The Pale Horse Read online

  “You haven’t told me when you started to suspect him,” I said.

  “Well, straightaway he started telling lies. We asked for anyone who’d seen Father Gorman that night to communicate with us. Mr. Osborne communicated and the statement he made was a palpable lie. He’d seen a man following Father Gorman and he described the features of that man, but he couldn’t possibly have seen him across the street on a foggy night. An aquiline nose in profile he might have seen, but not an Adam’s apple. That was going too far. Of course, that lie might have been innocent enough. Mr. Osborne might just want to make himself important. Lots of people are like that. But it made me focus my attention on Mr. Osborne and he was really rather a curious person. At once he started to tell me a lot about himself. Very unwise of him. He gave me a picture of someone who had always wanted to be more important than he was. He’d not been content to go into his father’s old-fashioned business. He’d gone off and tried his fortunes on the stage, but he obviously hadn’t been a success. Probably, I should say, because he couldn’t take production. Nobody was going to dictate to him the way he should play a part! He was probably genuine enough when he told of his ambition to be a witness in a murder trial, successfully identifying a man who had come in to buy poison. His mind ran on those lines a good deal, I should think. Of course we don’t know at what point, and when, the idea occurred to him that he might become a really big criminal, a man so clever that he could never be brought to justice.

  “But that’s all surmise. To go back. Osborne’s description of the man he had seen that night was interesting. It was so obviously a description of a real person whom he had at one time seen. It’s extraordinarily difficult, you know, to make up a description of anybody. Eyes, nose, chin, ears, bearing, all the rest of it. If you try it you’ll find yourself unconsciously describing somebody that you’ve noticed somewhere—in a tram or a train or an omnibus. Osborne was obviously describing a man with somewhat unusual characteristics. I’d say that he noticed Venables sitting in his car one day in Bournemouth and was struck by his appearance—if he’d seen him that way, he wouldn’t realise the man was a cripple.

  “Another reason that kept me interested in Osborne was that he was a pharmacist. I thought it just possible that that list we had might tie-up with the narcotic trade somewhere. Actually that wasn’t so, and I might, therefore, have forgotten all about Mr. Osborne if Mr. Osborne himself hadn’t been determined to keep in the picture. He wanted, you see, to know just what we were doing, and so he writes to say that he’s seen the man in question at a church fête in Much Deeping. He still didn’t know that Mr. Venables was a paralysis case. When he did find that out he hadn’t the sense to shut up. That was his vanity. Typical criminal’s vanity. He wasn’t going to admit for one moment that he’d been wrong. Like a fool, he stuck to his guns and put forward all sorts of preposterous theories. I had a very interesting visit to him at his bungalow in Bournemouth. The name of it ought to have given the show away. Everest. That’s what he called it. And he’d hung up a picture of Mount Everest in the hall. Told me how interested he was in Himalayan exploration. But that was the kind of cheap joke that he enjoyed. Ever rest. That was his trade—his profession. He did give people eternal rest on payment of a suitable fee. It was a wonderful idea, one’s got to hand him that. The whole setup was clever. Bradley in Birmingham, Thyrza Grey holding her séances in Much Deeping. And who was to suspect Mr. Osborne who had no connection with Thyrza Grey, no connection with Bradley and Birmingham, no connection with the victim. The actual mechanics of the thing was child’s play to a pharmacist. As I say, if only Mr. Osborne had had the sense to keep quiet.”

  “But what did he do with the money?” I asked. “After all, he did it for money presumably?”

  “Oh, yes, he did it for the money. Had grand visions, no doubt, of himself travelling, entertaining, being a rich and important person. But of course he wasn’t the person he imagined himself to be. I think his sense of power was exhilarated by the actual performance of murder. To get away with murder again and again intoxicated him, and what’s more, he’ll enjoy himself in the dock. You see if he doesn’t. The central figure with all eyes upon him.”

  “But what did he do with the money?” I demanded.

  “Oh, that’s very simple,” said Lejeune, “though I don’t know that I should have thought of it unless I’d noticed the way he’d furnished the bungalow. He was a miser, of course. He loved money and he wanted money, but not for spending. That bungalow was sparsely furnished and all with stuff that he’d bought cheap at sales. He didn’t like spending money, he just wanted to have it.”

  “Do you mean he banked it all?”

  “Oh no,” said Lejeune. “I’d say we’ll find it somewhere under the floor in that bungalow of his.”

  Both Lejeune and I were silent for some minutes while I contemplated the strange creature that was Zachariah Osborne.

  “Corrigan,” said Lejeune dreamily, “would say it was all due to some gland in his spleen or his sweetbread or something either overfunctioning or underproducing—I never can remember which. I’m a simple man—I think he’s just a wrong ’un—What beats me—it always does—is how a man can be so clever and yet be such a perfect fool.”

  “One imagines a mastermind,” I said, “as some grand and sinister figure of evil.”

  Lejeune shook his head. “It’s not like that at all,” he said. “Evil is not something superhuman, it’s something less than human. Your criminal is someone who wants to be important, but who never will be important, because he’ll always be less than a man.”

  Twenty-five

  Mark Easterbrook’s Narrative

  I

  At Much Deeping everything was refreshingly normal.

  Rhoda was busy doctoring dogs. This time, I think, it was deworming. She looked up as I came in and asked me if I would like to assist. I refused and asked where Ginger was.

  “She’s gone over to the Pale Horse.”

  “What?”

  “She said she had something to do there.”

  “But the house is empty.”

  “I know.”

  “She’ll overtire herself. She’s not fit yet—”

  “How you fuss, Mark. Ginger’s all right. Have you seen Mrs. Oliver’s new book? It’s called The White Cockatoo. It’s over on the table there.”

  “God bless Mrs. Oliver. And Edith Binns, too.”

  “Who on earth is Edith Binns?”

  “A woman who has identified a photograph. Also faithful retainer to my late godmother.”

  “Nothing you say seems to make sense. What’s the matter with you?”

  I did not reply, but set out for the Pale Horse.

  Just before I got there, I met Mrs. Dane Calthrop.

  She greeted me enthusiastically.

  “All along I knew I was being stupid,” she said. “But I didn’t see how. Taken in by trappings.”

  She waved an arm towards the inn, empty and peaceful in the late autumn sunshine.

  “The wickedness was never there—not in the sense it was supposed to be. No fantastic trafficking with the Devil, no black and evil splendour. Just parlour tricks done for money—and human life of no account. That’s real wickedness. Nothing grand or big—just petty and contemptible.”

  “You and Inspector Lejeune would seem to agree about things.”

  “I like that man,” said Mrs. Dane Calthrop. “Let’s go into the Pale Horse and find Ginger.”

  “What’s she doing there?”

  “Cleaning up something.”

  We went in through the low doorway. There was a strong smell of turpentine. Ginger was busy with rags and bottles. She looked up as we entered. She was still very pale and thin, a scarf wound round her head where the hair had not yet grown, a ghost of her former self.

  “She’s all right,” said Mrs. Dane Calthrop, reading my thoughts as usual.

  “Look!” said Ginger triumphantly.

  She indicated the old in
n sign on which she was working.

  The grime of years removed, the figure of the rider on the horse was plainly discernible; a grinning skeleton with gleaming bones.

  Mrs. Dane Calthrop’s voice, deep and sonorous, spoke behind me:

  “Revelation, Chapter Six, Verse Eight. And I looked and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him.…”

  We were silent for a moment or two, and then Mrs. Dane Calthrop, who was not one to be afraid of anticlimax, said,

  “So that’s that,” in the tone of one who puts something in the wastepaper basket.

  “I must go now,” she added. “Mothers’ Meeting.”

  She paused in the doorway, nodded at Ginger, and said unexpectedly:

  “You’ll make a good mother.”

  For some reason Ginger blushed crimson….

  “Ginger,” I said, “will you?”

  “Will I what? Make a good mother?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Perhaps… But I’d prefer a firm offer.”

  I made her a firm offer….

  II

  After an interlude, Ginger demanded:

  “Are you quite sure you don’t want to marry that Hermia creature?”

  “Good lord!” I said. “I quite forgot.”

  I took a letter from my pocket.

  “This came three days ago, asking me if I’d come to the Old Vic with her to see Love’s Labour’s Lost.”

  Ginger took the letter out of my hand and tore it up.

  “If you want to go to the Old Vic in future,” she said firmly, “you’ll go with me.”

  * * *

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  Peril at End House

  Lord Edgware Dies

  Murder on the Orient Express

  Three Act Tragedy

  Death in the Clouds

  The A.B.C. Murders

  Murder in Mesopotamia

  Cards on the Table

  Murder in the Mews

  Dumb Witness

  Death on the Nile

  Appointment with Death

  Hercule Poirot’s Christmas

  Sad Cypress

  One, Two, Buckle My Shoe

  Evil Under the Sun

  Five Little Pigs

  The Hollow

  The Labors of Hercules

  Taken at the Flood

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  Mrs. McGinty’s Dead

  After the Funeral

  Hickory Dickory Dock

  Dead Man’s Folly

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  Three Blind Mice and Other Stories

  They Came to Baghdad

  Destination Unknown

  Ordeal by Innocence

  Double Sin and Other Stories

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  * * *

  About the Author

  Agatha Christie is the most widely published author of all time and in any language, outsold only by the Bible and Shakespeare. Her books have sold more than a billion copies in English and another billion in a hundred foreign languages. She is the author of eighty crime novels and short-story collections, nineteen plays, two memoirs, and six novels written under the name Mary Westmacott.

  She first tried her hand at detective fiction while working in a hospital dispensary during World War I, creating the now legendary Hercule Poirot with her debut novel The Mysterious Affair at Styles. With The Murder in the Vicarage, published in 1930, she introduced another beloved sleuth, Miss Jane Marple. Additional series characters include the husband-and-wife crime-fighting team of Tommy and Tuppence Beresford, private investigator Parker Pyne, and Scotland Yard detectives Superintendent Battle and Inspector Japp.

  Many of Christie’s novels and short stories were adapted into plays, films, and television series. The Mousetrap, her most famous play of all, opened in 1952 and is the longest-running play in history. Among her best-known film adaptations are Murder on the Orient Express (1974) and Death on the Nile (1978), with Albert Finney and Peter Ustinov playing Hercule Poirot, respectively. On the small screen Poirot has been most memorably portrayed by David Suchet, and Miss Marple by Joan Hickson and subsequently Geraldine McEwan and Julia McKenzie.

  Christie was first married to Archibald Christie and then to archaeologist Sir Max Mallowan, whom she accompanied on expeditions to countries that would also serve as the settings for many of her novels. In 1971 she achieved one of Britain’s highest honors when she was made a Dame of the British Empire. She died in 1976 at the age of eighty-five. Her one hundred and twentieth anniversary was celebrated around the world in 2010.

  www.AgathaChristie.com

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  THE AGATHA CHRISTIE COLLECTION

  The Man in the Brown Suit

  The Secret of Chimneys

  The Seven Dials Mystery

  The Mysterious Mr. Quin

  The Sittaford Mystery

  Parker Pyne Investigates

  Why Didn’t They Ask Evans?

  Murder Is Easy

  The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories

  And Then There Were None

  Towards Zero

  Death Comes as the End


  Sparkling Cyanide

  The Witness for the Prosecution and Other Stories

  Crooked House

  Three Blind Mice and Other Stories

  They Came to Baghdad

  Destination Unknown

  Ordeal by Innocence

  Double Sin and Other Stories

  The Pale Horse

  Star over Bethlehem: Poems and Holiday Stories

  Endless Night

  Passenger to Frankfurt

  The Golden Ball and Other Stories

  The Mousetrap and Other Plays

  The Harlequin Tea Set

  The Hercule Poirot Mysteries

  The Mysterious Affair at Styles

  The Murder on the Links

  Poirot Investigates

  The Murder of Roger Ackroyd

  The Big Four

  The Mystery of the Blue Train

  Peril at End House

  Lord Edgware Dies

  Murder on the Orient Express

  Three Act Tragedy

  Death in the Clouds

  The A.B.C. Murders

  Murder in Mesopotamia

  Cards on the Table

  Murder in the Mews

  Dumb Witness

  Death on the Nile

  Appointment with Death

  Hercule Poirot’s Christmas

  Sad Cypress

  One, Two, Buckle My Shoe

  Evil Under the Sun

  Five Little Pigs

  The Hollow

  The Labors of Hercules

  Taken at the Flood

  The Underdog and Other Stories

  Mrs. McGinty’s Dead

  After the Funeral

  Hickory Dickory Dock

  Dead Man’s Folly

  Cat Among the Pigeons

  The Clocks

  Third Girl

  Hallowe’en Party

  Elephants Can Remember

  Curtain: Poirot’s Last Case

  The Miss Marple Mysteries

  The Murder at the Vicarage

  The Body in the Library

  The Moving Finger

  A Murder Is Announced