‘I thought it was terrific,’ said Hermia. ‘That scene with the doctor, after the sleep-walking scene. “Canst thou not minister to a mind diseas’d.” He made clear what I’d never thought of before—that he was really ordering the doctor to kill her. And yet he loved his wife. He brought out the struggle between his fear and his love. That “Thou shouldst have died hereafter” was the most poignant thing I’ve ever known.’
‘Shakespeare might get a few surprises if he saw his plays acted nowadays,’ I said drily.
‘Burbage and Co. had already quenched a good deal of his spirit, I suspect,’ said David.
Hermia murmured:
‘The eternal surprise of the author at what the producer has done to him.’
‘Didn’t somebody called Bacon really write Shakespeare?’ asked Poppy.
‘That theory is quite out of date nowadays,’ said David kindly. ‘And what do you know of Bacon?’
‘He invented gunpowder,’ said Poppy triumphantly.
‘You see why I love this girl?’ he said. ‘The things she knows are always so unexpected. Francis, not Roger, my love.’
‘I thought it interesting,’ said Hermia, ‘that Fielding played the part of Third Murderer. Is there a precedent for that?’
‘I believe so,’ said David. ‘How convenient it must have been in those times,’ he went on, ‘to be able to call up a handy murderer whenever you wanted a little job done. Fun if one could do it nowadays.’
‘But it is done,’ protested Hermia. ‘Gangsters. Hoods—or whatever you call them. Chicago and all that.’
‘Ah,’ said David. ‘But what I meant was not gangsterdom, not racketeers or Crime Barons. Just ordinary everyday folk who want to get rid of someone. That business rival; Aunt Emily, so rich and so unfortunately long-lived; that awkward husband always in the way. How convenient if you could ring up Harrods and say “Please send along two good murderers, will you?”’
We all laughed.
‘But one can do that in a way, can’t one?’ said Poppy.
We turned towards her.
‘What way, poppet?’ asked David.
‘Well, I mean, people can do that if they want to … People like us, as you said. Only I believe it’s very expensive.’
Poppy’s eyes were wide and ingenuous, her lips were slightly parted.
‘What do you mean?’ asked David curiously.
Poppy looked confused.
‘Oh—I expect—I’ve got it mixed. I meant the Pale Horse. All that sort of thing.’
‘A pale horse? What kind of a pale horse?’
Poppy flushed and her eyes dropped.
‘I’m being stupid. It’s just something someone mentioned—but I must have got it all wrong.’
‘Have some lovely Coupe Nesselrode,’ said David kindly.
One of the oddest things in life, as we all know, is the way that when you have heard a thing mentioned, within twenty-four hours you nearly always come across it again. I had an instance of that the next morning.
My telephone rang and I answered it—
‘Flaxman 73841.’
A kind of gasp came through the phone. Then a voice said breathlessly but defiantly:
‘I’ve thought about it, and I’ll come!’
I cast round wildly in my mind.
‘Splendid,’ I said, stalling for time. ‘Er—is that—?’
‘After all,’ said the voice, ‘lightning never strikes twice.’
‘Are you sure you’ve got the right number?’
‘Of course I have. You’re Mark Easterbrook, aren’t you?’
‘Got it!’ I said. ‘Mrs Oliver.’
‘Oh,’ said the voice, surprised. ‘Didn’t you know who it was? I never thought of that. It’s about that fête of Rhoda’s. I’ll come and sign books if she wants me to.’
‘That’s frightfully nice of you. They’ll put you up, of course.’
‘There won’t be parties, will there?’ asked Mrs Oliver apprehensively.
‘You know the kind of thing,’ she went on. ‘People coming up to me and saying am I writing something just now—when you’d think they could see I’m drinking ginger ale or tomato juice and not writing at all. And saying they like my books—which of course is pleasing, but I’ve never found the right answer. If you say “I’m so glad” it sounds like “Pleased to meet you.” A kind of stock phrase. Well, it is, of course. And you don’t think they’ll want me to go out to the Pink Horse and have drinks?’
‘The Pink Horse?’
‘Well, the Pale Horse. Pubs, I mean. I’m so bad in pubs. I can just drink beer at a pinch, but it makes me terribly gurgly.’
‘Just what do you mean by the Pale Horse?’
‘There’s a pub called that down there, isn’t there? Or perhaps I do mean the Pink Horse? Or perhaps that’s somewhere else. I may have just imagined it. I do imagine quite a lot of things.’
‘How’s the Cockatoo getting on?’ I asked.
‘The Cockatoo?’ Mrs Oliver sounded at sea.
‘And the cricket ball?’
‘Really,’ said Mrs Oliver with dignity. ‘I think you must be mad or have a hangover or something. Pink Horses and cockatoos and cricket balls.’
She rang off.
I was still considering this second mention of the Pale Horse when my telephone rang again.
This time, it was Mr Soames White, a distinguished solicitor who rang up to remind me that under the will of my godmother, Lady Hesketh-Dubois, I was entitled to choose three of her pictures.
‘There is nothing outstandingly valuable, of course,’ said Mr Soames White in his defeatist melancholy tones. ‘But I understand that at some time you expressed admiration of some of the pictures to the deceased.’
‘She had some very charming water colours of Indian scenes,’ I said. ‘I believe you already have written to me about this matter, but I’m afraid it slipped my memory.’
‘Quite so,’ said Mr Soames White. ‘But probate has now been granted, and the executors, of whom I am one, are arranging for the sale of the effects of her London house. If you could go round to Ellesmere Square in the near future …’
‘I’ll go now,’ I said.
It seemed an unfavourable morning for work.
Carrying the three water colours of my choice under my arm, I emerged from Forty-nine Ellesmere Square and immediately cannoned into someone coming up the steps to the front door. I apologised, received apologies in return, and was just about to hail a passing taxi when something clicked in my mind and I turned sharply to ask:
‘Hallo—isn’t it Corrigan?’
‘It is—and—yes—you’re Mark Easterbrook!’
Jim Corrigan and I had been friends in