The Pale Horse

by Agatha Christie

  “Sure to,” Ginger agreed.

  “It’s all very well to invent a fictitious wife, resurrected from the past—but they’ll want details—where she lives—all that. And when I try to hedge—”

  “You won’t need to hedge. To do the thing properly the wife has got to be there—and she will be there!—

  “Brace yourself,” said Ginger. “I’m your wife!”

  II

  I stared at her. Goggled, I suppose, would be a better term. I wonder, really, that she didn’t burst out laughing.

  I was just recovering myself when she spoke again.

  “There’s no need to be so taken aback,” she said. “It’s not a proposal.”

  I found my tongue.

  “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

  “Of course I do. What I’m suggesting is perfectly feasible—and it has the advantage of not dragging some innocent person into possible danger.”

  “It’s putting yourself in danger.”

  “That’s my lookout.”

  “No, it isn’t. And anyway, it wouldn’t hold water for a moment.”

  “Oh yes, it would. I’ve 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. Easterbrook—and who on earth is to say I’m not Mrs. Easterbrook?”

  “Anyone who knows you.”

  “Anyone who knows me won’t see me. I’m away from my job, ill. A spot of hair dye—what was your wife, by the way, dark or blonde?—not that it really matters.”

  “Dark,” I said mechanically.

  “Good, I’d hate a bleach. Different clothes and lots of makeup, and my best friend wouldn’t look at me twice! And since you haven’t had a wife in evidence for the last fifteen years or so—no one’s likely to spot that I’m not her. Why should anyone in the Pale Horse doubt that I’m who I say I am? If you’re prepared to sign papers wagering large sums of money that I’ll stay alive, there’s not likely to be any doubt as to my being the bona fide article. You’re not connected with the police in any way—you’re 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 that—so why should there by any doubts?”

  “You don’t realise the difficulties—the risk.”

  “Risk—Hell!” said Ginger. “I’d love to help you win a miserly hundred pounds or whatever it is from that shark Bradley.”

  I looked at her. I liked her very much… Her red hair, her freckles, her gallant spirit. But I couldn’t let her take the risks she wanted to take.

  “I can’t stand for it, Ginger,” I said. “Suppose—something happened.”

  “To me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Isn’t that my affair?”

  “No. I got you in on all this.”

  She nodded thoughtfully.

  “Yes, perhaps you did. But who got there first doesn’t matter much. We’re both in it now—and we’ve got to do something. I’m being serious now, Mark. I’m not pretending this is all just fun. If what we believe to be true is true, it’s a sickening beastly thing. And it’s got to be stopped! You see, it’s not hot-blooded murder, from hate or jealousy; it’s not even murder from cupidity, the human frailty of murder for gain but taking the risk yourself. It’s murder as a business—murder that takes no account of who or what the victim may be.

  “That is,” she added, “if the whole thing is true?”

  She looked at me in momentary doubt.

  “It is true,” I said. “That’s why I’m afraid for you.”

  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.

  “It’s like this. I’m forewarned and forearmed. I know what someone is trying to do to me. And I don’t believe for one moment she can do it! If everyone’s got a ‘desire for death’ mine isn’t well developed! I’ve good health. And I simply cannot believe that I’ll develop gallstones, or meningitis just because—old Thyrza draws pentagrams on the floor, or Sybil throws a trance—or whatever it is those women do do.”

  “Bella sacrifices a white cock, I should imagine,” I said thoughtfully.

  “You must admit it’s all terribly bogus!”

  “We don’t know what actually does happen,” I pointed out.

  “No. That’s why it’s 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 can’t!”

  “No,” I said. “I can’t believe it.

  “But,” I added. “I do….”

  We looked at each other.

  “Yes,” said Ginger. “That’s our weakness.”

  “Look here,” I said. “Let’s make it the other way round. Let me be the one in London. You be the client. We can cook up something—”

  But Ginger was vigorously shaking her head.

  “No, Mark,” she said. “It won’t work that way. For several reasons. The most important is that I’m known at the Pale Horse already—as my carefree self. They could get all the dope about my life from Rhoda—and there’s nothing there. But you are in the ideal position already—you’re a nervous client, sniffing around, not able yet to commit yourself. No, it’s got to be this way.”

  “I don’t like it. I don’t like to think of you—alone in some place under a false name—with nobody to keep an eye on you. I think, before we embark on this, we ought to go to the police—now—before we try anything else.”

  “I’m agreeable to that,” said Ginger slowly. “In fact I think it’s what you ought to do. You’ve got something to go on. What police? Scotland Yard?”

  “No,” I said. “I think Divisional Detective-Inspector Lejeune is the best bet.”

  Fifteen

  Mark Easterbrook’s 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 man—the kind of man who would be willing to consider possibilities that were not orthodox.

  He said:

  “Dr. Corrigan has told me of his meeting with you. He’s 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?”

  “It concerns,” I said, “a place called the Pale Horse.”

  “In, I understand, a village called Much Deeping?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  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 “three weird sisters.” I related, as accurately as I could, Thyrza Grey’s conversation on that particular afternoon.

  “And you were impressed by what she said?”

  I felt embarrassed.

  “Well, not really. I mean, I didn’t seriously believe—”

  “Didn’t you, Mr. Easterbrook? I rather think you did.”

  “I suppose you’re right. One just doesn’t like admitting how credulous one is.”

  Lejeune smiled.

  “But you’ve left something out, haven’t you? You were already interested when you came to Much Deeping—why?”

  “I think it was the girl looking so scared.”

  “The young lady in the flower shop?”

  “Yes. She’d thrown out her remark about the Pale Horse so casually. Her being so scared seemed to underline the fact that there was—well, 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.”

  “That would be Mrs. Delafontaine?”

  “Yes.”

  “Go on.�
��

  “I made up my mind that I’d got to find out more about this business.”

  “And you set about it. How?”

  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.

  “Bradley,” he said. “So Bradley’s in this?”

  “You know him?”

  “Oh yes, we know all about Mr. Bradley. He’s given us a lot of trouble. He’s 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. He’s always just on the right side of the line. He’s the kind of man who could write a book like those old cookery books, “A hundred ways of evading the law.” But murder, such a thing as organised murder—I should have said that that was right off his beat. Yes—right off his beat—”

  “Now that I’ve told you about our conversation, could you act upon it?”

  Lejeune slowly shook his head.

  “No, we couldn’t 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 won’t die—and he loses. What is there criminal about that? Unless we can connect Bradley in some way with the actual crime in question—and that, I imagine, will not be easy.”

  He left it with a shrug of his shoulders. He paused a minute and then said,

  “Did you, by any chance, come across a man called Venables when you were down in Much Deeping?”

  “Yes,” I said, “I did. I was taken over to lunch with him one day.”

  “Ah! What impression, if I may ask, did he make upon you?”

  “A very powerful impression. He’s a man of great personality. An invalid.”

  “Yes. Crippled by polio.”

  “He can only move about in a wheeled chair. But his disability seems to have heightened his determination to live and enjoy living.”

  “Tell me all you can about him.”

  I described Venables’s house, his art treasures, the range and sweep of his interests.

  Lejeune said:

  “It’s a pity.”

  “What is a pity?”

  He said drily: “That Venables is a cripple.”

  “Excuse me, but you are quite certain he really is a cripple? He couldn’t be—well—faking the whole thing?”

  “We’re 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 William’s 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 he’s wrong.”

  “I see.”

  “As I say, it’s 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.”

  “Yes; that’s what I thought.”

  With his forefinger Lejeune traced interlacing circles on the table in front of him. Then he looked up sharply.

  “Let’s assemble what we’ve got; adding to our own knowledge the knowledge you’ve 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. There’s nothing crude about the organisation. It doesn’t employ ordinary thugs or gunmen… There’s nothing to show that the victims haven’t died a perfectly natural death. I may say that in addition to the three deaths you’ve mentioned, we’ve got a certain amount of rather indefinite information about some of the others—deaths were from natural causes in each instance, but there were those who profited by these deaths. No evidence, mind you.

  “It’s clever, damnably clever, Mr. Easterbrook. Whoever thought it out—and it’s been thought out in great detail—has brains. We’ve only got hold of a few scattered names. Heaven knows how many more of them there are—how widespread the whole thing may be. And we’ve 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.”

  He shook his head angrily, and then went on:

  “This 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 spells—or what have you. She wouldn’t be guilty according to the law. She’s never been near the people who died, we’ve checked on that, she hasn’t 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!”

  I murmured:

  “But Lu and Aengus laugh not. Nor any in the high celestial House.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Sorry. A quotation from the ‘Immortal Hour.’”

  “Well, it’s true enough. The devils in Hell are laughing but not the Host of Heaven. It’s an—an evil business, Mr. Easterbrook.”

  “Yes,” I said. “It’s a word that we don’t use very much nowadays. But it’s the only word applicable here. That’s why—”

  “Yes?”

  Lejeune looked at me inquiringly.

  I spoke in a rush. “I think there’s a chance—a possible chance—of 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 silly—”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.”

  “First of all, I take it from what you’ve said, that you are sure in your mind that there is such an organisation as the one we’ve been discussing, and that it works?”

  “It certainly works.”

  “But you don’t 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 don’t know! What, exactly, happens at the Pale Horse? Somebody’s got to go and find out.”

  “Go on.”

  “Because until we do know, exactly, what Thyrza Grey actually does, we can’t get any further—Your police doctor, Jim Corrigan, says the whole idea is poppycock—but is it? Inspector Lejeune, is it?”

  Lejeune sighed.

  “You know what I’d answer—what any sane person would answer—the answer would be ‘Yes, of course it is!’—but I’m 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 itself—and no jiggery pokery. But Big Ben struck once—not twice—the 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 believed—? Oh! a dozen other things—things that are now everyday knowledge that a child gabbles off!”

  “In other words, anything’s possible?”

  “That’s 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 ‘No.’ But—I’m not sure—How can I be? If she’s stumbled on something—”

  “Yes,” I said. “The supernatural seems supernatural. But the science of tomorrow is the supernatural of today.”

  “I’m not talking officially, mind,” Lejeune warned me.

  “Man, you’re talking sense. And the answer is, someone has got to go and see what actually happens. That’s what I propose to do—go and see.”

  Lejeune stared at me.


  “The way’s already paved,” 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.

  “Mr. Easterbrook, I see your point. Circumstances have, so to speak, given you the entrée. But I don’t know whether you fully realise that what you are proposing to do may be dangerous—these are dangerous people. It may be dangerous for you—but it will certainly be dangerous for your friend.”

  “I know,” I said, “I know… We’ve been over it a hundred times. I don’t like her playing the part she’s going to play. But she’s determined—absolutely determined. Damn it all, she wants to!”

  Lejeune said unexpectedly:

  “She’s a redhead, didn’t you say?”

  “Yes,” I said, startled.

  “You can never argue with a redhead,” said Lejeune. “Don’t I know it!”

  I wondered if his wife was one.

  Sixteen

  Mark Easterbrook’s Narrative

  I felt absolutely no nervousness on my second visit to Bradley. In fact, I enjoyed it.

  “Think yourself into the part,” Ginger urged me, before I set off, and that was exactly what I tried to do.

  Mr. Bradley greeted me with a welcoming smile.

  “Very pleased to see you,” he said, advancing a podgy hand. “So you’ve been thinking your little problem over, have you? Well, as I said, no hurry. Take your time.”

  I said, “That’s just what I can’t do. It’s—well—it’s rather urgent….”

  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.

  “Well, well,” he said. “Let’s 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 one’s mind off one’s—er—troubles.”

  “It’s like this—” I said, and came to a dead stop.

  I left it to Bradley to do his stuff. He did it.

  “I see you’re a bit nervous,” he said. “Cautious. I approve of caution. Never say anything your mother shouldn’t hear about! Now, perhaps you have some idea that this office of mine might have a bug in it?”