The Pale Horse by Agatha Christie

My great-great-aunt - or one or two more greats - was burned as a witch, I believe, in Ireland. Those were the days!”
    “I always thought you were Scottish?”
    “On my father's side - hence the second sight. Irish on my mother's. Sybil is our pythoness, originally of Greek extraction. Bella represents Old English.”
    “A macabre human cocktail,” remarked Colonel Despard.
    “As you say.”
    “Fun!” said Ginger.
    Thyrza shot her a quick glance.
    “Yes, it is in a way.” She turned to Mrs Oliver. “You should write one of your books about a murder by black magic. I can give you a lot of dope about it.”
    Mrs Oliver blinked and looked embarrassed.
    “I only write very plain murders,” she said apologetically.
    Her tone was of one who says “I only do plain cooking.”
    “Just about people who want other people out of the way and try to be clever about it.” she added.
    “They're usually too clever for me,” said Colonel Despard. He glanced at his watch. “Rhoda, I think -”
    “Oh, yes, we must go. It's much later than I thought. ”
    Thanks and good-byes were said. We did not go back through the house but round to a side gate.
    “You keep a lot of poultry,” remarked Colonel Despard, looking into a wired enclosure.
    “I hate hens,” said Ginger. “They cluck in such an irritating way.”
    “Mostly cockerels they be.” It was Bella who spoke. She had come out from a back door.
    “White cockerels,” I said.
    “Table birds?” asked Despard.
    Bella said, “They're useful to us.”
    Her mouth widened in a long curving line across the pudgy shapelessness of her face. Her eyes had a sly knowing look.
    “They're Bella's province,” said Thyrza Grey lightly.
    We said good-bye and Sybil Stamfordis appeared from the open front door to join in speeding the parting guests.
    “I don't like that woman,” said Mrs Oliver, as we drove off. “I don't like her at all.”
    “You mustn't take old Thyrza too seriously,” said Despard indulgently. “She enjoys spouting all that stuff and seeing what effect it has on you.”
    “I didn't mean her. She's an unscrupulous woman, with a keen eye on the main chance. But she's not dangerous like the other one.”
    “Bella? She is a bit uncanny, I'll admit.”
    “I didn't mean her either. I meant the Sybil one. She seems just silly. All those beads and draperies and all the stuff about voodoo, and all those fantastic reincarnations she was telling us about. (Why is it that anybody who was a kitchenmaid or an ugly old peasant never seems to get reincarnated? It's always Egyptian princesses or beautiful Babylonian slaves. Very fishy.) But all the same, though she's stupid, I have a feeling that she could really do things - make queer things happen. I always put things badly - but I mean she could be used - by something - in a way just because she is so silly. I don't suppose anyone understands what I mean,” she finished pathetically.
    “I do,” said Ginger. “And I shouldn't wonder if you weren't right”
    “We really ought to go to one of their sйances,” said Rhoda wistfully. “It might be rather fun.”
    “No, you don't,” said Despard firmly. “I'm not having you getting mixed up in anything of that sort.”
    They fell into a laughing argument. I roused myself only when I heard Mrs Oliver asking about trains the next morning.
    “You can drive back with me,” I said.
    Mrs Oliver looked doubtful.
    “I think I'd better go by train.”
    “Oh, come now. You've driven with me before. I'm a most reliable driver.”
    “It's not that, Mark. But I've got to go to a funeral tomorrow. So I mustn't be late in getting back to town.” She sighed. “I do hate going to funerals.”
    “Must you?”
    “I think I must in this case. Mary Delafontaine was a very old friend, and I think she'd want me to go. She was that sort of person.”
    “Of course,” I exclaimed. “Delafontaine - of course.”
    The others stared at me, surprised.
    “Sorry,” I said.