The Pale Horse

by Agatha Christie

  “I’m not quite sure,” said Corrigan. “Was she ever likely to have been blackmailed, would you say?”

  “Blackmailed?” I asked in lively astonishment. “I can imagine nothing more unlikely. What is this all about?”

  It was then I heard for the first time of the circumstances of Father Gorman’s murder.

  I laid down my spoon and asked,

  “This list of names? Have you got it?”

  “Not the original. But I copied them out. Here you are.”

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

  “Parkinson? I know two Parkinsons. Arthur who went into the Navy. Then there’s a Henry Parkinson in one of the Ministries. Ormerod—there’s a Major Ormerod in the Blues—Sandford—our old Rector when I was a boy was Sandford. Harmondsworth? No—Tuckerton—” I paused. “Tuckerton… Not Thomasina Tuckerton, I suppose?”

  Corrigan looked at me curiously.

  “Could be, for all I know. Who’s she and what does she do?”

  “Nothing now. Her death was in the paper about a week ago.”

  “That’s not much help, then.”

  I continued with my reading. “Shaw. I know a dentist called Shaw, and there’s Jerome Shaw, Q.C…. Delafontaine—I’ve heard that name lately, but I can’t remember where. Corrigan. Does that refer to you, by any chance?”

  “I devoutly hope not. I’ve a feeling that it’s unlucky to have your name on that list.”

  “Maybe. What made you think of blackmail in connection with it?”

  “It was Detective-Inspector Lejeune’s suggestion if I remember rightly. It seemed the most likely possibility—But there are plenty of others. This may be a list of dope smugglers or drug addicts or secret agents—it may be anything in fact. There’s only one thing sure, it was important enough for murder to be committed in order to get hold of it.”

  I asked curiously: “Do you always take such an interest in the police side of your work?”

  He shook his head.

  “Can’t say I do. My interest is in criminal character. Background, upbringing, and particularly glandular health—all that!”

  “Then why the interest in this list of names?”

  “Blessed if I know,” said Corrigan slowly. “Seeing my own name on the list, perhaps. Up the Corrigans! One Corrigan to the rescue of another Corrigan.”

  “Rescue? Then you definitely see this as a list of victims—not a list of malefactors. But surely it could be either?”

  “You’re entirely right. And it’s certainly odd that I should be so positive. Perhaps it’s just a feeling. Or perhaps it’s something to do with Father Gorman. I didn’t 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 can’t get it out of my head that he considered this list a matter of life or death….”

  “Aren’t the police getting anywhere?”

  “Oh yes, but it’s a long business. Checking here, checking there. Checking the antecedents of the woman who called him out that night.”

  “Who was she?”

  “No mystery about her, apparently. Widow. We had an idea that her husband might have been connected with horse racing, but that doesn’t 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 don’t know much about her. She came from the north of England—Lancashire. The only odd thing about her is that she had so few personal possessions.”

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  “I expect that’s true for a lot more people than we ever imagine. It’s a lonely world.”

  “Yes, as you say.”

  “Anyway, you decided to take a hand?”

  “Just nosing around. Hesketh-Dubois is an uncommon name. I thought if I could find out a little about the lady—” He left the sentence unfinished. “But from what you tell me, there doesn’t seem to be any possible lead there.”

  “Neither a dope addict nor a dope smuggler,” I assured him. “Certainly not a secret agent. Has led far too blameless a life to have been blackmailed. I can’t imagine what kind of a list she could possibly be on. Her jewellery she keeps at the bank so she wouldn’t be a hopeful prospect for robbery.”

  “Any other Hesketh-Duboises that you know about? Sons?”

  “No children. She’s got a nephew and a niece, I think, but not of that name. Her husband was an only child.”

  Corrigan told me sourly that I’d 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.

  “David? Mark here. That girl I met with you the other evening. Poppy. What’s her other name?”

  “Going to pinch my girl, is that it?”

  David sounded highly amused.

  “You’ve got so many of them,” I retorted. “You could surely spare one.”

  “You’ve got a heavyweight of your own, old boy. I thought you were going steady with her.”

  “Going steady.” 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 marry… I liked her better than anyone I knew. We had so much in common….

  For no conceivable reason, I felt a terrible desire to yawn… Our future stretched out before me. Hermia and I going to plays of significance—that mattered. Discussions of art—of 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.

  “Gone to sleep?” asked David.

  “Of course not. To tell the truth, I found your friend Poppy very refreshing.”

  “Good word. She is—taken 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.”

  He gave me the address.

  “Take her out and enjoy yourself,” he said in a kindly avuncular fashion. “You’ll find it a great relaxation. That girl knows nothing—she’s absolutely empty-headed. She’ll believe anything you tell her. She’s virtuous by the way, so don’t indulge in any false hopes.”

  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.

  “We met the other night—with David Ardingly,” I reminded her.

  “Oh yes!” agreed Poppy warmly, her eyes passing vaguely over my head.

  “I wanted to ask you something.” I felt sudden qualms. “Perhaps I’d better buy some flowers?”

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

  “We’ve some lovely roses, fresh in today.”

  “These yellow ones, perhaps?” There were roses everywhere. “How much are they?”

  “Vewy vewy cheap,” said Poppy in a honeyed persuasive voice. “Only five shillings each.”

  I swallowed and said I would have six of them.

  “And some of these vewy special leaves with them?”

  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 Poppy’s estimation.

  “There was something I wanted to ask you
,” I reiterated as Poppy was rather clumsily draping the asparagus fern round the roses. “The other evening you mentioned something called the Pale Horse.”

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

  “Can you tell me more about it?”

  Poppy straightened herself after stooping.

  “What did you say?” she asked.

  “I was asking you about the Pale Horse.”

  “A pale horse? What do you mean?”

  “You mentioned it the other evening.”

  “I’m sure I never did anything of the kind! I’ve never heard of any such thing.”

  “Somebody told you about it. Who was it?”

  Poppy drew a deep breath and spoke very fast.

  “I don’t in the least know what you mean! And we’re not supposed to talk to customers.”… She slapped paper round my choice. “That will be thirty-five shillings, please.”

  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 eyes….

  “Scared,” I said to myself. “Scared stiff… Now why? Why?”

  Five

  Mark Easterbrook’s Narrative

  “What a relief,” sighed Mrs. Oliver. “To think it’s over and nothing has happened!”

  It was a moment of relaxation. Rhoda’s fête had passed off in the manner of fêtes. 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 Rhoda’s 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 fête, which she did very charmingly, adding a few moving words about the plight of refugees which puzzled everybody, since the object of the fête 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.

  “We shall take more than we did for the Save the Children last year,” said Rhoda gleefully.

  “It seems very extraordinary to me,” said Miss Macalister, the children’s Scottish nursery governess, “that Michael Brent should find the buried treasure three years in succession. I’m wondering if he gets some advance information?”

  “Lady Brookbank won the pig,” said Rhoda. “I don’t think she wanted it. She looked terribly embarrassed.”

  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.

  “As Horace says…” he observed, beaming round the table.

  The usual pause happened and then:

  “I think Mrs. Horsefall cheated over the bottle of champagne,” said Ginger thoughtfully. “Her nephew got it.”

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

  “What did you expect to happen at this fête?”

  “Well, really, a murder or something like that?”

  Mrs. Dane Calthrop looked interested.

  “But why should it?”

  “No reason at all. Most unlikely, really. But there was one at the last fête I went to.”

  “I see. And it upset you?”

  “Very much.”

  The vicar changed from Latin to Greek.

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

  “Very sporting of old Lugg at the King’s Arms to send us twelve dozen beer for the bottle stall,” said Despard.

  “King’s Arms?” I asked sharply.

  “Our local, darling,” said Rhoda.

  “Isn’t there another pub round here? The—Pale Horse, didn’t you say,” 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.

  “The Pale Horse isn’t a pub,” said Rhoda. “I mean, not now.”

  “It was an old inn,” said Despard. “Mostly sixteenth century I’d say. But it’s just an ordinary house now. I always think they should have changed the name.”

  “Oh, no,” exclaimed Ginger. “It would have been awfully silly to call it Wayside, or Fairview. I think the Pale Horse is much nicer, and there’s a lovely old inn sign. They’ve got it framed in the hall.”

  “Who’s they?” I asked.

  “It belongs to Thyrza Grey,” said Rhoda. “I don’t know if you saw her today? Tall woman with short grey hair.”

  “She’s very occult,” said Despard. “Goes in for spiritualism and trances, and magic. Not quite black masses, but that sort of thing.”

  Ginger gave a sudden peal of laughter.

  “I’m sorry,” she said apologetically. “I was just thinking of Miss Grey as Madame de Montespan on a black velvet altar.”

  “Ginger!” said Rhoda. “Not in front of the vicar.”

  “Sorry, Mr. Dane Calthrop.”

  “Not at all,” said the vicar, beaming. “As the ancients put it—” he continued for some time in Greek.

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

  “I still want to know who are ‘they’—Miss Grey and who else?”

  “Oh, there’s a friend who lives with her. Sybil Stamfordis. She acts as medium, I believe. You must have seen her about—Lots of scarabs and beads—and sometimes she puts on a sari—I can’t think why—she’s never been in India—”

  “And then there’s Bella,” said Mrs. Dane Calthrop. “She’s their cook,” she explained. “And she’s 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.”

  She spoke in a matter-of-fact way.

  “You sound as though you believe in witchcraft, Mrs. Dane Calthrop,” I said.

  “But of course! There’s nothing mysterious or secretive about it. It’s all quite matter-of-fact. It’s 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.”

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

  “Sybil helped us today by telling fortunes,” said Rhoda. “She was in the green tent. She’s quite good at it, I believe.”

  “She gave me a lo
vely fortune,” said Ginger. “Money in my hand. A handsome dark stranger from overseas, two husbands and six children. Really very generous.”

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

  “Poor Tom,” said her husband. “Did he make any comeback?”

  “Oh, yes. ‘I’m not telling you what she promised me,’ he said. ‘Mebbe you wouldn’t like it too well, my girl!’”

  “Good for Tom.”

  “Old Mrs. Parker was quite sour,” said Ginger, laughing. “‘’Tis all foolishness,’ that’s what she said. ‘Don’t you believe none of it, you two.’ But then Mrs. Cripps piped up and said, ‘You know, Lizzie, as well as I do, that Miss Stamfordis sees things as others can’t see, and Miss Grey knows to a day when there’s going to be a death. Never wrong, she is! Fairly gives me the creeps sometimes.’ And Mrs. Parker said: ‘Death—that’s different. It’s a gift.’ And Mrs. Cripps said: ‘Anyway I wouldn’t like to offend none of those three, that I wouldn’t!’”

  “It does all sound exciting. I’d love to meet them,” said Mrs. Oliver wistfully.

  “We’ll take you over there tomorrow,” Colonel Despard promised. “The old inn is really worth seeing. They’ve been very clever in making it comfortable without spoiling its character.”

  “I’ll ring up Thyrza tomorrow morning,” 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 caterer’s 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.