The Pale Horse - Agatha Christie [69]
“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