mr Delaney and Lord Powerscourt. He was led to a table in the corner of the dining room, closed off from the chess players.
‘Good afternoon, gentlemen,’ Powerscourt translated. ‘I am Pierre Berthon of the firm of notaires of Berthon Berthon and Berthon of Le Puy. We represent the interests of the Bishop and the Cathedral of Notre Dame.’
‘Powerscourt,’ said Powerscourt.
‘Delaney,’ said Delaney, shaking the notaire’s hand very firmly.
M. Berthon took out a large black notebook from his bag and a silver pen from his pocket. Powerscourt saw to his astonishment that the page was not filled with squares. It was ruled. There were lines going across it. He had looked in vain that morning in the Maison de la Presse for such a thing. Did the lawyers of Le Puy have their own secret supplies of proper notebooks, denied to the rest of the citizens?
‘I understand,’ M. Berthon went on, ‘that you gentlemen are anxious to leave Le Puy and continue your pilgrimage?’
‘That is the case,’ Powerscourt nodded.
‘And that you would welcome the support of my lord Bishop in these proceedings?’
‘Such support would be more than welcome, coming from such a distinguished quarter.’ Powerscourt bowed slightly to the lawyer to show his respect for his employers.
‘Tell the little man’, said Delaney, keen to move things on, ‘that it’s not the Bishop who’s holding us up, it’s the damned police.’
‘The Bishop bids me tell you that under certain circumstances he would be happy to assist your cause. I understand, furthermore,’ Berthon pressed on, making an entry on his page with the silver pen, ‘that you wish to make a contribution to the restoration fund of our cathedral here in Le Puy?’
‘We do,’ Powerscourt nodded once more.
‘How much?’ said Berthon.
Powerscourt and Delaney had discussed figures just before the lawyer arrived.
‘Ten thousand francs,’ said Powerscourt.
One of the notaire’s eyebrows arched upwards in a quizzical fashion. He didn’t say a word.
‘Fifteen thousand,’ said Powerscourt. Delaney had been making gestures with his fingers going upwards.
The eyebrow rose a fraction further. The question mark hung in the air. Powerscourt looked at Delaney who made a tiny upward gesture.
‘Seventeen thousand five hundred,’ Powerscourt increased his offer. He wondered flippantly if they could keep going to thirty or even forty thousand so the lawyer’s eyebrow would disappear right off the top of his forehead.
The eyebrow managed yet another upward motion. The man must practise at home in front of a mirror, Powersourt thought.
‘Twenty thousand.’ M. Berthon recalled his eyebrow. He made a note in his book.
‘Done,’ he said with a thin smile. ‘I accept on behalf of the Bishop and the cathedral, gentlemen. Perhaps you could leave a banker’s draft at the reception here in the morning. I must go and tell my lord Bishop. He will be delighted. Those gargoyles have been troubling him for years. I am much obliged to you gentlemen. Rest assured that the Bishop will do all he can to assist your cause. Good afternoon to you both.’ M. Berthon departed. A careful observer would have noticed that he did not seem to be going back in the direction of the Bishop’s Palace or his own offices in the Rue de Consulat. He was going in a different direction altogether, towards the Place du Martouret and the Hotel de Ville, headquarters of the Mayor.
Well, well, Powerscourt thought. God has opened the batting. Who’s coming next? Mammon or the law? ‘What did you make of our friend the Bishop’s man and the Bishop’s move?’ he asked Delaney.
‘Quite remarkable eyebrows the man had,’ said Delaney, ‘I’ve never seen anything like it. I’ve found over the years that’s it’s always best to start low on the money side of things on these kind of occasions. Once the other fellow thinks he’s doubled his money, he’ll settle for that. I bet our friend thinks he’s done well. If I was a betting man, Powerscourt, I’d say that the next man up to the plate will be the Mayor or the Mayor’s man of business. If I was playing their hand I’d keep the law till the end.’
Powerscourt and Delaney had already agreed that they would offer the Mayor something other than money. Twenty minutes after the departure of M. Berthon, about the time it would take for a man to walk to and from the Hotel St Jacques to the Hotel de Ville with a five-minute meeting in between, another, younger man in his mid-thirties was escorted to the table in the corner of the dining room. He was wearing a dark grey suit with a plain white shirt and a rather loud tie. Powerscourt didn’t think Lady Lucy would have let him out of the house wearing such a thing.
‘Jean Paul Claude, gentlemen, of the firm of Raffarin and Barre, notaires to the Mayor and the town of Le Puy. At your service.’
‘Powerscourt,’ said Powerscourt.
‘Delaney,’ said Delaney, delivering another of his bone-crushing handshakes.