The Pale Horse. Агата Кристи

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?’

       CHAPTER 5

       Mark Easterbrook’s Narrative

      ‘What a relief,’ sighed Mrs Oliver. ‘To think it’s over and nothing has happened!’

      It was a moment of relaxation. Rhoda’s fête had passed off in the manner of fêtes. Violent anxiety about the weather which in the early morning appeared capricious in the extreme. Considerable argument as to whether any stalls should be set up in the open, or whether everything should take place in the long barn and the marquee. Various passionate local disputes regarding tea arrangements, produce stalls, et cetera. Tactful settlement of same by Rhoda. Periodical escapes of Rhoda’s delightful but undisciplined dogs who were supposed to be incarcerated in the house, owing to doubts as to their behaviour on this great occasion. Doubts fully justified! Arrival of pleasant but vague starlet in a profusion of pale fur, to open the fête, which she did very charmingly, adding a few moving words about the plight of refugees which puzzled everybody, since the object of the fête was the restoration of the church tower. Enormous success of the bottle stall. The usual difficulties about change. Pandemonium at tea-time when every patron wanted to invade the marquee and partake of it simultaneously.

      Finally, blessed arrival of evening. Displays of local dancing in the long barn were still going on. Fireworks and a bonfire were scheduled, but the weary household had now retired to the house, and were partaking of a sketchy cold meal in the dining-room, indulging meanwhile in one of those desultory conversations where everyone utters their own thoughts, and pays little attention to those of other people. It was all disjointed and comfortable. The released dogs crunched bones happily under the table.

      ‘We shall take more than we did for the Save the Children last year,’ said Rhoda gleefully.

      ‘It seems very extraordinary to me,’ said Miss Macalister, the children’s Scottish nursery governess, ‘that Michael Brent should find the buried treasure three years in succession. I’m wondering if he gets some advance information?’

      ‘Lady Brookbank won the pig,’ said Rhoda. ‘I don’t think she wanted it. She looked terribly embarrassed.’