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Authors: David Dickinson
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stuff. The young man Christy Delaney thought the recipe sounded more practical than poetic. Shane Delaney thought, disloyally, that this looked far
better than anything his Sinead had ever produced in all their years of marriage. ‘“Add to the pot”’, Bentley went on, ‘“a well-stuffed cockerel or an old hen, a
knuckle of veal, a rib of beef. Put the meat in the pot, a goodly amount, don’t be afraid, add some water, not too much, and some red wine and stew gently over a wood fire for four to five
hours.”’
There was a brief ripple of applause and then the pilgrims fell to, comparing notes on the taste and taking comforting gulps of their wine. It was Jack O’Driscoll who first noticed that
something was wrong. He was sitting closest to the other set of doors that led out into the entrance foyer and he could hear raised voices. He thought one of them might belong to the hotel owner.
Whatever else he was doing, Jack reflected ruefully, he didn’t think the man was ordering a beer. Then the doors opened and the proprietor walked in, rather sheepishly. Nobody likes their
guests being disturbed in the middle of the finest meal in the hotel repertoire. But it was his companions, a large elderly Sergeant of Police and two constables, who caused the decibel level to
rise as the pilgrims gasped and asked each other what on earth was going on.
‘Silence!’ boomed the Sergeant. Alex Bentley thought he had grasped that bit. But most of what followed he did not, though the words he did understand filled him with horror. The
Sergeant spoke for over a minute in thick guttural French. Then he looked round the room, waiting for a response. He spoke again, in a louder voice than before. Everybody looked at Alex
Bentley.
‘ Je ne comprends pas ,’ he managed to blurt out at last, ‘I don’t understand.’ The Sergeant spoke again. He stamped his large foot. He shook his fist at them.
Michael Delaney thought the man was swearing at them. Then the Sergeant spoke in a quieter tone to the proprietor.
‘Did you catch anything of what he said the first time?’ Michael Delaney whispered to Alex Bentley.
‘I think he said something about a dead man, about a corpse,’ Bentley murmured back.
‘Christ in heaven!’ said Delaney and looked out towards the party at the door. The hotel man was pointing now, in the general direction of Michael Delaney and his companions on the
top table. He’s identifying us as the people in charge, Delaney guessed. The burly Sergeant beckoned to them to follow him and spoke some more words, very loudly and very slowly. Father
Kennedy was reluctant to rise from his seat. He didn’t want to leave his delicious stew. It might have gone cold by the time he got back to it. He followed the others slowly out of the dining
room, the smell as heady as ever, the pilgrims open-mouthed, Girvan Connolly refilling his glass while he thought nobody was looking.
The Sergeant took them across the hotel entrance and through a door to the side of reception. He closed the door carefully behind them. Lying on a trolley beside the proprietor’s desk,
papers and receipts spilling over on to the floor, an old map of Le Puy on the wall, was what looked like a body totally covered from head to foot in a couple of blankets.
He shouted some more words in French. Then he pulled back the blankets briefly to reveal the mutilated corpse beneath. The face had been battered out of all recognition. One arm was hanging from
his shoulder. Dark stains of dried blood covered his clothes. Then the Sergeant covered him up. He handed a wad of papers to Michael Delaney, pointing three times to his own breast pocket and then
to the dead man to indicate that these had been found on his person. Great waves of sadness washed through Michael Delaney as he looked at the train tickets to Le Puy, at the names of the hotels,
including the one where they now stood. There was a map of the pilgrim route to Santiago, sent by
better than anything his Sinead had ever produced in all their years of marriage. ‘“Add to the pot”’, Bentley went on, ‘“a well-stuffed cockerel or an old hen, a
knuckle of veal, a rib of beef. Put the meat in the pot, a goodly amount, don’t be afraid, add some water, not too much, and some red wine and stew gently over a wood fire for four to five
hours.”’
There was a brief ripple of applause and then the pilgrims fell to, comparing notes on the taste and taking comforting gulps of their wine. It was Jack O’Driscoll who first noticed that
something was wrong. He was sitting closest to the other set of doors that led out into the entrance foyer and he could hear raised voices. He thought one of them might belong to the hotel owner.
Whatever else he was doing, Jack reflected ruefully, he didn’t think the man was ordering a beer. Then the doors opened and the proprietor walked in, rather sheepishly. Nobody likes their
guests being disturbed in the middle of the finest meal in the hotel repertoire. But it was his companions, a large elderly Sergeant of Police and two constables, who caused the decibel level to
rise as the pilgrims gasped and asked each other what on earth was going on.
‘Silence!’ boomed the Sergeant. Alex Bentley thought he had grasped that bit. But most of what followed he did not, though the words he did understand filled him with horror. The
Sergeant spoke for over a minute in thick guttural French. Then he looked round the room, waiting for a response. He spoke again, in a louder voice than before. Everybody looked at Alex
Bentley.
‘ Je ne comprends pas ,’ he managed to blurt out at last, ‘I don’t understand.’ The Sergeant spoke again. He stamped his large foot. He shook his fist at them.
Michael Delaney thought the man was swearing at them. Then the Sergeant spoke in a quieter tone to the proprietor.
‘Did you catch anything of what he said the first time?’ Michael Delaney whispered to Alex Bentley.
‘I think he said something about a dead man, about a corpse,’ Bentley murmured back.
‘Christ in heaven!’ said Delaney and looked out towards the party at the door. The hotel man was pointing now, in the general direction of Michael Delaney and his companions on the
top table. He’s identifying us as the people in charge, Delaney guessed. The burly Sergeant beckoned to them to follow him and spoke some more words, very loudly and very slowly. Father
Kennedy was reluctant to rise from his seat. He didn’t want to leave his delicious stew. It might have gone cold by the time he got back to it. He followed the others slowly out of the dining
room, the smell as heady as ever, the pilgrims open-mouthed, Girvan Connolly refilling his glass while he thought nobody was looking.
The Sergeant took them across the hotel entrance and through a door to the side of reception. He closed the door carefully behind them. Lying on a trolley beside the proprietor’s desk,
papers and receipts spilling over on to the floor, an old map of Le Puy on the wall, was what looked like a body totally covered from head to foot in a couple of blankets.
He shouted some more words in French. Then he pulled back the blankets briefly to reveal the mutilated corpse beneath. The face had been battered out of all recognition. One arm was hanging from
his shoulder. Dark stains of dried blood covered his clothes. Then the Sergeant covered him up. He handed a wad of papers to Michael Delaney, pointing three times to his own breast pocket and then
to the dead man to indicate that these had been found on his person. Great waves of sadness washed through Michael Delaney as he looked at the train tickets to Le Puy, at the names of the hotels,
including the one where they now stood. There was a map of the pilgrim route to Santiago, sent by
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