“All in the trade union so to speak?”
“You could put it like that. Anyway, we lunched together, and I yapped a bit about my love life—and various obstacles—married man with impossible wife—Catholic—wouldn’t divorce him—made his life hell. And how she was an invalid, always in pain, but not likely to die for years. Really much better for her if she could die. Said I’d a good mind to try the Pale Horse, but I didn’t really know how to set about it—and would it be terribly expensive? And Poppy said yes, she thought it would. She’d heard they charged the earth. And I said ‘Well, I have expectations.’ Which I have, you know—a great-uncle—a poppet and I’d hate him to die, but the fact came in useful. Perhaps, I said, they’d take something on account? But how did one set about it? And then Poppy came across with that name and address. You had to go to him first, she said, to settle the business side.”
“It’s fantastic!” I said.
“It is, rather.”
We were both silent for a moment.
I said incredulously: “She told you quite openly? She didn’t seem—scared?”
Ginger said impatiently: “You don’t understand. Telling me didn’t count. And after all, Mark, if what we think is true the business has to be more or less advertised, hasn’t it? I mean they must want new ‘clients’ all the time.”
“We’re mad to believe anything of the kind.”
“All right. We’re mad. Are you going to Birmingham to see Mr. Bradley?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’m going to see Mr. Bradley. If he exists.”
I hardly believed that he did. But I was wrong. Mr. Bradley did exist.
Municipal Square Buildings was an enormous honeycomb of offices. Seventy-eight was on the third floor. On the ground glass door was neatly printed in black: C. R. Bradley, COMMISSION AGENT. And below, in smaller letters: Please enter.
I entered.
There was a small outer office, empty, and a door marked PRIVATE, half ajar. A voice from behind it said:
“Come in, please.”
The inner office was larger. It had a desk, one or two comfortable chairs, a telephone, a stack of box files, and Mr. Bradley sitting behind the desk.
He was a small dark man, with shrewd dark eyes. He wore a dark business suit and looked the acme of respectability.
“Just shut the door, will you?” he said pleasantly. “And sit down. That chair’s quite comfortable. Cigarette? No? Well now, what can I do for you?”
I looked at him. I didn’t know how to begin. I hadn’t the least idea what to say. It was, I think, sheer desperation that led me to attack with the phrase I did. Or it may have been the small beady eyes.
“How much?” I said.
It startled him a little, I was glad to note, but not in the way that he ought to have been startled. He did not assume, as I would have assumed in his place, that someone not quite right in the head had come into his office.
His eyebrows rose.
“Well, well, well,” he said. “You don’t waste much time, do you?”
I held to my line.
“What’s the answer?”
He shook his head gently in a slightly reproving manner.
“That’s not the way to go about things. We must proceed in the proper manner.”
I shrugged my shoulders.
“As you like. What’s the proper manner?”
“We haven’t introduced ourselves yet, have we? I don’t know your name.”
“At the moment,” I said, “I don’t really think I feel inclined to tell it to you.”
“Cautious.”
“Cautious.”
“An admirable quality—though not always practicable. Now who sent you to me? Who’s our mutual friend?”
“Again I can’t tell you. A friend of mine has a friend who knows a friend of yours.”
Mr. Bradley nodded his head.
“That’s the way a lot of my clients come,” he said. “Some of the problems are rather—delicate. You know my profession, I presume?”
He had no intention of waiting for my reply. He hastened to give me the answer.
“Turf Commission Agent,” he said. “You’re interested, perhaps, in—horses?”
There was just the faintest pause before the last word.
“I’m not a racing man,” I said noncommittally.
“There are many aspects of the horse. Racing, hunting, hacking. It’s the sporting aspect that interests me. Betting.” He paused for a moment and then asked casually—almost too casually:
“Any particular horse you had in mind?”
I shrugged my shoulders and burnt my boats.
“A pale horse….”
“Ah, very good, excellent. You yourself, if I may say so, seem to be rather a dark horse. Ha ha! You mustn’t be nervous. There really is no need to be nervous.”
“That’s what you say,” I said rather rudely.
Mr. Bradley’s manner became more bland and soothing.
“I can quite understand your feelings. But I can assure you that you needn’t have any anxiety. I’m a lawyer myself—disbarred, of course,” he added parenthetically, in what was really almost an engaging way. “Otherwise I shouldn’t be here. But I can assure you that I know my law. Everything I recommend is perfectly legal and aboveboard. It’s just a question of a bet. A man can bet on anything he pleases, whether it will rain tomorrow, whether the Russians can send a man to the moon, or whether your wife’s going to have twins. You can bet whether Mrs. B. will die before Christmas, or whether Mrs. C. will live to be a hundred. You back your judgement or your intuition or whatever you like to call it. It’s as simple as that.”
I felt exactly as though I were being reassured by a surgeon before an operation. Mr. Bradley’s consulting room manner was perfect.
I said slowly:
“I don’t really understand this business of the Pale Horse.”
“And that worries you? Yes, it worries a lot of people. More things in heaven and earth, Horatio, and so on and so on. Frankly, I don’t understand it myself. But it gets results. It gets results in the most marvellous way.”
“If you could tell me more about it—”
I had settled on my role now—cautious, eager—but scared. It was obviously an attitude with which Mr. Bradley had frequently had to cope.
“Do you know the place at all?”
I made a quick decision. It would be unwise to lie.
“I—well—yes—I was with some friends. They took me there—”
“Charming old pub. Full of historical interest. And they’ve done wonders in restoring it. You met her, then. My friend, Miss Grey, I mean?”
“Yes—yes, of course. An extraordinary woman.”
“Isn’t she? Yes, isn’t she? You’ve hit it exactly. An extraordinary woman. And with extraordinary powers.”
“The things she claims! Surely—quite—well—impossible?”
“Exactly. That’s the whole point. The things she claims to be able to know and do are impossible! Everybody would say so. In a court of law, for instance—”
The black beady eyes were boring into mine. Mr. Bradley repeated the words with designed emphasis.
“In a court of law, for instance—the whole thing would be ridiculed! If that woman stood up and confessed to murder, murder by remote control or ‘will power’ or whatever nonsensical name she likes to use, that confession couldn’t be acted upon! Even if her statement was true (which of course sensible men like you and I don’t believe for one moment!) it couldn’t be admitted legally. Murder by remote control isn’t murder in the eyes of the law. It’s just nonsense. That’s the whole beauty of the thing—as you’ll appreciate if you think for a moment.”
I understood that I was being reassured. Murder committed by occult powers was not murder in an English court of law. If I were to hire a gangster to commit murder with a cosh or a knife, I was committed with him—an accomplice before the fact—I had conspired with him. But if I commissioned Thyrza
Grey to use her black arts—those black arts were not admissible. That was what, according to Mr. Bradley, was the beauty of the thing.
All my natural scepticism rose up in protest. I burst out heatedly:
“But damn it all, it’s fantastic,” I shouted. “I don’t believe it. It’s impossible.”
“I agree with you. I really do. Thyrza Grey is an extraordinary woman, and she certainly has some extraordinary powers, but one can’t believe all the things she claims for herself. As you say, it’s too fantastic. In this age, one really can’t credit that someone can send out thought waves or whatever it is, either oneself or through a medium, sitting in a cottage in England and cause someone to sicken and die of a convenient disease out in Capri or somewhere like that.”
“But that is what she claims?”
“Oh yes. Oh course she has powers—she is Scottish and what is called second sight is a peculiarity of that race. It really does exist. What I do believe, and believe without a doubt, is this,” he leaned forward, wagging a forefinger impressively, “Thyrza Grey does know—beforehand—when someone is going to die. It’s a gift. And she has it.”
He leaned back, studying me. I waited.
“Let’s assume a hypothetical case. Someone, yourself or another, would like very much to know when—let’s say Great-Aunt Eliza—is going to die. It’s useful, you must admit, to know something like that. Nothing unkind in it, nothing wrong—just a matter of business convenience. What plans to make? Will there be, shall we say, a useful sum of money coming in by next November? If you knew that, definitely, you might take up some valuable option. Death is such a chancy matter. Dear old Eliza might live, pepped up by doctors, for another ten years. You’d be delighted, of course, you’re fond of the dear old girl, but how useful it would be to know.”
He paused and then leaned a little farther forward.
“Now that’s where I come in. I’m a betting man. I’ll bet on anything—naturally on my own terms. You come to see me. Naturally you wouldn’t want to bet on the old girl’s passing out. That would be repulsive to your finer feelings. So we put it this way. You bet me a certain sum that Aunt Eliza will be hale and hearty still next Christmas, I bet you that she won’t.”
The beady eyes were on me, watching….
“Nothing against that, is there? Simple. We have an argument on the subject. I say Aunt E. is lined up for death, you say she isn’t. We draw up a contract and sign it. I give you a date. I say that a fortnight either way from that date Auntie E.’s funeral service will be read. You say it won’t. If you’re right—I pay you. If you’re wrong, you—pay me!”
I looked at him. I tried to summon up the feelings of a man who wants a rich old lady out of the way. I shifted it to a blackmailer. Easier to throw oneself into that part. Some man had been bleeding me for years. I couldn’t bear it any longer. I wanted him dead. I hadn’t the nerve to kill him myself, but I’d give anything—yes, anything—”
I spoke—my voice was hoarse. I was acting the part with some confidence.
“What terms?”
Mr. Bradley’s manner underwent a rapid change. It was gay, almost facetious.
“That’s where we came in, isn’t it? Or rather where you came in, ha ha. ‘How much?’ you said. Really quite startled me. Never heard anyone come to the point so soon.”
“What terms?”
“That depends. It depends on several different factors. Roughly it depends on the amount there is at stake. In some cases it depends on the funds available to the client. An inconvenient husband—or a blackmailer or something of that kind—would depend on how much my client could afford to pay. I don’t—let me make that clear—bet with poor clients—except in the kind of case I have just been outlining. In that case it would depend on the amount of Aunt Eliza’s estate. Terms are by mutual agreement. We both want something out of it, don’t we? The odds, however, work out usually at five hundred to one.”
“Five hundred to one? That’s pretty steep.”
“My wager is pretty steep. If Aunt Eliza were pretty well booked for the tomb, you’d know it already, and you wouldn’t come to me. To prophesy somebody’s death to within two weeks means pretty long odds. Five thousand pounds to one hundred isn’t at all out of the way.”
“Supposing you lose?”
Mr. Bradley shrugged his shoulders.
“That’s just too bad. I pay up.”
“And if I lose, I pay up. Supposing I don’t?”
Mr. Bradley leaned back in his chair. He half closed his eyes.
“I shouldn’t advise that,” he said softly. “I really shouldn’t.”
Despite the soft tone, I felt a faint shiver pass over me. He had uttered no direct menace. But the menace was there.
I got up. I said:
“I— I must think it over.”
Mr. Bradley was once more his pleasant and urbane self.
“Certainly think it over. Never rush into anything. If you decide to do business, come back, and we will go into the matter fully. Take your time. No hurry in the world. Take your time.”
I went out with those words echoing in my ears.
“Take your time….”
Thirteen
Mark Easterbrook’s Narrative
I approached my task of interviewing Mrs. Tuckerton with the utmost reluctance. Goaded to it by Ginger, I was still far from convinced of its wisdom. To begin with I felt myself unfitted for the task I had set myself. I was doubtful of my ability to produce the needed reaction, and I was acutely conscious of masquerading under false colours.
Ginger, with the almost terrifying efficiency which she was able to display when it suited her, had briefed me by telephone.
“It will be quite simple. It’s a Nash house. Not the usual style one associates with him. One of his near-Gothic flights of fancy.”
“And why should I want to see it?”
“You’re considering writing an article or a book on the influences that cause fluctuation of an architect’s style. That sort of thing.”
“Sounds very bogus to me,” I said.
“Nonsense,” said Ginger robustly. “When you get on to learned subjects, or arty ones, the most incredible theories are propounded and written about, in the utmost seriousness, by the most unlikely people. I could quote you chapters of tosh.”
“That’s why you would really be a much better person to do this than I am.”
“That’s where you are wrong,” Ginger told me. “Mrs. T. can look you up in Who’s Who and be properly impressed. She can’t look me up there.”
I remained unconvinced, though temporarily defeated.
On my return from my incredible interview with Mr. Bradley, Ginger and I had put our heads together. It was less incredible to her than it was to me. It afforded her, indeed, a distinct satisfaction.
“It puts an end to whether we’re imagining things or not,” she pointed out. “Now we know that an organisation does exist for getting unwanted people out of the way.”
“By supernatural means!”
“You’re so hidebound in your thinking. It’s all that wispiness and the false scarabs that Sybil wears. It puts you off. And if Mr. Bradley had turned out to be a quack practitioner, or a pseudoastrologer, you’d still be unconvinced. But since he turns out to be a nasty down-to-earth little legal crook—or that’s the impression you give me—”
“Near enough,” I said.
“Then that makes the whole thing come into line. However phony it may sound, those three women at the Pale Horse have got hold of something that works.”
“If you’re so convinced, then why Mrs. Tuckerton?”
“Extra check,” said Ginger. “We know what Thyrza Grey says she can do. We know how the financial side is worked. We know a little about three of the victims. We want to know more about the client angle.”
“And suppose Mrs. Tuckerton shows no signs of having been a client?”
“Then we’ll have to investigate elsewhere.”
/> “Of course, I may boob it,” I said gloomily.
Ginger said that I must think better of myself than that.
So here I was, arriving at the front door of Carraway Park. It certainly did not look like my preconceived idea of a Nash house. In many ways it was a near castle of modest proportions. Ginger had promised to supply me with a recent book on Nash architecture, but it had not arrived in time, so I was here somewhat inadequately briefed.
I rang the bell, and a rather seedy-looking man in an alpaca coat opened the door.
“Mr. Easterbrook?” he said. “Mrs. Tuckerton’s expecting you.”
He showed me into an elaborately furnished drawing room. The room made a disagreeable impression upon me. Everything in it was expensive, but chosen without taste. Left to itself, it could have been a room of pleasant proportions. There were one or two good pictures, and a great many bad ones. There was a great deal of yellow brocade. Further cogitations were interrupted by the arrival of Mrs. Tuckerton herself. I arose with difficulty from the depths of a bright yellow brocade sofa.
I don’t know what I had expected, but I suffered a complete reversal of feeling. There was nothing sinister here; merely a completely ordinary young to middle-aged woman. Not a very interesting woman, and not, I thought, a particularly nice woman. The lips, in spite of a generous application of lipstick, were thin and bad-tempered. The chin receded a little. The eyes were pale blue and gave the impression that she was appraising the price of everything. She was the sort of woman who undertipped porters and cloakroom attendants. There are a lot of women of her type to be met in the world, though mainly less expensively dressed, and not so well made-up.
“Mr. Easterbrook?” She was clearly delighted by my visit. She even gushed a little. “I’m so pleased to meet you. Fancy your being interested in this house. Of course I knew it was built by John Nash, my husband told me so, but I never realised that it would be interesting to a person like you!”
“Well, you see, Mrs. Tuckerton, it’s not quite his usual style, and that makes it interesting to—er—”
She saved me the trouble of continuing.