The Pale Horse - Agatha Christie [43]
I felt exactly as though I were being reassured by a surgeon before an operation. Mr. Bradley’s consulting room manner was perfect.
I said slowly:
“I don’t really understand this business of the Pale Horse.”
“And 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 don’t understand it myself. But it gets results. It gets results in the most marvellous way.”
“If you could tell me more about it—”
I had settled on my role now—cautious, eager—but scared. It was obviously an attitude with which Mr. Bradley had frequently had to cope.
“Do you know the place at all?”
I made a quick decision. It would be unwise to lie.
“I—well—yes—I was with some friends. They took me there—”
“Charming old pub. Full of historical interest. And they’ve done wonders in restoring it. You met her, then. My friend, Miss Grey, I mean?”
“Yes—yes, of course. An extraordinary woman.”
“Isn’t she? Yes, isn’t she? You’ve hit it exactly. An extraordinary woman. And with extraordinary powers.”
“The things she claims! Surely—quite—well—impossible?”
“Exactly. That’s 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 instance—”
The black beady eyes were boring into mine. Mr. Bradley repeated the words with designed emphasis.
“In a court of law, for instance—the whole thing would be ridiculed! If that woman stood up and confessed to murder, murder by remote control or ‘will power’ or whatever nonsensical name she likes to use, that confession couldn’t be acted upon! Even if her statement was true (which of course sensible men like you and I don’t believe for one moment!) it couldn’t be admitted legally. Murder by remote control isn’t murder in the eyes of the law. It’s just nonsense. That’s the whole beauty of the thing—as you’ll appreciate if you think for a moment.”
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 him—an accomplice before the fact—I had conspired with him. But if I commissioned Thyrza Grey to use her black arts—those 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:
“But damn it all, it’s fantastic,” I shouted. “I don’t believe it. It’s impossible.”
“I agree with you. I really do. Thyrza Grey is an extraordinary woman, and she certainly has some extraordinary powers, but one can’t believe all the things she claims for herself. As you say, it’s too fantastic. In this age, one really can’t 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.”
“But that is what she claims?”
“Oh yes. Oh course she has powers—she 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,” he leaned forward, wagging a forefinger impressively, “Thyrza Grey does know—beforehand—when someone is going to die. It’s a gift. And she has it.”
He leaned back, studying me. I waited.
“Let’s assume a hypothetical case. Someone, yourself or another, would like very much to know when—let’s say Great-Aunt Eliza—is going to die. It’s useful,