that very district - talking about some pale horse or other. What is this pale horse? Let's have your story.”
“You won't believe it,” I warned him. “I don't really believe it myself.”
“Come on. Let's have it.”
I told him of my conversation with Thyrza Grey. His reaction was immediate.
“What unutterable balderdash!”
“It is, isn't it?”
“Of course it is! What's the matter with you, Mark? White cockerels. Sacrifices, I suppose! A medium, the local witch, and a middle-aged country spinster who can send out a death ray guaranteed lethal. It's mad, man, absolutely mad!”
“Yes, it's mad,” I said heavily.
“Oh! stop agreeing with me, Mark. You make me feel there's something in it when you do that. You believe there's something in it, don't you?”
“Let me ask you a question first. This stuff about everybody having a secret urge or wish for death. Is there any scientific truth in that?”
Corrigan hesitated for a moment. Then he said:
“I'm not a psychiatrist. Strictly between you and me I think half these fellows are slightly barmy themselves. They're punch drunk on theories. And they go much too far. I can tell you that the police aren't at all fond of the expert medical witness who's always being called in for the defence to explain away a man's having killed some helpless old woman for the money in the till.”
“You prefer your glandular theory?”
He grinned.
“All right. All right. I'm a theorist, too. Admttted. But there's a good physical reason behind my theory - if I can ever get at it. But all this subconscious stuff! Pah!”
“You don't believe in it?”
“Of course I believe in it. But these chaps take it much too far. The unconscious 'death wish' and all that, there's something in it, of course, but not nearly so much as they make out.”
“But there is such a thing,” I persisted.
“You'd better go and buy yourself a book on psychology and read all about it.”
“Thyrza Grey claims that she knows all there is to know.”
“Thyrza Grey!” he snorted. “What does a half-baked spinster in a country village know about mental psychology?”
“She says she knows a lot.”
“As I said before, balderdash!”
“That,” I remarked, “is what people have always said about any discovery that doesn't accord with recognized ideas. Iron ships? Balderdash! Flying-machines? Balderdash! Frogs twitching their legs on railings -”
He interrupted me.
“So you've swallowed all this, hook, line and sinker?”
“Not at all,” I said. “I just wanted to know if there is any scientific basis for it.”
Corrigan snorted.
“Scientific basis my foot!”
“All right. I just wanted to know.”
“You'll be saying next she's the Woman with the Box.”
“What Woman with a Box?”
“Just one of the wild stories that turn up from time to time - by Nostradamus out of Mother Shipton. Some people will swallow anything.”
“You might at least tell me how you are getting on with that list of names.”
“The boys have been hard at work, but these things take time and a lot of routine work. Names without addresses or Christian names aren't easy to trace or identify.”
“Let's take it from a different angle. I'd be willing to bet you one thing. Within a fairly recent period - say a year to a year and a half - every one of those names has appeared on a death certificate. Am I right?”
He gave me a queer look.
“You're right - for what it's worth.”
“That's the thing they all have in common - death.”
“Yes, but that mayn't mean as much as it sounds, Mark. Have you any idea how many people die every day in the British Isles? And some of those names are quite common - which doesn't help.”
“Delafontaine,” I said. “Mary Delafontaine. That's not a very common name, is it? The funeral was last Tuesday, I understand.”
He shot me a quick glance.
“How do you know that? Saw it in the paper, I suppose.”
“I heard it from a friend of
“You won't believe it,” I warned him. “I don't really believe it myself.”
“Come on. Let's have it.”
I told him of my conversation with Thyrza Grey. His reaction was immediate.
“What unutterable balderdash!”
“It is, isn't it?”
“Of course it is! What's the matter with you, Mark? White cockerels. Sacrifices, I suppose! A medium, the local witch, and a middle-aged country spinster who can send out a death ray guaranteed lethal. It's mad, man, absolutely mad!”
“Yes, it's mad,” I said heavily.
“Oh! stop agreeing with me, Mark. You make me feel there's something in it when you do that. You believe there's something in it, don't you?”
“Let me ask you a question first. This stuff about everybody having a secret urge or wish for death. Is there any scientific truth in that?”
Corrigan hesitated for a moment. Then he said:
“I'm not a psychiatrist. Strictly between you and me I think half these fellows are slightly barmy themselves. They're punch drunk on theories. And they go much too far. I can tell you that the police aren't at all fond of the expert medical witness who's always being called in for the defence to explain away a man's having killed some helpless old woman for the money in the till.”
“You prefer your glandular theory?”
He grinned.
“All right. All right. I'm a theorist, too. Admttted. But there's a good physical reason behind my theory - if I can ever get at it. But all this subconscious stuff! Pah!”
“You don't believe in it?”
“Of course I believe in it. But these chaps take it much too far. The unconscious 'death wish' and all that, there's something in it, of course, but not nearly so much as they make out.”
“But there is such a thing,” I persisted.
“You'd better go and buy yourself a book on psychology and read all about it.”
“Thyrza Grey claims that she knows all there is to know.”
“Thyrza Grey!” he snorted. “What does a half-baked spinster in a country village know about mental psychology?”
“She says she knows a lot.”
“As I said before, balderdash!”
“That,” I remarked, “is what people have always said about any discovery that doesn't accord with recognized ideas. Iron ships? Balderdash! Flying-machines? Balderdash! Frogs twitching their legs on railings -”
He interrupted me.
“So you've swallowed all this, hook, line and sinker?”
“Not at all,” I said. “I just wanted to know if there is any scientific basis for it.”
Corrigan snorted.
“Scientific basis my foot!”
“All right. I just wanted to know.”
“You'll be saying next she's the Woman with the Box.”
“What Woman with a Box?”
“Just one of the wild stories that turn up from time to time - by Nostradamus out of Mother Shipton. Some people will swallow anything.”
“You might at least tell me how you are getting on with that list of names.”
“The boys have been hard at work, but these things take time and a lot of routine work. Names without addresses or Christian names aren't easy to trace or identify.”
“Let's take it from a different angle. I'd be willing to bet you one thing. Within a fairly recent period - say a year to a year and a half - every one of those names has appeared on a death certificate. Am I right?”
He gave me a queer look.
“You're right - for what it's worth.”
“That's the thing they all have in common - death.”
“Yes, but that mayn't mean as much as it sounds, Mark. Have you any idea how many people die every day in the British Isles? And some of those names are quite common - which doesn't help.”
“Delafontaine,” I said. “Mary Delafontaine. That's not a very common name, is it? The funeral was last Tuesday, I understand.”
He shot me a quick glance.
“How do you know that? Saw it in the paper, I suppose.”
“I heard it from a friend of
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