The Pale Horse - Agatha Christie [58]
“I don’t see—I really don’t see—how they can harm her in the way you mean.”
“But they have harmed—other people.”
“It would seem so, yes…” She sounded dissatisfied.
“In any other way, she will be all right. We’ve taken every imaginable precaution. No material harm can happen to her.”
“But it’s material harm that these people claim to be able to produce,” Mrs. Dane Calthrop pointed out. “They claim to be able to work through the mind on the body. Illness—disease. Very interesting if they can. But quite horrible! And it’s got to be stopped, as we’ve already agreed.”
“But she’s the one who’s taking the risk,” I muttered.
“Someone has to,” said Mrs. Dane Calthrop calmly. “It upsets your pride, that it shouldn’t be you. You’ve got to swallow that. Ginger’s ideally suited for the part she’s playing. She can control her nerves and she’s intelligent. She won’t let you down.”
“I’m not worrying about that!”
“Well, stop worrying at all. It won’t do her any good. Don’t let’s shirk the issue. If she dies as a result of this experiment, then she dies in a good cause.”
“My God, you’re brutal!”
“Somebody has to be,” said Mrs. Dane Calthrop. “Always envisage the worst. You’ve no idea how that steadies the nerves. You begin at once to be sure that it can’t be as bad as what you imagine.”
She nodded at me reassuringly.
“You may be right,” I said doubtfully.
Mrs. Dane Calthrop said with complete certainty that of course she was right.
I proceeded to details.
“You’re on the telephone here?”
“Naturally.”
I explained what I wanted to do.
“After this—this business tonight is over, I may want to keep in close touch with Ginger. Ring her up every day. If I could telephone from here?”
“Of course. Too much coming and going at Rhoda’s. You want to be sure of not being overheard.”
“I shall stay on at Rhoda’s for a bit. Then perhaps go to Bournemouth. I’m not supposed to—go back to London.”
“No use looking ahead,” Mrs. Dane Calthrop said. “Not beyond tonight.”
“Tonight…” I got up. I said a thing that was out of character. “Pray for me—for us,” I said.
“Naturally,” said Mrs. Dane Calthrop, surprised that I should need to ask.
As I went out of the front door a sudden curiosity made me say,
“Why the pail? What’s it for?”
“The pail? Oh, it’s for the schoolchildren, to pick berries and leaves from the hedges—for the church. Hideous, isn’t it, but so handy.”
I looked out over the richness of the autumn world. Such soft still beauty….
“Angels and Ministers of grace defend us,” I said.
“Amen,” said Mrs. Dane Calthrop.
III
My reception at the Pale Horse was conventional in the extreme. I don’t know what particular atmospheric effect I had expected—but it was not this.
Thyrza Grey, wearing a plain dark wool dress, opened the door, said in a businesslike tone: “Ah, here you are. Good. We’ll have supper straightaway—”
Nothing could have been more matter-of-fact, more completely ordinary….
The table was laid for a simple meal at the end of the panelled hall. We had soup, an omelette, and cheese. Bella waited on us. She wore a black stuff dress and looked more than ever like one of the crowd in an Italian primitive. Sybil struck a more exotic note. She had on a long dress of some woven peacock-coloured fabric, shot with gold. Her beads were absent on this occasion, but she had two heavy gold bracelets clasping her wrists. She ate a minute portion of omelette but nothing else. She spoke little, treating us to a faraway wrapped-up-in-higher-things mood. It ought to have been impressive. Actually it was not. The effect was theatrical and unreal.
Thyrza Grey provided what conversation there was—a brisk chatty commentary on local happenings. She was this evening the British country spinster to the life, pleasant, efficient, uninterested in anything beyond her immediate surroundings.
I thought to myself, I’m mad, completely mad. What is there to fear here? Even Bella seemed tonight only a half-witted old peasant woman—like hundreds of other women of her kind—inbred, untouched by education or a broader outlook.
My conversation