Agatha Christie - The Pale Horse

"The wickedness was never there – not in the sense it was supposed to be. No fantastic trafficking with the Devil, no black and evil splendour. Just parlour tricks done for money – and human life of no account. That's real wickedness. Nothing grand or big – just petty and contemptible."

"You and Inspector Lejeune would seem to agree about things."

"I like that man," said Mrs Dane Calthrop. "Let's go into the Pale Horse and find Ginger."

"What's she doing there?"

"Cleaning up something."

We went in through the low doorway. There was a strong smell of turpentine. Ginger was busy with rags and bottles. She looked up as we entered. She was still very pale and thin, a scarf wound round her head where the hair had not yet grown, a ghost of her former self.

"She's all right," said Mrs Dane Calthrop, reading my thoughts as usual.

"Look!" said Ginger triumphantly.

She indicated the old inn sign on which she was working.

The grime of years removed, the figure of the rider on the horse was plainly discernible: a grinning skeleton with gleaming bones.

Mrs Dane Calthrop's voice, deep and sonorous, spoke behind me:

"Revelation, Chapter Six, Verse Eight. And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him…"

We were silent for a moment or two, and then Mrs Dane Calthrop, who was not one to be afraid of anticlimax, said:

"So that's that," in the tone of one who puts something in the wastepaper basket.

"I must go now," she added. "Mothers' Meeting."

She paused in the doorway, nodded at Ginger, and said unexpectedly:

"You'll make a good mother,"

For some reason Ginger blushed crimson,

"Ginger," I said, "will you?"

"Will I what? Make a good mother?"

"You know what I mean."

"Perhaps… but I'd prefer a firm offer."

I made her a firm offer.

After an interlude, Ginger demanded:

"Are you quite sure you don't want to marry that Hermia creature?"

"Good Lord!" I said. "I quite forgot."

I took a letter from my pocket.

"This came three days ago, asking me if I'd come to the Old Vic with her to see Love's Labour's Lost."

Ginger took the letter out of my hand and tore it up.

"If you want to go to the Old Vic in the future," she said firmly, "you'll go with me."