The Pale Horse - Agatha Christie [51]
“That is,” she added, “if the whole thing is true?”
She looked at me in momentary doubt.
“It is true,” I said. “That’s why I’m afraid for you.”
Ginger put both elbows on the table, and began to argue.
We thrashed it out, to and fro, ding-dong, repeating ourselves whilst the hands of the clock on my mantelpiece moved slowly round.
Finally Ginger summed up.
“It’s like this. I’m forewarned and forearmed. I know what someone is trying to do to me. And I don’t believe for one moment she can do it! If everyone’s got a ‘desire for death’ mine isn’t well developed! I’ve good health. And I simply cannot believe that I’ll develop gallstones, or meningitis just because—old Thyrza draws pentagrams on the floor, or Sybil throws a trance—or whatever it is those women do do.”
“Bella sacrifices a white cock, I should imagine,” I said thoughtfully.
“You must admit it’s all terribly bogus!”
“We don’t know what actually does happen,” I pointed out.
“No. That’s why it’s important to find out. But do you believe, really believe, that because of what three women can do in the barn of the Pale Horse, I, in a flat in London, will develop some fatal disease? You can’t!”
“No,” I said. “I can’t believe it.
“But,” I added. “I do….”
We looked at each other.
“Yes,” said Ginger. “That’s our weakness.”
“Look here,” I said. “Let’s make it the other way round. Let me be the one in London. You be the client. We can cook up something—”
But Ginger was vigorously shaking her head.
“No, Mark,” she said. “It won’t work that way. For several reasons. The most important is that I’m known at the Pale Horse already—as my carefree self. They could get all the dope about my life from Rhoda—and there’s nothing there. But you are in the ideal position already—you’re a nervous client, sniffing around, not able yet to commit yourself. No, it’s got to be this way.”
“I don’t like it. I don’t like to think of you—alone in some place under a false name—with nobody to keep an eye on you. I think, before we embark on this, we ought to go to the police—now—before we try anything else.”
“I’m agreeable to that,” said Ginger slowly. “In fact I think it’s what you ought to do. You’ve got something to go on. What police? Scotland Yard?”
“No,” I said. “I think Divisional Detective-Inspector Lejeune is the best bet.”
Fifteen
Mark Easterbrook’s Narrative
I liked Divisional Detective-Inspector Lejeune at first sight. He had an air of quiet ability. I thought, too, that he was an imaginative man—the kind of man who would be willing to consider possibilities that were not orthodox.
He said:
“Dr. Corrigan has told me of his meeting with you. He’s taken a great interest in this business from the first. Father Gorman, of course, was very well known and respected in the district. Now you say you have some special information for us?”
“It concerns,” I said, “a place called the Pale Horse.”
“In, I understand, a village called Much Deeping?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me about it.”
I told him of the first mention of the Pale Horse at the Fantasie. Then I described my visit to Rhoda, and my introduction to the “three weird sisters.” I related, as accurately as I could, Thyrza Grey’s conversation on that particular afternoon.
“And you were impressed by what she said?”
I felt embarrassed.
“Well, not really. I mean, I didn’t seriously believe—”
“Didn’t you, Mr. Easterbrook? I rather think you did.”
“I suppose you’re right. One just doesn’t like admitting how credulous one is.”
Lejeune smiled.
“But you’ve left something out, haven’t you? You were already interested when you came to Much Deeping—why?”
“I think it was the girl looking so scared.”
“The young lady in the flower shop?”
“Yes. She’d thrown out her remark about the Pale Horse so casually. Her being so scared seemed to underline the fact that there was—well, something to be scared about. And then I met Dr. Corrigan and he told me about the list of names. Two of them I already knew. Both were