The Pale Horse. Agatha Christie

in my mind and I turned sharply to ask:

      ‘Hallo—isn’t it Corrigan?’

      ‘It is—and—yes—you’re Mark Easterbrook!’

      Jim Corrigan and I had been friends in our Oxford days—but it must have been fifteen years or more since we had last met.

      ‘Thought I knew you—but couldn’t place you for the moment,’ said Corrigan. ‘I read your articles now and again—and enjoy them, I must say.’

      ‘What about you? Have you gone in for research as you meant to do?’

      Corrigan sighed.

      ‘Hardly. It’s an expensive job—if you want to strike out on your own. Unless you can find a tame millionaire, or a suggestible Trust.’

      ‘Liver flukes, wasn’t it?’

      ‘What a memory! No, I went off liver flukes. The properties of the secretions of the Mandarian glands; that’s my present-day interest. You wouldn’t have heard of them! Connected with the spleen. Apparently serving no purpose whatever!’

      He spoke with a scientist’s enthusiasm.

      ‘What’s the big idea, then?’

      ‘Well,’ Corrigan sounded apologetic. ‘I have a theory that they may influence behaviour. To put it very crudely, they may act rather as the fluid in your car brakes does. No fluid—the brakes don’t act. In human beings, a deficiency in these secretions might—I only say might—make you a criminal.’

      I whistled.

      ‘And what happens to Original Sin?’

      ‘What indeed?’ said Dr Corrigan. ‘The parsons wouldn’t like it, would they? I haven’t been able to interest anyone in my theory, unfortunately. So I’m a police surgeon, in N.W. division. Quite interesting. One sees a lot of criminal types. But I won’t bore you with shop—unless you’ll come and have some lunch with me?’

      ‘I’d like to. But you were going in there,’ I nodded towards the house behind Corrigan.

      ‘Not really,’ said Corrigan. ‘I was just going to gatecrash.’

      ‘There’s nobody there but a caretaker.’

      ‘So I imagined. But I wanted to find out something about the late Lady Hesketh-Dubois if I could.’

      ‘I dare say I can tell you more than a caretaker could. She was my godmother.’

      ‘Was she indeed? That’s a bit of luck. Where shall we go to feed? There’s a little place off Lowndes Square—not grand, but they do a special kind of sea food soup.’

      We settled ourselves in the little restaurant—a cauldron of steaming soup was brought to us by a pale-faced lad in French sailor trousers.

      ‘Delicious,’ I said, sampling the soup. ‘Now then, Corrigan, what do you want to know about the old lady? And incidentally, why?’

      ‘Why’s rather a long story,’ said my friend. ‘First tell me what kind of an old lady she was?’

      I considered.

      ‘She was an old-fashioned type,’ I said. ‘Victorian. Widow of an ex-Governor of some obscure island. She was rich and liked her comfort. Went abroad in the winters to Estoril and places like that. Her house is hideous, full of Victorian furniture and the worst and most ornate kind of Victorian silver. She had no children, but kept a couple of fairly well-behaved poodles whom she loved dearly. She was opinionated and a staunch Conservative. Kindly, but autocratic. Very set in her ways. What more do you want to know?’

      ‘I’m not quite sure,’ said Corrigan. ‘Was she ever likely to have been blackmailed, would you say?’

      ‘Blackmailed?’ I asked in lively astonishment. ‘I can imagine nothing more unlikely. What is this all about?’

      It was then I heard for the first time of the circumstances of Father Gorman’s murder.

      I laid down my spoon and asked,

      ‘This list of names? Have you got it?’

      ‘Not the original. But I copied them out. Here you are.’

      I took the paper he produced from his pocket and proceeded to study it.

      ‘Parkinson? I know two Parkinsons. Arthur who went into the Navy. Then there’s a Henry Parkinson in one of the Ministries. Ormerod—there’s a Major Ormerod in the Blues—Sandford—our old Rector when I was a boy was Sandford. Harmondsworth? No—Tuckerton—’ I paused. ‘Tuckerton … Not Thomasina Tuckerton, I suppose?’

      Corrigan looked at me curiously.

      ‘Could be, for all I know. Who’s she and what does she do?’

      ‘Nothing now. Her death was in the paper about a week ago.’

      ‘That’s not much help, then.’

      I continued with my reading. ‘Shaw. I know a dentist called Shaw, and there’s Jerome Shaw, Q.C. … Delafontaine—I’ve heard that name lately, but I can’t remember where. Corrigan. Does that refer to you, by any chance?’

      ‘I devoutly hope not. I’ve a feeling that it’s unlucky to have your name on that list.’

      ‘Maybe. What made you think of blackmail in connection with it?’

      ‘It was Detective Inspector Lejeune’s suggestion if I remember rightly. It seemed the most likely possibility—But there are plenty of others. This may be a list of dope smugglers or drug addicts or secret agents—it may be anything in fact. There’s only one thing sure, it was important enough for murder to be committed in order to get hold of it.’

      I asked curiously: ‘Do you always take such an interest in the police side of your work?’

      He shook his head.

      ‘Can’t say I do. My interest is in criminal character. Background, upbringing, and particularly glandular health—all that!’

      ‘Then why the interest in this list of names?’

      ‘Blessed if I know,’ said Corrigan slowly. ‘Seeing my own name on the list, perhaps. Up the Corrigans! One Corrigan to the rescue of another Corrigan.’

      ‘Rescue? Then you definitely see this as a list of victims—not a list of malefactors. But surely it could be either?’

      ‘You’re entirely right. And it’s certainly odd that I should be so positive. Perhaps it’s just a feeling. Or perhaps it’s something to do with Father Gorman. I didn’t come across him very often, but he was a fine man, respected by everyone and loved by his own flock. He was the good tough militant kind. I can’t get it out of my head that he considered this list a matter of life or death …’

      ‘Aren’t the police getting anywhere?’

      ‘Oh yes, but it’s a long business. Checking here, checking there. Checking the antecedents of the woman who called him out that night.’

      ‘Who was she?’

      ‘No mystery about her, apparently. Widow. We had an idea that her husband might have been connected with horse-racing, but that doesn’t seem to be so. She worked for a small commercial firm that does consumer research. Nothing wrong there. They are a reputable firm in a small way. They don’t know much about her. She came from the north of England—Lancashire. The only odd thing about her is that she had so few personal possessions.’

      I shrugged my shoulders.

      ‘I expect that’s true for a lot more people than we ever imagine. It’s a lonely world.’

      ‘Yes, as you say.’

      ‘Anyway, you decided to take a hand?’

      ‘Just nosing