The Pale Horse - Agatha Christie [81]
“Hardly a new idea,” murmured Venables. “In America—”
“Ah, but there were some novel features about this particular organisation. To begin with, the removals were ostensibly brought about by what might perhaps be called psychological means. What is referred to as a ‘death wish,’ said to be present in everyone, is stimulated—”
“So that the person in question obligingly commits suicide? It sounds, if I may say so, Inspector, too good to be true.”
“Not suicide, Mr. Venables. The person in question dies a perfectly natural death.”
“Come now. Come now. Do you really believe that? How very unlike our hardheaded police force!”
“The headquarters of this organisation are said to be a place called the Pale Horse.”
“Ah, now I begin to understand. So that is what brings you to our pleasant rural neighbourhood; my friend Thyrza Grey, and her nonsense! Whether she believes it herself or not, I’ve never been able to make out. But nonsense it is! She has a silly mediumistic friend, and the local witch cooks her dinners (quite brave to eat them—hemlock in the soup any moment!). And the three old dears have worked up quite a local reputation. Very naughty, of course, but don’t tell me Scotland Yard, or wherever you come from, take it all seriously?”
“We take it very seriously indeed, Mr. Venables.”
“You really believe that Thyrza spouts some highfalutin’ nonsense, Sybil throws a trance, and Bella does black magic, and as a result somebody dies?”
“Oh no, Mr. Venables—the cause of death is simpler than that—” He paused a moment.
“The cause is thallium poisoning.”
There was a momentary pause—
“What did you say?”
“Poisoning—by thallium salts. Quite plain and straightforward. Only it had to be covered up—and what better method of covering up than a pseudoscientific, psychological setup—full of modern jargon and reinforced by old superstitions. Calculated to distract attention from the plain fact of administration of poison.”
“Thallium,” Mr. Venables frowned. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of it.”
“No? Used extensively as rat poison, occasionally as a depilatory for children with ringworm. Can be obtained quite easily. Incidentally there’s a packet of it tucked away in a corner of your potting shed.”
“In my potting shed? It sounds most unlikely.”
“It’s there all right. We’ve examined some of it for testing purposes—”
Venables became slightly excited.
“Someone must have put it there. I know nothing about it! Nothing at all.”
“Is that so? You’re a man of some wealth, aren’t you, Mr. Venables?”
“What has that got to do with what we are talking about?”
“The Inland Revenue have been asking some awkward questions lately, I believe? As to source of income, that is.”
“The curse of living in England is undoubtedly our system of taxation. I have thought very seriously of late of going to live in Bermuda.”
“I don’t think you’ll be going to Bermuda just yet awhile, Mr. Venables.”
“Is that a threat, Inspector? Because if so—”
“No, no, Mr. Venables. Just an expression of opinion. Would you like to hear just how this little racket was worked?”
“You are certainly determined to tell me.”
“It’s very well organised. Financial details are arranged by a debarred solicitor called Mr. Bradley. Mr. Bradley has an office in Birmingham. Prospective clients visit him there, and do business. This is to say, there is a bet on whether someone will die within a stated period… Mr. Bradley, who is fond of a wager, is usually pessimistic in his prognostications. The client is usually more hopeful. When Mr. Bradley wins his bet, the money has to be paid over promptly—or else something unpleasant is liable to happen. That is all Mr. Bradley has to do—make a bet. Simple, isn’t it?
“The client next visits the Pale Horse. A show is put on by Miss Thyrza Grey and her friends, which usually impresses him in the way it is meant to do.
“Now for the simple facts behind the scenes.
“Certain women, bonafide employees of one of the