‘It’s perfectly possible to fix a few members of the Supreme Court,’ said Michael Delaney happily. ‘They say some of the robber barons did it in a case involving a steel cartel back in the 1890s. Two years later relations of the judges who backed the robber barons began getting highly paid jobs in the subsidiaries of the steel companies. Nothing was ever proved, of course.’
‘Was there not a perfectly valid reason why these people should have got jobs in the steel industry?’ Stephen Lewis asked. Frome had seen nothing like this.
‘Sure,’ said Delaney. ‘One of them was a hairdresser in the Bronx. Another taught primary school in South Dakota.’
There was one further development at twenty past seven that evening. A note arrived, addressed to Lord Francis Powerscourt. It informed him that the Mayor was delighted about his fountains.
There was a great air of anticipation in the dining room of the Hotel St Jacques that evening. Powerscourt talked to Michael Delaney about his son James and his progress. Only that afternoon, Delaney informed him, there had been a cable from New York to say that James was almost fully recovered and hoped to join them later in the pilgrimage. The young men were in high spirits, wondering how far they would be able to walk in a day and if they would meet any pretty girls on the pilgrim path. Lady Lucy was doing her duty by Maggie Delaney once again. ‘Look,’ the old lady whispered, her finger travelling round the diners like the beam of a searchlight, ‘one of these men is a murderer. It would have to be a man, wouldn’t it? Oh yes. Now we have a further crime to add to our burden, the bribing of the civil and the religious authorities in this holy town. When we leave, if we leave, we’ll be a travelling charabanc of sin, a mobile circus of iniquity!’ Father Kennedy was making final plans for the funeral. He decided to get Powerscourt to ask the proprietor if it would be appropriate to hold a wake in the dining room.
The men of Le Puy, Michael Delaney thought, arrived for their meeting at nine o’clock in the Hotel St Jacques the next morning looking like a posse from the days of the Wild West. There was The Lawman, a slim man of about forty years wearing the black robes of a French juge d’instruction. There was a priest, the local man who had conferred with Father Kennedy in the past, men of God so often at hand at the time of the final shoot-out in Abilene or Cheyenne. There was The Marshal, Mayor Jacquet himself, looking as though he might have hacked off a few flitches of bacon before breakfast. There was another Lawman, Jean Paul Claude, Deputy to the Mayor, in a lurid green tie.
The proprietor arranged four chairs in an arc in front of the pilgrims.
‘Pelerins, pelerine,’ the Mayor began. ‘Pilgrims, Miss Pilgrim,’ Powerscourt translated, ‘thank you for your patience. I think we should hear first from Mr Toulemont, the juge in charge of the case of the late John Delaney.’
The juge took out a pair of pince-nez and looked down over his nose at his notes. ‘It is for me to decide, gentlemen and lady, if this case should proceed. I have read the details of the interviews you all gave to the police. I have myself visited the site of the unfortunate incident. I cannot see any point in proceeding with this matter under present circumstances. There is no evidence that the laws of France have been broken. I have therefore decided that you may proceed on your pilgrimage.’ A burst of applause rang out from the pilgrims. ‘However,’ the juge held up his hand for quiet, ‘I do not think we should close the case completely. Fresh witnesses may come forward. People could change their minds. I do not think any of you should be allowed to leave France without permission. I have asked and been granted leave to ask for a bond, a form of bail, if you will. If anybody leaves without permission, or if you fail to register with the local police force wherever you may be once a week, the bond will be forfeit.’
‘How much?’ said Delaney from the back of the room.
‘Fifty thousand francs,’ said the juge, frowning at this rude interruption.
‘Done!’ said Delaney. ‘I’ll leave you a banker’s draft at the reception.’
‘Gentlemen, lady.’ The Mayor was back on his feet. ‘The matter is now closed. As of this moment you are free to leave the hotel and enjoy the sights of our town. I am asked to tell you that the funeral of John Delaney will take place at three o’clock this afternoon in the church behind the Hotel de Ville. Tonight the town of Le Puy would like to invite you to a banquet here in this hotel. The Mayor’s office will pay and look after the arrangements. Tomorrow there will be a special pilgrims’ Mass in the cathedral at nine o’clock, the service to be taken by the Bishop himself. Until this evening then. I wish you all a very good day.’
The pilgrims shot out of the room into the fresh air of the town, like children let out of school. Powerscourt saw Lady Lucy out of the corner of his eye, conversing happily with the Sergeant. Delaney was brooding at the back of the room, shaking his head sadly from time to time. ‘It’s not the money,’ he assured Powerscourt, ‘stock dividends and bond interest should clear that before lunchtime. I feel they’ve put one over on us somehow, that we’ve been conned. Me, Michael Delaney, beaten by a bunch of Frenchmen in berets.’
Powerscourt assured the tycoon that they hadn’t lost, they had won. The pilgrims were leaving.
‘Maybe we could have gotten to that judge person earlier. Maybe we were thinking too small.’ The vast possibilities of the New World that had made Delaney so rich seemed to open out before him once more. ‘What do you think it would have taken to fix the man? Flat in Paris? Chateau on the Loire, wherever that is? Women? He looked as though he could do with a woman or two, that judge, now I come to think about it.’
‘I must go now,’ said Powerscourt. ‘The Sergeant is taking Lady Lucy and me to St Michel, the rock where John Delaney died.’
‘Careful now,’ said Michael Delaney. ‘Don’t fall off.’
The volcanic pinnacle of St Michel d’Aiguilhe is some distance from the cathedral and the pink Corneille Rock with its huge statue of the Virgin and Child. It disappears behind other buildings as you approach, reappearing in larger and more menacing form as you draw closer. The day was overcast, with dark clouds scudding across the sky and gusts of wind tearing at their clothes. The summit was some two hundred and sixty feet above ground with a tenth-century chapel at the peak and, as the Sergeant told them at the bottom, there were two hundred and sixty-eight steps to the top.
‘There’s a rail most of the way,’ said the Sergeant, preparing to lead his party upwards. ‘Hold on to that. If you’re worried about heights, don’t look down.’ The Sergeant resolved to take special care of Lady Lucy. She might get blown away in the wind.
Powerscourt was worried about heights. He always had been. He had once been forced to come down the steps that led to the roof of Durham Cathedral sitting down after vertigo struck him at the top. Lady Lucy watched him anxiously as they set off.
‘You will be careful, Francis, won’t you?’ she said to him. ‘Turn back if you feel queasy. I can give you a full report later.’
Powerscourt worked out a plan he thought might take him to the top. It was, he knew, the sight of the drop that would set him off. The path clung to the outside of the rock, snaking its way round the edge of the volcanic outcrop towards the sky. There was always rock to look at on one side or the other. After a hundred steps or so they came to a little clearing. Lady Lucy asked her husband if he wanted to sit down. The drop on the left-hand side was clearly visible from the bench. Powerscourt shook his head. The Sergeant, all fifteen stone of him, was trudging steadily on, a few paces ahead of them. Powerscourt thought he was doing well. Look at the step. Look at the Sergeant’s back. Look at the blessed rock to one side of you. Look at Lady Lucy. Don’t look round. Don’t look down. Don’t look back. The rain was falling heavily now, the steps growing slippery. They passed another resting place with a bench for weary travellers. Again Powerscourt declined. He was panting now, sweat breaking out on his forehead. Just one step at a time. There. Now another one. One more. Don’t look down. Don’t look up. Don’t look across. Keep your eyes on the rock to your left or right. We must be nearly there now. A dark bird shot past just a few feet away. Powerscourt slipped slightly but then regained his bearing. It’s an omen, he said to himself. I’m going to be all right. Don’t look down. Don’t look up. Don’t look sideways. Fix your eyes on the step, on the dark blue uniform of the Sergeant, on Lucy’s feet. One step at a time. You’re wearing brown boots today. The Sergeant’s boots are black. The bottoms of the Sergeant’s trousers are frayed. One foot in front of another. Keep looking at the rock.