“You won’t believe it,” I warned him. “I don’t really believe it myself.”
“Come on. Let’s have it.”
I told him of my conversation with Thyrza Grey. His reaction was immediate.
“What unutterable balderdash!”
“It is, isn’t it?”
“Of course it is! What’s the matter with you, Mark? White cockerels. Sacrifices, I suppose! A medium, the local witch, and a middle-aged country spinster who can send out a death ray guaranteed lethal. It’s mad, man—absolutely mad!”
“Yes, it’s mad,” I said heavily.
“Oh! stop agreeing with me, Mark. You make me feel there’s something in it when you do that. You believe there’s something in it, don’t you?”
“Let me ask you a question first. This stuff about everybody having a secret urge or wish for death. Is there any scientific truth in that?”
Corrigan hesitated for a moment. Then he said:
“I’m not a psychiatrist. Strictly between you and me I think half these fellows are slightly barmy themselves. They’re punch drunk on theories. And they go much too far. I can tell you that the police aren’t at all fond of the expert medical witness who’s always being called in for the defence to explain away a man’s having killed some helpless old woman for the money in the till.”
“You prefer your glandular theory?”
He grinned.
“All right. All right. I’m a theorist, too. Admitted. But there’s a good physical reason behind my theory—if I can ever get at it. But all this subconscious stuff! Pah!”
“You don’t believe in it?”
“Of course I believe in it. But these chaps take it much too far. The unconscious ‘death wish’ and all that, there’s something in it, of course, but not nearly so much as they make out.”
“But there is such a thing,” I persisted.
“You’d better go and buy yourself a book on psychology and read all about it.”
“Thyrza Grey claims that she knows all there is to know.”
“Thyrza Grey!” he snorted. “What does a half-baked spinster in a country village know about mental psychology?”
“She says she knows a lot.”
“As I said before, balderdash!”
“That,” I remarked, “is what people have always said about any discovery that doesn’t accord with recognised ideas. Frogs twitching their legs on railings—”
He interrupted me.
“So you’ve swallowed all this, hook, line and sinker?”
“Not at all,” I said. “I just wanted to know if there is any scientific basis for it.”
Corrigan snorted.
“Scientific basis my foot!”
“All right. I just wanted to know.”
“You’ll be saying next she’s the Woman with the Box.”
“What Woman with a box?”
“Just one of the wild stories that turns up from time to time—by Nostradamus out of Mother Shipton. Some people will swallow anything.”
“You might at least tell me how you are getting on with that list of names.”
“The boys have been hard at work, but these things take time and a lot of routine work. Names without addresses or Christian names aren’t easy to trace or identify.”
“Let’s take it from a different angle. I’d be willing to bet you one thing. Within a fairly recent period—say a year to a year and a half—every one of those names has appeared on a death certificate. Am I right?”
He gave me a queer look.
“You’re right—for what it’s worth.”
“That’s the thing they all have in common—death.”
“Yes, but that mayn’t mean as much as it sounds, Mark. Have you any idea how many people die every day in the British Isles? And some of those names are quite common—which doesn’t help.”
“Delafontaine,” I said. “Mary Delafontaine. That’s not a very common name, is it? The funeral was last Tuesday, I understand.”
He shot me a quick glance.
“How do you know that? Saw it in the paper. I suppose.”
“I heard it from a friend of hers.”
“There was nothing fishy about her death. I can tell you that. In fact, there’s been nothing questionable about any of the deaths the police have been investigating. If they were ‘accidents’ it might be suspicious. But the deaths are all perfectly normal deaths. Pneumonia, cerebral haemorrhage, tumour on the brain, gallstones, one case of polio—nothing in the least suspicious.”
I nodded.
“Not accident,” I said. “Not poisoning. Just plain illnesses leading to death. Just as Thyrza Grey claims.”
“Are you really suggesting that that woman can cause someone she’s never seen, miles away, to catch pneumonia and die of it?”
“I’m not suggesting such a thing. She did. I think it’s fantastic and I’d like to think it’s impossible. But there are certain curious factors. There’s the casual mention of a Pale Horse—in connection with the removal of unwanted persons. There is a place called the Pale Horse—and the woman who lives there practically boasts that such an operation is possible. Living in that neighbourhood is a man who is recognised very positively as the man who was seen following Father Gorman on the night that he was killed—the night when he had been called to a dying woman who was heard to speak of ‘great wickedness.’ Rather a lot of coincidences, don’t you think?”
“The man couldn’t have been Venables, since according to you, he’s been paralysed for years.”
“It isn’t possible, from the medical point of view, that that paralysis could be faked?”
“Of course not. The limbs would be atrophied.”
“That certainly seems to settle the question,” I admitted. I sighed. “A pity. If there is a—I don’t know quite what to call it—an organisation that specialises in ‘Removals—Human’ Venables is the kind of brain I can see running it. The things he has in that house of his represent a fantastic amount of money. Where does that money come from?”
I paused—and then said:
“All these people who have died—tidily—in their beds, of this, that and the other—were there people who profited by their deaths?”
“Someone always profits by a death—in greater or lesser degree. There were no notably suspicious circumstances, if that is what you mean.”
“It isn’t quite.”
“Lady Hesketh-Dubois, as you probably know, left about fifty thousand net. A niece and a nephew inherit. Nephew lives in Canada. Niece is married and lives in North of England. Both could do with the money. Thomasina Tuckerton was left a very large fortune by her father. If she died unmarried before the age of twenty-one, it reverts to her stepmother. Stepmother seems quite a blameless creature. Then there’s your Mrs. Delafontaine—money left to a cousin—”
“Ah yes. And the cousin?”
“In Kenya with her husband.”
“All splendidly absent,” I commented.
Corrigan threw me an annoyed glance.
“Of the three Sandfords who’ve kicked the bucket, one left a wife much younger than himself who has married again—rather quickly. Deceased Sandford was an R.C., and wouldn’t have given her a divorce. A fellow called Sidney Harmondsworth who died of cerebral haemorrhage was suspected at the Yard of augmenting his income by discreet blackmail. Several people in high places must be greatly relieved that he is no more.”
“What you’re saying in effect is that all these deaths were convenient deaths. What about Corrigan?”
Corrigan grinned.
“Corrigan is a common name. Quite a lot of Corrigans have died—but not to the particular advantage of anyone in particular so far as we can learn.”
“That settles it. You’re the next prospective victim. Take good care of yourself.”
“I will. And don’t think that your Witch of Endor is going to strike me down with a duodenal ulcer, or Spanish ’flu. Not a casehardened doctor!”
�
�Listen, Jim. I want to investigate this claim of Thyrza Grey’s. Will you help me?”
“No, I won’t! I can’t understand a clever educated fellow like you being taken in by such balderdash.”
I sighed.
“Can’t you use another word? I’m tired of that one.”
“Poppycock, if you like it better.”
“I don’t much.”
“Obstinate fellow, aren’t you, Mark?”
“As I see it,” I said, “somebody has to be!”
Ten
Glendower Close was very very new. It swept round in an uneven semicircle and at its lower end the builders were still at work. About halfway along its length was a gate inscribed with the name of Everest.
Visible, bent over the garden border, planting bulbs, was a rounded back which Inspector Lejeune recognised without difficulty as that of Mr. Zachariah Osborne. He opened the gate and passed inside. Mr. Osborne rose from his stooping position and turned to see who had entered his domain. On recognising his visitor, an additional flush of pleasure rose to his already flushed face. Mr. Osborne in the country was looking very much the same as Mr. Osborne in his shop in London. He wore stout country shoes and was in his shirt sleeves, but even this déshabillé detracted little from the dapper neatness of his appearance. A fine dew of perspiration showed on the shining baldness of his domed head. This he carefully wiped with a pocket handkerchief before advancing to meet his visitor.
“Inspector Lejeune!” he exclaimed pleasurably. “I take this as an honour. I do indeed, sir. I received your acknowledgement of my letter, but I never hoped to see you in person. Welcome to my little abode. Welcome to Everest. The name surprises you perhaps? I have always been deeply interested in the Himalayas. I followed every detail of the Everest expedition. What a triumph for our country. Sir Edmund Hillary! What a man! What endurance! As one who has never had to suffer any personal discomfort, I do appreciate the courage of those who go forth to scale unconquered mountains or sail through icebound seas to discover the secrets of the Pole. But come inside and partake, I beg of you, of some simple refreshment.”
Leading the way, Mr. Osborne ushered Lejeune into the small bungalow which was the acme of neatness, though rather sparsely furnished.
“Not quite settled yet,” explained Mr. Osborne. “I attend local sales whenever possible. There is good stuff to be picked up that way, at a quarter of the cost one would have to pay in a shop. Now what can I offer you? A glass of sherry? Beer? A cup of tea? I could have the kettle on in a jiffy.”
Lejeune expressed a preference for beer.
“Here we are, then,” said Mr. Osborne, returning a moment later with two brimming pewter tankards. “We will sit and take our rest. Everest. Ha ha! The name of my house has a double meaning. I am always fond of a little joke.”
Those social amenities satisfied, Mr. Osborne leaned forward hopefully.
“My information was of service to you?”
Lejeune softened the blow as much as possible.
“Not as much as we hoped, I am afraid.”
“Ah, I confess I am disappointed. Though, really, there is, I realise, no reason to suppose that a gentleman proceeding in the same direction as Father Gorman should necessarily be his murderer. That was really too much to hope for. And this Mr. Venables is well-to-do and much respected locally, I understand, moving in the best social circles.”
“The point is,” said Lejeune, “that it could not have been Mr. Venables that you saw on that particular evening.”
“Oh, but it was. I have absolutely no doubt in my own mind. I am never mistaken about a face.”
“I’m afraid you must have been this time,” said Lejeune gently. “You see, Mr. Venables is a victim of polio. For over three years he has been paralysed from the waist down, and is unable to use his legs.”
“Polio!” ejaculated Mr. Osborne. “Oh dear, dear… That does seem to settle the matter. And yet—You’ll excuse me, Inspector Lejeune. I hope you won’t take offence. But that really is so? I mean you have definite medical evidence as to that?”
“Yes, Mr. Osborne. We have. Mr. Venables is a patient of Sir William Dugdale of Harley Street, a most eminent member of the medical profession.”
“Of course, of course. F.R.C.P. A very well-known name! Oh dear, I seem to have fallen down badly. I was so very sure. And to trouble you for nothing.”
“You mustn’t take it like that,” said Lejeune quickly. “Your information is still very valuable. It is clear that the man you saw must bear a very close resemblance to Mr. Venables—and since Mr. Venables is a man of distinctly unusual appearance, that is extremely valuable knowledge to have. There cannot be many persons answering to that description.”
“True, true.” Mr. Osborne cheered up a little. “A man of the criminal classes resembling Mr. Venables in appearance. There certainly cannot be many such. In the files at Scotland Yard—”
He looked hopefully at the inspector.
“It may not be quite so simple as that,” said Lejeune slowly. “The man may not have a record. And in any case, as you said just now there is as yet no reason to assume that this particular man had anything to do with the attack on Father Gorman.”
Mr. Osborne looked depressed again.
“You must forgive me. Wishful thinking, I am afraid, on my part… I should so like to have been able to give evidence at a murder trial… And they would not have been able to shake me, I assure you of that. Oh no, I should have stuck to my guns!”
Lejeune was silent, considering his host thoughtfully. Mr. Osborne responded to the silent scrutiny.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Osborne, why would you have stuck to your guns, as you put it?”
Mr. Osborne looked astonished.
“Because I am so certain—oh—oh yes, I see what you mean. The man was not the man. So I have no business to feel certain. And yet I do—”
Lejeune leaned forward. “You may have wondered why I have come to see you today. Having received medical evidence that the man seen by you could not have been Mr. Venables, why am I here?”
“Quite. Quite. Well, then, Inspector Lejeune, why did you come?”
“I came,” said Lejeune, “because the very positiveness of your identification impressed me. I wanted to know on what grounds your certainty was based. It was a foggy night, remember. I have been to your shop. I have stood where you stood in your doorway and looked across the street. On a foggy night it seemed to me that a figure at that distance would be very insubstantial, that it would be almost impossible to distinguish features clearly.”
“Up to a point, of course, you are quite right. Fog was setting in. But it came, if you understand me, in patches. It cleared for a short space every now and then. It did so at the moment that I saw Father Gorman walking fast along the opposite pavement. That is why I saw him and the man who followed shortly after him so clearly. Moreover, just when the second man was abreast of me, he flicked on a lighter to relight his cigarette. His profile at that moment was very clear—the nose, the chin, the pronounced Adam’s apple. That’s a striking-looking man, I thought. I’ve never seen him about before. If he’d ever been into my shop I’d have remembered him, I thought. So, you see—”
Mr. Osborne broke off.
“Yes, I see,” said Lejeune thoughtfully.
“A brother,” suggested Mr. Osborne hopefully. “A twin brother, perhaps? Now that would be a solution.”
“The identical twin solution?” Lejeune smiled and shook his head. “So very convenient in fiction. But in real life—” he shook his head. “It doesn’t happen, you know. It really doesn’t happen.”
“No… No, I suppose not. But possibly an ordinary brother. A close family resemblance—” Mr. Osborne looked wistful.
“As far as we can ascertain,” Lejeune spoke carefully, “Mr. Venables has not got a brother.”
“As far as you can ascertain?” Mr. Osborne repeated the words.
“Though of British nationalit
y, he was born abroad, his parents only brought him to England when he was eleven years old.”
“You don’t know very much about him really, then? About his family, I mean?”
“No,” said Lejeune, thoughtfully. “It isn’t easy to find out very much about Mr. Venables—without, that is to say, going and asking him—and we’ve no grounds for doing that.”
He spoke deliberately. There were ways of finding out things without going and asking, but he had no intention of telling Mr. Osborne so.
“So if it wasn’t for the medical evidence,” he said, getting to his feet, “you’d be sure about the identification?”
“Oh yes,” said Mr. Osborne, following suit. “It’s quite a hobby of mine, you know, memorising faces.” He chuckled. “Many a customer I’ve surprised that way. ‘How’s the asthma?’ I’d say to someone—and she’d look quite surprised. ‘You came in last March,’ I’d say, ‘with a prescription. One of Dr. Hargreaves’s.’ And wouldn’t she look surprised! Did me a lot of good in business. It pleases people to be remembered, though I wasn’t as good with names as with faces. I started making a hobby of the thing quite young. If Royalty can do it, I used to say to myself, you can do it, Zachariah Osborne! After a while it becomes automatic. You hardly have to make an effort.”
Lejeune sighed.
“I’d like to have a witness like you in the box,” he said. “Identification is always a tricky business. Most people can’t tell you anything at all. They’ll say things like: ‘Oh, tallish, I think. Fair-haired—well, not very fair, sort of middling. Ordinary sort of face. Eyes blue—or grey—or perhaps brown. Grey mackintosh—or it may have been dark blue.’”
Mr. Osborne laughed.
“Not much good to you, that sort of thing.”
“Frankly, a witness like you would be a godsend!”
Mr. Osborne looked pleased.
“It’s a gift,” he said modestly. “But mind you, I’ve cultivated my gift. You know the game they play at children’s parties—a lot of objects brought in on a tray and a few minutes given to memorise them. I can score a hundred percent every time. Quite surprises people. How wonderful, they say. It’s not wonderful. It’s a knack. Comes with practice.” He chuckled. “I’m not a bad conjurer either. I do a bit to amuse the kiddies at Christmastime. Excuse me, Mr. Lejeune, what have you got in your breast pocket?”
The Pale Horse Page 9