Dr Healey dedicated the new church to St Patrick. Charlie O’Malley and Tim Philbin, returned from their corpse-carrying duties, had closed their makeshift bar to be there for the great moment although, as Charlie observed, if anybody had told him he and Tim would have moved a corpse out of the church on the day of its consecration he’d have knocked them down. The Archbishop paid tribute to Father Macdonald for his role in supervising the work and Walter Heneghan for the construction. He named almost all of the workmen, including Austin Rudd and Tim Philbin, but not Charlie who thought he was being punished for selling illicit liquor on the summit. But Dr Healey hadn’t finished yet. ‘Finally,’ he boomed, ‘we have to thank some other members of God’s kingdom. Some of our four legged-friends, christened, not as I would have wished, with names from scripture, but with the names of great distilleries here and overseas, had a role to play. Under the supervision of Charlie O’Malley, a team of four donkeys, Jameson, Powers, Bushmills and Jack Daniels, played their part in the great work carrying material to the summit. We thank them too.’ There was a huge cheer from the crowd. ‘Finally,’ the Archbishop’s voice, Powerscourt thought, must be carrying halfway down the mountain, ‘I want to thank you, the pilgrims. You alone have always venerated the footsteps of St Patrick and you alone have practised the fasting and prayer of which our patron saint was so bright an example.’
The journey down was more treacherous than the journey up. The loose stones on the scree threatened to throw people off balance. The sticks which had been useful on the route to the top were even more valuable now, jammed down into the ground to prevent a slide down the mountain. Johnny Fitzgerald could be heard muttering, ‘Bloody mountain,’ ‘Bloody stones,’ ‘I’m damned if I’m going to slide all the way to the bottom of this bloody thing.’
Then the sun came out and everything looked different. All those grey and black suits the men were wearing looked less sombre. The white vestments of the nuns sparkled in the light. Suddenly Powerscourt felt a moment of elation. To his left was the blue sea and the islands of Clew Bay scattered like pearls from a necklace across the waters. Above that, clear blue sky with faint wisps of white cloud spangled across the road to heaven. Ahead of him on the path thousands of fresh pilgrims marching towards the summit. In front of him another thousand, going down, circling round the third and last station on Croagh Patrick and saying their prayers to God and the Virgin. They had said so many prayers on this day, the pilgrims. They had never complained. He felt God was here among the rough stones they trod, he was immanent now among these people. In Powerscourt’s eyes the pilgrims were translated into a new kind of innocence, cleansed of their sins among the rocks and scree of Ireland’s Holy Mountain, their feet washed, not in the blood of the Lamb, but in the blood of their own wounded feet. Lucy was beside him. His oldest friend was by his side. Suddenly Powerscourt’s eyes were filled with tears. He knew now what the Archbishop meant when he had talked in Tuam those weeks before about God’s grace being present on the mountain on this day. For a brief moment, he, Powerscourt had been filled with it. Tears began to roll slowly down his face. Lady Lucy held his hand very tight, murmuring that she knew exactly how he felt. Then the moment of ecstasy passed and Powerscourt’s brain returned to his investigation.
He was trying to remember something the Archbishop had said earlier on down by St Patrick’s statue, something that might prove to be a clue in his inquiry. Dr Healey had talked about the dead body at the summit – that wasn’t it. He had talked about the need to continue with the pilgrimage – that wasn’t it either. It must have been something near the end when Powerscourt’s attention had been diverted by a group of fifteen nuns all climbing together.
‘When the Archbishop addressed the faithful, Lucy, by the statue early on, what did he say at the end?’
Lady Lucy looked at her husband closely. ‘He blessed the faithful, Francis, and I think he asked them to pray for the dead man. Why do you ask?’
‘I think it could be something important, my love, did he say anything else? Very near the end it was.’
Lady Lucy frowned. ‘He talked about the people who lived in Westport and the people who were visitors all being welcome. Hold on, he didn’t put it quite like that.’ She struggled to find the word. ‘This is it, I think, Francis. “Whether you live in Westport and the surrounding area or whether you lodge with us for the duration of the pilgrimage, you are all welcome.”’
‘That’s it, Lucy! Well done!’
‘I don’t understand, why should that be important?’
‘Lodge, Lucy, that’s what I was trying to remember. Not lodge in the sense of stay with or reside but lodge as in hunting lodge or shooting lodge or fishing lodge. Can’t you see? It would be a perfect place to hide the two Ormonde ladies, Lucy, miles from anywhere, you could see a rescue party coming from miles away, nobody would think of looking there anyway. They’re perfect hideaways.’
‘Would the people who took the pictures know about such places, Francis?’
‘They knew enough about all the big houses to come and steal the pictures. No reason why they couldn’t know about fishing lodges. Let’s see what Dennis Ormonde thinks.’
They passed the third station of Croagh Patrick, the pilgrims marching round it in circles once again. The afternoon was warm and the young men took off their jackets on the way down. Johnny Fitzgerald recovered his good humour at the easier passage at the bottom. Powerscourt still found it hard to believe that his friend was descended from one of the leaders of the ’98 Rebellion. Lady Lucy hoped that all those poor people who went up and down in bare feet could receive some attention as soon as possible. Just after one o’clock they were back in Ormonde House.
12
Dennis Ormonde was delighted to see his pilgrims return. ‘Come in, come in,’ he said, ushering them into his dining room. He was accompanied by a young police inspector from Westport. There was an enormous spread of cold food laid out in front of them. ‘Thought you would be famished after all that climbing,’ he went on, ‘didn’t know what time you’d be back. There’s cold chicken and salmon and a pheasant pie and cold potatoes and all kinds of stuff. And there’s beer and lemonade and wine for the thirsty.’ Johnny Fitzgerald advanced rapidly towards the drinks department and downed a glass of all three in quick succession, beginning with the lemonade and advancing through the beer to the Ormonde Chablis.
‘God, there were a lot of people out there today,’ Ormonde continued. ‘I took a little walk round about ten o’clock. There’s even a pilgrim with a bloody great motor car parked not a hundred yards from my front gates. I saw one of the locals patting the bonnet affectionately and telling his friends: “It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God.”’
Through mouthfuls of cold chicken and potato salad Powerscourt outlined his theory about hunting and fishing lodges.
‘By God, that’s clever, Powerscourt. Must be worth the ascent if it puts your brain into that sort of working order. They’d be perfect places to hide people, miles from anywhere, well equipped, bit of fishing if you get bored. Hold on . . .’ He paused for a moment. ‘My grandfather had a list of all the lodges round here, don’t suppose any new ones have been built in the last fifty years. It’s in the library somewhere, I’ll go and fetch it.’
Powerscourt asked the Inspector, whose name was Ronan O’Brien, if there was any further news on the name of the body found at the summit, and was told that there was so much confusion caused by the pilgrimage and the vast numbers of people that normal police work was virtually suspended for the time being.