The Sittaford Mystery - Agatha Christie [67]
‘What’s that?’ he said.
He caught sight of Charles’s retreating figure.
‘Hie, you stop! What are you doing here?’
With a bound he sprang after Charles. Charles turned and tackled him adroitly. The next moment they were rolling over and over together locked in a tight embrace.
The tussle was a short one. Charles’s assailant was by far the heavier and stronger of the two. He rose to his feet jerking his captive with him.
‘Switch on that light, Violet,’ he said, ‘let’s have a look at this fellow.’
The girl who had been standing terrified a few paces away came forward and switched on the torch obediently.
‘It must be the man who is staying in the village,’ she said. ‘A journalist.’
‘A journalist, eh?’ exclaimed the other. ‘I don’t like the breed. What are you doing, you skunk, nosing round private grounds at this time of night?’
The torch wavered in Violet’s hand. For the first time Charles was given a full view of his antagonist. For a few minutes he had entertained the wild idea that the visitor might have been the escaped convict. One look at the other dispelled any such fancy. This was a young man not more than twenty-four or-five years of age. Tall, good-looking and determined, with none of the hunted criminal about him.
‘Now then,’ he said sharply, ‘what’s your name?’
‘My name is Charles Enderby,’ said Charles. ‘You haven’t told me yours,’ he continued.
‘Confound your cheek!’
A sudden flash of inspiration came to Charles. An inspired guess had saved him more than once. It was a long shot, but he believed that he was right.
‘I think, however,’ he said quietly, ‘that I can guess it.’
‘Eh?’
The other was clearly taken aback.
‘I think,’ said Charles, ‘that I have the pleasure of addressing Mr Brian Pearson from Australia. Is that so?’
There was a silence—rather a long silence. Charles had a feeling that the tables were turned.
‘How the devil you knew that I can’t think,’ said the other at last, ‘but you’re right. My name is Brian Pearson.’
‘In that case,’ said Charles, ‘supposing we adjourn to the house and talk things over!’
Chapter 23
At Hazelmoor
Major Burnaby was doing his accounts or—to use a more Dickens-like phrase—he was looking into his affairs. The Major was an extremely methodical man. In a calf-bound book he kept a record of shares bought, shares sold and the accompanying loss or profit—usually a loss, for in common with most retired army men the Major was attracted by a high rate of interest rather than a modest percentage coupled with safety.
‘These oil wells looked all right,’ he was muttering. ‘Seems as though there ought to have been a fortune in it. Almost as bad as that diamond mine! Canadian land, that ought to be sound now.’
His cogitations were interrupted as the head of Mr Ronald Garfield appeared at the open window.
‘Hello,’ said Ronnie cheerfully, ‘I hope I’m not butting in?’
‘If you are coming in go round to the front door,’ said Major Burnaby. ‘Mind the rock plants. I believe you are standing on them at the moment.’
Ronnie retreated with an apology and presently presented himself at the front door.
‘Wipe your feet on the mat, if you don’t mind,’ cried the Major.
He found young men extremely trying. Indeed, the only young man towards whom he had felt any kindliness for a long time was the journalist, Charles Enderby.
‘A nice young chap,’ the Major had said to himself. ‘And very interested, too, in what I have told him about the Boer War.’
Towards Ronnie Garfield the Major felt no such kindliness. Practically everything that the unfortunate Ronnie said or did managed to rub the Major up the wrong way. Still, hospitality is hospitality.
‘Have a drink?’ said the Major, loyal to that tradition.
‘No thanks. As a matter of fact I just dropped in to see if we couldn’t get together. I wanted to go to Exhampton today and I hear Elmer is booked to take you in.’
Burnaby nodded.
‘Got to go over Trevelyan’s things,’ he explained. ‘The police have done with the place now.’
‘Well, you see,’ said Ronnie