‘And under the dead or alive section, they’d put Reward, Five Hundred Dollars, or whatever they could afford. Greed’s always a good motive for betrayal, my friend, I’ve seen that so many times in business. So why don’t we put up a notice here in the hotel, offering a huge reward to anybody who provides information that leads to the apprehension of the killer? Money only handed over on conviction, mind you. I’m not going to put my hand in my pocket just because some fellow comes in with a tall story. What do you think?’
‘It’s certainly ingenious,’ said Powerscourt. Lady Lucy or either of Powerscourt’s elder children could have told Michael Delaney from that opening remark that Powerscourt did not think this was a good idea. ‘How much money were you thinking of?’ he continued, playing for time.
‘A colleague of mine in New York tried this once when somebody in his firm was leaking business secrets to his competitors. He reckoned it had to be pretty big to work. What do you say to fifty thousand dollars?’
‘Fifty thousand dollars?’ Powerscourt was amazed at the size of the sum. ‘Why, Mr Delaney, a man might not need to work again if he had that sort of money!’ He knew there was no point in asking if Michael Delaney could afford it.
‘Well, at least he’d still be alive to enjoy it if we got our man. So would a lot of other people. So would you, Powerscourt, come to think of it, after this morning’s escapade.’
‘Well,’ said Powerscourt, ‘I think it deserves serious consideration, your proposal, Mr Delaney, I really do. I’ll have to see what the good Inspector thinks about it. We are on his turf, after all. I do have one reservation, I have to say. In those days in your Wild West, when people rode around on horses with gun belts and big hats and rifles strapped to their saddles, there were characters called bounty hunters, I seem to remember, who made a living out of catching the wanted men, the dead or alive people. And sometimes, in their enthusiasm, they might finger the wrong man in order to get their hands on the cash. Is that not so, Mr Delaney?’
‘Early version of free enterprise, bounty hunting,’ said Delaney. ‘All part of the American way of life, get your hands on as many dollars as you can. I don’t see your problem.’
‘It’s this. What happens if five or six of these pilgrims all decide to finger one of their colleagues to pick up the fifty thousand? They make up stories about their companions, a different person every time. The Inspector and I have to check them out. In the meantime the real killer continues undetected because we are following a whole lot of false leads.’
‘Forgive me for saying this, Powerscourt, but your investigation isn’t exactly proceeding at lightning speed at present, is it?’
‘Nobody is more conscious of that than I am,’ Powerscourt replied, ‘that is absolutely true, and it is perfectly proper to remind me of it. But let me talk to the Inspector, Mr Delaney. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. I do think I have earned the right to have some say over the way this investigation is conducted, mind you. After all, I could have paid for it with my life.’
Johnny Fitzgerald felt his face turning red, maybe even purple. Mary Rose, the girl he had proposed to all those years ago, the girl who had rejected him in favour of another, was now but ten feet away. Christ in heaven, he muttered to himself, this is worse than battle with the shells going off and the guns firing and the dervishes yelling their battle cries. Mary Rose took the initiative.
‘Goodness me,’ she said brightly, ‘it’s Johnny Fitzgerald, isn’t it? I’d have known you anywhere. How are you, Johnny? What are you doing in these parts?’ Mary Rose spoke calmly as if she were talking to an old school friend she hadn’t seen for years. Johnny was in turmoil.
‘I hope you’re well, Mary Rose,’ he stammered. ‘I’m here on business.’
‘Really?’ said Mary Rose. ‘You’re not still in the Army then?’
‘No, I’m not.’ Johnny was sure his face was still lighting up the street. Two middle-aged ladies on the other side of the pavement slowed their walk to funeral pace to catch as much as they could of the conversation between the lady from the big house and the stranger. Word would go round the town before lunchtime, but it was unlikely that even the most farfetched explanations would be as bizarre as the truth about the meeting of the former lovers.
‘How are the family?’ Johnny couldn’t bring himself to speak her husband’s name.
‘They’re all fine,’ said Mary Rose. ‘I’ve got three boys and three girls now. Jonathan’s just been made Master of the Hunt, you know. He’s got rather plump with the passing of time, Jonathan has. I tell him it’s the cream. We have to find bigger horses to carry him every year.’
It was the word Jonathan that finished Johnny off. Even after all those years he could still see the cold print in the marriage columns of The Times. Jonathan still alive. Jonathan still married to his Mary Rose. Jonathan plump. Jonathan Master of the Hunt. Jonathan taking too much cream. Damn Jonathan. Damn him to hell.
‘You’ll have to excuse me, Mrs Osborne.’ Johnny was stammering again, and stepping past her as he spoke. ‘I’m in a great hurry. I’ve got to get back to London. My business won’t wait.’
‘But won’t you come to lunch? Won’t you come to stay? I’m sure the children would love to meet you. They’re always interested in everybody’s past.’
But her invitations were in vain. Johnny was striding up the street the way she had come as fast as he could. ‘Wait, Johnny, wait!’ she called after him.
Johnny just resisted the temptation to shout at her that waiting was the one thing she hadn’t done for him in the past, that she had promised to wait for him until his return from Army service but had betrayed him and his love and his offer of marriage with another instead. Wait indeed. Jonathan indeed. Too much cream indeed. Johnny didn’t wait. He headed for the railway station as fast as he could and waited two and a quarter hours for the next express to Dublin. He was leaving Ireland as fast as he could. He would wait no more.
Christy Delaney felt his French was improving. He knew now the word for tree. He knew the word for leaf, for cow, for sheep, for grass, for horse, for mouth, for face and for nose and for eyes. In some dim recess of his brain he was beginning to grasp noo, voo, too, eel and el. Somme was not a river in the north but had something to do with the word to be. His first proper encounter with Anne Marie as she cleared away the plates after lunch in an empty dining room had gone well. He had learnt her name and been informed that she would go for a walk with him later that day. Christy did not know it but Lady Lucy had smoothed his path by having a word with the girl’s mother.
‘Mightn’t he be a murderer, like all the rest of them? I don’t want my girl being involved with a killer, heaven forbid,’ had been the reaction of Marie Dominique, the mistress of the hotel.
Lady Lucy had assured her that she didn’t think Christy was a murderer. ‘He comes from a good family in Ireland, as far as I can make out,’ she continued innocently. ‘I believe they own a lot of land.’
‘Do they, indeed,’ replied Marie Dominique. ‘I see. How very interesting.’
Their walk had taken them up into the hills. They had sat on the grass and looked at the view and into each other’s eyes. They made another date. Christy decided that he needed to improve his vocabulary yet further. He resolved to set up another tutorial with Lady Lucy. It was just one word he was interested in this time, the word for love.
16
Cable from Johnny Fitzgerald to Lord Francis Powerscourt:
Have found the story about Delaney family in famine years. Old man married to whiskey bottles has interviewed surviving locals. Three poor Delaney families, one better off. Potatoes give up ghost. Poor Delaneys on verge of giving up ghost. Appeal to richer Delaney family. They refuse aid of any kind. All twenty-four poor Delaneys repair to workhouse and die of plague, dysentery, despair etc. But one survived. Boy, about twelve years in 1846-48. Fate, country of residence unknown. Richer Delaneys later went to America, possibly unpopular with surviving locals. Reckon this survivor would be in late sixties, early seventies. Unknown if he had any children. Unknown place of residence. Obvious motive. Do you have any elderly pilgrims who look as if they might have fled the famine? Regards, Fitzgerald.