And so, another visit to Birmingham. More caution, more reassurance. Finally, a discussion on terms. I smiled involuntarily. Mr Bradley would not have had it all his own way. She would have been a hard bargainer. But in the end, the terms had been agreed, some document duly signed, and then what?
That was where imagination stopped. That was what we didn't know.
I came out of my meditation to see Ginger watching me.
She asked: 'Got it all worked out?'
'How did you know what I was doing?'
'I'm beginning to know the way your mind works. You were working it out, weren't you, following her – to Birmingham and all the rest of it?'
'Yes. But I was brought up short. At the moment when she had settled things in Birmingham – What happens next?'
We looked at each other.
'Sooner or later,' said Ginger, 'someone has got to find out exactly what happens at the Pale Horse.'
'How?'
'I don't know… it won't be easy. Nobody who's actually been there, who's actually done it, will ever tell. At the same time, they're the only people who can tell. It's difficult… I wonder…'
'We could go to the police?' I suggested.
'Yes. After all, we've got something fairly definite now. Enough to act upon, do you think?'
I shook my head doubtfully.
'Evidence of intent. But is that enough? It's this death-wish nonsense. Oh,' I forestalled her interruption, 'it mayn't be nonsense, but it would sound like it in court. We've no idea, even, of what the actual procedure is.'
'Well then, we've got to know. But how?'
'One would have to see – or hear – with one's own eyes and ears. But there's absolutely no place one could hide oneself in that great barn of a room – and I suppose that's where it – whatever 'it' is – must take place.'
Ginger sat up very straight, gave her head a kind of toss, rather like an energetic terrier, and said:
'There's only one way to find out what does really happen. You've got to be a genuine client.'
I stared at her.
'A genuine client?'
'Yes. You or I, it doesn't matter which, has got to want somebody put out of the way. One of us has got to go to Bradley and fix it up.'
'I don't like it,' I said sharply.
'Why?'
'Well – it opens up dangerous possibilities.'
'For us?'
'Perhaps. But I was really thinking about the victim. We've got to have a victim – we've got to give him a name. It can't be just invention. They might check up – in fact, they'd almost certainly check up, don't you agree?'
Ginger thought a minute and then nodded.
'Yes. The victim's got to be a real person with a real address.'
'That's what I don't like,' I said.
'And we've got to have a real reason for getting rid of him.'
We were silent a moment, considering this aspect of the situation.
'The person, whoever it was, would have to agree,' I said slowly. 'It's a lot to ask.'
'The whole setup has got to be good,' said Ginger, thinking it out. 'But there's one thing, you were absolutely right in what you were saying the other day. The weakness of the whole thing is that they're in a cleft stick. This business has got to be secret – but not too secret. Possible clients have got to be able to hear about it.'
'What puzzles me,' I said, 'is that the police don't seem to have heard about it. After all, they're usually aware of what kind of criminal activities are going on.'
'Yes, but I think that the reason for that is, that this is in every sense of the word, an amateur show. It's not professional. No professional criminals are employed or involved. It's not like hiring gangsters to bump people off. It's all – private.'
I said that I thought she had something there.
Ginger went on:
'Suppose now that you, or I (we'll examine both possibilities), are desperate to get rid of someone. Now who is there that you and I could want to do away with? There's my dear old Uncle Mervyn – I'll come into a very nice packet when he pops off. I and some cousin in Australia are the only ones left of the family. So there's a motive there. But he's over seventy and more or less ga-ga, so it would really seem more sensible for me to wait for natural causes – unless I was in some terrible hole for money – and that really would be quite difficult to fake. Besides, he's a pet, and I'm very fond of him, and ga-ga or not ga-ga, he quite enjoys life, and I wouldn't want to deprive him of a minute of it – or even risk such a thing! What about you? Have you got any relatives who are going to leave you money?'
I shook my head.
'No one at all.'
'Bother. It could be blackmail, perhaps? That would take a lot of fixing, though. You're not really vulnerable enough. If you were an M.P., or in the Foreign Office, or an up-and-coming Minister it would be different. The same with me. Fifty years ago it would have been easy. Compromising letters, or photographs in the altogether, but really nowadays, who cares? One can be like the Duke of Wellington and say 'Publish and be damned!' Well, now, what else is there? Bigamy?' She fixed me with a reproachful stare. 'What a pity it is you've never been married. We could have cooked something up if you had.'
Some expression on my face must have given me away. Ginger was quick.
'I'm sorry,' she said. 'Have I raked up something that hurts?'
'No,' I said. 'It doesn't hurt. It was a long time ago. I rather doubt if there's anyone now who knows about it.'
'You married someone?'
'Yes. While I was at the University. We kept it dark. She wasn't – well, my people would have cut up rough. I wasn't even of age. We lied about our ages.'
I was silent a moment or two, reliving the past.
'It wouldn't have lasted,' I said slowly. 'I know that now. She was pretty and she could be very sweet… ut…'
'What happened?'
'We went to Italy in the long vacation. There was an accident – a car accident. She was killed outright.'
'And you?'
'I wasn't in the car. She was – with a friend.'
Ginger gave me a quick glance. I think she understood the way it had been. The shock of my discovery that the girl I had married was not the kind who makes a faithful wife.
Ginger reverted to practical matters.
'You were married in England?'
'Yes. Registry office in Peterborough.'
'But she died in Italy?'
'Yes.'
'So there will be no record of her death in England?'
'No.'
'Then what more do you want? It's an answer to prayer! Nothing could be simpler! You're desperately in love with someone and you want to marry her – but you don't know whether your wife is still alive. You've parted years ago and never heard from her since. Dare you risk it? While you're thinking it out, sudden reappearance of the wife! She turns up out of the blue, refuses to give you a divorce, and threatens to go to your young woman and spill the beans.'
'Who's my young woman?' I asked, slightly confused. 'You?'
Ginger looked shocked.
