The Pale Horse - Agatha Christie [68]
“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 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