Free Death of a Pilgrim by David Dickinson Page A

meetings sulphurous and meetings argumentative and meetings violent. One of his competitors had once enlivened proceedings by pulling a gun
on the Delaney company secretary. But he didn’t think he had ever been in one as unusual as this. For the moment he was calm. The Sergeant was now sucking on his pencil and inspecting them
all silently. The other constable had stationed himself by the kitchen doors as if to prevent escape through the stoves and pots and pans. And it was from the unlikely quarter of the kitchens that
assistance came.
    The head waiter was fairly sure that Alex Bentley was much happier with written rather than spoken French. He had after all translated the written menus very quickly earlier that day. The head
waiter remembered a tribesman who was fluent in French for some reason, a legendary translator during the head waiter’s days with the military in the Maghreb who had lost his tongue in some
tribal vendetta. But his knowledge of Arabic and French was unimpaired. The French officers would make their prisoners write down their statements or their confessions in Arabic. Sitting
cross-legged in his tent the man with no tongue would write the translations down in French and hand them over to his employers.
    He wrote a brief message to Alex Bentley. He heard, but did not understand, the translation.
    ‘Our friend here has a suggestion, sir,’ said Alex. ‘He will ask the Sergeant to write down in French what he wishes to say. I think I’ll be able to translate most of
that all right. Then you tell me in English what you want to say and I’ll write it down in French. It might work, sir.’
    Michael Delaney stared at him thoughtfully. ‘Might take a lot of time. Never mind. Let’s try it.’
    The head waiter and a colleague departed briefly to the rest of their dining room and returned carrying a medium-sized table able to take four chairs. They brought a large writing book whose
pages, Alex Bentley noticed, were not blank or ruled but filled with those impenetrable squares the French are so fond of. Alex wrote a brief message for the Sergeant. The Sergeant looked at him
for a moment as if he thought the American was mad and then a slow look of recognition dawned on him. He grabbed a pen and began to write very slowly, pausing regularly to suck the bottom of the
pen. French composition had never been his strong suit at school. Alex Bentley noticed that just as people shouted louder when speaking to foreigners, the Sergeant was writing in extra large
letters. The pilgrims watched, spellbound. Girvan Connolly thought it would be permitted to refill his glass again; alcohol was always useful in the absorption of shock. Father Kennedy was staring
sadly at his plate of congealed stew. It would never be the same now. At last the Sergeant stopped and passed the book over to Alex Bentley.
    ‘This is it, sir,’ Alex Bentley began, pausing every now and then to look down at his page, ‘the Sergeant here is operating under the assumption that this may be a suspicious
death. People in Le Puy, he says, don’t go around pushing each other over the edge of St Michel. Nor do they go round throwing themselves off it. Most of them never go near the place. There
hasn’t been a death of any kind, murder or suicide, up there for at least twenty years. For the time being, we are all under suspicion, all of us here in this room. Nobody, for the time
being, is allowed to leave Le Puy. Nobody is allowed to leave the hotel. The process of interviewing all the suspects, as he calls us, will begin in the morning, one person at a time.’
    There was a moment of stunned silence. All the pilgrims began to talk at once. Jack O’Driscoll had been watching Michael Delaney very carefully all evening. Jack had made extensive
inquiries about Delaney before he set off and knew the man had a fearful temper. After this piece of news, he felt, Delaney might be about to blow.
    Michael Delaney banged his fist on the table.