“Quite right, Easterbrook, quite right. As I said, only the fool toils. One must think, plan the campaign in every detail. The secret of all success is something quite simple—but it has to be thought of! Something simple. One thinks of it, and puts it into execution—and there you are!”
I stared at him. Something simple—something as simple as the removal of unwanted persons? Fulfilling a need. An action performed without danger to anybody except the victim. Planned by Mr. Venables sitting in his wheeled chair, with his great hooked nose like the beak of a bird of prey, and his prominent Adam’s apple moving up and down. Executed by—whom? Thyrza Grey?
I watched him as I said:
“All this talk of remote control reminds me of something that odd Miss Grey said.”
“Ah, our dear Thyrza!” His tone was smooth, indulgent (but had there been a faint flicker of the eyelids?). “Such nonsense as those two dear ladies talk! And they believe it, you know, they really believe it. Have you been yet—(I’m sure they’ll insist on your going)—to one of these ridiculous séances of theirs?”
I had a momentary hesitation whilst I decided rapidly what my attitude here ought to be.
“Yes,” I said, “I— I did go to a séance.”
“And you found it great nonsense? Or were you impressed?”
I avoided his eyes and presented to my best ability a man who is ill at ease.
“I—oh well—of course I didn’t really believe in any of it. They seem very sincere but—” I looked at my watch. “I’d no idea it was so late. I must hurry back. My cousin will wonder what I am doing.”
“You have been cheering up an invalid on a dull afternoon. My regards to Rhoda. We must arrange another luncheon party soon. Tomorrow I am going to London. There is an interesting sale at Sotheby’s. Medieval French ivories. Exquisite! You will appreciate them, I am sure, if I succeed in acquiring them.”
We parted on this amicable note. Was there an amused and malicious twinkle in his eye as he registered my awkwardness over the séance? I thought so, but I could not be sure. I felt it quite likely that I was now imagining things.
Nineteen
Mark Easterbrook’s Narrative
I went out into the late afternoon. Darkness had already fallen, and since the sky was overcast, I moved rather uncertainly down the winding drive. I looked back once at the lighted windows of the house. In doing so, I stepped off the gravel onto the grass and collided with someone moving in the opposite direction.
It was a small man, solidly made. We exchanged apologies. His voice was a rich deep bass with a rather fruity and pedantic tone.
“I’m so sorry….”
“Not at all. Entirely my fault, I assure you….”
“I have never been here before,” I explained, “so I don’t quite know where I’m going. I ought to have brought a torch.”
“Allow me.”
The stranger produced a torch from his pocket, switched it on and handed it to me. By its light I saw that he was a man of middle age, with a round cherubic face, a black moustache and spectacles. He wore a good quality dark raincoat and can only be described as the acme of respectability. All the same, it did just cross my mind to wonder why he was not using his torch himself since he had it with him.
“Ah,” I said rather idiotically. “I see. I have stepped off the drive.”
I stepped back on it, then offered him back the torch.
“I can find my way now.”
“No, no, pray keep it until you get to the gate.”
“But you—you are going to the house?”
“No, no. I am going the same way that you are. Er—down the drive. And then up to the bus stop. I am catching a bus back to Bournemouth.”
I said, “I see,” and we fell into step side by side. My companion seemed a little ill at ease. He inquired if I also were going to the bus stop. I replied that I was staying in the neighbourhood.
There was again a pause and I could feel my companion’s embarrassment growing. He was the kind of man who does not like feeling in any way in a false position.
“You have been to visit Mr. Venables?” he asked, clearing his throat.
I said that that was so, adding, “I took it that you also were on your way to the house?”
“No,” he said. “No… As a matter of fact—” he paused. “I live in Bournemouth—or at least near Bournemouth. I have just moved into a small bungalow there.”
I felt a faint stirring in my mind. What had I recently heard about a bungalow at Bournemouth? Whilst I was trying to remember, my companion, becoming even more ill at ease, was finally impelled to speak.
“You must think it very odd—I admit, of course, it is odd—to find someone wandering in the grounds of a house when the—er—person in question is not acquainted with the owner of the house. My reasons are a little difficult to explain, though I assure you that I have reasons. But I can only say that although I have only recently settled in Bournemouth, I am quite well known there, and I could bring forward several esteemed residents to vouch for me personally. Actually, I am a pharmacist who has recently sold an old established business in London, and I have retired to this part of the world which I have always found very pleasant—very pleasant indeed.”
Enlightenment came to me. I thought I knew who the little man was. Meanwhile he was continuing in full spate.
“My name is Osborne, Zachariah Osborne, and as I say I have—had rather—a very nice business in London—Barton Street—Paddington Green. Quite a good neighbourhood in my father’s time, but sadly changed now—oh yes, very much changed. Gone down in the world.”
He sighed, and shook his head.
Then he resumed:
“This is Mr. Venables’s house, is it not? I suppose—er—he is a friend of yours?”
I said with deliberation:
“Hardly a friend. I have only met him once before today, when I was taken to lunch with him by some friends of mine.”
“Ah yes— I see… Yes, precisely.”
We had come now to the entrance gates. We passed through them. Mr. Osborne paused irresolutely. I handed him back his torch.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Not at all. You’re welcome. I—” He paused, then words came from him in a rush.
“I shouldn’t like you to think… I mean, technically, of course, I was trespassing. But not, I assure you, from any motive of vulgar curiosity. It must have seemed to you most peculiar—my position—and open to misconstruction. I really would like to explain—to—er—clarify my position.”
I waited. It seemed the best thing to do. My curiosity, vulgar or not, was certainly aroused. I wanted it satisfied.
Mr. Osborne was silent for about a minute, then he made up his mind.
“I really would like to explain to you, Mr.—er—”
“Easterbrook. Mark Easterbrook.”
“Mr. Easterbrook. As I say, I would welcome the chance of explaining my rather odd behaviour. If you have the time—? It is only five minutes’ walk up the lane to the main road. There is quite a respectable little café at the petrol station close to the bus stop. My bus is not due for over twenty minutes. If you would allow me to offer you a cup of coffee?”
I accepted. We walked up the lane together. Mr. Osborne, his anguished respectability appeased, chatted cosily of the amenities of Bournemouth, its excellent climate, its concerts and the nice class of people who lived there.
We reached the main road. The petrol station was on the corner with the bus stop just beyond it. There was a small clean café, empty except for a young couple in a corner. We entered and Mr. Osborne ordered coffee and biscuits for two.
Then he leaned forward across the table and unburdened himself.
“This all stems from a case you may have seen reported in the newspapers some time ago. It was not a very sensational case, so it did not make the headlines—if that is the correct expression. It concerned the Roman Catholic parish priest of the district in London wh
ere I have—had—my shop. He was set upon one night and killed. Very distressing. Such happenings are far too frequent nowadays. He was, I believe, a good man—though I myself do not hold with the Roman doctrine. However that may be, I must explain my particular interest. There was a police announcement that they were anxious to interview anyone who had seen Father Gorman on the night in question. By chance I had happened to be standing outside the door of my establishment that evening about eight o’clock and had seen Father Gorman go by. Following him at a short distance was a man whose appearance was unusual enough to attract my attention. At the time, of course, I thought nothing of the matter, but I am an observant man, Mr. Easterbrook, and I have the habit of mentally registering what people look like. It is quite a hobby of mine, and several people who have come to my shop have been surprised when I say to them, ‘Ah yes, I think you came in for this same preparation last March?’ It pleases them, you know, to be remembered. Good business, I have found it. Anyway, I described the man I had seen to the police. They thanked me and that was that.
“Now I come to the rather surprising part of my story. About ten days ago I came over to a church fête in the little village at the bottom of the lane we have just walked up—and what was my surprise to see this same man I have mentioned. He must have had, or so I thought, an accident, since he was propelling himself in a wheeled chair. I inquired about him and was told he was a rich local resident of the name of Venables. After a day or two to debate the matter, I wrote to the police officer to whom I had made my original statement. He came down to Bournemouth—Inspector Lejeune was his name. He seemed sceptical, however, as to whether this was indeed the man I had seen on the night of the murder. He informed me that Mr. Venables had been crippled for some years, as a result of polio. I must, he said, have been misled by a chance resemblance.”
Mr. Osborne came to an abrupt halt. I stirred the pale fluid in front of me and took a cautious sip. Mr. Osborne added three lumps of sugar to his own cup.
“Well, that seems to settle that,” I said.
“Yes,” said Mr. Osborne. “Yes…” His voice was markedly dissatisfied. Then he leaned forward again, his round bald head shining under the electric bulb, his eyes quite fanatical behind his spectacles….
“I must explain a little more. As a boy, Mr. Easterbrook, a friend of my father’s, another pharmacist, was called to give evidence in the case of Jean Paul Marigot. You may remember—he poisoned his English wife—an arsenical preparation. My father’s friend identified him in court as the man who signed a false name in his poison register. Marigot was convicted and hanged. It made a great impression on me—I was nine years old at the time—an impressionable age. It was my great hope that someday, I, too, might figure in a cause célèbre and be the instrument of bringing a murderer to justice! Perhaps it was then that I began to make a study of memorising faces. I will confess to you, Mr. Easterbrook, though it may seem to you quite ridiculous, that for many, many years now I have contemplated the possibility that some man, determined to do away with his wife, might enter my shop to purchase what he needed.”
“Or, I suppose, a second Madeleine Smith,” I suggested.
“Exactly. Alas,” Mr. Osborne sighed, “that has never happened. Or, if so, the person in question has never been brought to justice. That occurs, I would say, more frequently than it is quite comfortable to believe. So this identification, though not what I had hoped, opened up at least a possibility that I might be a witness in a murder case!”
His face beamed with childish pleasure.
“Very disappointing for you,” I said sympathetically.
“Ye-es.” Again Mr. Osborne’s voice held that odd note of dissatisfaction.
“I’m an obstinate man, Mr. Easterbrook. As the days have passed by I have felt more and more sure that I was right. That the man I saw was Venables and no other. Oh!” he raised a hand in protest as I was about to speak. “I know. It was inclined to be foggy. I was some distance away—but what the police have not taken into consideration is that I have made a study of recognition. It was not just the features, the pronounced nose, the Adam’s apple; there is the carriage of the head, the angle of the neck on the shoulders. I said to myself ‘Come, come, admit you were mistaken.’ But I continued to feel that I had not been mistaken. The police said it was impossible. But was it impossible? That’s what I asked myself.”
“Surely, with a disability of that kind—”
He stopped me by waving an agitated forefinger.
“Yes, yes, but my experiences, under the National Health—Well, really it would surprise you what people are prepared to do—and what they get away with! I wouldn’t like to say that the medical profession are credulous—a plain case of malingering they will spot soon enough. But there are ways—ways that a chemist is more likely to appreciate than a doctor. Certain drugs, for instance, other quite harmless-seeming preparations. Fever can be induced—various rashes and skin irritations—dryness of throat, or increase of secretions—”
“But hardly atrophied limbs,” I pointed out.
“Quite, quite. But who says that Mr. Venables’s limbs are atrophied?”
“Well—his doctor, I suppose?”
“Quite. But I have tried to get a little information on that point. Mr. Venables’s doctor is in London, a Harley Street man—true, he was seen by the local doctor here when he first arrived. But that doctor has now retired and gone to live abroad. The present man has never attended Mr. Venables. Mr. Venables goes up once a month to Harley Street.”
I looked at him curiously.
“That still seems to me to present no loophole for er—er—”
“You don’t know the things I know,” said Mr. Osborne. “A humble example will suffice. Mrs. H.—drawing insurance benefits for over a year. Drew them in three separate places—only in one place she was Mrs. C. and in another place Mrs. T…. Mrs. C. and Mrs. T. lent her their cards for a consideration, and so she collected the money three times over.”
“I don’t see—”
“Suppose—just suppose—” The forefinger was now wiggling excitedly, “our Mr. V. makes contact with a genuine polio case in poor circumstances. He makes a proposition. The man resembles him, let us say, in a general kind of way, no more. Genuine sufferer calling himself Mr. V. calls in specialist, and is examined, so that the case history is all correct. Then Mr. V. takes house in country. Local G.P. wants to retire soon. Again genuine sufferer calls in doctor, is examined. And there you are! Mr. Venables well documented as a polio sufferer with atrophied limbs. He is seen locally (when he is seen) in a wheeled chair, etc.”
“His servants would know, surely,” I objected. “His valet.”
“But supposing it is a gang—the valet is one of the gang. What could be simpler? Some of the other servants, too, perhaps.”
“But why?”
“Ah,” said Mr. Osborne. “That’s another question, isn’t it? I won’t tell you my theory—I expect you’d laugh at it. But there you are—a very nice alibi set up for a man who might want an alibi. He could be here, there and everywhere, and nobody would know. Seen walking about in Paddington? Impossible! He’s a helpless cripple living in the country, etc.” Mr. Osborne paused and glanced at his watch. “My bus is due. I must be quick. I get to brooding about this you see. Wondered if I could do anything to prove it, as you might say. So I thought I’d come out here (I’ve time on my hands, these days. I almost miss my business sometimes), go into the grounds and—well, not to put too fine a point upon it, do a bit of spying. Not very nice, you’ll say—and I agree. But if it’s a case of getting at the truth—of bringing a criminal to book… If, for instance, I spotted our Mr. Venables having a quiet walk around in the grounds, well, there you are! And then I thought, if they don’t pull the curtains too soon—(and you may have noticed people don’t when daylight saving first ends—they’ve got in the habit of expecting it to be dark an hour later)—I might creep up and take a peep. Walking about his library, m
aybe, never dreaming that anyone would be spying on him? Why should he? No one suspects him as far as he knows!”
“Why are you so sure the man you saw that night was Venables?”
“I know it was Venables!”
He shot to his feet.
“My bus is coming. Pleased to have met you, Mr. Easterbrook, and it’s a weight off my mind to have explained what I was doing there at Priors Court. I daresay it seems a lot of nonsense to you.”
“It doesn’t altogether,” I said. “But you haven’t told me what you think Mr. Venables is up to.”
Mr. Osborne looked embarrassed and a little sheepish.
“You’ll laugh, I daresay. Everybody says he’s rich but nobody seems to know how he made his money. I’ll tell you what I think. I think he’s one of those master criminals you read about. You know—plans things, and has a gang that carries them out. It may sound silly to you but I—”
The bus had stopped. Mr. Osborne ran for it—
I walked home down the lane very thoughtful… It was a fantastic theory that Mr. Osborne had outlined, but I had to admit that there might just possibly be something in it.
Twenty
Mark Easterbrook’s Narrative
I
Ringing up Ginger on the following morning, I told her that I was moving to Bournemouth the next day.
“I’ve found a nice quiet little hotel called (heaven knows why) the Deer Park. It’s got a couple of nice unobtrusive side exits. I might sneak up to London and see you.”
“You oughtn’t to really, I suppose. But I must say it would be rather heaven if you did. The boredom! You’ve no idea! If you couldn’t come here, I could sneak out and meet you somewhere.”
Something suddenly struck me.
“Ginger! Your voice… It’s different somehow….”
The Pale Horse Page 17
