'I don't see – I really don't see – how they can harm her in the way you mean.'
'But they have harmed – other people.'
'It would seem so, yes…' She sounded dissatisfied.
'In any other way, she will be all right. We've taken every imaginable precaution. No material harm can happen to her.'
'But it's material harm that these people claim to be able to produce,' Mrs Dane Calthrop pointed out 'They claim to be able to work through the mind on the body. Illness – disease. Very interesting if they can. But quite horrible! And it's got to be stopped, as we've already agreed.'
'But she's the one who's taking the risk,' I muttered.
'Someone has to,' said Mrs Dane Calthrop calmly. 'It upsets your pride, that it shouldn't be you. You've got to swallow that. Ginger's ideally suited for the part she's playing. She can control her nerves and she's intelligent. She won't let you down,'
'I'm not worrying about that!'
'Well, stop worrying at all. It won't do her any good. Don't let's shirk the issues. If she dies as a result of this experiment, then she dies in a good cause.'
'My God, you're brutal!'
'Somebody has to be,' said Mrs Dane Calthrop. 'Always envisage the worst. You've no idea how that steadies the nerves. You begin at once to be sure it can't be as bad as what you imagine.'
She nodded at me reassuringly.
'You may be right,' I said doubtfully.
Mrs Dane Calthrop said with complete certainty that of course she was right.
I proceeded to details.
'You're on the telephone here?'
'Naturally.'
I explained what I wanted to do.
'After this – this business tonight is over, I may want to keep in close touch with Ginger. Ring her up every day. If I could telephone from here?'
'Of course. Too much coming and going at Rhoda's. You want to be sure of not being overheard.'
'I shall stay on at Rhoda's for a bit. Then perhaps go to Bournemouth. I'm not supposed to – go back to London.'
'No use looking ahead,' Mrs Dane Calthrop said. 'Not beyond tonight.'
'Tonight…' I got up. I said a thing that was out of character. 'Pray for me – for us,' I said.
'Naturally,' said Mrs Dane Calthrop, surprised that I should need to ask.
As I went out of the front door a sudden curiosity made me say:
'Why the pail? What is it for?'
'The pail? Oh, it's for the schoolchildren, to pick berries and leaves from the hedges – for the church. Hideous, isn't it, but so handy.'
I looked out over the richness of the autumn world. Such soft still beauty…
'Angels and ministers of grace defend us,' I said.
'Amen,' said Mrs Dane Calthrop.
III
My reception at the Pale Horse was conventional in the extreme. I don't know what particular atmospheric effect I had expected, but it was not this.
Thyrza Grey, wearing a plain dark wool dress, opened the door, said in a businesslike tone: 'Ah, here you are. Good. We'll have supper straight away.'
Nothing could have been more matter-of-fact, more completely ordinary…
The table was laid for a simple meal at the end of the panelled hall. We had soup, an omelette, and cheese. Bella waited on us. She wore a black stuff dress and looked more than ever like one of the crowd in an Italian primitive. Sybil struck a more exotic note. She had on a long dress of some woven peacock-coloured fabric, shot with gold. Her beads were absent on this occasion, but she had two heavy gold bracelets clasping her wrists. She ate a minute portion of omelette but nothing else. She spoke little, treating us to a faraway wrapped-up-in-higher- things mood. It ought to have been impressive. Actually it was not. The effect was theatrical and unreal.
Thyrza Grey provided what conversation there was – a brisk chatty commentary on local happenings. She was this evening the British country spinster to the life, pleasant, efficient, uninterested in anything beyond her immediate surroundings.
I thought to myself, I'm mad, completely mad. What is there to fear here? Even Bella seemed tonight only a half-witted old peasant woman – like hundreds of other women of her kind – inbred, untouched by education or a broader outlook.
My conversation with Mrs Dane Calthrop seemed fantastic in retrospect. We had worked ourselves up to imagine goodness knows what. The idea of Ginger – Ginger with her dyed hair and assumed name – being in danger from anything these three very ordinary women could do, was positively ludicrous!
The meal came to an end.
'No coffee,' said Thyrza apologetically. 'One doesn't want to be overstimulated.' She rose. 'Sybil!'
'Yes,' said Sybil, her face taking on what she clearly thought was an ecstatic and other-world expression. 'I must go and prepare…'
Bella began to clear the table. I wandered over to where the old inn sign hung. Thyrza followed me.
'You can't really see it at all by this light,' she said.
That was quite true. The faint pale image against the dark encrusted grime of the panel could hardly be distinguished as that of a horse. The hall was lit by feeble electric bulbs shielded by thick vellum shades.
'That red-haired girl – what's her name – Ginger something – who was staying down here – said she'd do a spot of cleaning and restoring on it,' said Thyrza. 'Don't suppose she'll ever remember about it, though.' She added casually, 'She works for some gallery or other in London.'
It gave me a strange feeling to hear Ginger referred to lightly and casually.
I said, staring at the picture:
'It might be interesting.'
'It's not a good painting, of course,' said Thyrza. 'Just a daub. But it goes with the place – and it's certainly well over three hundred years old.'
'Ready.'
We wheeled abruptly.
Bella, emerging out of the gloom, was beckoning.
'Time to get on with things,' said Thyrza, still brisk and matter-of-fact.
I followed her as she led the way out to the converted barn.
As I have said, there was no entrance to it from the house. It was a dark overcast night, no stars. We came out of the dense outer blackness into the long lighted room.
The barn, by night, was transformed. By day it had seemed a pleasant library. Now it had become something more. There were lamps, but these were not turned on. The lighting was indirect and flooded the room with a soft but cold light. In the center of the floor was a kind of raised bed or divan. It was spread with a purple cloth, embroidered with various cabalistic signs.
On the far side of the room was what appeared to be a small brazier, and next to it a big copper basin – an old one by the look of it.
On the other side, set back almost touching the wall was a heavy oak-backed chair. Thyrza motioned me towards it.
'Sit there,' she said.
I sat obediently. Thyrza's manner had changed. The odd thing was that I could not define exactly in what the change consisted. There was none of Sybil's spurious occultism about it. It was more as though an everyday curtain
