Death on the Holy Mountain (26 page)

‘But I thought you promised the Archbishop, Francis,’ said Lady Lucy, ‘that you and some friends were going to accept his invitation.’

‘That was before this latest tragedy.’

‘I think we should do it,’ said Johnny Fitzgerald.

‘So do I,’ said Lady Lucy.

‘Very well,’ said Powerscourt. ‘We’ll have to look out our stoutest boots and walking sticks. I want to go anyway. Perhaps I’ll find inspiration half-way up the
Holy Mountain.’

They didn’t find the Ormonde women the next day. Hundreds of policemen knocked on doors, checked rooms, wrote down details of who might be absent from the house in case
they should prove to be the kidnappers. All of this information was laboriously copied into great ledgers whose pages began to resemble the early stages of a census, a Domesday Book of Westport and
the surrounding countryside in 1905. More policemen were expected the following day and on the Monday, although their work would inevitably be confused by the pilgrimage to Croagh Patrick. The
Chief Constable himself made periodic inspections of the information, making sure his systems were working properly and had not been diluted by human weakness.

Powerscourt roamed round the gardens of Ormonde House. The last Orangemen not out on the hillsides were completing the search of the woods, singing strange Orange hymns and ballads as they
worked. He would sit in the meagre library from time to time, cursing himself for his failure. Lord Francis Powerscourt did not like failure. He had rarely experienced it in his professional life.
For him, failure in this case would be a scar on his reputation, something he would never be able to erase. Lady Lucy tried to console him, to appease his restlessness. She knew from experience
that if Francis worried away at a problem with the front of his mind, as it were, little would happen. The mysteries he set himself to solve did not often yield to a full frontal assault. In Lady
Lucy’s opinion it would not be the siege engines that broke the defenders, but a flash of insight that said there must be a path up the cliff at the rear end of the castle.

‘I’m useless, Lucy,’ he said as they took tea in the library. ‘The only reason these people haven’t pensioned me off is that they’re too polite. I’ll
become a tolerated guest, rather like Uncle Peter back at Butler’s Court. Maybe I should start work on the rest of his history of Ireland. He stopped in 1891, you see. That would keep me out
of mischief. I couldn’t raise anybody’s hopes that I might actually improve their lot by solving the mysteries that are ruining their lives then.’

‘What nonsense, Francis,’ said Lady Lucy, who had seen him in these moods before. ‘You know you’ll solve the mystery, you know you will. You mustn’t be so hard on
yourself, my love.’

‘Hard on myself?’ said Powerscourt bitterly. ‘How can I not be hard on myself when I can’t even solve the mystery of a few disappearing pictures, for Christ’s sake.
It’s pathetic.’

Lady Lucy suspected that Powerscourt’s sense of himself would take a severe blow if he ever failed in a case. But then he never had. Not yet, anyway. Perhaps, she said to herself, anxious
to find something that would cheer up her husband, perhaps the pilgrimage would do him good.

It was Charlie O’Malley who found the body in the oratory on top of Croagh Patrick at a quarter to four in the morning. Charlie, accompanied by two of his fleet of
donkeys, Bushmills and Jack Daniels, had been making a last push towards profit from the stout. His donkeys had reached the summit laden with the stuff. The dead man was young, not more than
eighteen or twenty in Charlie’s view, slight of build and with black hair. He had been shot twice, once in the chest and once in the back of the head. Dark matter from these wounds had
congealed on his clothing. He had been placed, in a sitting position, with his back to the altar. Dead eyes gazed down at the empty pews and the non-existent congregation. ‘Jesus Mary and
Joseph!’ Charlie had said and knelt down beside the corpse. He said two Hail Marys and one Our Father. At first Charlie thought it was a punishment sent by God to warn him of his sins and
wickedness in intending to sell alcohol at greatly inflated prices to the penitents after they had attended Mass on the summit. Perhaps he should bring his prices down to those at ground level.
That thought didn’t last for long as Charlie reasoned that God would not have bothered to have somebody killed just to reprove him for a few bottles of stout. He said a Creed and a couple
more Our Fathers and staggered out into the open air.

The omens were not good for the pilgrims that day. Low cloud enveloped the mountain from about halfway up. A fine but persistent rain was falling. Five to four in the morning on Reek Sunday,
Charlie said to himself, surely to God somebody is going to arrive soon. Charlie knew that the body would have to be moved out of the church. It couldn’t be left there, not on this day, of
all days, but he felt reluctant to take the responsibility himself. And what would they do with the body when it was outside the church, for God’s sake? You couldn’t take it down the
mountain to meet all these pilgrims coming the other way. Some of these buggers, religious maniacs in Charlie’s view, liked to come to the summit very early to pray. There were even, Charlie
knew, some fanatics come from Australia for this pilgrimage today. Charlie wasn’t quite sure where Australia was as a matter of fact, come to think of it he didn’t think the geography
Christian Brother, whose name Charlie could never remember, knew where it was either, he always shifty about the place, but Charlie did know Australia was inhabited by convicts who liked playing
cricket and counting sheep. You couldn’t very well pass the time of day with one of these devout Australians or some other zealot, ‘Have a good pilgrimage, I’ve just got to take
this corpse to the morgue if you don’t mind.’

Charlie thought it was an insoluble problem. He went to check his two donkeys had not run away. Then he heard a wheezing sound, as if from a man very short of breath from the climb. Walter
Heneghan materialized out of the cloud. For the first and last time in his life Charlie was glad to see him. Walter Heneghan of Louisburg, chief contractor for the little chapel, had lived for most
of the construction work in a tent at the top. His men were unaware of the reasons for his residence on the spot. His doctor had told him that if he went up and down Croagh Patrick twice a day for
six months he would probably be dead before it was finished. And his wife, a woman with a fearful tongue, had told Walter with the candour that had so endeared her to him over the years that as far
she was concerned, he, Walter, would be much more use to her living in a tent on top of a bloody mountain than he would be cluttering up her house in Louisburg. Walter did travel up and down the
mountain occasionally for meetings with Father Macdonald about The Skedule but he had not attained the expertise or the fitness of Charlie O’Malley and the rest who could go up and down at
speeds they never spoke of to Walter in case the working day grew even longer.

‘Is that you, Walter?’ cried Charlie O’Malley.

‘Who else would it be at this terrible hour?’ said Heneghan, sinking down for a rest by the side of the chapel.

‘Walter, brace yourself now. It’s God’s truth I’m going to tell you, so I am.’ Charlie peered at Walter to make sure he was ready for the news.

‘What is it, Charlie?’ Heneghan was rubbing his leg vigorously as if he had cramp.

‘As God is my witness, Walter, there’s a dead body in that chapel, so there is, God rest his soul.’

‘A dead body? In my chapel? How the divil did it get here? Did it walk?’

‘Can’t have walked when it was dead, Walter, might have walked up when it was alive, I suppose. Hard to tell.’

‘Come on.’ Walter rose to his feet with difficulty. ‘Show me.’

The two men tiptoed into the little church. The body was still there, like a ghost at a feast.

‘God in heaven!’ said Walter and he rattled off a quick volley of Hail Marys. ‘He’s very dead, isn’t he?’ he went on as he knelt beside the corpse.

‘What are we going to do, Walter? We can’t leave the dead bugger in here. Do you have the boy with you?’

‘He’s hanging round the summit somewhere, eating an apple.’ Heneghan made it sound as if his son had brought the Garden of Eden up to the top of the Holy Mountain. Maybe Eve
was hidden in the clouds. Walter’s son Matthew had frequently been used as a runner to take messages up and down the mountain during the construction work and sometimes even spent the night
in the tent.

‘Look here,’ said Heneghan, ‘we’ve got to get the body away from here. It’s no good trying to hide him a couple of hundred yards away, there’s nothing higher
than a grasshopper’s knee for miles. I didn’t spend six months of my life building this damned chapel, some of it in the month of February in Christ’s name, to have the opening
day ruined. It’s not for us, Charlie, to say whether or not the bloody pilgrims get told about it, that’s for Father Macdonald and the Archbishop man. I’ll send Matthew off at
full speed this minute to the priest’s house in Westport. I think the big man is staying there too.’

‘You said we’ve got to get the body away from here, Walter. How do you propose to do that?’ Charlie had a sick feeling in his stomach. He didn’t know what was coming, but
he knew he wasn’t going to like it. They heard a whistling noise coming up the final stretch.

‘Tim Philbin, is that you?’ Walter Heneghan shouted into the murk.

‘It is,’ said Tim.

‘Thank God you’ve come,’ said Heneghan. ‘You’re just in time to help Charlie here carry a corpse down the mountain the other way, the Louisburg route. You and
Charlie and two bloody donkeys are to take our dead friend down to ground level and into the nearest police station. That’s your mission for the day.’

‘Fine, Walter,’ said Tim, fully visible now. ‘You did say corpse, didn’t you? Corpse as in dead man?’

‘I did,’ said Walter. ‘Doesn’t look too heavy a chap to me. Slight sort of corpse. You’ll be down the bottom in no time.’

News reached the clergy shortly before seven o’clock. Father Macdonald, the Administrator of Westport, and the Very Reverend Dr Healey the Archbishop of Tuam were
finishing a hearty breakfast when the housekeeper showed in a rather dishevelled Matthew Heneghan. One look at him plunged Father Macdonald into despair. You knew, he thought, you just knew,
looking at this sad face, that here was bad news. Terrible memories of his disastrous role in the construction of the new convent outside Ballinrobe in his previous post came flooding back to him,
the building unfinished by the day of the opening, the ceremony postponed, the windows with no glass, the kitchen with no cooking facilities, the unfinished cells for the sisters. He remembered the
rebukes of his superiors and the articles in the local newspaper which more or less accused him of being a fool. Well, it was just about to happen again. He felt his heart beating faster already,
even before he had heard the news, and he felt certain that one of his nervous headaches was going to start very soon.

‘Well?’ said the Archbishop in his let’s be friendly with the young, they are the congregations of the future, voice.

Matthew Heneghan coughed slightly. ‘I am Matthew Heneghan, Your Grace, son of Walter Heneghan the contractor. Forgive me, Your Grace,’ his father had told him five times before he
left the summit that you called an archbishop Your Grace, ‘there’s a dead body in the chapel, sir, the chapel on the summit.’

A piece of toast, well smeared with Father Macdonald’s housekeeper’s finest home-made marmalade, was arrested halfway towards the Archbishop’s mouth. ‘A dead body, lad?
Are you sure?’

‘My father and the others were absolutely certain, Your Grace. The man had been shot twice, once in the chest and once in the back of the head.’

The Archbishop’s toast, rather like Father Macdonald’s spirits, sank back towards his plate.

‘May the Lord have mercy on his soul,’ he said.

‘Your Grace, Your Grace,’ Father Macdonald had turned red with worry, ‘we’ll have to cancel the pilgrimage, won’t we? We can’t go on after this terrible
news.’

‘Cancel the pilgrimage? What nonsense!’ boomed the Archbishop in such a loud voice that the housekeeper dropped her second best teapot on to the kitchen floor where it broke into
hundreds of small pieces. ‘People die every day, after all, let’s not forget that. Somebody probably dies in the Westport area every year on Reek Sunday. It’s just they
don’t choose it to do it in the chapel on the top. God’s will works in mysterious ways and I am sure He would want the event to continue.’ The Archbishop crossed himself with
great ceremony. ‘We couldn’t stop all those special trains bringing people here anyway even if we wanted to. Tell me, young man, what’s happened to the body? Is it still there? In
the chapel, I mean.’

‘Oh no, Your Grace, it’s being brought down the mountain the Louisburg route, that’s the opposite route to the one the pilgrims take. Then they’re going to hand it over
to the police. I have to go to the police station here in Westport, sir, after I’ve finished with your reverences. To tell them about it, Your Grace.’

‘I presume,’ said the Archbishop, resuming work on his toast, ‘that nobody as yet knows the name of the dead man?’

‘No, Your Grace, I don’t think anybody up there had seen him before.’

‘Well, thank you, young man, thank you for coming down to tell us this terrible news. We mustn’t keep you from your duties with the police. And please give my best regards to your
father when you next see him.’ That message, Matthew knew, would keep his father happy for weeks. What happiness you could bring into people’s lives if you were an archbishop. Matthew
wondered briefly about joining the priesthood as he set out through the early morning light for the officers of the law.

Father Macdonald’s anxiety had not abated. That little red vein he so wished he could have removed was throbbing busily in his forehead. ‘We’ll have to keep it a secret, Your
Grace, the death, I mean. Nobody must know.’

The Archbishop frowned. He glanced briefly at a painting of the disciples on the wall, one of them a man called Thomas. ‘I don’t think that would do, no, not at all. I have no idea
how many people were at the summit when the body was found – it sounds as if the poor man was murdered now I think about it – and I have no idea how many people young Matthew will tell
here in Westport. Word will get out. Much better to let the pilgrims know. That way they can’t accuse the Church of covering up unpleasant truths.’