The Pale Horse

  “And that was all?”

  “Well—”

  “Tell me.”

  “It was some time later. I hadn’t seen her for a while. But we met one day in a restaurant in Soho. I told her that I’d left the C.R.C. and got another job. She asked me why, and I told her I’d felt uneasy, not knowing what was going on. She said: ‘Perhaps you’ve been wise. But it’s good money and short hours. And after all, we’ve all got to take our chance in this life! I’ve not had much luck in my life and why should I care what happens to other people?’ I said: ‘I don’t understand what you’re talking about. What exactly is wrong with that show?’ She said: ‘I can’t be sure, but I’ll tell you I recognised someone the other day. Coming out of a house where he’d no business to be and carrying a bag of tools. What was he doing with those I’d like to know?’ She asked me, too, if I’d ever come across a woman who ran a pub called the Pale Horse somewhere. I asked her what the Pale Horse had to do with it.”

  “And what did she say?”

  “She laughed and said ‘Read your Bible.’”

  Mrs. Brandon added: “I don’t know what she meant. That was the last time I saw her. I don’t know where she is now, whether she’s still with C.R.C. or whether she’s left.”

  “Mrs. Davis is dead,” said Lejeune.

  Eileen Brandon looked startled.

  “Dead! But—how?”

  “Pneumonia, two months ago.”

  “Oh, I see. I’m sorry.”

  “Is there anything else you can tell us, Mrs. Brandon?”

  “I’m afraid not. I have heard other people mention that phrase—the Pale Horse, but if you ask them about it, they shut up at once. They look afraid, too.”

  She looked uneasy.

  “I—I don’t want to be mixed up in anything dangerous, Inspector Lejeune. I’ve got two small children. Honestly, I don’t know anything more than I’ve told you.”

  He looked at her keenly—then he nodded his head and let her go.

  “That takes us a little further,” said Lejeune when Eileen Brandon had gone. “Mrs. Davis got to know too much. She tried to shut her eyes to the meaning of what was going on, but she must have had a very shrewd suspicion of what it was. Then she was suddenly taken ill, and when she was dying, she sent for a priest and told him what she knew and suspected. The question is, how much did she know? That list of people, I should say, is a list of people she had called on in the course of her job, and who had subsequently died. Hence the remark about Typhoid Mary. The real question is, who was it she ‘recognised’ coming out of a house where he had no business to be, and pretending to be a workman of some kind? That must have been the knowledge that made her dangerous. If she recognised him, he may have recognised her—and he may have realised that she had recognised him. If she’d passed on that particular item to Father Gorman, then it was vital that Father Gorman should be silenced at once before he could pass it on.”

  He looked at me.

  “You agree, don’t you? That must have been the way of it.”

  “Oh yes,” I said. “I agree.”

  “And you’ve an idea, perhaps, who the man is?”

  “I’ve an idea, but—”

  “I know. We haven’t a particle of evidence.”

  He was silent a moment. Then he got up.

  “But we’ll get him,” he said. “Make no mistake. Once we know definitely who it is, there are always ways. We’ll try every damned one of them!”

  Twenty-three

  Mark Easterbrook’s Narrative

  It was some three weeks later that a car drove up to the front door of Priors Court.

  Four men got out. I was one of them. There was also Detective-Inspector Lejeune and Detective-Sergeant Lee. The fourth man was Mr. Osborne, who could hardly contain his delight and excitement at being allowed to be one of the party.

  “You must hold your tongue, you know,” Lejeune admonished him.

  “Yes, indeed, Inspector. You can count on me absolutely. I won’t utter a word.”

  “Mind you don’t.”

  “I feel it’s a privilege. A great privilege, though I don’t quite understand—”

  But nobody was entering into explanations at this moment.

  Lejeune rang the bell and asked for Mr. Venables.

  Looking rather like a deputation, the four of us were ushered in.

  If Venables was surprised at our visit, he did not show it. His manner was courteous in the extreme. I thought again, as he wheeled his chair a little back so as to widen the circle round him, what a very distinctive appearance the man had. The Adam’s apple moving up and down between the wings of his old-fashioned collar, the haggard profile with its curved nose like a bird of prey.

  “Nice to see you again, Easterbrook. You seem to spend a lot of time down in this part of the world nowadays.”

  There was a faint malice in his tone, I thought. He resumed:

  “And—Detective-Inspector Lejeune, is it? That rouses my curiosity, I must admit. So peaceful in these parts, so free from crime. And yet, a detective-inspector calls! What can I do for you, Detective-Inspector?”

  Lejeune was very quiet, very suave.

  “There is a matter on which we think you might be able to assist us, Mr. Venables.”

  “That has a rather familiar ring, does it not? In what way do you think I can assist you?”

  “On October seventh—a parish priest of the name of Father Gorman was murdered in West Street, Paddington. I have been given to understand that you were in the neighbourhood at that time—between 7:45 and 8:15 in the evening, and you may have seen something that may have a bearing on the matter?”

  “Was I really in the neighbourhood at that time? Do you know, I doubt it, I very much doubt it. As far as I can recall I have never been in that particular district of London. Speaking from memory, I do not even think I was in London at all just then. I go to London occasionally for an interesting day in the saleroom, and now and then for a medical checkup.”

  “With Sir William Dugdale of Harley Street, I believe.”

  Mr. Venables stared at him coldly.

  “You are very well informed, Inspector.”

  “Not quite so well as I should like to be. However, I’m disappointed that you can’t assist me in the way that I hoped. I think I owe it to you to explain the facts connected with the death of Father Gorman.”

  “Certainly, if you like. It is a name I have never heard until now.”

  “Father Gorman had been called out on that particular foggy evening to the deathbed of a woman nearby. She had become entangled with a criminal organisation, at first almost unwittingly, but later certain things made her suspect the seriousness of the matter. It was an organisation which specialised in the removal of unwanted persons—for a substantial fee, naturally.”

  “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 naught
y, 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 many consumer research concerns, are detailed to canvass a particular neighbourhood with a questionnaire. ‘What bread do you prefer? What toilet articles and cosmetics? What laxative, tonics, sedatives, indigestion mixtures, etc.?’ People nowadays are conditioned to answering quizzes. They seldom object.

  “And so to—the last step. Simple, bold, successful! The only action performed by the originator of the scheme in person. He may be wearing a mansion flat porter’s uniform, he may be a man calling to read the gas or the electric meter. He may be a plumber, or an electrician, or a workman of some kind. Whatever he is, he will have what appear to be the proper credentials with him if anyone asks to see them. Most people don’t. Whatever role he is playing, his real object is simple—the substitution of a preparation he brings with him for a similar article which he knows (by reason of the C.R.C. questionnaires) that his victim uses. He may tap pipes, or examine meters, or test water pressure—but that is his real object. Having accomplished it, he leaves, and is not seen in that neighbourhood again.

  “And for a few days perhaps nothing happens. But sooner or later, the victim displays symptoms of illness. A doctor is called in, but has no reason to suspect anything out of the ordinary. He may question what food and drink, etc., the patient has taken, but he is unlikely to suspect the ordinary proprietary article that the patient has taken for years.

  “And you see the beauty of the scheme, Mr. Venables? The only person who knows what the head of the organisation actually does—is the head of the organisation himself. There is no one to give him away.”

  “So how do you know so much?” demanded Mr. Venables pleasantly.

  “When we have suspicions of a certain person, there are ways of making sure.”

  “Indeed? Such as?”

  “We needn’t go into all of them. But there’s the camera, for instance. All kinds of ingenious devices are possible nowadays. A man can be snapped without his suspecting the fact. We’ve got some excellent pictures, for instance, of a uniformed flat porter, and a gas man and so on. There are such things as false moustaches, different dentures, etc., but our man has been recognised, quite easily—first by Mrs. Mark Easterbrook, alias Miss Katherine Corrigan, and also by a woman called Edith Binns. Recognition is an interesting thing, Mr. Venables. For instance, this gentleman here, Mr. Osborne, is willing to swear he saw you following Father Gorman in Barton Street on the night of the seventh of October about eight o’clock.”

  “And I did see you!” Mr. Osborne leaned forward, twitching with excitement. “I described you exactly!”

  “Rather too exactly, perhaps,” said Lejeune. “Because you didn’t see Mr. Venables that night when you were standing outside the doorway of your shop. You weren’t standing there at all. You were across the street yourself—following Father Gorman until he turned into West Street, and you came up with him and killed him.…”

  Mr. Zachariah Osborne said:

  “What?”

  It might have been ludicrous. It was ludicrous! The dropped jaw, the staring eyes…

  “Let me introduce you, Mr. Venables, to Mr. Zachariah Osborne, pharmacist, late of Barton Street, Paddington. You’ll feel a personal interest in him when I tell you that Mr. Osborne, who has been under observation for some time, was unwise enough to plant a packet of thallium salts in your potting shed. Not knowing of your disability, he’d amused himself by casting you as the villain of the piece; and being a very obstinate, as well as a very stupid man, he refused to admit he’d made a bloomer.”

  “Stupid? You dare to call me stupid? If you knew—if you’d any idea what I’ve done—what I can do— I—”

  Osborne shook and spluttered with rage.

  Lejeune summed him up carefully. I was reminded of a man playing a fish.

  “You shouldn’t have tried to be so clever, you know,” he said reprovingly. “Why, if you’d just sat back in that shop of yours, and let well alone, I shouldn’t be here now, warning you, as it’s my duty to do, that anything you say will be taken down and—”

  It was then that Mr. Osborne began to scream.

  Twenty-four

  Mark Easterbrook’s Narrative

  “Look here, Lejeune, there are lots of things I want to know.”

  The formalities over, I had got Lejeune to myself. We were sitting together with two large tankards of beer opposite us.

  “Yes, Mr. Easterbrook? I gather it was a surprise to you.”

  “It certainly was. My mind was set on Venables. You never gave me the least hint.”

  “I couldn’t afford to give hints, Mr. Easterbrook. You have to play these things close to your chest. They’re tricky. The truth is we hadn’t a lot to go on. That’s why we had to stage the show in the way we did with Venables’s cooperation. We had to lead Osborne right up the garden path and then turn on him suddenly and hope to break him down. And it worked.”

  “Is he mad?” I asked.

  “I’d say he’s gone over the edge now. He wasn’t to begin
with, of course, but it does something to you, you know. Killing people. It makes you feel powerful and larger than life. It makes you feel you’re God Almighty. But you’re not. You’re only a nasty bit of goods that’s been found out. And when that fact’s presented to you suddenly your ego just can’t stand it. You scream and you rant and you boast of what you’ve done and how clever you are. Well, you saw him.”

  I nodded. “So Venables was in on the performance you put up,” I said. “Did he like the idea of cooperating?”

  “It amused him, I think,” said Lejeune. “Besides, he was impertinent enough to say that one good turn deserves another.”

  “And what did he mean by that cryptic remark?”

  “Well, I shouldn’t be telling you this,” said Lejeune, “this is off the record. There was a big outbreak of bank robberies about eight years ago. The same technique every time. And they got away with it! The raids were cleverly planned by someone who took no part in the actual operation. That man got away with a lot of money. We may have had our suspicions who it was, but we couldn’t prove it. He was too clever for us. Especially on the financial angle. And he’s had the sense never to try and repeat his success. I’m not saying more. He was a clever crook but he wasn’t a murderer. No lives were lost.”

  My mind went back to Zachariah Osborne. “Did you always suspect Osborne?” I asked. “Right from the beginning?”

  “Well, he would draw attention to himself,” said Lejeune. “As I told him, if he’d only sat back and done nothing, we’d never have dreamed that the respectable pharmacist, Mr. Zachariah Osborne, had anything to do with the business. But it’s a funny thing, that’s just what murderers can’t do. There they are, sitting pretty, safe as houses. But they can’t let well alone. I’m sure I don’t know why.”

  “The desire for death,” I suggested. “A variant of Thyrza Grey’s theme.”

  “The sooner you forget all about Miss Thyrza Grey and the things she told you, the better,” said Lejeune severely. “No,” he said thoughtfully, “I think really it’s loneliness. The knowledge that you’re such a clever chap, but that there’s nobody you can talk to about it.”