up that may have a bearing on what we were discussing the last time we met.'
'What was that? – oh, of course. The Father Gorman business.'
'Yes – But first, does the phrase The Pale Horse mean anything to you?'
'The Pale horse… the Pale horse… no, I don't think so – why?'
'Because I think it's possible that it might have a connection with that list of names you showed me. I've been down in the country with friends, at a place called Much Deeping, and they took me to an old pub, or what was once a pub, called the Pale Horse.'
'Wait a bit! Much Deeping? Much Deeping. It is anywhere near Bournemouth?'
'It's about fifteen miles or so from Bournemouth.'
'I suppose you didn't come across anyone called Venables down there?'
'Certainly I did.'
'You did?' Corrigan sat up in some excitement. 'You certainly have a knack of going places! What is he like?'
'He's a most remarkable man.'
'He is, is he? Remarkable in what way?'
'Principally in the force of his personality. Although he's completely crippled by polio -'
Corrigan interrupted me sharply.
'What?'
'He had polio some years ago. He's paralyzed from the waist down.'
Corrigan threw himself back in his chair with a look of disgust.
'That tears it! I thought it was too good to be true.'
'I don't understand what you mean?'
Corrigan said, 'You'll have to meet the D.D.I. Divisional Detective-Inspector Lejeune. He'll be interested in what you have to say. When Gorman was killed, Lejeune asked for information from anyone who had seen him in the street that night. Most of the answers were useless, as is usual. But there was a pharmacist, name of Osborne, who has a shop in those parts. He reported having seen Gorman pass his place that night, and he also saw a man who followed close after him – naturally he didn't think anything of it at that time. But he managed to describe this chap pretty closely – seemed quite sure he'd know him again. Well, a couple of days ago Lejeune got a letter from Osborne. He's retired, and living in Bournemouth. He'd been over to some local fete and he said he'd seen the man in question there. He was at the fete in a wheelchair. Osborne asked who he was and was told his name was Venables.'
He looked at me questioningly. I nodded.
'Quite right,' I said. 'It was Venables. He was at the fete. But he couldn't have been the man who was walking along a street in Paddington following Father Gorman. It's physically impossible. Osborne made a mistake.'
'He described him very meticulously. Height about six feet, a prominent beaked nose, and a noticeable Adam's apple. Correct?'
'Yes. It fits Venables. But all the same -'
'I know. Mr Osborne isn't necessarily as good as he thinks he is at recognising people. Clearly he was misled by the coincidence of a chance resemblance. But it's disturbing to have you come along shooting your mouth off about that very district – talking about some pale horse or other. What is this pale horse? Let's have your story.'
'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. Admttted. 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 recognized ideas. Iron ships? Balderdash! Flying-machines? Balderdash! 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 turn 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.
