Mark Easterbrook, a man of a scientific disposition and rather conservative views, once observes in one of the Chelsea bars a scene that struck him: two girls dressed sloppily and too warmly (thick sweaters, thick woolen stockings), having quarreled over the gentleman, clung to each other's hair, so much so that one of them, a redhead, parted with whole tufts. The girls are separated. To expressions of sympathy, the red-haired Thomasina Tuckerton replies that she did not even feel pain. The owner of the bar, after Tommy leaves, tells Mark about her: a rich heiress settles in Chelsea, spends time with the same idlers like her.

A week after this chance meeting, Mark sees in The Times an announcement of the death of Thomasina Tuckerton.

A boy runs after the priest Father Gorman and calls him to the dying Mrs. Davis. Woman out of breath last strength tells Father Gorman about the terrible villainy and asks him to put an end to it. Shocked priest, not fully believing horror story(perhaps this is just a product of a feverish delirium), nevertheless he goes into a small cafe and, having ordered a cup of coffee, which he hardly touches, writes down on a slip of paper the names of people called by a woman. Remembering that the housekeeper again did not sew up the hole in his pocket, Father Gorman hides the note in his shoe, as he has done more than once. Then he heads home. He is deafened by a heavy blow to the head. Father Gorman staggers and falls ... The police, who discovered the corpse of a priest, are at a loss: who needed to kill him? Unless it's a note hidden in a shoe. There are several names there: Ormerod, Sandford, Parkinson, Hesketh-Dubois, Shaw, Harmondsworth, Tuckerton, Corrigan, Delafontaine ... As a test, Police Inspector Lejeune and an intrigued Dr. Corrigan, a forensic surgeon, call Lady Hesketh-Dubois by phone, looking for her number in the directory . It turns out that she died five months ago.

One of the witnesses interviewed in the case of the murder of Gorman's father, the pharmacist Mr. Osborne, claims to have seen a man walking behind the priest, and gives a clear description of his appearance: sloping shoulders, a large hooked nose, a protruding Adam's apple, long hair, high growth.

Mark Easterbrook and his friend Hermia Radcliffe (an impeccable classic profile and a hat of brown hair), having watched Macbeth at the Old Vic Theater, go to dinner at a restaurant. There they meet an acquaintance, David Ardingly, a professor of history at Oxford. He introduces them to his companion, Pam. The girl is pretty, with a fashionable hairstyle, with huge blue eyes and, as Mark slandered, "incredibly stupid." The conversation turns to the play, the old good times when "you hire a killer, and he removes whoever you need." Unexpectedly, Pam enters into the conversation, noticing that even now you can deal with a person if necessary. Then she is embarrassed, confused, and in Mark's memory of all that has been said, only the name remains " White horse».

Soon, "White Horse", as the name of the tavern, in a much less sinister context, appears in a conversation between Mark and a familiar writer, author of detective stories, Mrs. Oliver. Mark persuades her to take part in a charity event organized by him. cousin Road.

Mark accidentally meets Jim Corrigan, with whom he once, about fifteen years ago, was friends in Oxford. It comes to a mysterious list found on Gorman's father. The late Lady Haskett-Dubois was Mark's aunt, and he is willing to vouch that she was respectable, law-abiding, and unconnected with the underworld.

Mark participates in a holiday organized by Rouda. The "White Horse" turns out to be close to Rhode's house in the suburbs of London. This is not a tavern, this is a former hotel. Now three women live in this house, built in the 16th century. One of them, Tirza Grey, tall woman with short cropped hair, is engaged in the occult sciences, spiritualism and magic. The other is her friend Sybil Stamfordis, a medium. Gets dressed in oriental style, hung with necklaces and scarabs. Their cook Bella is reputed to be a witch in the district, and her gift is hereditary - her mother was considered a witch.

Road is led by Mark, Mrs Oliver and redhead girl nicknamed Ginger (by profession she is a painting restorer) to visit her neighbor, Mr. Winables, extremely rich and interesting person. He was once an avid traveler, but after suffering from polio a few years ago, he can only move around in a wheelchair. Mr. Winables is about fifty, with a thin face with a large hooked nose and an affable disposition. He is happy to show his beautiful collections to the guests.

After that, the whole company goes to a tea party at the White Horse at the invitation of Tirza Grey. Tirza shows Mark his library, which contains books related to witchcraft and magic, among which there are rare medieval editions. Tirza claims that now science has expanded the horizons of witchcraft. In order to kill a person, it is necessary to awaken in him a subconscious desire for death, then he, succumbing to some self-suggested illness, inevitably and soon dies.

From a casual conversation with Mrs. Oliver, Mark learns of the death of her friend, Mary Delafontaine, whose last name he saw on a list found on Gorman's father.

Mark ponders what he has heard from Tirza. It becomes clear to him that people who want to get rid of their loved ones successfully resort to the help of the three witches living in the White Horse Villa. At the same time, the sanity of a person living in the 20th century prevents him from believing in the action of witchcraft forces. He decides to solve the mystery mysterious deaths, to understand whether the three witches from the "White Horse" can really destroy a person, Mark asks for help from his friend Hermia, but she is absorbed in her scientific pursuits, Mark's "medieval sorceresses" seem to her complete nonsense. Then Mark resorts to the help of Ginger-Ginger, a girl whom he met at a festival near Rhodes.

Ginger, whose real name is Katherine Corrigan (another coincidence!), wants to help Mark. She advises him, under some pretext, to visit Thomasina Tuckerton's stepmother, now the owner of a huge inheritance. Mark does just that, easily finding an excuse: the Tuckerton house, it turns out, was created according to an unusual project. famous architect Nash. At the mention of the "White Horse", a clear fear appears on the face of the widow Tuckerton. Ginger at this time is looking for Pam, from whom Mark first heard about the "White Horse". She manages to make friends with Pam and find out from her the address of a man named Bradley, who lives in Birmingham. Those who need the help of the "White Horse" turn to this person.

Mark visits Bradley and it becomes clear to him how the assassination is ordered. For example, a client contacting Bradley claims that his wealthy aunt or jealous wife will be alive and well at Christmas (or Easter), and Mr. Bradley makes a bet with him that they won't. The winner (and it always turns out to be Mr. Bradley) receives the amount for which the bet was made. Upon learning of this, Ginger decides to portray Mark's wife (his real wife died fifteen years ago in Italy when she was driving in a car with her lover - this is Mark's old wound), which allegedly does not give him a divorce, and he cannot marry Hermia Radcliffe.

Having made an appropriate bet with Bradley, Mark Easterbrook, with a heavy heart, worried that he is endangering Ginger's life, goes to the White Horse Villa. He brings - as ordered - an item belonging to his "wife", a suede glove, and is present at the magic session.

Sybil is in a trance, Tirza puts a glove into some apparatus and adjusts it according to the compass, Bella sacrifices a white cockerel, whose blood is smeared on the glove.

According to the terms of the agreement, Mark had to leave London, and now he calls Ginger daily. On the first day, everything was in order, nothing suspicious, only an electrician came in to take meter readings, some woman asked what cosmetics and medicines Ginger preferred, another one for donations for the blind.

But the next day, Ginger has a fever, a sore throat, and aching bones. Terrified, Mark returns to London. Ginger is admitted to a private clinic. Doctors find she has pneumonia, but treatment is slow and not very successful. Mark invites Pam to dinner. In a conversation with her, a new name pops up - Eileen Brandon, who once worked in a consumer accounting office, somehow connected with the White Horse.

Mrs. Oliver calls Mark and tells how his aunt was dying (she learned about this from her new maid, who previously worked for Lady Hasket-Dubois). Her hair was falling out in clumps. And Mrs. Oliver, with her writing memory and detective inclinations, remembered that she had recently dead friend Mary Delafontaine's hair was falling out too. Here? Before Mark's eyes there is a fight in a bar, Thomasina Tuckerton, and he suddenly understands what is happening. Once he happened to read an article about thallium poisoning. People who worked at the factory died from a variety of diseases, but one symptom was common - everyone lost their hair. Thanks to the timely intervention of Mark, Ginger begins to be treated for thallium poisoning.

Mark and Inspector Lejeune meet with Eileen Brandon. She talks about her job at a consumer accounting firm. She went around people on the list and asked a series of questions regarding their consumer interests. But she was embarrassed that the questions were asked haphazardly, as if to divert her eyes. At one time she consulted with another employee, Mrs. Davis. But she did not dispel her suspicions, rather, on the contrary. “This whole office is just a sign for a gang of bandits,” such was the opinion of Mrs. Davis. She told Eileen that she once saw a man leaving a house "where he had absolutely nothing to do," carrying a bag of tools. It becomes clear that Mrs. Davis also fell victim to the "gang of bandits", and the revelations that she shared with Father Gorman cost him his life.

Three weeks later, Inspector Lejeune with a sergeant, Mark Easterbrook and the pharmacist Mr. Osborne (who believes Winables is the murderer of Gorman's father) arrive at Mr. Winables' villa. The inspector talks to the owner of the house and, apparently, suspects him of leading the organization of the murders. In addition, a bag of thallium was found in Winables' garden shed. Lejeune makes lengthy accusations against Mr. Winables, going back to the evening Father Gorman was killed. Osborne can't stand it and begins to agree, screaming excitedly, as he saw Mr. Winables. However, Lejeune refutes his allegations and accuses Osborne himself of killing the priest, adding to this: “If you sat quietly in your pharmacy, maybe you would get away with everything.” Lejeune had long since begun to suspect Osborne, and the whole visit to Mr. Winables had been a deliberate trap. The package with thallium was thrown into the shed by the same Osborne.

Mark finds Ginger at the White Horse Villa, which has lost its sinister inhabitants. Ginger is still pale and thin, and her hair has not grown back properly, but her eyes glow with the same enthusiasm. Mark hints at Ginger's love, but she demands a formal proposal - and gets it. Ginger asks if Mark really doesn't want to marry "his Hermia"? Remembering, Mark pulls out of his pocket a letter received the other day from Hermia, in which she invites him to go to the Old Vic Theater for Love's Labour's Lost. Ginger resolutely tears up the letter.

“If you want to go to the Old Vic, you will only go with me now,” she says in a tone that does not allow for objections.

To John and Helen Mildmay White with deep gratitude for giving me the opportunity to see justice done

Foreword by Mark Easterbrook

I think there are two approaches to unusual story Villa "White Horse" Even the saying of the chess king will not do here. After all, you can’t say to yourself: “Start from the beginning, reach the end and then stop.” And where does it really start?

This is always the main difficulty for the historian. How to determine the starting point historical period? In this case, Father Gorman's visit to a dying parishioner can serve as a starting point. Or one evening in Chelsea.

Since it fell to me to write most narration, I, perhaps, from that evening will begin.

Chapter 1
MARK EASTERBROOKE SAYS

1

The espresso machine hissed behind me like an angry snake. There was something ominous in this hiss, some kind of devilry. Perhaps, I thought, any noise now almost always inspires anxiety, frightens. Terrible, frightening roar of jets in the sky overhead; the alarming rumble of subway cars as the train crawls out of the tunnel; the rumble of an endless flow of city traffic, shaking your house... Even the familiar sounds of household use, in fact harmless, are alarming. Dishwashers, refrigerators, pressure cookers, howling vacuum cleaners all warn: “Beware! I am the genie that you keep in check, but loosen the reins a little ... "

Dangerous world, truly dangerous.

I stirred flavored coffee in a steaming cup in front of me.

- Will you order anything else? Ham and banana sandwich?

The combination seemed unusual to me. Bananas are a childhood memory for me, or they are served on a platter sprinkled with powdered sugar and drenched in flaming rum. Ham in my mind is associated only with scrambled eggs. But since it's customary to eat banana-ham sandwiches in Chelsea, I didn't refuse.

Although I lived in Chelsea, that is, rented a furnished apartment for the last three months, I was a stranger here. I was working on a book on some aspects of Mughal architecture in India and might as well have settled in Hempstead, Bloomsbury, Streatham as I had in Chelsea. I lived apart, occupied only with work, not paying attention to what was happening around, I was not interested in my neighbors, and they, in turn, did not show the slightest interest in my person.

That evening, however, I was attacked by a disgust for my own righteous works, familiar to all writers.

Mughal architecture, Mughal emperors, Mughal customs - the most fascinating problems suddenly seemed to me as decay, ashes. Who needs it? Why would I want to do this?

I flipped through the pages, rereading some of what had been written. Everything is bad - the style is disgusting, boring mortal. Whoever said: "History is nonsense" (Henry Ford, I think?), He was absolutely right.

Putting the manuscript aside in my heart, I got up and looked at the clock. It was about eleven. I tried to remember if I had lunch today, and from an inner feeling I realized - no. I ate in the afternoon at the Ateneum, and since then there have been no crumbs in my mouth.

I looked in the fridge, I saw some unappetizing slices boiled tongue and decided - I need to go somewhere to eat. That's how it happened that I ended up on King's Road and wandered into a coffee bar. I was attracted by the glowing red neon inscription on the window: “Luigi”. And now, sitting at the counter, I was looking at a ham and banana sandwich and thinking about how ominous any noise has become these days, and about its effect on the environment.

For some reason these thoughts evoked childhood impressions in my memory. Pantomime performance for kids. A miserable stage, manhole covers in the floor, Davy Jones jumps out of the box in a puff of smoke; infernal monsters appear in the windows, the forces of evil, challenging the Good Fairy named Diamond (or something like that). She, in turn, waves a short wand, shouts out in a choked voice hackneyed truths about unfading hope and the triumph of good, anticipating the highlight of the program - the final song. It is sung in chorus by all the performers, and it has absolutely nothing to do with the plot of the pantomime.

I suddenly thought: evil, perhaps, is always more impressive than good. Evil is bound to cloak in fancy clothes. And scary! And challenges the whole world. Unsteady, devoid of a foundation, it comes into conflict with the strong, stable, eternal - that which sounds in words Good Fairy. And in the end, I reasoned, what is solid and stable according to the logic of life invariably wins. This is the key to the success of simple children's extravaganzas. And he is not a hindrance to mediocre verses and banal monologues of the Good Fairy, her choked, raspy voice. And even the fact that in the final chant the words are not at all to the village or to the city: “The path winds through the hills, runs to my favorite places.” Such artists seem to have little talent, but for some reason they convincingly show how good wins. The performance always ends in the same way: the troupe in in full force, led by the main characters, descends the stairs to the audience. The wonderful Fairy Brilliantik - virtue itself and Christian humility - does not at all strive to be the first (or in this case the last). She is in the middle of the procession, side by side with her recent nemesis. And he is no longer the proud Demon King, but just a tired actor in red leggings.

The espresso hissed again. I ordered another cup of coffee and looked around. My sister constantly reproaches me for my lack of observation, for not noticing anything around me. “You always withdraw into yourself,” she says accusingly. And now, with the consciousness of the responsibility entrusted to me, I began to carefully examine the hall. Every day there is bound to be something in the papers about the bars of Chelsea and their patrons, and I had the opportunity to write own opinion about modern life.

The cafe was dim, and it was difficult to see anything clearly. The visitors are almost all young people. As far as I understand, one of those young people who are called beatniks. The girls looked very messy. And in my opinion, they were too warmly dressed. I already noticed this when I was having lunch with friends at a restaurant a few weeks ago. The girl who was then sitting next to me was no more than twenty. The restaurant was hot, and she dressed up in a yellow wool sweater, black skirt and wool stockings. Sweat rolled down her face all through dinner. She reeked of sweat and unwashed hair. My friends found it very interesting. I did not share their opinion. All I wanted was to put her in a hot bath and give her a bar of soap. Apparently I'm out of touch with life. After all, I remember with pleasure the women of India, their strict hairstyles, graceful gait, bright saris, flowing with noble folds.

I was distracted from pleasant memories by an unexpected noise. Two young ladies at the next table started a quarrel. Their gentlemen tried to calm their friends, but in vain.

The girls started screaming. One slapped the other in the face, and she pulled her off the chair. They began to fight like bazaar women, swearing at each other. One was red and her hair stuck out in all directions, the other was blonde with long strands hanging over her face. What started the fight, I have no idea. Visitors accompanied the scene with encouraging exclamations and meows:

- Well done! So her, Lou!

The owner, a skinny boy with sideburns whom I thought was Luigi, intervened, speaking like a native of London's poor quarters.

- Come on, that's enough for you. Now the whole district will come running. I miss pharaohs. Stop, they tell you!

But the blonde grabbed the redhead's hair, yelling at the same time:

"Shit, you're taking my boyfriend away from me!"

- You suck!

The owner and embarrassed gentlemen separated the girls. The blonde had red strands in her hands. She waved them gleefully, then tossed them to the floor.

The front door opened, and a government official in a blue uniform appeared on the threshold of the cafe.

- What's going on here? he asked sternly.

The cafe met the common enemy with a united front.

“Just having fun,” one of the young people said.

He discreetly kicked tufts of hair under the next table with his foot. The opponents smiled at each other with feigned tenderness.

The policeman looked around the cafe incredulously.

"We're just leaving," the blonde said in a sweet voice. Let's go, Doug.

Coincidentally, several more people were about to leave. The guard looked at them darkly. This look clearly said: this time they will get away with it, but he will take note of everyone. And the policeman retired with dignity.

The red-haired cavalier paid the bill.

- How are you, nothing? the owner asked the victim, who was tying her head with a scarf. - Lou gave you a big treat - she tore out how many hairs.

“But I didn’t feel any pain,” the girl replied carelessly. She smiled at him. “Forgive us for the scandal, Luigi.

The company is gone. The cafe is almost completely empty. I looked in my pockets for change.

“Anyway, she’s a fine fellow,” the owner said approvingly when the door closed, and, taking a brush, brushed his red hair into a corner.

“Yes, the pain must be hellish,” I replied.

“If I were in her place, I would not have endured it, I howled,” the owner agreed. But Tommy is a good boy!

– Do you know her well?

– Yes, she is here almost every evening. Tuckerton her surname, Thomasina Tuckerton. And here her name is Tommy Tucker. She's got a lot of money. Her father leaves her the entire inheritance, and what do you think she is doing? Moves to Chelsea, rents some kind of kennel near Wandsworth Bridge and hangs out with all sorts of bums. I can’t understand one thing: almost all of this gang are people with money. They can afford everything in the world, they can even stay at the Ritz Hotel. Yes, only, it is clear that such a life is more to their liking. What I don't understand, I don't understand.

- What would you do in their place?

“Well, I know how to manage money,” the owner answered. “For now, it’s time to close the bar.”

Already at the exit, I asked what caused the quarrel.

“Yes, Tommy beats off that girl’s boyfriend. And the right word, it is not worth it to start a fight because of him.

“The second girl seems to be sure she is,” I remarked.

“Lou is very romantic,” the host admitted condescendingly.

I imagine romance a little differently, but I did not express my views.

2

About a week later, as I was looking through the Times, a familiar name caught my attention—it was a death announcement.

Thomasina Ann Tuckerton, only daughter of the late Thomas Tuckerton, Esq., proprietor of Carrington Park, Amberley, Surrey, died at the age of twenty at Followfield Hospital, Amberley, on the second of October. Only family members are invited to the funeral. Don't send wreaths."

No wreaths to poor Tommy Tucker, no merry life in Chelsea. I suddenly felt sorry for the numerous Tommy Tuckers of our day. But I reminded myself that, after all, I might be wrong. Who am I to think their lives are meaningless? And if my own life goes to waste? The quiet existence of a scientist buried in books, second-hand life. In truth, do I know the joys of life? However, I never wanted them.

I decided not to think about Tommy Tucker any more and set to work on the letters I received that day.

In one of them, my cousin Rhoda Despard was asking for a favor. I seized on her request - I was not in the mood to work, and now I found a great excuse to put things off.

I got off at King's Road, hailed a taxi, and went to my friend, Mrs. Ariadne Oliver.

Mrs Oliver was well known as an author of detective novels. Her peace was guarded by the maid Milly, a dragon who had become adept at fighting the outside world. I looked at her questioningly. Millie gave me a vigorous nod of permission to see her hostess.

“Go straight upstairs, Mr. Mark,” she said. “Ours has been roaming since morning, it’s time to bring her to her senses, maybe you will succeed.

I climbed the stairs to the second floor, knocked on the door and entered without waiting for an answer. The writer's office was bright and spacious, with rare birds and tropical foliage on the wallpaper. Mrs. Oliver, in a state close to insanity, paced up and down the room, muttering something under her breath. She looked at me with an unseeing gaze, recoiled against the wall, then to the window, looked out and suddenly closed her eyes, as if from unbearable pain.

“Why,” said Mrs. Oliver to no one, “why didn’t that fool say right away that he saw a cockatoo?” Why? He couldn't see him! But if he does, then the whole plot is lost. How to get out? Need to come up with something.

She groaned and tugged at her short gray hair. Then, suddenly seeing me, she said:

- Hi Mark. I'm going crazy. - And again began to complain aloud: - And then there's this Monica. Such a fool! I want to make her more attractive, but she, as luck would have it, is getting nastier and nastier. And a know-it-all too. Monica? Probably not the right name. Nancy? Or Joan? Everyone's name is always Joan. Or Ann. Susan? Already was. Lucia? Lucia. We'll probably call it that. Lucia. Redhead. Thick sweater. Black tights? Let stockings, but black.

Mrs. Oliver seemed to cheer up for a moment, but then her eyes darkened again because of the ill-fated cockatoo. She again began to pace the study, grabbing knick-knacks from the tables and putting them in another place; with great care put the spectacle case in lacquer box, where the Chinese fan was already resting, then, sighing deeply, she said:

- I'm glad it's you.

- Nice of you.

- And then someone knows who could show up. Some idiot with an offer to participate in a charity market or an insurance agent - to insure Milly, and she does not want to hear about it. Or a plumber... But that would be too much luck, right? Or some interviewer, and the questions are tactless and always the same. How did you become a writer? How many books have been written? How much do you earn? And so on and so forth. I do not know what to answer, and always appear in ridiculous light. Although, in general, all this is nonsense, but I'm going crazy because of my cockatoo.

- Does not work? I asked sympathetically. "Maybe I should leave?"

- Do not leave. You distracted me a little.

I dutifully accepted the dubious compliment.

- Would you like a cigarette? There is somewhere, look in the case from the typewriter.

Thanks, I have. Please! No, you don't smoke.

“I don’t drink,” added Mrs. Oliver. - It's a pity. All American detectives drink. And they always have a bottle of whiskey in their desk drawer. And it seems to help them cope with any difficulties. You know, Mark, I don't really think a killer can ever cover his tracks. In my opinion, if you have already committed murder, it is visible to the whole world.

- Nonsense. You wrote so many books about it!

“At least fifty-five. It's easy to make up a crime, it's hard to figure out how to hide it. And what does it cost me! continued Mrs Oliver gloomily. “Say whatever you like, and it's not natural for five or six people to be in the vicinity of the crime scene when B is killed, and they all have a motive for the murder. Unless this very B. is a repulsive subject, but then no one will regret him and everyone is deeply indifferent to who exactly the killer is.

“I understand your difficulty,” I said. “But since you did it fifty-five times, you can do it now.”

“I keep repeating this to myself, but I don’t believe it myself. Some pain.

She grabbed her head again and began to pull the strand over her forehead.

- Stop it! I exclaimed. - That and look uproot.

“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Oliver. - It's not that easy. That's when I was ill with measles at the age of fourteen and I had a very high temperature, they climbed into shreds - all the hair above my forehead fell out. It was so embarrassing. For a girl, it's just awful. I thought of this yesterday when I was in Mary Delafontaine's hospital. Her hair is falling out now just like it was then. Mary says she'll have to wear a brace when she gets better. At sixty, hair doesn't grow back so easily.

“Saw the other day how one girl pulled out the hair of another right from the root,” I said, and in my voice I involuntarily sounded the pride of a man who has known true life.

- Where did you see this?

- In a cafe in Chelsea.

- Oh, Chelsea. Well, anything can happen there. Beatniks, satellites, "Broken Generation" and all that. I don’t write about them, I’m afraid to mix up the names. It's better to write about what you know. Calm down.

- About what?

- ABOUT sea ​​voyages, student residences, hospital affairs, parishes, charity sales, music festivals, social committees, visiting servants, young people hitchhiking around the world in the interests of science, shop assistants and saleswomen…” She paused, catching her breath.

“I see, it’s easy for you to write about it.

“Still, you should invite me once to a bar in Chelsea. I would have gained new impressions there, ”said Mrs. Oliver dreamily.

- When you order. Today?

No, it won't come out today. We must write. Or rather, to be tormented by the thought that the book is not working out. This is the main problem with writing. In general, our craft is by no means a pleasant one. But there are wonderful moments, and they pay for everything - inspiration descends on you, you are eager to take up the pen as soon as possible. Tell me, Mark, can you kill from a distance? Remote control?

What does it mean - at a distance? Press a button and send out a deadly radioactive beam?

- No, I'm not science fiction. I'm talking about black magic.

“A wax figurine and a pin through the heart?”

“Wax figures are out of fashion now,” said Mrs. Oliver contemptuously. “But strange things happen, I’ve heard so much. In Africa, in the West Indies. The natives send death on each other. Voodoo, woo... Well, you know what I mean.

I objected that now much is explained by the power of suggestion. The victim is constantly told that she is doomed, such is the verdict of all doctors, and the subconscious mind does its job and takes over.

Mrs Oliver snorted indignantly.

“Try someone to convince me that I’m doomed to lie down and die right now, in spite of myself I won’t die.”

I laughed.

– We have Western skepticism in our blood, which has been developed over the centuries. disbelief in the supernatural.

- So you believe?

“I don’t presume to judge, I know almost nothing about this. What strange thoughts you have today. Will the new masterpiece be about murder by the power of suggestion?

- Not at all. Something familiar, like arsenic, suits me better. Or some reliable blunt object. WITH firearms always a mess. But you didn't come to talk about my books.

“To be honest, no. It's just that my cousin Rhoda Despard is hosting a charity event and...

- Never! said Mrs Oliver. “Do you know what happened at the same holiday last time?” I started the game "Search for the killer", and the first thing, imagine, we stumbled upon a real corpse - a victim of a crime. To this day, I still can't figure it out.

There will be no search for the killer. All you have to do is sit in the tent and sign your books, at five shillings for an autograph.

“Well, that would be nothing,” said Mrs. Oliver doubtfully. “Won’t I have to open the party?” Or talking nonsense? And wear a hat?

I assured her that nothing of the sort would be required of her.

“It will only take you an hour or two,” I coaxed. “And then the cricket will start right away, although no, the season is not right. Well, dancing is for kids, I guess. Or a masquerade with a prize for the best costume...

Mrs. Oliver interrupted me excitedly:

- Certainly! Just what you need! Cricket ball! Through the window you can see how the ball soars into the air, this distracts my hero, he loses his train of thought and does not mention a word about the cockatoo. It's good of you to come, Mark. You are wonderful!

- I don't quite understand...

“Perhaps, but I understand,” said Mrs. Oliver. Everything is confusing and I don't have time to explain. It was very nice to see you, but now leave quickly. Immediately.

- I'm leaving. Have you decided on a holiday?

- I'll think about it. Don't bother me for now. Where the hell am I, goggles? Lost again!

The Great Mughals are a dynasty of rulers of the Mughal Empire (India), founded in 1526 by Batur and lasted until 1858.

This refers to Chapter XIX, verse 30 of the Gospel of Matthew: “Many will be the first last, and the last the first.”

. "Broken Generation" literary movement 50s in USA. Its leading figure was the writer Jack Kerouac, best known for his novel The Road (1957).

Agatha Christie

White Horse Villa

To John and Helen Mildmay White with deep gratitude for giving me the opportunity to see justice done

Foreword by Mark Easterbrook

I think there is a twofold approach to the unusual history of the White Horse Villa. Even the saying of the chess king will not do here. After all, you can’t say to yourself: “Start from the beginning, reach the end and then stop.” And where does it really start?

This is always the main difficulty for the historian. How to determine the starting point of the historical period? In this case, Father Gorman's visit to a dying parishioner can serve as a starting point. Or one evening in Chelsea.

Since it fell to me to write most of the story, I, perhaps, will begin from that evening.

MARK EASTERBROOKE SAYS

The espresso machine hissed behind me like an angry snake. There was something ominous in this hiss, some kind of devilry. Perhaps, I thought, any noise now almost always inspires anxiety, frightens. Terrible, frightening roar of jets in the sky overhead; the alarming rumble of subway cars as the train crawls out of the tunnel; the rumble of an endless flow of city traffic, shaking your house... Even the familiar sounds of household use, in fact harmless, are alarming. Dishwashers, refrigerators, pressure cookers, howling vacuum cleaners all warn: “Beware! I am the genie that you keep in check, but loosen the reins a little ... "

Dangerous world, truly dangerous.

I stirred aromatic coffee in a steaming cup in front of me.

- Will you order anything else? Ham and banana sandwich?

The combination seemed unusual to me. Bananas are a childhood memory for me, or they are served on a platter sprinkled with powdered sugar and drenched in flaming rum. Ham in my mind is associated only with scrambled eggs. But since it's customary to eat banana-ham sandwiches in Chelsea, I didn't refuse.

Although I lived in Chelsea, that is, rented a furnished apartment for the last three months, I was a stranger here. I was working on a book on some aspects of Mughal architecture in India and might as well have settled in Hempstead, Bloomsbury, Streatham as well as in Chelsea. I lived apart, occupied only with work, not paying attention to what was happening around, I was not interested in my neighbors, and they, in turn, did not show the slightest interest in my person.

That evening, however, I was attacked by a disgust for my own righteous works, familiar to all writers.

Mughal architecture, Mughal emperors, Mughal customs - the most fascinating problems suddenly seemed to me as decay, ashes. Who needs it? Why would I want to do this?

I flipped through the pages, rereading some of what had been written. Everything is bad - the style is disgusting, boring mortal. Whoever said: "History is nonsense" (Henry Ford, I think?), He was absolutely right.

Putting the manuscript aside in my heart, I got up and looked at the clock. It was about eleven. I tried to remember if I had lunch today, and from an inner feeling I realized - no. I ate in the Athenaeum in the afternoon and haven't had a crumb in my mouth since.

I looked in the fridge, saw a few unappetizing slices of boiled tongue and decided that I needed to go somewhere to eat. That's how it happened that I ended up on King's Road and wandered into a coffee bar. I was attracted by the glowing red neon inscription on the window: “Luigi”. And now, sitting at the counter, I was looking at a ham and banana sandwich and thinking about how ominous any noise has become these days, and about its effect on the environment.

For some reason these thoughts evoked childhood impressions in my memory. Pantomime performance for kids. A miserable stage, manhole covers in the floor, Davy Jones jumps out of the box in a puff of smoke; infernal monsters appear in the windows, the forces of evil, challenging the Good Fairy named Diamond (or something like that). She, in turn, waves a short wand, shouts out in a choked voice hackneyed truths about unfading hope and the triumph of good, anticipating the highlight of the program - the final song. It is sung in chorus by all the performers, and it has absolutely nothing to do with the plot of the pantomime.

I suddenly thought: evil, perhaps, is always more impressive than good. Evil will certainly dress up in unusual clothes. And scary! And challenges the whole world. Unsteady, devoid of foundation, it comes into conflict with the strong, stable, eternal - that sounds in the words of the Good Fairy. And in the end, I reasoned, what is solid and stable according to the logic of life invariably wins. This is the key to the success of simple children's extravaganzas. And he is not a hindrance to mediocre verses and banal monologues of the Good Fairy, her choked, raspy voice. And even the fact that in the final chant the words are not at all to the village or to the city: “The path winds through the hills, runs to my favorite places.” Such artists seem to have little talent, but for some reason they convincingly show how good wins. The performance always ends in the same way: the troupe in full force, led by the main characters, descends the stairs to the audience. The wonderful Fairy Brilliantik - the very virtue and Christian humility - does not at all strive to be the first (or in this case the last). She is in the middle of the procession, side by side with her recent nemesis. And he is no longer the proud Demon King, but just a tired actor in red leggings.

The espresso hissed again. I ordered another cup of coffee and looked around. My sister constantly reproaches me for my lack of observation, for not noticing anything around me. “You always withdraw into yourself,” she says accusingly. And now, with the consciousness of the responsibility entrusted to me, I began to carefully examine the hall. Every day there is bound to be something in the papers about the bars of Chelsea and their patrons, and now I have the opportunity to form my own opinion about modern life.

The cafe was dim, and it was difficult to see anything clearly. The visitors are almost all young people. As far as I understand, one of those young people who are called beatniks. The girls looked very messy. And in my opinion, they were too warmly dressed. I already noticed this when I was having lunch with friends at a restaurant a few weeks ago. The girl who was then sitting next to me was no more than twenty. The restaurant was hot, and she dressed up in a yellow wool sweater, black skirt and wool stockings. Sweat rolled down her face all through dinner. She reeked of sweat and unwashed hair. My friends found it very interesting. I did not share their opinion. All I wanted was to put her in a hot bath and give her a bar of soap. Apparently I'm out of touch with life. After all, I remember with pleasure the women of India, their strict hairstyles, graceful gait, bright saris, flowing with noble folds.

I was distracted from pleasant memories by an unexpected noise. Two young ladies at the next table started a quarrel. Their gentlemen tried to calm their friends, but in vain.

The girls started screaming. One slapped the other in the face, and she pulled her off the chair. They began to fight like bazaar women, swearing at each other. One was red and her hair stuck out in all directions, the other was blonde with long strands hanging over her face. What started the fight, I have no idea. Visitors accompanied the scene with encouraging exclamations and meows:

- Well done! So her, Lou!

The owner, a skinny boy with sideburns whom I thought was Luigi, intervened, speaking like a native of London's poor quarters.

- Come on, that's enough for you. Now the whole district will come running. I miss pharaohs. Stop, they tell you!

But the blonde grabbed the redhead's hair, yelling at the same time:

"Shit, you're taking my boyfriend away from me!"

- You suck!

The owner and embarrassed gentlemen separated the girls. The blonde had red strands in her hands. She waved them gleefully, then tossed them to the floor.

The front door opened, and a government official in a blue uniform appeared on the threshold of the cafe.

- What's going on here? he asked sternly.

The cafe met the common enemy with a united front.

“Just having fun,” one of the young people said.

He discreetly kicked tufts of hair under the next table with his foot. The opponents smiled at each other with feigned tenderness.

The policeman looked around the cafe incredulously.

"We're just leaving," the blonde said in a sweet voice. Let's go, Doug.

Coincidentally, several more people were about to leave. The guard looked at them darkly. This look clearly said: this time they will get away with it, but he will take note of everyone. And the policeman retired with dignity.

Mark Easterbrook, a man of a scientific disposition and rather conservative views, once observes in one of the Chelsea bars a scene that struck him: two girls dressed sloppy and too warm (thick sweaters, thick woolen stockings), quarreling over a gentleman, grabbed each other's hair , so much so that one of them, a redhead, parted with whole shreds. The girls are separated. To expressions of sympathy, the red-haired Thomasina Tuckerton replies that she did not even feel pain. The owner of the bar, after Tommy leaves, tells Mark about her: a rich heiress settles in Chelsea, spends time with the same idlers like her.

A week after this chance meeting, Mark sees in The Times an announcement of the death of Thomasina Tuckerton.

A boy runs after the priest Father Gorman and calls him to the dying Mrs. Davis. The woman, gasping for breath, tells her father Gorman about the terrible atrocity and asks him to put an end to it. The shocked priest, not completely believing the terrible story (perhaps this is just a product of feverish delirium), nevertheless goes into a small cafe and, having ordered a cup of coffee, which he hardly touches, writes down on a piece of paper that has turned up the names of people named by a woman. Remembering that the housekeeper again did not sew up the hole in his pocket, Father Gorman hides the note in his shoe, as he has done more than once. Then he heads home. He is deafened by a heavy blow to the head. Father Gorman staggers and falls ... The police, who discovered the corpse of a priest, are at a loss: who needed to kill him? Unless it's a note hidden in a shoe. There are several surnames: Ormerod, Sandford, Parkinson, Hesketh-Dubois, Shaw, Harmondsworth, Tuckerton, Corrigan, Delafontaine ... On trial, Police Inspector Lejeune and an intrigued Dr. Corrigan, a forensic surgeon, call Lady Hesketh-Dubois, looking for her number in the handbook. It turns out that she died five months ago.

One of the witnesses interviewed in the case of the murder of Father Gorman, the pharmacist Mr. Osborne, claims to have seen a man walking behind the priest, and gives a clear description of his appearance: sloping shoulders, a large hooked nose, a protruding Adam's apple, long hair, tall stature.

Mark Easterbrook and his friend Hermia Radcliffe (an impeccable classic profile and a hat of brown hair), having watched Macbeth at the Old Vic Theater, go to dinner at a restaurant. There they meet an acquaintance, David Ardingly, a professor of history at Oxford. He introduces them to his companion, Pam. The girl is very pretty, with a fashionable hairstyle, with huge blue eyes and, as Mark slanders, "impenetrably stupid." The conversation turns to the play, the good old days, when you hire a killer and he takes out whoever you need. Unexpectedly, Pam enters into the conversation, noticing that even now you can deal with a person if necessary. Then she is embarrassed, confused, and in Mark's memory of all that has been said, only the name "White Horse" remains.

Soon, "White Horse", as the name of the tavern, in a much less sinister context, appears in a conversation between Mark and a familiar writer, author of detective stories, Mrs. Oliver. Mark persuades her to take part in a charity event organized by his cousin Rhoda.

Mark accidentally meets Jim Corrigan, with whom he once, about fifteen years ago, was friends in Oxford. It comes to a mysterious list found on Gorman's father. The late Lady Haskett-Dubois was Mark's aunt, and he is willing to vouch that she was respectable, law-abiding and had no ties to the underworld.

Mark participates in a holiday organized by Rouda. The "White Horse" turns out to be close to Rhode's house in the suburbs of London. This is not a tavern, this is a former hotel. Now three women live in this house, built in the 16th century. One of them, Tirza Grey, is a tall woman with short hair, who practices the occult, spiritualism and magic. The other is her friend Sybil Stamfordis, a medium. Dressed in oriental style, hung with necklaces and scarabs. Their cook Bella is known in the district as a witch, and her gift is hereditary - her mother was considered a witch.

Road takes Mark, Mrs. Oliver, and a red-haired girl named Ginger (she is an art restorer by profession) to visit her neighbor, Mr. Winables, an extremely rich and interesting man. Once he was an avid traveler, but after suffering from polio a few years ago, he can only move in a wheelchair. Mr. Winables is about fifty, with a thin face with a large hooked nose and an affable disposition. He is happy to show his beautiful collections to the guests.

After that, the whole company goes to a tea party at the White Horse at the invitation of Tirza Grey. Tirza shows Mark his library, which contains books related to witchcraft and magic, among which there are rare medieval editions. Tirza claims that now science has expanded the horizons of witchcraft. In order to kill a person, it is necessary to awaken in him a subconscious desire for death, then he, succumbing to some self-suggested illness, inevitably and soon dies.

From a casual conversation with Mrs. Oliver, Mark learns of the death of her friend, Mary Delafontaine, whose last name he saw on a list found on Gorman's father.

Mark ponders what he has heard from Tirza. It becomes clear to him that help of three witches living in the White Horse Villa are successfully resorted to by people who want to get rid of their loved ones. At the same time, the sanity of a person living in the 20th century prevents him from believing in the action of witchcraft forces. He decides to find out the mystery of mysterious deaths, to understand whether the three witches from the "White Horse" can really kill a person, Mark asks for help from his friend Hermia, but she is absorbed in her scientific pursuits, Mark's "medieval witches" seem to her complete nonsense. Then Mark resorts to the help of Ginger-Ginger, a girl whom he met at a festival near Rhodes.

Ginger, whose real name is Katherine Corrigan (another coincidence!), wants to help Mark. She advises him, under some pretext, to visit Thomasina Tuckerton's stepmother, now the owner of a huge inheritance. Mark does just that, easily finding an excuse: the Tuckerton house, it turns out, was created according to an unusual design by the famous architect Nash. At the mention of the "White Horse", a clear fear appears on the face of the widow Tuckerton. Ginger at this time is looking for Pam, from whom Mark first heard about the "White Horse". She manages to make friends with Pam and find out from her the address of a man named Bradley, who lives in Birmingham. Those who need the help of the "White Horse" turn to this person.

Mark visits Bradley and it becomes clear to him how the assassination is ordered. For example, a client who approaches Bradley claims that his wealthy aunt or jealous wife will be alive and well at Christmas (or Easter), while Mr. Bradley bets him that they won't. The winner (and it always turns out to be Mr. Bradley) receives the amount for which the bet was made. Upon learning of this, Ginger decides to portray Mark's wife (his real wife died fifteen years ago in Italy when she was driving in a car with her lover - this is Mark's old wound), which allegedly does not give him a divorce, and he cannot marry Hermia Radcliffe.

Having made an appropriate bet with Bradley, Mark Easterbrook, with a heavy heart, worried that he is endangering Ginger's life, goes to the White Horse Villa. He brings - as ordered - an item belonging to his "wife", a suede glove, and is present at the magic session.

Sybil is in a trance, Tirza puts a glove into some apparatus and adjusts it according to the compass, Bella sacrifices a white cockerel, whose blood is smeared on the glove.

According to the terms of the agreement, Mark had to leave London, and now he calls Ginger daily. On the first day, everything is in order, nothing suspicious, only an electrician came in to take the meter reading, some woman asked what cosmetics and medicines Ginger prefers, another one for donations for the blind.

But the next day, Ginger has a fever, a sore throat, and aching bones. Terrified, Mark returns to London. Ginger is admitted to a private clinic. Doctors find she has pneumonia, but the treatment is slow and not very successful. Mark invites Pam to dinner. In a conversation with her, a new name pops up - Eileen Brandon, who once worked in a consumer accounting office, somehow connected with the White Horse.

Mrs. Oliver calls Mark and tells how his aunt was dying (she learned about this from her new maid, who previously worked for Lady Hasket-Dubois). Her hair was falling out in clumps. And Mrs. Oliver, with her writing memory and detective tendencies, remembered that her recently deceased friend Mary Delafontaine had her hair falling out too. Here? Before Mark's eyes there is a fight in a bar, Thomasin Tuckerton, and he suddenly understands what's going on. Once he happened to read an article about thallium poisoning. People who worked at the factory died from a variety of diseases, but one symptom was common - everyone lost their hair. Thanks to the timely intervention of Mark, Ginger begins to be treated for thallium poisoning.

Mark and Inspector Lejeune meet with Eileen Brandon. She talks about her job at a consumer accounting firm. She went around people on the list and asked a series of questions regarding their consumer interests. But she was embarrassed that the questions were asked haphazardly, as if to divert her eyes. At one time she consulted with another employee, Mrs. Davis. But she did not dispel her suspicions, rather, on the contrary. “This whole office is just a sign for a gang of bandits,” such was the opinion of Mrs. Davis. She told Eileen that she once saw a man leaving a house "where he had absolutely nothing to do," carrying a bag of tools. It becomes clear that Mrs. Davis also fell victim to the "gang of bandits", and the revelations that she shared with Father Gorman cost him his life.

Three weeks later, Inspector Lejeune with a sergeant, Mark Easterbrook and the pharmacist Mr. Osborne (who believes Winables is the murderer of Gorman's father) arrive at Mr. Winables' villa. The inspector talks to the owner of the house and, apparently, suspects him of leading the organization of the murders. In addition, a bag of thallium was found in Winables' garden shed. Lejeune makes lengthy accusations against Mr. Winables, going back to the evening Father Gorman was killed. Osborne breaks down and begins to agree, screaming excitedly, as he saw Mr. Winables. However, Lejeune refutes his allegations and accuses Osborne himself of killing the priest, adding to this: “If you sat quietly in your pharmacy, maybe you would get away with everything.” Lejeune had long since begun to suspect Osborne, and the whole visit to Mr. Winables had been a deliberate trap. The package with thallium was thrown into the shed by the same Osborne.

Mark finds Ginger at the White Horse Villa, which has lost its sinister inhabitants. Ginger is still pale and thin, and her hair has not grown back properly, but the old enthusiasm shines in her eyes. Mark hints at Ginger's love, but she demands a formal proposal - and gets it. Ginger asks if Mark really doesn't want to marry "his Hermia"? Remembering, Mark pulls out of his pocket a letter received the other day from Hermia, in which she invites him to go to the Old Vic Theater for Love's Labour's Lost. Ginger resolutely tears up the letter.

“If you want to go to the Old Vic, you will only go with me now,” she says in a tone that does not allow for objections.

A series of mysterious accidents - or ancient sorcery? Rituals of black magic - or crimes, brilliantly conceived and carefully planned? Murder is murder. Where it is committed, there is bound to be a clue or evidence. At least one thread to pull...

Agatha Christie

VILLA “WHITE HORSE”

Chapter 1

Mark Easterbrook says

The Espresso machine hissed behind me like an angry snake. I stirred in the cup. It smelled like coffee from her.

Will you order anything else? Ham and banana sandwich?

This combination seemed unusual to me. Bananas are associated with my childhood. Ham, in my opinion, is only paired with scrambled eggs. However, to live with wolves is to howl like a wolf: in Chelsea it is customary to eat such sandwiches, and I did not refuse.

The espresso hissed again. I ordered more coffee and looked around.

My sister constantly reproaches me for my lack of observation, for not noticing anything around me. “You always withdraw into yourself,” she says accusingly. And now I began to carefully monitor everything around. Every day there is bound to be something in the papers about the bars of Chelsea and their patrons, and now I have the opportunity to form my own opinion of modern life. The cafe was dim, I could hardly see anything. The visitors, mostly young people, were the type of young people who are called beatniks. The girls looked very sloppy and were too warmly dressed. I already noticed this when I was having lunch with friends at a restaurant a few weeks ago. The girl who was then sitting next to me was twenty years old. Everyone in the restaurant was languishing in the heat, and she dressed up in a yellow wool sweater, a black skirt and black wool stockings. My friends found it very interesting. I did not share their opinion. This probably shows how lagged behind life I am. After all, I remember with pleasure the women of India, their strict hairstyles, bright saris, flowing with noble folds, graceful gait ...

I was distracted from these pleasant memories by an unexpected noise.

Two young women at the next table started a quarrel. Their gentlemen tried to calm their girlfriends, but in vain.

The girls turned to screaming. One gave the other a slap in the face, and she pulled her off the chair. One was red, and her hair stuck out in all directions, the other was blonde with long strands falling over her face.

Because of what the quarrel began, I did not understand. Visitors accompanied her with encouraging exclamations and meowing.

Well done! So her, Lou!

The owner ran out from behind the bar and tried to appease the opponents.

Well, that's enough! Not enough police yet.

But the blonde grabbed the redhead's hair, shouting at the same time:

Damn, you're taking my friend away from me!

The girls were separated. The blonde had red strands in her hands. She gleefully shook them in the air and threw them on the floor.

The front door opened. A representative of the government in blue uniform appeared on the threshold of the cafe. He majestically said:

What's going on here?

All cafes met the enemy with a united front.

Just having fun, - said one of the young people.

He discreetly kicked tufts of hair under the next table with his foot. The opponents smiled at each other with feigned tenderness. The policeman looked around the cafe incredulously.

We're just leaving," the blonde said in a sweet voice. - Let's go, Doug.

Coincidentally, several more people were about to leave.

The guard looked at them darkly. His gaze clearly indicated that this time they would get away with it, but he would take note of them. Then he left with dignity.

The red-haired girl's cavalier paid the bill.

How are you, nothing? - the owner asked the redhead, who was tying her head with a scarf. - Lou won how much hair tore out.

And I didn’t feel any pain, ”the girl replied carelessly.

She smiled at him.

Forgive us for the scandal.

The company is gone. The cafe is empty. I looked in my pockets for change.

She's a good girl anyway," the owner said approvingly when the door closed. He took the brush and swept the red hair into a corner.

Yes, the pain must be hellish, I replied.

If I were in her place, I would not have endured it, I howled, - the owner admitted.

Do you know her well?

Yes, she's here almost every night. Tuckerton is her last name. Thomasina Tuckerton. And here her name is Tommy Tucker. She's got a lot of money. Her father leaves her the entire inheritance, and what do you think she is doing? Moves to Chelson, rents some kind of kennel near Wandsworth Bridge and hangs out with all sorts of bums. I can’t understand one thing: almost all of this gang are people with money, they can even live in the Ritz Hotel. Yes, but it seems that they are more to their liking.

And what would you do in their place?