The Pale Horse - Agatha Christie [49]
“What puzzles me,” I said, “is that the police don’t seem to have heard about it. After all, they’re usually aware of what kind of criminal activities are going on.”
“Yes, but I think that the reason for that is, that this is in every sense of the word, an amateur show. It’s not professional. No professional criminals are employed or involved. It’s not like hiring gangsters to bump people off. It’s all—private.”
I said that I thought she had something there.
Ginger went on:
“Suppose now that you, or I (we’ll examine both possibilities), are desperate to get rid of someone. Now who is there that you and I could want to do away with? There’s my dear old Uncle Mervyn—I’ll come into a very nice packet when he pops off. I and some cousin in Australia are the only ones left of the family. So there’s a motive there. But he’s over seventy and more or less gaga, so it would really seem more sensible for me to wait for natural causes—unless I was in some terrible hole for money—and that really would be quite difficult to fake. Besides, he’s a pet, and I’m very fond of him, and gaga or not gaga, he quite enjoys life, and I wouldn’t want to deprive him of a minute of it—or even risk such a thing! What about you? Have you got any relatives who are going to leave you money?”
I shook my head.
“No one at all.”
“Bother. It could be blackmail, perhaps? That would take a lot of fixing, though. You’re not really vulnerable enough. If you were an M.P., or in the Foreign Office, or an up and coming Minister it would be different. The same with me. Fifty years ago it would have been easy. Compromising letters, or photographs in the altogether, but really nowadays, who cares? One can be like the Duke of Wellington and say ‘Publish and be damned!’ Well, now, what else is there? Bigamy?” She fixed me with a reproachful stare. “What a pity it is you’ve never been married. We could have cooked something up if you had.”
Some expression on my face must have given me away. Ginger was quick.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Have I raked up something that hurts?”
“No,” I said. “It doesn’t hurt. It was a long time ago, I rather doubt if there’s anyone now who knows about it.”
“You married someone?”
“Yes. Whilst I was at the University. We kept it dark. She wasn’t—well, my people would have cut up rough. I wasn’t even of age. We lied about our ages.”
I was silent a moment or two, reliving the past.
“It wouldn’t have lasted,” I said slowly. “I know that now. She was pretty and she could be very sweet… but…”
“What happened?”
“We went to Italy in the long vacation. There was an accident—a car accident. She was killed outright.”
“And you?”
“I wasn’t in the car. She was—with a friend.”
Ginger gave me a quick glance. I think she understood the way it had been. The shock of my discovery that the girl I had married was not the kind that makes a faithful wife.
Ginger reverted to practical matters.
“You were married in England?”
“Yes. Registry office in Peterborough.”
“But she died in Italy?”
“Yes.”
“So there will be no record of her death in England?”
“No.”
“Then what more do you want? It’s an answer to prayer! Nothing could be simpler! You’re desperately in love with someone and you want to marry her—but you don’t know whether your wife is still alive. You’ve parted years ago and never heard from her since. Dare you risk it? While you’re thinking it out, sudden reappearance of the wife! She turns up out of the blue, refuses to give you a divorce, and threatens to go to your young woman and spill the beans.”
“Who’s my young woman?” I asked, slightly confused. “You?”
Ginger looked shocked.
“Certainly not. I’m quite the wrong type—I’d probably go and live in sin with you. No, you know quite well who I mean—and she’ll be exactly right, I should say. The statuesque brunette you go around with. Very highbrow and serious.”
“Hermia