The Pale Horse by Agatha Christie
He leaned forward and extracted a small ashtray.
“Tut, tut, sir, and you in the police force!”
He laughed heartily and Lejeune laughed with him. Then Mr. Osborne sighed.
“It’s a nice little place I’ve got here, sir. The neighbours seem pleasant and friendly. It’s the life I’ve been looking forward to for years, but I’ll 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. I’ve looked forward to having my little bit of garden, and I’ve got quite a lot of interests. Butterflies, as I told you, and a bit of bird-watching now and again. I didn’t realise that I’d miss what I might call the human element so much.
“I’d looked forward to going abroad in a small way. Well, I’ve taken one weekend trip to France. Quite nice, I must say—but I felt, very strongly, that England’s really good enough for me. I didn’t care for the foreign cooking, for one thing. They haven’t the least idea, as far as I can see, how to do eggs and bacon.”
He sighed again.
“Just shows you what human nature is. Looked forward no end to retiring, I did. And now—do you know I’ve actually played with the idea of buying a small share in a pharmaceutical business here in Bournemouth—just enough to give me an interest, no need to be tied to the shop all the time. But I’d feel in the middle of things again. It will be the same with you, I expect. You’ll make plans ahead, but when the time comes, you’ll miss the excitement of your present life.”
Lejeune smiled.
“A policeman’s life is not such a romantically exciting one as you think, Mr. Osborne. You’ve got the amateur’s view of crime. Most of it is dull routine. We’re not always chasing down criminals, and following up mysterious clues. It can be quite a dull business, really.”
Mr. Osborne looked unconvinced.
“You know best,” he said. “Good-bye, Mr. Lejeune, and I’m sorry indeed that I haven’t been able to help you. If there was anything—anytime—”
“I’ll let you know,” Lejeune promised him.
“That day at the fête, it seemed such a chance,” Osborne murmured sadly.
“I know. A pity the medical evidence is so definite, but one can’t get over that sort of thing, can one?”
“Well—” 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.
“Medical evidence,” he said. “Doctors indeed! If he knew half what I know about doctors—innocents, that’s what they are! Doctors indeed!”
Eleven
Mark Easterbrook’s 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 Calthrop’s urgent tones.
“You’ve got to DO something!”
All very well—to say things like that.
“You need someone to help you…”
I had needed Hermia. I had needed Corrigan. But neither of them would play. There was no one else.
Unless—
I sat—considering the idea.
On an impulse I went to the telephone and rang Mrs. Oliver.
“Hallo. Mark Easterbrook here.”
“Yes?”
“Can you tell me the name of that girl who was staying in the house for the fête?”
“I expect so. Let me see… Yes, of course, Ginger. That was her name.”
“I know that. But her other name.”
“What other name?”
“I doubt if she was christened Ginger. And she must have a surname.”
“Well, of course. But I’ve no idea what it is. One never seems to hear any surnames nowadays. It’s the first time I’d ever met her.” There was a slight pause and then Mrs. Oliver said, “You’ll have to ring up Rhoda and ask her.”
I didn’t like that idea. Somehow I felt shy about it.
“Oh, I can’t do that,” I said.
“It’s perfectly simple,” said Mrs. Oliver encouragingly. “Just say you’ve lost her address and can’t remember her name and you’d 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 you’d like.”
“One of those will do beautifully,” I assured her.
I rang off, dialled 100 and presently was speaking to Rhoda.
“Ginger?” said Rhoda. “Oh, she lives in a Mews. Calgary Place. Forty-five. Wait a minute. I’ll give you her telephone number.” She went away and returned a minute later. “It’s Capricorn 35987. Got it?”
“Yes, thanks. But I haven’t got her name. I never heard it.”
“Her name? Oh, her surname, you mean. Corrigan. Katherine Corrigan. What did you say?”
“Nothing. Thanks, Rhoda.”
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 Deeping—a 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 stockings—but otherwise she was the same Ginger. I liked her very much.
“I’ve had to do a lot of work to track you down,” I said. “Your surname and your address and your telephone number—all unknown. I’ve got a problem.”
“That’s 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.”
“You don’t have to buy anything,” I assured her.
Then I told her. It didn’t 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 didn’t want to see her reaction. I didn’t 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.
Ginger’s voice came briskly.
“That’s all, is it?”
“That’s all,” I admitted.
“What are you going to do about it?”
“You think— I should do something about it?”
“Well, of course! Someone’s got to do something! You can’t have an organisation going about bumping people off and not do anything.”
“But what can I do?”
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:
“You’ll have to find out what it all means.”
“I agree. But how?”
“There seem to be one or two leads. Perhaps I can help.”
“Would you? But there’s your job.”
“Plenty could be done out of office hours.” She frowned again as she thought.
“That girl,” she said at last. “The one at supper after the Old Vic. Poppy or something. She knows about it—she must do—to say what she did.”
“Yes, but she got frightened, and sheered off when I tried to ask her questions. She was scared. She definitely wouldn’t talk.”
“That’s where I can help,” said Ginger confidently. “She’d tell me things she wouldn’t tell you. Can you arrange for us to meet? You
I assured her that I could support the expense.
“As for you—” Ginger thought a minute. “I believe,” she said slowly, “that your best bet would be the Thomasina Tuckerton angle.”
“But how? She’s dead.”
“And 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 Luigi’s and whose young man she had pinched. She was going to marry him, perhaps. That wouldn’t suit the stepmother’s book—or the girl’s—if 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 girl’s name, or don’t you know?”
“I think it was Lou.”
“Ash-blonde lank hair, medium height, rather bosomy?”
I agreed with the description.
“I think I’ve met her about. Lou Ellis. She’s got a bit of money herself—”
“She didn’t look like it.”
“They don’t—but she has, all right. Anyway, she could afford to pay the Pale Horse’s fees. They don’t do it for nothing, I suppose.”
“One would hardly imagine so.”
“You’ll have to tackle the stepmother. It’s more up your street than mine. Go and see her—”
“I don’t know where she lives or anything.”
“Luigi knows something about Tommy’s home. He’ll 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. You’ve only got to go and look in their files.”
“I’ll have to have a pretext for tackling the stepmother,” I said thoughtfully.
Ginger said that that would be easy.
“You’re someone, you see,” she pointed out. “A historian, and you lecture and you’ve got letters after your name. Mrs. Tuckerton will be impressed, and probably tickled to death to see you.”
“And the pretext?”
“Some feature of interest about her house?” suggested Ginger vaguely. “Sure to have something if it’s an old one.”
“Nothing to do with my period,” I objected.
“She won’t know that,” said Ginger. “People 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 daughter—her stepdaughter—and say how sad etc…. And then, bring in, quite suddenly, a reference to the Pale Horse. Be a little sinister if you like.”
“And then?”
“And 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.”
“And if she does—what next?”
“The important thing is, that we’ll know we’re on the right track. Once we’re sure, we can go full steam ahead.”
She nodded thoughtfully.
“There’s something else. Why do you think the Grey woman told you all she did tell you? Why was she so forthcoming?”
“The commonsense answer is because she’s potty.”
“I don’t mean that. I mean—why you? You in particular? I just wondered if there might be some kind of tie-up?”
“Tie-up with what?”
“Wait just a minute—while I get my ideas in order.”
I waited. Ginger nodded twice emphatically and then spoke.
“Supposing—just supposing—it went like this. The Poppy girl knows all about the Pale Horse in a vague kind of way—not through personal knowledge, but by hearing it talked about. She sounds the sort of girl that wouldn’t be noticed much by anyone when they were talking—but she’d 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 she’s been scared, so she won’t talk. But the fact that you’ve come and asked her also gets around. Now what would be the reason for your asking questions? You’re not the police. The likely reason would be that you’re a possible client.”
“But surely—”
“It’s logical, I tell you. You’ve heard rumours of this thing—you want to find out about it—for your own purposes. Presently you appear at the fête in Much Deeping. You are brought to the Pale Horse—presumably because you’ve asked to be taken there—and what happens? Thyrza Grey goes straight into her sales talk.”
“I suppose it’s a possibility.” I considered… “Do you think she can do what she claims to do, Ginger?”
“Personally I’d be inclined to say of course she can’t! 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 o’clock, 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 you’re going to have cancer in two years’ time. It all sounds rather bogus—but perhaps not entirely bogus. About Thyrza—I don’t think it’s true—but I’m terribly afraid it might be!”
“Yes,” I said sombrely, “that explains it very well.”
“I might put in a bit of work on Lou,” said Ginger thoughtfully. “I know lots of places where I can run across her. Luigi might know a few things too.
“But the first thing,” she added, “is to get in touch with Poppy.”
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 Ginger’s instructions. We finally parted and I drove Ginger home.
“Not much to report,” she said cheerfully. “I’ve 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 didn’t care for her a bit, he was after her money—but she’d probably want to think that. Anyway, he dropped Lou like a hot coal and she was naturally sore about it. According to her, it wasn’t much of a row—just a few girlish high spirits.”
“Girlish high spirits! She tugged Tommy’s hair out by the roots.”
“I’m just telling you what Lou told me.”
“She seems to have been very forthcoming.”
“Oh, they all like talking about their affairs. They’ll talk to anyone who will listen. Anyway, Lou has got another boyfriend now—another dud, I’d say, but she’s already crazy about him. So it doesn’t look to me as though she’d been a client of the Pale Horse. I brought the term up, but it didn’t register. I think we can wash her out. Luigi doesn’t 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?”
“She was abroad. She comes back tomorrow. I’ve written her a letter—or rather I got my secretary to write it, asking for an appointment.”
“Good. We’re getting things moving. I hope everything doesn’t peter out.”
“If it gets us anywhere!”
“Something will,” said Ginger enthusiastically. “That 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.”
“She died. I don’t really know much about her. I think her name was Davis.”
?
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“If we could get at her background, we might find out how she knew what she did know.”
“I see your point.”
I got Jim Corrigan on the telephone early the next morning and put my query to him.
“Let me see now. We did get a bit further, but not much. Davis wasn’t her real name, that’s why it took a little time to check up on her. Half a moment, I jotted down a few things… 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.”
“What sort of a crook was Archer? And where is he now?”
“Oh, very small stuff. Pinched things from department stores. Unconsidered trifles here and there. He had a few convictions. As to where he is now, he’s dead.”
“Not much there.”
“No, there isn’t. The firm Mrs. Davis was working for at the time of her death, the C.R.C. (Customers’ Reactions Classified), apparently didn’t know anything about her, or her background.”
I thanked him and rang off.
Twelve
Mark Easterbrook’s Narrative
Three days later Ginger rang me up.
“I’ve got something for you,” she said. “A name and address. Write it down.”
I took out my notebook.
“Go ahead.”
“Bradley is the name and the address is Seventy-eight Municipal Square Buildings, Birmingham.”
“Well, I’m damned, what is all this?”
“Goodness knows! I don’t. I doubt if Poppy does really!”
“Poppy? Is this—”
“Yes. I’ve 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.”
“How did you set about it?” I asked curiously.
Ginger laughed.
“Girls-together stuff. You wouldn’t understand. The point is that if a girl tells things to another girl it doesn’t really count. She doesn’t think it matters.”