‘Well,’ Corrigan sounded apologetic. ‘I have a theory that they may influence behaviour. To put it very crudely, they may act rather as the fluid in your car brakes does. No fluid—the brakes don’t act. In human beings, a deficiency in these secretions might—I only say might—make you a criminal.’
I whistled.
‘And what happens to Original Sin?’
‘What indeed?’ said Dr Corrigan. ‘The parsons wouldn’t like it, would they? I haven’t been able to interest anyone in my theory, unfortunately. So I’m a police surgeon, in N.W. division. Quite interesting. One sees a lot of criminal types. But I won’t bore you with shop—unless you’ll come and have some lunch with me?’
‘I’d like to. But you were going in there,’ I nodded towards the house behind Corrigan.
‘Not really,’ said Corrigan. ‘I was just going to gatecrash.’
‘There’s nobody there but a caretaker.’
‘So I imagined. But I wanted to find out something about the late Lady Hesketh-Dubois if I could.’
‘I dare say I can tell you more than a caretaker could. She was my godmother.’
‘Was she indeed? That’s a bit of luck. Where shall we go to feed? There’s a little place off Lowndes Square—not grand, but they do a special kind of sea food soup.’
We settled ourselves in the little restaurant—a cauldron of steaming soup was brought to us by a pale-faced lad in French sailor trousers.
‘Delicious,’ I said, sampling the soup. ‘Now then, Corrigan, what do you want to know about the old lady? And incidentally, why?’
‘Why’s rather a long story,’ said my friend. ‘First tell me what kind of an old lady she was?’
I considered.
‘She was an old-fashioned type,’ I said. ‘Victorian. Widow of an ex-Governor of some obscure island. She was rich and liked her comfort. Went abroad in the winters to Estoril and places like that. Her house is hideous, full of Victorian furniture and the worst and most ornate kind of Victorian silver. She had no children, but kept a couple of fairly well-behaved poodles whom she loved dearly. She was opinionated and a staunch Conservative. Kindly, but autocratic. Very set in her ways. What more do you want to know?’
‘I’m not quite sure,’ said Corrigan. ‘Was she ever likely to have been blackmailed, would you say?’
‘Blackmailed?’ I asked in lively astonishment. ‘I can imagine nothing more unlikely. What is this all about?’
It was then I heard for the first time of the circumstances of Father Gorman’s murder.
I laid down my spoon and asked,
‘This list of names? Have you got it?’
‘Not the original. But I copied them out. Here you are.’
I took the paper he produced from his pocket and proceeded to study it.
‘Parkinson? I know two Parkinsons. Arthur who went into the Navy. Then there’s a Henry Parkinson in one of the Ministries. Ormerod—there’s a Major Ormerod in the Blues—Sandford—our old Rector when I was a boy was Sandford. Harmondsworth? No—Tuckerton—’ I paused. ‘Tuckerton … Not Thomasina Tuckerton, I suppose?’
Corrigan looked at me curiously.
‘Could be, for all I know. Who’s she and what does she do?’
‘Nothing now. Her death was in the paper about a week ago.’
‘That’s not much help, then.’
I continued with my reading. ‘Shaw. I know a dentist called Shaw, and there’s Jerome Shaw, Q.C. … Delafontaine—I’ve heard that name lately, but I can’t remember where. Corrigan. Does that refer to you, by any chance?’
‘I devoutly hope not. I’ve a feeling that it’s unlucky to have your name on that list.’
‘Maybe. What made you think of blackmail in connection with it?’
‘It was Detective Inspector Lejeune’s suggestion if I remember rightly. It seemed the most likely possibility—But there are plenty of others. This may be a list of dope smugglers or drug addicts or secret agents—it may be anything in fact. There’s only one thing sure, it was important enough for murder to be committed in order to get hold of it.’
I asked curiously: ‘Do you always take such an interest in the police side of your work?’
He shook his head.
‘Can’t say I do. My interest is in criminal character. Background, upbringing, and particularly glandular health—all that!’
‘Then why the interest in this list of names?’
‘Blessed if I know,’ said Corrigan slowly. ‘Seeing my own name on the list, perhaps. Up the Corrigans! One Corrigan to the rescue of another Corrigan.’
‘Rescue? Then you definitely see this as a list of victims—not a list of malefactors. But surely it could be either?’
‘You’re entirely right. And it’s certainly odd that I should be so positive. Perhaps it’s just a feeling. Or perhaps it’s something to do with Father Gorman. I didn’t come across him very often, but he was a fine man, respected by everyone and loved by his own flock. He was the good tough militant kind. I can’t get it out of my head that he considered this list a matter of life or death …’
‘Aren’t the police getting anywhere?’
‘Oh yes, but it’s a long business. Checking here, checking there. Checking the antecedents of the woman who called him out that night.’
‘Who was she?’
‘No mystery about her, apparently. Widow. We had an idea that her husband might have been connected with horse-racing, but that doesn’t seem to be so. She worked for a small commercial firm that does consumer research. Nothing wrong there. They are a reputable firm in a small way. They don’t know much about her. She came from the north of England—Lancashire. The only odd thing about her is that she had so few personal possessions.’
I shrugged my shoulders.
‘I expect that’s true for a lot more people than we ever imagine. It’s a lonely world.’
‘Yes, as you say.’
‘Anyway, you decided to take a hand?’
‘Just nosing around. Hesketh-Dubois is an uncommon name. I thought if I could find out a little about the lady—’ He left the sentence unfinished. ‘But from what you tell me, there doesn’t seem to be any possible lead there.’
‘Neither a dope addict nor a dope smuggler,’ I assured him. ‘Certainly not a secret agent. Has led far too blameless a life to have been blackmailed. I can’t imagine what kind of a list she could possibly be on. Her jewellery she keeps at the bank so she wouldn’t be a hopeful prospect for robbery.’
‘Any other Hesketh-Duboises that you know about? Sons?’
‘No children. She’s got a nephew and a niece, I think, but not of that name. Her husband was an only child.’
Corrigan told me sourly that I’d been a lot of help. He looked at his watch, remarked cheerfully that he was due to cut somebody up, and we parted.
I went home thoughtful, found it impossible to concentrate on my work, and finally, on an impulse, rang up David Ardingly.
‘David? Mark here. That girl I met with you the other evening. Poppy. What’s her other name?’
‘Going to pinch my girl, is that it?’
David sounded highly amused.
‘You’ve got so many of them,’ I retorted. ‘You could surely spare one.’
‘You’ve got a heavyweight of your own, old boy. I thought you were going steady with her.’
‘Going steady.’ A repulsive term. And yet, I thought, struck suddenly with its aptitude, how well it described my relationship with Hermia. And why should it make me feel depressed? I had always felt in the back of my mind that some day Hermia and I would marry … I liked her better than anyone I knew. We had so much in common …
For no conceivable reason, I felt a terrible desire to yawn … Our future stretched out before me. Hermia and I going to plays of significance—that mattered. Discussions of art—of music. No doubt about it, Hermia was the perfect companion.
But not much fun, said some derisive imp, popping up from my subconscious. I was shocked.
‘Gone to sleep?’ asked David.
‘Of course not. To tell the truth, I found your friend Poppy very refreshing.’
‘Good word. She is—taken in small doses. Her actual name is Pamela Stirling, and she works in one of those arty flower places in Mayfair. You know, three dead twigs, a tulip with its petals pinned back and a speckled laurel leaf. Price three guineas.’
He gave me the address.
‘Take her out and enjoy yourself,’ he said in a kindly avuncular fashion. ‘You’ll find it a great relaxation. That girl knows nothing—she’s absolutely empty headed. She’ll believe anything you tell her. She’s virtuous by the way, so don’t indulge in any false hopes.’
He rang off.
I invaded the portals of Flower Studies Ltd. with some trepidation. An overpowering smell of gardenia nearly knocked me backwards. A number of girls, dressed in pale green sheaths and all looking exactly like Poppy, confused me. Finally, I identified her. She was writing down an address with some difficulty, pausing doubtfully over the spelling of Fortescue Crescent. As soon as she was at liberty, after having further difficulties connected with producing the right change for a five-pound note, I claimed her attention.
‘We met the other night—with David Ardingly,’ I reminded her.
‘Oh yes!’ agreed Poppy warmly, her eyes passing vaguely over my head.
‘I wanted to ask you something.’ I felt sudden qualms. ‘Perhaps I’d better buy some flowers?’
Like an automaton who has had the right button pressed, Poppy said:
‘We’ve some lovely roses, fresh in today.’
‘These yellow ones, perhaps?’ There were roses everywhere. ‘How much are they?’
‘Vewy vewy cheap,’ said Poppy in a honeyed persuasive voice. ‘Only five shillings each.’
I swallowed and said I would have six of them.
‘And some of these vewy special leaves with them?’
I looked dubiously at the special leaves which appeared to be in an advanced state of decay. Instead I chose some bright green asparagus fern, which choice obviously lowered me in Poppy’s estimation.
‘There was something I wanted to ask you,’ I reiterated as Poppy was rather clumsily draping the asparagus fern round the roses. ‘The other evening you mentioned something called the Pale Horse.’
With a violent start, Poppy dropped the roses and the asparagus fern on the floor.
‘Can you tell me more about it?’
Poppy straightened herself after stooping.
‘What did you say?’ she asked.
‘I was asking you about the Pale Horse.’
‘A pale horse? What do you mean?’
‘You mentioned it the other evening.’
‘I’m sure I never did anything of the kind! I’ve never heard of any such thing.’
‘Somebody told you about it. Who was it?’
Poppy drew a deep breath and spoke very fast.
‘I don’t in the least know what you mean! And we’re not supposed to talk to customers.’ … She slapped paper round my choice. ‘That will be thirty-five shillings, please.’
I gave her two pound notes. She thrust six shillings into my hand and turned quickly to another customer.
Her hands, I noticed, were shaking slightly.
I went out slowly. When I had gone a little way, I realised she had quoted the wrong price (asparagus fern was seven and six) and had also given me too much change. Her mistakes in arithmetic had previously been in the other direction.
I saw again the rather lovely vacant face and the wide blue eyes. There had been something showing in those eyes …
‘Scared,’ I said to myself. ‘Scared stiff … Now why? Why?’
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