The Pale Horse - Agatha Christie [67]
I watched him as I said:
“All this talk of remote control reminds me of something that odd Miss Grey said.”
“Ah, our dear Thyrza!” His tone was smooth, indulgent (but had there been a faint flicker of the eyelids?). “Such nonsense as those two dear ladies talk! And they believe it, you know, they really believe it. Have you been yet—(I’m sure they’ll insist on your going)—to one of these ridiculous séances of theirs?”
I had a momentary hesitation whilst I decided rapidly what my attitude here ought to be.
“Yes,” I said, “I— I did go to a séance.”
“And you found it great nonsense? Or were you impressed?”
I avoided his eyes and presented to my best ability a man who is ill at ease.
“I—oh well—of course I didn’t really believe in any of it. They seem very sincere but—” I looked at my watch. “I’d no idea it was so late. I must hurry back. My cousin will wonder what I am doing.”
“You have been cheering up an invalid on a dull afternoon. My regards to Rhoda. We must arrange another luncheon party soon. Tomorrow I am going to London. There is an interesting sale at Sotheby’s. Medieval French ivories. Exquisite! You will appreciate them, I am sure, if I succeed in acquiring them.”
We parted on this amicable note. Was there an amused and malicious twinkle in his eye as he registered my awkwardness over the séance? I thought so, but I could not be sure. I felt it quite likely that I was now imagining things.
Nineteen
Mark Easterbrook’s Narrative
I went out into the late afternoon. Darkness had already fallen, and since the sky was overcast, I moved rather uncertainly down the winding drive. I looked back once at the lighted windows of the house. In doing so, I stepped off the gravel onto the grass and collided with someone moving in the opposite direction.
It was a small man, solidly made. We exchanged apologies. His voice was a rich deep bass with a rather fruity and pedantic tone.
“I’m so sorry….”
“Not at all. Entirely my fault, I assure you….”
“I have never been here before,” I explained, “so I don’t quite know where I’m going. I ought to have brought a torch.”
“Allow me.”
The stranger produced a torch from his pocket, switched it on and handed it to me. By its light I saw that he was a man of middle age, with a round cherubic face, a black moustache and spectacles. He wore a good quality dark raincoat and can only be described as the acme of respectability. All the same, it did just cross my mind to wonder why he was not using his torch himself since he had it with him.
“Ah,” I said rather idiotically. “I see. I have stepped off the drive.”
I stepped back on it, then offered him back the torch.
“I can find my way now.”
“No, no, pray keep it until you get to the gate.”
“But you—you are going to the house?”
“No, no. I am going the same way that you are. Er—down the drive. And then up to the bus stop. I am catching a bus back to Bournemouth.”
I said, “I see,” and we fell into step side by side. My companion seemed a little ill at ease. He inquired if I also were going to the bus stop. I replied that I was staying in the neighbourhood.
There was again a pause and I could feel my companion’s embarrassment growing. He was the kind of man who does not like feeling in any way in a false position.
“You have been to visit Mr. Venables?” he asked, clearing his throat.
I said that that was so, adding, “I took it that you also were on your way to the house?”
“No,” he said. “No… As a matter of fact—” he paused. “I live in Bournemouth—or at least near Bournemouth. I have just moved into a small bungalow there.”
I felt a faint stirring in my mind. What had I recently heard about a bungalow at Bournemouth? Whilst I was trying to remember, my companion, becoming even more ill at ease, was finally impelled