The Pale Horse - Agatha Christie [45]
“It will be quite simple. It’s a Nash house. Not the usual style one associates with him. One of his near-Gothic flights of fancy.”
“And why should I want to see it?”
“You’re considering writing an article or a book on the influences that cause fluctuation of an architect’s style. That sort of thing.”
“Sounds very bogus to me,” I said.
“Nonsense,” said Ginger robustly. “When you get on to learned subjects, or arty ones, the most incredible theories are propounded and written about, in the utmost seriousness, by the most unlikely people. I could quote you chapters of tosh.”
“That’s why you would really be a much better person to do this than I am.”
“That’s where you are wrong,” Ginger told me. “Mrs. T. can look you up in Who’s Who and be properly impressed. She can’t look me up there.”
I remained unconvinced, though temporarily defeated.
On my return from my incredible interview with Mr. Bradley, Ginger and I had put our heads together. It was less incredible to her than it was to me. It afforded her, indeed, a distinct satisfaction.
“It puts an end to whether we’re imagining things or not,” she pointed out. “Now we know that an organisation does exist for getting unwanted people out of the way.”
“By supernatural means!”
“You’re so hidebound in your thinking. It’s all that wispiness and the false scarabs that Sybil wears. It puts you off. And if Mr. Bradley had turned out to be a quack practitioner, or a pseudoastrologer, you’d still be unconvinced. But since he turns out to be a nasty down-to-earth little legal crook—or that’s the impression you give me—”
“Near enough,” I said.
“Then that makes the whole thing come into line. However phony it may sound, those three women at the Pale Horse have got hold of something that works.”
“If you’re so convinced, then why Mrs. Tuckerton?”
“Extra check,” said Ginger. “We know what Thyrza Grey says she can do. We know how the financial side is worked. We know a little about three of the victims. We want to know more about the client angle.”
“And suppose Mrs. Tuckerton shows no signs of having been a client?”
“Then we’ll have to investigate elsewhere.”
“Of course, I may boob it,” I said gloomily.
Ginger said that I must think better of myself than that.
So here I was, arriving at the front door of Carraway Park. It certainly did not look like my preconceived idea of a Nash house. In many ways it was a near castle of modest proportions. Ginger had promised to supply me with a recent book on Nash architecture, but it had not arrived in time, so I was here somewhat inadequately briefed.
I rang the bell, and a rather seedy-looking man in an alpaca coat opened the door.
“Mr. Easterbrook?” he said. “Mrs. Tuckerton’s expecting you.”
He showed me into an elaborately furnished drawing room. The room made a disagreeable impression upon me. Everything in it was expensive, but chosen without taste. Left to itself, it could have been a room of pleasant proportions. There were one or two good pictures, and a great many bad ones. There was a great deal of yellow brocade. Further cogitations were interrupted by the arrival of Mrs. Tuckerton herself. I arose with difficulty from the depths of a bright yellow brocade sofa.
I don’t know what I had expected, but I suffered a complete reversal of feeling. There was nothing sinister here; merely a completely ordinary young to middle-aged woman. Not a very interesting woman, and not, I thought, a particularly nice woman. The lips, in spite of a generous application of lipstick, were thin and bad-tempered. The chin receded a little. The eyes were pale blue and gave the impression that she was appraising the price of everything. She was the sort of woman who undertipped porters and cloakroom attendants. There are a lot of women of her type to be met in the world, though mainly less expensively dressed, and not so well made-up.
“Mr. Easterbrook?” She was clearly delighted by my visit. She even gushed a little. “I’m so pleased to meet you. Fancy your