Mark Easterbrook’s Narrative1
I went out into the late afternoon. Darkness had already fallen, and sincethe sky was overcast2, I moved rather uncertainly down the winding3 drive.
I looked back once at the lighted windows of the house. In doing so, Istepped off the gravel4 onto the grass and collided with someone moving inthe opposite direction.
It was a small man, solidly made. We exchanged apologies. His voicewas a rich deep bass5 with a rather fruity and pedantic6 tone.
“I’m so sorry….”
“Not at all. Entirely7 my fault, I assure you….”
“I have never been here before,” I explained, “so I don’t quite knowwhere I’m going. I ought to have brought a torch.”
“Allow me.”
The stranger produced a torch from his pocket, switched it on andhanded it to me. By its light I saw that he was a man of middle age, with around cherubic face, a black moustache and spectacles. He wore a goodquality dark raincoat and can only be described as the acme8 of respectab-ility. All the same, it did just cross my mind to wonder why he was not us-ing 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. Andthen up to the bus stop. I am catching9 a bus back to Bournemouth.”
I said, “I see,” and we fell into step side by side. My companion seemed alittle ill at ease. He inquired if I also were going to the bus stop. I repliedthat I was staying in the neighbourhood.
There was again a pause and I could feel my companion’s embarrass-ment growing. He was the kind of man who does not like feeling in anyway 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 wayto the house?”
“No,” he said. “No… As a matter of fact —” he paused. “I live inBournemouth—or at least near Bournemouth. I have just moved into asmall bungalow10 there.”
I felt a faint stirring in my mind. What had I recently heard about a bun-galow at Bournemouth? Whilst I was trying to remember, my companion,becoming even more ill at ease, was finally impelled11 to speak.
“You must think it very odd — I admit, of course, it is odd — to findsomeone wandering in the grounds of a house when the—er—person inquestion is not acquainted with the owner of the house. My reasons are alittle difficult to explain, though I assure you that I have reasons. But I canonly say that although I have only recently settled in Bournemouth, I amquite well known there, and I could bring forward several esteemed12 resid-ents to vouch13 for me personally. Actually, I am a pharmacist who has re-cently sold an old established business in London, and I have retired14 tothis part of the world which I have always found very pleasant—verypleasant indeed.”
Enlightenment came to me. I thought I knew who the little man was.
Meanwhile he was continuing in full spate15.
“My name is Osborne, Zachariah Osborne, and as I say I have — hadrather — a very nice business in London — Barton Street — PaddingtonGreen. Quite a good neighbourhood in my father’s time, but sadly changednow—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 ofyours?”
I said with deliberation:
“Hardly a friend. I have only met him once before today, when I wastaken to lunch with him by some friends of mine.”
“Ah yes— I see… Yes, precisely16.”
We had come now to the entrance gates. We passed through them. Mr.
Osborne paused irresolutely17. I handed him back his torch.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Not at all. You’re welcome. I—” He paused, then words came from himin a rush.
“I shouldn’t like you to think… I mean, technically18, of course, I was tres-passing. But not, I assure you, from any motive19 of vulgar curiosity. It musthave seemed to you most peculiar—my position—and open to miscon-struction. 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, wascertainly 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 explainingmy 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 atthe petrol station close to the bus stop. My bus is not due for over twentyminutes. If you would allow me to offer you a cup of coffee?”
I accepted. We walked up the lane together. Mr. Osborne, his anguishedrespectability appeased20, chatted cosily21 of the amenities22 of Bournemouth,its excellent climate, its concerts and the nice class of people who livedthere.
We reached the main road. The petrol station was on the corner withthe bus stop just beyond it. There was a small clean café, empty except fora young couple in a corner. We entered and Mr. Osborne ordered coffeeand 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 newspa-pers some time ago. It was not a very sensational23 case, so it did not makethe headlines—if that is the correct expression. It concerned the RomanCatholic parish priest of the district in London where I have—had—myshop. He was set upon one night and killed. Very distressing24. Such hap-penings are far too frequent nowadays. He was, I believe, a good man—though I myself do not hold with the Roman doctrine25. However that maybe, I must explain my particular interest. There was a police announce-ment that they were anxious to interview anyone who had seen FatherGorman on the night in question. By chance I had happened to be stand-ing outside the door of my establishment that evening about eight o’clockand had seen Father Gorman go by. Following him at a short distance wasa man whose appearance was unusual enough to attract my attention. Atthe time, of course, I thought nothing of the matter, but I am an observantman, Mr. Easterbrook, and I have the habit of mentally registering whatpeople look like. It is quite a hobby of mine, and several people who havecome to my shop have been surprised when I say to them, ‘Ah yes, I thinkyou came in for this same preparation last March?’ It pleases them, youknow, to be remembered. Good business, I have found it. Anyway, I de-scribed the man I had seen to the police. They thanked me and that wasthat.
“Now I come to the rather surprising part of my story. About ten daysago I came over to a church fête in the little village at the bottom of thelane we have just walked up—and what was my surprise to see this sameman 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 himand was told he was a rich local resident of the name of Venables. After aday or two to debate the matter, I wrote to the police officer to whom I hadmade my original statement. He came down to Bournemouth—InspectorLejeune was his name. He seemed sceptical, however, as to whether thiswas indeed the man I had seen on the night of the murder. He informedme that Mr. Venables had been crippled for some years, as a result ofpolio. I must, he said, have been misled by a chance resemblance.”
Mr. Osborne came to an abrupt26 halt. I stirred the pale fluid in front ofme and took a cautious sip27. Mr. Osborne added three lumps of sugar to hisown 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 theelectric bulb, his eyes quite fanatical behind his spectacles….
“I must explain a little more. As a boy, Mr. Easterbrook, a friend of myfather’s, another pharmacist, was called to give evidence in the case ofJean Paul Marigot. You may remember—he poisoned his English wife—anarsenical preparation. My father’s friend identified him in court as theman who signed a false name in his poison register. Marigot was con-victed and hanged. It made a great impression on me—I was nine yearsold at the time — an impressionable age. It was my great hope thatsomeday, I, too, might figure in a cause célèbre and be the instrument ofbringing a murderer to justice! Perhaps it was then that I began to make astudy of memorising faces. I will confess to you, Mr. Easterbrook, though itmay seem to you quite ridiculous, that for many, many years now I havecontemplated the possibility that some man, determined28 to do away withhis 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, Iwould say, more frequently than it is quite comfortable to believe. So thisidentification, though not what I had hoped, opened up at least a possibil-ity 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 obstinate29 man, Mr. Easterbrook. As the days have passed by Ihave felt more and more sure that I was right. That the man I saw was Ven-ables and no other. Oh!” he raised a hand in protest as I was about tospeak. “I know. It was inclined to be foggy. I was some distance away—butwhat the police have not taken into consideration is that I have made astudy of recognition. It was not just the features, the pronounced nose, theAdam’s apple; there is the carriage of the head, the angle of the neck onthe shoulders. I said to myself ‘Come, come, admit you were mistaken.’ ButI continued to feel that I had not been mistaken. The police said it was im-possible. But was it impossible? That’s what I asked myself.”
“Surely, with a disability of that kind—”
He stopped me by waving an agitated30 forefinger31.
“Yes, yes, but my experiences, under the National Health—Well, really itwould surprise you what people are prepared to do—and what they getaway 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 areways—ways that a chemist is more likely to appreciate than a doctor. Cer-tain drugs, for instance, other quite harmless-seeming preparations. Fevercan be induced—various rashes and skin irritations—dryness of throat, orincrease of secretions—”
“But hardly atrophied32 limbs,” I pointed33 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. Ven-ables’s doctor is in London, a Harley Street man—true, he was seen by thelocal doctor here when he first arrived. But that doctor has now retiredand 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 curiously34.
“That still seems to me to present no loophole for er—er—”
“You don’t know the things I know,” said Mr. Osborne. “A humble35 ex-ample 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 aconsideration, 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 circum-stances. He makes a proposition. The man resembles him, let us say, in ageneral kind of way, no more. Genuine sufferer calling himself Mr. V. callsin specialist, and is examined, so that the case history is all correct. ThenMr. V. takes house in country. Local G.P. wants to retire soon. Again genu-ine sufferer calls in doctor, is examined. And there you are! Mr. Venableswell documented as a polio sufferer with atrophied limbs. He is seen loc-ally (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 besimpler? Some of the other servants, too, perhaps.”
“But why?”
“Ah,” said Mr. Osborne. “That’s another question, isn’t it? I won’t tell youmy theory—I expect you’d laugh at it. But there you are—a very nice alibiset up for a man who might want an alibi36. He could be here, there andeverywhere, and nobody would know. Seen walking about in Paddington?
Impossible! He’s a helpless cripple living in the country, etc.” Mr. Osbornepaused and glanced at his watch. “My bus is due. I must be quick. I get tobrooding 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 bringinga criminal to book… If, for instance, I spotted37 our Mr. Venables having aquiet 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 peopledon’t when daylight saving first ends—they’ve got in the habit of expect-ing it to be dark an hour later)—I might creep up and take a peep. Walkingabout his library, maybe, never dreaming that anyone would be spying onhim? 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 aweight off my mind to have explained what I was doing there at PriorsCourt. I daresay it seems a lot of nonsense to you.”
“It doesn’t altogether,” I said. “But you haven’t told me what you thinkMr. 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 toknow how he made his money. I’ll tell you what I think. I think he’s one ofthose master criminals you read about. You know—plans things, and has agang 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 theorythat Mr. Osborne had outlined, but I had to admit that there might justpossibly be something in it.
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收听单词发音
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1
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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overcast
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| adj.阴天的，阴暗的，愁闷的；v.遮盖，（使）变暗，包边缝；n.覆盖，阴天 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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pedantic
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| adj.卖弄学问的；迂腐的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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acme
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| n.顶点，极点 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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bungalow
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| n.平房，周围有阳台的木造小平房 | |
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impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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vouch
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| v.担保；断定；n.被担保者 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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15
spate
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| n.泛滥，洪水，突然的一阵 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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irresolutely
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| adv.优柔寡断地 | |
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technically
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| adv.专门地，技术上地 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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appeased
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| 安抚，抚慰( appease的过去式和过去分词 )； 绥靖（满足另一国的要求以避免战争） | |
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cosily
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| adv.舒适地，惬意地 | |
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amenities
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| n.令人愉快的事物；礼仪；礼节；便利设施；礼仪( amenity的名词复数 )；便利设施；（环境等的）舒适；（性情等的）愉快 | |
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sensational
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| adj.使人感动的，非常好的，轰动的，耸人听闻的 | |
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distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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sip
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| v.小口地喝，抿，呷；n.一小口的量 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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atrophied
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| adj.萎缩的，衰退的v.（使）萎缩，（使）虚脱，（使）衰退( atrophy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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36
alibi
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| n.某人当时不在犯罪现场的申辩或证明；借口 | |
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spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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