The place did not thrive in spite of doctors' recommendations, cheap fares, and lavish8 advertisement. Above the hollow wherein nestled the original town stretched a flat, well-wooded country, dotted sparsely9 with houses, and there was a railway station at Redleigh, three miles away. New Hedgerton, as it was called, consisted of many hastily-built bungalows10 extending in a lean line along the cliffs, but those were occupied only in summer, and therefore remained empty for the greater part of the year. There was an asphalt esplanade running spaciously11 from east to west in front of these bungalows, a small bandstand, and a crude hall for public entertainments roofed with galvanised iron. At intervals12 roads branched at right angles from the esplanade, passing between houses old and new to run finally through woodlands or between the hedges which divided vast meadows from the highway. In spring and summer the country looked very picturesque13 with the foliage14 of trees, the blossom of orchards15, and the rainbow hue16 of multitudinous flowers, but the change was marked in autumn and winter. Then the balmy air grew raw and chill; there were damp mists overlying the land morning and evening, while the lack of life gave the place a melancholy17 aspect. At the fall of the year the inhabitants of the district retired18 into their houses like rabbits in burrows19, as the climate of this particular part of England did not tempt20 them to lead an out-of-door life. On the whole, therefore, Hedgerton was not a desirable locality either for a pleasure-seeker or for an invalid21 in summer.
This being the case, the Hedgerton gossips asked one another daily why Sir Hector Wyke had come down to the place during the season of mists and rain, of leafless boughs22 and ruined orchards. No one was able to give an answer, although it was frequently suggested that the baronet's health was bad. But a man in bad health would scarcely come to so unhealthy a place at so unhealthy a time.
Therefore, there must be some other reason. Everyone tried to learn what it was, and everyone failed. No information was supplied by the tenant23 of Maranatha, who lived a very secluded24 life and appeared greatly desirous to be left to himself. He saw no one, and when he took his solitary25 walks he spoke26 to no one. Even Mr. Craver27 was denied admittance when he sought to welcome the stranger to his parish and he returned home to tell his wife that Wyke was probably a misanthropic28 creature, who disliked his fellow-men.
The description aroused Mrs. Craver's curiosity, and she was even more particular than usual in examining Mrs. Mellin when that spy came to report what had taken place in the parish during the week. The washerwoman could only state, after three weeks watching, that her bills and the bills of the tradespeople were paid regularly, and she saw no one but Mrs. Vence, who as not inclined to be communicative, and that the house appeared to be as neglected now as it was when Sir Hector first went to live in it. It would seem that the mysterious baronet did not so much live in Maranatha as camp in it, since no attempt was made to brush up the residence or improve the garden in any way. Sir Hector, save for occasional walks, stayed indoors, like a snail29 in a shell, and Mrs. Mellin augured30 ill from this suspicious retirement31. She chiefly blamed the house itself for the doings of its tenant.
"There's a cuss on it," she declared with relish32, when Mrs. Craver was speculating as to the meaning of the whole queer business. "If Solomon hisself, as was 'appy with a thousand wives, lived in that 'ouse he'd ha' been miserable33 within the week. Why, the name tells you what it is, ma'am. What do Maranatha whisper to you but ruin, which there 'as been, and suicide, which 'appened, and bankruptcy34, with the elopement of gels--which we know is common there. No ma'am, say what you like, it'll be murder nex'; and 'Eaven be betwixt us and 'arm, save and bless us." Mrs. Mellin always ended these dismal35 prognostications with the observation that she hoped she would not be called upon to give evidence at the inquest, as murders got on her nerves.
Mrs. Craver was little less fortunate with her son when she asked questions, for all that Edwin could say amounted to nothing. Sir Hector Wyke was a rich man, and a popular man, who had been in the army, and was now a gentleman at large. Edwin had met him in Society, and liked him fairly well although--as he put it--Wyke was not a man he would care to make a chum of.
Mrs. Craver suggested that he should call on the baronet and renew his acquaintance, but this Edwin refused to do. He said that if Wyke wished to improve the acquaintance he could call at the Rectory, and as the recluse36 showed no disposition37 to do this, it would be best to leave him alone. The Rector agreed with his son, and Mrs. Craver therefore found herself in the minority. All the same, she remained intensely curious, and frequently wondered what mystery lay behind the whole business. She even questioned, in a delicate way, Hall the postman and Jervis the policeman, but was unable to learn anything from either. Hall simply said that he delivered very few letters, which were received by Mrs. Vence--whom he described as an old hag, while Jervis declared that he saw nothing and knew nothing and heard nothing likely to say why the tenant of Maranatha lived so hermit-like. It was quite painful for brisk little Mrs. Craver to learn that she could discover nothing--she knew the history and daily doings of every soul in Hedgerton.
"I'm sure, George." she said plaintively38, to the Rector, "one-half the world does not know how the other half lives."
"Then I'm sure it isn't your fault or Mrs. Mellin's or Miss Pyne's either," retorted her husband, whereat she was offended, and wondered more than ever if she would discover the truth.
To inflame39 her curiosity still more an event occurred at the end of four weeks which startled her and startled everyone with its far-reaching consequences. Sir Hector had been leading his secluded life for quite a month when the event happened. It began in quite a commonplace way with the delivery of a letter by Hall at Maranatha. About seven o'clock on a foggy November evening Hall was travelling along the esplanade on his red-painted Government bicycle when he alighted to examine his bag. He knew that he had delivered all letters save one, and searched his bag to find the last missive. By the light of the lamp the postman looked at the address, and saw that it was directed to Sir Hector Wyke at Maranatha. With a grunt40 of satisfaction that his duties for the day would soon be over, Hall was about to mount his machine again when Jervis appeared. The bulky form of the constable41 loomed42 portentously43 through the mists, and Hall guessed who he was.
"Jervis," said the postman, pausing for a moment.
"Hall," answered the officer, as if delivering a countersign44, and flashed his bull's-eye on the weather-beaten face of the first speaker, "a shocking night, ain't it? Rain and fog, and bitter cold."
"Why not? 'Tain't June roses as you'll smell in November, Jervis."
"No, worse luck, and night dooty ain't no catch at this time of the year. Now, I'll be bound, Hall, as you're nearly finished, and can get home to your warm bed sharp."
"And to tripe45 and onions, as my old woman does do a turn, Jervis," said Hall, licking his lips. "I've only got this one letter to deliver to Sir Hector Wyke, as folks is talking about so."
"Don't see why they should talk," said the officer bluffly46. "Sir Hector pays his way and keeps himself quiet. Ain't any of my business, or of yours."
"But he never sees no one, and never comes out, and never has any callers."
"He's got one to-night," said Jervis unexpectedly. "You know Sankey?"
"Him as drives the trap to and fro this place and Redleigh?"
Jervis nodded and stuck his big thumbs in his belt. "Got a rotten old fly on the job. Well, I saw it to-night with a fare in it, when Sankey stopped to ask me where Maranatha was. I gave him the tip as it was in Ladysmith Road, so Sankey drove off. I wonder his blessed old nag47 did the three miles without falling a corpse48."
"Did you see who was the fare?" asked Hall, pondering.
"No. Wasn't any of my business. I see you're as curious as the rest of 'em about that bar'nit. Why, Mrs. Craver herself has asked questions by the dozen, as you might say. Anyhow, Sankey left his passenger at Maranatha and drove back to Redleigh, for I see him returning."
"Oh," remarked Hall, in guttural tones, "so his fare stops all night with Sir Hector, I s'pose."
"Why shouldn't he or her, for whether the fare was a male or a female I don't rightly know."
"Well, Sir Hector ain't 'ad no one to stay with him before."
"Dessay," returned the policeman, carelessly, "but he has to make a start. I just tell you what, Hall, you're getting like the rest of the folk hereabouts with their jaw49."
"Sir Hector do live such a queer life, Jervis."
"He lives the life as pleases him, as I s'pose he's got the right to."
"I tell you there's something strange in a baronet coming down to this dull place when the weather's so bad," persisted the postman, ominously51. "Have you seen the gent?"
"Twice. A little gent with a waxed moustache and dressed up to the nines with fine clothes. I touched my helmet but he only nodded, and never stopped to pass the time o' day."
"Well, he wouldn't, he being a swell52 and you only a copper53, Jervis."
"That's a nasty way of talking, Hall. S'pose I was to report you to your superior for idling when your letter should be delivered."
"And s'pose I was to tell Sergeant54 Purse at Redleigh as you stopped me on the esplanade to gossip about what ain't any business of yours," retorted Hall, tartly55. "Two can play at that game, policeman."
"Go and earn your salary." said Jervis, loftily, and walked away.
"You go and hang yourself," was the not very obvious reply of the postman; and the two opponents were parted by the heavy fog which dropped its curtain between them.
Chuckling56 over having had the last word, Hall mounted his machine and pedalled slowly round the corner, only too anxious to deliver the last letter and get home to his tripe and onions. He knew that the next turning was in Ladysmith Road, and it was as well that he did, for the mists were so thick that he proceeded with some difficulty. The man could hear the noise of the waves through the fog, and shivered in the chill, raw air. As there were few lamps he found himself in complete darkness when he bicycled up the road, and therefore had to ride cautiously. Finally, he was compelled to dismount, and take his machine on to the pavement, feeling for guidance along the fence on the right-hand side. Shortly he came to the first gate, and the electric torch he carried showed him in black-painted letters "The Firs," but he passed that gate as not being the one he wanted. The second gate he also passed, as it was inscribed57 "The Elms," and then he walked for quite a long way in the dense58 gloom to find Maranatha which stood by itself. Finally, he stumbled on the third gate, the inscription59 of which told him that he had reached his goal when he flashed the electric torch on to the black letters. Hall left his machine leaning against the fence in the dim light of the street lamp--for at this point there was one--and opened the gate to walk slowly up the path between the tangled60 herbage and under the dripping trees. It curved gradually--a cobble-stone path overgrown with weeds--until it ended in an open space before the house. Through the mists a light beamed from a fanlight over the door, and Hall, anxious to get home, rapped loudly in the approved style of the postman. There was no answer, although he waited for quite a minute, and he searched with his torch for the letterbox. Just as he found it and was about to slip in the letter the door suddenly opened. A stream of radiance poured forth61 to illuminate62 the untidy garden, and a man dashed out in a violent hurry. In his exit, he drove Hall against one of the brick pillars of the porch, and by the time the postman recovered his breath the man had disappeared, running swiftly.
"Here's a rum go," said Hall, speaking to himself. "I wonder if that's the blessed baronite, and what he's up to? Here!"--he raised his voice as he faced the open door--"anyone in? I can't wait here all night!"
There was no reply. The house preserved an ominous50 silence, which made Hall shiver, as Mrs. Mellin had done. Fearing that there was something wrong, and remembering the sinister63 chatter64 of the neighbourhood, Hall stepped hastily into the hall. It was of no great size, carpeted throughout, and furnished with a black oak settle on one side and a small rosewood table on the other, together with a hat-rack and an umbrella-stand. Doors were visible right and left; while beyond were stairs and a narrow passage beside them leading towards the back of the house. A swinging lamp illuminated65 the hall, and in its light everything appeared to be dusty and uncared for. Mrs. Vence certainly was not a particularly good housekeeper66, or she would not have neglected her work in this fashion.
Astonished by the continued silence, the postman stood hesitating in the hall, while the sea-fog poured in like smoke through the open door. He did not know what to do. The sudden opening of the door, and the violent exit of the unknown man, and now this ominous silence disconcerted Hall. He had just opened his mouth to call again, when there came the sound of a long, faint sigh, and the door on the left opened slowly to reveal the tottering67 figure of an old woman. She gasped69 when she saw the postman, and suddenly appeared to gather strength as she moved forward to seize his arm.
"Where is he?" she demanded, faintly, and with a gasp68. "Did you catch him?"
"Catch who, Mrs. Vence?" asked Hall, placing the letter on the rosewood table, since Mrs. Vence did not seem capable of taking it.
"The man who ran out."
"No. He opened the door and pushed past me, and bolted."
"Bolted!" Mrs. Vence screamed. "The villain70!"
"Come!" With unnatural71 strength she dragged the startled postman through the door on the left and into a comfortable study, cleaner in looks than was the hall. On the hearthrug before the fire lay a man in evening dress face upward with a knife in his heart. Hall uttered a cry of horror, and his teeth chattered72 like castanets. "Murder!" he gasped.
"Murder!" echoed Mrs. Vence, with a shrill73 scream. "He did it--the man who bolted. Catch him. Catch him!" She pushed the postman fiercely out of the room in a tremendous hurry. "Get a policeman. Catch him. Quick! Quick!"
Hall did not need much urging. With a pale face and dry lips he ran out of the house, down the path, and through the gate, intending to mount his bicycle and race for Jervis, who could not be far away. Then he made a startling discovery. His bicycle was gone. Not a sign of it remained.
"The murderer has gone off on it," said Hall, blankly.
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收听单词发音
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1
huddle
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| vi.挤作一团；蜷缩；vt.聚集；n.挤在一起的人 | |
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2
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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estuary
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| n.河口，江口 | |
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pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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stranded
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| a.搁浅的，进退两难的 | |
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cargoes
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| n.（船或飞机装载的）货物( cargo的名词复数 )；大量，重负 | |
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7
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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8
lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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sparsely
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| adv.稀疏地；稀少地；不足地；贫乏地 | |
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bungalows
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| n.平房( bungalow的名词复数 )；单层小屋，多于一层的小屋 | |
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spaciously
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| adv.宽敞地；广博地 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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13
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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18
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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19
burrows
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| n.地洞( burrow的名词复数 )v.挖掘（洞穴），挖洞( burrow的第三人称单数 )；翻寻 | |
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20
tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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21
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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24
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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25
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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26
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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27
craver
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| crave的变形 | |
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misanthropic
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| adj.厌恶人类的，憎恶（或蔑视）世人的；愤世嫉俗 | |
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29
snail
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| n.蜗牛 | |
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30
augured
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| v.预示，预兆，预言( augur的过去式和过去分词 )；成为预兆；占卜 | |
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31
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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32
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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33
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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bankruptcy
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| n.破产；无偿付能力 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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recluse
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| n.隐居者 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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38
plaintively
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| adv.悲哀地，哀怨地 | |
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39
inflame
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| v.使燃烧；使极度激动；使发炎 | |
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40
grunt
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| v.嘟哝；作呼噜声；n.呼噜声，嘟哝 | |
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41
constable
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| n.(英国)警察，警官 | |
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42
loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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43
portentously
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44
countersign
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| v.副署，会签 | |
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45
tripe
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| n.废话，肚子, 内脏 | |
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46
bluffly
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| 率直地，粗率地 | |
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47
nag
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| v.(对…)不停地唠叨；n.爱唠叨的人 | |
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48
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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49
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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50
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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51
ominously
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| adv.恶兆地，不吉利地；预示地 | |
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52
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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53
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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54
sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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55
tartly
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| adv.辛辣地，刻薄地 | |
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56
chuckling
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的现在分词 ) | |
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57
inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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58
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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59
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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60
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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61
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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62
illuminate
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| vt.照亮，照明；用灯光装饰；说明，阐释 | |
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63
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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64
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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65
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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66
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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67
tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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68
gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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69
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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70
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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71
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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72
chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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73
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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