Читать книгу The Pale Horse - Agatha Christie, Georgette Heyer, Mary Westmacott - Страница 10

I came out of the Old Vic, my friend Hermia Redcliffe beside me. We had been to see a performance of Macbeth. It was raining hard. As we ran across the street to the spot where I had parked the car, Hermia remarked unjustly that whenever one went to the Old Vic it always rained.

‘It’s just one of those things.’

I dissented from this view. I said that, unlike sundials, she remembered only the rainy hours.

‘Now at Glyndebourne,’ went on Hermia as I let in the clutch, ‘I’ve always been lucky. I can’t imagine it other than perfection: the music—the glorious flower borders—the white flower border in particular.’

We discussed Glyndebourne and its music for a while, and then Hermia remarked:

‘We’re not going to Dover for breakfast, are we?’

‘Dover? What an extraordinary idea. I thought we’d go to the Fantasie. One needs some really good food and drink after all the magnificent blood and gloom of Macbeth, Shakespeare always makes me ravenous.’

‘Yes. So does Wagner. Smoked salmon sandwiches at Covent Garden in the intervals are never enough to stay the pangs. As to why Dover, it’s because you’re driving in that direction.’

‘One has to go round,’ I explained.

‘But you’ve overdone going round. You’re well away on the Old (or is it the New?) Kent Road.’

I took stock of my surroundings and had to admit that Hermia, as usual, was quite right.

‘I always get muddled here,’ I said in apology.

‘It is confusing,’ Hermia agreed. ‘Round and round Waterloo Station.’

Having at last successfully negotiated Westminster Bridge we resumed our conversation, discussing the production of Macbeth that we had just been viewing. My friend Hermia Redcliffe was a handsome young woman of twenty-eight. Cast in the heroic mould, she had an almost flawless Greek profile, and a mass of dark chestnut hair, coiled on the nape of her neck. My sister always referred to her as ‘Mark’s girl friend’ with an intonation of inverted commas about the term that never failed to annoy me.

The Fantasie gave us a pleasant welcome and showed us to a small table against the crimson velvet wall. The Fantasie is deservedly popular, and the tables are close together. As we sat down, our neighbours at the next table greeted us cheerfully. David Ardingly was a lecturer in History at Oxford. He introduced his companion, a very pretty girl, with a fashionable hairdo, all ends, bits and pieces, sticking out at improbable angles on the crown of her head. Strange to say, it suited her. She had enormous blue eyes and a mouth that was usually half-open. She was, as all David’s girls were known to be, extremely silly. David, who was a remarkably clever young man, could only find relaxation with girls who were practically half-witted.

‘This is my particular pet, Poppy,’ he explained. ‘Meet Mark and Hermia. They’re very serious and highbrow and you must try and live up to them. We’ve just come from Do it for Kicks. Lovely show! I bet you two are straight from Shakespeare or a revival of Ibsen.’

‘Macbeth at the Old Vic,’ said Hermia.

‘Ah, what do you think of Batterson’s production?’

‘I liked it,’ said Hermia. ‘The lighting was very interesting. And I’ve never seen the banquet scene so well managed.’

‘Ah, but what about the witches?’

‘Awful!’ said Hermia. ‘They always are,’ she added.

David agreed.

‘A pantomime element seems bound to creep in,’ he said. ‘All of them capering about and behaving like a three-fold Demon King. You can’t help expecting a Good Fairy to appear in white with spangles to say in a flat voice:

Your evil shall not triumph. In the end,

It is Macbeth who will be round the bend.’

We all laughed, but David, who was quick on the uptake, gave me a sharp glance.

‘What gives with you?’ he asked.

‘Nothing. It was just that I was reflecting only the other day about Evil and Demon Kings in pantomime. Yes—and Good Fairies, too.’

‘À propos de what?’

‘Oh, in Chelsea at a coffee bar.’

‘How smart and up to date you are, aren’t you, Mark? All among the Chelsea set. Where heiresses in tights marry corner boys on the make. That’s where Poppy ought to be, isn’t it, duckie?’

Poppy opened her enormous eyes still wider.

‘I hate Chelsea,’ she protested. ‘I like the Fantasie much better! Such lovely, lovely food.’

‘Good for you, Poppy. Anyway, you’re not really rich enough for Chelsea. Tell us more about Macbeth, Mark, and the awful witches. I know how I’d produce the witches if I were doing a production.’

David had been a prominent member of the O.U.D.S. in the past.

‘Well, how?’

‘I’d make them very ordinary. Just sly quiet old women. Like the witches in a country village.’

‘But there aren’t any witches nowadays?’ said Poppy, staring at him.

‘You say that because you’re a London girl. There’s still a witch in every village in rural England. Old Mrs Black, in the third cottage up the hill. Little boys are told not to annoy her, and she’s given presents of eggs and a home-baked cake now and again. Because,’ he wagged a finger impressively, ‘if you get across her, your cows will stop giving milk, your potato crop will fail, or little Johnnie will twist his ankle. You must keep on the right side of old Mrs Black. Nobody says so outright—but they all know!’

‘You’re joking,’ said Poppy, pouting.

‘No, I’m not. I’m right, aren’t I, Mark?’

‘Surely all that kind of superstition has died out completely with education,’ said Hermia sceptically.

‘Not in the rural pockets of the land. What do you say, Mark?’

‘I think perhaps you’re right,’ I said slowly. ‘Though I wouldn’t really know. I’ve never lived in the country much.’

‘I don’t see how you could produce the witches as ordinary old women,’ said Hermia, reverting to David’s earlier remark. ‘They must have a supernatural atmosphere about them, surely.’

‘Oh, but just think,’ said David. ‘It’s rather like madness. If you have someone who raves and staggers about with straws in their hair and looks mad, it’s not frightening at all! But I remember being sent once with a message to a doctor at a mental home and I was shown into a room to wait, and there was a nice elderly lady there, sipping a glass of milk. She made some conventional remark about the weather and then suddenly she leant forward and asked in a low voice:

‘“Is it your poor child who’s buried there behind the fireplace?” And then she nodded her head and said “12.10 exactly. It’s always at the same time every day. Pretend you don’t notice the blood.”

‘It was the matter-of-fact way she said it that was so spine-chilling.’

‘Was there really someone buried behind the fireplace?’ Poppy wanted to know.

David ignored her and went on:

‘Then take mediums. At one moment trances, darkened rooms, knocks and raps. Afterwards the medium sits up, pats her hair and goes home to a meal of fish and chips, just an ordinary quite jolly woman.’

‘So your idea of the witches,’ I said, ‘is three old Scottish crones with second sight—who practise their arts in secret, muttering their spells round a cauldron, conjuring up spirits, but remaining themselves just an ordinary trio of old women. Yes—it could be impressive.’

‘If you could ever get any actors to play it that way,’ said Hermia drily.

‘You have something there,’ admitted David. ‘Any hint of madness in the script and an actor is immediately determined to go to town on it! The same with sudden deaths. No actor can just quietly collapse and fall down dead. He has to groan, stagger, roll his eyes, gasp, clutch his heart, clutch his head, and make a terrific performance of it. Talking of performances, what did you think of Fielding’s Macbeth? Great division of opinion among the critics.’

‘I thought it was terrific,’ said Hermia. ‘That scene with the doctor, after the sleep-walking scene. “Canst thou not minister to a mind diseas’d.” He made clear what I’d never thought of before—that he was really ordering the doctor to kill her. And yet he loved his wife. He brought out the struggle between his fear and his love. That “Thou shouldst have died hereafter” was the most poignant thing I’ve ever known.’

‘Shakespeare might get a few surprises if he saw his plays acted nowadays,’ I said drily.

‘Burbage and Co. had already quenched a good deal of his spirit, I suspect,’ said David.

Hermia murmured:

‘The eternal surprise of the author at what the producer has done to him.’

‘Didn’t somebody called Bacon really write Shakespeare?’ asked Poppy.

‘That theory is quite out of date nowadays,’ said David kindly. ‘And what do you know of Bacon?’

‘He invented gunpowder,’ said Poppy triumphantly.

‘You see why I love this girl?’ he said. ‘The things she knows are always so unexpected. Francis, not Roger, my love.’

‘I thought it interesting,’ said Hermia, ‘that Fielding played the part of Third Murderer. Is there a precedent for that?’

‘I believe so,’ said David. ‘How convenient it must have been in those times,’ he went on, ‘to be able to call up a handy murderer whenever you wanted a little job done. Fun if one could do it nowadays.’

‘But it is done,’ protested Hermia. ‘Gangsters. Hoods—or whatever you call them. Chicago and all that.’

‘Ah,’ said David. ‘But what I meant was not gangsterdom, not racketeers or Crime Barons. Just ordinary everyday folk who want to get rid of someone. That business rival; Aunt Emily, so rich and so unfortunately long-lived; that awkward husband always in the way. How convenient if you could ring up Harrods and say “Please send along two good murderers, will you?”’

We all laughed.

‘But one can do that in a way, can’t one?’ said Poppy.

We turned towards her.

‘What way, poppet?’ asked David.

‘Well, I mean, people can do that if they want to … People like us, as you said. Only I believe it’s very expensive.’

Poppy’s eyes were wide and ingenuous, her lips were slightly parted.

‘What do you mean?’ asked David curiously.

Poppy looked confused.

‘Oh—I expect—I’ve got it mixed. I meant the Pale Horse. All that sort of thing.’

‘A pale horse? What kind of a pale horse?’

Poppy flushed and her eyes dropped.

‘I’m being stupid. It’s just something someone mentioned—but I must have got it all wrong.’

‘Have some lovely Coupe Nesselrode,’ said David kindly.

One of the oddest things in life, as we all know, is the way that when you have heard a thing mentioned, within twenty-four hours you nearly always come across it again. I had an instance of that the next morning.

My telephone rang and I answered it—

‘Flaxman 73841.’

A kind of gasp came through the phone. Then a voice said breathlessly but defiantly:

‘I’ve thought about it, and I’ll come!’

I cast round wildly in my mind.

‘Splendid,’ I said, stalling for time. ‘Er—is that—?’

‘After all,’ said the voice, ‘lightning never strikes twice.’

‘Are you sure you’ve got the right number?’

‘Of course I have. You’re Mark Easterbrook, aren’t you?’

‘Got it!’ I said. ‘Mrs Oliver.’

‘Oh,’ said the voice, surprised. ‘Didn’t you know who it was? I never thought of that. It’s about that fête of Rhoda’s. I’ll come and sign books if she wants me to.’

‘That’s frightfully nice of you. They’ll put you up, of course.’

‘There won’t be parties, will there?’ asked Mrs Oliver apprehensively.

‘You know the kind of thing,’ she went on. ‘People coming up to me and saying am I writing something just now—when you’d think they could see I’m drinking ginger ale or tomato juice and not writing at all. And saying they like my books—which of course is pleasing, but I’ve never found the right answer. If you say “I’m so glad” it sounds like “Pleased to meet you.” A kind of stock phrase. Well, it is, of course. And you don’t think they’ll want me to go out to the Pink Horse and have drinks?’

‘The Pink Horse?’

‘Well, the Pale Horse. Pubs, I mean. I’m so bad in pubs. I can just drink beer at a pinch, but it makes me terribly gurgly.’

‘Just what do you mean by the Pale Horse?’

‘There’s a pub called that down there, isn’t there? Or perhaps I do mean the Pink Horse? Or perhaps that’s somewhere else. I may have just imagined it. I do imagine quite a lot of things.’

‘How’s the Cockatoo getting on?’ I asked.

‘The Cockatoo?’ Mrs Oliver sounded at sea.

‘And the cricket ball?’

‘Really,’ said Mrs Oliver with dignity. ‘I think you must be mad or have a hangover or something. Pink Horses and cockatoos and cricket balls.’

She rang off.

I was still considering this second mention of the Pale Horse when my telephone rang again.

This time, it was Mr Soames White, a distinguished solicitor who rang up to remind me that under the will of my godmother, Lady Hesketh-Dubois, I was entitled to choose three of her pictures.

‘There is nothing outstandingly valuable, of course,’ said Mr Soames White in his defeatist melancholy tones. ‘But I understand that at some time you expressed admiration of some of the pictures to the deceased.’

‘She had some very charming water colours of Indian scenes,’ I said. ‘I believe you already have written to me about this matter, but I’m afraid it slipped my memory.’

‘Quite so,’ said Mr Soames White. ‘But probate has now been granted, and the executors, of whom I am one, are arranging for the sale of the effects of her London house. If you could go round to Ellesmere Square in the near future …’

‘I’ll go now,’ I said.

It seemed an unfavourable morning for work.

Carrying the three water colours of my choice under my arm, I emerged from Forty-nine Ellesmere Square and immediately cannoned into someone coming up the steps to the front door. I apologised, received apologies in return, and was just about to hail a passing taxi when something clicked in my mind and I turned sharply to ask:

‘Hallo—isn’t it Corrigan?’

‘It is—and—yes—you’re Mark Easterbrook!’

Jim Corrigan and I had been friends in our Oxford days—but it must have been fifteen years or more since we had last met.

‘Thought I knew you—but couldn’t place you for the moment,’ said Corrigan. ‘I read your articles now and again—and enjoy them, I must say.’

‘What about you? Have you gone in for research as you meant to do?’

Corrigan sighed.

‘Hardly. It’s an expensive job—if you want to strike out on your own. Unless you can find a tame millionaire, or a suggestible Trust.’

‘Liver flukes, wasn’t it?’

‘What a memory! No, I went off liver flukes. The properties of the secretions of the Mandarian glands; that’s my present-day interest. You wouldn’t have heard of them! Connected with the spleen. Apparently serving no purpose whatever!’

He spoke with a scientist’s enthusiasm.

‘What’s the big idea, then?’

‘Well,’ Corrigan sounded apologetic. ‘I have a theory that they may influence behaviour. To put it very crudely, they may act rather as the fluid in your car brakes does. No fluid—the brakes don’t act. In human beings, a deficiency in these secretions might—I only say might—make you a criminal.’

I whistled.

‘And what happens to Original Sin?’

‘What indeed?’ said Dr Corrigan. ‘The parsons wouldn’t like it, would they? I haven’t been able to interest anyone in my theory, unfortunately. So I’m a police surgeon, in N.W. division. Quite interesting. One sees a lot of criminal types. But I won’t bore you with shop—unless you’ll come and have some lunch with me?’

‘I’d like to. But you were going in there,’ I nodded towards the house behind Corrigan.

‘Not really,’ said Corrigan. ‘I was just going to gatecrash.’

‘There’s nobody there but a caretaker.’

‘So I imagined. But I wanted to find out something about the late Lady Hesketh-Dubois if I could.’

‘I dare say I can tell you more than a caretaker could. She was my godmother.’

‘Was she indeed? That’s a bit of luck. Where shall we go to feed? There’s a little place off Lowndes Square—not grand, but they do a special kind of sea food soup.’

We settled ourselves in the little restaurant—a cauldron of steaming soup was brought to us by a pale-faced lad in French sailor trousers.

‘Delicious,’ I said, sampling the soup. ‘Now then, Corrigan, what do you want to know about the old lady? And incidentally, why?’

‘Why’s rather a long story,’ said my friend. ‘First tell me what kind of an old lady she was?’

I considered.

‘She was an old-fashioned type,’ I said. ‘Victorian. Widow of an ex-Governor of some obscure island. She was rich and liked her comfort. Went abroad in the winters to Estoril and places like that. Her house is hideous, full of Victorian furniture and the worst and most ornate kind of Victorian silver. She had no children, but kept a couple of fairly well-behaved poodles whom she loved dearly. She was opinionated and a staunch Conservative. Kindly, but autocratic. Very set in her ways. What more do you want to know?’

‘I’m not quite sure,’ said Corrigan. ‘Was she ever likely to have been blackmailed, would you say?’

‘Blackmailed?’ I asked in lively astonishment. ‘I can imagine nothing more unlikely. What is this all about?’

It was then I heard for the first time of the circumstances of Father Gorman’s murder.

I laid down my spoon and asked,

‘This list of names? Have you got it?’

‘Not the original. But I copied them out. Here you are.’

I took the paper he produced from his pocket and proceeded to study it.

‘Parkinson? I know two Parkinsons. Arthur who went into the Navy. Then there’s a Henry Parkinson in one of the Ministries. Ormerod—there’s a Major Ormerod in the Blues—Sandford—our old Rector when I was a boy was Sandford. Harmondsworth? No—Tuckerton—’ I paused. ‘Tuckerton … Not Thomasina Tuckerton, I suppose?’

Corrigan looked at me curiously.

‘Could be, for all I know. Who’s she and what does she do?’

‘Nothing now. Her death was in the paper about a week ago.’

‘That’s not much help, then.’

I continued with my reading. ‘Shaw. I know a dentist called Shaw, and there’s Jerome Shaw, Q.C. … Delafontaine—I’ve heard that name lately, but I can’t remember where. Corrigan. Does that refer to you, by any chance?’

‘I devoutly hope not. I’ve a feeling that it’s unlucky to have your name on that list.’

‘Maybe. What made you think of blackmail in connection with it?’

‘It was Detective Inspector Lejeune’s suggestion if I remember rightly. It seemed the most likely possibility—But there are plenty of others. This may be a list of dope smugglers or drug addicts or secret agents—it may be anything in fact. There’s only one thing sure, it was important enough for murder to be committed in order to get hold of it.’

I asked curiously: ‘Do you always take such an interest in the police side of your work?’

He shook his head.

‘Can’t say I do. My interest is in criminal character. Background, upbringing, and particularly glandular health—all that!’

‘Then why the interest in this list of names?’

‘Blessed if I know,’ said Corrigan slowly. ‘Seeing my own name on the list, perhaps. Up the Corrigans! One Corrigan to the rescue of another Corrigan.’

‘Rescue? Then you definitely see this as a list of victims—not a list of malefactors. But surely it could be either?’

‘You’re entirely right. And it’s certainly odd that I should be so positive. Perhaps it’s just a feeling. Or perhaps it’s something to do with Father Gorman. I didn’t come across him very often, but he was a fine man, respected by everyone and loved by his own flock. He was the good tough militant kind. I can’t get it out of my head that he considered this list a matter of life or death …’

‘Aren’t the police getting anywhere?’

‘Oh yes, but it’s a long business. Checking here, checking there. Checking the antecedents of the woman who called him out that night.’

‘Who was she?’

‘No mystery about her, apparently. Widow. We had an idea that her husband might have been connected with horse-racing, but that doesn’t seem to be so. She worked for a small commercial firm that does consumer research. Nothing wrong there. They are a reputable firm in a small way. They don’t know much about her. She came from the north of England—Lancashire. The only odd thing about her is that she had so few personal possessions.’

I shrugged my shoulders.

‘I expect that’s true for a lot more people than we ever imagine. It’s a lonely world.’

‘Yes, as you say.’

‘Anyway, you decided to take a hand?’

‘Just nosing around. Hesketh-Dubois is an uncommon name. I thought if I could find out a little about the lady—’ He left the sentence unfinished. ‘But from what you tell me, there doesn’t seem to be any possible lead there.’

‘Neither a dope addict nor a dope smuggler,’ I assured him. ‘Certainly not a secret agent. Has led far too blameless a life to have been blackmailed. I can’t imagine what kind of a list she could possibly be on. Her jewellery she keeps at the bank so she wouldn’t be a hopeful prospect for robbery.’

‘Any other Hesketh-Duboises that you know about? Sons?’

‘No children. She’s got a nephew and a niece, I think, but not of that name. Her husband was an only child.’

Corrigan told me sourly that I’d been a lot of help. He looked at his watch, remarked cheerfully that he was due to cut somebody up, and we parted.

I went home thoughtful, found it impossible to concentrate on my work, and finally, on an impulse, rang up David Ardingly.

‘David? Mark here. That girl I met with you the other evening. Poppy. What’s her other name?’

‘Going to pinch my girl, is that it?’

David sounded highly amused.

‘You’ve got so many of them,’ I retorted. ‘You could surely spare one.’

‘You’ve got a heavyweight of your own, old boy. I thought you were going steady with her.’

‘Going steady.’ A repulsive term. And yet, I thought, struck suddenly with its aptitude, how well it described my relationship with Hermia. And why should it make me feel depressed? I had always felt in the back of my mind that some day Hermia and I would marry … I liked her better than anyone I knew. We had so much in common …

For no conceivable reason, I felt a terrible desire to yawn … Our future stretched out before me. Hermia and I going to plays of significance—that mattered. Discussions of art—of music. No doubt about it, Hermia was the perfect companion.

But not much fun, said some derisive imp, popping up from my subconscious. I was shocked.

‘Gone to sleep?’ asked David.

‘Of course not. To tell the truth, I found your friend Poppy very refreshing.’

‘Good word. She is—taken in small doses. Her actual name is Pamela Stirling, and she works in one of those arty flower places in Mayfair. You know, three dead twigs, a tulip with its petals pinned back and a speckled laurel leaf. Price three guineas.’

He gave me the address.

‘Take her out and enjoy yourself,’ he said in a kindly avuncular fashion. ‘You’ll find it a great relaxation. That girl knows nothing—she’s absolutely empty headed. She’ll believe anything you tell her. She’s virtuous by the way, so don’t indulge in any false hopes.’

He rang off.

I invaded the portals of Flower Studies Ltd. with some trepidation. An overpowering smell of gardenia nearly knocked me backwards. A number of girls, dressed in pale green sheaths and all looking exactly like Poppy, confused me. Finally, I identified her. She was writing down an address with some difficulty, pausing doubtfully over the spelling of Fortescue Crescent. As soon as she was at liberty, after having further difficulties connected with producing the right change for a five-pound note, I claimed her attention.

‘We met the other night—with David Ardingly,’ I reminded her.

‘Oh yes!’ agreed Poppy warmly, her eyes passing vaguely over my head.

‘I wanted to ask you something.’ I felt sudden qualms. ‘Perhaps I’d better buy some flowers?’

Like an automaton who has had the right button pressed, Poppy said:

‘We’ve some lovely roses, fresh in today.’

‘These yellow ones, perhaps?’ There were roses everywhere. ‘How much are they?’

‘Vewy vewy cheap,’ said Poppy in a honeyed persuasive voice. ‘Only five shillings each.’

I swallowed and said I would have six of them.

‘And some of these vewy special leaves with them?’

I looked dubiously at the special leaves which appeared to be in an advanced state of decay. Instead I chose some bright green asparagus fern, which choice obviously lowered me in Poppy’s estimation.

‘There was something I wanted to ask you,’ I reiterated as Poppy was rather clumsily draping the asparagus fern round the roses. ‘The other evening you mentioned something called the Pale Horse.’

With a violent start, Poppy dropped the roses and the asparagus fern on the floor.

‘Can you tell me more about it?’

Poppy straightened herself after stooping.

‘What did you say?’ she asked.

‘I was asking you about the Pale Horse.’

‘A pale horse? What do you mean?’

‘You mentioned it the other evening.’

‘I’m sure I never did anything of the kind! I’ve never heard of any such thing.’

‘Somebody told you about it. Who was it?’

Poppy drew a deep breath and spoke very fast.

‘I don’t in the least know what you mean! And we’re not supposed to talk to customers.’ … She slapped paper round my choice. ‘That will be thirty-five shillings, please.’

I gave her two pound notes. She thrust six shillings into my hand and turned quickly to another customer.

Her hands, I noticed, were shaking slightly.

I went out slowly. When I had gone a little way, I realised she had quoted the wrong price (asparagus fern was seven and six) and had also given me too much change. Her mistakes in arithmetic had previously been in the other direction.

I saw again the rather lovely vacant face and the wide blue eyes. There had been something showing in those eyes …

‘Scared,’ I said to myself. ‘Scared stiff … Now why? Why?’