Agatha Christie - The Pale Horse

"And then?"

"When Tony brought the coffee, the priest was writing on the paper. Shortly afterwards he left, leaving his coffee practically untasted (for which I don't blame him), having completed this list and shoved it into his shoe."

"Anybody else in the place?"

"Three boys of the Teddy-boy type came in and sat at one table and an elderly man came in and sat at another. The latter went away without ordering."

"He followed the priest?"

"Could be. Tony didn't notice when he went. Didn't notice what he looked like, either. Described him as an inconspicuous type of man. Respectable. The kind of man that looks like everybody else. Medium height, he thinks, dark blue overcoat – or could be brown. Not very dark and not very fair. No reason he should have had anything to do with it. One just doesn't know. He hasn't come forward to say he saw the priest in Tony's place – but it's early days yet. We're asking for anyone who saw Father Gorman between a quarter to eight and eight-fifteen to communicate with us. Only two people so far have responded: a woman and a chemist who had a shop nearby. I'll be going to see them presently. His body was found at eight-fifteen by two small boys in West Street – you know it? Practically an alleyway, bounded by the railway on one side. The rest – you know."

Corrigan nodded. He tapped the paper.

"What's your feeling about this?"

"I think it's important," said Lejeune.

"The dying woman told him something and he got these names down on paper as soon as he could before he forgot them? The only thing is – would he have done that if he'd been told under seal of the confessional?"

"It needn't have been under a seal of secrecy," said Lejeune. "Suppose, for instance, these names have a connection of – say, blackmail."

"That's your idea, is it?"

"I haven't any ideas yet. This is just a working hypothesis. These people were being blackmailed. The dying woman was either the blackmailer, or she knew about the blackmail. I'd say that the general idea was, repentance, confession, and a wish to make reparation as far as possible. Father Gorman assumed the responsibility."

"And then?"

"Everything else is conjectural," said Lejeune. "Say it was a paying racket, and someone didn't want it to stop paying. Someone knew Mrs Davis was dying and that she'd sent for the priest. The rest follows."

"I wonder now," said Corrigan studying the paper again. "Why do you think there's an interrogation mark after the last two names?"

"It could be that Father Gorman wasn't sure he'd remembered those two names correctly."

"It might have been Mulligan instead of Corrigan," agreed the doctor with a grin. "That's likely enough. But I'd say that with a name like Delafontaine, either you'd remember it or you wouldn't – if you know what I mean. It's odd that there isn't a single address." He read down the list again.

"Parkinson – lots of Parkinsons. Sandford, not uncommon – Hesketh-Dubois – that's a bit of a mouthful. Can't be many of them."

On a sudden impulse he leaned forward and took the telephone directory from the desk.

"E to L. Let's see. Hesketh, Mrs A… John and Company, Plumbers… Sir Isidore. Ah! here we are! Hesketh-Dubois, Lady. Forty-nine, Ellesmere Square, S.W.I. What say we just ring her up?"

"Saying what?"

"Inspiration will come," said Doctor Corrigan airily.

"Go ahead." said Lejeune.

"What?" Corrigan stared at him.

"I said go ahead," Lejeune spoke mildly. "Don't look so taken aback." He himself picked up the receiver. "Give me an outside line." He looked at Corrigan. "Number?"

"Grosvenor 64578."

Lejeune repeated it, then handed the receiver over to Corrigan.

"Enjoy yourself." he said.

Faintly puzzled, Corrigan looked at him as he waited. The ringing tone continued for some time before anyone answered. Then, interspersed with heavy breathing, a woman's voice said:

"Grosvenor 64578."

"Is that Lady Hesketh-Dubois' house?"

"Well – well, yes – I mean -"

Doctor Corrigan ignored these uncertainties.

"Can I speak to her, please?"

"No, that you can't do! Lady Hesketh-Dubois died last April."

"Oh!" Startled. Dr Corrigan ignored the "Who is it speaking, please?" and gently replaced the receiver.

He looked coldly at Inspector Lejeune.

"So that's why you were so ready to let me ring up."

Lejeune smiled maliciously.

"We don't really neglect the obvious," he pointed out.

"Last April," said Corrigan thoughtfully. "Five months ago. Five months since blackmail or whatever it was has failed to worry her. She didn't commit suicide, or anything like that?"

"No. She died of a tumour on the brain."

"So now we start again," said Corrigan, looking down at the list.

Lejeune sighed.

"We don't really know that list had anything to do with it," he pointed out. "It may have been just an ordinary coshing on a foggy night – and precious little hope of finding who did it unless we have a piece of luck…"

Dr Corrigan said:

"Do you mind if I continue to concentrate on this list?"

"Go ahead. I wish you all the luck in the world."

"Meaning I'm not likely to get anywhere if you haven't! Don't be too sure. I shall concentrate on Corrigan. Mr or Mrs or Miss Corrigan – with a big interrogation mark."

"Well, really, Mr Lejeune, I don't see what more I can tell you! I told it all before to your sergeant. I don't know who Mrs Davis was, or where she came from. She'd been with me about six months. She paid her rent regular, and she seemed a nice quiet respectable person, and what more you expect me to say I'm sure I don't know."

Mrs Coppins paused for breath and looked at Lejeune with some displeasure. He gave her the gentle melancholy smile which he knew by experience was not without its effect.

"Not that I wouldn't be willing to help if I could," she amended.

"Thank you. That's what we need – help. Women know – they feel instinctively – so much more than a man can know."

It was a good gambit, and it worked.

"Ah," said Mrs Coppins. "I wish Coppins could hear you. So hoity-toity and offhand he always was. 'Saying you know things when you haven't anything to go on!' he'd say and snort. And nine times out of ten I was right."

"That's why I'd like to hear what ideas you have about Mrs Davis. Was she – an unhappy woman, do you think?"

"Now as to that – no, I wouldn't say so. Business-like. That's what she always seemed. Methodical. As though she'd got her life planned and was acting accordingly. She had a job, I understood, with one of these consumer research associations. Going around and asking people what soap powder they used, or flour, and what they spend on their weekly budget and how it's divided up. Of course I've always felt that sort of thing is snooping really – and why the Government or anyone else wants to know beats me! All you hear at the end of it is only what everybody has known perfectly well all along, but there, there's a craze for that sort of thing nowadays. And if you've got to have it, I should say that poor Mrs Davis would do the job very nicely. A pleasant manner, not nosy, just businesslike and matter-of-fact."

"You don't know the actual name of the firm or association that employed her?"

"No. I don't, I'm afraid."

"Did she ever mention relatives?"

"No. I gathered she was a widow and had lost her husband many years ago. A bit of an invalid he'd been, but she never talked much about him."

"She didn't mention where she came from – what part of the country?"

"I don't think she was a Londoner. Came from somewhere up north, I should say."

"You didn't feel there was anything – well, mysterious about her?"