Agatha Christie

The Pale Horse

To John and Helen Mildmay White
with many thanks for the opportunity
given me to see justice done

Foreword

by Mark Easterbrook

There are two methods, it seems to me, of approaching this strange business of the Pale Horse. In spite of the dictum of the White King, it is difficult to achieve simplicity. One cannot, that is to say, âBegin at the beginning, go on to the end, and then stop.â For where is the beginning?

To a historian, that always is the difficulty. At what point in history does one particular portion of history begin.

In this case, you can begin at the moment when Father Gorman set forth from his presbytery to visit a dying woman. Or you can start before that, on a certain evening in Chelsea.

Perhaps, since I am writing the greater part of this narrative myself, it is there that I should begin.

One

Mark Easterbrookâs Narrative

I

The Espresso machine behind my shoulder hissed like an angry snake. The noise it made had a sinister, not to say devilish, suggestion about it. Perhaps, I reflected, most of our contemporary noises carry that implication. The intimidating angry scream of jet planes as they flash across the sky; the slow menacing rumble of a tube train approaching through its tunnel; the heavy road transport that shakes the very foundations of your houseâ¦ Even the minor domestic noises of today, beneficial in action though they may be, yet carry a kind of alert. The dishwashers, the refrigerators, the pressure cookers, the whining vacuum cleanersââBe careful,â they all seem to say. âI am a genie harnessed to your service, but if your control of me failsâ¦.â

A dangerous worldâthat was it, a dangerous world.

I stirred the foaming cup placed in front of me. It smelt pleasant.

âWhat else will you have? Nice banana and bacon sandwich?â

It seemed an odd juxtaposition to me. Bananas I connected with my childhoodâor occasionally flambÃ© with sugar and rum. Bacon, in my mind, was firmly associated with eggs. However, when in Chelsea, eat as Chelsea does. I agreed to a nice banana and bacon sandwich.

Although I lived in Chelseaâthat is to say, I had had a furnished flat there for the last three monthsâI was in every other way a stranger in these parts. I was writing a book on certain aspects of Mogul architecture, but for that purpose I could have lived in Hampstead or Bloomsbury or Streatham or Chelsea and it would have been all the same to me. I was oblivious of my surroundings except for the tools of my trade, and the neighbourhood in which I lived was completely indifferent to me, I existed in a world of my own.

On this particular evening, however, I had suffered from one of those sudden revulsions that all writers know.

Mogul architecture, Mogul Emperors, the Mogul way of lifeâand all the fascinating problems it raised, became suddenly as dust and ashes. What did they matter? Why did I want to write about them?

I flicked back various pages, rereading what I had written. It all seemed to me uniformly badâpoorly written and singularly devoid of interest. Whoever had said âHistory is bunkâ (Henry Ford?) had been absolutely right.

I pushed back my manuscript with loathing, got up and looked at my watch. The time was close on eleven p.m. I tried to remember if I had had dinnerâ¦ From my inner sensations I thought not. Lunch, yes, at the Athenaeum. That was a long time ago.

I went and looked into the refrigerator. There was a small remnant of desiccated tongue. I looked at it without favour. So it was that I wandered out into the Kingâs Road, and eventually turned into an Espresso Coffee Bar with the name Luigi written in red neon light across its window, and was now contemplating a bacon and banana sandwich whilst I reflected on the sinister implications of present-day noises and their atmospheric effects.

All of them, I thought, had something in common with my early memories of pantomime. Davy Jones arriving from his locker in clouds of smoke! Trap doors and windows that exuded the infernal powers of evil, challenging and defying a Good Fairy Diamond, or some such name, who in turn waved an inadequate-looking wand and recited hopeful platitudes as to the ultimate triumph of good in a flat voice, thus prefacing the inevitable âsong of the momentâ which never had anything to do with the story of that particular pantomime.

It came to me suddenly that evil was, perhaps, necessarily always more impressive than good. It had to make a show! It had to startle and challenge! It was instability attacking stability. And in the end, I thought, stability will always win. Stability can survive the triteness of Good Fairy Diamond; the flat voice, the rhymed couplet, even the irrelevant vocal statement of âThereâs a Winding Road runs down the Hill, To the Olde World Town I love.â All very poor weapons it would seem, and yet those weapons would inevitably prevail. The pantomime would end in the way it always ended. The staircase, and the descending cast in order of seniority, with Good Fairy Diamond, practising the Christian virtue of humility and not seeking to be first (or, in this case, last) but arriving about halfway through the procession, side by side with her late opponent, now seen to be no longer the snarling Demon King breathing fire and brimstone, but just a man dressed up in red tights.

The Espresso hissed again in my ear. I signalled for another cup of coffee and looked around me. A sister of mine was always accusing me of not being observant, not noticing what was going on. âYou live in a world of your own,â she would say accusingly. Now, with a feeling of conscious virtue, I took note of what was going on. It was almost impossible not to read about the coffee bars of Chelsea and their patrons every day in the newspapers; this was my chance to make my own appraisal of contemporary life.

It was rather dark in the Espresso, so you could not see very clearly. The clientele were almost all young people. They were, I supposed vaguely, what was called the offbeat generation. The girls looked, as girls always did look to me nowadays, dirty. They also seemed to be much too warmly dressed. I had noticed that when I had gone out a few weeks ago to dine with some friends. The girl who had sat next to me had been about twenty. The restaurant was hot, but she had worn a yellow wool pullover, a black skirt and black woollen stockings, and the perspiration poured down her face all through the meal. She smelt of perspiration-soaked wool and also, strongly, of unwashed hair. She was said, according to my friends, to be very attractive. Not to me! My only reaction was a yearning to throw her into a hot bath, give her a cake of soap and urge her to get on with it! Which just showed, I suppose, how out of touch with the times I was. Perhaps it came of having lived abroad so much. I recalled with pleasure Indian women with their beautifully-coiled black hair, and their saris of pure bright colours hanging in graceful folds, and the rhythmic sway of their bodies as they walkedâ¦.

I was recalled from these pleasant thoughts by a sudden accentuation of noise. Two young women at the table next to me had started a quarrel. The young men who were with them tried to adjust things, but without avail.

Suddenly they were screaming at each other. One girl slapped the otherâs face, the second dragged the first from her chair. They fought each other like fishwives, screaming abuse hysterically. One was a tousled redhead, the other a lank-haired blonde.

What the quarrel was about, apart from terms of abuse, I did not gather. Cries and catcalls arose from other tables.

âAttagirl! Sock her, Lou!â

The proprietor behind the bar, a slim Italian-looking fellow with sideburns, whom I had taken to be Luigi, came to intervene in a voice that was pure cockney London.

âNah thenâbreak it upâbreak it upâYouâll âave the whole street in in a minute. Youâll âave the coppers here. Stop it, I say.â

But the lank blonde had the redhead by the hair and was tugging furiously as she screamed:

âYouâre nothing but a man-stealing bitch!â

âBitch yourself.â

Luigi and the two embarrassed escorts forced the girls apart. In the blondeâs fingers were large tufts of red hair. She held them aloft gleefully, then dropped them on the floor.

The door from the street was pushed open and Authority, dressed in blue, stood on the threshold and uttered the regulation words majestically.

âWhatâs going on here?â

Immediately a common front was presented to the enemy.

âJust a bit of fun,â said one of the young men.

âThatâs all,â said Luigi. âJust a bit of fun among friends.â

With his foot he kicked the tufts of hair adroitly under the nearest table. The contestants smiled at each other in false amnesty.

The policeman looked at everybody suspiciously.

âWeâre just going now,â said the blonde sweetly. âCome on, Doug.â

By a coincidence several other people were just going. Authority watched them go grimly. His eye said that he was overlooking it this time, but heâd got his eye on them. He withdrew slowly.

The redheadâs escort paid the check.

âYou all right?â said Luigi to the girl who was adjusting a headscarf. âLou served you pretty bad, tearing out your hair by the roots like that.â

âIt didnât hurt,â said the girl nonchalantly. She smiled at him. âSorry for the row, Luigi.â

The party went out. The bar was now practically empty. I felt in my pocket for change.

âSheâs a sport all right,â said Luigi approvingly watching the door close. He seized a floor brush and swept the tufts of red hair behind the counter.

âIt must have been agony,â I said.

âIâd have hollered if it had been me,â admitted Luigi. âBut sheâs a real sport, Tommy is.â

âYou know her well?â

âOh, sheâs in here most evenings. Tuckerton, thatâs her name, Thomasina Tuckerton, if you want the whole set out. But Tommy Tuckerâs what sheâs called round here. Stinking rich, too. Her old man left her a fortune, and what does she go and do? Comes to Chelsea, lives in a slummy room halfway to Wandsworth Bridge, and mooches around with a gang all doing the same thing. Beats me, half of that crowdâs got money. Could have any mortal thing they want; stay at the Ritz if they liked. But they seem to get a kick out of living the way they do. Yesâit beats me.â

âIt wouldnât be your choice?â

âAr, Iâve got sense!â said Luigi. âAs it is, I just cash in.â

I rose to go and asked what the quarrel was about.

âOh, Tommyâs got hold of the other girlâs boyfriend. Heâs not worth fighting about, believe me!â

âThe other girl seemed to think he was,â I observed.

âOh, Louâs very romantic,â said Luigi tolerantly.

It was not my idea of romance, but I did not say so.

II

It must have been about a week later that my eye was caught by a name in the Deaths column of The Times.

TUCKERTON. On October 2nd at Fallowfield Nursing Home, Amberley, Thomasina Ann, aged twenty, only daughter of the late Thomas Tuckerton, Esq., of Carrington Park, Amberley, Surrey. Funeral private. No flowers.

III

No flowers for poor Tommy Tucker; and no more âkicksâ out of life in Chelsea. I felt a sudden fleeting compassion for the Tommy Tuckers of today. Yet after all, I reminded myself, how did I know that my view was the right one? Who was I to pronounce it a wasted life? Perhaps it was my life, my quiet scholarly life, immersed in books, shut off from the world, that was the wasted one. Life at secondhand. Be honest now, was I getting kicks out of life? A very unfamiliar idea! The truth was, of course, that I didnât want kicks. But there again, perhaps I ought to? An unfamiliar and not very welcome thought.

I dismissed Tommy Tucker from my thoughts, and turned to my correspondence.

The principal item was a letter from my cousin Rhoda Despard, asking me to do her a favour. I grasped at this, since I was not feeling in the mood for work this morning, and it made a splendid excuse for postponing it.

I went out into Kingâs Road, hailed a taxi, and was driven to the residence of a friend of mine, a Mrs. Ariadne Oliver.

Mrs. Oliver was a well-known writer of detective stories. Her maid, Milly, was an efficient dragon who guarded her mistress from the onslaughts of the outside world.

I raised my eyebrows inquiringly, in an unspoken question. Milly nodded a vehement head.

âYouâd better go right up, Mr. Mark,â she said. âSheâs in a mood this morning. You may be able to help her snap out of it.â

I mounted two flights of stairs, tapped lightly on a door, and walked in without waiting for encouragement. Mrs. Oliverâs workroom was a good-sized room, the walls papered with exotic birds nesting in tropical foliage. Mrs. Oliver herself, in a state apparently bordering on insanity, was prowling round the room, muttering to herself. She threw me a brief uninterested glance and continued to prowl. Her eyes, unfocused, swept round the walls, glanced out of the window, and occasionally closed in what appeared to be a spasm of agony.

âBut why,â demanded Mrs. Oliver of the universe, âwhy doesnât the idiot say at once that he saw the cockatoo? Why shouldnât he? He couldnât have helped seeing it! But if he does mention it, it ruins everything. There must be a wayâ¦there must beâ¦.â

She groaned, ran her fingers through her short grey hair and clutched it in a frenzied hand. Then, looking at me with suddenly focused eyes, she said, âHallo, Mark. Iâm going mad,â and resumed her complaint.

âAnd then thereâs Monica. The nicer I try to make her, the more irritating she getsâ¦ Such a stupid girlâ¦ Smug, too! Monicaâ¦ Monica? I believe the nameâs wrong. Nancy? Would that be better? Joan? Everybody is always Joan. Anne is the same. Susan? Iâve had a Susan. Lucia? Lucia? Lucia? I believe I can see a Lucia. Red-haired. Polo-necked jumperâ¦ Black tights? Black stockings, anyway.â

This momentary gleam of good cheer was eclipsed by the memory of the cockatoo problem, and Mrs. Oliver resumed her unhappy prowling, picking up things off tables unseeingly and putting them down again somewhere else. She fitted with some care her spectacle case into a lacquered box which already contained a Chinese fan and then gave a deep sigh and said:

âIâm glad itâs you.â

âThatâs very nice of you.â

âIt might have been anybody. Some silly woman who wanted me to open a bazaar, or the man about Millyâs insurance card which Milly absolutely refuses to haveâor the plumber (but that would be too much good fortune, wouldnât it?). Or, it might be someone wanting an interviewâasking me all those embarrassing questions which are always the same every time. What made you first think of taking up writing? How many books have you written? How much money do you make? Etc. etc. I never know the answers to any of them and it makes me look such a fool. Not that any of that matters because I think I am going mad, over this cockatoo business.â

âSomething that wonât jell?â I said sympathetically. âPerhaps Iâd better go away.â

âNo, donât. At any rate youâre a distraction.â

I accepted this doubtful compliment.

âDo you want a cigarette?â Mrs. Oliver asked with vague hospitality. âThere are some somewhere. Look in the typewriter lid.â

âIâve got my own, thanks. Have one. Oh no, you donât smoke.â

âOr drink,â said Mrs. Oliver. âI wish I did. Like those American detectives that always have pints of rye conveniently in their collar drawers. It seems to solve all their problems. You know. Mark, I really canât think how anyone ever gets away with a murder in real life. It seems to me that the moment youâve done a murder the whole thing is so terribly obvious.â

âNonsense. Youâve done lots of them.â

âFifty-five at least,â said Mrs. Oliver. âThe murder part is quite easy and simple. Itâs the covering up thatâs so difficult. I mean, why should it be anyone else but you? You stick out a mile.â

âNot in the finished article,â I said.

âAh, but what it costs me,â said Mrs. Oliver darkly. âSay what you like, itâs not natural for five or six people to be on the spot when B is murdered and all have a motive for killing Bâunless, that is, B is absolutely madly unpleasant and in that case nobody will mind whether heâs been killed or not, and doesnât care in the least whoâs done it.â

âI see your problem,â I said. âBut if youâve dealt with it successfully fifty-five times, you will manage to deal with it once again.â

âThatâs what I tell myself,â said Mrs. Oliver, âover and over again, but every single time I canât believe it, and so Iâm in agony.â

She seized her hair again and tugged it violently.

âDonât,â I cried. âYouâll have it out by the roots.â

âNonsense,â said Mrs. Oliver. âHairâs tough. Though when I had measles at fourteen with a very high temperature, it did come outâall round the front. Most shaming. And it was six whole months before it grew properly again. Awful for a girlâgirls mind so. I thought of it yesterday when I was visiting Mary Delafontaine in that nursing home. Her hair was coming out just like mine did. She said sheâd have to get a false front when she was better. If youâre sixty it doesnât always grow again, I believe.â

âI saw a girl pull out another girlâs hair by the roots the other night,â I said. I was conscious of a slight note of pride in my voice as one who has seen life.

âWhat extraordinary places have you been going to?â asked Mrs. Oliver.

âThis was in a coffee bar in Chelsea.â

âOh Chelsea!â said Mrs. Oliver. âEverything happens there, I believe. Beatniks and sputniks and squares and the beat generation. I donât write about them much because Iâm so afraid of getting the terms wrong. Itâs safer, I think, to stick to what you know.â

âSuch as?â

âPeople on cruises, and in hotels, and what goes on in hospitals, and on parish councilsâand sales of workâand music festivals, and girls in shops, and committees and daily women, and young men and girls who hike round the world in the interests of science, and shop assistantsââ

She paused, out of breath.

âThat seems fairly comprehensive to be getting on with,â I said.

âAll the same, you might take me out to a coffee bar in Chelsea sometimeâjust to widen my experience,â said Mrs. Oliver wistfully.

âAny time you say. Tonight?â

âNot tonight. Iâm too busy writing or rather worrying because I canât write. Thatâs really the most tiresome thing about writingâthough everything is tiresome really, except the one moment when you get what you think is going to be a wonderful idea, and can hardly wait to begin. Tell me, Mark, do you think it is possible to kill someone by remote control?â

âWhat do you mean by remote control? Press a button and set off a radioactive death ray?â

âNo, no, not science fiction. I suppose,â she paused doubtfully, âI really mean black magic.â

âWax figures and pins in them?â

âOh, wax figures are right out,â said Mrs. Oliver scornfully. âBut queer things do happenâin Africa or the West Indies. People are always telling you so. How natives just curl up and die. Voodooâor jujuâ¦ Anyway, you know what I mean.â

I said that much of that was attributed nowadays to the power of suggestion. Word is always conveyed to the victim that his death has been decreed by the medicine manâand his subconscious does the rest.

Mrs. Oliver snorted.

âIf anyone hinted to me that I had been doomed to lie down and die, Iâd take a pleasure in thwarting their expectations!â

I laughed.

âYouâve got centuries of good Occidental sceptical blood in your veins. No predispositions.â

âThen you think it can happen?â

âI donât know enough about the subject to judge. What put it into your head? Is your new masterpiece to be Murder by Suggestion?â

âNo, indeed. Good old-fashioned rat poison or arsenic is good enough for me. Or the reliable blunt instrument. Not firearms if possible. Firearms are so tricky. But you didnât come here to talk to me about my books.â

âFrankly noâThe fact is that my cousin Rhoda Despard has got a church fÃªte andââ

âNever again!â said Mrs. Oliver. âYou know what happened last time? I arranged a Murder Hunt, and the first thing that happened was a real corpse. Iâve never quite got over it!â

âItâs not a Murder Hunt. All youâd have to do would be to sit in a tent and sign your own booksâat five bob a time.â

âWe-e-l-l-l,â said Mrs. Oliver doubtfully. âThat might be all right. I shouldnât have to open the fÃªte? Or say silly things? Or have to wear a hat?â

None of these things, I assured her, would be required of her.

âAnd it would only be for an hour or two,â I said coaxingly. âAfter that, thereâll be a cricket matchâno, I suppose not this time of year. Children dancing, perhaps. Or a fancy dress competitionââ

Mrs. Oliver interrupted me with a wild scream.

âThatâs it,â she cried. âA cricket ball! Of course! He sees it from the windowâ¦rising up in the airâ¦and it distracts himâand so he never mentions the cockatoo! What a good thing you came, Mark. Youâve been wonderful.â

âI donât quite seeââ

âPerhaps not, but I do,â said Mrs. Oliver. âItâs all rather complicated, and I donât want to waste time explaining. Nice as itâs been to see you, what Iâd really like you to do now is to go away. At once.â

âCertainly. About the fÃªteââ

âIâll think about it. Donât worry me now. Now where on earth did I put my spectacles? Really, the way things just disappearâ¦.â

Two

I

Mrs. Gerahty opened the door of the presbytery in her usual sharp pouncing style. It was less like answering a bell, than a triumphant manoeuvre expressing the sentiment âIâve caught you this time!â

âWell now, and what would you be wanting?â she demanded belligerently.

There was a boy on the doorstep, a very negligible looking boyâa boy not easily noticeable nor easily rememberedâa boy like a lot of other boys. He sniffed because he had a cold in his head.

âIs this the priestâs place?â

âIs it Father Gorman youâre wanting?â

âHeâs wanted,â said the boy.

âWho wants him and where and what for?â

âBenthall Street. Twenty-three. Woman as says sheâs dying. Mrs. Coppins sent me. This is a Carthlick place all right, isnât it? Woman says the vicar wonât do.â

Mrs. Gerahty reassured him on this essential point, told him to stop where he was and retired into the presbytery. Some three minutes later a tall elderly priest came out carrying a small leather case in his hand.

âIâm Father Gorman,â he said. âBenthall Street? Thatâs round by the railway yards, isnât it?â

ââSright. Not more than a step, it isnât.â

They set out together, the priest walking with a free striding step.

âMrs.â Coppins, did you say? Is that the name?â

âSheâs the one what owns the house. Lets rooms, she does. Itâs one of the lodgers wants you. Name of Davis, I think.â

âDavis. I wonder now. I donât rememberââ

âSheâs one of you all right. Carthlick, I mean. Said as no vicar would do.â

The priest nodded. They came to Benthall Street in a very short time. The boy indicated a tall dingy house in a row of other tall dingy houses.

âThatâs it.â

âArenât you coming in?â

âI donât belong. Mrs. C. gave me a bob to take the message.â

âI see. Whatâs your name?â

âMike Potter.â

âThank you, Mike.â

âYouâre welcome,â said Mike, and went off whistling. The imminence of death for someone else did not affect him.

The door of No. 23 opened and Mrs. Coppins, a large redfaced woman, stood on the threshold and welcomed the visitor with enthusiasm.

âCome in, come in. Sheâs bad, Iâd say. Ought to be in hospital, not here. Iâve rung up, but goodness knows when anybody will come nowadays. Six hours my sisterâs husband had to wait when he broke his leg. Disgraceful, I call it. Health Service, indeed! Take your money and when you want them where are they?â

She was preceding the priest up the narrow stairs as she talked.

âWhatâs the matter with her?â

ââFluâs what sheâs had. Seemed better. Went out too soon Iâd say. Anyway she comes in last night looking like death. Took to her bed. Wouldnât eat anything. Didnât want a doctor. This morning I could see she was in a raging fever. Gone to her lungs.â

âPneumonia?â

Mrs. Coppins, out of breath by now, made a noise like a steam engine, which seemed to signify assent. She flung open a door, stood aside to let Father Gorman go in, said over his shoulder: âHereâs the Reverend for you. Now youâll be all right!â in a spuriously cheerful way, and retired.

Father Gorman advanced. The room, furnished with old-fashioned Victorian furniture, was clean and neat. In the bed near the window a woman turned her head feebly. That she was very ill, the priest saw at once.

âYouâve comeâ¦ There isnât much timeââ she spoke between panting breaths. ââ¦Wickednessâ¦such wickednessâ¦ I mustâ¦ I mustâ¦ I canât die like thisâ¦ Confessâconfessâmy sinâgrievousâgrievousâ¦â the eyes wanderedâ¦half closedâ¦.

A rambling monotone of words came from her lips.

Father Gorman came to the bed. He spoke as he had spoken so oftenâso very often. Words of authorityâof reassuranceâ¦the words of his calling and of his belief. Peace came into the roomâ¦ The agony went out of the tortured eyesâ¦.

Then, as the priest ended his ministry, the dying woman spoke again.

âStoppedâ¦ It must be stoppedâ¦ You willâ¦.â

The priest spoke with reassuring authority.

âI will do what is necessary. You can trust meâ¦.â

A doctor and an ambulance arrived simultaneously a little later. Mrs. Coppins received them with gloomy triumph.

âToo late as usual!â she said. âSheâs goneâ¦.â

II

Father Gorman walked back through the gathering twilight. There would be fog tonight, it was growing denser rapidly. He paused for a moment, frowning. Such a fantastic extraordinary storyâ¦ How much of it was born of delirium and high fever? Some of it was true, of courseâbut how much? Anyway it was important to make a note of certain names whilst they were fresh in his memory. The St. Francis Guild would be assembled when he got back. He turned abruptly into a small cafÃ©, ordered a cup of coffee and sat down. He felt in the pocket of his cassock. Ah, Mrs. Gerahtyâheâd asked her to mend the lining. As usual, she hadnât! His notebook and a loose pencil and the few coins he carried about him, had gone through to the lining. He prised up a coin or two and the pencil, but the notebook was too difficult. The coffee came, and he asked if he could have a piece of paper.

âThis do you?â

It was a torn paper bag. Father Gorman nodded and took it. He began to writeâthe namesâit was important not to forget the names. Names were the sort of thing he did forgetâ¦.

The cafÃ© door opened and three young lads in Edwardian dress came in and sat down noisily.

Father Gorman finished his memorandum. He folded up the scrap of paper and was about to shove it into his pocket when he remembered the hole. He did what he had often done before, pressed the folded scrap down into his shoe.

A man came in quietly and sat down in a far corner. Father Gorman took a sip or two of the weak coffee for politenessâ sake, called for his bill, and paid. Then he got up and went out.

The man who had just come in seemed to change his mind. He looked at his watch as though he had mistaken the time, got up, and hurried out.

The fog was coming on fast. Father Gorman quickened his steps. He knew his district very well. He took a shortcut by turning down the small street which ran close by the railway. He may have been conscious of steps behind him but he thought nothing of them. Why should he?

The blow from the cosh caught him completely unaware. He heeled forward and fellâ¦.

III

Dr. Corrigan, whistling âFather OâFlynn,â walked into the D.D.I.âs room and addressed Divisional Detective-Inspector Lejeune in a chatty manner.

âIâve done your padre for you,â he said.

âAnd the result?â

âWeâll save the technical terms for the coroner. Well and truly coshed. First blow probably killed him, but whoever it was made sure. Quite a nasty business.â

âYes,â said Lejeune.

He was a sturdy man, dark haired and grey eyed. He had a misleadingly quiet manner, but his gestures were sometimes surprisingly graphic and betrayed his French Huguenot ancestry.

He said thoughtfully:

âNastier than would be necessary for robbery?â

âWas it robbery?â asked the doctor.

âOne supposes so. His pockets were turned out and the lining of his cassock ripped.â

âThey couldnât have hoped for much,â said Corrigan. âPoor as a rat, most of these parish priests.â

âThey battered his head inâto make sure,â mused Lejeune. âOne would like to know why.â

âTwo possible answers,â said Corrigan. âOne, it was done by a vicious-minded young thug, who likes violence for violenceâs sakeâthere are plenty of them about these days, moreâs the pity.â

âAnd the other answer?â

The doctor shrugged his shoulders.

âSomebody had it in for your Father Gorman. Was that likely?â

Lejeune shook his head.

âMost unlikely. He was a popular man, well loved in the district. No enemies, as far as one can hear. And robberyâs unlikely. Unlessââ

âUnless what?â asked Corrigan. âThe police have a clue! Am I right?â

âHe did have something on him that wasnât taken away. It was in his shoe, as a matter of fact.â

Corrigan whistled.

âSounds like a spy story.â

Lejeune smiled.

âItâs much simpler than that. He had a hole in his pocket. Sergeant Pine talked to his housekeeper. Sheâs a bit of a slattern, it seems. Didnât keep his clothes mended in the way she might have done. She admitted that, now and again, Father Gorman would thrust a paper or a letter down the inside of his shoeâto prevent it from going down into the lining of his cassock.â

âAnd the killer didnât know that?â

âThe killer never thought of that! Assuming, that is, that this piece of paper is what he may have been wantingârather than a miserly amount of small change.â

âWhat was on the paper?â

Lejeune reached into a drawer and took out a flimsy piece of creased paper.

âJust a list of names,â he said.

Corrigan looked at it curiously.

Ormerod

Sandford

Parkinson

Hesketh-Dubois

Shaw

Harmondsworth

Tuckerton

Corrigan?

Delafontaine?

His eyebrows rose.

âI see Iâm on the list!â

âDo any of the names mean anything to you?â asked the inspector.

âNone of them.â

âAnd youâve never met Father Gorman?â

âNever.â

âThen you wonât be able to help us much.â

âAny ideas as to what this list meansâif anything?â

Lejeune did not reply directly.

âA boy called at Father Gormanâs about seven oâclock in the evening. Said a woman was dying and wanted the priest. Father Gorman went with him.â

âWhere to? If you know.â

âWe know. It didnât take long to check up. Twenty-three Benthall Street. House owned by a woman named Coppins. The sick woman was a Mrs. Davis. The priest got there at a quarter past seven and was with her for about half an hour. Mrs. Davis died just before the ambulance arrived to take her to hospital.â

âI see.â

âThe next we hear of Father Gorman is at Tonyâs Place, a small down-at-heel cafÃ©. Quite decent, nothing criminal about it, serves refreshment of poor quality and isnât much patronised. Father Gorman asked for a cup of coffee. Then apparently he felt in his pocket, couldnât find what he wanted and asked the proprietor, Tony, for a piece of paper. Thisââ he gestured with his finger, âis the piece of paper.â

âAnd then?â

âWhen Tony brought the coffee, the priest was writing on the paper. Shortly afterwards he left, leaving his coffee practically untasted (for which I donât blame him), having completed this list and shoved it into his shoe.â

âAnybody else in the place?â

âThree boys of the Teddy boy type came in and sat at one table and an elderly man came in and sat at another. The latter went away without ordering.â

âHe followed the priest?â

âCould be. Tony didnât notice when he went. Didnât notice what he looked like, either. Described him as an inconspicuous type of man. Respectable. The kind of man that looks like everybody else. Medium height, he thinks, dark blue overcoatâor could be brown. Not very dark and not very fair. No reason he should have had anything to do with it. One just doesnât know. He hasnât come forward to say he saw the priest in Tonyâs placeâbut itâs early days yet. Weâre asking for anyone who saw Father Gorman between a quarter to eight and eight fifteen to communicate with us. Only two people so far have responded: a woman and a chemist who had a shop nearby. Iâll be going to see them presently. His body was found at eight fifteen by two small boys in West Streetâyou know it? Practically an alleyway, bounded by the railway on one side. The restâyou know.â

Corrigan nodded. He tapped the paper.

âWhatâs your feeling about this?â

âI think itâs important,â said Lejeune.

âThe dying woman told him something and he got these names down on paper as soon as he could before he forgot them? The only thing isâwould he have done that if heâd been told under seal of the confessional?â

âIt neednât have been under a seal of secrecy,â said Lejeune. âSuppose, for instance, these names have a connection ofâsay, blackmailââ

âThatâs your idea, is it?â

âI havenât any ideas yet. This is just a working hypothesis. These people were being blackmailed. The dying woman was either the blackmailer, or she knew about the blackmail. Iâd say that the general idea was, repentance, confession, and a wish to make reparation as far as possible. Father Gorman assumed the responsibility.â

âAnd then?â

âEverything else is conjectural,â said Lejeune. âSay it was a paying racket, and someone didnât want it to stop paying. Someone knew Mrs. Davis was dying and that sheâd sent for the priest. The rest follows.â

âI wonder now,â said Corrigan, studying the paper again. âWhy do you think thereâs an interrogation mark after the last two names?â

âIt could be that Father Gorman wasnât sure heâd remembered those two names correctly.â

âIt might have been Mulligan instead of Corrigan,â agreed the doctor with a grin. âThatâs likely enough. But Iâd say that with a name like Delafontaine, either youâd remember it or you wouldnâtâif you know what I mean. Itâs odd that there isnât a single addressââ He read down the list again.

âParkinsonâlots of Parkinsons. Sandford, not uncommonâ Hesketh-Duboisâthatâs a bit of a mouthful. Canât be many of them.â

On a sudden impulse he leaned forward and took the telephone directory from the desk.

âE to L. Letâs see. Hesketh, Mrs. Aâ¦ John and Co., Plumbersâ¦ Sir Isidore. Ah! here we are! Hesketh-Dubois, Lady, Forty-nine, Ellesmere Square, S.W.1. What say we just ring her up?â

âSaying what?â

âInspiration will come,â said Doctor Corrigan airily.

âGo ahead,â said Lejeune.

âWhat?â Corrigan stared at him.

âI said go ahead,â Lejeune spoke airily. âDonât look so taken aback.â He himself picked up the receiver. âGive me an outside line.â He looked at Corrigan. âNumber?â

âGrosvenor 64578.â

Lejeune repeated it, then handed the receiver over to Corrigan.

âEnjoy yourself,â he said.

Faintly puzzled, Corrigan looked at him as he waited. The ringing tone continued for some time before anyone answered. Then, interspersed with heavy breathing, a womanâs voice said:

âGrosvenor 64578.â

âIs that Lady Hesketh-Duboisâs house?â

âWellâwell, yesâ I meanââ

Doctor Corrigan ignored these uncertainties.

âCan I speak to her, please?â

âNo, that you canât do! Lady Hesketh-Dubois died last April.â

âOh!â Startled, Dr. Corrigan ignored the âWho is it speaking, please?â and gently replaced the receiver.

He looked coldly at Inspector Lejeune.

âSo thatâs why you were so ready to let me ring up.â

Lejeune smiled maliciously.

âWe donât really neglect the obvious,â he pointed out.

âLast April,â said Corrigan thoughtfully. âFive months ago. Five months since blackmail or whatever it was has failed to worry her. She didnât commit suicide, or anything like that?â

âNo. She died of a tumour on the brain.â

âSo now we start again,â said Corrigan, looking down at the list.

Lejeune sighed.

âWe donât really know that list had anything to do with it,â he pointed out. âIt may have been just an ordinary coshing on a foggy nightâand precious little hope of finding who did it unless we have a piece of luckâ¦.â

Dr. Corrigan said:

âDo you mind if I continue to concentrate on this list?â

âGo ahead. I wish you all the luck in the world.â

âMeaning Iâm not likely to get anywhere if you havenât! Donât be too sure. I shall concentrate on Corrigan. Mr. or Mrs. or Miss Corriganâwith a big interrogation mark.â

Three

I

âWell, really, Mr. Lejeune, I donât see what more I can tell you! I told it all before to your sergeant. I donât know who Mrs. Davis was, or where she came from. Sheâd been with me about six months. She paid her rent regular, and she seemed a nice quiet respectable person, and what more you expect me to say Iâm sure I donât know.â

Mrs. Coppins paused for breath and looked at Lejeune with some displeasure. He gave her the gentle melancholy smile which he knew by experience was not without its effect.

âNot that I wouldnât be willing to help if I could,â she amended.

âThank you. Thatâs what we needâhelp. Women knowâthey feel instinctivelyâso much more than a man can know.â

It was a good gambit, and it worked.

âAh,â said Mrs. Coppins. âI wish Coppins could hear you. So hoity-toity and offhand he always was. âSaying you know things when you havenât got anything to go on!â heâd say and snort. And nine times out of ten I was right.â

âThatâs why Iâd like to hear what ideas you have about Mrs. Davis. Was sheâan unhappy woman, do you think?â

âNow as to thatâno, I wouldnât say so. Businesslike. Thatâs what she always seemed. Methodical. As though sheâd got her life planned and was acting accordingly. She had a job, I understand, with one of these consumer research associations. Going around and asking people what soap powder they used, or flour, and what they spend on their weekly budget and how itâs divided up. Of course Iâve always felt that sort of thing is snooping reallyâand why the Government or anyone else wants to know beats me! All you hear at the end of it is only what everybody has known perfectly well all alongâbut there, thereâs a craze for that sort of thing nowadays. And if youâve got to have it, I should say that poor Mrs. Davis would do the job very nicely. A pleasant manner, not nosy, just businesslike and matter-of-fact.â

âYou donât know the actual name of the firm or association that employed her?â

âNo, I donât, Iâm afraid.â

âDid she ever mention relativesâ?â

âNo. I gathered she was a widow and had lost her husband many years ago. A bit of an invalid heâd been, but she never talked much about him.â

âShe didnât mention where she came fromâwhat part of the country?â

âI donât think she was a Londoner. Came from somewhere up north, I should say.â

âYou didnât feel there was anythingâwell, mysterious about her?â

Lejeune felt a doubt as he spoke. If she was a suggestible womanâBut Mrs. Coppins did not take advantage of the opportunity offered to her.

âWell, I canât say really that I did. Certainly not from anything she ever said. The only thing that perhaps might have made me wonder was her suitcase. Good quality it was, but not new. And the initials on it had been painted over. J.D.âJessie Davis. But originally it had been J. something else. H., I think. But it might have been an A. Still, I didnât think anything of that at the time. You can often pick up a good piece of luggage secondhand ever so cheap, and then itâs natural to get the initials altered. She hadnât a lot of stuffâonly the one case.â

Lejeune knew that. The dead woman had had curiously few personal possessions. No letters had been kept, no photographs. She had had apparently no insurance card, no bankbook, no chequebook. Her clothes were of good everyday serviceable quality, nearly new.

âShe seemed quite happy?â he asked.

âI suppose so.â

He pounced on the faint doubtful tone in her voice.

âYou only suppose so?â

âWell, itâs not the kind of thing you think about, is it? I should say she was nicely off, with a good job, and quite satisfied with her life. She wasnât the bubbling over sort. But of course, when she got illââ

âYes, when she got ill?â he prompted her.

âVexed, she was at first. When she went down with âflu, I mean. It would put all her schedule out, she said. Missing appointments and all that. But âfluâs âflu, and you canât ignore it when itâs there. So she stopped in bed, and made herself tea on the gas ring, and took aspirin. I said why not have the doctor and she said no point in it. Nothing to do for âflu but stay in bed and keep warm and Iâd better not come near her to catch it. I did a bit of cooking for her when she got better. Hot soup and toast. And a rice pudding now and again. It got her down, of course, âflu doesâbut not more than whatâs usual, Iâd say. Itâs after the fever goes down that you get the depressionâand she got that like everyone does. She sat there, by the gas fire, I remember, and said to me, âI wish one didnât have so much time to think. I donât like having time to think. It gets me down.ââ

Lejeune continued to look deeply attentive and Mrs. Coppins warmed to her theme.

âLent her some magazines, I did. But she didnât seem able to keep her mind on reading. Said once, I remember, âIf things arenât all they should be, itâs better not to know about it, donât you agree?â and I said, âThatâs right, dearie.â And she said, âI donât knowâIâve never really been sure.â And I said that was all right, then. And she said, âEverything Iâve done has always been perfectly straightforward and aboveboard. Iâve nothing to reproach myself with.â And I said, âOf course you havenât, dear.â But I did just wonder in my own mind whether in the firm that employed her there mightnât have been some funny business with the accounts maybe, and sheâd got wind of itâbut had felt it wasnât really her business.â

âPossible,â agreed Lejeune.

âAnyway, she got well againâor nearly so, and went back to work. I told her it was too soon. Give yourself another day or two, I said. And there, how right I was! Come back the second evening, she did, and I could see at once sheâd got a high fever. Couldnât hardly climb the stairs. You must have the doctor, I says, but no, she wouldnât. Worse and worse she got, all that day, her eyes glassy, and her cheeks like fire, and her breathing terrible. And the next day in the evening she said to me, hardly able to get the words out: âA priest. I must have a priest. And quicklyâ¦or it will be too late.â But it wasnât our vicar she wanted. It had to be a Roman Catholic priest. I never knew she was a Roman, never any crucifix about or anything like that.â

But there had been a crucifix, tucked away at the bottom of the suitcase. Lejeune did not mention it. He sat listening.

âI saw young Mike in the street and I sent him for that Father Gorman at St. Dominicâs. And I rang for the doctor, and the hospital on my own account, not saying nothing to her.â

âYou took the priest up to her when he came?â

âYes, I did. And left them together.â

âDid either of them say anything?â

âWell now, I canât exactly remember. I was talking myself, saying here was the priest and now sheâd be all right, trying to cheer her up, but I do call to mind now as I closed the door I heard her say something about wickedness. Yesâand something, too, about a horseâhorse racing, maybe. I like a half crown on myself occasionallyâbut thereâs a lot of crookedness goes on in racing, so they say.â

âWickedness,â said Lejeune. He was struck by the word.

âHave to confess their sins, donât they, Romans, before they die? So I suppose that was it.â

Lejeune did not doubt that that was it, but his imagination was stirred by the word used. Wickednessâ¦.

Something rather special in wickedness, he thought, if the priest who knew about it was followed and clubbed to deathâ¦.

II

There was nothing to be learnt from the other three lodgers in the house. Two of them, a bank clerk and an elderly man who worked in a shoe shop, had been there for some years. The third was a girl of twenty-two who had come there recently and had a job in a nearby department store. All three of them barely knew Mrs. Davis by sight.

The woman who had reported having seen Father Gorman in the street that evening had no useful information to give. She was a Catholic who attended St. Dominicâs and she knew Father Gorman by sight. She had seen him turn out of Benthall Street and go into Tonyâs Place about ten minutes to eight. That was all.

Mr. Osborne, the proprietor of the chemistâs shop on the corner of Barton Street, had a better contribution to make.

He was a small, middle-aged man, with a bald domed head, a round ingenuous face, and glasses.

âGood evening, Chief Inspector. Come behind, will you?â He held up the flap of an old-fashioned counter. Lejeune passed behind and through a dispensing alcove where a young man in a white overall was making up bottles of medicine with the swiftness of a professional conjurer, and so through an archway into a tiny room with a couple of easy chairs, a table and a desk. Mr. Osborne pulled the curtain of the archway behind him in a secretive manner and sat down in one chair, motioning to Lejeune to take the other. He leaned forward, his eyes glinting in pleasurable excitement.

âIt just happens that I may be able to assist you. It wasnât a busy eveningânothing much to do, the weather being unfavourable. My young lady was behind the counter. We keep open until eight on Thursdays always. The fog was coming on and there werenât many people about. Iâd gone to the door to look at the weather, thinking to myself that the fog was coming up fast. The weather forecast had said it would. I stood there for a bitânothing going on inside that my young lady couldnât deal withâface creams and bath salts and all that. Then I saw Father Gorman coming along on the other side of the street. I know him quite well by sight, of course. A shocking thing, this murder, attacking a man so well thought of as he is. âThereâs Father Gorman,â I said to myself. He was going in the direction of West Street, itâs the next turn on the left before the railway, as you know. A little way behind him there was another man. It wouldnât have entered my head to notice or think anything of that, but quite suddenly this second man came to a stopâquite abruptly, just when he was level with my door. I wondered why heâd stoppedâand then I noticed that Father Gorman, a little way ahead, was slowing down. He didnât quite stop. It was as though he was thinking of something so hard that he almost forgot he was walking. Then he started on again, and this other man started to walk, tooârather fast. I thoughtâinasmuch as I thought at all, that perhaps it was someone who knew Father Gorman and wanted to catch him up and speak to him.â

âBut in actual fact he could simply have been following him?â

âThatâs what Iâm sure he was doing nowânot that I thought anything of it at the time. What with the fog coming up, I lost sight of them both almost at once.â

âCan you describe this man at all?â

Lejeuneâs voice was not confident. He was prepared for the usual nondescript characteristics. But Mr. Osborne was made of different mettle to Tony of Tonyâs Place.

âWell, yes, I think so,â he said with complacency. âHe was a tall manââ

âTall? How tall?â

âWellâfive eleven to six feet, at least, Iâd say. Though he might have seemed taller than he was because he was very thin. Sloping shoulders he had, and a definite Adamâs apple. Grew his hair rather long under his Homburg. A great beak of a nose. Very noticeable. Naturally I couldnât say as to the colour of his eyes. I saw him in profile as youâll appreciate. Perhaps fifty as to age. Iâm going by the walk. A youngish man moves quite differently.â

Lejeune made a mental survey of the distance across the street, then back again to Mr. Osborne, and wondered. He wondered very muchâ¦.

A description such as that given by the chemist could mean one of two things. It could spring from an unusually vivid imaginationâhe had known many examples of that kind, mostly from women. They built up a fancy portrait of what they thought a murderer ought to look like. Such fancy portraits, however, usually contained some decidedly spurious detailsâsuch as rolling eyes, beetle brows, apelike jaws, snarling ferocity. The description given by Mr. Osborne sounded like the description of a real person. In that case it was possible that here was the witness in a millionâa man who observed accurately and in detailâand who would be quite unshakable as to what he had seen.

Again Lejeune considered the distance across the street. His eyes rested thoughtfully on the chemist.

He asked: âDo you think you would recognise this man if you saw him again?â

âOh, yes.â Mr. Osborne was supremely confident. âI never forget a face. Itâs one of my hobbies. Iâve always said that if one of these wife murderers came into my place and bought a nice little package of arsenic, Iâd be able to swear to him at the trial. Iâve always had my hopes that something like that would happen one day.â

âBut it hasnât happened yet?â

Mr. Osborne admitted sadly that it hadnât.

âAnd not likely to now,â he added wistfully. âIâm selling this business. Getting a very nice price for it, and retiring to Bournemouth.â

âIt looks a nice place youâve got here.â

âItâs got class,â said Mr. Osborne, a note of pride in his voice. âNearly a hundred years weâve been established here. My grandfather and my father before me. A good old-fashioned family business. Not that I saw it that way as a boy. Stuffy, I thought it. Like many a lad, I was bitten by the stage. Felt sure I could act. My father didnât try to stop me. âSee what you can make of it, my boy,â he said. âYouâll find youâre no Sir Henry Irving.â And how right he was! Very wise man, my father. Eighteen months or so in repertory and back I came into the business. Took a pride in it, I did. Weâve always kept good solid stuff. Old-fashioned. But quality. But nowadaysââhe shook his head sadlyââdisappointing for a pharmaceutist. All this toilet stuff. Youâve got to keep it. Half the profits come from all that muck. Powder and lipstick and face creams; and hair shampoos and fancy sponge bags. I donât touch the stuff myself. I have a young lady behind the counter who attends to all that. No, itâs not what it used to be, having a chemistâs establishment. However, Iâve a good sum put by, and Iâm getting a very good price, and Iâve made a down payment on a very nice little bungalow near Bournemouth.â

He added:

âRetire whilst you can still enjoy life. Thatâs my motto. Iâve got plenty of hobbies. Butterflies, for instance. And a bit of bird watching now and then. And gardeningâplenty of good books on how to start a garden. And thereâs travel. I might go on one of these cruisesâsee foreign parts before itâs too late.â

Lejeune rose.

âWell, I wish you the best of luck,â he said. âAnd if, before you actually leave these parts, you should catch sight of that manââ

âIâll let you know at once, Mr. Lejeune. Naturally. You can count on me. It will be a pleasure. As Iâve told you, Iâve a very good eye for a face. I shall be on the lookout. On the qui vive, as they say. Oh yes. You can rely on me. It will be a pleasure.â

Four

Mark Easterbrookâs Narrative

I

I came out of the Old Vic, my friend Hermia Redcliffe beside me. We had been to see a performance of Macbeth. It was raining hard. As we ran across the street to the spot where I had parked the car, Hermia remarked unjustly that whenever one went to the Old Vic it always rained.

âItâs just one of those things.â

I dissented from this view. I said that, unlike sundials, she remembered only the rainy hours.

âNow at Glyndebourne,â went on Hermia as I let in the clutch, âIâve always been lucky. I canât imagine it other than perfection: the musicâthe glorious flower bordersâthe white flower border in particular.â

We discussed Glyndebourne and its music for a while, and then Hermia remarked:

âWeâre not going to Dover for breakfast, are we?â

âDover? What an extraordinary idea. I thought weâd go to the Fantasie. One needs some really good food and drink after all the magnificent blood and gloom of Macbeth, Shakespeare always makes me ravenous.â

âYes. So does Wagner. Smoked salmon sandwiches at Covent Garden in the intervals are never enough to stay the pangs. As to why Dover, itâs because youâre driving in that direction.â

âOne has to go round,â I explained.

âBut youâve overdone going round. Youâre well away on the Old (or is it the New?) Kent Road.â

I took stock of my surroundings and had to admit that Hermia, as usual, was quite right.

âI always get muddled here,â I said in apology.

âIt is confusing,â Hermia agreed. âRound and round Waterloo Station.â

Having at last successfully negotiated Westminster Bridge we resumed our conversation, discussing the production of Macbeth that we had just been viewing. My friend Hermia Redcliffe was a handsome young woman of twenty-eight. Cast in the heroic mould, she had an almost flawless Greek profile, and a mass of dark chestnut hair, coiled on the nape of her neck. My sister always referred to her as âMarkâs girlfriendâ with an intonation of inverted commas about the term that never failed to annoy me.

The Fantasie gave us a pleasant welcome and showed us to a small table against the crimson velvet wall. The Fantasie is deservedly popular, and the tables are close together. As we sat down, our neighbors at the next table greeted us cheerfully. David Ardingly was a lecturer in History at Oxford. He introduced his companion, a very pretty girl, with a fashionable hairdo, all ends, bits and pieces, sticking out at improbable angles on the crown of her head. Strange to say, it suited her. She had enormous blue eyes and a mouth that was usually half open. She was, as all Davidâs girls were known to be, extremely silly. David, who was a remarkably clever young man, could only find relaxation with girls who were practically half-witted.

âThis is my particular pet, Poppy,â he explained. âMeet Mark and Hermia. Theyâre very serious and highbrow and you must try and live up to them. Weâve just come from Do it for Kicks. Lovely show! I bet you two are straight from Shakespeare or a revival of Ibsen.â

âMacbeth at the Old Vic,â said Hermia.

âAh, what do you think of Battersonâs production?â

âI liked it,â said Hermia. âThe lighting was very interesting. And Iâve never seen the banquet scene so well managed.â

âAh, but what about the witches?â

âAwful!â said Hermia. âThey always are,â she added.

David agreed.

âA pantomime element seems bound to creep in,â he said. âAll of them capering about and behaving like a threefold Demon King. You canât help expecting a Good Fairy to appear in white with spangles to say in a flat voice:

Your evil shall not triumph. In the end,

It is Macbeth who will be round the bend.â

We all laughed, but David, who was quick on the uptake, gave me a sharp glance.

âWhat gives with you?â he asked.

âNothing. It was just that I was reflecting only the other day about Evil and Demon Kings in pantomime. Yesâand Good Fairies, too.â

âA propos de what?â

âOh, in Chelsea at a coffee bar.â

âHow smart and up-to-date you are, arenât you, Mark? All among the Chelsea set. Where heiresses in tights marry corner boys on the make. Thatâs where Poppy ought to be, isnât it, duckie?â

Poppy opened her enormous eyes still wider.

âI hate Chelsea,â she protested. âI like the Fantasie much better! Such lovely, lovely food.â

âGood for you, Poppy. Anyway, youâre not really rich enough for Chelsea. Tell us more about Macbeth, Mark, and the awful witches. I know how Iâd produce the witches if I were doing a production.â

David had been a prominent member of the O.U.D.S. in the past.

âWell, how?â

âIâd make them very ordinary. Just sly quiet old women. Like the witches in a country village.â

âBut there arenât any witches nowadays?â said Poppy, staring at him.

âYou say that because youâre a London girl. Thereâs still a witch in every village in rural England. Old Mrs. Black, in the third cottage up the hill. Little boys are told not to annoy her, and sheâs given presents of eggs and a home-baked cake now and again. Because,â he wagged a finger impressively, âif you get across her, your cows will stop giving milk, your potato crop will fail, or little Johnnie will twist his ankle. You must keep on the right side of old Mrs. Black. Nobody says so outrightâbut they all know!â

âYouâre joking,â said Poppy, pouting.

âNo, Iâm not. Iâm right, arenât I, Mark?â

âSurely all that kind of superstition has died out completely with education,â said Hermia sceptically.

âNot in the rural pockets of the land. What do you say, Mark?â

âI think perhaps youâre right,â I said slowly. âThough I wouldnât really know. Iâve never lived in the country much.â

âI donât see how you could produce the witches as ordinary old women,â said Hermia, reverting to Davidâs earlier remark. âThey must have a supernatural atmosphere about them, surely.â

âOh, but just think,â said David. âItâs rather like madness. If you have someone who raves and staggers about with straws in their hair and looks mad, itâs not frightening at all! But I remember being sent once with a message to a doctor at a mental home and I was shown into a room to wait, and there was a nice elderly lady there, sipping a glass of milk. She made some conventional remark about the weather and then suddenly she leant forward and asked in a low voice:

ââIs it your poor child whoâs buried there behind the fireplace?â And then she nodded her head and said â12:10 exactly. Itâs always at the same time every day. Pretend you donât notice the blood.â

âIt was the matter-of-fact way she said it that was so spine-chilling.â

âWas there really someone buried behind the fireplace?â Poppy wanted to know.

David ignored her and went on:

âThen take mediums. At one moment trances, darkened rooms, knocks and raps. Afterwards the medium sits up, pats her hair and goes home to a meal of fish and chips, just an ordinary quite jolly woman.â

âSo your idea of the witches,â I said, âis three old Scottish crones with second sightâwho practise their arts in secret, muttering their spells around a cauldron, conjuring up spirits, but remaining themselves just an ordinary trio of old women. Yesâit could be impressive.â

âIf you could ever get any actors to play it that way,â said Hermia drily.

âYou have something there,â admitted David. âAny hint of madness in the script and an actor is immediately determined to go to town on it! The same with sudden deaths. No actor can just quietly collapse and fall down dead. He has to groan, stagger, roll his eyes, gasp, clutch his heart, clutch his head, and make a terrific performance of it. Talking of performances, what did you think of Fieldingâs Macbeth? Great division of opinion among the critics.â

âI thought it was terrific,â said Hermia. âThat scene with the doctor, after the sleepwalking scene. âCanst thou not minister to a mind diseasâd.â He made clear what Iâd never thought of beforeâthat he was really ordering the doctor to kill her. And yet he loved his wife. He brought out the struggle between his fear and his love. That âThou shouldst have died hereafterâ was the most poignant thing Iâve ever known.â

âShakespeare might get a few surprises if he saw his plays acted nowadays,â I said drily.

âBurbage and Co. had already quenched a good deal of his spirit, I suspect,â said David.

Hermia murmured:

âThe eternal surprise of the author at what the producer has done to him.â

âDidnât somebody called Bacon really write Shakespeare?â asked Poppy.

âThat theory is quite out of date nowadays,â said David kindly. âAnd what do you know of Bacon?â

âHe invented gunpowder,â said Poppy triumphantly.

âYou see why I love this girl?â he said. âThe things she knows are always so unexpected. Francis, not Roger, my love.â

âI thought it interesting,â said Hermia, âthat Fielding played the part of Third Murderer. Is there a precedent for that?â

âI believe so,â said David. âHow convenient it must have been in those times,â he went on, âto be able to call up a handy murderer whenever you wanted a little job done. Fun if one could do it nowadays.â

âBut it is done,â protested Hermia. âGangsters. Hoodsâor whatever you call them. Chicago and all that.â

âAh,â said David. âBut what I meant was not gangsterdom, not racketeers or Crime Barons. Just ordinary everyday folk who want to get rid of someone. That business rival; Aunt Emily, so rich and so unfortunately long-lived; that awkward husband always in the way. How convenient if you could ring up Harrods and say âPlease send along two good murderers, will you?ââ

We all laughed.

âBut one can do that in a way, canât one?â said Poppy.

We turned towards her.

âWhat way, poppet?â asked David.

âWell, I mean, people can do that if they want toâ¦People like us, as you said. Only I believe itâs very expensive.â

Poppyâs eyes were wide and ingenuous, her lips were slightly parted.

âWhat do you mean?â asked David curiously.

Poppy looked confused.

âOhâI expectâIâve got it mixed. I meant the Pale Horse. All that sort of thing.â

âA pale horse? What kind of a pale horse?â

Poppy flushed and her eyes dropped.

âIâm being stupid. Itâs just something someone mentionedâbut I must have got it all wrong.â

âHave some lovely Coupe Nesselrode,â said David kindly.

II

One of the oddest things in life, as we all know, is the way that when you have heard a thing mentioned, within twenty-four hours you nearly always come across it again. I had an instance of that the next morning.

My telephone rang and I answered itâ

âFlaxman 73841.â

A kind of gasp came through the phone. Then a voice said breathlessly but defiantly:

âIâve thought about it, and Iâll come!â

I cast round wildly in my mind.

âSplendid,â I said, stalling for time. âErâis thatâ?â

âAfter all,â said the voice, âlightning never strikes twice.â

âAre you sure youâve got the right number?â

âOf course I have. Youâre Mark Easterbrook, arenât you?â

âGot it!â I said. âMrs. Oliver.â

âOh,â said the voice, surprised. âDidnât you know who it was? I never thought of that. Itâs about that fÃªte of Rhodaâs. Iâll come and sign books if she wants me to.â

âThatâs frightfully nice of you. Theyâll put you up, of course.â

âThere wonât be parties, will there?â asked Mrs. Oliver apprehensively.

âYou know the kind of thing,â she went on. âPeople coming up to me and saying am I writing something just nowâwhen youâd think they could see Iâm drinking ginger ale or tomato juice and not writing at all. And saying they like my booksâwhich of course is pleasing, but Iâve never found the right answer. If you say âIâm so gladâ it sounds like âPleased to meet you.â A kind of stock phrase. Well, it is, of course. And you donât think theyâll want me to go out to the Pink Horse and have drinks?â

âThe Pink Horse?â

âWell, the Pale Horse. Pubs, I mean. Iâm so bad in pubs. I can just drink beer at a pinch, but it makes me terribly gurgly.â

âJust what do you mean by the Pale Horse?â

âThereâs a pub called that down there, isnât there? Or perhaps I do mean the Pink Horse? Or perhaps thatâs somewhere else. I may have just imagined it. I do imagine quite a lot of things.â

âHowâs the Cockatoo getting on?â I asked.

âThe Cockatoo?â Mrs. Oliver sounded at sea.

âAnd the cricket ball?â

âReally,â said Mrs. Oliver with dignity. âI think you must be mad or have a hangover or something. Pink Horses and cockatoos and cricket balls.â

She rang off.

I was still considering this second mention of the Pale Horse when my telephone rang again.

This time, it was Mr. Soames White, a distinguished solicitor who rang up to remind me that under the will of my godmother, Lady Hesketh-Dubois, I was entitled to choose three of her pictures.

âThere is nothing outstandingly valuable, of course,â said Mr. Soames White in his defeatist melancholy tones. âBut I understand that at some time you expressed admiration of some of the pictures to the deceased.â

âShe had some very charming watercolours of Indian scenes,â I said. âI believe you already have written to me about this matter, but Iâm afraid it slipped my memory.â

âQuite so,â said Mr. Soames White. âBut probate has now been granted, and the executors, of whom I am one, are arranging for the sale of the effects of her London house. If you could go round to Ellesmere Square in the near futureâ¦.â

âIâll go now,â I said.

It seemed an unfavourable morning for work.

III

Carrying the three watercolours of my choice under my arm, I emerged from Forty-nine Ellesmere Square and immediately cannoned into someone coming up the steps to the front door. I apologised, received apologies in return, and was just about to hail a passing taxi when something clicked in my mind and I turned sharply to ask:

âHalloâisnât it Corrigan?â

âIt isâandâyesâyouâre Mark Easterbrook!â

Jim Corrigan and I had been friends in our Oxford daysâbut it must have been fifteen years or more since we had last met.

âThought I knew youâbut couldnât place you for the moment,â said Corrigan. âI read your articles now and againâand enjoy them, I must say.â

âWhat about you? Have you gone in for research as you meant to do?â

Corrigan sighed.

âHardly. Itâs an expensive jobâif you want to strike out on your own. Unless you can find a tame millionaire, or a suggestible Trust.â

âLiver flukes, wasnât it?â

âWhat a memory! No, I went off liver flukes. The properties of the secretions of the Mandarian glands; thatâs my present-day interest. You wouldnât have heard of them! Connected with the spleen. Apparently serving no purpose whatever!â

He spoke with a scientistâs enthusiasm.

âWhatâs the big idea, then?â

âWell,â Corrigan sounded apologetic. âI have a theory that they may influence behaviour. To put it very crudely, they may act rather as the fluid in your car brakes does. No fluidâthe brakes donât act. In human beings, a deficiency in these secretions mightâ I only say mightâmake you a criminal.â

I whistled.

âAnd what happens to Original Sin?â

âWhat indeed?â said Dr. Corrigan. âThe parsons wouldnât like it, would they? I havenât been able to interest anyone in my theory, unfortunately. So Iâm a police surgeon, in N.W. division. Quite interesting. One sees a lot of criminal types. But I wonât bore you with shopâunless youâll come and have some lunch with me?â

âIâd like to. But you were going in there,â I nodded towards the house behind Corrigan.

âNot really,â said Corrigan. âI was just going to gatecrash.â

âThereâs nobody there but a caretaker.â

âSo I imagined. But I wanted to find out something about the late Lady Hesketh-Dubois if I could.â

âI daresay I can tell you more than a caretaker could. She was my godmother.â

âWas she indeed? Thatâs a bit of luck. Where shall we go to feed? Thereâs a little place off Lowndes Squareânot grand, but they do a special kind of seafood soup.â

We settled ourselves in the little restaurantâa cauldron of steaming soup was brought to us by a pale-faced lad in French sailor trousers.

âDelicious,â I said, sampling the soup. âNow then, Corrigan, what do you want to know about the old lady? And incidentally, why?â

âWhyâs rather a long story,â said my friend. âFirst tell me what kind of an old lady she was?â

I considered.

âShe was an old-fashioned type,â I said. âVictorian. Widow of an ex-Governor of some obscure island. She was rich and liked her comfort. Went abroad in the winters to Estoril and places like that. Her house is hideous, full of Victorian furniture and the worst and most ornate kind of Victorian silver. She had no children, but kept a couple of fairly well-behaved poodles whom she loved dearly. She was opinionated and a staunch Conservative. Kindly, but autocratic. Very set in her ways. What more do you want to know?â

âIâm not quite sure,â said Corrigan. âWas she ever likely to have been blackmailed, would you say?â

âBlackmailed?â I asked in lively astonishment. âI can imagine nothing more unlikely. What is this all about?â

It was then I heard for the first time of the circumstances of Father Gormanâs murder.

I laid down my spoon and asked,

âThis list of names? Have you got it?â

âNot the original. But I copied them out. Here you are.â

I took the paper he produced from his pocket and proceeded to study it.

âParkinson? I know two Parkinsons. Arthur who went into the Navy. Then thereâs a Henry Parkinson in one of the Ministries. Ormerodâthereâs a Major Ormerod in the BluesâSandfordâour old Rector when I was a boy was Sandford. Harmondsworth? NoâTuckertonââ I paused. âTuckertonâ¦ Not Thomasina Tuckerton, I suppose?â

Corrigan looked at me curiously.

âCould be, for all I know. Whoâs she and what does she do?â

âNothing now. Her death was in the paper about a week ago.â

âThatâs not much help, then.â

I continued with my reading. âShaw. I know a dentist called Shaw, and thereâs Jerome Shaw, Q.Câ¦. DelafontaineâIâve heard that name lately, but I canât remember where. Corrigan. Does that refer to you, by any chance?â

âI devoutly hope not. Iâve a feeling that itâs unlucky to have your name on that list.â

âMaybe. What made you think of blackmail in connection with it?â

âIt was Detective-Inspector Lejeuneâs suggestion if I remember rightly. It seemed the most likely possibilityâBut there are plenty of others. This may be a list of dope smugglers or drug addicts or secret agentsâit may be anything in fact. Thereâs only one thing sure, it was important enough for murder to be committed in order to get hold of it.â

I asked curiously: âDo you always take such an interest in the police side of your work?â

He shook his head.

âCanât say I do. My interest is in criminal character. Background, upbringing, and particularly glandular healthâall that!â

âThen why the interest in this list of names?â

âBlessed if I know,â said Corrigan slowly. âSeeing my own name on the list, perhaps. Up the Corrigans! One Corrigan to the rescue of another Corrigan.â

âRescue? Then you definitely see this as a list of victimsânot a list of malefactors. But surely it could be either?â

âYouâre entirely right. And itâs certainly odd that I should be so positive. Perhaps itâs just a feeling. Or perhaps itâs something to do with Father Gorman. I didnât come across him very often, but he was a fine man, respected by everyone and loved by his own flock. He was the good tough militant kind. I canât get it out of my head that he considered this list a matter of life or deathâ¦.â

âArenât the police getting anywhere?â

âOh yes, but itâs a long business. Checking here, checking there. Checking the antecedents of the woman who called him out that night.â

âWho was she?â

âNo mystery about her, apparently. Widow. We had an idea that her husband might have been connected with horse racing, but that doesnât seem to be so. She worked for a small commercial firm that does consumer research. Nothing wrong there. They are a reputable firm in a small way. They donât know much about her. She came from the north of EnglandâLancashire. The only odd thing about her is that she had so few personal possessions.â

I shrugged my shoulders.

âI expect thatâs true for a lot more people than we ever imagine. Itâs a lonely world.â

âYes, as you say.â

âAnyway, you decided to take a hand?â

âJust nosing around. Hesketh-Dubois is an uncommon name. I thought if I could find out a little about the ladyââ He left the sentence unfinished. âBut from what you tell me, there doesnât seem to be any possible lead there.â

âNeither a dope addict nor a dope smuggler,â I assured him. âCertainly not a secret agent. Has led far too blameless a life to have been blackmailed. I canât imagine what kind of a list she could possibly be on. Her jewellery she keeps at the bank so she wouldnât be a hopeful prospect for robbery.â

âAny other Hesketh-Duboises that you know about? Sons?â

âNo children. Sheâs got a nephew and a niece, I think, but not of that name. Her husband was an only child.â

Corrigan told me sourly that Iâd been a lot of help. He looked at his watch, remarked cheerfully that he was due to cut somebody up, and we parted.

I went home thoughtful, found it impossible to concentrate on my work, and finally, on an impulse, rang up David Ardingly.

âDavid? Mark here. That girl I met with you the other evening. Poppy. Whatâs her other name?â

âGoing to pinch my girl, is that it?â

David sounded highly amused.

âYouâve got so many of them,â I retorted. âYou could surely spare one.â

âYouâve got a heavyweight of your own, old boy. I thought you were going steady with her.â

âGoing steady.â A repulsive term. And yet, I thought, struck suddenly with its aptitude, how well it described my relationship with Hermia. And why should it make me feel depressed? I had always felt in the back of my mind that someday Hermia and I would marryâ¦ I liked her better than anyone I knew. We had so much in commonâ¦.

For no conceivable reason, I felt a terrible desire to yawnâ¦ Our future stretched out before me. Hermia and I going to plays of significanceâthat mattered. Discussions of artâof music. No doubt about it, Hermia was the perfect companion.

But not much fun, said some derisive imp, popping up from my subconscious. I was shocked.

âGone to sleep?â asked David.

âOf course not. To tell the truth, I found your friend Poppy very refreshing.â

âGood word. She isâtaken in small doses. Her actual name is Pamela Stirling, and she works in one of those arty flower places in Mayfair. You know, three dead twigs, a tulip with its petals pinned back and a speckled laurel leaf. Price three guineas.â

He gave me the address.

âTake her out and enjoy yourself,â he said in a kindly avuncular fashion. âYouâll find it a great relaxation. That girl knows nothingâsheâs absolutely empty-headed. Sheâll believe anything you tell her. Sheâs virtuous by the way, so donât indulge in any false hopes.â

He rang off.

IV

I invaded the portals of Flower Studies Ltd. with some trepidation. An overpowering smell of gardenia nearly knocked me backwards. A number of girls, dressed in pale green sheaths and all looking exactly like Poppy, confused me. Finally I identified her. She was writing down an address with some difficulty, pausing doubtfully over the spelling of Fortescue Crescent. As soon as she was at liberty, after having further difficulties connected with producing the right change for a five-pound note, I claimed her attention.

âWe met the other nightâwith David Ardingly,â I reminded her.

âOh yes!â agreed Poppy warmly, her eyes passing vaguely over my head.

âI wanted to ask you something.â I felt sudden qualms. âPerhaps Iâd better buy some flowers?â

Like an automaton who has had the right button pressed, Poppy said:

âWeâve some lovely roses, fresh in today.â

âThese yellow ones, perhaps?â There were roses everywhere. âHow much are they?â

âVewy vewy cheap,â said Poppy in a honeyed persuasive voice. âOnly five shillings each.â

I swallowed and said I would have six of them.

âAnd some of these vewy special leaves with them?â

I looked dubiously at the special leaves which appeared to be in an advanced state of decay. Instead I chose some bright green asparagus fern, which choice obviously lowered me in Poppyâs estimation.

âThere was something I wanted to ask you,â I reiterated as Poppy was rather clumsily draping the asparagus fern round the roses. âThe other evening you mentioned something called the Pale Horse.â

With a violent start, Poppy dropped the roses and the asparagus fern on the floor.

âCan you tell me more about it?â

Poppy straightened herself after stooping.

âWhat did you say?â she asked.

âI was asking you about the Pale Horse.â

âA pale horse? What do you mean?â

âYou mentioned it the other evening.â

âIâm sure I never did anything of the kind! Iâve never heard of any such thing.â

âSomebody told you about it. Who was it?â

Poppy drew a deep breath and spoke very fast.

âI donât in the least know what you mean! And weâre not supposed to talk to customers.ââ¦ She slapped paper round my choice. âThat will be thirty-five shillings, please.â

I gave her two pound notes. She thrust six shillings into my hand and turned quickly to another customer.

Her hands, I noticed, were shaking slightly.

I went out slowly. When I had gone a little way, I realised she had quoted the wrong price (asparagus fern was seven and six) and had also given me too much change. Her mistakes in arithmetic had previously been in the other direction.

I saw again the rather lovely vacant face and the wide blue eyes. There had been something showing in those eyesâ¦.

âScared,â I said to myself. âScared stiffâ¦ Now why? Why?â

Five

Mark Easterbrookâs Narrative

âWhat a relief,â sighed Mrs. Oliver. âTo think itâs over and nothing has happened!â

It was a moment of relaxation. Rhodaâs fÃªte had passed off in the manner of fÃªtes. Violent anxiety about the weather which in the early morning appeared capricious in the extreme. Considerable argument as to whether any stalls should be set up in the open, or whether everything should take place in the long barn and the marquee. Various passionate local disputes regarding tea arrangements, produce stalls, et cetera. Tactful settlement of same by Rhoda. Periodical escapes of Rhodaâs delightful but undisciplined dogs who were supposed to be incarcerated in the house, owing to doubts as to their behaviour on this great occasion. Doubts fully justified! Arrival of pleasant but vague starlet in a profusion of pale fur, to open the fÃªte, which she did very charmingly, adding a few moving words about the plight of refugees which puzzled everybody, since the object of the fÃªte was the restoration of the church tower. Enormous success of the bottle stall. The usual difficulties about change. Pandemonium at teatime when every patron wanted to invade the marquee and partake of it simultaneously.

Finally, blessed arrival of evening. Displays of local dancing in the long barn were still going on. Fireworks and a bonfire were scheduled, but the weary household had now retired to the house, and were partaking of a sketchy cold meal in the dining room, indulging meanwhile in one of those desultory conversations where everyone utters their own thoughts, and pays little attention to those of other people. It was all disjointed and comfortable. The released dogs crunched bones happily under the table.

âWe shall take more than we did for the Save the Children last year,â said Rhoda gleefully.

âIt seems very extraordinary to me,â said Miss Macalister, the childrenâs Scottish nursery governess, âthat Michael Brent should find the buried treasure three years in succession. Iâm wondering if he gets some advance information?â

âLady Brookbank won the pig,â said Rhoda. âI donât think she wanted it. She looked terribly embarrassed.â

The party consisted of my cousin Rhoda, and her husband Colonel Despard, Miss Macalister, a young woman with red hair suitably called Ginger, Mrs. Oliver, and the vicar, the Rev. Caleb Dane Calthrop and his wife. The vicar was a charming elderly scholar whose principal pleasure was finding some apposite comment from the classics. This, though often an embarrassment, and a cause of bringing the conversation to a close, was perfectly in order now. The vicar never required acknowledgement of his sonorous Latin, his pleasure in having found an apt quotation was its own reward.

âAs Horace saysâ¦â he observed, beaming round the table.

The usual pause happened and then:

âI think Mrs. Horsefall cheated over the bottle of champagne,â said Ginger thoughtfully. âHer nephew got it.â

Mrs. Dane Calthrop, a disconcerting woman with fine eyes, was studying Mrs. Oliver thoughtfully. She asked abruptly:

âWhat did you expect to happen at this fÃªte?â

âWell, really, a murder or something like that?â

Mrs. Dane Calthrop looked interested.

âBut why should it?â

âNo reason at all. Most unlikely, really. But there was one at the last fÃªte I went to.â

âI see. And it upset you?â

âVery much.â

The vicar changed from Latin to Greek.

After the pause, Miss Macalister cast doubts on the honesty of the raffle for the live duck.

âVery sporting of old Lugg at the Kingâs Arms to send us twelve dozen beer for the bottle stall,â said Despard.

âKingâs Arms?â I asked sharply.

âOur local, darling,â said Rhoda.

âIsnât there another pub round here? TheâPale Horse, didnât you say,â I asked, turning to Mrs. Oliver.

There was no such reaction here as I had half expected. The faces turned towards me were vague and uninterested.

âThe Pale Horse isnât a pub,â said Rhoda. âI mean, not now.â

âIt was an old inn,â said Despard. âMostly sixteenth century Iâd say. But itâs just an ordinary house now. I always think they should have changed the name.â

âOh, no,â exclaimed Ginger. âIt would have been awfully silly to call it Wayside, or Fairview. I think the Pale Horse is much nicer, and thereâs a lovely old inn sign. Theyâve got it framed in the hall.â

âWhoâs they?â I asked.

âIt belongs to Thyrza Grey,â said Rhoda. âI donât know if you saw her today? Tall woman with short grey hair.â

âSheâs very occult,â said Despard. âGoes in for spiritualism and trances, and magic. Not quite black masses, but that sort of thing.â

Ginger gave a sudden peal of laughter.

âIâm sorry,â she said apologetically. âI was just thinking of Miss Grey as Madame de Montespan on a black velvet altar.â

âGinger!â said Rhoda. âNot in front of the vicar.â

âSorry, Mr. Dane Calthrop.â

âNot at all,â said the vicar, beaming. âAs the ancients put itââ he continued for some time in Greek.

After a respectful silence of appreciation, I returned to the attack.

âI still want to know who are âtheyââMiss Grey and who else?â

âOh, thereâs a friend who lives with her. Sybil Stamfordis. She acts as medium, I believe. You must have seen her aboutâLots of scarabs and beadsâand sometimes she puts on a sariâI canât think whyâsheâs never been in Indiaââ

âAnd then thereâs Bella,â said Mrs. Dane Calthrop. âSheâs their cook,â she explained. âAnd sheâs also a witch. She comes from the village of Little Dunning. She had quite a reputation for witchcraft there. It runs in the family. Her mother was a witch, too.â

She spoke in a matter-of-fact way.

âYou sound as though you believe in witchcraft, Mrs. Dane Calthrop,â I said.

âBut of course! Thereâs nothing mysterious or secretive about it. Itâs all quite matter-of-fact. Itâs a family asset that you inherit. Children are told not to tease your cat, and people give you a cottage cheese or a pot of homemade jam from time to time.â

I looked at her doubtfully. She appeared to be quite serious.

âSybil helped us today by telling fortunes,â said Rhoda. âShe was in the green tent. Sheâs quite good at it, I believe.â

âShe gave me a lovely fortune,â said Ginger. âMoney in my hand. A handsome dark stranger from overseas, two husbands and six children. Really very generous.â

âI saw the Curtis girl come out giggling,â said Rhoda. âAnd she was very coy with her young man afterwards. Told him not to think he was the only pebble on the beach.â

âPoor Tom,â said her husband. âDid he make any comeback?â

âOh, yes. âIâm not telling you what she promised me,â he said. âMebbe you wouldnât like it too well, my girl!ââ

âGood for Tom.â

âOld Mrs. Parker was quite sour,â said Ginger, laughing. âââTis all foolishness,â thatâs what she said. âDonât you believe none of it, you two.â But then Mrs. Cripps piped up and said, âYou know, Lizzie, as well as I do, that Miss Stamfordis sees things as others canât see, and Miss Grey knows to a day when thereâs going to be a death. Never wrong, she is! Fairly gives me the creeps sometimes.â And Mrs. Parker said: âDeathâthatâs different. Itâs a gift.â And Mrs. Cripps said: âAnyway I wouldnât like to offend none of those three, that I wouldnât!ââ

âIt does all sound exciting. Iâd love to meet them,â said Mrs. Oliver wistfully.

âWeâll take you over there tomorrow,â Colonel Despard promised. âThe old inn is really worth seeing. Theyâve been very clever in making it comfortable without spoiling its character.â

âIâll ring up Thyrza tomorrow morning,â said Rhoda.

I must admit that I went to bed with a slight feeling of deflation.

The Pale Horse which had loomed in my mind as a symbol of something unknown and sinister had turned out to be nothing of the sort.

Unless, of course, there was another Pale Horse somewhere else?

I considered that idea until I fell asleep.

II

There was a feeling of relaxation next day, which was a Sunday. An after-the-party feeling. On the lawn the marquee and tents flapped limply in a damp breeze, awaiting removal by the catererâs men at early dawn on the morrow. On Monday we would all set to work to take stock of what damage had been done, and clear things up. Today, Rhoda had wisely decided, it would be better to go out as much as possible.

We all went to church, and listened respectfully to Mr. Dane Calthropâs scholarly sermon on a text taken from Isaiah which seemed to deal less with religion than with Persian history.

âWeâre going to lunch with Mr. Venables,â explained Rhoda afterwards. âYouâll like him, Mark. Heâs really a most interesting man. Been everywhere and done everything. Knows all sorts of out-of-the-way things. He bought Priors Court about three years ago. And the things heâs done to it must have cost him a fortune. He had polio and is semi-crippled, so he has to go about in a wheeled chair. Itâs very sad for him because up to then he was a great traveller, I believe. Of course heâs rolling in money, and, as I say, heâs done up the house in a wonderful wayâit was an absolute ruin, falling to pieces. Itâs full of the most gorgeous stuff. The sale rooms are his principal interest nowadays, I believe.â

Priors Court was only a few miles away. We drove there and our host came wheeling himself along the hall to meet us.

âNice of you all to come,â he said heartily. âYou must be exhausted after yesterday. The whole thing was a great success, Rhoda.â

Mr. Venables was a man of about fifty, with a thin hawklike face and a beaked nose that stood out from it arrogantly. He wore an open wing collar which gave him a faintly old-fashioned air.

Rhoda made introductions.

Venables smiled at Mrs. Oliver.

âI met this lady yesterday in her professional capacity,â he said. âSix of her books with signatures. Takes care of six presents for Christmas. Great stuff you write, Mrs. Oliver. Give us more of it. Canât have too much of it.â He grinned at Ginger. âYou nearly landed me with a live duck, young woman.â Then he turned to me. âI enjoyed your article in the Review last month,â he said.

âIt was awfully good of you to come to our fÃªte, Mr. Venables,â said Rhoda. âAfter that generous cheque you sent us, I didnât really hope that youâd turn up in person.â

âOh, I enjoy that kind of thing. Part of English rural life, isnât it? I came home clasping a most terrible Kewpie doll from the hoopla, and had a splendid but unrealistic future prophesied me by Our Sybil, all dressed up in a tinsel turban with about a ton of fake Egyptian beads slung over her torso.â

âGood old Sybil,â said Colonel Despard. âWeâre going there to tea with Thyrza this afternoon. Itâs an interesting old place.â

âThe Pale Horse? Yes. I rather wish it had been left as an inn. I always feel that that place has had a mysterious and unusually wicked past history. It canât have been smuggling; weâre not near enough to the sea for that. A resort for highwaymen, perhaps? Or rich travellers spent the night there and were never seen again. It seems, somehow, rather tame to have turned it into a desirable residence for three old maids.â

âOhâ I never think of them like that!â cried Rhoda. âSybil Stamfordis, perhapsâwith her saris and her scarabs, and always seeing auras round peopleâs headsâshe is rather ridiculous. But thereâs something really awe-inspiring about Thyrza, donât you agree? You feel she knows just what youâre thinking. She doesnât talk about having second sightâbut everyone says that she has got it.â

âAnd Bella, far from being an old maid, has buried two husbands,â added Colonel Despard.

âI sincerely beg her pardon,â said Venables, laughing.

âWith sinister interpretations of the deaths from the neighbours,â added Despard. âItâs said they displeased her, so she turned her eyes on them, and they slowly sickened and pined away!â

âOf course, I forgot, she is the local witch?â

âSo Mrs. Dane Calthrop says.â

âInteresting thing, witchcraft,â said Venables thoughtfully. âAll over the world you get variations of itâI remember when I was in East Africaââ

He talked easily, and entertainingly, on the subject. He spoke of medicine men in Africa; of little-known cults in Borneo. He promised that, after lunch, he would show us some West African sorcerersâ masks.

âThereâs everything in this house,â declared Rhoda with a laugh.

âOh wellââ he shrugged his shouldersââif you canât go out to everythingâthen everything must be made to come to you.â

Just for a moment there was a sudden bitterness in his voice. He gave a swift glance downwards towards his paralysed legs.

ââThe world is so full of a number of things,ââ he quoted. âI think thatâs always been my undoing. Thereâs so much I want to know aboutâto see! Oh well I havenât done too badly in my time. And even nowâlife has its consolations.â

âWhy here?â asked Mrs. Oliver suddenly.

The others had been slightly ill at ease, as people become when a hint of tragedy looms in the air. Mrs. Oliver alone had been unaffected. She asked because she wanted to know. And her frank curiosity restored the lighthearted atmosphere.

Venables looked towards her inquiringly.

âI mean,â said Mrs. Oliver, âwhy did you come to live here, in this neighbourhood? So far away from things that are going on. Was it because you had friends here?â

âNo. I chose this part of the world, since you are interested, because I had no friends here.â

A faint ironical smile touched his lips.

How deeply, I wondered, had his disability affected him? Had the loss of unfettered movement, of liberty to explore the world, bitten deep into his soul? Or had he managed to adapt himself to altered circumstances with comparative equanimityâwith a real greatness of spirit?

As though Venables had read my thoughts, he said: âIn your article you questioned the meaning of the term âgreatnessââyou compared the different meanings attached to itâin the East and the West. But what do we all mean nowadays, here in England, when we use the term âa great manâ?ââ

âGreatness of intellect, certainly,â I said, âand surely moral strength as well?â

He looked at me, his eyes bright and shining.

âIs there no such thing as an evil man, then, who can be described as great?â he asked.

âOf course there is,â cried Rhoda. âNapoleon and Hitler and oh, lots of people. They were all great men.â

âBecause of the effect they produced?â said Despard. âBut if one had known them personallyâI wonder if one would have been impressed.â

Ginger leaned forward and ran her fingers through her carroty mop of hair.

âThatâs an interesting thought,â she said. âMightnât they, perhaps, have seemed pathetic, undersized little figures. Strutting, posturing, feeling inadequate, determined to be someone, even if they pulled the world down round them?â

âOh, no,â said Rhoda vehemently. âThey couldnât have produced the results they did if they had been like that.â

âI donât know,â said Mrs. Oliver. âAfter all, the stupidest child can set a house on fire quite easily.â

âCome, come,â said Venables. âI really canât go along with this modern playing down of evil as something that doesnât really exist. There is evil. And evil is powerful. Sometimes more powerful than good. Itâs there. It has to be recognisedâand fought. Otherwiseââ he spread out his hands. âWe go down to darkness.â

âOf course I was brought up on the devil,â said Mrs. Oliver, apologetically. âBelieving in him, I mean. But you know he always did seem to me so silly. With hoofs and a tail and all that. Capering about like a ham actor. Of course I often have a master criminal in my storiesâpeople like itâbut really he gets harder and harder to do. So long as one doesnât know who he is, I can keep him impressiveâbut when it all comes outâhe seems, somehow, so inadequate. A kind of anticlimax. Itâs much easier if you just have a bank manager whoâs embezzled the funds, or a husband who wants to get rid of his wife and marry the childrenâs governess. So much more naturalâif you know what I mean.â

Everyone laughed and Mrs. Oliver said apologetically:

âI know I havenât put it very wellâbut you do see what I mean?â

We all said that we knew exactly what she meant.

Six

Mark Easterbrookâs Narrative

It was after four oâclock when we left Priors Court. After a particularly delicious lunch, Venables had taken us on a tour of the house. He had taken a real pleasure in showing us his various possessionsâa veritable treasure-house the place was.

âHe must be rolling in money,â I said when we had finally departed. âThose jadesâand the African sculptureâto say nothing of all his Meissen and Bow. Youâre lucky to have such a neighbour.â

âDonât we know it?â said Rhoda. âMost of the people down here are nice enoughâbut definitely on the dull side. Mr. Venables is positively exotic by comparison.â

âHow did he make his money?â asked Mrs. Oliver. âOr has he always had it?â

Despard remarked wryly that nobody nowadays could boast of such a thing as a large inherited income. Death duties and taxation had seen to that.

âSomeone told me,â he added, âthat he started life as a stevedore but it seems most unlikely. He never talks about his boyhood or his familyââ He turned towards Mrs. Oliver. âA Mystery Man for youââ

Mrs. Oliver said that people were always offering her things she didnât wantâ

The Pale Horse was a half-timbered building (genuine halftimbering not faked). It was set back a little way from the village street. A walled garden could be glimpsed behind it which gave it a pleasant old-world look.

I was disappointed in it, and said so.

âNot nearly sinister enough,â I complained. âNo atmosphere.â

âWait till you get inside,â said Ginger.

We got out of the car and went up to the door, which opened as we approached.

Miss Thyrza Grey stood on the threshold, a tall, slightly masculine figure in a tweed coat and skirt. She had rough grey hair springing up from a high forehead, a large beak of a nose, and very penetrating light blue eyes.

âHere you are at last,â she said in a hearty bass voice. âThought youâd all got lost.â

Behind her tweed-clad shoulders I became aware of a face peering out from the shadows of the dark hall. A queer, rather formless face, like something made in putty by a child who had strayed in to play in a sculptorâs studio. It was the kind of face, I thought, that you sometimes see amongst a crowd in an Italian or Flemish primitive painting.

Rhoda introduced us and explained that we had been lunching with Mr. Venables at Priors Court.

âAh!â said Miss Grey. âThat explains it! Fleshpots. That Italian cook of his! And all the treasures of the treasure-house as well. Oh well, poor fellowâgot to have something to cheer him up. But come inâcome in. Weâre rather proud of our own little place. Fifteenth centuryâand some of it fourteenth.â

The hall was low and dark with a twisting staircase leading up from it. There was a wide fireplace and over it a framed picture.

âThe old inn sign,â said Miss Grey, noting my glance. âCanât see much of it in this light. The Pale Horse.â

âIâm going to clean it for you,â said Ginger. âI said I would. You let me have it and youâll be surprised.â

âIâm a bit doubtful,â said Thyrza Grey, and added bluntly, âSuppose you ruin it?â

âOf course I shanât ruin it,â said Ginger indignantly. âItâs my job.â

âI work for the London Galleries,â she explained to me. âGreat fun.â

âModern picture restoring takes a bit of getting used to,â said Thyrza. âI gasp every time I go into the National Gallery nowadays. All the pictures look as though theyâd had a bath in the latest detergent.â

âYou canât really prefer them all dark and mustard coloured,â protested Ginger. She peered at the inn sign. âA lot more would come up. The horse may even have a rider.â

I joined her to stare into the picture. It was a crude painting with little merit except the doubtful one of old age and dirt. The pale figure of a stallion gleamed against a dark indeterminate background.

âHi, Sybil,â cried Thyrza. âThe visitors are crabbing our Horse, damn their impertinence!â

Miss Sybil Stamfordis came through a door to join us.

She was a tall willowy woman with dark, rather greasy hair, a simpering expression, and a fish-like mouth.

She was wearing a bright emerald green sari which did nothing to enhance her appearance. Her voice was faint and fluttery.

âOur dear, dear Horse,â she said. âWe fell in love with that old inn sign the moment we saw it. I really think it influenced us to buy the house. Donât you, Thyrza? But come inâcome in.â

The room into which she led us was small and square and had probably been the bar in its time. It was furnished now with chintz and Chippendale and was definitely a ladyâs sitting room, country style. There were bowls of chrysanthemums.

Then we were taken out to see the garden which I could see would be charming in summer, and then came back into the house to find tea had been laid. There were sandwiches and homemade cakes and as we sat down, the old woman whose face I had glimpsed for a moment in the hall came in bearing a silver teapot. She wore a plain dark green overall. The impression of a head made crudely from Plasticine by a child was borne out on closer inspection. It had a witless primitive face but I could not imagine why I had thought it sinister.

Suddenly I felt angry with myself. All this nonsense about a converted inn and three middle-aged women!

âThank you, Bella,â said Thyrza.

âGot all you want?â

It came out almost as a mumble.

âYes, thanks.â

Bella withdrew to the door. She had looked at nobody, but just before she went out, she raised her eyes and took a speedy glance at me. There was something in that look that startled meâthough it was difficult to describe why. There was malice in it, and a curious intimate knowledge. I felt that without effort, and almost without curiosity, she had known exactly what thoughts were in my mind.

Thyrza Grey had noticed my reaction.

âBella is disconcerting, isnât she, Mr. Easterbrook?â she said softly. âI noticed her look at you.â

âSheâs a local woman, isnât she?â I strove to appear merely politely interested.

âYes. I daresay someone will have told you sheâs the local witch.â

Sybil Stamfordis clanked her beads.

âNow do confess, Mr.â Mr.ââ

âEasterbrook.â

âEasterbrook. Iâm sure youâve heard that we all practice witchcraft. Confess now. Weâve got quite a reputation, you knowââ

âNot undeserved, perhaps,â said Thyrza. She seemed amused. âSybil here has great gifts.â

Sybil sighed pleasurably.

âI was always attracted by the occult,â she murmured. âEven as a child I realised that I had unusual powers. Automatic writing came to me quite naturally. I didnât even know what it was! Iâd just sit there with a pencil in my handâand not know a thing about what was happening. And of course I was always ultrasensitive. I fainted once when taken to tea in a friendâs house. Something awful had happened in that very roomâ¦ I knew it! We got the explanation later. There had been a murder thereâtwenty-five years ago. In that very room!â

She nodded her head and looked round at us with great satisfaction.

âVery remarkable,â said Colonel Despard with polite distaste.

âSinister things have happened in this house,â said Sybil darkly. âBut we have taken the necessary steps. The earthbound spirits have been freed.â

âA kind of spiritual spring cleaning?â I suggested.

Sybil looked at me rather doubtfully.

âWhat a lovely coloured sari you are wearing,â said Rhoda.

Sybil brightened.

âYes, I got it when I was in India. I had an interesting time there. I explored yoga, you know, and all that. But I could not help feeling that it was all too sophisticatedânot near enough to the natural and the primitive. One must go back, I feel, to the beginnings, to the early primitive powers. I am one of the few women who have visited Haiti. Now there you really do touch the original springs of the occult. Overlaid, of course, by a certain amount of corruption and distortion. But the root of the matter is there.

âI was shown a great deal, especially when they learnt that I had twin sisters a little older than myself. The child who is born next after twins has special powers, so they told me. Interesting, wasnât it? Their death dances are wonderful. All the panoply of death, skulls and crossbones, and the tools of a gravedigger, spade, pick and hoe. They dress up as undertakersâ mutes, top hats, black clothesâ

âThe Grand Master is Baron Samedi, and the Legba is the god he invokes, the god who âremoves the barrier.â You send the dead forthâto cause death. Weird idea, isnât it?

âNow this,â Sybil rose and fetched an object from the window sill. âThis is my Asson. Itâs a dried gourd with a network of beads andâyou see these bits?âdried snake vertebrae.â

We looked politely, though without enthusiasm.

Sybil rattled her horrid toy affectionately.

âVery interesting,â said Despard courteously.

âI could tell you lots moreââ

At this point my attention wandered. Words came to me hazily as Sybil continued to air her knowledge of sorcery and voodooâMaÃ®tre Carrefour, the Coa, the GuidÃ© familyâ

I turned my head to find Thyrza looking at me quizzically.

âYou donât believe any of it, do you?â she murmured. âBut youâre wrong, you know. You canât explain away everything as superstition, or fear, or religious bigotry. There are elemental truths and elemental powers. There always have been. There always will be.â

âI donât think I would dispute that,â I said.

âWise man. Come and see my library.â

I followed her out through the french windows into the garden and along the side of the house.

âWe made it out of the old stables,â she explained.

The stables and outbuildings had been reconstituted as one large room. The whole of one long wall was lined with books. I went across to them and was presently exclaiming.

âYouâve got some very rare works here, Miss Grey. Is this an original Malleus Maleficorum? My word, you have some treasures.â

âI have, havenât I?â

âThat Grimoireâvery rare indeed.â I took down volume after volume from the shelves. Thyrza watched meâthere was an air of quiet satisfaction about her which I did not understand.

I put back Sadducismus Triumphatus as Thyrza said:

âItâs nice to meet someone who can appreciate oneâs treasures. Most people just yawn or gape.â

âThere canât be much about the practice of witchcraft, sorcery, and all the rest of it that you donât know,â I said. âWhat gave you an interest in it in the first place?â

âHard to say nowâ¦ Itâs been so longâ¦ One looks into a thing idlyâand thenâone gets gripped! Itâs a fascinating study. The things people believedâand the damnâ fool things they did!â

I laughed.

âThatâs refreshing. Iâm glad you donât believe all you read.â

âYou mustnât judge me by poor Sybil. Oh yes, I saw you looking superior! But you were wrong. Sheâs a silly woman in a lot of ways. She takes voodoo, and demonology, and black magic and mixes everything up into a glorious occult pieâbut she has the power.â

âThe power?â

âI donât know what else you can call itâ¦ There are people who can become a living bridge between this world and a world of strange uncanny powers. Sybil is one of them. She is a first-class medium. She has never done it for money. But her gift is quite exceptional. When she and I and Bellaââ

âBella?â

âOh yes. Bella has her own powers. We all have, in our different degrees. As a teamââ

She broke off.

âSorcerers Ltd?â I suggested with a smile.

âOne could put it that way.â

I glanced down at the volume I was holding in my hand.

âNostradamus and all that?â

âNostradamus and all that.â

I said quietly: âYou do believe it, donât you?â

âI donât believe. I know.â

She spoke triumphantlyâ I looked at her.

âBut how? In what way? For what reason?â

She swept her hand out towards the bookshelvesâ

âAll that! So much of it nonsense! Such grand ridiculous phraseology! But sweep away the superstitions and the prejudices of the timesâand the core is truth! You only dress it upâitâs always been dressed upâto impress people.â

âIâm not sure I follow you.â

âMy dear man, why have people come throughout the ages to the necromancerâto the sorcererâto the witch doctor? Only two reasons really. There are only two things that are wanted badly enough to risk damnation. The love potion or the cup of poison.â

âAh.â

âSo simple, isnât it? Loveâand death. The love potionâto win the man you wantâthe black massâto keep your lover. A draught to be taken at the full of the moon. Recite the names of devils or of spirits. Draw patterns on the floor or on the wall. All thatâs window dressing. The truth is the aphrodisiac in the draught!â

âAnd death?â I asked.

âDeath?â She laughed, a queer little laugh that made me uncomfortable. âAre you so interested in death?â

âWho isnât?â I said lightly.

âI wonder.â She shot me a glance, keen, searching. It took me aback.

âDeath. Thereâs always been a greater trade in that than there ever has been in love potions. And yetâhow childish it all was in the past! The Borgias and their famous secret poisons. Do you know what they really used? Ordinary white arsenic! Just the same as any little wife poisoner in the back streets. But weâve progressed a long way beyond that nowadays. Science has enlarged our frontiers.â

âWith untraceable poisons?â My voice was sceptical.

âPoisons! Thatâs vieux jeu. Childish stuff. There are new horizons.â

âSuch as?â

âThe mind. Knowledge of what the mind isâwhat it can doâwhat it can be made to do.â

âPlease go on. This is most interesting.â

âThe principle is well known. Medicine men have used it in primitive communities for centuries. You donât need to kill your victim. All you need do isâtell him to die.â

âSuggestion? But it wonât work unless the victim believes in it.â

âIt doesnât work on Europeans, you mean,â she corrected me. âIt does sometimes. But thatâs not the point. Weâve gone further ahead than the witch doctor has ever gone. The psychologists have shown the way. The desire for death! Itâs thereâin everyone. Work on that! Work on the death wish.â

âItâs an interesting idea.â I spoke with a muted scientific interest. âInfluence your subject to commit suicide? Is that it?â

âYouâre still lagging behind. Youâve heard of traumatic illnesses?â

âOf course.â

âPeople who, because of an unconscious wish to avoid returning to work, develop real ailments. Not malingeringâreal illnesses with symptoms, with actual pain. Itâs been a puzzle to doctors for a long time.â

âIâm beginning to get the hang of what you mean,â I said slowly.

âTo destroy your subject, power must be exerted on his secret unconscious self. The death wish that exists in all of us must be stimulated, heightened.â Her excitement was growing. âDonât you see? A real illness will be induced, caused by that death seeking self. You wish to be ill, you wish to dieâand soâyou do get ill, and die.â

She had flung her head up now, triumphantly. I felt suddenly very cold. All nonsense, of course. This woman was slightly madâ¦ And yetâ

Thyrza Grey laughed suddenly.

âYou donât believe me, do you?â

âItâs a fascinating theory, Miss Greyâquite in line with modern thought, Iâll admit. But how do you propose to stimulate this death wish that we all possess?â

âThatâs my secret. The way! The means! There are communications without contact. Youâve only to think of wireless, radar, television. Experiments in extrasensory perception havenât gone ahead as people hoped, but thatâs because they havenât grasped the first simple principle. You can accomplish it sometimes by accidentâbut once you know how it works, you could do it every timeâ¦.â

âCan you do it?â

She didnât answer at onceâthen she said, moving away:

âYou mustnât ask me, Mr. Easterbrook, to give all my secrets away.â

I followed her towards the garden doorâ

âWhy have you told me all this?â I asked.

âYou understand my books. One needs sometimes toâtoâwellâtalk to someone. And besidesââ

âYes?â

âI had the ideaâ Bella has it, tooâthat youâmay need us.â

âNeed you?â

âBella thinks you came hereâto find us. She is seldom at fault.â

âWhy should I want toââfind you,â as you put it?â

âThat,â said Thyrza Grey softly, âI do not knowâyet.â

Seven

Mark Easterbrookâs Narrative

I

âSo there you are! We wondered where you were.â Rhoda came through the open door, the others behind her. She looked round her. âThis is where you hold your sÃ©ances, isnât it?â

âYouâre well informed,â Thyrza Grey laughed breezily. âIn a village everyone knows your business better than you do. Weâve a splendid sinister reputation, so Iâve heard. A hundred years ago it would have been sink or swim or the funeral pyre. My great-great-auntâor one or two more greatsâwas burned as a witch, I believe, in Ireland. Those were the days!â

âI always thought you were Scottish?â

âOn my fatherâs sideâhence the second sight. Irish on my motherâs. Sybil is our pythoness, originally of Greek extraction. Bella represents Old English.â

âA macabre human cocktail,â remarked Colonel Despard.

âAs you say.â

âFun!â said Ginger.

Thyrza shot her a quick glance.

âYes, it is in a way.â She turned to Mrs. Oliver. âYou should write one of your books about a murder by black magic. I can give you a lot of dope about it.â

Mrs. Oliver blinked and looked embarrassed.

âI only write very plain murders,â she said apologetically.

Her tone was of one who says âI only do plain cooking.â

âJust about people who want other people out of the way and try to be clever about it,â she added.

âTheyâre usually too clever for me,â said Colonel Despard. He glanced at his watch. âRhoda, I thinkââ

âOh yes, we must go. Itâs much later than I thought.â

Thanks and good-byes were said. We did not go back through the house but round to a side gate.

âYou keep a lot of poultry,â remarked Colonel Despard, looking into a wired enclosure.

âI hate hens,â said Ginger. âThey cluck in such an irritating way.â

âMostly cockerels they be.â It was Bella who spoke. She had come out from a back door.

âWhite cockerels,â I said.

âTable birds?â asked Despard.

Bella said, âTheyâm useful to us.â

Her mouth widened in a long curving line across the pudgy shapelessness of her face. Her eyes had a sly knowing look.

âTheyâre Bellaâs province,â said Thyrza Grey lightly.

We said good-bye and Sybil Stamfordis appeared from the open front door to join in speeding the parting guests.

âI donât like that woman,â said Mrs. Oliver, as we drove off. âI donât like her at all.â

âYou mustnât take old Thyrza too seriously,â said Despard indulgently. âShe enjoys spouting all that stuff and seeing what effect it has on you.â

âI didnât mean her. Sheâs an unscrupulous woman, with a keen eye on the main chance. But sheâs not dangerous like the other one.â

âBella? She is a bit uncanny, Iâll admit.â

âI didnât mean her either. I meant the Sybil one. She seems just silly. All those beads and draperies and all the stuff about voodoo, and all those fantastic reincarnations she was telling us about. (Why is it that anybody who was a kitchen maid or an ugly old peasant never seems to get reincarnated? Itâs always Egyptian Princesses or beautiful Babylonian slaves. Very fishy.) But all the same, though sheâs stupid, I have a feeling that she could really do thingsâmake queer things happen. I always put things badlyâbut I mean she could be usedâby somethingâin a way just because she is so silly. I donât suppose anyone understands what I mean,â she finished pathetically.

âI do,â said Ginger. âAnd I shouldnât wonder if you werenât right.â

âWe really ought to go to one of their sÃ©ances,â said Rhoda wistfully. âIt might be rather fun.â

âNo, you donât,â said Despard firmly. âIâm not having you getting mixed up in anything of that sort.â

They fell into a laughing argument. I roused myself only when I heard Mrs. Oliver asking about trains the next morning.

âYou can drive back with me,â I said.

Mrs. Oliver looked doubtful.

âI think Iâd better go by trainââ

âOh, come now. Youâve driven with me before. Iâm a most reliable driver.â

âItâs not that, Mark. But Iâve got to go to a funeral tomorrow. So I mustnât be late in getting back to town.â She sighed. âI do hate going to funerals.â

âMust you?â

âI think I must in this case. Mary Delafontaine was a very old friendâand I think sheâd want me to go. She was that sort of person.â

âOf course,â I exclaimed. âDelafontaineâof course.â

The others stared at me, surprised.

âSorry,â I said. âItâs onlyâthatâwell, I was wondering where Iâd heard the name Delafontaine lately. It was you, wasnât it?â I looked at Mrs. Oliver. âYou said something about visiting herâin a nursing home.â

âDid I? Quite likely.â

âWhat did she die of?â

Mrs. Oliver wrinkled her forehead.

âToxic polyneuritisâsomething like that.â

Ginger was looking at me curiously. She had a sharp penetrating glance.

As we got out of the car, I said abruptly:

âI think Iâll go for a bit of a walk. Such a lot of food. That wonderful lunch and tea on top of it. Itâs got to be worked off somehow.â

I went off briskly before anyone could offer to accompany me. I wanted badly to get by myself and sort out my ideas.

What was all this business? Let me at least get it clear to myself. It had started, had it not, with that casual but startling remark by Poppy, that if you wanted to âget rid of someoneâ the Pale Horse was the place to go.

Following on that, there had been my meeting with Jim Corrigan, and his list of ânamesââas connected with the death of Father Gorman. On that list had been the name of Hesketh-Dubois, and the name of Tuckerton, causing me to hark back to that evening at Luigiâs coffee bar. There had been the name of Delafontaine, too, vaguely familiar. It was Mrs. Oliver who had mentioned it, in connection with a sick friend. The sick friend was now dead.

After that, I had, for some reason which I couldnât quite identify, gone to beard Poppy in her floral bower. And Poppy had denied vehemently any knowledge of such an institution as the Pale Horse. More significant still, Poppy had been afraid.

Todayâthere had been Thyrza Grey.

But surely the Pale Horse and its occupants was one thing and that list of names something separate, quite unconnected. Why on earth was I coupling them together in my mind?

Why should I imagine for one moment that there was any connection between them?

Mrs. Delafontaine had presumably lived in London. Thomasina Tuckertonâs home had been somewhere in Surrey. No one on the list had any connection with the little village of Much Deeping. Unlessâ

I was just coming abreast of the Kingâs Arms. The Kingâs Arms was a genuine pub with a superior look about it and a freshlypainted announcement of Lunches, Dinners and Teas.

I pushed its door open and went inside. The bar, not yet open, was on my left, on my right was a minute lounge smelling of stale smoke. By the stairs was a notice: Office. The office consisted of a glass window, firmly closed and a printed card. PRESS BELL. The whole place had the deserted air of a pub at this particular time of day. On a shelf by the office window was a battered registration book for visitors. I opened it and flicked through the pages. It was not much patronised. There were five or six entries, perhaps, in a week, mostly for one night only. I flicked back the pages, noting the names.

It was not long before I shut the book. There was still no one about. There were really no questions I wanted to ask at this stage. I went out again into the soft damp afternoon.

Was it only coincidence that someone called Sandford and someone else called Parkinson had stayed at the Kingâs Arms during the last year? Both names were on Corriganâs list. Yes, but they were not particularly uncommon names. But I had noted one other nameâthe name of Martin Digby. If it was the Martin Digby I knew, he was the great-nephew of the woman I had always called Aunt MinâLady Hesketh-Dubois.

I strode along, not seeing where I was going. I wanted very badly to talk to someone. To Jim Corrigan. Or to David Ardingly. Or to Hermia with her calm good sense. I was alone with my chaotic thoughts and I didnât want to be alone. What I wanted, frankly, was someone who would argue me out of the things that I was thinking.

It was after about half an hour of tramping muddy lanes that I finally turned in at the gates of the vicarage, and made my way up a singularly ill-kept drive, to pull a rusty looking bell at the side of the front door.

II

âIt doesnât ring,â said Mrs. Dane Calthrop, appearing at the door with the unexpectedness of a genie.

I had already suspected that fact.

âTheyâve mended it twice,â said Mrs. Dane Calthrop. âBut it never lasts. So I have to keep alert. In case itâs something important. Itâs important with you, isnât it?â

âItâwellâyes, it is importantâto me, I mean.â

âThatâs what I meant, tooâ¦â She looked at me thoughtfully. âYes, itâs quite bad, I can seeâ Who do you want? The vicar?â

âIâ Iâm not sureââ

It had been the vicar I came to seeâbut now, unexpectedly, I was doubtful. I didnât quite know why. But immediately Mrs. Dane Calthrop told me.

âMy husbandâs a very good man,â she said. âBesides being the vicar, I mean. And that makes things difficult sometimes. Good people, you see, donât really understand evil.â She paused and then said with a kind of brisk efficiency, âI think it had better be me.â

A faint smile came to my lips. âIs evil your department?â I asked.

âYes, it is. Itâs important in a parish to know all about the variousâwellâsins that are going on.â

âIsnât sin your husbandâs province? His official business, so to speak.â

âThe forgiveness of sins,â she corrected me. âHe can give absolution. I canât. But I,â said Mrs. Dane Calthrop with the utmost cheerfulness, âcan get sin arranged and classified for him. And if one knows about it one can help to prevent its harming other people. One canât help the people themselves. I canât, I mean. Only God can call to repentance, you knowâor perhaps you donât know. A lot of people donât nowadays.â

âI canât compete with your expert knowledge,â I said, âbut I would like to prevent people beingâharmed.â

She shot me a quick glance.

âItâs like that, is it? Youâd better come in and weâll be comfortable.â

The vicarage sitting room was big and shabby. It was much shaded by a gargantuan Victorian shrubbery that no one seemed to have had the energy to curb. But the dimness was not gloomy for some peculiar reason. It was, on the contrary, restful. All the large shabby chairs bore the impress of resting bodies in them over the years. A fat clock on the chimneypiece ticked with a heavy comfortable regularity. Here there would always be time to talk, to say what you wanted to say, to relax from the cares brought about by the bright day outside.

Here, I felt, round-eyed girls who had tearfully discovered themselves to be prospective mothers, had confided their troubles to Mrs. Dane Calthrop and received sound, if not always orthodox, advice; here angry relatives had unburdened themselves of their resentment over their in-laws; here mothers had explained that their Bob was not a bad boy; just high-spirited, and that to send him away to an approved school was absurd. Husbands and wives had disclosed marital difficulties.

And here was I, Mark Easterbrook, scholar, author, man of the world, confronting a grey-haired weather-beaten woman with fine eyes, prepared to lay my troubles in her lap. Why? I didnât know. I only had that odd surety that she was the right person.

âWeâve just had tea with Thyrza Grey,â I began.

Explaining things to Mrs. Dane Calthrop was never difficult. She leaped to meet you.

âOh I see. Itâs upset you? These three are a bit much to take, I agree. Iâve wondered myselfâ¦ So much boasting. As a rule, in my experience, the really wicked donât boast. They can keep quiet about their wickedness. Itâs if your sins arenât really bad that you want so much to talk about them. Sinâs such a wretched, mean, ignoble little thing. Itâs terribly necessary to make it seem grand and important. Village witches are usually silly ill-natured old women who like frightening people and getting something for nothing that way. Terribly easy to do, of course. When Mrs. Brownâs hens die all you have to do is nod your head and say darkly: âAh, her Billy teased my Pussy last Tuesday week.â Bella Webb might, be only a witch of that kind. But she might, she just might, be something moreâ¦ Something thatâs lasted on from a very early age and which crops up now and then in country places. Itâs frightening when it does, because thereâs real malevolenceânot just a desire to impress. Sybil Stamfordis is one of the silliest women Iâve ever metâbut she really is a mediumâwhatever a medium may be. ThyrzaâI donât knowâ¦ What did she say to you? It was something that she said thatâs upset you, I suppose?â

âYou have great experience, Mrs. Dane Calthrop. Would you say, from all you know and have heard, that a human being could be destroyed from a distance, without visible connection, by another human being?â

Mrs. Dane Calthropâs eyes opened a little wider.

âWhen you say destroyed, you mean, I take it, killed? A plain physical fact?â

âYes.â

âI should say it was nonsense,â said Mrs. Dane Calthrop robustly.

âAh!â I said, relieved.

âBut of course I might be wrong,â said Mrs. Dane Calthrop. âMy father said that airships were nonsense, and my great-grandfather probably said that railway trains were nonsense. They were both quite right. At that time they both were impossible. But theyâre not impossible now. What does Thyrza do, activate a death ray or something? Or do they all three draw pentagrams and wish?â

I smiled.

âYouâre making things come into focus,â I said. âI must have let that woman hypnotise me.â

âOh no,â said Mrs. Dane Calthrop. âYou wouldnât do that. Youâre not really the suggestible type. There must have been something else. Something that happened first. Before all this.â

âYouâre quite right.â I told her, then, as simply as I could with an economy of words, of the murder of Father Gorman, and of the casual mention in the nightclub of the Pale Horse. Then I took from my pocket the list of names I had copied from the paper Dr. Corrigan had shown me.

Mrs. Dane Calthrop looked down at it, frowning.

âI see,â she said. âAnd these people? What have they all in common?â

âWeâre not sure. It might be blackmailâor dopeââ

âNonsense,â said Mrs. Dane Calthrop. âThatâs not whatâs worrying you. What you really believe isâthat theyâre all dead?â

I gave a deep sigh.

âYes,â I said. âThatâs what I believe. But I donât really know that that is so. Three of them are dead. Minnie Hesketh-Dubois, Thomasina Tuckerton, Mary Delafontaine. All three died in their beds from natural causes. Which is what Thyrza Grey claims would happen.â

âYou mean she claims she made it happen?â

âNo, no. She wasnât speaking of any actual people. She was expounding what she believes to be a scientific possibility.â

âWhich appears on the face of it to be nonsense,â said Mrs. Dane Calthrop thoughtfully.

âI know. I would just have been polite about it and laughed to myself, if it hadnât been for that curious mention of the Pale Horse.â

âYes,â said Mrs. Dane Calthrop musingly. âThe Pale Horse. Thatâs suggestive.â

She was silent a moment. Then she raised her head.

âItâs bad,â she said. âItâs very bad. Whatever is behind it, itâs got to be stopped. But you know that.â

âWell yesâ¦ But what can one do?â

âThat youâll have to find out. But thereâs no time to be lost.â Mrs. Dane Calthrop rose to her feet, a whirlwind of activity. âYou must get down to itâat once.â She considered. âHavenât you got some friend who could help you?â

I thought. Jim Corrigan? A busy man with little time, and already probably doing all he could. David Ardinglyâbut would David believe a word? Hermia? Yes, there was Hermia. A clear brain, admirable logic. A tower of strength if she could be persuaded to become an ally. After all, she and IâI did not finish the sentence. Hermia was my steadyâ Hermia was the person.

âYouâve thought of someone? Good.â

Mrs. Dane Calthrop was brisk and businesslike.

âIâll keep an eye on the Three Witches. I still feel that they areâsomehowânot really the answer. Itâs like when the Stamfordis woman dishes out a lot of idiocy about Egyptian mysteries and prophecies from the Pyramid texts. All she says is plain balderdash, but there are Pyramids and texts and temple mysteries. I canât help feeling that Thyrza Grey has got hold of something, found out about it, or heard it talked about, and is using it in a kind of wild hotchpotch to boost her own importance and control of occult powers. People are so proud of wickedness. Odd, isnât it, that people who are good are never proud of it? Thatâs where Christian humility comes in, I suppose. They donât even know they are good.â

She was silent for a moment and then said:

âWhat we really need is a link of some kind. A link between one of these names and the Pale Horse. Something tangible.â

Eight

Detective-Inspector Lejeune heard the well-known tune âFather OâFlynnâ being whistled outside in the passage and raised his head as Dr. Corrigan came in.

âSorry to disoblige everybody,â said Corrigan, âbut the driver of that Jaguar hadnât any alcohol in him at allâ¦ What P.C. Ellis smelt on his breath must have been Ellisâs imagination or halitosis.â

But Lejeune at the moment was uninterested in the daily run of motoristsâ offences.

âCome and take a look at this,â he said.

Corrigan took the letter handed to him. It was written in a small neat script. The heading was Everest, Glendower Close, Bournemouth.

Dear Inspector Lejeune,

You may remember that you asked me to get in touch with you if I should happen to see the man who was following Father Gorman on the night that he was killed. I kept a good lookout in the neighbourhood of my establishment, but never caught a glimpse of him again.

Yesterday, however, I attended a church fÃªte in a village about twenty miles from here. I was attracted by the fact that Mrs. Oliver, the well-known detective writer, was going to be there autographing her own books. I am a great reader of detective stories and I was quite curious to see the lady.

What I did see, to my great surprise, was the man I described to you as having passed my shop the night Father Gorman was killed. Since then, it would seem, he must have met with an accident, as on this occasion he was propelling himself in a wheeled chair. I made some discreet inquiries as to who he might be, and it seems he is a local resident of the name of Venables. His place of residence is Priors Court, Much Deeping. He is said to be a man of considerable means.

Hoping these details may be of some service to you,

Yours truly,
Zachariah Osborne

âWell?â said Lejeune.

âSounds most unlikely,â said Corrigan dampingly.

âOn the face of it, perhaps. But Iâm not so sureââ

âThis Osborne fellowâhe couldnât really have seen anyoneâs face very clearly on a foggy night like that. I expect this is just a chance resemblance. You know what people are. Ring up all over the country to say theyâve seen a missing personâand nine times out of ten thereâs no resemblance even to the printed description!â

âOsborneâs not like that,â said Lejeune.

âWhat is he like?â

âHeâs a respectable dapper little chemist, old-fashioned, quite a character, and a great observer of persons. One of the dreams of his life is to be able to come forward and identify a wife poisoner who has purchased arsenic at his shop.â

Corrigan laughed.

âIn that case, this is clearly an example of wishful thinking.â

âPerhaps.â

Corrigan looked at him curiously.

âSo you think there may be something in it? What are you going to do about it?â

âThere will be no harm, in any case, in making a few discreet inquiries about this Mr. Venables ofââ he referred to the letterâ âof Priors Court, Much Deeping.â

Nine

Mark Easterbrookâs Narrative

I

âWhat exciting things happen in the country!â said Hermia lightly.

We had just finished dinner. A pot of black coffee was in front of usâ

I looked at her. The words were not quite what I had expected. I had spent the last quarter of an hour telling her my story. She had listened intelligently and with interest. But her response was not at all what I had expected. The tone of her voice was indulgentâshe seemed neither shocked nor stirred.

âPeople who say that the country is dull and the towns full of excitement donât know what they are talking about,â she went on. âThe last of the witches have gone to cover in the tumbledown cottage, black masses are celebrated in remote manor houses by decadent young men. Superstition runs rife in isolated hamlets. Middle-aged spinsters clank their false scarabs and hold sÃ©ances and planchettes run luridly over sheets of blank paper. One could really write a very amusing series of articles on it all. Why donât you try your hand?â

âI donât think you really understand what Iâve been telling you, Hermia.â

âBut I do, Mark! I think itâs all tremendously interesting. Itâs a page out of history, all the lingering forgotten lore of the Middle Ages.â

âIâm not interested historically,â I said irritably. âIâm interested in the facts. In a list of names on a sheet of paper. I know what has happened to some of those people. Whatâs going to happen or has happened to the rest?â

âArenât you letting yourself get rather carried away?â

âNo,â I said obstinately. âI donât think so. I think the menace is real. And Iâm not alone in thinking so. The vicarâs wife agrees with me.â

âOh, the vicarâs wife!â Hermiaâs voice was scornful.

âNo, not âthe vicarâs wifeâ like that! Sheâs a very unusual woman. This whole thing is real, Hermia.â

Hermia shrugged her shoulders.

âPerhaps.â

âBut you donât think so?â

âI think your imagination is running away with you a little, Mark. I daresay your middle-aged pussies are quite genuine in believing it all themselves. Iâm sure theyâre very nasty old pussies!â

âBut not really sinister?â

âReally, Mark, how can they be?â

I was silent for a moment. My mind waveredâturning from light to darkness and back again. The darkness of the Pale Horse, the light that Hermia represented. Good everyday sensible lightâthe electric light bulb firmly fixed in its socket, illuminating all the dark corners. Nothing thereânothing at allâjust the everyday objects you always find in a room. But yetâbut yetâHermiaâs light, clear as it might make things seem, was after all an artificial lightâ¦.

My mind swung back, resolutely, obstinatelyâ¦.

âI want to look into it all, Hermia. Get to the bottom of whatâs going on.â

âI agree. I think you should. It might be quite interesting. In fact, really rather fun.â

âNot fun!â I said sharply.

I went on:

âI wanted to ask if youâd help me, Hermia.â

âHelp you? How?â

âHelp me to investigate. Get right down to what this is all about.â

âBut Mark dear, just at present Iâm most terribly busy. Thereâs my article for the Journal. And the Byzantium thing. And Iâve promised two of my studentsââ

Her voice went on reasonablyâsensiblyâ I hardly listened.

âI see,â I said. âYouâve too much on your plate already.â

âThatâs it.â Hermia was clearly relieved at my acquiescence. She smiled at me. Once again I was struck by her expression of indulgence. Such indulgence as a mother might show over her little sonâs absorption in his new toy.

Damn it all, I wasnât a little boy. I wasnât looking for a motherâcertainly not that kind of a mother. My own mother had been charming and feckless; and everyone in sight, including her son, had adored looking after her.

I considered Hermia dispassionately across the table.

So handsome, so mature, so intellectual, so well read! And soâhow could one put it? Soâ yes, so damnably dull!

II

The next morning I tried to get hold of Jim Corriganâwithout success. I left a message, however, that Iâd be in between six and seven, if he could come for a drink. He was a busy man, I knew, and I doubted if he would be able to come at such short notice, but he turned up all right at about ten minutes to seven. While I was getting him a whisky he wandered round looking at my pictures and books. He remarked finally that he wouldnât have minded being a Mogul Emperor himself instead of a hard-pressed overworked police surgeon.

âThough, I daresay,â he remarked as he settled down in a chair, âthat they suffered a good deal from woman trouble. At least I escape that.â

âYouâre not married, then?â

âNo fear. And no more are you, I should say, from the comfortable mess in which you live. A wife would tidy all that up in next to no time.â

I told him that I didnât think women were as bad as he made out.

I took my drink to the chair opposite him and began:

âYou must wonder why I wanted to get hold of you so urgently, but as a matter of fact something has come up that may have a bearing on what we were discussing the last time we met.â

âWhat was that?âoh, of course. The Father Gorman business.â

âYesâBut first, does the phrase The Pale Horse mean anything to you?â

âThe Pale Horseâ¦ The Pale HorseâNo, I donât think soâwhy?â

âBecause I think itâs possible that it might have a connection with that list of names you showed meâIâve been down in the country with friendsâat a place called Much Deeping, and they took me to an old pub, or what was once a pub, called the Pale Horse.â

âWait a bit! Much Deeping? Much Deepingâ¦ Is it anywhere near Bournemouth?â

âItâs about fifteen miles or so from Bournemouth.â

âI suppose you didnât come across anyone called Venables down there?â

âCertainly I did.â

âYou did?â Corrigan sat up in some excitement. âYou certainly have a knack of going places! What is he like?â

âHeâs a most remarkable man.â

âHe is, is he? Remarkable in what way?â

âPrincipally in the force of his personality. Although heâs completely crippled by polioââ

âCorrigan interrupted me sharplyâ

âWhat?â

âHe had polio some years ago. Heâs paralysed from the waist down.â

Corrigan threw himself back in his chair with a look of disgust.

âThat tears it! I thought it was too good to be true.â

âI donât understand what you mean.â

Corrigan said, âYouâll have to meet the D.D.I. Divisional Detective-Inspector Lejeune. Heâll be interested in what you have to say. When Gorman was killed, Lejeune asked for information from anyone who had seen him in the street that night. Most of the answers were useless, as is usual. But there was a pharmacist, name of Osborne, who has a shop in those parts. He reported having seen Gorman pass his place that night, and he also saw a man who followed close after himânaturally he didnât think anything of it at that time. But he managed to describe this chap pretty closelyâseemed quite sure heâd know him again. Well, a couple of days ago Lejeune got a letter from Osborne. Heâs retired, and living in Bournemouth. Heâd been over to some local fÃªte and he said heâd seen the man in question there. He was at the fÃªte in a wheeled chair. Osborne asked who he was and was told his name was Venables.â

He looked at me questioningly. I nodded.

âQuite right,â I said. âIt was Venables. He was at the fÃªte. But he couldnât have been the man who was walking along a street in Paddington following Father Gorman. Itâs physically impossible. Osborne made a mistake.â

âHe described him very meticulously. Height about six feet, a prominent beaked nose, and a noticeable Adamâs apple. Correct?â

âYes. It fits Venables. But all the sameââ

âI know. Mr. Osborne isnât necessarily as good as he thinks he is at recognising people. Clearly he was misled by the coincidence of a chance resemblance. But itâs disturbing to have you come along shooting your mouth off about that very districtâtalking about some pale horse or other. What is this pale horse? Letâs have your story.â

âYou wonât believe it,â I warned him. âI donât really believe it myself.â

âCome on. Letâs have it.â

I told him of my conversation with Thyrza Grey. His reaction was immediate.

âWhat unutterable balderdash!â

âIt is, isnât it?â

âOf course it is! Whatâs the matter with you, Mark? White cockerels. Sacrifices, I suppose! A medium, the local witch, and a middle-aged country spinster who can send out a death ray guaranteed lethal. Itâs mad, manâabsolutely mad!â

âYes, itâs mad,â I said heavily.

âOh! stop agreeing with me, Mark. You make me feel thereâs something in it when you do that. You believe thereâs something in it, donât you?â

âLet me ask you a question first. This stuff about everybody having a secret urge or wish for death. Is there any scientific truth in that?â

Corrigan hesitated for a moment. Then he said:

âIâm not a psychiatrist. Strictly between you and me I think half these fellows are slightly barmy themselves. Theyâre punch drunk on theories. And they go much too far. I can tell you that the police arenât at all fond of the expert medical witness whoâs always being called in for the defence to explain away a manâs having killed some helpless old woman for the money in the till.â

âYou prefer your glandular theory?â

He grinned.

âAll right. All right. Iâm a theorist, too. Admitted. But thereâs a good physical reason behind my theoryâif I can ever get at it. But all this subconscious stuff! Pah!â

âYou donât believe in it?â

âOf course I believe in it. But these chaps take it much too far. The unconscious âdeath wishâ and all that, thereâs something in it, of course, but not nearly so much as they make out.â

âBut there is such a thing,â I persisted.

âYouâd better go and buy yourself a book on psychology and read all about it.â

âThyrza Grey claims that she knows all there is to know.â

âThyrza Grey!â he snorted. âWhat does a half-baked spinster in a country village know about mental psychology?â

âShe says she knows a lot.â

âAs I said before, balderdash!â

âThat,â I remarked, âis what people have always said about any discovery that doesnât accord with recognised ideas. Frogs twitching their legs on railingsââ

He interrupted me.

âSo youâve swallowed all this, hook, line and sinker?â

âNot at all,â I said. âI just wanted to know if there is any scientific basis for it.â

Corrigan snorted.

âScientific basis my foot!â

âAll right. I just wanted to know.â

âYouâll be saying next sheâs the Woman with the Box.â

âWhat Woman with a box?â

âJust one of the wild stories that turns up from time to timeâby Nostradamus out of Mother Shipton. Some people will swallow anything.â

âYou might at least tell me how you are getting on with that list of names.â

âThe boys have been hard at work, but these things take time and a lot of routine work. Names without addresses or Christian names arenât easy to trace or identify.â

âLetâs take it from a different angle. Iâd be willing to bet you one thing. Within a fairly recent periodâsay a year to a year and a halfâevery one of those names has appeared on a death certificate. Am I right?â

He gave me a queer look.

âYouâre rightâfor what itâs worth.â

âThatâs the thing they all have in commonâdeath.â

âYes, but that maynât mean as much as it sounds, Mark. Have you any idea how many people die every day in the British Isles? And some of those names are quite commonâwhich doesnât help.â

âDelafontaine,â I said. âMary Delafontaine. Thatâs not a very common name, is it? The funeral was last Tuesday, I understand.â

He shot me a quick glance.

âHow do you know that? Saw it in the paper. I suppose.â

âI heard it from a friend of hers.â

âThere was nothing fishy about her death. I can tell you that. In fact, thereâs been nothing questionable about any of the deaths the police have been investigating. If they were âaccidentsâ it might be suspicious. But the deaths are all perfectly normal deaths. Pneumonia, cerebral haemorrhage, tumour on the brain, gallstones, one case of polioânothing in the least suspicious.â

I nodded.

âNot accident,â I said. âNot poisoning. Just plain illnesses leading to death. Just as Thyrza Grey claims.â

âAre you really suggesting that that woman can cause someone sheâs never seen, miles away, to catch pneumonia and die of it?â

âIâm not suggesting such a thing. She did. I think itâs fantastic and Iâd like to think itâs impossible. But there are certain curious factors. Thereâs the casual mention of a Pale Horseâin connection with the removal of unwanted persons. There is a place called the Pale Horseâand the woman who lives there practically boasts that such an operation is possible. Living in that neighbourhood is a man who is recognised very positively as the man who was seen following Father Gorman on the night that he was killedâthe night when he had been called to a dying woman who was heard to speak of âgreat wickedness.â Rather a lot of coincidences, donât you think?â

âThe man couldnât have been Venables, since according to you, heâs been paralysed for years.â

âIt isnât possible, from the medical point of view, that that paralysis could be faked?â

âOf course not. The limbs would be atrophied.â

âThat certainly seems to settle the question,â I admitted. I sighed. âA pity. If there is aâI donât know quite what to call itâan organisation that specialises in âRemovalsâHumanâ Venables is the kind of brain I can see running it. The things he has in that house of his represent a fantastic amount of money. Where does that money come from?â

I pausedâand then said:

âAll these people who have diedâtidilyâin their beds, of this, that and the otherâwere there people who profited by their deaths?â

âSomeone always profits by a deathâin greater or lesser degree. There were no notably suspicious circumstances, if that is what you mean.â

âIt isnât quite.â

âLady Hesketh-Dubois, as you probably know, left about fifty thousand net. A niece and a nephew inherit. Nephew lives in Canada. Niece is married and lives in North of England. Both could do with the money. Thomasina Tuckerton was left a very large fortune by her father. If she died unmarried before the age of twenty-one, it reverts to her stepmother. Stepmother seems quite a blameless creature. Then thereâs your Mrs. Delafontaineâmoney left to a cousinââ

âAh yes. And the cousin?â

âIn Kenya with her husband.â

âAll splendidly absent,â I commented.

Corrigan threw me an annoyed glance.

âOf the three Sandfords whoâve kicked the bucket, one left a wife much younger than himself who has married againârather quickly. Deceased Sandford was an R.C., and wouldnât have given her a divorce. A fellow called Sidney Harmondsworth who died of cerebral haemorrhage was suspected at the Yard of augmenting his income by discreet blackmail. Several people in high places must be greatly relieved that he is no more.â

âWhat youâre saying in effect is that all these deaths were convenient deaths. What about Corrigan?â

Corrigan grinned.

âCorrigan is a common name. Quite a lot of Corrigans have diedâbut not to the particular advantage of anyone in particular so far as we can learn.â

âThat settles it. Youâre the next prospective victim. Take good care of yourself.â

âI will. And donât think that your Witch of Endor is going to strike me down with a duodenal ulcer, or Spanish âflu. Not a casehardened doctor!â

âListen, Jim. I want to investigate this claim of Thyrza Greyâs. Will you help me?â

âNo, I wonât! I canât understand a clever educated fellow like you being taken in by such balderdash.â

I sighed.

âCanât you use another word? Iâm tired of that one.â

âPoppycock, if you like it better.â

âI donât much.â

âObstinate fellow, arenât you, Mark?â

âAs I see it,â I said, âsomebody has to be!â

Ten

Glendower Close was very very new. It swept round in an uneven semicircle and at its lower end the builders were still at work. About halfway along its length was a gate inscribed with the name of Everest.

Visible, bent over the garden border, planting bulbs, was a rounded back which Inspector Lejeune recognised without difficulty as that of Mr. Zachariah Osborne. He opened the gate and passed inside. Mr. Osborne rose from his stooping position and turned to see who had entered his domain. On recognising his visitor, an additional flush of pleasure rose to his already flushed face. Mr. Osborne in the country was looking very much the same as Mr. Osborne in his shop in London. He wore stout country shoes and was in his shirt sleeves, but even this dÃ©shabillÃ© detracted little from the dapper neatness of his appearance. A fine dew of perspiration showed on the shining baldness of his domed head. This he carefully wiped with a pocket handkerchief before advancing to meet his visitor.

âInspector Lejeune!â he exclaimed pleasurably. âI take this as an honour. I do indeed, sir. I received your acknowledgement of my letter, but I never hoped to see you in person. Welcome to my little abode. Welcome to Everest. The name surprises you perhaps? I have always been deeply interested in the Himalayas. I followed every detail of the Everest expedition. What a triumph for our country. Sir Edmund Hillary! What a man! What endurance! As one who has never had to suffer any personal discomfort, I do appreciate the courage of those who go forth to scale unconquered mountains or sail through icebound seas to discover the secrets of the Pole. But come inside and partake, I beg of you, of some simple refreshment.â

Leading the way, Mr. Osborne ushered Lejeune into the small bungalow which was the acme of neatness, though rather sparsely furnished.

âNot quite settled yet,â explained Mr. Osborne. âI attend local sales whenever possible. There is good stuff to be picked up that way, at a quarter of the cost one would have to pay in a shop. Now what can I offer you? A glass of sherry? Beer? A cup of tea? I could have the kettle on in a jiffy.â

Lejeune expressed a preference for beer.

âHere we are, then,â said Mr. Osborne, returning a moment later with two brimming pewter tankards. âWe will sit and take our rest. Everest. Ha ha! The name of my house has a double meaning. I am always fond of a little joke.â

Those social amenities satisfied, Mr. Osborne leaned forward hopefully.

âMy information was of service to you?â

Lejeune softened the blow as much as possible.

âNot as much as we hoped, I am afraid.â

âAh, I confess I am disappointed. Though, really, there is, I realise, no reason to suppose that a gentleman proceeding in the same direction as Father Gorman should necessarily be his murderer. That was really too much to hope for. And this Mr. Venables is well-to-do and much respected locally, I understand, moving in the best social circles.â

âThe point is,â said Lejeune, âthat it could not have been Mr. Venables that you saw on that particular evening.â

âOh, but it was. I have absolutely no doubt in my own mind. I am never mistaken about a face.â

âIâm afraid you must have been this time,â said Lejeune gently. âYou see, Mr. Venables is a victim of polio. For over three years he has been paralysed from the waist down, and is unable to use his legs.â

âPolio!â ejaculated Mr. Osborne. âOh dear, dearâ¦ That does seem to settle the matter. And yetâYouâll excuse me, Inspector Lejeune. I hope you wonât take offence. But that really is so? I mean you have definite medical evidence as to that?â

âYes, Mr. Osborne. We have. Mr. Venables is a patient of Sir William Dugdale of Harley Street, a most eminent member of the medical profession.â

âOf course, of course. F.R.C.P. A very well-known name! Oh dear, I seem to have fallen down badly. I was so very sure. And to trouble you for nothing.â

âYou mustnât take it like that,â said Lejeune quickly. âYour information is still very valuable. It is clear that the man you saw must bear a very close resemblance to Mr. Venablesâand since Mr. Venables is a man of distinctly unusual appearance, that is extremely valuable knowledge to have. There cannot be many persons answering to that description.â

âTrue, true.â Mr. Osborne cheered up a little. âA man of the criminal classes resembling Mr. Venables in appearance. There certainly cannot be many such. In the files at Scotland Yardââ

He looked hopefully at the inspector.

âIt may not be quite so simple as that,â said Lejeune slowly. âThe man may not have a record. And in any case, as you said just now there is as yet no reason to assume that this particular man had anything to do with the attack on Father Gorman.â

Mr. Osborne looked depressed again.

âYou must forgive me. Wishful thinking, I am afraid, on my partâ¦ I should so like to have been able to give evidence at a murder trialâ¦ And they would not have been able to shake me, I assure you of that. Oh no, I should have stuck to my guns!â

Lejeune was silent, considering his host thoughtfully. Mr. Osborne responded to the silent scrutiny.

âYes?â

âMr. Osborne, why would you have stuck to your guns, as you put it?â

Mr. Osborne looked astonished.

âBecause I am so certainâohâoh yes, I see what you mean. The man was not the man. So I have no business to feel certain. And yet I doââ

Lejeune leaned forward. âYou may have wondered why I have come to see you today. Having received medical evidence that the man seen by you could not have been Mr. Venables, why am I here?â

âQuite. Quite. Well, then, Inspector Lejeune, why did you come?â

âI came,â said Lejeune, âbecause the very positiveness of your identification impressed me. I wanted to know on what grounds your certainty was based. It was a foggy night, remember. I have been to your shop. I have stood where you stood in your doorway and looked across the street. On a foggy night it seemed to me that a figure at that distance would be very insubstantial, that it would be almost impossible to distinguish features clearly.â

âUp to a point, of course, you are quite right. Fog was setting in. But it came, if you understand me, in patches. It cleared for a short space every now and then. It did so at the moment that I saw Father Gorman walking fast along the opposite pavement. That is why I saw him and the man who followed shortly after him so clearly. Moreover, just when the second man was abreast of me, he flicked on a lighter to relight his cigarette. His profile at that moment was very clearâthe nose, the chin, the pronounced Adamâs apple. Thatâs a striking-looking man, I thought. Iâve never seen him about before. If heâd ever been into my shop Iâd have remembered him, I thought. So, you seeââ

Mr. Osborne broke off.

âYes, I see,â said Lejeune thoughtfully.

âA brother,â suggested Mr. Osborne hopefully. âA twin brother, perhaps? Now that would be a solution.â

âThe identical twin solution?â Lejeune smiled and shook his head. âSo very convenient in fiction. But in real lifeââ he shook his head. âIt doesnât happen, you know. It really doesnât happen.â

âNoâ¦ No, I suppose not. But possibly an ordinary brother. A close family resemblanceââ Mr. Osborne looked wistful.

âAs far as we can ascertain,â Lejeune spoke carefully, âMr. Venables has not got a brother.â

âAs far as you can ascertain?â Mr. Osborne repeated the words.

âThough of British nationality, he was born abroad, his parents only brought him to England when he was eleven years old.â

âYou donât know very much about him really, then? About his family, I mean?â

âNo,â said Lejeune, thoughtfully. âIt isnât easy to find out very much about Mr. Venablesâwithout, that is to say, going and asking himâand weâve no grounds for doing that.â

He spoke deliberately. There were ways of finding out things without going and asking, but he had no intention of telling Mr. Osborne so.

âSo if it wasnât for the medical evidence,â he said, getting to his feet, âyouâd be sure about the identification?â

âOh yes,â said Mr. Osborne, following suit. âItâs quite a hobby of mine, you know, memorising faces.â He chuckled. âMany a customer Iâve surprised that way. âHowâs the asthma?â Iâd say to someoneâand sheâd look quite surprised. âYou came in last March,â Iâd say, âwith a prescription. One of Dr. Hargreavesâs.â And wouldnât she look surprised! Did me a lot of good in business. It pleases people to be remembered, though I wasnât as good with names as with faces. I started making a hobby of the thing quite young. If Royalty can do it, I used to say to myself, you can do it, Zachariah Osborne! After a while it becomes automatic. You hardly have to make an effort.â

Lejeune sighed.

âIâd like to have a witness like you in the box,â he said. âIdentification is always a tricky business. Most people canât tell you anything at all. Theyâll say things like: âOh, tallish, I think. Fair-hairedâwell, not very fair, sort of middling. Ordinary sort of face. Eyes blueâor greyâor perhaps brown. Grey mackintoshâor it may have been dark blue.ââ

Mr. Osborne laughed.

âNot much good to you, that sort of thing.â

âFrankly, a witness like you would be a godsend!â

Mr. Osborne looked pleased.

âItâs a gift,â he said modestly. âBut mind you, Iâve cultivated my gift. You know the game they play at childrenâs partiesâa lot of objects brought in on a tray and a few minutes given to memorise them. I can score a hundred percent every time. Quite surprises people. How wonderful, they say. Itâs not wonderful. Itâs a knack. Comes with practice.â He chuckled. âIâm not a bad conjurer either. I do a bit to amuse the kiddies at Christmastime. Excuse me, Mr. Lejeune, what have you got in your breast pocket?â

He leaned forward and extracted a small ashtray.

âTut, tut, sir, and you in the police force!â

He laughed heartily and Lejeune laughed with him. Then Mr. Osborne sighed.

âItâs a nice little place Iâve got here, sir. The neighbours seem pleasant and friendly. Itâs the life Iâve been looking forward to for years, but Iâll admit to you, Mr. Lejeune, that I miss the interest of my own business. Always someone coming in and out. Types, you know, lots of types to study. Iâve looked forward to having my little bit of garden, and Iâve got quite a lot of interests. Butterflies, as I told you, and a bit of bird-watching now and again. I didnât realise that Iâd miss what I might call the human element so much.

âIâd looked forward to going abroad in a small way. Well, Iâve taken one weekend trip to France. Quite nice, I must sayâbut I felt, very strongly, that Englandâs really good enough for me. I didnât care for the foreign cooking, for one thing. They havenât the least idea, as far as I can see, how to do eggs and bacon.â

He sighed again.

âJust shows you what human nature is. Looked forward no end to retiring, I did. And nowâdo you know Iâve actually played with the idea of buying a small share in a pharmaceutical business here in Bournemouthâjust enough to give me an interest, no need to be tied to the shop all the time. But Iâd feel in the middle of things again. It will be the same with you, I expect. Youâll make plans ahead, but when the time comes, youâll miss the excitement of your present life.â

Lejeune smiled.

âA policemanâs life is not such a romantically exciting one as you think, Mr. Osborne. Youâve got the amateurâs view of crime. Most of it is dull routine. Weâre not always chasing down criminals, and following up mysterious clues. It can be quite a dull business, really.â

Mr. Osborne looked unconvinced.

âYou know best,â he said. âGood-bye, Mr. Lejeune, and Iâm sorry indeed that I havenât been able to help you. If there was anythingâanytimeââ

âIâll let you know,â Lejeune promised him.

âThat day at the fÃªte, it seemed such a chance,â Osborne murmured sadly.

âI know. A pity the medical evidence is so definite, but one canât get over that sort of thing, can one?â

âWellââ Mr. Osborne let the word linger, but Lejeune did not notice it. He strode away briskly. Mr. Osborne stood by the gate looking after him.

âMedical evidence,â he said. âDoctors indeed! If he knew half what I know about doctorsâinnocents, thatâs what they are! Doctors indeed!â

Eleven

Mark Easterbrookâs Narrative

I

First Hermia. Now Corrigan.

All right, then, I was making a fool of myself!

I was accepting balderdash as solid truth. I had been hypnotised by that phony woman Thyrza Grey into accepting a farrago of nonsense. I was a credulous, superstitious ass.

I decided to forget the whole damned business. What was it to do with me anyway?

Through the mist of disillusionment, I heard the echoes of Mrs. Dane Calthropâs urgent tones.

âYouâve got to DO something!â

All very wellâto say things like that.

âYou need someone to help youâ¦â

I had needed Hermia. I had needed Corrigan. But neither of them would play. There was no one else.

Unlessâ

I satâconsidering the idea.

On an impulse I went to the telephone and rang Mrs. Oliver.

âHallo. Mark Easterbrook here.â

âYes?â

âCan you tell me the name of that girl who was staying in the house for the fÃªte?â

âI expect so. Let me seeâ¦ Yes, of course, Ginger. That was her name.â

âI know that. But her other name.â

âWhat other name?â

âI doubt if she was christened Ginger. And she must have a surname.â

âWell, of course. But Iâve no idea what it is. One never seems to hear any surnames nowadays. Itâs the first time Iâd ever met her.â There was a slight pause and then Mrs. Oliver said, âYouâll have to ring up Rhoda and ask her.â

I didnât like that idea. Somehow I felt shy about it.

âOh, I canât do that,â I said.

âItâs perfectly simple,â said Mrs. Oliver encouragingly. âJust say youâve lost her address and canât remember her name and youâd promised to send her one of your books, or the name of a shop that sells cheap caviare, or to return a handkerchief which she lent you when your nose bled one day, or the address of a rich friend who wants a picture restored. Any of those do? I can think of lots more if youâd like.â

âOne of those will do beautifully,â I assured her.

I rang off, dialled 100 and presently was speaking to Rhoda.

âGinger?â said Rhoda. âOh, she lives in a Mews. Calgary Place. Forty-five. Wait a minute. Iâll give you her telephone number.â She went away and returned a minute later. âItâs Capricorn 35987. Got it?â

âYes, thanks. But I havenât got her name. I never heard it.â

âHer name? Oh, her surname, you mean. Corrigan. Katherine Corrigan. What did you say?â

âNothing. Thanks, Rhoda.â

It seemed to me an odd coincidence. Corrigan. Two Corrigans. Perhaps it was an omen.

I dialled Capricorn 35987.

II

Ginger sat opposite me at a table in the White Cockatoo where we had met for a drink. She looked refreshingly the same as she had looked at Much Deepingâa tousled mop of red hair, an engaging freckled face and alert green eyes. She was wearing her London artistic livery of skintight pants, a Sloppy Joe jersey and black woollen stockingsâbut otherwise she was the same Ginger. I liked her very much.

âIâve had to do a lot of work to track you down,â I said. âYour surname and your address and your telephone numberâall unknown. Iâve got a problem.â

âThatâs what my daily always says. It usually means that I have to buy her a new saucepan scourer or a carpet brush, or something dull.â

âYou donât have to buy anything,â I assured her.

Then I told her. It didnât take quite so long as the story I had told to Hermia, because she was already familiar with the Pale Horse and its occupants. I averted my eyes from her as I finished the tale. I didnât want to see her reaction. I didnât want to see indulgent amusement, or stark incredulity. The whole thing sounded more idiotic than ever. No one (except Mrs. Dane Calthrop) could possibly feel about it as I felt. I drew patterns on the plastic tabletop with a stray fork.

Gingerâs voice came briskly.

âThatâs all, is it?â

âThatâs all,â I admitted.

âWhat are you going to do about it?â

âYou thinkâ I should do something about it?â

âWell, of course! Someoneâs got to do something! You canât have an organisation going about bumping people off and not do anything.â

âBut what can I do?â

I could have fallen on her neck and hugged her.

She was sipping Pernod and frowning. Warmth spread over me. I was no longer alone.

Presently she said musingly:

âYouâll have to find out what it all means.â

âI agree. But how?â

âThere seem to be one or two leads. Perhaps I can help.â

âWould you? But thereâs your job.â

âPlenty could be done out of office hours.â She frowned again as she thought.

âThat girl,â she said at last. âThe one at supper after the Old Vic. Poppy or something. She knows about itâshe must doâto say what she did.â

âYes, but she got frightened, and sheered off when I tried to ask her questions. She was scared. She definitely wouldnât talk.â

âThatâs where I can help,â said Ginger confidently. âSheâd tell me things she wouldnât tell you. Can you arrange for us to meet? Your friend and her and you and me? A show, or dinner or something?â Then she looked doubtful. âOr is that too expensive?â

I assured her that I could support the expense.

âAs for youââ Ginger thought a minute. âI believe,â she said slowly, âthat your best bet would be the Thomasina Tuckerton angle.â

âBut how? Sheâs dead.â

âAnd somebody wanted her dead, if your ideas are correct! And arranged it with the Pale Horse. There seem two possibilities. The stepmother, or else the girl she had the fight with at Luigiâs and whose young man she had pinched. She was going to marry him, perhaps. That wouldnât suit the stepmotherâs bookâor the girlâsâif she was crazy enough about the young man. Either of them might have gone to the Pale Horse. We might get a lead there. What was the girlâs name, or donât you know?â

âI think it was Lou.â

âAsh-blonde lank hair, medium height, rather bosomy?â

I agreed with the description.

âI think Iâve met her about. Lou Ellis. Sheâs got a bit of money herselfââ

âShe didnât look like it.â

âThey donâtâbut she has, all right. Anyway, she could afford to pay the Pale Horseâs fees. They donât do it for nothing, I suppose.â

âOne would hardly imagine so.â

âYouâll have to tackle the stepmother. Itâs more up your street than mine. Go and see herââ

âI donât know where she lives or anything.â

âLuigi knows something about Tommyâs home. Heâll know what county she lives in, I should imagine. A few books of reference ought to do the rest. But what idiots we are! You saw the notice in The Times of her death. Youâve only got to go and look in their files.â

âIâll have to have a pretext for tackling the stepmother,â I said thoughtfully.

Ginger said that that would be easy.

âYouâre someone, you see,â she pointed out. âA historian, and you lecture and youâve got letters after your name. Mrs. Tuckerton will be impressed, and probably tickled to death to see you.â

âAnd the pretext?â

âSome feature of interest about her house?â suggested Ginger vaguely. âSure to have something if itâs an old one.â

âNothing to do with my period,â I objected.

âShe wonât know that,â said Ginger. âPeople always think that anything over a hundred years old must interest a historian or an archaeologist. Or how about a picture? There must be some old pictures of some kind. Anyway, you make an appointment and you arrive and you butter her up and be charming, and then you say you once met her daughterâher stepdaughterâand say how sad etcâ¦. And then, bring in, quite suddenly, a reference to the Pale Horse. Be a little sinister if you like.â

âAnd then?â

âAnd then you observe the reaction. If you mention the Pale Horse out of the blue, and she has a guilty conscience, I defy anyone not to show some sign.â

âAnd if she doesâwhat next?â

âThe important thing is, that weâll know weâre on the right track. Once weâre sure, we can go full steam ahead.â

She nodded thoughtfully.

âThereâs something else. Why do you think the Grey woman told you all she did tell you? Why was she so forthcoming?â

âThe commonsense answer is because sheâs potty.â

âI donât mean that. I meanâwhy you? You in particular? I just wondered if there might be some kind of tie-up?â

âTie-up with what?â

âWait just a minuteâwhile I get my ideas in order.â

I waited. Ginger nodded twice emphatically and then spoke.

âSupposingâjust supposingâit went like this. The Poppy girl knows all about the Pale Horse in a vague kind of wayânot through personal knowledge, but by hearing it talked about. She sounds the sort of girl that wouldnât be noticed much by anyone when they were talkingâbut sheâd quite likely take in a lot more than they thought she did. Rather silly people are often like that. Say she was overheard talking to you about it that night, and someone ticks her off. Next day you come and ask her questions, and sheâs been scared, so she wonât talk. But the fact that youâve come and asked her also gets around. Now what would be the reason for your asking questions? Youâre not the police. The likely reason would be that youâre a possible client.â

âBut surelyââ

âItâs logical, I tell you. Youâve heard rumours of this thingâyou want to find out about itâfor your own purposes. Presently you appear at the fÃªte in Much Deeping. You are brought to the Pale Horseâpresumably because youâve asked to be taken thereâand what happens? Thyrza Grey goes straight into her sales talk.â

âI suppose itâs a possibility.â I consideredâ¦ âDo you think she can do what she claims to do, Ginger?â

âPersonally Iâd be inclined to say of course she canât! But odd things can happen. Especially with things like hypnotism. Telling someone to go and take a bite out of a candle the next afternoon at four oâclock, and they do it without having any idea why. That sort of thing. And electric boxes where you put in a drop of blood and it tells you if youâre going to have cancer in two yearsâ time. It all sounds rather bogusâbut perhaps not entirely bogus. About ThyrzaâI donât think itâs trueâbut Iâm terribly afraid it might be!â

âYes,â I said sombrely, âthat explains it very well.â

âI might put in a bit of work on Lou,â said Ginger thoughtfully. âI know lots of places where I can run across her. Luigi might know a few things too.

âBut the first thing,â she added, âis to get in touch with Poppy.â

The latter was arranged fairly easily. David was free three nights ahead, we settled on a musical show, and he arrived, with Poppy in tow. We went to the Fantasie for supper and I noticed that Ginger and Poppy after a prolonged retirement to powder their noses, reappeared on excellent terms with each other. No controversial subjects were raised during the party on Gingerâs instructions. We finally parted and I drove Ginger home.

âNot much to report,â she said cheerfully. âIâve been onto Lou. The man they quarrelled about was Gene Pleydon, by the way. A nasty bit of goods, if you ask me. Very much on the make. The girls all adore him. He was making quite a play for Lou and then Tommy came along. Lou says he didnât care for her a bit, he was after her moneyâbut sheâd probably want to think that. Anyway, he dropped Lou like a hot coal and she was naturally sore about it. According to her, it wasnât much of a rowâjust a few girlish high spirits.â

âGirlish high spirits! She tugged Tommyâs hair out by the roots.â

âIâm just telling you what Lou told me.â

âShe seems to have been very forthcoming.â

âOh, they all like talking about their affairs. Theyâll talk to anyone who will listen. Anyway, Lou has got another boyfriend nowâanother dud, Iâd say, but sheâs already crazy about him. So it doesnât look to me as though sheâd been a client of the Pale Horse. I brought the term up, but it didnât register. I think we can wash her out. Luigi doesnât think there was much in it, either. On the other hand, he thinks Tommy was serious about Gene. And Gene was going for her in a big way. What have you done about the stepmother?â

âShe was abroad. She comes back tomorrow. Iâve written her a letterâor rather I got my secretary to write it, asking for an appointment.â

âGood. Weâre getting things moving. I hope everything doesnât peter out.â

âIf it gets us anywhere!â

âSomething will,â said Ginger enthusiastically. âThat reminds me. To go back to the beginning of all this, the theory is that Father Gorman was killed after being called out to a dying woman, and that he was murdered because of something she told him or confessed to him. What happened to that woman? Did she die? And who was she? There ought to be some lead there.â

âShe died. I donât really know much about her. I think her name was Davis.â

âWell, couldnât you find out more?â

âIâll see what I can do.â

âIf we could get at her background, we might find out how she knew what she did know.â

âI see your point.â

I got Jim Corrigan on the telephone early the next morning and put my query to him.

âLet me see now. We did get a bit further, but not much. Davis wasnât her real name, thatâs why it took a little time to check up on her. Half a moment, I jotted down a few thingsâ¦ Oh yes, here we are. Her real name was Archer, and her husband had been a smalltime crook. She left him and went back to her maiden name.â

âWhat sort of a crook was Archer? And where is he now?â

âOh, very small stuff. Pinched things from department stores. Unconsidered trifles here and there. He had a few convictions. As to where he is now, heâs dead.â

âNot much there.â

âNo, there isnât. The firm Mrs. Davis was working for at the time of her death, the C.R.C. (Customersâ Reactions Classified), apparently didnât know anything about her, or her background.â

I thanked him and rang off.

Twelve

Mark Easterbrookâs Narrative

Three days later Ginger rang me up.

âIâve got something for you,â she said. âA name and address. Write it down.â

I took out my notebook.

âGo ahead.â

âBradley is the name and the address is Seventy-eight Municipal Square Buildings, Birmingham.â

âWell, Iâm damned, what is all this?â

âGoodness knows! I donât. I doubt if Poppy does really!â

âPoppy? Is thisââ

âYes. Iâve been working on Poppy in a big way. I told you I could get something out of her if I tried. Once I got her softened up, it was easy.â

âHow did you set about it?â I asked curiously.

Ginger laughed.

âGirls-together stuff. You wouldnât understand. The point is that if a girl tells things to another girl it doesnât really count. She doesnât think it matters.â

âAll in the trade union so to speak?â

âYou could put it like that. Anyway, we lunched together, and I yapped a bit about my love lifeâand various obstaclesâmarried man with impossible wifeâCatholicâwouldnât divorce himâmade his life hell. And how she was an invalid, always in pain, but not likely to die for years. Really much better for her if she could die. Said Iâd a good mind to try the Pale Horse, but I didnât really know how to set about itâand would it be terribly expensive? And Poppy said yes, she thought it would. Sheâd heard they charged the earth. And I said âWell, I have expectations.â Which I have, you knowâa great-uncleâa poppet and Iâd hate him to die, but the fact came in useful. Perhaps, I said, theyâd take something on account? But how did one set about it? And then Poppy came across with that name and address. You had to go to him first, she said, to settle the business side.â

âItâs fantastic!â I said.

âIt is, rather.â

We were both silent for a moment.

I said incredulously: âShe told you quite openly? She didnât seemâscared?â

Ginger said impatiently: âYou donât understand. Telling me didnât count. And after all, Mark, if what we think is true the business has to be more or less advertised, hasnât it? I mean they must want new âclientsâ all the time.â

âWeâre mad to believe anything of the kind.â

âAll right. Weâre mad. Are you going to Birmingham to see Mr. Bradley?â

âYes,â I said. âIâm going to see Mr. Bradley. If he exists.â

I hardly believed that he did. But I was wrong. Mr. Bradley did exist.

Municipal Square Buildings was an enormous honeycomb of offices. Seventy-eight was on the third floor. On the ground glass door was neatly printed in black: C. R. Bradley, COMMISSION AGENT. And below, in smaller letters: Please enter.

I entered.

There was a small outer office, empty, and a door marked PRIVATE, half ajar. A voice from behind it said:

âCome in, please.â

The inner office was larger. It had a desk, one or two comfortable chairs, a telephone, a stack of box files, and Mr. Bradley sitting behind the desk.

He was a small dark man, with shrewd dark eyes. He wore a dark business suit and looked the acme of respectability.

âJust shut the door, will you?â he said pleasantly. âAnd sit down. That chairâs quite comfortable. Cigarette? No? Well now, what can I do for you?â

I looked at him. I didnât know how to begin. I hadnât the least idea what to say. It was, I think, sheer desperation that led me to attack with the phrase I did. Or it may have been the small beady eyes.

âHow much?â I said.

It startled him a little, I was glad to note, but not in the way that he ought to have been startled. He did not assume, as I would have assumed in his place, that someone not quite right in the head had come into his office.

His eyebrows rose.

âWell, well, well,â he said. âYou donât waste much time, do you?â

I held to my line.

âWhatâs the answer?â

He shook his head gently in a slightly reproving manner.

âThatâs not the way to go about things. We must proceed in the proper manner.â

I shrugged my shoulders.

âAs you like. Whatâs the proper manner?â

âWe havenât introduced ourselves yet, have we? I donât know your name.â

âAt the moment,â I said, âI donât really think I feel inclined to tell it to you.â

âCautious.â

âCautious.â

âAn admirable qualityâthough not always practicable. Now who sent you to me? Whoâs our mutual friend?â

âAgain I canât tell you. A friend of mine has a friend who knows a friend of yours.â

Mr. Bradley nodded his head.

âThatâs the way a lot of my clients come,â he said. âSome of the problems are ratherâdelicate. You know my profession, I presume?â

He had no intention of waiting for my reply. He hastened to give me the answer.

âTurf Commission Agent,â he said. âYouâre interested, perhaps, inâhorses?â

There was just the faintest pause before the last word.

âIâm not a racing man,â I said noncommittally.

âThere are many aspects of the horse. Racing, hunting, hacking. Itâs the sporting aspect that interests me. Betting.â He paused for a moment and then asked casuallyâalmost too casually:

âAny particular horse you had in mind?â

I shrugged my shoulders and burnt my boats.

âA pale horseâ¦.â

âAh, very good, excellent. You yourself, if I may say so, seem to be rather a dark horse. Ha ha! You mustnât be nervous. There really is no need to be nervous.â

âThatâs what you say,â I said rather rudely.

Mr. Bradleyâs manner became more bland and soothing.

âI can quite understand your feelings. But I can assure you that you neednât have any anxiety. Iâm a lawyer myselfâdisbarred, of course,â he added parenthetically, in what was really almost an engaging way. âOtherwise I shouldnât be here. But I can assure you that I know my law. Everything I recommend is perfectly legal and aboveboard. Itâs just a question of a bet. A man can bet on anything he pleases, whether it will rain tomorrow, whether the Russians can send a man to the moon, or whether your wifeâs going to have twins. You can bet whether Mrs. B. will die before Christmas, or whether Mrs. C. will live to be a hundred. You back your judgement or your intuition or whatever you like to call it. Itâs as simple as that.â

I felt exactly as though I were being reassured by a surgeon before an operation. Mr. Bradleyâs consulting room manner was perfect.

I said slowly:

âI donât really understand this business of the Pale Horse.â

âAnd that worries you? Yes, it worries a lot of people. More things in heaven and earth, Horatio, and so on and so on. Frankly, I donât understand it myself. But it gets results. It gets results in the most marvellous way.â

âIf you could tell me more about itââ

I had settled on my role nowâcautious, eagerâbut scared. It was obviously an attitude with which Mr. Bradley had frequently had to cope.

âDo you know the place at all?â

I made a quick decision. It would be unwise to lie.

âIâwellâyesâI was with some friends. They took me thereââ

âCharming old pub. Full of historical interest. And theyâve done wonders in restoring it. You met her, then. My friend, Miss Grey, I mean?â

âYesâyes, of course. An extraordinary woman.â

âIsnât she? Yes, isnât she? Youâve hit it exactly. An extraordinary woman. And with extraordinary powers.â

âThe things she claims! Surelyâquiteâwellâimpossible?â

âExactly. Thatâs the whole point. The things she claims to be able to know and do are impossible! Everybody would say so. In a court of law, for instanceââ

The black beady eyes were boring into mine. Mr. Bradley repeated the words with designed emphasis.

âIn a court of law, for instanceâthe whole thing would be ridiculed! If that woman stood up and confessed to murder, murder by remote control or âwill powerâ or whatever nonsensical name she likes to use, that confession couldnât be acted upon! Even if her statement was true (which of course sensible men like you and I donât believe for one moment!) it couldnât be admitted legally. Murder by remote control isnât murder in the eyes of the law. Itâs just nonsense. Thatâs the whole beauty of the thingâas youâll appreciate if you think for a moment.â

I understood that I was being reassured. Murder committed by occult powers was not murder in an English court of law. If I were to hire a gangster to commit murder with a cosh or a knife, I was committed with himâan accomplice before the factâI had conspired with him. But if I commissioned Thyrza Grey to use her black artsâthose black arts were not admissible. That was what, according to Mr. Bradley, was the beauty of the thing.

All my natural scepticism rose up in protest. I burst out heatedly:

âBut damn it all, itâs fantastic,â I shouted. âI donât believe it. Itâs impossible.â

âI agree with you. I really do. Thyrza Grey is an extraordinary woman, and she certainly has some extraordinary powers, but one canât believe all the things she claims for herself. As you say, itâs too fantastic. In this age, one really canât credit that someone can send out thought waves or whatever it is, either oneself or through a medium, sitting in a cottage in England and cause someone to sicken and die of a convenient disease out in Capri or somewhere like that.â

âBut that is what she claims?â

âOh yes. Oh course she has powersâshe is Scottish and what is called second sight is a peculiarity of that race. It really does exist. What I do believe, and believe without a doubt, is this,â he leaned forward, wagging a forefinger impressively, âThyrza Grey does knowâbeforehandâwhen someone is going to die. Itâs a gift. And she has it.â

He leaned back, studying me. I waited.

âLetâs assume a hypothetical case. Someone, yourself or another, would like very much to know whenâletâs say Great-Aunt Elizaâis going to die. Itâs useful, you must admit, to know something like that. Nothing unkind in it, nothing wrongâjust a matter of business convenience. What plans to make? Will there be, shall we say, a useful sum of money coming in by next November? If you knew that, definitely, you might take up some valuable option. Death is such a chancy matter. Dear old Eliza might live, pepped up by doctors, for another ten years. Youâd be delighted, of course, youâre fond of the dear old girl, but how useful it would be to know.â

He paused and then leaned a little farther forward.

âNow thatâs where I come in. Iâm a betting man. Iâll bet on anythingânaturally on my own terms. You come to see me. Naturally you wouldnât want to bet on the old girlâs passing out. That would be repulsive to your finer feelings. So we put it this way. You bet me a certain sum that Aunt Eliza will be hale and hearty still next Christmas, I bet you that she wonât.â

The beady eyes were on me, watchingâ¦.

âNothing against that, is there? Simple. We have an argument on the subject. I say Aunt E. is lined up for death, you say she isnât. We draw up a contract and sign it. I give you a date. I say that a fortnight either way from that date Auntie E.âs funeral service will be read. You say it wonât. If youâre rightâI pay you. If youâre wrong, youâpay me!â

I looked at him. I tried to summon up the feelings of a man who wants a rich old lady out of the way. I shifted it to a blackmailer. Easier to throw oneself into that part. Some man had been bleeding me for years. I couldnât bear it any longer. I wanted him dead. I hadnât the nerve to kill him myself, but Iâd give anythingâyes, anythingââ

I spokeâmy voice was hoarse. I was acting the part with some confidence.

âWhat terms?â

Mr. Bradleyâs manner underwent a rapid change. It was gay, almost facetious.

âThatâs where we came in, isnât it? Or rather where you came in, ha ha. âHow much?â you said. Really quite startled me. Never heard anyone come to the point so soon.â

âWhat terms?â

âThat depends. It depends on several different factors. Roughly it depends on the amount there is at stake. In some cases it depends on the funds available to the client. An inconvenient husbandâor a blackmailer or something of that kindâwould depend on how much my client could afford to pay. I donâtâlet me make that clearâbet with poor clientsâexcept in the kind of case I have just been outlining. In that case it would depend on the amount of Aunt Elizaâs estate. Terms are by mutual agreement. We both want something out of it, donât we? The odds, however, work out usually at five hundred to one.â

âFive hundred to one? Thatâs pretty steep.â

âMy wager is pretty steep. If Aunt Eliza were pretty well booked for the tomb, youâd know it already, and you wouldnât come to me. To prophesy somebodyâs death to within two weeks means pretty long odds. Five thousand pounds to one hundred isnât at all out of the way.â

âSupposing you lose?â

Mr. Bradley shrugged his shoulders.

âThatâs just too bad. I pay up.â

âAnd if I lose, I pay up. Supposing I donât?â

Mr. Bradley leaned back in his chair. He half closed his eyes.

âI shouldnât advise that,â he said softly. âI really shouldnât.â

Despite the soft tone, I felt a faint shiver pass over me. He had uttered no direct menace. But the menace was there.

I got up. I said:

âIâ I must think it over.â

Mr. Bradley was once more his pleasant and urbane self.

âCertainly think it over. Never rush into anything. If you decide to do business, come back, and we will go into the matter fully. Take your time. No hurry in the world. Take your time.â

I went out with those words echoing in my ears.

âTake your timeâ¦.â

Thirteen

Mark Easterbrookâs Narrative

I approached my task of interviewing Mrs. Tuckerton with the utmost reluctance. Goaded to it by Ginger, I was still far from convinced of its wisdom. To begin with I felt myself unfitted for the task I had set myself. I was doubtful of my ability to produce the needed reaction, and I was acutely conscious of masquerading under false colours.

Ginger, with the almost terrifying efficiency which she was able to display when it suited her, had briefed me by telephone.

âIt will be quite simple. Itâs a Nash house. Not the usual style one associates with him. One of his near-Gothic flights of fancy.â

âAnd why should I want to see it?â

âYouâre considering writing an article or a book on the influences that cause fluctuation of an architectâs style. That sort of thing.â

âSounds very bogus to me,â I said.

âNonsense,â said Ginger robustly. âWhen you get on to learned subjects, or arty ones, the most incredible theories are propounded and written about, in the utmost seriousness, by the most unlikely people. I could quote you chapters of tosh.â

âThatâs why you would really be a much better person to do this than I am.â

âThatâs where you are wrong,â Ginger told me. âMrs. T. can look you up in Whoâs Who and be properly impressed. She canât look me up there.â

I remained unconvinced, though temporarily defeated.

On my return from my incredible interview with Mr. Bradley, Ginger and I had put our heads together. It was less incredible to her than it was to me. It afforded her, indeed, a distinct satisfaction.

âIt puts an end to whether weâre imagining things or not,â she pointed out. âNow we know that an organisation does exist for getting unwanted people out of the way.â

âBy supernatural means!â

âYouâre so hidebound in your thinking. Itâs all that wispiness and the false scarabs that Sybil wears. It puts you off. And if Mr. Bradley had turned out to be a quack practitioner, or a pseudoastrologer, youâd still be unconvinced. But since he turns out to be a nasty down-to-earth little legal crookâor thatâs the impression you give meââ

âNear enough,â I said.

âThen that makes the whole thing come into line. However phony it may sound, those three women at the Pale Horse have got hold of something that works.â

âIf youâre so convinced, then why Mrs. Tuckerton?â

âExtra check,â said Ginger. âWe know what Thyrza Grey says she can do. We know how the financial side is worked. We know a little about three of the victims. We want to know more about the client angle.â

âAnd suppose Mrs. Tuckerton shows no signs of having been a client?â

âThen weâll have to investigate elsewhere.â

âOf course, I may boob it,â I said gloomily.

Ginger said that I must think better of myself than that.

So here I was, arriving at the front door of Carraway Park. It certainly did not look like my preconceived idea of a Nash house. In many ways it was a near castle of modest proportions. Ginger had promised to supply me with a recent book on Nash architecture, but it had not arrived in time, so I was here somewhat inadequately briefed.

I rang the bell, and a rather seedy-looking man in an alpaca coat opened the door.

âMr. Easterbrook?â he said. âMrs. Tuckertonâs expecting you.â

He showed me into an elaborately furnished drawing room. The room made a disagreeable impression upon me. Everything in it was expensive, but chosen without taste. Left to itself, it could have been a room of pleasant proportions. There were one or two good pictures, and a great many bad ones. There was a great deal of yellow brocade. Further cogitations were interrupted by the arrival of Mrs. Tuckerton herself. I arose with difficulty from the depths of a bright yellow brocade sofa.

I donât know what I had expected, but I suffered a complete reversal of feeling. There was nothing sinister here; merely a completely ordinary young to middle-aged woman. Not a very interesting woman, and not, I thought, a particularly nice woman. The lips, in spite of a generous application of lipstick, were thin and bad-tempered. The chin receded a little. The eyes were pale blue and gave the impression that she was appraising the price of everything. She was the sort of woman who undertipped porters and cloakroom attendants. There are a lot of women of her type to be met in the world, though mainly less expensively dressed, and not so well made-up.

âMr. Easterbrook?â She was clearly delighted by my visit. She even gushed a little. âIâm so pleased to meet you. Fancy your being interested in this house. Of course I knew it was built by John Nash, my husband told me so, but I never realised that it would be interesting to a person like you!â

âWell, you see, Mrs. Tuckerton, itâs not quite his usual style, and that makes it interesting toâerââ

She saved me the trouble of continuing.

âIâm afraid Iâm terribly stupid about that sort of thingâarchitecture, I mean, and archaeology and all that. But you mustnât mind my ignoranceââ

I didnât mind at all. I preferred it.

âOf course all that sort of thing is terribly interesting,â said Mrs. Tuckerton.

I said that we specialists, on the contrary, were usually terribly dull and very boring on our own particular subject.

Mrs. Tuckerton said she was sure that that wasnât true, and would I like to have tea first and see the house afterwards, or see round the house and then have tea.

I hadnât bargained for teaâmy appointment had been for three thirty, but I said that perhaps the house first.

She showed me round, chatting vivaciously most of the time, and thus relieving me of uttering any architectural judgements.

It was lucky, she said, that Iâd come now. The house was up for saleââItâs too big for meâsince my husbandâs deathââand she believed there was a purchaser already, though the agents had only had it on their books for just over a week.

âI wouldnât have liked you to see it when it was empty. I think a house needs to be lived in, if one is really to appreciate it, donât you, Mr. Easterbrook?â

I would have preferred this house unlived in, and unfurnished, but naturally I could not say so. I asked her if she was going to remain in the neighborhood.

âReally, Iâm not quite sure. I shall travel a little first. Get into the sunshine. I hate this miserable climate. Actually I think I shall winter in Egypt. I was there two years ago. Such a wonderful country, but I expect you know all about it.â

I knew nothing about Egypt and said so.

âI expect youâre just being modest,â she said gaily and vaguely. âThis is the dining room. Itâs octagonal. Thatâs right, isnât it? No corners.â

I said she was quite right and praised the proportions.

Presently, the tour was completed, we returned to the drawing room and Mrs. Tuckerton rang for tea. It was brought in by the seedy-looking manservant. There was a vast Victorian silver teapot which could have done with a clean.

Mrs. Tuckerton sighed as he left the room.

âAfter my husband died, the married couple he had had for nearly twenty years insisted on leaving. They said they were retiring, but I heard afterwards that they took another post. A very highly-paid one. I think itâs absurd, myself, to pay these high wages. When you think what servantsâ board and lodging costsâto say nothing of their laundry.â

Yes, I thought, mean. The pale eyes, the tight mouthâavarice was there.

There was no difficulty in getting Mrs. Tuckerton to talk. She liked talking. She liked, in particular, talking about herself. Presently, by listening with close attention, and uttering an encouraging word now and then, I knew a good deal about Mrs. Tuckerton. I knew, too, more than she was conscious of telling me.

I knew that she had married Thomas Tuckerton, a widower, five years ago. She had been âmuch, much younger than he was.â She had met him at a big seaside hotel where she had been a bridge hostess. She was not aware that that last fact had slipped out. He had had a daughter at school near thereââso difficult for a man to know what to do with a girl when he takes her out.

âPoor Thomas, he was so lonelyâ¦ His first wife had died some years back and he missed her very much.â

Mrs. Tuckertonâs picture of herself continued. A gracious kindly woman taking pity on this ageing lonely man. His deteriorating health and her devotion.

âThough, of course, in the last stages of his illness I couldnât really have any friends of my own.â

Had there been, I wondered, some men friends whom Thomas Tuckerton had thought undesirable? It might explain the terms of his will.

Ginger had looked up the terms of his will for me at Somerset House.

Bequests to old servants, to a couple of godchildren, and then provision for his wifeâsufficient, but not unduly generous. A sum in trust, the income to be enjoyed during her lifetime. The residue of his estate, which ran into a sum of six figures, to his daughter Thomasina Ann, to be hers absolutely at the age of twenty-one, or on her marriage. If she died before twenty-one unmarried, the money was to go to her stepmother. There had been, it seemed, no other members of the family.

The prize, I thought, had been a big one. And Mrs. Tuckerton liked moneyâ¦ It stuck out all over her. She had never had any money of her own, I was sure, till she married her elderly widower. And then, perhaps, it had gone to her head. Hampered, in her life with an invalid husband, she had looked forward to the time when she would be free, still young, and rich beyond her wildest dreams.

The will, perhaps, had been a disappointment. She had dreamed of something better than a moderate income. She had looked forward to expensive travel, to luxury cruises, to clothes, jewelsâor possibly to the sheer pleasure of money itselfâmounting up in the bank.

Instead the girl was to have all that money! The girl was to be a wealthy heiress. The girl who, very likely, had disliked her stepmother and shown it with the careless ruthlessness of youth. The girl was to be the rich oneâunlessâ¦.

Unlessâ¦? Was that enough? Could I really believe that the blonde-haired meretricious creature talking platitudes so glibly was capable of seeking out the Pale Horse, and arranging for a young girl to die?

No, I couldnât believe itâ¦.

Nevertheless, I must do my stuff. I said, rather abruptly:

âI believe, you know, I met your daughterâstepdaughterâonce.â

She looked at me in mild surprise, though without much interest.

âThomasina? Did you?â

âYes, in Chelsea.â

âOh, Chelsea! Yes, it would beâ¦â She sighed. âThese girls nowadays. So difficult. One doesnât seem to have any control over them. It upset her father very much. I couldnât do anything about it, of course. She never listened to anything I said.â She sighed again. âShe was nearly grown-up, you know, when we married. A stepmotherââ she shook her head.

âAlways a difficult position,â I said sympathetically.

âI made allowancesâdid my best in every way.â

âIâm sure you did.â

âBut it was absolutely no use. Of course Tom wouldnât allow her to be actually rude to me, but she sailed as near to the wind as she could. She really made life quite impossible. In a way it was a relief to me when she insisted on leaving home, but I could quite understand how Tom felt about it. She got in with a most undesirable set.â

âIârather gathered that,â I said.

âPoor Thomasina,â said Mrs. Tuckerton. She adjusted a stray lock of blonde hair. Then she looked at me. âOh, but perhaps you donât know. She died about a month ago. Encephalitisâvery sudden. Itâs a disease that attacks young people, I believeâso sad.â

âI did know she was dead,â I said.

I got up.

âThank you, Mrs. Tuckerton, very much indeed for showing me your house.â I shook hands.

Then as I moved away, I turned back.

âBy the way,â I said, âI think you know the Pale Horse, donât you?â

There wasnât any doubt of the reaction. Panic, sheer panic, showed in those pale eyes. Beneath the makeup, her face was suddenly white and afraid.

Her voice came shrill and high:

âPale Horse? What do you mean by the Pale Horse? I donât know anything about the Pale Horse.â

I let mild surprise show in my eyes.

âOhâmy mistake. Thereâs a very interesting old pubâin Much Deeping. I was down there the other day and was taken to see it. Itâs been charmingly converted, keeping all the atmosphere. I certainly thought your name was mentionedâbut perhaps it was your stepdaughter who had been down thereâor someone else of the same name.â I paused. âThe place has gotâquite a reputation.â

I enjoyed my exit line. In one of the mirrors on the wall I saw Mrs. Tuckertonâs face reflected. She was staring after me. She was very, very frightened and I saw just how she would look in years to comeâ¦ It was not a pleasant sight.

Fourteen

Mark Easterbrookâs Narrative

I

âSo now weâre quite sure,â said Ginger.

âWe were sure before.â

âYesâreasonably so. But this does clinch it.â

I was silent for a moment or two. I was visualising Mrs. Tuckerton journeying to Birmingham. Entering the Municipal Square Buildingsâmeeting Mr. Bradley. Her nervous apprehensionâ¦ his reassuring bonhomie. His skilful underlining of the lack of risk. (He would have had to underline that very hard with Mrs. Tuckerton.) I could see her going away, not committing herself. Letting the idea take root in her mind. Perhaps she went to see her stepdaughter, or her stepdaughter came home for a weekend. There could have been talk, hints of marriage. And all the time the thought of the MONEYânot just a little money, not a miserly pittanceâbut lots of money, big money, money that enabled you to do everything you had ever wanted! And all going to this degenerate, ill-mannered girl, slouching about in the coffee bars of Chelsea in her jeans and her sloppy jumpers, with her undesirable degenerate friends. Why should a girl like that, a girl who was no good and would never be any good, have all that beautiful money?

And soâanother visit to Birmingham. More caution, more reassurance. Finally, a discussion on terms. I smiled involuntarily. Mr. Bradley would not have had it all his own way. She would have been a hard bargainer. But in the end, the terms had been agreed, some document duly signed, and then what?

That was where imagination stopped. That was what we didnât know.

I came out of my meditation to see Ginger watching me.

She asked: âGot it all worked out?â

âHow did you know what I was doing?â

âIâm beginning to know the way your mind works. You were working it out, werenât you, following herâto Birmingham and all the rest of it?â

âYes. But I was brought up short. At the moment when she had settled things in BirminghamâWhat happens next?â

We looked at each other.

âSooner or later,â said Ginger, âsomeone has got to find out exactly what happens at the Pale Horse.â

âHow?â

âI donât knowâ¦ It wonât be easy. Nobody whoâs actually been there, whoâs actually done it, will ever tell. At the same time, theyâre the only people who can tell. Itâs difficultâ¦ I wonderâ¦.â

âWe could go to the police?â I suggested.

âYes. After all, weâve got something fairly definite now. Enough to act upon, do you think?â

I shook my head doubtfully.

âEvidence of intent. But is that enough? Itâs this death wish nonsense. Oh,â I forestalled her interruption, âit maynât be nonsenseâbut it would sound like it in court. Weâve no idea, even, of what the actual procedure is.â

âWell, then, weâve got to know. But how?â

âOne would have to seeâor hearâwith oneâs own eyes and ears. But thereâs absolutely no place one could hide oneself in that great barn of a roomâand I suppose thatâs where itâwhatever âitâ isâmust take place.â

Ginger sat up very straight, gave her head a kind of toss, rather like an energetic terrier, and said:

âThereâs only one way to find out what does really happen. Youâve got to be a genuine client.â

I stared at her.

âA genuine client?â

âYes. You or I, it doesnât matter which, has got to want somebody put out of the way. One of us has got to go to Bradley and fix it up.â

âI donât like it,â I said sharply.

âWhy?â

âWellâit opens up dangerous possibilities.â

âFor us?â

âPerhaps. But I was really thinking about theâvictim. Weâve got to have a victimâweâve got to give him a name. It canât be just invention. They might check upâin fact, theyâd almost certainly check up, donât you agree?â

Ginger thought a minute and then nodded.

âYes. The victimâs got to be a real person with a real address.â

âThatâs what I donât like,â I said.

âAnd weâve got to have a real reason for getting rid of him.â

We were silent for a moment, considering this aspect of the situation.

âThe person, whoever it was, would have to agree,â I said slowly. âItâs a lot to ask.â

âThe whole setup has got to be good,â said Ginger, thinking it out. âBut thereâs one thing, you were absolutely right in what you were saying the other day. The weakness of the whole thing is that theyâre in a cleft stick. The business has got to be secretâbut not too secret. Possible clients have got to be able to hear about it.â

âWhat puzzles me,â I said, âis that the police donât seem to have heard about it. After all, theyâre usually aware of what kind of criminal activities are going on.â

âYes, but I think that the reason for that is, that this is in every sense of the word, an amateur show. Itâs not professional. No professional criminals are employed or involved. Itâs not like hiring gangsters to bump people off. Itâs allâprivate.â

I said that I thought she had something there.

Ginger went on:

âSuppose now that you, or I (weâll examine both possibilities), are desperate to get rid of someone. Now who is there that you and I could want to do away with? Thereâs my dear old Uncle MervynâIâll come into a very nice packet when he pops off. I and some cousin in Australia are the only ones left of the family. So thereâs a motive there. But heâs over seventy and more or less gaga, so it would really seem more sensible for me to wait for natural causesâunless I was in some terrible hole for moneyâand that really would be quite difficult to fake. Besides, heâs a pet, and Iâm very fond of him, and gaga or not gaga, he quite enjoys life, and I wouldnât want to deprive him of a minute of itâor even risk such a thing! What about you? Have you got any relatives who are going to leave you money?â

I shook my head.

âNo one at all.â

âBother. It could be blackmail, perhaps? That would take a lot of fixing, though. Youâre not really vulnerable enough. If you were an M.P., or in the Foreign Office, or an up and coming Minister it would be different. The same with me. Fifty years ago it would have been easy. Compromising letters, or photographs in the altogether, but really nowadays, who cares? One can be like the Duke of Wellington and say âPublish and be damned!â Well, now, what else is there? Bigamy?â She fixed me with a reproachful stare. âWhat a pity it is youâve never been married. We could have cooked something up if you had.â

Some expression on my face must have given me away. Ginger was quick.

âIâm sorry,â she said. âHave I raked up something that hurts?â

âNo,â I said. âIt doesnât hurt. It was a long time ago, I rather doubt if thereâs anyone now who knows about it.â

âYou married someone?â

âYes. Whilst I was at the University. We kept it dark. She wasnâtâwell, my people would have cut up rough. I wasnât even of age. We lied about our ages.â

I was silent a moment or two, reliving the past.

âIt wouldnât have lasted,â I said slowly. âI know that now. She was pretty and she could be very sweetâ¦ butâ¦â

âWhat happened?â

âWe went to Italy in the long vacation. There was an accidentâa car accident. She was killed outright.â

âAnd you?â

âI wasnât in the car. She wasâwith a friend.â

Ginger gave me a quick glance. I think she understood the way it had been. The shock of my discovery that the girl I had married was not the kind that makes a faithful wife.

Ginger reverted to practical matters.

âYou were married in England?â

âYes. Registry office in Peterborough.â

âBut she died in Italy?â

âYes.â

âSo there will be no record of her death in England?â

âNo.â

âThen what more do you want? Itâs an answer to prayer! Nothing could be simpler! Youâre desperately in love with someone and you want to marry herâbut you donât know whether your wife is still alive. Youâve parted years ago and never heard from her since. Dare you risk it? While youâre thinking it out, sudden reappearance of the wife! She turns up out of the blue, refuses to give you a divorce, and threatens to go to your young woman and spill the beans.â

âWhoâs my young woman?â I asked, slightly confused. âYou?â

Ginger looked shocked.

âCertainly not. Iâm quite the wrong typeâIâd probably go and live in sin with you. No, you know quite well who I meanâand sheâll be exactly right, I should say. The statuesque brunette you go around with. Very highbrow and serious.â

âHermia Redcliffe?â

âThatâs right. Your steady.â

âWho told you about her?â

âPoppy, of course. Sheâs rich, too, isnât she?â

âSheâs extremely well-off. But reallyââ

âAll right, all right. Iâm not saying youâre marrying her for her money. Youâre not the kind. But nasty minds like Bradleyâs could easily think soâ¦ Very well then. Hereâs the position. You are about to pop the question to Hermia when up turns the unwanted wife from the past. She arrives in London and the fatâs in the fire. You urge a divorceâshe wonât play. Sheâs vindictive. And thenâyou hear of the Pale Horse. Iâll bet anything you like that Thyrza, and that half-witted peasant Bella, thought that that was why you came that day. They took it as a tentative approach, and thatâs why Thyrza was so forthcoming. It was a sales talk they were giving you.â

âIt could have been, I suppose.â I went over that day in my mind.

âAnd your going to Bradley soon after fits in perfectly. Youâre hooked! Youâre a prospectââ

She paused triumphantly. There was something in what she saidâbut I didnât quite seeâ¦.

âI still think,â I said, âthat theyâll investigate very carefully.â

âSure to,â Ginger agreed.

âItâs all very well to invent a fictitious wife, resurrected from the pastâbut theyâll want detailsâwhere she livesâall that. And when I try to hedgeââ

âYou wonât need to hedge. To do the thing properly the wife has got to be thereâand she will be there!â

âBrace yourself,â said Ginger. âIâm your wife!â

II

I stared at her. Goggled, I suppose, would be a better term. I wonder, really, that she didnât burst out laughing.

I was just recovering myself when she spoke again.

âThereâs no need to be so taken aback,â she said. âItâs not a proposal.â

I found my tongue.

âYou donât know what youâre saying.â

âOf course I do. What Iâm suggesting is perfectly feasibleâand it has the advantage of not dragging some innocent person into possible danger.â

âItâs putting yourself in danger.â

âThatâs my lookout.â

âNo, it isnât. And anyway, it wouldnât hold water for a moment.â

âOh yes, it would. Iâve been thinking it out. I arrive at a furnished flat, with a suitcase or two with foreign labels. I take the flat in the name of Mrs. Easterbrookâand who on earth is to say Iâm not Mrs. Easterbrook?â

âAnyone who knows you.â

âAnyone who knows me wonât see me. Iâm away from my job, ill. A spot of hair dyeâwhat was your wife, by the way, dark or blonde?ânot that it really matters.â

âDark,â I said mechanically.

âGood, Iâd hate a bleach. Different clothes and lots of makeup, and my best friend wouldnât look at me twice! And since you havenât had a wife in evidence for the last fifteen years or soâno oneâs likely to spot that Iâm not her. Why should anyone in the Pale Horse doubt that Iâm who I say I am? If youâre prepared to sign papers wagering large sums of money that Iâll stay alive, thereâs not likely to be any doubt as to my being the bona fide article. Youâre not connected with the police in any wayâyouâre a genuine client. They can verify the marriage by looking up old records in Somerset House. They can check up on your friendship with Hermia and all thatâso why should there by any doubts?â

âYou donât realise the difficultiesâthe risk.â

âRiskâHell!â said Ginger. âIâd love to help you win a miserly hundred pounds or whatever it is from that shark Bradley.â

I looked at her. I liked her very muchâ¦ Her red hair, her freckles, her gallant spirit. But I couldnât let her take the risks she wanted to take.

âI canât stand for it, Ginger,â I said. âSupposeâsomething happened.â

âTo me?â

âYes.â

âIsnât that my affair?â

âNo. I got you in on all this.â

She nodded thoughtfully.

âYes, perhaps you did. But who got there first doesnât matter much. Weâre both in it nowâand weâve got to do something. Iâm being serious now, Mark. Iâm not pretending this is all just fun. If what we believe to be true is true, itâs a sickening beastly thing. And itâs got to be stopped! You see, itâs not hot-blooded murder, from hate or jealousy; itâs not even murder from cupidity, the human frailty of murder for gain but taking the risk yourself. Itâs murder as a businessâmurder that takes no account of who or what the victim may be.

âThat is,â she added, âif the whole thing is true?â

She looked at me in momentary doubt.

âIt is true,â I said. âThatâs why Iâm afraid for you.â

Ginger put both elbows on the table, and began to argue.

We thrashed it out, to and fro, ding-dong, repeating ourselves whilst the hands of the clock on my mantelpiece moved slowly round.

Finally Ginger summed up.

âItâs like this. Iâm forewarned and forearmed. I know what someone is trying to do to me. And I donât believe for one moment she can do it! If everyoneâs got a âdesire for deathâ mine isnât well developed! Iâve good health. And I simply cannot believe that Iâll develop gallstones, or meningitis just becauseâold Thyrza draws pentagrams on the floor, or Sybil throws a tranceâor whatever it is those women do do.â

âBella sacrifices a white cock, I should imagine,â I said thoughtfully.

âYou must admit itâs all terribly bogus!â

âWe donât know what actually does happen,â I pointed out.

âNo. Thatâs why itâs important to find out. But do you believe, really believe, that because of what three women can do in the barn of the Pale Horse, I, in a flat in London, will develop some fatal disease? You canât!â

âNo,â I said. âI canât believe it.

âBut,â I added. âI doâ¦.â

We looked at each other.

âYes,â said Ginger. âThatâs our weakness.â

âLook here,â I said. âLetâs make it the other way round. Let me be the one in London. You be the client. We can cook up somethingââ

But Ginger was vigorously shaking her head.

âNo, Mark,â she said. âIt wonât work that way. For several reasons. The most important is that Iâm known at the Pale Horse alreadyâas my carefree self. They could get all the dope about my life from Rhodaâand thereâs nothing there. But you are in the ideal position alreadyâyouâre a nervous client, sniffing around, not able yet to commit yourself. No, itâs got to be this way.â

âI donât like it. I donât like to think of youâalone in some place under a false nameâwith nobody to keep an eye on you. I think, before we embark on this, we ought to go to the policeânowâbefore we try anything else.â

âIâm agreeable to that,â said Ginger slowly. âIn fact I think itâs what you ought to do. Youâve got something to go on. What police? Scotland Yard?â

âNo,â I said. âI think Divisional Detective-Inspector Lejeune is the best bet.â

Fifteen

Mark Easterbrookâs Narrative

I liked Divisional Detective-Inspector Lejeune at first sight. He had an air of quiet ability. I thought, too, that he was an imaginative manâthe kind of man who would be willing to consider possibilities that were not orthodox.

He said:

âDr. Corrigan has told me of his meeting with you. Heâs taken a great interest in this business from the first. Father Gorman, of course, was very well known and respected in the district. Now you say you have some special information for us?â

âIt concerns,â I said, âa place called the Pale Horse.â

âIn, I understand, a village called Much Deeping?â

âYes.â

âTell me about it.â

I told him of the first mention of the Pale Horse at the Fantasie. Then I described my visit to Rhoda, and my introduction to the âthree weird sisters.â I related, as accurately as I could, Thyrza Greyâs conversation on that particular afternoon.

âAnd you were impressed by what she said?â

I felt embarrassed.

âWell, not really. I mean, I didnât seriously believeââ

âDidnât you, Mr. Easterbrook? I rather think you did.â

âI suppose youâre right. One just doesnât like admitting how credulous one is.â

Lejeune smiled.

âBut youâve left something out, havenât you? You were already interested when you came to Much Deepingâwhy?â

âI think it was the girl looking so scared.â

âThe young lady in the flower shop?â

âYes. Sheâd thrown out her remark about the Pale Horse so casually. Her being so scared seemed to underline the fact that there wasâwell, something to be scared about. And then I met Dr. Corrigan and he told me about the list of names. Two of them I already knew. Both were dead. A third name seemed familiar. Afterwards I found that she, too, had died.â

âThat would be Mrs. Delafontaine?â

âYes.â

âGo on.â

âI made up my mind that Iâd got to find out more about this business.â

âAnd you set about it. How?â

I told him of my call on Mrs. Tuckerton. Finally I came to Mr. Bradley and the Municipal Square Buildings in Birmingham.

I had his full interest now. He repeated the name.

âBradley,â he said. âSo Bradleyâs in this?â

âYou know him?â

âOh yes, we know all about Mr. Bradley. Heâs given us a lot of trouble. Heâs a smooth dealer, an adept at never doing anything that we can pin on him. He knows every trick and dodge of the legal game. Heâs always just on the right side of the line. Heâs the kind of man who could write a book like those old cookery books, âA hundred ways of evading the law.â But murder, such a thing as organised murderâI should have said that that was right off his beat. Yesâright off his beatââ

âNow that Iâve told you about our conversation, could you act upon it?â

Lejeune slowly shook his head.

âNo, we couldnât act on it. To begin with, there were no witnesses to your conversation. It was just between the two of you and he could deny the whole thing if he wanted to! Apart from that, he was quite right when he told you that a man can bet on anything. He bets somebody wonât dieâand he loses. What is there criminal about that? Unless we can connect Bradley in some way with the actual crime in questionâand that, I imagine, will not be easy.â

He left it with a shrug of his shoulders. He paused a minute and then said,

âDid you, by any chance, come across a man called Venables when you were down in Much Deeping?â

âYes,â I said, âI did. I was taken over to lunch with him one day.â

âAh! What impression, if I may ask, did he make upon you?â

âA very powerful impression. Heâs a man of great personality. An invalid.â

âYes. Crippled by polio.â

âHe can only move about in a wheeled chair. But his disability seems to have heightened his determination to live and enjoy living.â

âTell me all you can about him.â

I described Venablesâs house, his art treasures, the range and sweep of his interests.

Lejeune said:

âItâs a pity.â

âWhat is a pity?â

He said drily: âThat Venables is a cripple.â

âExcuse me, but you are quite certain he really is a cripple? He couldnât beâwellâfaking the whole thing?â

âWeâre as sure of his being a cripple as one can be sure of anything. His doctor is Sir William Dugdale of Harley Street, a man absolutely above suspicion. We have Sir Williamâs assurance that the limbs are atrophied. Our little Mr. Osborne may be certain that Venables was the man he saw walking along Barton Street that night. But heâs wrong.â

âI see.â

âAs I say, itâs a pity, because if there is such a thing as an organisation for private murder, Venables is the kind of man who would be capable of planning it.â

âYes; thatâs what I thought.â

With his forefinger Lejeune traced interlacing circles on the table in front of him. Then he looked up sharply.

âLetâs assemble what weâve got; adding to our own knowledge the knowledge youâve brought us. It seems reasonably certain that there is some agency or organisation that specialises in what one might call the removal of unwanted persons. Thereâs nothing crude about the organisation. It doesnât employ ordinary thugs or gunmenâ¦ Thereâs nothing to show that the victims havenât died a perfectly natural death. I may say that in addition to the three deaths youâve mentioned, weâve got a certain amount of rather indefinite information about some of the othersâdeaths were from natural causes in each instance, but there were those who profited by these deaths. No evidence, mind you.

âItâs clever, damnably clever, Mr. Easterbrook. Whoever thought it outâand itâs been thought out in great detailâhas brains. Weâve only got hold of a few scattered names. Heaven knows how many more of them there areâhow widespread the whole thing may be. And weâve only got the few names we have got, by the accident of a woman knowing herself to be dying, and wanting to make her peace with heaven.â

He shook his head angrily, and then went on:

âThis woman, Thyrza Grey; you say she boasted to you about her powers! Well, she can do so with impunity. Charge her with murder, put her in the dock, let her trumpet to heaven and a jury that she has released people from the toils of this world by will power or weaving spellsâor what have you. She wouldnât be guilty according to the law. Sheâs never been near the people who died, weâve checked on that, she hasnât sent them poisoned chocolates through the post or anything of that kind. According to her own account, she just sits in a room and employs telepathy! Why, the whole thing would be laughed out of Court!â

I murmured:

âBut Lu and Aengus laugh not. Nor any in the high celestial House.â

âWhatâs that?â

âSorry. A quotation from the âImmortal Hour.ââ

âWell, itâs true enough. The devils in Hell are laughing but not the Host of Heaven. Itâs anâan evil business, Mr. Easterbrook.â

âYes,â I said. âItâs a word that we donât use very much nowadays. But itâs the only word applicable here. Thatâs whyââ

âYes?â

Lejeune looked at me inquiringly.

I spoke in a rush. âI think thereâs a chanceâa possible chanceâof getting to know a bit more about all this. I and a friend of mine have worked out a plan. You may think it very sillyââ

âIâll be the judge of that.â

âFirst of all, I take it from what youâve said, that you are sure in your mind that there is such an organisation as the one weâve been discussing, and that it works?â

âIt certainly works.â

âBut you donât know how it works? The first steps are already formulated. The individual I call the client hears vaguely about this organisation, gets to know more about it, is sent to Mr. Bradley in Birmingham, and decides that he will go ahead. He enters into some agreement with Bradley, and then is, or so I presume, sent to the Pale Horse. But what happens after that, we donât know! What, exactly, happens at the Pale Horse? Somebodyâs got to go and find out.â

âGo on.â

âBecause until we do know, exactly, what Thyrza Grey actually does, we canât get any furtherâYour police doctor, Jim Corrigan, says the whole idea is poppycockâbut is it? Inspector Lejeune, is it?â

Lejeune sighed.

âYou know what Iâd answerâwhat any sane person would answerâthe answer would be âYes, of course it is!ââbut Iâm speaking now unofficially. Very odd things have happened during the last hundred years. Would anyone have believed seventy years ago that a person could hear Big Ben strike twelve on a little box and, after it had finished striking, hear it again with his own ears through the window, from the actual clock itselfâand no jiggery pokery. But Big Ben struck onceânot twiceâthe sound was brought to the ears of the person by two different kinds of waves! Would you believe you could hear a man speaking in New York in your own drawing room, without so much as a connecting wire? Would you have believedâ? Oh! a dozen other thingsâthings that are now everyday knowledge that a child gabbles off!â

âIn other words, anythingâs possible?â

âThatâs what I mean. If you ask me if Thyrza Grey can kill someone by rolling her eyes or going into a trance, or projecting her will, I still say âNo.â ButâIâm not sureâHow can I be? If sheâs stumbled on somethingââ

âYes,â I said. âThe supernatural seems supernatural. But the science of tomorrow is the supernatural of today.â

âIâm not talking officially, mind,â Lejeune warned me.

âMan, youâre talking sense. And the answer is, someone has got to go and see what actually happens. Thatâs what I propose to doâgo and see.â

Lejeune stared at me.

âThe wayâs already paved,â I said.

I settled down then, and told him about it. I told him exactly what I and a friend of mine planned to do.

He listened, frowning and pulling at his lower lip.

âMr. Easterbrook, I see your point. Circumstances have, so to speak, given you the entrÃ©e. But I donât know whether you fully realise that what you are proposing to do may be dangerousâthese are dangerous people. It may be dangerous for youâbut it will certainly be dangerous for your friend.â

âI know,â I said, âI knowâ¦ Weâve been over it a hundred times. I donât like her playing the part sheâs going to play. But sheâs determinedâabsolutely determined. Damn it all, she wants to!â

Lejeune said unexpectedly:

âSheâs a redhead, didnât you say?â

âYes,â I said, startled.

âYou can never argue with a redhead,â said Lejeune. âDonât I know it!â

I wondered if his wife was one.

Sixteen

Mark Easterbrookâs Narrative

I felt absolutely no nervousness on my second visit to Bradley. In fact, I enjoyed it.

âThink yourself into the part,â Ginger urged me, before I set off, and that was exactly what I tried to do.

Mr. Bradley greeted me with a welcoming smile.

âVery pleased to see you,â he said, advancing a podgy hand. âSo youâve been thinking your little problem over, have you? Well, as I said, no hurry. Take your time.â

I said, âThatâs just what I canât do. Itâsâwellâitâs rather urgentâ¦.â

Bradley looked me over. He noted my nervous manner, the way I avoided his eyes, the clumsiness of my hands as I dropped my hat.

âWell, well,â he said. âLetâs see what we can do about things. You want to have a little bet on something, is that it? Nothing like a sporting flutter to take oneâs mind off oneâsâerâtroubles.â

âItâs like thisââ I said, and came to a dead stop.

I left it to Bradley to do his stuff. He did it.

âI see youâre a bit nervous,â he said. âCautious. I approve of caution. Never say anything your mother shouldnât hear about! Now, perhaps you have some idea that this office of mine might have a bug in it?â

I didnât understand and my face showed it.

âSlang term for a microphone,â he explained. âTape recorders. All that sort of thing. No, I give you my personal word of honour that thereâs nothing of that sort here. Our conversation will not be recorded in any way. And if you donât believe me,â his candour was quite engagingââand why should you?âyouâve a perfect right to name a place of your own, a restaurant, the waiting room in one of our dear English railway stations; and weâll discuss the matter there instead.â

I said that I was sure it was quite all right here.

âSensible! That sort of thing wouldnât pay us, I assure you. Neither you nor I is going to say a word that, in legal parlance, could be âused against us.â Now letâs start this way. Thereâs something worrying you. You find me sympathetic and you feel youâd like to tell me about it. Iâm a man of experience and I might be able to advise you. A trouble shared is a trouble halved, as they say. Suppose we put it like that?â

We put it like that, and I stumbled into my story.

Mr. Bradley was very adroit. He prompted; eased over difficult words and phrases. So good was he, that I felt no difficulty at all in telling him about my youthful infatuation for Doreen and our secretive marriage.

âHappens so often,â he said, shaking his head. âSo often. Understandable! Young man with ideals. Genuinely pretty girl. And there you are. Man and wife before you can say Jack Robinson. And what comes of it?â

I went on to tell him what came of it.

Here I was purposefully vague over details. The man I was trying to present would not have gone into sordid details. I presented only a picture of disillusionmentâa young fool realising that he had been a young fool.

I let it be assumed that there had been a final quarrel. If Bradley took it that my young wife had gone off with another man, or that there had been another man in the offing all alongâthat was good enough.

âBut you know,â I said anxiously, âalthough she wasnâtâwell, wasnât quite what I thought her, she was really a very sweet girl. Iâd never have thought that sheâd be like thisâthat sheâd behave like this, I mean.â

âWhat exactly has she been doing to you?â

What my âwifeâ had done to me, I explained, was to come back.

âWhat did you think happened to her?â

âI suppose it seems extraordinaryâbut I really didnât think. Actually, I suppose, I assumed she must be dead.â

Bradley shook his head at me.

âWishful thinking. Wishful thinking. Why should she be dead?â

âShe never wrote or anything. I never heard from her.â

âThe truth is you wanted to forget all about her.â

He was a psychologist in his way, this beady-eyed little lawyer.

âYes,â I said gratefully. âYou see, it wasnât as though I wanted to marry someone else.â

âBut you do now, eh, is that it?â

âWellââ I showed reluctance.

âCome now, tell Papa,â said the odious Bradley.

I admitted, shamefacedly, that, yes, lately, I had considered marryingâ¦.

But I stuck my toes in and refused firmly to give him any details about the girl in question. I wasnât going to have her brought into this. I wasnât going to tell him a thing about her.

Again, I think my reaction here was the correct one. He did not insist. Instead he said:

âQuite natural, my dear sir. Youâve got over your nasty experience in the past. Youâve found someone, no doubt, thoroughly suited to you. Able to share your literary tastes and your way of life. A true companion.â

I saw then that he knew about Hermia. It would have been easy. Any inquiries made about me would have revealed the fact that I had only one close woman friend. Bradley, since receiving my letter making the appointment, must have found out all about me, all about Hermia. He was fully briefed.

âWhat about divorce?â he asked. âIsnât that the natural solution?â

I said: âThereâs no question of divorce. Sheâmy wifeâwonât hear of it!â

âDear, dear. What is her attitude towards you, if I may ask?â

âSheâerâshe wants to come back to me. Sheâsheâs utterly unreasonable. She knows thereâs someone, andâandââ

âActing nastyâ¦I seeâ¦Doesnât look as though thereâs any way out, unless of courseâ¦ But sheâs quite youngâ¦.â

âSheâll live for years,â I said bitterly.

âOh, but you never know, Mr. Easterbrook. Sheâs been living abroad, you say?â

âSo she tells me. I donât know where sheâs been.â

âMay have been out East. Sometimes, you know, you pick up a germ out in those partsâdormant for years! And then you came back home, and suddenly it blows up. Iâve known two or three cases like that. Might happen in this case. If it will cheer you up,â he paused, âIâd bet a small amount on it.â

I shook my head.

âSheâll live for years.â

âWell, the odds are on your side, I admitâ¦ But letâs have a wager on it. Fifteen hundred to one the lady dies between now and Christmas: howâs that?â

âSooner! It will have to be sooner. I canât wait. There are thingsââ

I was purposely incoherent. I donât know whether he thought that matters between Hermia and myself had gone so far that I couldnât stall for timeâor that my âwifeâ threatened to go to Hermia and make trouble. He may have thought that there was another man making a play for Hermia. I didnât mind what he thought. I wanted to stress urgency.

âAlter the odds a bit,â he said. âWeâll say eighteen hundred to one your wifeâs a goner in under a month. Iâve got a sort of feeling about it.â

I thought it was time to bargainâand I bargained. Protested that I hadnât got that amount of money. Bradley was skillful. He knew, by some means or other, just what sum I could raise in an emergency. He knew that Hermia had money. His delicate hint that later, when I was married, I wouldnât feel the loss of my bet, was proof of that. Moreover, my urgency put him in a fine position. He wouldnât come down.

When I left him the fantastic wager was laid and accepted.

I signed some form of I.O.U. The phraseology was too full of legal phrases for me to understand. Actually I very much doubted that it had any legal significance whatever.

âIs this legally binding?â I asked him.

âI donât think,â said Mr. Bradley, showing his excellent dentures, âthat it will ever be put to the test.â His smile was not a very nice one. âA betâs a bet. If a man doesnât pay upââ

I looked at him.

âI shouldnât advise it,â he said softly. âNo, I shouldnât advise it. We donât like welshers.â

âI shanât welsh,â I said.

âIâm sure you wonât, Mr. Easterbrook. Now for the erâarrangements. Mrs. Easterbrook, you say, is in London. Where, exactly?â

âDo you have to know?â

âI have to have full detailsâthe next thing to do is to arrange an appointment with Miss Greyâyou remember Miss Grey?â

I said of course I remembered Miss Grey.

âAn amazing woman. Really an amazing woman. Most gifted. Sheâll want something your wife has wornâa gloveâhandkerchiefâanything like thatââ

âBut why? In the name ofââ

âI know, I know. Donât ask me why. Iâve not the least idea. Miss Grey keeps her secrets to herself.â

âBut what happens? What does she do?â

âYou really must believe me, Mr. Easterbrook, when I tell you that honestly I havenât the least idea! I donât knowâand what is more, I donât want to knowâletâs leave it at that.â

He paused, and then went on in an almost fatherly tone.

âMy advice is as follows, Mr. Easterbrook. Pay a visit to your wife. Soothe her down, let her think that youâre coming round to the idea of a reconciliation. I should suggest that you have to go abroad for a few weeks, but that on your return etc., etcâ¦.â

âAnd then?â

âHaving purloined a trifle of daily wear in an unobtrusive manner, you will go down to Much Deeping.â He paused thoughtfully. âLet me see. I think you mentioned on your previous visit that you had friendsârelationsâin the neighbourhood?â

âA cousin.â

âThat makes it very simple. This cousin will doubtless put you up for a day or so.â

âWhat do most people do? Stay at the local inn?â

âSometimes, I believeâor they motor over from Bournemouth. Something of that kindâbut I know very little about the matter.â

âWhatâerâis my cousin likely to think?â

âYou express yourself as intrigued by the inhabitants of the Pale Horse. You want to participate in a sÃ©ance there. Nothing can sound simpler. Miss Grey and her medium friend often indulge in sÃ©ances. You know what spiritualists are. You go protesting that of course itâs nonsense, but that it will interest you. That is all, Mr. Easterbrook. As you see, nothing can be simplerââ

âAndâand, after that?â

He shook his head smiling.

âThatâs all I can tell you. All, in fact, that I know. Miss Thyrza Grey will then be in charge. Donât forget to take the glove, or handkerchief, or whatever it is with you. Afterwards, I would suggest that you take a little trip abroad. The Italian Riviera is very pleasant at this time of year. Just for a week or two, say.â

I said that I didnât want to go abroad. I said I wanted to stay in England.

âVery well, then, but definitely not London. No, I must strongly advise, not London.â

âWhy not?â

Mr. Bradley looked at me reprovingly.

âClients are guaranteed completeâerâsafety,â he said. âIf they obey orders.â

âWhat about Bournemouth? Would Bournemouth do?â

âYes, Bournemouth would be adequate. Stay at a hotel, make a few acquaintances, be seen in their company. The blameless lifeâthat is what we aim at. You can always go on to Torquay if you get tired of Bournemouth.â

He spoke with the affability of a travel agent.

Once again I had to shake his podgy hand.

Seventeen

Mark Easterbrookâs Narrative

I

âAre you really going to a sÃ©ance at Thyrzaâs?â Rhoda demanded.

âWhy not?â

âI never knew you were interested in that sort of thing, Mark.â

âIâm not really,â I said truthfully. âBut itâs such a queer setup, those three. Iâm curious to see what sort of a show they put on.â

I did not find it really easy to put on a light manner. Out of the tail of my eye, I saw Hugh Despard looking at me thoughtfully. He was a shrewd man, with an adventurous life behind him. One of those men who have a kind of sixth sense where danger is concerned. I think he scented its presence nowârealised that something more important than idle curiosity was at stake.

âThen I shall come with you,â said Rhoda gleefully. âIâve always wanted to go.â

âYouâll do nothing of the sort, Rhoda,â growled Despard.

âBut I donât really believe in spirits and all that, Hugh. You know I donât. I just want to go for the fun of it!â

âThat sort of business isnât fun,â said Despard. âThere may be something genuine to it, there probably is. But it doesnât have a good effect on people who go out of âidle curiosity.ââ

âThen you ought to dissuade Mark, too.â

âMarkâs not my responsibility,â said Despard.

But again he gave me that quick sidelong look. He knew, I was quite sure, that I had a purpose.

Rhoda was annoyed, but she got over it, and when we chanced to meet Thyrza Grey in the village a little later that morning, Thyrza herself was blunt upon the matter.

âHallo, Mr. Easterbrook, weâre expecting you this evening. Hope we can put on a good show for you. Sybilâs a wonderful medium, but one never knows beforehand what results one will get. So you mustnât be disappointed. One thing I do ask you. Keep an open mind. An honest inquirer is always welcomeâbut a frivolous, scoffing approach is bad.â

âI wanted to come too,â said Rhoda. âBut Hugh is so frightfully prejudiced. You know what heâs like.â

âI wouldnât have had you, anyway,â said Thyrza. âOne outsider is quite enough.â

She turned to me.

âSuppose you come and have a light meal with us first,â she said. âWe never eat much before a sÃ©ance. About seven oâclock? Good, weâll be expecting you.â

She nodded, smiled, and strode briskly away. I stared after her, so engrossed in my surmises, that I entirely missed what Rhoda was saying to me.

âWhat did you say? Iâm sorry.â

âYouâve been very odd lately, Mark. Ever since you arrived. Is anything the matter?â

âNo, of course not. What should be the matter?â

âHave you got stuck with the book? Something like that?â

âThe book?â Just for a moment I couldnât remember anything about the book. Then I said hastily, âOh yes, the book. Itâs getting on more or less all right.â

âI believe youâre in love,â said Rhoda accusingly. âYes, thatâs it. Being in love has a very bad effect on menâit seems to addle their wits. Now women are just the oppositeâon top of the world, looking radiant and twice as good-looking as usual. Funny, isnât it, that it should suit women, and only make a man look like a sick sheep?â

âThank you!â I said.

âOh, donât be cross with me, Mark. I think itâs a very good thing reallyâand Iâm delighted. Sheâs really very nice.â

âWhoâs nice?â

âHermia Redcliffe, of course. You seem to think I know nothing about anything. Iâve seen it coming on for ages. And she really is just the person for youâgood-looking and clever; absolutely suitable.â

âThat,â I said, âis one of the cattiest things you could say about anyone.â

Rhoda looked at me.

âIt is rather,â she said.

She turned away and said she had to go and give a pep talk to the butcher. I said that I would go and pay a call at the vicarage.

âBut notââI forestalled any commentââin order to ask the vicar to put the banns up!â

II

Coming to the vicarage was like coming home.

The front door was hospitably open, and as I stepped inside I was conscious of a burden slipping from my shoulders.

Mrs. Dane Calthrop came through a door at the back of the hall, carrying for some reason unfathomable to me an enormous plastic pail of bright green.

âHallo, itâs you,â she said. âI thought it would be.â

She handed me the pail. I had no idea what to do with it and stood looking awkward.

âOutside the door, on the step,â said Mrs. Calthrop impatiently, as though I ought to have known.

I obeyed. Then I followed her into the same dark shabby room we had sat in before. There was a rather moribund fire there, but Mrs. Dane Calthrop poked it into flame and dumped a log on it. Then she motioned me to sit down, plumped down herself, and fixed me with a bright impatient eye.

âWell?â she demanded. âWhat have you done?â

From the vigour of her manner we might have had a train to catch.

âYou told me to do something. I am doing something.â

âGood. What?â

I told her. I told her everything. In some unspoken way I told her things I did not quite know myself.

âTonight?â said Mrs. Dane Calthrop thoughtfully.

âYes.â

She was silent for a minute, obviously thinking. Unable to help myself I blurted out,

âI donât like it. My God, I donât like it.â

âWhy should you?â

That, of course, was unanswerable.

âIâm so horribly afraid for her.â

She looked at me kindly.

âYou donât know,â I said, âhowâhow brave she is. If, in some way, they manage to harm herâ¦.â

Mrs. Dane Calthrop said slowly:

âI donât seeâI really donât seeâhow they can harm her in the way you mean.â

âBut they have harmedâother people.â

âIt would seem so, yesâ¦â She sounded dissatisfied.

âIn any other way, she will be all right. Weâve taken every imaginable precaution. No material harm can happen to her.â

âBut itâs material harm that these people claim to be able to produce,â Mrs. Dane Calthrop pointed out. âThey claim to be able to work through the mind on the body. Illnessâdisease. Very interesting if they can. But quite horrible! And itâs got to be stopped, as weâve already agreed.â

âBut sheâs the one whoâs taking the risk,â I muttered.

âSomeone has to,â said Mrs. Dane Calthrop calmly. âIt upsets your pride, that it shouldnât be you. Youâve got to swallow that. Gingerâs ideally suited for the part sheâs playing. She can control her nerves and sheâs intelligent. She wonât let you down.â

âIâm not worrying about that!â

âWell, stop worrying at all. It wonât do her any good. Donât letâs shirk the issue. If she dies as a result of this experiment, then she dies in a good cause.â

âMy God, youâre brutal!â

âSomebody has to be,â said Mrs. Dane Calthrop. âAlways envisage the worst. Youâve no idea how that steadies the nerves. You begin at once to be sure that it canât be as bad as what you imagine.â

She nodded at me reassuringly.

âYou may be right,â I said doubtfully.

Mrs. Dane Calthrop said with complete certainty that of course she was right.

I proceeded to details.

âYouâre on the telephone here?â

âNaturally.â

I explained what I wanted to do.

âAfter thisâthis business tonight is over, I may want to keep in close touch with Ginger. Ring her up every day. If I could telephone from here?â

âOf course. Too much coming and going at Rhodaâs. You want to be sure of not being overheard.â

âI shall stay on at Rhodaâs for a bit. Then perhaps go to Bournemouth. Iâm not supposed toâgo back to London.â

âNo use looking ahead,â Mrs. Dane Calthrop said. âNot beyond tonight.â

âTonightâ¦â I got up. I said a thing that was out of character. âPray for meâfor us,â I said.

âNaturally,â said Mrs. Dane Calthrop, surprised that I should need to ask.

As I went out of the front door a sudden curiosity made me say,

âWhy the pail? Whatâs it for?â

âThe pail? Oh, itâs for the schoolchildren, to pick berries and leaves from the hedgesâfor the church. Hideous, isnât it, but so handy.â

I looked out over the richness of the autumn world. Such soft still beautyâ¦.

âAngels and Ministers of grace defend us,â I said.

âAmen,â said Mrs. Dane Calthrop.

III

My reception at the Pale Horse was conventional in the extreme. I donât know what particular atmospheric effect I had expectedâbut it was not this.

Thyrza Grey, wearing a plain dark wool dress, opened the door, said in a businesslike tone: âAh, here you are. Good. Weâll have supper straightawayââ

Nothing could have been more matter-of-fact, more completely ordinaryâ¦.

The table was laid for a simple meal at the end of the panelled hall. We had soup, an omelette, and cheese. Bella waited on us. She wore a black stuff dress and looked more than ever like one of the crowd in an Italian primitive. Sybil struck a more exotic note. She had on a long dress of some woven peacock-coloured fabric, shot with gold. Her beads were absent on this occasion, but she had two heavy gold bracelets clasping her wrists. She ate a minute portion of omelette but nothing else. She spoke little, treating us to a faraway wrapped-up-in-higher-things mood. It ought to have been impressive. Actually it was not. The effect was theatrical and unreal.

Thyrza Grey provided what conversation there wasâa brisk chatty commentary on local happenings. She was this evening the British country spinster to the life, pleasant, efficient, uninterested in anything beyond her immediate surroundings.

I thought to myself, Iâm mad, completely mad. What is there to fear here? Even Bella seemed tonight only a half-witted old peasant womanâlike hundreds of other women of her kindâinbred, untouched by education or a broader outlook.

My conversation with Mrs. Dane Calthrop seemed fantastic in retrospect. We had worked ourselves up to imagine goodness knows what. The idea of GingerâGinger with her dyed hair and assumed nameâbeing in danger from anything these three very ordinary women could do, was positively ludicrous!

The meal came to an end.

âNo coffee,â said Thyrza apologetically. âOne doesnât want to be overstimulated.â She rose. âSybil?â

âYes,â said Sybil, her face taking on what she clearly thought was an ecstatic and otherworld expression. âI must go and PREPAREâ¦.â

Bella began to clear the table. I wandered over to where the old inn sign hung. Thyrza followed me.

âYou canât really see it at all by this light,â she said.

That was quite true. The faint pale image against the dark encrusted grime of the panel could hardly be distinguished as that of a horse. The hall was lit by feeble electric bulbs shielded by thick vellum shades.

âThat red-haired girlâwhatâs her name?âGinger somethingâwho was staying down hereâsaid sheâd do a spot of cleaning and restoring on it,â said Thyrza. âDonât suppose sheâll ever remember about it, though.â She added casually, âShe works for some gallery or other in London.â

It gave me a strange feeling to hear Ginger referred to lightly and casually.

I said, staring at the picture:

âIt might be interesting.â

âItâs not a good painting, of course,â said Thyrza. âJust a daub. But it goes with the placeâand itâs certainly well over three hundred years old.â

âReady.â

We wheeled abruptly.

Bella, emerging out of the gloom, was beckoning.

âTime to get on with things,â said Thyrza, still brisk and matter-of-fact.

I followed her as she led the way out to the converted barn.

As I have said, there was no entrance to it from the house. It was a dark overcast night, no stars. We came out of the dense outer blackness into the long lighted room.

The barn, by night, was transformed. By day it had seemed a pleasant library. Now it had become something more. There were lamps, but these were not turned on. The lighting was indirect and flooded the room with a soft but cold light. In the centre of the floor was a kind of raised bed or divan. It was spread with a purple cloth, embroidered with various cabbalistic signs.

On the far side of the room was what appeared to be a small brazier, and next to it a big copper basinâan old one by the look of it.

On the other side, set back almost touching the wall, was a heavy oak-backed chair. Thyrza motioned me towards it.

âSit there,â she said.

I sat obediently. Thyrzaâs manner had changed. The odd thing was that I could not define exactly in what the change consisted. There was none of Sybilâs spurious occultism about it. It was more as though an everyday curtain of normal trivial life had been lifted. Behind it was the real woman, displaying something of the manner of a surgeon approaching the operating table for a difficult and dangerous operation. This impression was heightened when she went to a cupboard in the wall and took from it what appeared to be a kind of long overall. It seemed to be made, when the light caught it, of some metallic woven tissue. She drew on long gauntlets of what looked like a kind of fine mesh rather resembling a âbulletproof vestâ I had once been shown.

âOne has to take precautions,â she said.

The phrase struck me as slightly sinister.

Then she addressed me in an emphatic deep voice.

âI must impress upon you, Mr. Easterbrook, the necessity of remaining absolutely still where you are. On no account must you move from that chair. It might not be safe to do so. This is no childâs game. I am dealing with forces that are dangerous to those who do not know how to handle them!â She paused and then asked, âYou have brought what you were instructed to bring?â

Without a word, I drew from my pocket a brown suÃ¨de glove and handed it to her.

She took it and moved over to a metal lamp with a gooseneck shade. She switched on the lamp and held the glove under its rays which were of a peculiar sickly colour, turning the glove from its rich brown to a characterless grey.

She switched off the lamp, nodding in approval.

âMost suitable,â she said. âThe physical emanations from its wearer are quite strong.â

She put it down on top of what appeared to be a large radio cabinet at the end of the room. Then she raised her voice a little. âBella. Sybil. We are ready.â

Sybil came in first. She wore a long black cloak over her peacock dress. This she flung aside with a dramatic gesture. It slid down, looking like an inky pool on the floor. She came forward.

âI do hope it will be all right,â she said. âOne never knows. Please donât adopt a sceptical frame of mind, Mr. Easterbrook. It does so hinder things.â

âMr. Easterbrook has not come here to mock,â said Thyrza.

There was a certain grimness in her tone.

Sybil lay down on the purple divan. Thyrza bent over her, arranging her draperies.

âQuite comfortable?â she asked solicitously.

âYes, thank you, dear.â

Thyrza switched off some lights. Then she wheeled up what was, in effect, a kind of canopy on wheels. This she placed so that it overshadowed the divan and left Sybil in a deep shadow in the middle of outlying dim twilight.

âToo much light is harmful to a complete trance,â she said.

âNow, I think, we are ready. Bella?â

Bella came out of the shadows. The two women approached me. With her right hand Thyrza took my left. Her left hand took Bellaâs right. Bellaâs left hand found my right hand. Thyrzaâs hand was dry and hard, Bellaâs was cold and bonelessâit felt like a slug in mine and I shivered in revulsion.

Thyrza must have touched a switch somewhere, for music sounded faintly from the ceiling. I recognised it as Mendelssohnâs funeral march.

âMise en scÃªne,â I said to myself rather scornfully. âMeretricious trappings!â I was cool and criticalâbut nevertheless aware of an undercurrent of some unwanted emotional apprehension.

The music stopped. There was a long wait. There was only the sound of breathing. Bellaâs slightly wheezy, Sybilâs deep and regular.

And then, suddenly, Sybil spoke. Not, however, in her own voice. It was a manâs voice, as unlike her own mincing accents as could be. It had a guttural foreign accent.

âI am here,â the voice said.

My hands were released. Bella flitted away into the shadows. Thyrza said: âGood evening. Is that Macandal?â

âI am Macandal.â

Thyrza went to the divan and drew away the protecting canopy. The soft light flowed down onto Sybilâs face. She appeared to be deeply asleep. In this repose her face looked quite different.

The lines were smoothed away. She looked years younger. One could almost say that she looked beautiful.

Thyrza said:

âAre you prepared, Macandal, to submit to my desire and my will?â

The new deep voice said:

âI am.â

âWill you undertake to protect the body of the Dossu that lies here and which you now inhabit, from all physical injury and harm? Will you dedicate its vital force to my purpose, that that purpose may be accomplished through it?â

âI will.â

âWill you so dedicate this body that death may pass through it, obeying such natural laws as may be available in the body of the recipient?â

âThe dead must be sent to cause death. It shall be so.â

Thyrza drew back a step. Bella came up and held out what I saw was a crucifix. Thyrza placed it on Sybilâs breast in a reversed position. Then Bella brought a small green phial. From this Thyrza poured out a drop or two onto Sybilâs forehead, and traced something with her finger. Again I fancied that it was the sign of the cross upside down.

She said to me, briefly, âHoly water from the Catholic church at Garsington.â

Her voice was quite ordinary, and this, which ought to have broken the spell, did not do so. It made the whole business, somehow, more alarming.

Finally she brought that rather horrible rattle we had seen before. She shook it three times and then clasped Sybilâs hand round it.

She stepped back and said:

âAll is readyââ

Bella repeated the words:

âAll is readyââ

Thyrza addressed me in a low tone:

âI donât suppose youâre much impressed, are you, by all the ritual? Some of our visitors are. To you, I daresay, itâs all so much mumbo jumboâ¦ But donât be too sure. Ritualâa pattern of words and phrases sanctified by time and usage, has an effect on the human spirit. What causes the mass hysteria of crowds? We donât know exactly. But itâs a phenomenon that exists. These old-time usages, they have their partâa necessary part, I think.â

Bella had left the room. She came back now, carrying a white cock. It was alive and struggling to be free.

Now with white chalk she knelt down and began to draw signs on the floor round the brazier and the copper bowl. She set down the cock with its back on the white curving line round the bowl and it stayed there motionless.

She drew more signs, chanting as she did so, in a low guttural voice. The words were incomprehensible to me, but as she knelt and swayed, she was clearly working herself up to some pitch of obscene ecstasy.

Watching me, Thyrza said: âYou donât like it much? Itâs old, you know, very old. The death spell according to old recipes handed from mother to daughter.â

I couldnât fathom Thyrza. She did nothing to further the effect on my senses which Bellaâs rather horrible performances might well have had. She seemed deliberately to take the part of a commentator.

Bella stretched out her hands to the brazier and a flickering flame sprang up. She sprinkled something on the flames and a thick cloying perfume filled the air.

âWe are ready,â said Thyrza.

The surgeon, I thought, picks up his scalpelâ¦.

She went over to what I had taken to be a radio cabinet. It opened up and I saw that it was a large electrical contrivance of some complicated kind.

It moved like a trolley and she wheeled it slowly and carefully to a position near the divan.

She bent over it, adjusted the controls, murmuring to herself:

âCompass, north-northeastâ¦degreesâ¦thatâs about right.â She took the glove and adjusted it in a particular position, switching on a small violet light beside it.

Then she spoke to the inert figure on the divan.

âSybil Diana Helen, you are set free from your mortal sheath which the spirit Macandal guards safely for you. You are free to be at one with the owner of this glove. Like all human beings, her goal in life is towards death. There is no final satisfaction but death. Only death solves all problems. Only death gives true peace. All great ones have known it. Remember Macbeth. âAfter lifeâs fitful fever he sleeps well.â Remember the ecstasy of Tristan and Isolde. Love and death. Love and death. But the greatest of these is deathâ¦.â

The words rang out, echoing, repeatingâthe big box-like machine had started to emit a low hum, the bulbs in it glowedâ I felt dazed, carried away. This, I felt, was no longer something at which I could mock. Thyrza, her power unleashed, was holding that prone figure on the divan completely enslaved. She was using her. Using her for a definite end. I realised vaguely why Mrs. Oliver had been frightened, not of Thyrza but of the seemingly silly Sybil. Sybil had a power, a natural gift, nothing to do with mind or intellect; it was a physical power, the power to separate herself from her body. And, so separated, her mind was not hers, but Thyrzaâs. And Thyrza was using her temporary possession.

Yes, but the box? Where did the box come in?

And suddenly all my fear was transferred to the box! What devilish secret was being practised through its agency? Could there be physically produced rays of some kind that acted on the cells of the mind? Of a particular mind?

Thyrzaâs voice went on:

âThe weak spotâ¦there is always a weak spotâ¦deep in the tissues of the fleshâ¦ Through weakness comes strengthâthe strength and peace of deathâ¦ Towards deathâslowly, naturally, towards deathâthe true way, the natural way. The tissues of the body obey the mindâ¦ Command themâcommand themâ¦ Towards deathâ¦ Death, the Conquerorâ¦ Deathâ¦soonâ¦very soonâ¦ Deathâ¦ Deathâ¦ DEATH!â

Her voice rose in a great swelling cryâ¦ And another horrible animal cry came from Bella. She rose up, a knife flashedâ¦there was a horrible strangled squawk from the cockerelâ¦ Blood dripped into the copper bowl. Bella came running, the bowl held outâ¦.

She screamed out:

âBloodâ¦the bloodâ¦ BLOOD!â

Thyrza whipped out the glove from the machine. Bella took it, dipped it in the blood, returned it to Thyrza who replaced it.

Bellaâs voice rose again in that high ecstatic callâ¦.

âThe bloodâ¦the bloodâ¦the bloodâ¦â

She ran round and round the brazier, then dropped twitching to the floor. The brazier flickered and went out.

I felt horribly sick. Unseeing, clutching the arm of my chair, my head seemed to be whirling in spaceâ¦.

I heard a click, the hum of the machine ceased.

Then Thyrzaâs voice rose, clear and composed:

âThe old magic and the new. The old knowledge of belief, the new knowledge of science. Together, they will prevailâ¦.â

Eighteen

Mark Easterbrookâs Narrative

âWell, what was it like?â demanded Rhoda eagerly at the breakfast table.

âOh, the usual stuff,â I said nonchalantly.

I was uneasily conscious of Despardâs eye on me. A perceptive man.

âPentagrams drawn on the floor?â

âLots of them.â

âAny white cocks?â

âNaturally. That was Bellaâs part of the fun and games.â

âAnd trances and things?â

âAs you say, trances and things.â

Rhoda looked disappointed.

âYou seem to have found it rather dull,â she said in an aggrieved voice.

I said that these things were all much of a muchness. At any rate, Iâd satisfied my curiosity.

Later, when Rhoda had departed to the kitchen, Despard said to me:

âShook you up a bit, didnât it?â

âWellââ

I was anxious to make light of the whole thing, but Despard was not an easy man to deceive.

I said slowly, âIt wasâin a wayârather beastly.â

He nodded.

âOne doesnât really believe in it,â said Despard. âNot with oneâs reasoning mindâbut these things have their effect. Iâve seen a good deal of it in East Africa. The witch doctors there have a terrific hold on the people, and one has to admit that odd things happen which canât be explained in any rational manner.â

âDeaths?â

âOh yes. If a man knows heâs been marked down to die, he dies.â

âThe power of suggestion, I suppose.â

âPresumably.â

âBut that doesnât quite satisfy you?â

âNoânot quite. There are cases difficult of explanation by any of our glib Western scientific theories. The stuff doesnât usually work on Europeansâ(though I have known cases). But if the belief is there in your bloodâyouâve had it!â He left it there.

I said thoughtfully: âI agree with you that one canât be too didactic. Odd things happen even in this country. I was at a hospital one day in London. A girl had come inâneurotic subject, complaining of terrible pain in bones, arm, etc. Nothing to account for it. They suspected she was a victim of hysteria. Doctor told her cure could be effected by a red-hot rod being drawn down the arm. Would she agree to try it? She did.

âThe girl turned her head away and screwed up her eyes. The doctor dipped a glass rod in cold water and drew it down the inside of her arm. The girl screamed with agony. He said, âYouâll be all right now.â She said, âI expect so, but it was awful. It burnt.â The queer thing to me wasânot that she believed that she had been burnt, but that her arm actually was burnt. The flesh was actually blistered everywhere the rod had touched it.â

âWas she cured?â Despard asked curiously.

âOh yes. The neuritis, or whatever it was, never reappeared. She had to be treated for the burnt arm, though.â

âExtraordinary,â said Despard. âIt goes to show, doesnât it?â

âThe doctor was startled himself.â

âI bet he wasâ¦â He looked at me curiously.

âWhy were you really so keen to go to that sÃ©ance last night?â

I shrugged my shoulders.

âThose three women intrigue me. I wanted to see what sort of show they would put up.â

Despard said no more. I donât think he believed me. As I have said, he was a perceptive man.

Presently I went along to the vicarage. The door was open but there seemed to be no one in the house.

I went to the little room where the telephone was, and rang up Ginger.

It seemed an eternity before I heard her voice.

âHallo!â

âGinger!â

âOh, itâs you. What happened?â

âYouâre all right?â

âOf course Iâm all right. Why shouldnât I be?â

Waves of relief swept over me.

There was nothing wrong with Ginger; the familiar challenge of her manner did me a world of good. How could I ever have believed that a lot of mumbo jumbo could hurt so normal a creature as Ginger?

âI just thought you might have had bad dreams or something,â I said rather lamely.

âWell, I didnât. I expected to have, but all that happened was that I kept waking up and wondering if I felt anything peculiar happening to me. I really felt almost indignant because nothing did happen to meââ

I laughed.

âBut go onâtell me,â said Ginger. âWhatâs it all about?â

âNothing much out of the ordinary. Sybil lay on a purple couch and went into a trance.â

Ginger gave a spurt of laughter.

âDid she? How wonderful! Was it a velvet one and did she have nothing on?â

âSybil is no Madame de Montespan. And it wasnât a black mass. Actually Sybil wore quite a lot of clothes, peacock blue, and lots of embroidered symbols.â

âSounds most appropriate and Sybil-like. What did Bella do?â

âThat really was rather beastly. She killed a white cock and then dipped your glove in the blood.â

âOoânastyâ¦What else?â

âLots of things,â I said.

I thought that I was doing quite well. I went on:

âThyrza gave me the whole bag of tricks. Summoned up a spiritâMacandal was, I think, the name. And there were coloured lights and chanting. The whole thing would have been quite impressive to some peopleâscared âem out of their wits.â

âBut it didnât scare you?â

âBella did scare me a bit,â I said. âShe had a very nasty-looking knife, and I thought she might lose her head and add me to the cock as a second victim.â

Ginger persisted:

âNothing else frightened you?â

âIâm not influenced by that sort of thing.â

âThen why did you sound so thankful to hear I was all right?â

âWell, becauseââ I stopped.

âAll right,â said Ginger obligingly. âYou neednât answer that one. And you neednât go out of your way to play down the whole thing. Something about it impressed you.â

âOnly, I think, because theyâThyrza, I meanâseemed so calmly confident of the result.â

âConfident that what youâve been telling me about could actually kill a person?â

Gingerâs voice was incredulous.

âItâs daft,â I agreed.

âWasnât Bella confident, too?â

I considered. I said:

âI think Bella was just enjoying herself killing cocks and working herself up into a kind of orgy of ill-wishing. To hear her moaning out âThe Bloodâ¦the bloodâ was really something.â

âI wish Iâd heard it,â said Ginger regretfully.

âI wish you had,â I said. âFrankly, the whole thing was quite a performance.â

âYouâre all right now, arenât you?â said Ginger.

âWhat do you meanâall right?â

âYou werenât when you rang me up, but you are now.â

She was quite correct in her assumption. The sound of her cheerful normal voice had done wonders for me. Secretly, though, I took off my hat to Thyrza Grey. Bogus though the whole business might have been, it had infected my mind with doubt and apprehension. But nothing mattered now. Ginger was all rightâshe hadnât had so much as a bad dream.

âAnd what do we do next?â demanded Ginger. âHave I got to stay put for another week or so?â

âIf I want to collect a hundred pounds from Mr. Bradley, yes.â

âYouâll do that if itâs the last thing you ever doâ¦ Are you staying on with Rhoda?â

âFor a bit. Then Iâll move on to Bournemouth. Youâre to ring me every day, mind, or Iâll ring youâthatâs better. Iâm ringing from the vicarage now.â

âHowâs Mrs. Dane Calthrop?â

âIn great form. I told her all about it, by the way.â

âI thought you would. Well, good-bye for now. Life is going to be very boring for the next week or two. Iâve brought some work with me to doâand a good many of the books that one always means to read but never has the time to.â

âWhat does your gallery think?â

âThat Iâm on a cruise.â

âDonât you wish you were?â

âNot really,â said Gingerâ¦ Her voice was a little odd.

âNo suspicious characters approached you?â

âOnly what you might expect. The milkman, the man to read the gas meter, a woman asking me what patent medicines and cosmetics I used, someone asking me to sign a petition to abolish nuclear bombs and a woman who wanted a subscription for the blind. Oh, and the various flat porters, of course. Very helpful. One of them mended a fuse for me.â

âSeems harmless enough,â I commented.

âWhat were you expecting?â

âI donât really know.â

I had wished, I suppose, for something overt that I could tackle.

But the victims of the Pale Horse died of their own free willâ¦ No, the word free was not the one to use. Seeds of physical weakness in them developed by a process that I did not understand.

Ginger rebuffed a weak suggestion of mine about a false gas meter man.

âHe had genuine credentials,â she said. âI asked for them! He was only the man who gets up on a ladder inside the bathroom and reads off the figures and writes them down. Heâs far too grand to touch pipes or gas jets. And I can assure you he hasnât arranged an escape of gas in my bedroom.â

No, the Pale Horse did not deal with accidental gas escapesânothing so concrete!

âOh! I had one other visitor,â said Ginger. âYour friend, Dr. Corrigan. Heâs nice.â

âI suppose Lejeune sent him.â

âHe seemed to think he ought to rally to a namesake. Up the Corrigans!â

I rang off, much relieved in mind.

I got back to find Rhoda busy on the lawn with one of her dogs. She was anointing it with some unguent.

âThe vetâs just gone,â she said. âHe says itâs ringworm. Itâs frightfully catching, I believe. I donât want the children getting itâor the other dogs.â

âOr even adult human beings,â I suggested.

âOh, itâs usually children who get it. Thank goodness theyâre away at school all dayâkeep quiet, Sheila. Donât wriggle.

âThis stuff makes the hair fall out,â she went on. âIt leaves bald spots for a bit but it grows again.â

I nodded, offered to help, was refused, for which I was thankful, and wandered off again.

The curse of the country, I have always thought, is that there are seldom more than three directions in which you can go for a walk. In Much Deeping, you could either take the Garsington road, or the road to Long Cottenham, or you could go up Shadhanger Lane to the main LondonâBournemouth road two miles away.

By the following day at lunchtime, I had sampled both the Garsington and the Long Cottenham roads. Shadhanger Lane was the next prospect.

I started off, and on my way was struck by an idea. The entrance to Priors Court opened off Shadhanger Lane. Why should I not go and call on Mr. Venables?

The more I considered the idea, the more I liked it. There would be nothing suspicious about my doing so. When I had been staying down here before, Rhoda had taken me over there. It would be easy and natural to call and ask if I might be shown again some particular object that I had not had time really to look at and enjoy on that occasion.

The recognition of Venables by this chemistâwhat was his nameâOgden?âOsborne?âwas interesting, to say the least of it. Granted that, according to Lejeune, it would have been quite impossible for the man in question to have been Venables owing to the latterâs disability, yet it was intriguing that a mistake should have been made about a man living in this particular neighbourhoodâand a man, one had to admit, who fitted in so well in character.

There was something mysterious about Venables. I had felt it from the first. He had, I was sure, first-class brains. And there was something about himâwhat word could I use?âthe word vulpine came to me. Predatoryâdestructive. A man, perhaps, too clever to be a killer himselfâbut a man who could organise killing very well if he wanted to.

As far as all that went, I could fit Venables into the part perfectly. The mastermind behind the scenes. But this chemist, Osborne, had claimed that he had seen Venables walking along a London street. Since that was impossible, then the identification was worthless, and the fact that Venables lived in the vicinity of the Pale Horse meant nothing.

All the same, I thought, I would like to have another look at Mr. Venables. So in due course I turned in at the gates of Priors Court and walked up the quarter mile of winding drive.

The same manservant answered the door, and said that Mr. Venables was at home. Excusing himself for leaving me in the hall, âMr. Venables is not always well enough to see visitors,â he went away, returning a few moments later with the information that Mr. Venables would be delighted to see me.

Venables gave me a most cordial welcome, wheeling his chair forward and greeting me quite as an old friend.

âVery nice of you to look me up, my dear fellow. I heard you were down here again, and was going to ring up our dear Rhoda this evening and suggest you all come over for lunch or dinner.â

I apologised for dropping in as I had, but said that it was a sudden impulse. I had gone for a walk, found that I was passing his gate, and decided to gate-crash.

âAs a matter of fact,â I said, âIâd love to have another look at your Mogul miniatures. I hadnât nearly enough time to see them properly the other day.â

âOf course you hadnât. Iâm glad you appreciate them. Such exquisite detail.â

Our talk was entirely technical after this. I must admit that I enjoyed enormously having a closer look at some of the really wonderful things he had in his possession.

Tea was brought in and he insisted that I partake of it.

Tea is not one of my favourite meals but I appreciated the smoky China tea, and the delicate cups in which it was served. There was hot buttered anchovy toast, and a plum cake of the luscious old-fashioned kind that took me back to teatime at my grandmotherâs house when I was a little boy.

âHomemade,â I said approvingly.

âNaturally! A bought cake never comes into this house.â

âYou have a wonderful cook, I know. Donât you find it difficult to keep a staff in the country, as far away from things as you are here?â

Venables shrugged his shoulders. âI must have the best. I insist upon it. Naturallyâone has to pay! I pay.â

All the natural arrogance of the man showed here. I said dryly: âIf one is fortunate enough to be able to do that, it certainly solves many problems.â

âIt all depends, you know, on what one wants out of life. If oneâs desires are strong enoughâthat is what matters. So many people make money without a notion of what they want it to do for them! As a result they get entangled in what one might call the moneymaking machine. They are slaves. They go to their offices early and leave late; they never stop to enjoy. And what do they get for it? Larger cars, bigger houses, more expensive mistresses or wivesâand, let me say, bigger headaches.â

He leaned forward.

âJust the getting of moneyâthat is really the be all and end all for most rich men. Plough it back into bigger enterprises, make more money still. But why? Do they ever stop to ask themselves why? They donât know.â

âAnd you?â I asked.

âIââ he smiled. âI knew what I wanted. Infinite leisure in which to contemplate the beautiful things of this world, natural and artificial. Since to go and see them in their natural surroundings has of late years been denied me, I have them brought from all over the world to me.â

âBut money still has to be got before that can happen.â

âYes, one must plan oneâs coupsâand that involves quite a lot of planningâbut there is no need, really no need nowadays, to serve any sordid apprenticeship.â

âI donât know if I quite understand you.â

âItâs a changing world, Easterbrook. It always has beenâbut now the changes come more rapidly. The tempo has quickenedâone must take advantage of that.â

âA changing world,â I said thoughtfully.

âIt opens up new vistas.â

I said apologetically:

âIâm afraid, you know, that youâre talking to a man whose face is set in the opposite directionâtowards the pastânot towards the future.â

Venables shrugged his shoulders.

âThe future? Who can foresee that? I speak of todayânowâthe immediate moment! I take no account of anything else. The new techniques are here to use. Already we have machines that can supply us with the answer to questions in secondsâcompared to hours or days of human labour.â

âComputers? The electronic brain?â

âThings of that kind.â

âWill machines take the place of men eventually?â

âOf men, yes. Men who are only units of manpowerâthat is. But Man, no. There has to be Man the Controller, Man the Thinker, who works out the questions to ask the machines.â

I shook my head doubtfully.

âMan, the Superman?â I put a faint inflection of ridicule into my voice.

âWhy not, Easterbrook? Why not? Remember, we knowâor are beginning to knowâsomething about Man the human animal. The practice of what is sometimes, incorrectly, called brainwashing has opened up enormously interesting possibilities in that direction. Not only the body, but the mind of man, responds to certain stimuli.â

âA dangerous doctrine,â I said.

âDangerous?â

âDangerous to the doctored man.â

Venables shrugged his shoulders.

âAll life is dangerous. We forget that, we who have been reared in one of the small pockets of civilisation. For that is all that civilisation really is, Easterbrook. Small pockets of men here and there who have gathered together for mutual protection and who thereby are able to outwit and control Nature. They have beaten the jungleâbut that victory is only temporary. At any moment, the jungle will once more take command. Proud cities that were, are now mere mounds of earth, overgrown with rank vegetation, and the poor hovels of men who just manage to keep alive, no more. Life is always dangerousânever forget that. In the end, perhaps, not only great natural forces, but the work of our own hands may destroy it. We are very near to that happening at this momentâ¦.â

âNo one can deny that, certainly. But Iâm interested in your theory of powerâpower over mind.â

âOh thatââ Venables looked suddenly embarrassed. âProbably I exaggerated.â

I found his embarrassment and partial withdrawal of his former claim interesting. Venables was a man who lived much alone. A man who is alone develops the need to talkâto someoneâanyone. Venables had talked to meâand perhaps not wisely.

âMan the Superman,â I said. âYouâve rather sold me on some modern version of the idea, you know.â

âThereâs nothing new about it, certainly. The formula of the Superman goes back a long way. Whole philosophies have been built on it.â

âOf course. But it seems to me that your Superman isâa Superman with a differenceâ¦ A man who could wield powerâand never be known to wield power. A man who sits in his chair and pulls the strings.â

I looked at him as I spoke. He smiled.

âAre you casting me for the part, Easterbrook? I wish it were indeed so. One needs something to compensate forâthis!â

His hand struck down on the rug across his knees, and I heard the sudden sharp bitterness in his voice.

âI wonât offer you my sympathy,â I said. âSympathy is very little good to a man in your position. But let me say that if we are imagining such a characterâa man who can turn unforeseen disaster into triumphâyou would be, in my opinion, exactly that type of man.â

He laughed easily.

âYouâre flattering me.â

But he was pleased, I saw that.

âNo,â I said. âI have met enough people in my life to recognise the unusual, the extra-gifted man, when I meet him.â

I was afraid of going too far; but can one ever, really, go too far with flattery? A depressing thought! One must take it to heart and avoid the pitfall oneself.

âI wondered,â he said thoughtfully, âwhat actually makes you say that? All this?â He swept a careless hand round the room.

âThat is a proof,â I said, âthat you are a rich man who knows how to buy wisely, who has appreciation and taste. But I feel that there is more to it than mere possession. You set out to acquire beautiful and interesting thingsâand you have practically hinted that they were not acquired through the medium of laborious toil.â

âQuite right, Easterbrook, quite right. As I said, only the fool toils. One must think, plan the campaign in every detail. The secret of all success is something quite simpleâbut it has to be thought of! Something simple. One thinks of it, and puts it into executionâand there you are!â

I stared at him. Something simpleâsomething as simple as the removal of unwanted persons? Fulfilling a need. An action performed without danger to anybody except the victim. Planned by Mr. Venables sitting in his wheeled chair, with his great hooked nose like the beak of a bird of prey, and his prominent Adamâs apple moving up and down. Executed byâwhom? Thyrza Grey?

I watched him as I said:

âAll this talk of remote control reminds me of something that odd Miss Grey said.â

âAh, our dear Thyrza!â His tone was smooth, indulgent (but had there been a faint flicker of the eyelids?). âSuch nonsense as those two dear ladies talk! And they believe it, you know, they really believe it. Have you been yetâ(Iâm sure theyâll insist on your going)âto one of these ridiculous sÃ©ances of theirs?â

I had a momentary hesitation whilst I decided rapidly what my attitude here ought to be.

âYes,â I said, âIâ I did go to a sÃ©ance.â

âAnd you found it great nonsense? Or were you impressed?â

I avoided his eyes and presented to my best ability a man who is ill at ease.

âIâoh wellâof course I didnât really believe in any of it. They seem very sincere butââ I looked at my watch. âIâd no idea it was so late. I must hurry back. My cousin will wonder what I am doing.â

âYou have been cheering up an invalid on a dull afternoon. My regards to Rhoda. We must arrange another luncheon party soon. Tomorrow I am going to London. There is an interesting sale at Sothebyâs. Medieval French ivories. Exquisite! You will appreciate them, I am sure, if I succeed in acquiring them.â

We parted on this amicable note. Was there an amused and malicious twinkle in his eye as he registered my awkwardness over the sÃ©ance? I thought so, but I could not be sure. I felt it quite likely that I was now imagining things.

Nineteen

Mark Easterbrookâs Narrative

I went out into the late afternoon. Darkness had already fallen, and since the sky was overcast, I moved rather uncertainly down the winding drive. I looked back once at the lighted windows of the house. In doing so, I stepped off the gravel onto the grass and collided with someone moving in the opposite direction.

It was a small man, solidly made. We exchanged apologies. His voice was a rich deep bass with a rather fruity and pedantic tone.

âIâm so sorryâ¦.â

âNot at all. Entirely my fault, I assure youâ¦.â

âI have never been here before,â I explained, âso I donât quite know where Iâm going. I ought to have brought a torch.â

âAllow me.â

The stranger produced a torch from his pocket, switched it on and handed it to me. By its light I saw that he was a man of middle age, with a round cherubic face, a black moustache and spectacles. He wore a good quality dark raincoat and can only be described as the acme of respectability. All the same, it did just cross my mind to wonder why he was not using his torch himself since he had it with him.

âAh,â I said rather idiotically. âI see. I have stepped off the drive.â

I stepped back on it, then offered him back the torch.

âI can find my way now.â

âNo, no, pray keep it until you get to the gate.â

âBut youâyou are going to the house?â

âNo, no. I am going the same way that you are. Erâdown the drive. And then up to the bus stop. I am catching a bus back to Bournemouth.â

I said, âI see,â and we fell into step side by side. My companion seemed a little ill at ease. He inquired if I also were going to the bus stop. I replied that I was staying in the neighbourhood.

There was again a pause and I could feel my companionâs embarrassment growing. He was the kind of man who does not like feeling in any way in a false position.

âYou have been to visit Mr. Venables?â he asked, clearing his throat.

I said that that was so, adding, âI took it that you also were on your way to the house?â

âNo,â he said. âNoâ¦ As a matter of factââ he paused. âI live in Bournemouthâor at least near Bournemouth. I have just moved into a small bungalow there.â

I felt a faint stirring in my mind. What had I recently heard about a bungalow at Bournemouth? Whilst I was trying to remember, my companion, becoming even more ill at ease, was finally impelled to speak.

âYou must think it very oddâI admit, of course, it is oddâto find someone wandering in the grounds of a house when theâerâperson in question is not acquainted with the owner of the house. My reasons are a little difficult to explain, though I assure you that I have reasons. But I can only say that although I have only recently settled in Bournemouth, I am quite well known there, and I could bring forward several esteemed residents to vouch for me personally. Actually, I am a pharmacist who has recently sold an old established business in London, and I have retired to this part of the world which I have always found very pleasantâvery pleasant indeed.â

Enlightenment came to me. I thought I knew who the little man was. Meanwhile he was continuing in full spate.

âMy name is Osborne, Zachariah Osborne, and as I say I haveâhad ratherâa very nice business in LondonâBarton StreetâPaddington Green. Quite a good neighbourhood in my fatherâs time, but sadly changed nowâoh yes, very much changed. Gone down in the world.â

He sighed, and shook his head.

Then he resumed:

âThis is Mr. Venablesâs house, is it not? I supposeâerâhe is a friend of yours?â

I said with deliberation:

âHardly a friend. I have only met him once before today, when I was taken to lunch with him by some friends of mine.â

âAh yesâ I seeâ¦ Yes, precisely.â

We had come now to the entrance gates. We passed through them. Mr. Osborne paused irresolutely. I handed him back his torch.

âThank you,â I said.

âNot at all. Youâre welcome. Iââ He paused, then words came from him in a rush.

âI shouldnât like you to thinkâ¦ I mean, technically, of course, I was trespassing. But not, I assure you, from any motive of vulgar curiosity. It must have seemed to you most peculiarâmy positionâand open to misconstruction. I really would like to explainâtoâerâclarify my position.â

I waited. It seemed the best thing to do. My curiosity, vulgar or not, was certainly aroused. I wanted it satisfied.

Mr. Osborne was silent for about a minute, then he made up his mind.

âI really would like to explain to you, Mr.âerââ

âEasterbrook. Mark Easterbrook.â

âMr. Easterbrook. As I say, I would welcome the chance of explaining my rather odd behaviour. If you have the timeâ? It is only five minutesâ walk up the lane to the main road. There is quite a respectable little cafÃ© at the petrol station close to the bus stop. My bus is not due for over twenty minutes. If you would allow me to offer you a cup of coffee?â

I accepted. We walked up the lane together. Mr. Osborne, his anguished respectability appeased, chatted cosily of the amenities of Bournemouth, its excellent climate, its concerts and the nice class of people who lived there.

We reached the main road. The petrol station was on the corner with the bus stop just beyond it. There was a small clean cafÃ©, empty except for a young couple in a corner. We entered and Mr. Osborne ordered coffee and biscuits for two.

Then he leaned forward across the table and unburdened himself.

âThis all stems from a case you may have seen reported in the newspapers some time ago. It was not a very sensational case, so it did not make the headlinesâif that is the correct expression. It concerned the Roman Catholic parish priest of the district in London where I haveâhadâmy shop. He was set upon one night and killed. Very distressing. Such happenings are far too frequent nowadays. He was, I believe, a good manâthough I myself do not hold with the Roman doctrine. However that may be, I must explain my particular interest. There was a police announcement that they were anxious to interview anyone who had seen Father Gorman on the night in question. By chance I had happened to be standing outside the door of my establishment that evening about eight oâclock and had seen Father Gorman go by. Following him at a short distance was a man whose appearance was unusual enough to attract my attention. At the time, of course, I thought nothing of the matter, but I am an observant man, Mr. Easterbrook, and I have the habit of mentally registering what people look like. It is quite a hobby of mine, and several people who have come to my shop have been surprised when I say to them, âAh yes, I think you came in for this same preparation last March?â It pleases them, you know, to be remembered. Good business, I have found it. Anyway, I described the man I had seen to the police. They thanked me and that was that.

âNow I come to the rather surprising part of my story. About ten days ago I came over to a church fÃªte in the little village at the bottom of the lane we have just walked upâand what was my surprise to see this same man I have mentioned. He must have had, or so I thought, an accident, since he was propelling himself in a wheeled chair. I inquired about him and was told he was a rich local resident of the name of Venables. After a day or two to debate the matter, I wrote to the police officer to whom I had made my original statement. He came down to BournemouthâInspector Lejeune was his name. He seemed sceptical, however, as to whether this was indeed the man I had seen on the night of the murder. He informed me that Mr. Venables had been crippled for some years, as a result of polio. I must, he said, have been misled by a chance resemblance.â

Mr. Osborne came to an abrupt halt. I stirred the pale fluid in front of me and took a cautious sip. Mr. Osborne added three lumps of sugar to his own cup.

âWell, that seems to settle that,â I said.

âYes,â said Mr. Osborne. âYesâ¦â His voice was markedly dissatisfied. Then he leaned forward again, his round bald head shining under the electric bulb, his eyes quite fanatical behind his spectaclesâ¦.

âI must explain a little more. As a boy, Mr. Easterbrook, a friend of my fatherâs, another pharmacist, was called to give evidence in the case of Jean Paul Marigot. You may rememberâhe poisoned his English wifeâan arsenical preparation. My fatherâs friend identified him in court as the man who signed a false name in his poison register. Marigot was convicted and hanged. It made a great impression on meâI was nine years old at the timeâan impressionable age. It was my great hope that someday, I, too, might figure in a cause cÃ©lÃ¨bre and be the instrument of bringing a murderer to justice! Perhaps it was then that I began to make a study of memorising faces. I will confess to you, Mr. Easterbrook, though it may seem to you quite ridiculous, that for many, many years now I have contemplated the possibility that some man, determined to do away with his wife, might enter my shop to purchase what he needed.â

âOr, I suppose, a second Madeleine Smith,â I suggested.

âExactly. Alas,â Mr. Osborne sighed, âthat has never happened. Or, if so, the person in question has never been brought to justice. That occurs, I would say, more frequently than it is quite comfortable to believe. So this identification, though not what I had hoped, opened up at least a possibility that I might be a witness in a murder case!â

His face beamed with childish pleasure.

âVery disappointing for you,â I said sympathetically.

âYe-es.â Again Mr. Osborneâs voice held that odd note of dissatisfaction.

âIâm an obstinate man, Mr. Easterbrook. As the days have passed by I have felt more and more sure that I was right. That the man I saw was Venables and no other. Oh!â he raised a hand in protest as I was about to speak. âI know. It was inclined to be foggy. I was some distance awayâbut what the police have not taken into consideration is that I have made a study of recognition. It was not just the features, the pronounced nose, the Adamâs apple; there is the carriage of the head, the angle of the neck on the shoulders. I said to myself âCome, come, admit you were mistaken.â But I continued to feel that I had not been mistaken. The police said it was impossible. But was it impossible? Thatâs what I asked myself.â

âSurely, with a disability of that kindââ

He stopped me by waving an agitated forefinger.

âYes, yes, but my experiences, under the National HealthâWell, really it would surprise you what people are prepared to doâand what they get away with! I wouldnât like to say that the medical profession are credulousâa plain case of malingering they will spot soon enough. But there are waysâways that a chemist is more likely to appreciate than a doctor. Certain drugs, for instance, other quite harmless-seeming preparations. Fever can be inducedâvarious rashes and skin irritationsâdryness of throat, or increase of secretionsââ

âBut hardly atrophied limbs,â I pointed out.

âQuite, quite. But who says that Mr. Venablesâs limbs are atrophied?â

âWellâhis doctor, I suppose?â

âQuite. But I have tried to get a little information on that point. Mr. Venablesâs doctor is in London, a Harley Street manâtrue, he was seen by the local doctor here when he first arrived. But that doctor has now retired and gone to live abroad. The present man has never attended Mr. Venables. Mr. Venables goes up once a month to Harley Street.â

I looked at him curiously.

âThat still seems to me to present no loophole for erâerââ

âYou donât know the things I know,â said Mr. Osborne. âA humble example will suffice. Mrs. H.âdrawing insurance benefits for over a year. Drew them in three separate placesâonly in one place she was Mrs. C. and in another place Mrs. Tâ¦. Mrs. C. and Mrs. T. lent her their cards for a consideration, and so she collected the money three times over.â

âI donât seeââ

âSupposeâjust supposeââ The forefinger was now wiggling excitedly, âour Mr. V. makes contact with a genuine polio case in poor circumstances. He makes a proposition. The man resembles him, let us say, in a general kind of way, no more. Genuine sufferer calling himself Mr. V. calls in specialist, and is examined, so that the case history is all correct. Then Mr. V. takes house in country. Local G.P. wants to retire soon. Again genuine sufferer calls in doctor, is examined. And there you are! Mr. Venables well documented as a polio sufferer with atrophied limbs. He is seen locally (when he is seen) in a wheeled chair, etc.â

âHis servants would know, surely,â I objected. âHis valet.â

âBut supposing it is a gangâthe valet is one of the gang. What could be simpler? Some of the other servants, too, perhaps.â

âBut why?â

âAh,â said Mr. Osborne. âThatâs another question, isnât it? I wonât tell you my theoryâI expect youâd laugh at it. But there you areâa very nice alibi set up for a man who might want an alibi. He could be here, there and everywhere, and nobody would know. Seen walking about in Paddington? Impossible! Heâs a helpless cripple living in the country, etc.â Mr. Osborne paused and glanced at his watch. âMy bus is due. I must be quick. I get to brooding about this you see. Wondered if I could do anything to prove it, as you might say. So I thought Iâd come out here (Iâve time on my hands, these days. I almost miss my business sometimes), go into the grounds andâwell, not to put too fine a point upon it, do a bit of spying. Not very nice, youâll sayâand I agree. But if itâs a case of getting at the truthâof bringing a criminal to bookâ¦ If, for instance, I spotted our Mr. Venables having a quiet walk around in the grounds, well, there you are! And then I thought, if they donât pull the curtains too soonâ(and you may have noticed people donât when daylight saving first endsâtheyâve got in the habit of expecting it to be dark an hour later)âI might creep up and take a peep. Walking about his library, maybe, never dreaming that anyone would be spying on him? Why should he? No one suspects him as far as he knows!â

âWhy are you so sure the man you saw that night was Venables?â

âI know it was Venables!â

He shot to his feet.

âMy bus is coming. Pleased to have met you, Mr. Easterbrook, and itâs a weight off my mind to have explained what I was doing there at Priors Court. I daresay it seems a lot of nonsense to you.â

âIt doesnât altogether,â I said. âBut you havenât told me what you think Mr. Venables is up to.â

Mr. Osborne looked embarrassed and a little sheepish.

âYouâll laugh, I daresay. Everybody says heâs rich but nobody seems to know how he made his money. Iâll tell you what I think. I think heâs one of those master criminals you read about. You knowâplans things, and has a gang that carries them out. It may sound silly to you but Iââ

The bus had stopped. Mr. Osborne ran for itâ

I walked home down the lane very thoughtfulâ¦ It was a fantastic theory that Mr. Osborne had outlined, but I had to admit that there might just possibly be something in it.

Twenty

Mark Easterbrookâs Narrative

I

Ringing up Ginger on the following morning, I told her that I was moving to Bournemouth the next day.

âIâve found a nice quiet little hotel called (heaven knows why) the Deer Park. Itâs got a couple of nice unobtrusive side exits. I might sneak up to London and see you.â

âYou oughtnât to really, I suppose. But I must say it would be rather heaven if you did. The boredom! Youâve no idea! If you couldnât come here, I could sneak out and meet you somewhere.â

Something suddenly struck me.

âGinger! Your voiceâ¦ Itâs different somehowâ¦.â

âOh that! Itâs all right. Donât worry.â

âBut your voice?â

âIâve just got a bit of a sore throat or something, thatâs all.â

âGinger!â

âNow look, Mark, anyone can have a sore throat. Iâm starting a cold, I expect. Or a touch of âflu.â

ââFlu? Look here, donât evade the point. Are you all right, or arenât you?â

âDonât fuss. Iâm all right.â

âTell me exactly how youâre feeling. Do you feel as though you might be starting âflu?â

âWellâperhapsâ¦ Aching a bit all over, you know the kind of thingââ

âTemperature?â

âWell, perhaps a bit of a temperatureâ¦.â

I sat there, a horrible cold sort of feeling stealing over me. I was frightened. I knew, too, that however much Ginger might refuse to admit it, Ginger was frightened also.

Her voice spoke again.

âMarkâdonât panic. You are panickingâand really thereâs nothing to panic about.â

âPerhaps not. But weâve got to take every precaution. Ring up your doctor and get him to come and see you. At once.â

âAll rightâ¦ Butâheâll think Iâm a terrible fusspot.â

âNever mind. Do it! Then, when heâs been, ring me back.â

After I had rung off, I sat for a long time staring at the black inhuman outline of the telephone. PanicâI mustnât give way to panicâ¦ There was always âflu about at this time of yearâ¦ The doctor would be reassuringâ¦perhaps it would be only a slight chillâ¦.

I saw in my mindâs eye Sybil in her peacock dress with its scrawled symbols of evil. I heard Thyrzaâs voice, willing, commandingâ¦ On the chalked floor, Bella, chanting her evil spells, held up a struggling white cockâ¦.

Nonsense, all nonsenseâ¦Of course it was all superstitious nonsenseâ¦

The boxânot so easy, somehow, to dismiss the box. The box represented, not human superstition, but a development of scientific possibilityâ¦ But it wasnât possibleâit couldnât be possible thatâ

Mrs. Dane Calthrop found me there, sitting staring at the telephone. She said at once:

âWhatâs happened?â

âGinger,â I said, âisnât feeling wellâ¦.â

I wanted her to say that it was all nonsense. I wanted her to reassure me. But she didnât reassure me.

âThatâs bad,â she said. âYes, I think thatâs bad.â

âItâs not possible,â I urged. âItâs not possible for a moment that they can do what they say!â

âIsnât it?â

âYou donât believeâyou canât believeââ

âMy dear Mark,â said Mrs. Dane Calthrop, âboth you and Ginger have already admitted the possibility of such a thing, or you wouldnât be doing what you are doing.â

âAnd our believing makes it worseâmakes it more likely!â

âYou donât go so far as believingâyou just admit that, with evidence, you might believe.â

âEvidence? What evidence?â

âGingerâs becoming ill is evidence,â said Mrs. Dane Calthrop.

I hated her. My voice rose angrily.

âWhy must you be so pessimistic? Itâs just a simple coldâsomething of that kind. Why must you persist in believing the worst?â

âBecause if itâs the worst, weâve got to face itânot bury our heads in the sand until itâs too late.â

âYou think that this ridiculous mumbo jumbo works? These trances and spells and cock sacrifices and all the bag of tricks?â

âSomething works,â said Mrs. Dane Calthrop. âThatâs what weâve got to face. A lot of it, most of it, I think, is trappings. Itâs just to create atmosphereâatmosphere is important. But concealed amongst the trappings, there must be the real thingâthe thing that does work.â

âSomething like radioactivity at a distance?â

âSomething of that kind. You see, people are discovering things all the timeâfrightening things. Some variation of this new knowledge might be adapted by some unscrupulous person for their own purposesâ Thyrzaâs father was a physicist, you knowââ

âBut what? What? That damned box! If we could get it examined? If the policeââ

âPolice arenât very keen on getting a search warrant and removing property without a good deal more to go on than weâve got.â

âIf I went round there and smashed up the damned thing?â

Mrs. Dane Calthrop shook her head.

âFrom what you told me, the damage, if there has been damage, was done that night.â

I dropped my head in my hands and groaned.

âI wish weâd never started this damned business.â

Mrs. Dane Calthrop said firmly: âYour motives were excellent. And whatâs done is done. Youâll know more when Ginger rings back after the doctor has been. Sheâll ring Rhodaâs, I supposeââ

I took the hint.

âIâd better get back.â

âIâm being stupid,â said Mrs. Dane Calthrop suddenly as I left. âI know Iâm being stupid. Trappings! Weâre letting ourselves be obsessed by trappings. I canât help feeling that weâre thinking the way they want us to think.â

Perhaps she was right. But I couldnât see any other way of thinking.

Ginger rang me two hours later.

âHeâs been,â she said. âHe seemed a bit puzzled, but he says itâs probably âflu. Thereâs quite a lot about. Heâs sent me to bed and is sending along some medicine. My temperature is quite high. But it would be with âflu, wouldnât it?â

There was a forlorn appeal in her hoarse voice, under its surface bravery.

âYouâll be all right,â I said miserably. âDo you hear? Youâll be all right. Do you feel very awful?â

âWellâfeverâand aching, and everything hurts, my feet and my skin. I hate anything touching meâ¦ And Iâm so hot.â

âThatâs the fever, darling. Listen, Iâm coming up to you! Iâm leaving nowâat once. No, donât protest.â

âAll right. Iâm glad youâre coming, Mark. I daresayâIâm not so brave as I thoughtâ¦.â

II

I rang up Lejeune.

âMiss Corriganâs ill,â I said.

âWhat?â

âYou heard me. Sheâs ill. Sheâs called her own doctor. He says perhaps âflu. It may be. But it may not. I donât know what you can do. The only idea that occurs to me is to get some kind of specialist onto it.â

âWhat kind of specialist?â

âA psychiatristâor psychoanalyst, or psychologist. A psycho something. A man who knows about suggestion and hypnotism and brainwashing and all that kind of thing. There are people who deal with that kind of thing?â

âOf course there are. Yes. There are one or two Home Office men who specialise in it. I think youâre dead right. It may be just âfluâbut it may be some kind of psycho business about which nothing much is known. Lord, Easterbrook, this may be just what weâve been hoping for!â

I slammed down the receiver. We might be learning something about psychological weaponsâbut all that I cared about was Ginger, gallant and frightened. We hadnât really believed, either of usâor had we? No, of course we hadnât. It had been a gameâa cops and robbers game. But it wasnât a game.

The Pale Horse was proving itself a reality.

I dropped my head into my hands and groaned.

Twenty-one

Mark Easterbrookâs Narrative

I

I doubt if I shall ever forget the next few days. It appears to me now as a kind of bewildered kaleidoscope without sequence or form. Ginger was removed from the flat to a private nursing home. I was allowed to see her only at visiting hours.

Her own doctor, I gather, was inclined to stand on his high horse about the whole business. He could not understand what the fuss was all about. His own diagnosis was quite clearâbronchopneumonia following on influenza, though complicated by certain slightly unusual symptoms, but that, as he pointed out, âhappens all the time. No case is ever âtypical.â And some people donât respond to antibiotics.â

And, of course, all that he said was true. Ginger had bronchopneumonia. There was nothing mysterious about the disease from which she was suffering. She just had itâand had it badly.

I had one interview with the Home Office psychologist. He was a quaint little cock robin of a man, rising up and down on his toes, with eyes twinkling through very thick lenses.

He asked me innumerable questions, half of which I could see no point in whatever, but there must have been a point, for he nodded sapiently at my answers. He entirely refused to commit himself, wherein he was probably wise. He made occasional pronouncements in what I took to be the jargon of his trade. He tried, I think, various forms of hypnotism on Ginger, but by what seemed to be universal consent, no one would tell me very much. Possibly because there was nothing to tell.

I avoided my own friends and acquaintances, yet the loneliness of my existence was insupportable.

Finally, in an excess of desperation, I rang up Poppy at her flower shop. Would she come out and dine with me. Poppy would love to do so.

I took her to the Fantasie. Poppy prattled happily and I found her company very soothing. But I had not asked her out only for her soothing qualities. Having lulled her into a happy stupor with delicious food and drink, I began a little cautious probing. It seemed to be possible that Poppy might know something without being wholly conscious of what it was she knew. I asked her if she remembered my friend Ginger. Poppy said, âOf course,â opening her big blue eyes, and asked what Ginger was doing nowadays.

âSheâs very ill,â I said.

âPoor pet.â Poppy looked as concerned as it was possible for her to look, which was not very much.

âShe got herself mixed up with something,â I said. âI believe she asked your advice about it. Pale Horse stuff. Cost her a terrible lot of money.â

âOh,â exclaimed Poppy, eyes wider still. âSo it was you!â

For a moment or two I didnât understand. Then it dawned upon me that Poppy was identifying me with the âmanâ whose invalid wife was the bar to Gingerâs happiness. So excited was she by this revelation of our love life that she quite failed to be alarmed by the mention of the Pale Horse.

She breathed excitedly:

âDid it work?â

âIt went a bit wrong somehow,â I added, âThe dog it was that died.â

âWhat dog?â asked Poppy, at sea.

I saw that words of one syllable would always be needed where Poppy was concerned.

âTheâerâbusiness seems to have recoiled upon Ginger. Did you ever hear of that happening before?â

Poppy never had.

âOf course,â I said, âthis stuff they do at the Pale Horse down in Much Deepingâyou know about that, donât you?â

âI didnât know where it was. Down in the country somewhere.â

âI couldnât quite make out from Ginger what it is they doâ¦.â

I waited carefully.

âRays, isnât it?â said Poppy vaguely. âSomething like that. From outer space,â she added helpfully. âLike the Russians!â

I decided that Poppy was now relying on her limited imagination.

âSomething of that kind,â I agreed. âBut it must be quite dangerous. I mean, for Ginger to get ill like this.â

âBut it was your wife who was to be ill and die, wasnât it?â

âYes,â I said, accepting the role Ginger and Poppy had planted on me. âBut it seems to have gone wrongâbackfired.â

âYou meanâ?â Poppy made a terrific mental effort. âLike when you plug an electric iron in wrong and you get a shock?â

âExactly,â I said. âJust like that. Did you ever know that sort of thing happen before?â

âWell, not that wayââ

âWhat way, then?â

âWell, I mean if one didnât pay upâafterwards. A man I knew wouldnât.â Her voice dropped in an awestricken fashion. âHe was killed in the tubeâfell off the platform in front of a train.â

âIt might have been an accident.â

âOh no,â said Poppy, shocked at the thought. âIt was THEM.â

I poured some more champagne into Poppyâs glass. Here, I felt, in front of me was someone who might be helpful if only you could tear out of her the disassociated facts that were flitting about in what she called her brain. She had heard things said, and assimilated about half of them, and got them jumbled up and nobody had been very careful what they said because it was âonly Poppy.â

The maddening thing was that I didnât know what to ask her. If I said the wrong thing she would shut up in alarm like a clam and go dumb on me.

âMy wife,â I said, âis still an invalid, but she doesnât seem any worse.â

âThatâs too bad,â said Poppy sympathetically, sipping champagne.

âSo what do I do next?â

Poppy didnât seem to know.

âYou see it was Ginger whoâI didnât make any of the arrangements. Is there anyone I could get at?â

âThereâs a place in Birmingham,â said Poppy doubtfully.

âThatâs closed down,â I said. âDonât you know anyone else whoâd know anything about it?â

âEileen Brandon might know somethingâbut I donât think so.â

The introduction of a totally unexpected Eileen Brandon startled me. I asked who Eileen Brandon was.

âSheâs terrible really,â said Poppy. âVery dim. Has her hair very tightly permed, and never wears stiletto heels. Sheâs the end.â She added by way of explanation, âI was at school with herâbut she was pretty dim then. She was frightfully good at geography.â

âWhatâs she got to do with the Pale Horse?â

âNothing really. It was only an idea she got. And so she chucked it up.â

âChucked what up?â I asked, bewildered.

âHer job with C.R.C.â

âWhatâs C.R.C.?â

âWell, I donât really know exactly. They just say C.R.C. Something about Customersâ Reactions or Research. Itâs quite a small show.â

âAnd Eileen Brandon worked for them? What did she have to do?â

âJust go round and ask questionsâabout toothpaste or gas stoves, and what kind of sponges you used. Too too depressing and dull. I mean, who cares?â

âPresumably C.R.C.â I felt a slight prickling of excitement.

It was a woman employed by an association of this kind who had been visited by Father Gorman on the fatal night. Andâyesâof course, someone of that kind had called on Ginger at the flatâ¦.

Here was a link of some kind.

âWhy did she chuck up her job? Because she got bored?â

âI donât think so. They paid quite well. But she got a sort of idea about itâthat it wasnât what it seemed.â

âShe thought that it might be connected, in some way, with the Pale Horse? Is that it?â

âWell, I donât know. Something of that kindâ¦ Anyway, sheâs working in an Espresso coffee bar off Tottenham Court Road now.â

âGive me her address.â

âSheâs not a bit your type.â

âI donât want to make sexual advances to her,â I said brutally. âI want some hints on Customers Research. Iâm thinking of buying some shares in one of those things.â

âOh, I see,â said Poppy, quite satisfied with this explanation.

There was nothing more to be got out of her, so we finished up the champagne, and I took her home and thanked her for a lovely evening.

II

I tried to ring Lejeune next morningâbut failed. However, after some difficulty I managed to get through to Jim Corrigan.

âWhat about that psychological pipsqueak you brought along to see me, Corrigan? What does he say about Ginger?â

âA lot of long words. But I rather think, Mark, that heâs truly baffled. And you know, people do get pneumonia. Thereâs nothing mysterious or out of the way about that.â

âYes,â I said. âAnd several people we know of, whose names were on a certain list, have died of bronchopneumonia, gastroenteritis, bulbar paralysis, tumour on the brain, epilepsy, paratyphoid and other well-authenticated diseases.â

âI know how you feelâ¦ But what can we do?â

âSheâs worse, isnât she?â I asked.

âWellâyesâ¦â

âThen somethingâs got to be done.â

âSuch as?â

âIâve got one or two ideas. Going down to Much Deeping, getting hold of Thyrza Grey and forcing her, by scaring the living daylights out of her, to reverse the spell or whatever it isââ

âWellâthat might work.â

âOrâI might go to Venablesââ

Corrigan said sharply:

âVenables? But heâs out. How can he possibly have any connection with it? Heâs a cripple.â

âI wonder. I might go there and snatch off that rug affair and see if this atrophied limbs business is true or false!â

âWeâve looked into all thatââ

âWait. I ran into that little chemist chap, Osborne, down in Much Deeping. I want to repeat to you what he suggested to me.â

I outlined to him Osborneâs theory of impersonation.

âThat manâs got a bee in his bonnet,â said Corrigan. âHeâs the kind of man who has always got to be right.â

âBut Corrigan, tell me, couldnât it be as he said? Itâs possible, isnât it?â

After a moment or two Corrigan said slowly,

âYes. I have to admit itâs possibleâ¦ But several people would have to be in the knowâand would have to be paid very heavily for holding their tongues.â

âWhat of that? Heâs rolling in money, isnât he? Has Lejeune found out yet how heâs made all that money?â

âNo. Not exactlyâ¦ Iâll admit this to you. Thereâs something wrong about the fellow. Heâs got a past of some kind. The moneyâs all very cleverly accounted for, in a lot of ways. It isnât possible to check up on it all without an investigation which might take years. The police have had to do that beforeâwhen theyâve been up against a financial crook who has covered his traces by a web of infinite complexity. I believe the Inland Revenue has been smelling around Venables for some time. But heâs clever. What do you see him asâthe head of the show?â

âYes. I do. I think heâs the man who plans it all.â

âPerhaps. He sounds as though heâd have the kind of brains for that, I agree. But surely he wouldnât have done anything so crude as killing Father Gorman himself!â

âHe might have if there was sufficient urgency. Father Gorman might have had to be silenced before he could pass on what he had learnt from that woman about the activities of the Pale Horse. Besidesââ

I stopped short.

âHalloâyou still there?â

âYes, I was thinkingâ¦ Just an idea that occurred to meâ¦â

âWhat was it?â

âIâve not got it clear yetâ¦ Just that real safety could only be achieved one way. I havenât worked it out yetâ¦Anyway, I must go now. Iâve got a rendezvous at a coffee bar.â

âDidnât know you were in the Chelsea coffee bar set!â

âIâm not. My coffee bar is in Tottenham Court Road, as a matter of fact.â

I rang off and glanced at the clock.

I started for the door when the telephone rang.

I hesitated. Ten to one, it was Jim Corrigan again, ringing back to know more about my idea.

I didnât want to talk to Jim Corrigan just now.

I moved towards the door whilst the telephone rang on persistently, naggingly.

Of course, it might be the hospitalâ Gingerâ

I couldnât risk that. I strode across impatiently and jerked the receiver off its hook.

âHallo?â

âIs that you, Mark?â

âYes, who is it?â

âItâs me, of course,â said the voice reproachfully. âListen, I want to tell you something.â

âOh, itâs you.â I recognised the voice of Mrs. Oliver. âLook here, Iâm in a great hurry, got to go out. Iâll ring you back later.â

âThat wonât do at all,â said Mrs. Oliver, firmly. âYouâve got to listen to me now. Itâs important.â

âWell, youâll have to be quick. Iâve got an appointment.â

âPooh,â said Mrs. Oliver. âYou can always be late for an appointment. Everybody is. Theyâll think all the more of you.â

âNo, really, Iâve got toââ

âListen, Mark. This is important. Iâm sure it is. It must be!â

I curbed my impatience as best I could, glancing at the clock.

âWell?â

âMy Milly had tonsilitis. She was quite bad and sheâs gone to the countryâto her sisterââ

I gritted my teeth.

âIâm frightfully sorry about that, but reallyââ

âListen. Iâve not begun yet. Where was I? Oh yes. Milly had to go to the country and so I rang up the agency I always go toâthe Regencyâsuch a silly name I always thinkâlike a cinemaââ

âI really mustââ

âAnd said what could they send? And they said it was very difficult just nowâwhich they always say as a matter of factâbut theyâd do what they couldââ

Never had I found my friend Ariadne Oliver so maddening.

ââand so, this morning a woman came along, and who do you think she turned out to be?â

âI canât imagine. Lookââ

âA woman called Edith Binnsâcomic name, isnât it?âand you actually know her.â

âNo, I donât. I never heard of a woman called Edith Binns.â

âBut you do know her and you saw her not very long ago. She had been with that godmother of yours for years. Lady Hesketh-Dubois.â

âOh, with her!â

âYes. She saw you the day you came to collect some pictures.â

âWell, thatâs all very nice and I expect youâre very lucky to find her. I believe sheâs most trustworthy and reliable and all that. Aunt Min said so. But reallyânowââ

âWait, canât you? I havenât got to the point. She sat and talked a great deal about Lady Hesketh-Dubois and her last illness, and all that sort of thing, because they do love illnesses and death and then she said it.â

âSaid what?â

âThe thing that caught my attention. She said something like: âPoor dear lady, suffering like she did. That nasty thing on her brain, a growth, they say, and she in quite good health up to just before. And pitiful it was to see her in the nursing home and all her hair, nice thick white hair it was, and always blued regularly once a fortnight, to see it coming out all over the pillow. Coming out in handfuls. And then, Mark, I thought of Mary Delafontaine, that friend of mine. Her hair came out. And I remembered what you told me about some girl youâd seen in a Chelsea coffee place fighting with another girl, and getting her hair all pulled out in handfuls. Hair doesnât come out as easily as that, Mark. You tryâjust try to pull your own hair, just a little bit of it, out by the roots! Just try it! Youâll see. Itâs not natural, Mark, for all those people to have hair that comes out by the roots. Itâs not natural. It must be some special kind of new illnessâit must mean something.â

I clutched the receiver and my head swam. Things, half-remembered scraps of knowledge, drew together. Rhoda and her dogs on the lawnâan article I had read in a medical journal in New YorkâOf courseâ¦ Of course!

I was suddenly aware that Mrs. Oliver was still quacking happily.

âBless you,â I said. âYouâre wonderful!â

I slammed back the receiver, then took it off again. I dialled a number and was lucky enough this time to get Lejeune straightaway.

âListen,â I said, âis Gingerâs hair coming out by the roots in handfuls?â

âWellâas a matter of fact I believe it is. High fever, I suppose.â

âFever my foot,â I said. âWhat Gingerâs suffering from, what theyâve all suffered from, is thallium poisoning. Please God, we may be in timeâ¦.â

Twenty-two

Mark Easterbrookâs Narrative

I

âAre we in time? Will she live?â

I wandered up and down. I couldnât sit still.

Lejeune sat watching me. He was patient and kind.

âYou can be sure that everything possible is being done.â

It was the same old answer. It did nothing to comfort me.

âDo they know how to treat thallium poisoning?â

âYou donât often get a case of it. But everything possible will be tried. If you ask me, I think sheâll pull through.â

I looked at him. How could I tell if he really believed what he was saying? Was he just trying to soothe me?

âAt any rate, theyâve verified that it was thallium.â

âYes, theyâve verified that.â

âSo thatâs the simple truth behind the Pale Horse. Poison. No witchcraft, no hypnotism, no scientific death rays. Plain poisoning! And she flung that at me, damn her. Flung it in my face. Laughing in her cheek all the while, I expect.â

âWho are you talking about?â

âThyrza Grey. That first afternoon when I went to tea there. Talked about the Borgias and all the build up of ârare and untraceable poisonsâ; the poisoned gloves and all the rest of it. âCommon white arsenic,â she said, âand nothing else.â This was just as simple. All that hooey! The trance and the white cocks and the brazier and the pentagrams and the voodoo and the reversed crucifixâall that was for the crudely superstitious. And the famous âboxâ was another bit of hooey for the contemporary-minded. We donât believe in spirits and witches and spells nowadays, but weâre a gullible lot when it comes to âraysâ and âwavesâ and psychological phenomena. That box, I bet, is nothing but a nice little assembly of electrical show-off, coloured bulbs and humming valves. Because we live in daily fear of radio fall out and strontium 90 and all the rest of it, weâre amenable to suggestion along the line of scientific talk. The whole setup at the Pale Horse was bogus! The Pale Horse was a stalking horse, neither more nor less. Attention was to be focused on that, so that weâd never suspect what might be going on in another direction. The beauty of it was that it was quite safe for them. Thyrza Grey could boast out loud about what occult powers she had or could command. She could never be brought into court and tried for murder on that issue. Her box could have been examined and proved to be harmless. Any court would have ruled that the whole thing was nonsense and impossible! And, of course, thatâs exactly what it was.â

âDo you think theyâre all three in it?â asked Lejeune.

âI shouldnât think so. Bellaâs belief in witchcraft is genuine, I should say. She believes in her own powers and rejoices in them. The same with Sybil. Sheâs got a genuine gift of mediumship. She goes into a trance and she doesnât know what happens. She believes everything that Thyrza tells her.â

âSo Thyrza is the ruling spirit?â

I said slowly:

âAs far as the Pale Horse is concerned, yes. But sheâs not the real brains of the show. The real brain works behind the scenes. He plans and organises. Itâs all beautifully dovetailed, you know. Everyone has his or her job, and no one has anything on anyone else. Bradley runs the financial and legal side. Apart from that, he doesnât know what happens elsewhere. Heâs handsomely paid, of course; so is Thyrza Grey.â

âYou seem to have got it all taped to your satisfaction,â said Lejeune drily.

âI havenât. Not yet. But we know the basic necessary fact. Itâs the same as it has been through the ages. Crude and simple. Just plain poison. The dear old death potion.â

âWhat put thallium into your head?â

âSeveral things suddenly came together. The beginning of the whole business was the thing I saw that night in Chelsea. A girl whose hair was being pulled out by the roots by another girl. And she said: âIt didnât really hurt.â It wasnât bravery, as I thought; it was simple fact. It didnât hurt.

âI read an article on thallium poisoning when I was in America. A lot of workers in a factory died one after the other. Their deaths were put down to astonishingly varied causes. Amongst them, if I remember rightly, were paratyphoid, apoplexy, alcoholic neuritis, bulbar paralysis, epilepsy, gastroenteritis, and so on. Then there was a woman who poisoned seven people. Diagnosis included brain tumour, encephalitis, and lobar pneumonia. The symptoms vary a good deal, I understand. They may start with diarrhoea and vomiting, or there may be a stage of intoxication, again it may begin with pain in the limbs, and be put down as polyneuritis or rheumatic fever or polioâone patient was put in an iron lung. Sometimes thereâs pigmentation of the skin.â

âYou talk like a medical dictionary!â

âNaturally. Iâve been looking it up. But one thing always happens sooner or later. The hair falls out. Thallium used to be used for depilation at one timeâparticularly for children with ringworm. Then it was found to be dangerous. But itâs occasionally given internally, but with very careful dosage going by the weight of the patient. Itâs mainly used nowadays for rats, I believe. Itâs tasteless, soluble, and easy to buy. Thereâs only one thing, poisoning mustnât be suspected.â

Lejeune nodded.

âExactly,â he said. âHence the insistence by the Pale Horse that the murderer must stay away from his intended victim. No suspicion of foul play ever arises. Why should it? Thereâs no interested party who could have had access to food or drink. No purchase of thallium or any other poison is ever made by him or her. Thatâs the beauty of it. The real work is done by someone who has no connection whatever with the victim. Someone, I think, who appears once and once only.â

He paused.

âAny ideas on that?â

âOnly one. A common factor appears to be that on every occasion some pleasant harmless-seeming woman calls with a questionnaire on behalf of a domestic research unit.â

âYou think that that woman is the one who plants the poison? As a sample? Something like that?â

âI donât think itâs quite as simple as that,â I said slowly. âI have an idea that the women are quite genuine. But they come into it somehow. I think we may be able to find out something if we talk to a woman called Eileen Brandon, who works in an Espresso off Tottenham Court Road.â

II

Eileen Brandon had been fairly accurately described by Poppyâallowing, that is to say, for Poppyâs own particular point of view. Her hair was neither like a chrysanthemum, nor an unruly birdsâ nest. It was waved back close to her head, she wore the minimum of makeup and her feet were encased in what is called, I believe, sensible shoes. Her husband had been killed in a motor accident, she told us, and left her with two small children. Before her present employment, she had been employed by a firm called Customersâ Reactions Classified for over a year. She had left of her own accord as she had not cared for the type of work.

âWhy didnât you care for it, Mrs. Brandon?â

Lejeune asked the question. She looked at him.

âYouâre a detective-inspector of police? Is that right?â

âQuite right, Mrs. Brandon.â

âYou think thereâs something wrong about that firm?â

âItâs a matter Iâm inquiring into. Did you suspect something of that kind? Is that why you left?â

âIâve nothing definite to go upon. Nothing definite that I could tell you.â

âNaturally. We understand that. This is a confidential inquiry.â

âI see. But there is really very little I could say.â

âYou can say why you wanted to leave.â

âI had a feeling that there were things going on that I didnât know about.â

âYou mean you didnât think it was a genuine concern?â

âSomething of the kind. It didnât seem to me to be run in a businesslike way. I suspected that there must be some ulterior object behind it. But what that object was I still donât know.â

Lejeune asked more questions as to exactly what work she had been asked to do. Lists of names in a certain neighbourhood had been handed out. Her job was to visit those people, ask certain questions, and note down the answers.

âAnd what struck you as wrong about that?â

âThe questions did not seem to me to follow up any particular line of research. They seemed desultory, almost haphazard. As thoughâhow can I put it?âthey were a cloak for something else.â

âHave you any idea what the something else might have been?â

âNo. Thatâs what puzzled me.â

She paused a moment and then said doubtfully:

âI did wonder, at one time, whether the whole thing could have been organised with a view perhaps to burglaries, a spying out of the land, so to speak. But that couldnât be it, because I was never asked for any description of the rooms, fastenings, etc, or when the occupants of the flat or house were likely to be out or away.â

âWhat articles did you deal with in the questions?â

âIt varied. Sometimes it was foodstuffs. Cereals, cake mixes, or it might be soap flakes and detergents. Sometimes cosmetics, face powders, lipsticks, creams, etc. Sometimes patent medicines or remedies, brands of aspirin, cough pastilles, sleeping pills, pep pills, gargles, mouthwashes, indigestion remedies and so on.â

âYou were not asked,â Lejeune spoke casually, âto supply samples of any particular goods?â

âNo. Nothing of that kind.â

âYou merely asked questions and noted down the answers?â

âYes.â

âWhat was supposed to be the object of these inquiries?â

âThat was what seemed so odd. We were never told exactly. It was supposed to be done in order to supply information to certain manufacturing firmsâbut it was an extraordinarily amateurish way of going about it. Not systematic at all.â

âWould it be possible, do you think, that amongst the questions you were told to ask, there was just one question or one group of questions, that was the object of the enterprise, and that the others might have been camouflage?â

She considered the point, frowning a little, then she nodded.

âYes,â she said. âThat would account for the haphazard choiceâbut I havenât the least idea what question or questions were the important ones.â

Lejeune looked at her keenly.

âThere must be more to it than what youâve told us,â he said gently.

âThatâs the point, there isnât really. I just felt there was something wrong about the whole setup. And then I talked to another woman, a Mrs. Davisââ

âYou talked to a Mrs. Davisâyes?â

Lejeuneâs voice remained quite unchanged.

âShe wasnât happy about things, either.â

âAnd why wasnât she happy?â

âSheâd overheard something.â

âWhat had she overheard?â

âI told you I couldnât be definite. She didnât tell me in so many words. Only that from what she had overheard, the whole setup was a racket of some kind. âItâs not what it seems to be.â That is what she said. Then she said: âOh well, it doesnât affect us. The moneyâs very good and weâre not asked to do anything thatâs against the lawâso I donât see that we need bother our heads about it.ââ

âThat was all?â

âThere was one other thing she said. I donât know what she meant by it. She said: âSometimes I feel like Typhoid Mary.â At the time I didnât know what she meant.â

Lejeune took a paper from his pocket and handed it to her.

âDo any of the names on that list mean anything to you? Did you call upon any of them that you can remember?â

âI wouldnât remember.â She took the paper. âI saw so manyâ¦â She paused as her eye went down the list. She said:

âOrmerod.â

âYou remember an Ormerod?â

âNo. But Mrs. Davis mentioned him once. He died very suddenly, didnât he? Cerebral haemorrhage. It upset her. She said, âHe was on my list a fortnight ago. Looked like a man in the pink of condition.â It was after that that she made the remark about Typhoid Mary. She said, âSome of the people I call on seem to curl up their toes and pass out just from having one look at me.â She laughed about it and said it was a coincidence. But I donât think she liked it much. However, she said she wasnât going to worry.â

âAnd that was all?â

âWellââ

âTell me.â

âIt was some time later. I hadnât seen her for a while. But we met one day in a restaurant in Soho. I told her that Iâd left the C.R.C. and got another job. She asked me why, and I told her Iâd felt uneasy, not knowing what was going on. She said: âPerhaps youâve been wise. But itâs good money and short hours. And after all, weâve all got to take our chance in this life! Iâve not had much luck in my life and why should I care what happens to other people?â I said: âI donât understand what youâre talking about. What exactly is wrong with that show?â She said: âI canât be sure, but Iâll tell you I recognised someone the other day. Coming out of a house where heâd no business to be and carrying a bag of tools. What was he doing with those Iâd like to know?â She asked me, too, if Iâd ever come across a woman who ran a pub called the Pale Horse somewhere. I asked her what the Pale Horse had to do with it.â

âAnd what did she say?â

âShe laughed and said âRead your Bible.ââ

Mrs. Brandon added: âI donât know what she meant. That was the last time I saw her. I donât know where she is now, whether sheâs still with C.R.C. or whether sheâs left.â

âMrs. Davis is dead,â said Lejeune.

Eileen Brandon looked startled.

âDead! Butâhow?â

âPneumonia, two months ago.â

âOh, I see. Iâm sorry.â

âIs there anything else you can tell us, Mrs. Brandon?â

âIâm afraid not. I have heard other people mention that phraseâthe Pale Horse, but if you ask them about it, they shut up at once. They look afraid, too.â

She looked uneasy.

âIâI donât want to be mixed up in anything dangerous, Inspector Lejeune. Iâve got two small children. Honestly, I donât know anything more than Iâve told you.â

He looked at her keenlyâthen he nodded his head and let her go.

âThat takes us a little further,â said Lejeune when Eileen Brandon had gone. âMrs. Davis got to know too much. She tried to shut her eyes to the meaning of what was going on, but she must have had a very shrewd suspicion of what it was. Then she was suddenly taken ill, and when she was dying, she sent for a priest and told him what she knew and suspected. The question is, how much did she know? That list of people, I should say, is a list of people she had called on in the course of her job, and who had subsequently died. Hence the remark about Typhoid Mary. The real question is, who was it she ârecognisedâ coming out of a house where he had no business to be, and pretending to be a workman of some kind? That must have been the knowledge that made her dangerous. If she recognised him, he may have recognised herâand he may have realised that she had recognised him. If sheâd passed on that particular item to Father Gorman, then it was vital that Father Gorman should be silenced at once before he could pass it on.â

He looked at me.

âYou agree, donât you? That must have been the way of it.â

âOh yes,â I said. âI agree.â

âAnd youâve an idea, perhaps, who the man is?â

âIâve an idea, butââ

âI know. We havenât a particle of evidence.â

He was silent a moment. Then he got up.

âBut weâll get him,â he said. âMake no mistake. Once we know definitely who it is, there are always ways. Weâll try every damned one of them!â

Twenty-three

Mark Easterbrookâs Narrative

It was some three weeks later that a car drove up to the front door of Priors Court.

Four men got out. I was one of them. There was also Detective-Inspector Lejeune and Detective-Sergeant Lee. The fourth man was Mr. Osborne, who could hardly contain his delight and excitement at being allowed to be one of the party.

âYou must hold your tongue, you know,â Lejeune admonished him.

âYes, indeed, Inspector. You can count on me absolutely. I wonât utter a word.â

âMind you donât.â

âI feel itâs a privilege. A great privilege, though I donât quite understandââ

But nobody was entering into explanations at this moment.

Lejeune rang the bell and asked for Mr. Venables.

Looking rather like a deputation, the four of us were ushered in.

If Venables was surprised at our visit, he did not show it. His manner was courteous in the extreme. I thought again, as he wheeled his chair a little back so as to widen the circle round him, what a very distinctive appearance the man had. The Adamâs apple moving up and down between the wings of his old-fashioned collar, the haggard profile with its curved nose like a bird of prey.

âNice to see you again, Easterbrook. You seem to spend a lot of time down in this part of the world nowadays.â

There was a faint malice in his tone, I thought. He resumed:

âAndâDetective-Inspector Lejeune, is it? That rouses my curiosity, I must admit. So peaceful in these parts, so free from crime. And yet, a detective-inspector calls! What can I do for you, Detective-Inspector?â

Lejeune was very quiet, very suave.

âThere is a matter on which we think you might be able to assist us, Mr. Venables.â

âThat has a rather familiar ring, does it not? In what way do you think I can assist you?â

âOn October seventhâa parish priest of the name of Father Gorman was murdered in West Street, Paddington. I have been given to understand that you were in the neighbourhood at that timeâbetween 7:45 and 8:15 in the evening, and you may have seen something that may have a bearing on the matter?â

âWas I really in the neighbourhood at that time? Do you know, I doubt it, I very much doubt it. As far as I can recall I have never been in that particular district of London. Speaking from memory, I do not even think I was in London at all just then. I go to London occasionally for an interesting day in the saleroom, and now and then for a medical checkup.â

âWith Sir William Dugdale of Harley Street, I believe.â

Mr. Venables stared at him coldly.

âYou are very well informed, Inspector.â

âNot quite so well as I should like to be. However, Iâm disappointed that you canât assist me in the way that I hoped. I think I owe it to you to explain the facts connected with the death of Father Gorman.â

âCertainly, if you like. It is a name I have never heard until now.â

âFather Gorman had been called out on that particular foggy evening to the deathbed of a woman nearby. She had become entangled with a criminal organisation, at first almost unwittingly, but later certain things made her suspect the seriousness of the matter. It was an organisation which specialised in the removal of unwanted personsâfor a substantial fee, naturally.â

âHardly a new idea,â murmured Venables. âIn Americaââ

âAh, but there were some novel features about this particular organisation. To begin with, the removals were ostensibly brought about by what might perhaps be called psychological means. What is referred to as a âdeath wish,â said to be present in everyone, is stimulatedââ

âSo that the person in question obligingly commits suicide? It sounds, if I may say so, Inspector, too good to be true.â

âNot suicide, Mr. Venables. The person in question dies a perfectly natural death.â

âCome now. Come now. Do you really believe that? How very unlike our hardheaded police force!â

âThe headquarters of this organisation are said to be a place called the Pale Horse.â

âAh, now I begin to understand. So that is what brings you to our pleasant rural neighbourhood; my friend Thyrza Grey, and her nonsense! Whether she believes it herself or not, Iâve never been able to make out. But nonsense it is! She has a silly mediumistic friend, and the local witch cooks her dinners (quite brave to eat themâhemlock in the soup any moment!). And the three old dears have worked up quite a local reputation. Very naughty, of course, but donât tell me Scotland Yard, or wherever you come from, take it all seriously?â

âWe take it very seriously indeed, Mr. Venables.â

âYou really believe that Thyrza spouts some highfalutinâ nonsense, Sybil throws a trance, and Bella does black magic, and as a result somebody dies?â

âOh no, Mr. Venablesâthe cause of death is simpler than thatââ He paused a moment.

âThe cause is thallium poisoning.â

There was a momentary pauseâ

âWhat did you say?â

âPoisoningâby thallium salts. Quite plain and straightforward. Only it had to be covered upâand what better method of covering up than a pseudoscientific, psychological setupâfull of modern jargon and reinforced by old superstitions. Calculated to distract attention from the plain fact of administration of poison.â

âThallium,â Mr. Venables frowned. âI donât think Iâve ever heard of it.â

âNo? Used extensively as rat poison, occasionally as a depilatory for children with ringworm. Can be obtained quite easily. Incidentally thereâs a packet of it tucked away in a corner of your potting shed.â

âIn my potting shed? It sounds most unlikely.â

âItâs there all right. Weâve examined some of it for testing purposesââ

Venables became slightly excited.

âSomeone must have put it there. I know nothing about it! Nothing at all.â

âIs that so? Youâre a man of some wealth, arenât you, Mr. Venables?â

âWhat has that got to do with what we are talking about?â

âThe Inland Revenue have been asking some awkward questions lately, I believe? As to source of income, that is.â

âThe curse of living in England is undoubtedly our system of taxation. I have thought very seriously of late of going to live in Bermuda.â

âI donât think youâll be going to Bermuda just yet awhile, Mr. Venables.â

âIs that a threat, Inspector? Because if soââ

âNo, no, Mr. Venables. Just an expression of opinion. Would you like to hear just how this little racket was worked?â

âYou are certainly determined to tell me.â

âItâs very well organised. Financial details are arranged by a debarred solicitor called Mr. Bradley. Mr. Bradley has an office in Birmingham. Prospective clients visit him there, and do business. This is to say, there is a bet on whether someone will die within a stated periodâ¦ Mr. Bradley, who is fond of a wager, is usually pessimistic in his prognostications. The client is usually more hopeful. When Mr. Bradley wins his bet, the money has to be paid over promptlyâor else something unpleasant is liable to happen. That is all Mr. Bradley has to doâmake a bet. Simple, isnât it?

âThe client next visits the Pale Horse. A show is put on by Miss Thyrza Grey and her friends, which usually impresses him in the way it is meant to do.

âNow for the simple facts behind the scenes.

âCertain women, bonafide employees of one of the many consumer research concerns, are detailed to canvass a particular neighbourhood with a questionnaire. âWhat bread do you prefer? What toilet articles and cosmetics? What laxative, tonics, sedatives, indigestion mixtures, etc.?â People nowadays are conditioned to answering quizzes. They seldom object.

âAnd so toâthe last step. Simple, bold, successful! The only action performed by the originator of the scheme in person. He may be wearing a mansion flat porterâs uniform, he may be a man calling to read the gas or the electric meter. He may be a plumber, or an electrician, or a workman of some kind. Whatever he is, he will have what appear to be the proper credentials with him if anyone asks to see them. Most people donât. Whatever role he is playing, his real object is simpleâthe substitution of a preparation he brings with him for a similar article which he knows (by reason of the C.R.C. questionnaires) that his victim uses. He may tap pipes, or examine meters, or test water pressureâbut that is his real object. Having accomplished it, he leaves, and is not seen in that neighbourhood again.

âAnd for a few days perhaps nothing happens. But sooner or later, the victim displays symptoms of illness. A doctor is called in, but has no reason to suspect anything out of the ordinary. He may question what food and drink, etc., the patient has taken, but he is unlikely to suspect the ordinary proprietary article that the patient has taken for years.

âAnd you see the beauty of the scheme, Mr. Venables? The only person who knows what the head of the organisation actually doesâis the head of the organisation himself. There is no one to give him away.â

âSo how do you know so much?â demanded Mr. Venables pleasantly.

âWhen we have suspicions of a certain person, there are ways of making sure.â

âIndeed? Such as?â

âWe neednât go into all of them. But thereâs the camera, for instance. All kinds of ingenious devices are possible nowadays. A man can be snapped without his suspecting the fact. Weâve got some excellent pictures, for instance, of a uniformed flat porter, and a gas man and so on. There are such things as false moustaches, different dentures, etc., but our man has been recognised, quite easilyâfirst by Mrs. Mark Easterbrook, alias Miss Katherine Corrigan, and also by a woman called Edith Binns. Recognition is an interesting thing, Mr. Venables. For instance, this gentleman here, Mr. Osborne, is willing to swear he saw you following Father Gorman in Barton Street on the night of the seventh of October about eight oâclock.â

âAnd I did see you!â Mr. Osborne leaned forward, twitching with excitement. âI described you exactly!â

âRather too exactly, perhaps,â said Lejeune. âBecause you didnât see Mr. Venables that night when you were standing outside the doorway of your shop. You werenât standing there at all. You were across the street yourselfâfollowing Father Gorman until he turned into West Street, and you came up with him and killed him.â¦â

Mr. Zachariah Osborne said:

âWhat?â

It might have been ludicrous. It was ludicrous! The dropped jaw, the staring eyesâ¦

âLet me introduce you, Mr. Venables, to Mr. Zachariah Osborne, pharmacist, late of Barton Street, Paddington. Youâll feel a personal interest in him when I tell you that Mr. Osborne, who has been under observation for some time, was unwise enough to plant a packet of thallium salts in your potting shed. Not knowing of your disability, heâd amused himself by casting you as the villain of the piece; and being a very obstinate, as well as a very stupid man, he refused to admit heâd made a bloomer.â

âStupid? You dare to call me stupid? If you knewâif youâd any idea what Iâve doneâwhat I can doâ Iââ

Osborne shook and spluttered with rage.

Lejeune summed him up carefully. I was reminded of a man playing a fish.

âYou shouldnât have tried to be so clever, you know,â he said reprovingly. âWhy, if youâd just sat back in that shop of yours, and let well alone, I shouldnât be here now, warning you, as itâs my duty to do, that anything you say will be taken down andââ

It was then that Mr. Osborne began to scream.

Twenty-four

Mark Easterbrookâs Narrative

âLook here, Lejeune, there are lots of things I want to know.â

The formalities over, I had got Lejeune to myself. We were sitting together with two large tankards of beer opposite us.

âYes, Mr. Easterbrook? I gather it was a surprise to you.â

âIt certainly was. My mind was set on Venables. You never gave me the least hint.â

âI couldnât afford to give hints, Mr. Easterbrook. You have to play these things close to your chest. Theyâre tricky. The truth is we hadnât a lot to go on. Thatâs why we had to stage the show in the way we did with Venablesâs cooperation. We had to lead Osborne right up the garden path and then turn on him suddenly and hope to break him down. And it worked.â

âIs he mad?â I asked.

âIâd say heâs gone over the edge now. He wasnât to begin with, of course, but it does something to you, you know. Killing people. It makes you feel powerful and larger than life. It makes you feel youâre God Almighty. But youâre not. Youâre only a nasty bit of goods thatâs been found out. And when that factâs presented to you suddenly your ego just canât stand it. You scream and you rant and you boast of what youâve done and how clever you are. Well, you saw him.â

I nodded. âSo Venables was in on the performance you put up,â I said. âDid he like the idea of cooperating?â

âIt amused him, I think,â said Lejeune. âBesides, he was impertinent enough to say that one good turn deserves another.â

âAnd what did he mean by that cryptic remark?â

âWell, I shouldnât be telling you this,â said Lejeune, âthis is off the record. There was a big outbreak of bank robberies about eight years ago. The same technique every time. And they got away with it! The raids were cleverly planned by someone who took no part in the actual operation. That man got away with a lot of money. We may have had our suspicions who it was, but we couldnât prove it. He was too clever for us. Especially on the financial angle. And heâs had the sense never to try and repeat his success. Iâm not saying more. He was a clever crook but he wasnât a murderer. No lives were lost.â

My mind went back to Zachariah Osborne. âDid you always suspect Osborne?â I asked. âRight from the beginning?â

âWell, he would draw attention to himself,â said Lejeune. âAs I told him, if heâd only sat back and done nothing, weâd never have dreamed that the respectable pharmacist, Mr. Zachariah Osborne, had anything to do with the business. But itâs a funny thing, thatâs just what murderers canât do. There they are, sitting pretty, safe as houses. But they canât let well alone. Iâm sure I donât know why.â

âThe desire for death,â I suggested. âA variant of Thyrza Greyâs theme.â

âThe sooner you forget all about Miss Thyrza Grey and the things she told you, the better,â said Lejeune severely. âNo,â he said thoughtfully, âI think really itâs loneliness. The knowledge that youâre such a clever chap, but that thereâs nobody you can talk to about it.â

âYou havenât told me when you started to suspect him,â I said.

âWell, straightaway he started telling lies. We asked for anyone whoâd seen Father Gorman that night to communicate with us. Mr. Osborne communicated and the statement he made was a palpable lie. Heâd seen a man following Father Gorman and he described the features of that man, but he couldnât possibly have seen him across the street on a foggy night. An aquiline nose in profile he might have seen, but not an Adamâs apple. That was going too far. Of course, that lie might have been innocent enough. Mr. Osborne might just want to make himself important. Lots of people are like that. But it made me focus my attention on Mr. Osborne and he was really rather a curious person. At once he started to tell me a lot about himself. Very unwise of him. He gave me a picture of someone who had always wanted to be more important than he was. Heâd not been content to go into his fatherâs old-fashioned business. Heâd gone off and tried his fortunes on the stage, but he obviously hadnât been a success. Probably, I should say, because he couldnât take production. Nobody was going to dictate to him the way he should play a part! He was probably genuine enough when he told of his ambition to be a witness in a murder trial, successfully identifying a man who had come in to buy poison. His mind ran on those lines a good deal, I should think. Of course we donât know at what point, and when, the idea occurred to him that he might become a really big criminal, a man so clever that he could never be brought to justice.

âBut thatâs all surmise. To go back. Osborneâs description of the man he had seen that night was interesting. It was so obviously a description of a real person whom he had at one time seen. Itâs extraordinarily difficult, you know, to make up a description of anybody. Eyes, nose, chin, ears, bearing, all the rest of it. If you try it youâll find yourself unconsciously describing somebody that youâve noticed somewhereâin a tram or a train or an omnibus. Osborne was obviously describing a man with somewhat unusual characteristics. Iâd say that he noticed Venables sitting in his car one day in Bournemouth and was struck by his appearanceâif heâd seen him that way, he wouldnât realise the man was a cripple.

âAnother reason that kept me interested in Osborne was that he was a pharmacist. I thought it just possible that that list we had might tie-up with the narcotic trade somewhere. Actually that wasnât so, and I might, therefore, have forgotten all about Mr. Osborne if Mr. Osborne himself hadnât been determined to keep in the picture. He wanted, you see, to know just what we were doing, and so he writes to say that heâs seen the man in question at a church fÃªte in Much Deeping. He still didnât know that Mr. Venables was a paralysis case. When he did find that out he hadnât the sense to shut up. That was his vanity. Typical criminalâs vanity. He wasnât going to admit for one moment that heâd been wrong. Like a fool, he stuck to his guns and put forward all sorts of preposterous theories. I had a very interesting visit to him at his bungalow in Bournemouth. The name of it ought to have given the show away. Everest. Thatâs what he called it. And heâd hung up a picture of Mount Everest in the hall. Told me how interested he was in Himalayan exploration. But that was the kind of cheap joke that he enjoyed. Ever rest. That was his tradeâhis profession. He did give people eternal rest on payment of a suitable fee. It was a wonderful idea, oneâs got to hand him that. The whole setup was clever. Bradley in Birmingham, Thyrza Grey holding her sÃ©ances in Much Deeping. And who was to suspect Mr. Osborne who had no connection with Thyrza Grey, no connection with Bradley and Birmingham, no connection with the victim. The actual mechanics of the thing was childâs play to a pharmacist. As I say, if only Mr. Osborne had had the sense to keep quiet.â

âBut what did he do with the money?â I asked. âAfter all, he did it for money presumably?â

âOh, yes, he did it for the money. Had grand visions, no doubt, of himself travelling, entertaining, being a rich and important person. But of course he wasnât the person he imagined himself to be. I think his sense of power was exhilarated by the actual performance of murder. To get away with murder again and again intoxicated him, and whatâs more, heâll enjoy himself in the dock. You see if he doesnât. The central figure with all eyes upon him.â

âBut what did he do with the money?â I demanded.

âOh, thatâs very simple,â said Lejeune, âthough I donât know that I should have thought of it unless Iâd noticed the way heâd furnished the bungalow. He was a miser, of course. He loved money and he wanted money, but not for spending. That bungalow was sparsely furnished and all with stuff that heâd bought cheap at sales. He didnât like spending money, he just wanted to have it.â

âDo you mean he banked it all?â

âOh no,â said Lejeune. âIâd say weâll find it somewhere under the floor in that bungalow of his.â

Both Lejeune and I were silent for some minutes while I contemplated the strange creature that was Zachariah Osborne.

âCorrigan,â said Lejeune dreamily, âwould say it was all due to some gland in his spleen or his sweetbread or something either overfunctioning or underproducingâI never can remember which. Iâm a simple manâI think heâs just a wrong âunâWhat beats meâit always doesâis how a man can be so clever and yet be such a perfect fool.â

âOne imagines a mastermind,â I said, âas some grand and sinister figure of evil.â

Lejeune shook his head. âItâs not like that at all,â he said. âEvil is not something superhuman, itâs something less than human. Your criminal is someone who wants to be important, but who never will be important, because heâll always be less than a man.â

Twenty-five

Mark Easterbrookâs Narrative

I

At Much Deeping everything was refreshingly normal.

Rhoda was busy doctoring dogs. This time, I think, it was deworming. She looked up as I came in and asked me if I would like to assist. I refused and asked where Ginger was.

âSheâs gone over to the Pale Horse.â

âWhat?â

âShe said she had something to do there.â

âBut the house is empty.â

âI know.â

âSheâll overtire herself. Sheâs not fit yetââ

âHow you fuss, Mark. Gingerâs all right. Have you seen Mrs. Oliverâs new book? Itâs called The White Cockatoo. Itâs over on the table there.â

âGod bless Mrs. Oliver. And Edith Binns, too.â

âWho on earth is Edith Binns?â

âA woman who has identified a photograph. Also faithful retainer to my late godmother.â

âNothing you say seems to make sense. Whatâs the matter with you?â

I did not reply, but set out for the Pale Horse.

Just before I got there, I met Mrs. Dane Calthrop.

She greeted me enthusiastically.

âAll along I knew I was being stupid,â she said. âBut I didnât see how. Taken in by trappings.â

She waved an arm towards the inn, empty and peaceful in the late autumn sunshine.

âThe wickedness was never thereânot in the sense it was supposed to be. No fantastic trafficking with the Devil, no black and evil splendour. Just parlour tricks done for moneyâand human life of no account. Thatâs real wickedness. Nothing grand or bigâjust petty and contemptible.â

âYou and Inspector Lejeune would seem to agree about things.â

âI like that man,â said Mrs. Dane Calthrop. âLetâs go into the Pale Horse and find Ginger.â

âWhatâs she doing there?â

âCleaning up something.â

We went in through the low doorway. There was a strong smell of turpentine. Ginger was busy with rags and bottles. She looked up as we entered. She was still very pale and thin, a scarf wound round her head where the hair had not yet grown, a ghost of her former self.

âSheâs all right,â said Mrs. Dane Calthrop, reading my thoughts as usual.

âLook!â said Ginger triumphantly.

She indicated the old inn sign on which she was working.

The grime of years removed, the figure of the rider on the horse was plainly discernible; a grinning skeleton with gleaming bones.

Mrs. Dane Calthropâs voice, deep and sonorous, spoke behind me:

âRevelation, Chapter Six, Verse Eight. And I looked and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him.â¦â

We were silent for a moment or two, and then Mrs. Dane Calthrop, who was not one to be afraid of anticlimax, said,

âSo thatâs that,â in the tone of one who puts something in the wastepaper basket.

âI must go now,â she added. âMothersâ Meeting.â

She paused in the doorway, nodded at Ginger, and said unexpectedly:

âYouâll make a good mother.â

For some reason Ginger blushed crimsonâ¦.

âGinger,â I said, âwill you?â

âWill I what? Make a good mother?â

âYou know what I mean.â

âPerhapsâ¦ But Iâd prefer a firm offer.â

I made her a firm offerâ¦.

II

After an interlude, Ginger demanded:

âAre you quite sure you donât want to marry that Hermia creature?â

âGood lord!â I said. âI quite forgot.â

I took a letter from my pocket.

âThis came three days ago, asking me if Iâd come to the Old Vic with her to see Loveâs Labourâs Lost.â

Ginger took the letter out of my hand and tore it up.

âIf you want to go to the Old Vic in future,â she said firmly, âyouâll go with me.â

The Agatha Christie Collection

THE HERCULE POIROT MYSTERIES

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The Mysterious Affair at Styles

The Murder on the Links

Poirot Investigates

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd

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Peril at End House

Lord Edgware Dies

Murder on the Orient Express

Three Act Tragedy

Death in the Clouds

The A.B.C. Murders

Murder in Mesopotamia

Cards on the Table

Murder in the Mews

Dumb Witness

Death on the Nile

Appointment with Death

Hercule Poirotâ€™s Christmas

Sad Cypress

One, Two, Buckle My Shoe

Evil Under the Sun

Five Little Pigs

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Taken at the Flood

The Underdog and Other Stories

Mrs. McGintyâ€™s Dead

After the Funeral

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The Moving Finger

A Murder Is Announced

They Do It with Mirrors

A Pocket Full of Rye

4:50 From Paddington

The Mirror Crackâ€™d from Side to Side

A Caribbean Mystery

At Bertramâ€™s Hotel

Nemesis

Sleeping Murder

Miss Marple: The Complete Short Stories

THE TOMMY AND TUPPENCE MYSTERIES

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Partners in Crime

N or M?

By the Pricking of My Thumbs

Postern of Fate

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Parker Pyne Investigates

Why Didnâ€™t They Ask Evans?

Murder Is Easy

The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories

And Then There Were None

Towards Zero

Death Comes as the End

Sparkling Cyanide

The Witness for the Prosecution and Other Stories

Crooked House

Three Blind Mice and Other Stories

They Came to Baghdad

Destination Unknown

Ordeal by Innocence

Double Sin and Other Stories

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Star over Bethlehem: Poems and Holiday Stories

Endless Night

Passenger to Frankfurt

The Golden Ball and Other Stories

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The Harlequin Tea Set

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About the Author

Agatha Christie is the most widely published author of all time and in any language, outsold only by the Bible and Shakespeare. Her books have sold more than a billion copies in English and another billion in a hundred foreign languages. She is the author of eighty crime novels and short-story collections, nineteen plays, two memoirs, and six novels written under the name Mary Westmacott.

She first tried her hand at detective fiction while working in a hospital dispensary during World War I, creating the now legendary Hercule Poirot with her debut novel The Mysterious Affair at Styles. With The Murder in the Vicarage, published in 1930, she introduced another beloved sleuth, Miss Jane Marple. Additional series characters include the husband-and-wife crime-fighting team of Tommy and Tuppence Beresford, private investigator Parker Pyne, and Scotland Yard detectives Superintendent Battle and Inspector Japp.

Many of Christieâ€™s novels and short stories were adapted into plays, films, and television series. The Mousetrap, her most famous play of all, opened in 1952 and is the longest-running play in history. Among her best-known film adaptations are Murder on the Orient Express (1974) and Death on the Nile (1978), with Albert Finney and Peter Ustinov playing Hercule Poirot, respectively. On the small screen Poirot has been most memorably portrayed by David Suchet, and Miss Marple by Joan Hickson and subsequently Geraldine McEwan and Julia McKenzie.

Christie was first married to Archibald Christie and then to archaeologist Sir Max Mallowan, whom she accompanied on expeditions to countries that would also serve as the settings for many of her novels. In 1971 she achieved one of Britainâ€™s highest honors when she was made a Dame of the British Empire. She died in 1976 at the age of eighty-five. Her one hundred and twentieth anniversary was celebrated around the world in 2010.

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THE AGATHA CHRISTIE COLLECTION

The Man in the Brown Suit

The Secret of Chimneys

The Seven Dials Mystery

The Mysterious Mr. Quin

The Sittaford Mystery

Parker Pyne Investigates

Why Didnâ€™t They Ask Evans?

Murder Is Easy

The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories

And Then There Were None

Towards Zero

Death Comes as the End

Sparkling Cyanide

The Witness for the Prosecution and Other Stories

Crooked House

Three Blind Mice and Other Stories

They Came to Baghdad

Destination Unknown

Ordeal by Innocence

Double Sin and Other Stories

The Pale Horse

Star over Bethlehem: Poems and Holiday Stories

Endless Night

Passenger to Frankfurt

The Golden Ball and Other Stories

The Mousetrap and Other Plays

The Harlequin Tea Set

The Hercule Poirot Mysteries

The Mysterious Affair at Styles

The Murder on the Links

Poirot Investigates

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd

The Big Four

The Mystery of the Blue Train

Peril at End House

Lord Edgware Dies

Murder on the Orient Express

Three Act Tragedy

Death in the Clouds

The A.B.C. Murders

Murder in Mesopotamia

Cards on the Table

Murder in the Mews

Dumb Witness

Death on the Nile

Appointment with Death

Hercule Poirotâ€™s Christmas

Sad Cypress

One, Two, Buckle My Shoe

Evil Under the Sun

Five Little Pigs

The Hollow

The Labors of Hercules

Taken at the Flood

The Underdog and Other Stories

Mrs. McGintyâ€™s Dead

After the Funeral

Hickory Dickory Dock

Dead Manâ€™s Folly

Cat Among the Pigeons

The Clocks

Third Girl

Halloweâ€™en Party

Elephants Can Remember

Curtain: Poirotâ€™s Last Case

The Miss Marple Mysteries

The Murder at the Vicarage

The Body in the Library

The Moving Finger

A Murder Is Announced

They Do It with Mirrors

A Pocket Full of Rye

4:50 from Paddington

The Mirror Crackâ€™d from Side to Side

A Caribbean Mystery

At Bertramâ€™s Hotel

Nemesis

Sleeping Murder

Miss Marple: The Complete Short Stories

The Tommy and Tuppence Mysteries

The Secret Adversary

Partners in Crime

N or M?

By the Pricking of My Thumbs

Postern of Fate

Memoirs

An Autobiography

Come, Tell Me How You Live

Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the authorâ€™s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

AGATHA CHRISTIEÂ® THE PALE HORSSEâ„¢. Copyright Â© 1961 Agatha Christie Limited (a Chorion company). All rights reserved.

THE PALE HORSE Â© 1962. Published by permission of G.P. Putnamâ€™s Sons, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, address HarperCollins Publishers, 10 East 53rd Street, New York, NY 10022.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

EPub Edition Â© MAY 2011 ISBN: 978-0-06-200670-7

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