Johnny could see why Sean McGurk might not be at his best by the evening. As he thanked the old man and left him a five-pound note for his pains, he wondered if the historian would live long enough to build another pyramid of empties. Maybe he could be buried inside one, like the Egyptian kings all those years before. Making his way back to the hotel, just on the right side of sober, he saw a well-dressed woman walking down the street towards him. Johnny’s heart began to pound and he didn’t think it was the whiskey. People can change their hairstyles, he said to himself, their faces change of their own accord, but their walk remains the same. Coming down the street towards him, less than fifty yards away now, was Mary Rose, once the love of his life, now the wife of another.
Two hours after his escape from the cellar, Powerscourt was discussing his ordeal with Lady Lucy as they walked from the little house in the hills down to the Espeyrac hotel. The Inspector had discovered the winemaker bound and gagged in a barn beside his house. He told the policeman he had no idea who his assailant had been.
‘That invitation last night was so loud that anybody could have heard it, anybody at all,’ said Powerscourt, smelling his collar anxiously to make sure his clean clothes didn’t also reek of drink.
‘But why should the murderer decide to kill you now?’ said Lady Lucy. She wished more than anything that she could spirit Johnny Fitzgerald to her husband’s side. The knot of anxiety that tormented her when she knew Francis was in danger was churning round inside her. ‘What has changed in the last day or so? He could have made the attempt a long time ago.’
‘I’ve no idea. Maybe it was saying to Jack O’Driscoll that I don’t know who the murderer is. I think I said not yet. Maybe that got around among the pilgrims. Maybe the murderer interpreted not yet as meaning that I was on the verge of a breakthrough.’
The hotel keeper greeted them anxiously as they reached the Auberge des Montagnes. ‘Monsieur, monsieur,’ he said in a worried tone, ‘Mr Delaney is most anxious to speak with you. Immediately. And this cable came for you first thing this morning, monsieur. I’m afraid it seems to have been opened by mistake. I’m truly sorry, monsieur. Let us hope the message is not important?’
‘Do you know who opened it?’ said Powerscourt sternly.
‘I’m afraid not, monsieur, it was lying on the front desk in the reception. I suppose anybody could have read it.’
Powerscourt didn’t think anybody could have mistaken the name Powerscourt for the names of any of the pilgrims. Delaney, Mulligan, O’Driscoll, Flanagan, even a Frenchman would not be likely to mix those up. So, maybe the enemy was reading his post. He, Powerscourt, had often opened other people’s mail during his years in Army Intelligence. But then, he said to himself, Johnny Fitzgerald and I always covered our tracks. Nobody would have known we were reading their letters and sealing them up again. That way, you kept the advantage. Once the enemy knew you were intercepting their messages, the exercise lost all its value and could even become counter-productive if your opponents arranged to have false information sent to themselves through a third party. This could completely fool the interceptors, who would believe it to be genuine. Then the tables would be turned indeed. Powerscourt stared down at his cable. An intelligent man, he reckoned, could have sealed it up again quite easily, or sealed it up so the recipient could not be sure whether it had been tampered with or not. He wondered if the message was so dangerous for the murderer that he had to take immediate action, that his own position was now so exposed that he didn’t think about sealing it up again.
I don’t suppose I’ll ever know the answer, he said to himself, leading Lady Lucy to a seat in the sunshine some hundred yards from the Auberge des Montagnes. The message came from Franklin Bentley, Alex’s brother who worked for a law firm with offices in New York and Washington. ‘Some progress,’ it began. ‘Copies of book on Delaney’s life that was pulped years ago may still be at large. Total of four sent to London dealers before Delaney intervened. Publishers presumably hoped for sale to Americans in London. New York firm that published it went bankrupt years ago. No records found so far. Presume you investigate London end. Waldo Mulligan believed by rumour to be having affair with colleague’s wife. Not clear if sent away by senator who knew about it, or left in fit of morality. Morality fit unlikely behaviour in Washington DC. Unconfirmed, very unconfirmed rumour that Michael Delaney was married before the arrival of the second wife, mother of James. Not clear what happened. Wife dead? Couple divorced? Delaney bigamist? Inquiries continue. Good luck. Franklin Bentley.’
‘God bless my soul,’ said Powerscourt, and handed the cable over to Lady Lucy. ‘I’ll say this for Alex Bentley’s brother, he’s a good worker, and a quick one.’
The sun was bright overhead as Lady Lucy read the message. ‘Do you think we’ll be able to find one of those books in London, Francis?’
‘I suppose we’ll have to wait until Johnny gets back,’ said Powerscourt sadly. ‘I would love to get my hands on a copy of that book. Let’s hope he makes good progress over there in Ireland.’
‘I’ve got a second cousin, twice removed mind you,’ Lady Lucy put in, ‘whose husband works in publishing. I think he’s a director of some firm or other only I can’t for the moment remember which one. I’m sure he’d be able to help, Francis.’
Powerscourt had always known that whether he ended up in heaven or hell a selection of his wife’s relations would be there to greet him and demand the latest news about other members of the tribe. He hoped they might be closer than second cousins twice removed.
‘We don’t have an address, though, do we, my love? If we were in London I’m sure we could find out in a matter of hours but it’s not so easy over here. Let’s wait for Johnny. I’d better go and see Michael Delaney, Lucy. I don’t think he likes to be kept waiting.’
Two policemen were on duty in the hall of the hotel. Another one patrolled the ground floor. Yet another wandered in and out of the bedrooms, not bothering to knock before entering, just marching in as if he had a search warrant. Michael Delaney was drinking coffee in his private sitting room looking out over the valley.
‘Good day to you, Powerscourt,’ he said, inspecting an enormous cigar rather doubtfully. ‘Sorry to hear you might have been killed over there. The Inspector told me about it. Bad business. It must go with the job in your line of work, I suppose. Rather like going bankrupt in mine.’
He paused briefly and lit his cigar. ‘Now then. We’re all to stay here for another day. Only allowed out one at a time as before. There’s some damned conference this afternoon in that place Fidgack or whatever it’s called. Church, police, mayors along the route, a couple of local congressmen – deputies, I think they’re called – have got in on the act. I’m not invited. I just told the Inspector to remember that whoever is being killed, they’re not Frenchmen. No apparent danger to the local citizens if you ask me. But I’ve had an idea, Powerscourt. I’d like to hear what you think about it.’
‘Fire ahead,’ said Powerscourt, watching as a plume of smoke floated out towards the hotel flower bowl.
‘You’ll remember how it was in the Wild West,’ Delaney continued, ‘or if you don’t remember, you’ll surely have read about it. When the sheriff and the authorities wanted to catch a villain, bank robber, cattle rustler, murderer, that sort of character, they used to put up a poster in the town. Wanted, Dead or Alive, that sort of thing.’
Powerscourt thought his brains must have been addled in the wine cellar. He couldn’t see where this was leading.