The Pale Horse - Agatha Christie [19]
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.