The Pale Horse - Agatha Christie [6]
Mrs. Coppins, out of breath by now, made a noise like a steam engine, which seemed to signify assent. She flung open a door, stood aside to let Father Gorman go in, said over his shoulder: “Here’s the Reverend for you. Now you’ll be all right!” in a spuriously cheerful way, and retired.
Father Gorman advanced. The room, furnished with old-fashioned Victorian furniture, was clean and neat. In the bed near the window a woman turned her head feebly. That she was very ill, the priest saw at once.
“You’ve come… There isn’t much time—” she spoke between panting breaths. “…Wickedness…such wickedness… I must… I must… I can’t die like this… Confess—confess—my sin—grievous—grievous…” the eyes wandered…half closed….
A rambling monotone of words came from her lips.
Father Gorman came to the bed. He spoke as he had spoken so often—so very often. Words of authority—of reassurance…the words of his calling and of his belief. Peace came into the room… The agony went out of the tortured eyes….
Then, as the priest ended his ministry, the dying woman spoke again.
“Stopped… It must be stopped… You will….”
The priest spoke with reassuring authority.
“I will do what is necessary. You can trust me….”
A doctor and an ambulance arrived simultaneously a little later. Mrs. Coppins received them with gloomy triumph.
“Too late as usual!” she said. “She’s gone….”
II
Father Gorman walked back through the gathering twilight. There would be fog tonight, it was growing denser rapidly. He paused for a moment, frowning. Such a fantastic extraordinary story… How much of it was born of delirium and high fever? Some of it was true, of course—but how much? Anyway it was important to make a note of certain names whilst they were fresh in his memory. The St. Francis Guild would be assembled when he got back. He turned abruptly into a small café, ordered a cup of coffee and sat down. He felt in the pocket of his cassock. Ah, Mrs. Gerahty—he’d asked her to mend the lining. As usual, she hadn’t! His notebook and a loose pencil and the few coins he carried about him, had gone through to the lining. He prised up a coin or two and the pencil, but the notebook was too difficult. The coffee came, and he asked if he could have a piece of paper.
“This do you?”
It was a torn paper bag. Father Gorman nodded and took it. He began to write—the names—it was important not to forget the names. Names were the sort of thing he did forget….
The café door opened and three young lads in Edwardian dress came in and sat down noisily.
Father Gorman finished his memorandum. He folded up the scrap of paper and was about to shove it into his pocket when he remembered the hole. He did what he had often done before, pressed the folded scrap down into his shoe.
A man came in quietly and sat down in a far corner. Father Gorman took a sip or two of the weak coffee for politeness’ sake, called for his bill, and paid. Then he got up and went out.
The man who had just come in seemed to change his mind. He looked at his watch as though he had mistaken the time, got up, and hurried out.
The fog was coming on fast. Father Gorman quickened his steps. He knew his district very well. He took a shortcut by turning down the small street which ran close by the railway. He may have been conscious of steps behind him but he thought nothing of them. Why should he?
The blow from the cosh caught him completely unaware. He heeled forward and fell….
III
Dr. Corrigan, whistling “Father O’Flynn,” walked into the D.D.I.’s room and addressed Divisional Detective-Inspector Lejeune in a chatty manner.
“I’ve done your padre for you,” he said.
“And the result?”
“We’ll save the technical terms for the coroner. Well and truly coshed. First blow probably killed him, but whoever it was made sure. Quite a nasty business.”
“Yes,” said Lejeune.
He was a sturdy man, dark haired and grey eyed. He had a misleadingly quiet manner, but his gestures were sometimes surprisingly graphic and betrayed his French Huguenot ancestry.
He said thoughtfully:
“Nastier than would be necessary for robbery?”
“Was it