‘You can have a couple of minutes,’ the doctor said, ‘no more. He may not last that long.’
Mulligan was heavily bandaged right round his middle. His dark eyes looked up at Powerscourt, filled with pain that turned to hatred.
‘I think you should tell us the truth now,’ said Powerscourt, speaking very quietly. ‘Did you commit the four murders? You don’t have to speak if that’s too painful, you can just nod your head.’
Mulligan’s eyes travelled to and fro between Powerscourt and the Inspector, coming to rest on a painting of the Virgin on the wall. Maybe it was the Madonna that did it. He nodded his head, slowly but unmistakably.
‘Are you Michael Delaney’s son? Were you planning to kill him at the end?’
Again Waldo Mulligan’s eyes came to rest on the picture of the Mother of God. Pray for us now and in the hour of our death, Amen. Another nod.
‘Were you planning to kill all the pilgrims? Because they too were Delaneys?’
Mulligan grew agitated. His eyes searched for the doctor. His face turned even paler.
‘Gentlemen,’ said the doctor, ‘I’m afraid you must go now. The patient is becoming disturbed. If you wait outside I will tell you more in a moment.’
They passed a priest coming into the ward as they went out. The last rites had arrived for the man from Washington. They would never know how many pilgrims Mulligan intended to kill. They would never know whether he picked his victims at random as the opportunity presented itself or whether he had a predetermined list of targets in his mind. Half an hour later the doctor came back to tell them Mulligan was dead. He made the sign of the cross.
Walking back to the hotel, Powerscourt suddenly realized the full import of what he had just seen. He thought back to Franklin Bentley’s telegram. Waldo Mulligan had plotted his revenge on the relations who had abandoned him and the father who had deserted him. Mulligan must have thought the pilgrimage was his lucky break, the perfect opportunity to take his revenge with all those Delaneys collected in one place like lambs to the slaughter. Michael Delaney had launched this great venture as a thank you to God for saving the life of one son. He did not know that another son had travelled in his party halfway round the world on a deadly mission of retribution for events thirty years before. Nemesis travelled from the New World to the Old. The pilgrimage had been ruined by murder, the pilgrims travelling by day in a sealed train and sleeping most of the time on the floor of police cells or the unforgiving concrete of the local jails. Now it was clear that another of Delaney’s sons had come out of the past to kill him and nearly succeeded. James was the son who was saved in the New York hospital under the picture of St James the Great. Waldo Mulligan was the other one, abandoned all those years ago in Pittsburgh. His life had not been spared. It was ended early on a Wednesday morning by the horns of a bull from Pamplona.
21
Everybody was back in the hotel by half past eight that morning. The other pilgrims had been rounded up partying on the streets or drinking in some of the bars that never closed during Fiesta. Powerscourt had all the pilgrims assemble in a private room on the first floor. The Inspector joined them. Michael Delaney was wearing a very bright suit of yellow check today. Alex Bentley worked his way round so he could sit next to Lady Lucy at the top table. Johnny Fitzgerald wondered if anybody would notice him taking the occasional swig from his new wineskin. He hoped to be able to spend a day or two in the mountains soon, looking for vultures.
Powerscourt rose to his feet. He was finding it hard, as he had told Lady Lucy five minutes before, to believe that the case was over. It was finished. Normal life without wine cellars and bodies in cloisters could resume. He was sombre as he began.
‘Ladies’, he nodded to Maggie Delaney, ‘and gentlemen, I have both good and bad news for you this morning. I have to say I think the good outweighs the bad, but you must decide that for yourselves. We have another death, I’m afraid. Waldo Mulligan took part this morning in the running of the bulls. I’m sure you have all heard of it by now. He was unfortunate enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. One bull got detached from the rest. I am told they are at their most dangerous when they are disoriented and separated from their companions. Waldo Mulligan was gored by the bull just above the groin. He died of his injuries shortly afterwards in the hospital in the bullring. A priest was with him at the end.’
Powerscourt did not mention that Mulligan had tried to kill him, to trip him up beneath the hooves of the bulls.
‘That is the bad news. The good news is that there will be no more murders. Waldo Mulligan confessed to me before he died that he was the killer. He was responsible for all four deaths. The Inspector here was with me at the time. He can confirm it. The special trains, the nights in the cells should all stop now, once the Spanish authorities give their approval.’
The Inspector said that he hoped to complete the formalities by that afternoon. There was a moment of silence, as if all this was too much to take in at once. Then there was a torrent of questions. When did Powerscourt know that Mulligan was the killer? How had he found out? Did he think Mulligan would have tried to kill more people? And, the most regular of all, why had Mulligan done it? What was his motive?
Michael Delaney rose to sum up the views of the pilgrims. ‘Could I say first of all, Powerscourt, how grateful we are to you for having solved the mystery. I may have spoken harshly to you the other day but I take back everything I said. And could we ask you to tell us something about your investigation?’ Powerscourt felt reluctant. Then he told himself that these pilgrims had lived with the threat of death for a long time. One short walk with the killer might have been enough to end their lives. But he felt, even after their row a few days before, that he should spare Michael Delaney.
‘I will do that, Mr Delaney,’ he said, ‘but could I suggest that you do not stay with us now? There are some matters you might not like to hear in public. I would be perfectly happy to give you the details in private later on this morning.’
‘Nonsense, man, I’ve got nothing to hide.’
Oh yes you have, Powerscourt said to himself, wondering if Delaney had blotted out large sections of his own past. ‘Really, Mr Delaney, I do think it would be better if I spoke with you in private.’
‘Nonsense, man, I’m not scared of what you might have to say.’
Powerscourt wondered briefly if he should not give the details of Delaney’s past crimes. Then he reflected that that would not be fair to the pilgrims. Delaney had been given his chance.
‘The first murder, the one that brought me here,’ he began, ‘was that of John Delaney, pushed, I believe, off the volcanic rock path of St Michel to his death. The poor man was scarcely off the train from England. Any suggestion that he might have suffered from vertigo was banished from my mind when I learnt from England that he was employed as a window cleaner. There was no motive that I could see. You will recall that Lucy and I asked you to fill out various forms about your ancestors, that we tried to engage you in conversation about your parents and grandparents. We were looking for connections. There were none that we could find.
‘The second murder was another apparently motiveless crime. So, it seemed, was the third. So, it seemed, was the fourth. They did have one thing in common. This was a murderer who operated on the spur of the moment and at lightning speed. If he saw a chance to lure one of his victims away from the rest of the party, a walk by the river at night perhaps, a look at the upper chamber at Moissac cloisters maybe, he would seize his moment the instant it appeared. Out would come the knife or the blows against a pillar and the deed would be over in a matter of minutes. There was one possible interpretation that did present itself to me from this modus operandi. It seemed to me unlikely that the victims were pre-determined. There wasn’t a plan to kill Patrick MacLoughlin or Stephen Lewis or Girvan Connolly. The victim could as easily have been any one of you here, if you had been in the right place for the killer to strike. If the opportunity arose, the nearest pilgrim would do. If this theory was right, there were two possible explanations. One, that the man was a serial killer in the manner of Jack the Ripper, that he killed at random because he enjoyed it or derived some strange satisfaction from the act of murder. The other was that the victims were all killed because they were Delaneys, that the murderer had a huge grudge against every Delaney he could find. You might ask why, in that case, he didn’t kill Michael Delaney himself and have done with it. My answer, and this, I have to say, is supposition on my part, is that he did intend to kill Michael Delaney, but as his last victim, not his first.’