The Pale Horse - Agatha Christie [71]
The bus had stopped. Mr. Osborne ran for it—
I walked home down the lane very thoughtful… It was a fantastic theory that Mr. Osborne had outlined, but I had to admit that there might just possibly be something in it.
Twenty
Mark Easterbrook’s Narrative
I
Ringing up Ginger on the following morning, I told her that I was moving to Bournemouth the next day.
“I’ve found a nice quiet little hotel called (heaven knows why) the Deer Park. It’s got a couple of nice unobtrusive side exits. I might sneak up to London and see you.”
“You oughtn’t to really, I suppose. But I must say it would be rather heaven if you did. The boredom! You’ve no idea! If you couldn’t come here, I could sneak out and meet you somewhere.”
Something suddenly struck me.
“Ginger! Your voice… It’s different somehow….”
“Oh that! It’s all right. Don’t worry.”
“But your voice?”
“I’ve just got a bit of a sore throat or something, that’s all.”
“Ginger!”
“Now look, Mark, anyone can have a sore throat. I’m starting a cold, I expect. Or a touch of ’flu.”
“’Flu? Look here, don’t evade the point. Are you all right, or aren’t you?”
“Don’t fuss. I’m all right.”
“Tell me exactly how you’re feeling. Do you feel as though you might be starting ’flu?”
“Well—perhaps… Aching a bit all over, you know the kind of thing—”
“Temperature?”
“Well, perhaps a bit of a temperature….”
I sat there, a horrible cold sort of feeling stealing over me. I was frightened. I knew, too, that however much Ginger might refuse to admit it, Ginger was frightened also.
Her voice spoke again.
“Mark—don’t panic. You are panicking—and really there’s nothing to panic about.”
“Perhaps not. But we’ve got to take every precaution. Ring up your doctor and get him to come and see you. At once.”
“All right… But—he’ll think I’m a terrible fusspot.”
“Never mind. Do it! Then, when he’s been, ring me back.”
After I had rung off, I sat for a long time staring at the black inhuman outline of the telephone. Panic—I mustn’t give way to panic… There was always ’flu about at this time of year… The doctor would be reassuring…perhaps it would be only a slight chill….
I saw in my mind’s eye Sybil in her peacock dress with its scrawled symbols of evil. I heard Thyrza’s voice, willing, commanding… On the chalked floor, Bella, chanting her evil spells, held up a struggling white cock….
Nonsense, all nonsense…Of course it was all superstitious nonsense…
The box—not so easy, somehow, to dismiss the box. The box represented, not human superstition, but a development of scientific possibility… But it wasn’t possible—it couldn’t be possible that—
Mrs. Dane Calthrop found me there, sitting staring at the telephone. She said at once:
“What’s happened?”
“Ginger,” I said, “isn’t feeling well….”
I wanted her to say that it was all nonsense. I wanted her to reassure me. But she didn’t reassure me.
“That’s bad,” she said. “Yes, I think that’s bad.”
“It’s not possible,” I urged. “It’s not possible for a moment that they can do what they say!”
“Isn’t it?”
“You don’t believe—you can’t believe—”
“My dear Mark,” said Mrs. Dane Calthrop, “both you and Ginger have already admitted the possibility of such a thing, or you wouldn’t be doing what you are doing.”
“And our believing makes it worse—makes it more likely!”
“You don’t go so far as believing—you just admit that, with evidence, you might believe.”
“Evidence? What evidence?”
“Ginger’s becoming ill is evidence,” said Mrs. Dane Calthrop.
I hated her. My voice rose angrily.
“Why must you be so pessimistic? It’s just a simple cold—something of that kind. Why must you persist in believing the worst?”
“Because if it’s the worst, we’ve got to face it—not bury our heads in the sand until it’s too late.”
“You think that this ridiculous mumbo jumbo works? These trances and spells and cock sacrifices and all the bag of tricks?”
“Something works,” said Mrs. Dane Calthrop. “That’s what we’ve got to face. A lot of it, most of it, I think,