The Pale Horse - Agatha Christie [50]
“That’s right. Your steady.”
“Who told you about her?”
“Poppy, of course. She’s rich, too, isn’t she?”
“She’s extremely well-off. But really—”
“All right, all right. I’m not saying you’re marrying her for her money. You’re not the kind. But nasty minds like Bradley’s could easily think so… Very well then. Here’s the position. You are about to pop the question to Hermia when up turns the unwanted wife from the past. She arrives in London and the fat’s in the fire. You urge a divorce—she won’t play. She’s vindictive. And then—you hear of the Pale Horse. I’ll bet anything you like that Thyrza, and that half-witted peasant Bella, thought that that was why you came that day. They took it as a tentative approach, and that’s why Thyrza was so forthcoming. It was a sales talk they were giving you.”
“It could have been, I suppose.” I went over that day in my mind.
“And your going to Bradley soon after fits in perfectly. You’re hooked! You’re a prospect—”
She paused triumphantly. There was something in what she said—but I didn’t quite see….
“I still think,” I said, “that they’ll investigate very carefully.”
“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