As they were leaving a young priest pressed a note into Powerscourt’s hand. It came from the Bishop. There was a prayer enclosed and a short message. ‘Dear Lord Powerscourt,’ it said. ‘Tomorrow, after Mass, I shall read this, the pilgrim’s prayer, for all making the journey to Compostela. It is very beautiful. I would not like to think that the people who are most meant to hear it will not understand it. Could you therefore stand by the pulpit and translate for the benefit of our English friends?’
Powerscourt nodded to the young priest. ‘Please tell the Bishop that I shall be honoured.’
Shortly before nine o’clock the next morning the pilgrims and the rest of the congregation were in their seats for the Pilgrims’ Mass. The dinner the night before had been a great success with speeches from the Mayor and Mr Delaney and a spectacular creme brulee from the chef. It had been washed down with Chateauneuf du Pape, hidden away in the corner of the hotel cellars for special occasions, which Powerscourt thought was one of the finest wines he had ever tasted.
Alex Bentley had placed the pilgrims in order of their method of transport by the west door of Notre Dame. At the end of the service, he had told them, when the Bishop reached the door they were to file out in pairs, the young ones who were going to walk first, the more sedentary pilgrims behind. On the other side of the nave Powerscourt noticed that there was a good cross section of the citizenry come to see them off. The Mayor and some of his staff were in the front row. Behind them the Sergeant with six of his police colleagues for company. And behind them the staff of the Hotel St Jacques come to say goodbye to the guests they had served so well. Even the chef was there, in plain clothes.
As the Mass flowed on Powerscourt realized that at last the pilgrims and their hosts were speaking the same language. When the service was over the Bishop, clad in his purple robes, made his way slowly into his pulpit and up the steps. Powerscourt, his copy of the prayer in his hand with his own translation underneath, stood to attention at the side.
‘Ici nous avons . . . ’ the Bishop began.
‘Here we have’, Powerscourt spoke slowly so his voice would not sound too hurried, ‘a pilgrim’s prayer that we believe goes back to the Middle Ages. It has been said over countless pilgrims as they leave this cathedral to go to Compostela. This prayer is for all of you today.’ Powerscourt paused. The Bishop carried on.
‘Dieu, vous avez appele Abraham . . . ’
‘Lord, you called your servant Abraham out of Ur of Chaldea and watched over him in all his wanderings; you guided the Jewish people through the desert: we ask you to watch over your servants here who, for love of your name, make the pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela.’
The pilgrims’ eyes were shooting between the Bishop and his translator at the bottom of the pulpit steps.
‘Be for us, a companion on the journey, direction at our crossroads, strength in our fatigue, a shelter in danger, resource on our travels, shadow in the heat, light in the dark, consolation in our dejection, and the power of our intention; so that with your guidance, safely and unhurt, we may reach the end of our journey and, strengthened with gratitude and power, secure and happy, may return to our homes, through Jesus Christ, our Lord. Apostle James, pray for us. Holy Virgin, pray for us.’
The Bishop came down and shuffled slowly towards the west door. One of his acolytes followed, carrying a selection of objects on a silver tray.
Wee Jimmy Delaney and Charlie Flanagan were the first to leave. The Bishop blessed them. The acolyte handed each one a copy of the pilgrim’s prayer and a scallop shell, symbol of the pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela for a thousand years.
Waldo Mulligan and Patrick MacLoughlin followed, then Shane Delaney and Willie John Delaney, Christy Delaney and Jack O’Driscoll, Girvan Connolly and Brother White, Stephen Lewis and Maggie Delaney, Father Kennedy and Alex Bentley. Michael Delaney on his own brought up the rear. Powerscourt hurried Lady Lucy away to see the pilgrims leave. For the traditional route was down the steps by the west door, along a corridor, through a mighty ornamental gate and then down one hundred and thirty-four steps to the Rue des Tables at the bottom. They stood at the top of the steps and watched the pilgrims, some awkward, some relaxed, set out down the same steps into the same street on to the same route as their predecessors eight centuries before.
PART TWO
LE PUY-SAUGUES-ESPALION-ESTAING-ESPEYRAC
Who so beset him round with dismal stories
Do but themselves confound – his strength the more is.
No foes shall stay his might; though he with giants fight,
He will make good his right to be a pilgrim.
Since, Lord, thou dost defend us with thy spirit,
We know we at the end shall life inherit.
Then fancies flee away! I’ll fear not what men say,
I’ll labour night and day to be a pilgrim.
8
‘I do wish we had Johnny Fitzgerald with us, Francis.’ Lady Lucy was staring sadly at the dark red covering on the walls of their bedroom, a fleur-de-lis pattern fading away, occasional marks from grease or spilt liquids staining the surface. ‘He’s always been here on the most difficult cases.’ She and Powerscourt were back in the Hotel St Jacques preparing to compile a list of the pilgrims and their whereabouts on the day John Delaney died. It was, Powerscourt had said, time to begin the work that brought them to the Auvergne, the unmasking of a killer.
‘I’m sure Johnny’s time will come, Lucy. I’ve got to cable him about John Delaney, as you know,’ Powerscourt said, placing the big black notebook he had bought in the Maison de la Presse on the little table by the window. ‘Now then, you’ve got all your notes there and the ones Alex Bentley took in the interviews with our friend the Sergeant? Let’s begin with the Americans.’
‘Do you think they’re all suspects, Francis?’
‘What do you mean, all?’
‘Well, do you include that nice young man, Alex Bentley? Father Kennedy? Michael Delaney himself?’
‘For the purpose of this exercise, Lucy, we include the lot. I’d even include the cat if they’d brought one. I’m going to give each one a page to themselves. That way we can enter more information as we go along.’
‘Here goes,’ said Lady Lucy, pulling out a page of notes in Alex Bentley’s finest hand. ‘Maggie Delaney, spinster, in her early sixties, resident in New York City, religious fanatic, cousin of Michael Delaney.’
Powerscourt was writing away. ‘Fanatic a bit strong perhaps, Lucy? On the religious front, I mean.’
‘No,’ said Lady Lucy with feeling. ‘You’ve not talked to the woman as much as I have, Francis. Fanatic possibly too weak if you ask me.’
‘Very good,’ said her husband and entered the word in his ledger. ‘Do we know what sort of cousin? First? Second? Some sort of larger number twice removed?’
‘Not clear. She only left the hotel once in the morning, she told the Sergeant. She went to buy some religious material in a shop on the Place du Plot. I’ve seen that place, Francis, it’s full of indescribably vulgar religious knick-knacks. Like you get in Lourdes only there’s no excuse here.’