yes, very much changed. Gone down in the world.'
He sighed, and shook his head.
Then he resumed:
'This is Mr Venables' 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 cafe at the gas 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 gas station was on the corner with the bus stop just beyond it. There was a small clean cafe, 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 where 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 for 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 fete 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 wheelchair. 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 a cripple 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 some day, I, too, might figure in a cause celиbre and be the instrument of bringing a murderer to justice! Perhaps it was then that I began to make a study of memorizing 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' limbs are atrophied?'
'Well – his doctor, I suppose?'
'Quite. But I have tried to get a little information on that point. Mr Venables' 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
