One
One
Mrs. Ariadne Oliver had gone with the friend with whom she was staying, Judith Butler, to helpwith the preparations for a children’s party which was to take place that same evening.
At the moment it was a scene of chaotic activity. Energetic women came in and out of doorsmoving chairs, small tables, flower vases, and carrying large quantities of yellow pumpkins whichthey disposed strategically in selected spots.
It was to be a Hallowe’en party for invited guests of an age group between ten and seventeenyears old.
Mrs. Oliver, removing herself from the main group, leant against a vacant background of walland held up a large yellow pumpkin, looking at it critically—“The last time I saw one of these,”
she said, sweeping back her grey hair from her prominent forehead, “was in the United States lastyear—hundreds of them. All over the house. I’ve never seen so many pumpkins. As a matter offact,” she added thoughtfully, “I’ve never really known the difference between a pumpkin and avegetable marrow. What’s this one?”
“Sorry, dear,” said Mrs. Butler, as she fell over her friend’s feet.
Mrs. Oliver pressed herself closer against the wall.
“My fault,” she said. “I’m standing about and getting in the way. But it was rather remarkable,seeing so many pumpkins or vegetable marrows, whatever they are. They were everywhere, in theshops, and in people’s houses, with candles or nightlights inside them or strung up. Veryinteresting really. But it wasn’t for a Hallowe’en party, it was Thanksgiving. Now I’ve alwaysassociated pumpkins with Hallowe’en and that’s the end of October. Thanksgiving comes muchlater, doesn’t it? Isn’t it November, about the third week in November? Anyway, here, Hallowe’enis definitely the 31st of October, isn’t it? First Hallowe’en and then, what comes next? All Souls’
Day? That’s when in Paris you go to cemeteries and put flowers on graves. Not a sad sort of feast.
I mean, all the children go too, and enjoy themselves. You go to flower markets first and buy lotsand lots of lovely flowers. Flowers never look so lovely as they do in Paris in the market there.”
A lot of busy women were falling over Mrs. Oliver occasionally, but they were not listening toher. They were all too busy with what they were doing.
They consisted for the most part of mothers, one or two competent spinsters; there were usefulteenagers, boys of sixteen and seventeen climbing up ladders or standing on chairs to putdecorations, pumpkins or vegetable marrows or brightly coloured witch- balls at a suitableelevation; girls from eleven to fifteen hung about in groups and giggled.
“And after All Souls’ Day and cemeteries,” went on Mrs. Oliver, lowering her bulk on to thearm of a settee, “you have All Saints’ Day. I think I’m right?”
Nobody responded to this question. Mrs. Drake, a handsome middle-aged woman who wasgiving the party, made a pronouncement.
“I’m not calling this a Hallowe’en party, although of course it is one really. I’m calling it theEleven Plus party. It’s that sort of age group. Mostly people who are leaving the Elms and goingon to other schools.”
“But that’s not very accurate, Rowena, is it?” said Miss Whittaker, resetting her pince-nez onher nose disapprovingly.
Miss Whittaker as a local schoolteacher was always firm on accuracy.
“Because we’ve abolished the eleven-plus some time ago.”
Mrs. Oliver rose from the settee apologetically. “I haven’t been making myself useful. I’ve justbeen sitting here saying silly things about pumpkins and vegetable marrows’—And resting myfeet, she thought, with a slight pang of conscience, but without sufficient feeling of guilt to say italoud.
“Now what can I do next?” she asked, and added, “What lovely apples!”
Someone had just brought a large bowl of apples into the room. Mrs. Oliver was partial toapples.
“Lovely red ones,” she added.
“They’re not really very good,” said Rowena Drake. “But they look nice and partified. That’sfor bobbing for apples. They’re rather soft apples, so people will be able to get their teeth intothem better. Take them into the library, will you, Beatrice? Bobbing for apples always makes amess with the water slopping over, but that doesn’t matter with the library carpet, it’s so old. Oh!
Thank you, Joyce.”
Joyce, a sturdy thirteen-year-old, seized the bowl of apples. Two rolled off it and stopped, asthough arrested by a witch’s wand, at Mrs. Oliver’s feet.
“You like apples, don’t you,” said Joyce. “I read you did, or perhaps I heard it on the telly.
You’re the one who writes murder stories, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Oliver.
“We ought to have made you do something connected with murders. Have a murder at the partytonight and make people solve it.”
“No, thank you,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Never again.”
“What do you mean, never again?”
“Well, I did once, and it didn’t turn out much of a success,” said Mrs. Oliver.
“But you’ve written lots of books,” said Joyce, “you make a lot of money out of them, don’tyou?”
“In a way,” said Mrs. Oliver, her thoughts flying to the Inland Revenue.
“And you’ve got a detective who’s a Finn.”
Mrs. Oliver admitted the fact. A small stolid boy not yet, Mrs. Oliver would have thought,arrived at the seniority of the eleven-plus, said sternly, “Why a Finn?”
“I’ve often wondered,” said Mrs. Oliver truthfully.
Mrs. Hargreaves, the organist’s wife, came into the room breathing heavily, and bearing a largegreen plastic pail.
“What about this,” she said, “for the apple bobbing? Kind of gay, I thought.”
Miss Lee, the doctor’s dispenser, said, “Galvanized bucket’s better. Won’t tip over so easily.
Where are you going to have it, Mrs. Drake?”
“I thought the bobbing for apples had better be in the library. The carpet’s old there and a lot ofwater always gets spilt, anyway.”
“All right. We’ll take them along. Rowena, here’s another basket of apples.”
“Let me help,” said Mrs. Oliver.
She picked up the two apples at her feet. Almost without noticing what she was doing, she sankher teeth into one of them and began to crunch it. Mrs. Drake abstracted the second apple from herfirmly and restored it to the basket. A buzz of conversation broke out.
“Yes, but where are we going to have the Snapdragon?”
“You ought to have the Snapdragon in the library, it’s much the darkest room.”
“No, we’re going to have that in the dining room.”
“We’ll have to put something on the table first.”
“There’s a green baize to put on that and then the rubber sheet over it.”
“What about the looking glasses? Shall we really see our husbands in them?”
Surreptitiously removing her shoes and still quietly champing at her apple, Mrs. Oliver loweredherself once more on to the settee and surveyed the room full of people critically. She wasthinking in her authoress’s mind: “Now, if I was going to make a book about all these people, howshould I do it? They’re nice people, I should think, on the whole, but who knows?”
In a way, she felt, it was rather fascinating not to know anything about them. They all lived inWoodleigh Common, some of them had faint tags attached to them in her memory because ofwhat Judith had told her. Miss Johnson—something to do with the church, not the vicar’s sister.
Oh no, it was the organist’s sister, of course. Rowena Drake, who seemed to run things inWoodleigh Common. The puffing woman who had brought in the pail, a particularly hideousplastic pail. But then Mrs. Oliver had never been fond of plastic things. And then the children, theteenage girls and boys.
So far they were really only names to Mrs. Oliver. There was a Nan and a Beatrice and a Cathie,a Diana and a Joyce, who was boastful and asked questions. I don’t like Joyce much, thought Mrs.
Oliver. A girl called Ann, who looked tall and superior. There were two adolescent boys whoappeared to have just got used to trying out different hair styles, with rather unfortunate results.
A smallish boy entered in some condition of shyness.
“Mummy sent these mirrors to see if they’d do,” he said in a slightly breathless voice.
Mrs. Drake took them from him.
“Thank you so much, Eddy,” she said.
“They’re just ordinary looking hand mirrors,” said the girl called Ann. “Shall we really see ourfuture husbands’ faces in them?”
“Some of you may and some may not,” said Judith Butler.
“Did you ever see your husband’s face when you went to a party—I mean this kind of a party?”
“Of course she didn’t,” said Joyce.
“She might have,” said the superior Beatrice. “E.S.P. they call it. Extra sensory perception,” sheadded in the tone of one pleased with being thoroughly conversant with the terms of the times.
“I read one of your books,” said Ann to Mrs. Oliver. “The Dying Goldfish. It was quite good,”
she said kindly.
“I didn’t like that one,” said Joyce. “There wasn’t enough blood in it. I like murders to have lotsof blood.”
“A bit messy,” said Mrs. Oliver, “don’t you think?”
“But exciting,” said Joyce.
“Not necessarily,” said Mrs. Oliver.
“I saw a murder once,” said Joyce.
“Don’t be silly, Joyce,” said Miss Whittaker, the schoolteacher.
“I did,” said Joyce.
“Did you really?” asked Cathie, gazing at Joyce with wide eyes, “really and truly see amurder?”
“Of course she didn’t,” said Mrs. Drake. “Don’t say silly things, Joyce.”
“I did see a murder,” said Joyce. “I did. I did. I did.”
A seventeen-year-old boy poised on a ladder looked down interestedly.
“What kind of a murder?” he asked.
“I don’t believe it,” said Beatrice.
“Of course not,” said Cathie’s mother. “She’s just making it up.”
“I’m not. I saw it.”
“Why didn’t you go to the police about it?” asked Cathie.
“Because I didn’t know it was a murder when I saw it. It wasn’t really till a long timeafterwards, I mean, that I began to know that it was a murder. Something that somebody said onlyabout a month or two ago suddenly made me think: Of course, that was a murder I saw.”
“You see,” said Ann, “she’s making it all up. It’s nonsense.”
“When did it happen?” asked Beatrice.
“Years ago,” said Joyce. “I was quite young at the time,” she added.
“Who murdered who?” said Beatrice.
“I shan’t tell any of you,” said Joyce. “You’re all so horrid about it.”
Miss Lee came in with another kind of bucket. Conversation shifted to a comparison of bucketsor plastic pails as most suitable for the sport of bobbing for apples. The majority of the helpersrepaired to the library for an appraisal on the spot. Some of the younger members, it may be said,were anxious to demonstrate, by a rehearsal of the difficulties and their own accomplishment inthe sport. Hair got wet, water got spilt, towels were sent for to mop it up. In the end it was decidedthat a galvanized bucket was preferable to the more meretricious charms of a plastic pail whichoverturned rather too easily.
Mrs. Oliver, setting down a bowl of apples which she had carried in to replenish the storerequired for tomorrow, once more helped herself to one.
“I read in the paper that you were fond of eating apples,” the accusing voice of Ann or Susan—she was not quite sure which—spoke to her.
“It’s my besetting sin,” said Mrs. Oliver.
“It would be more fun if it was melons,” objected one of the boys. “They’re so juicy. Think ofthe mess it would make,” he said, surveying the carpet with pleasurable anticipation.
Mrs. Oliver, feeling a little guilty at the public arraignment of greediness, left the room insearch of a particular apartment, the geography of which is usually fairly easily identified. Shewent up the staircase and, turning the corner on the half landing, cannoned into a pair, a girl and aboy, clasped in each other’s arms and leaning against the door which Mrs. Oliver felt fairly certainwas the door to the room to which she herself was anxious to gain access. The couple paid noattention to her. They sighed and they snuggled. Mrs. Oliver wondered how old they were. Theboy was fifteen, perhaps, the girl little more than twelve, although the development of her chestseemed certainly on the mature side.
Apple Trees was a house of fair size. It had, she thought, several agreeable nooks and corners.
How selfish people are, thought Mrs. Oliver. No consideration for others. That well-known tagfrom the past came into her mind. It had been said to her in succession by a nursemaid, a nanny, agoverness, her grandmother, two great-aunts, her mother and a few others.
“Excuse me,” said Mrs. Oliver in a loud, clear voice.
The boy and the girl clung closer than ever, their lips fastened on each other’s.
“Excuse me,” said Mrs. Oliver again, “do you mind letting me pass? I want to get in at thisdoor.”
Unwillingly the couple fell apart. They looked at her in an aggrieved fashion. Mrs. Oliver wentin, banged the door and shot the bolt.
It was not a very close-fitting door. The faint sound of words came to her from outside.
“Isn’t that like people?” one voice said in a somewhat uncertain tenor. “They might see wedidn’t want to be disturbed.”
“People are so selfish,” piped a girl’s voice. “They never think of anyone but themselves.”
“No consideration for others,” said the boy’s voice.
第一章
第一章
阿里阿德涅•奥利弗夫人在她的朋友朱迪思•巴特勒家小住，一天晚上她们一起去另一个朋友家帮忙准备为孩子们开的晚会。
晚会准备得热火朝天。女人们忙进忙出，搬来椅子、小桌子、花瓶，还有一堆黄灿灿的南瓜，然后精心摆放好。
这是一场为一群十岁到十七岁之间的孩子举办的万圣节前夜晚会。
奥利弗夫人离开人群，斜靠着一处空的墙面，捧起一只大南瓜细细打量。“我上次见到南瓜，”她一边说，一边把散落在高高的额头前的灰白头发拢了拢，“是去年在美国，有好几百个。房间里到处都是。我还从来没见过那么多南瓜。其实，”她若有所思地补充说，“我从来不知道南瓜和葫芦有什么不同。这是只南瓜还是只葫芦呢？”
“很抱歉，亲爱的。”巴特勒夫人说，她不小心被奥利弗夫人的脚绊了一下。
奥利弗夫人往墙边靠了靠。
“都怪我，”奥利弗夫人说，“是我站在这儿挡住路了。不过那确实让人特别难忘，那么多南瓜或葫芦，不管是什么吧。商店里、人们家里到处都是，有的在里面放着蜡烛或夜灯，有的系在外面。真的特别有意思。但是那不是万圣节前夜，是感恩节。现在我总是看到南瓜就想起万圣节，万圣节前夜是在十月底。感恩节要晚很多，是吧？是在十一月吗，大概十一月第三个星期？不管怎么说，在这儿，万圣节前夜就是十月三十一日，是吧？首先是万圣节前夜，后面是什么节？万灵节吗？在巴黎，万灵节要去公墓祭奠献花。但是人们并不伤感，我是说，孩子们也跟着去，他们能玩得很开心。人们要先去花市买很多很多漂亮的花。没有哪儿的鲜花比巴黎花市的更好看。”
忙碌的女人时不时被奥利弗夫人绊到，但是她们正忙着，没有人听奥利弗夫人在说什么。
人群中大部分是当母亲的人了，还有一两个比较能干的老姑娘；有的孩子也来帮忙，十六七岁的男孩子爬上梯子或者踩着椅子，把各种装饰品、南瓜或者葫芦，还有鲜艳的魔术球挂在高处。女孩儿们在十一到十五岁之间，她们三五成群，东游西逛，不停咯咯笑着。
“万灵节祭奠之后，”奥利弗夫人肥胖的身躯伏在长椅的扶手上，“就要过万圣节了，我说得对吧？”（注：实际上，正确的顺序应为十月三十一日：万圣节前夜（Hallowe’en），十月一日万圣节（All Saints’ Day），十一月二日：万灵节（All Souls’ Day）。）没人回答她的问题。晚会的主人德雷克夫人，一位健美的中年女人，开口说道：“虽然这确实是在万圣节前夜，我却不想叫它万圣节前夜晚会。我称它为‘中学升学考试晚会’。
来参加晚会的孩子大都在这个年龄段。大部分孩子要从榆树小学毕业，到别的地方上中学了。”
“可是这么说并不准确吧，罗伊娜？”惠特克小姐边说边不满地扶了扶她的夹鼻眼镜。
作为当地的一名小学教师，惠特克小姐向来注重准确性。
“因为不久前我们已经废除了小学升中学考试。”
奥利弗夫人满脸歉意地站直身子。“我什么忙都没帮上，就一直坐在这儿念叨什么南瓜、葫芦的——”顺便歇歇脚，她心里想着，有一点点过意不去，但还没愧疚到大声说出来。
“现在我能做点儿什么呢？”她问道，马上又接上一句，“好可爱的苹果！”
有人刚端进屋一大钵苹果。奥利弗夫人特别偏爱苹果。
“漂亮的红苹果！”她又说。
“这些苹果并不特别好，”罗伊娜•德雷克说道，“但是看起来还不错。这是为玩咬苹果准备的。都是面苹果，咬起来比较省劲儿。把苹果端去藏书室，可以吗，比阿特丽斯？咬苹果总是弄得满地是水，不过藏书室的地毯不怕湿，那地毯太旧了。哦，谢谢，乔伊斯！”
十三岁的乔伊斯长得很壮实，她麻利地把苹果端起来。有两个苹果像被女巫的魔棒指引一样滚落下来，恰巧滚到了奥利弗夫人脚边。
“您爱吃苹果，对吗？”乔伊斯说，“我从哪儿读到过，要不就是在电视上看到过。您是一位写谋杀故事的作家，是吧？”
“是的。”奥利弗夫人回答。
“我们应该让您弄一个关于谋杀案的游戏。编一个今天晚会上发生的谋杀案，然后让人们侦破它。”
“不用啦，谢谢你，”奥利弗夫人说，“再也不了。”
“您说再也不了，是什么意思？”
“哦，我曾经玩过一次，但并不是很成功。”奥利弗夫人说。
“但是您写了很多书。”乔伊斯说，“您从中挣了很多钱吧？”
“算是吧。”奥利弗夫人说，她想起了国内税收。
“您的书里有一个侦探是芬兰人。”
奥利弗夫人承认了。一个看样子还不到参加小学升中学考试的年龄的小男孩儿严肃地问道：“为什么是芬兰人？”
“我也想知道。”奥利弗夫人如实说道。
哈格里夫斯夫人，风琴手的妻子，拎着一个绿色的大塑料桶，气喘吁吁地走了进来。
“这个怎么样？”她说，“用它玩咬苹果行吗？我觉得肯定很好玩。”
配药师李小姐说：“镀锌桶更好些，不容易被打翻。把这些放在哪儿呢，德雷克夫人？”
“我觉得最好放在藏书室，那儿的地毯是旧的。无论怎么玩都会溅出来不少水。”
“好的。我们把这些都拿过去。罗伊娜，这儿还有一篮苹果。”
“我来帮你。”奥利弗夫人说。
她捡起脚边的两个苹果。在她还没意识到自己在做什么的时候，她已经啃上了苹果，并且“嘎吱嘎吱”地嚼起来。德雷克夫人狠狠地从她手里把剩下的那只苹果抢过来放回篮子里。人们兴奋地交谈起来。
“对呀，但是我们在哪儿玩抓火龙呢？”
“在藏书室玩吧，那间屋子最黑。”
“不，我们想在餐厅玩。”
“那得先在桌子上铺点儿东西。”
“先把这块绿桌布铺上，然后再在上面铺上橡胶垫。”
“照镜望夫是真的吗？我们真能看见我们未来的丈夫吗？”
奥利弗夫人悄悄地脱了鞋坐在长椅上，一边静静享用她的苹果，一边仔细打量满屋的人。她从作家的角度想着：“现在，我要以这群人为背景写一个故事，我该怎么写呢？我想他们大体上都是好人，可到底是不是，谁知道呢？”
对这群人一无所知从某种意义上来说对奥利弗夫人更有吸引力。这些人都住在伍德利社区，其中有些人朱迪思曾经对她提到过，所以她隐隐约约知道一些。
约翰逊小姐和教会有点儿关系。不是教区牧师的妹妹，哦，对，她是风琴手的妹妹，肯定是。罗伊娜•德雷克，她好像是在伍德利社区管理什么事儿。那个气喘吁吁的女人拎进来一只桶，一只让人讨厌的塑料桶。不过话说回来，奥利弗夫人对塑料制品从来没有好感。接着就是一群孩子了，男孩儿女孩儿都有。
目前为止，他们对奥利弗夫人来说都只是一个名字而已。南，比阿特丽斯，凯西，戴安娜，还有乔伊斯，刚才问她问题的那个自负的女孩儿。我不怎么喜欢乔伊斯，奥利弗夫人想。还有一个叫安，是个长得高高的盛气凌人的女孩儿。还有两个刚刚尝试剪了新发型的青春期男孩儿，不过新发型效果并不理想。
一个略显稚嫩的小男孩儿扭扭捏捏地走进来。
“妈妈让我把镜子拿过来问问行不行。”他大气也不敢喘地小声说。
德雷克夫人把镜子接过来。
“谢谢你啦，埃迪。”她说。
“这些就是普通的手镜，”叫安的女孩儿问道，“我们真能从这些镜子里面看见我们未来的丈夫长什么样吗？”
“有的能看到，有的看不到。”朱迪思•巴特勒回答说。
“那您以前在晚会上看见过您丈夫的样子吗——在这种晚会上？”
“她当然没有。”乔伊斯插嘴道。
“也许她看到过呢。”比阿特丽斯骄傲地说，“那叫超感知觉。”她得意扬扬地补充说，仿佛对这个流行的新词了如指掌。
“我读过您的一本书，”安对奥利弗夫人说，“《垂死的金鱼》，写得太好了。”她礼貌地说道。
“我不喜欢那本书，”乔伊斯说，“不够血腥，我喜欢血腥味十足的谋杀。”
“那样可会是一团糟，”奥利弗夫人说，“不是吗？”
“但是那才够刺激。”乔伊斯说。
“未必吧。”奥利弗夫人说。
“我见过一次谋杀。”乔伊斯说。
“别乱说，乔伊斯。”小学教师惠特克小姐说。
“我真见过。”乔伊斯说。
“真的啊？”凯西问道，她睁大眼睛盯着乔伊斯，“你真的亲眼看见过？”
“她当然没见过。”德雷克夫人说，“别乱说了，乔伊斯。”
“我真看见过，”乔伊斯坚持道，“真的。真的。真的。”
一个十七岁的男孩儿稳稳地坐在梯子上，颇有兴趣地向下看着。
“什么样的谋杀？”男孩儿问道。
“我才不信。”比阿特丽斯说。
“当然不能信，”凯西的妈妈说，“她瞎编的。”
“我没瞎编，是我看见的。”
“那你为什么没报警呢？”凯西问。
“因为我看见的时候还没意识到那是一场谋杀。我是说，很久以后我才知道那就是谋杀。大概一两个月前有人说了一些话才让我突然认识到：没错，我见到的就是一场谋杀。”
“看吧，”安说，“她全是瞎编的。都是胡说八道。”
“是什么时候的事啊？”比阿特丽斯问。
“很多年前了，”乔伊斯答道，“我当时还很小呢。”她补充说。
“谁杀了谁啊？”比阿特丽斯又问。
“我才不告诉你们呢，”乔伊斯说，“你们太讨厌了。”
李小姐拎着另一只水桶走了进来。话题马上转移到了用水桶还是塑料桶玩咬苹果的游戏比较好。于是大多数帮手都去藏书室查看场地去了。一些小一点的孩子急切地开始彩排咬苹果游戏，并排除困难来表现自己的能力。结果是头发湿了，水洒得到处都是，大人们赶紧取来毛巾替他们扫尾。最后大家一致认为镀锌的水桶比塑料桶更合适，塑料桶虽然好看，但是更容易打翻。
奥利弗夫人端进来一大钵苹果，这些苹果是预备着明天用的，她又给自己拿了一个吃起来。
“我从报纸上看到您喜欢吃苹果。”一个不满的声音，来自安或苏珊——她也分不清到底是谁——对她说道。
“这个毛病一直困扰着我。”奥利弗夫人说。
“如果爱吃甜瓜就更糟了，”一个男孩儿反对说，“那么多汁儿，更会弄得乱糟糟的。”他一边说，一边唯恐天下不乱地瞅着地毯。
奥利弗夫人对自己在大庭广众下暴露贪吃的毛病感到有些愧疚，于是她起身离开，打算去找个特别的房间安身，一个非常容易找到的房间。她爬上楼梯，在楼梯的拐弯处，她撞到一对小情侣，两个人靠在一扇门上紧紧拥抱着，而那扇门，奥利弗夫人肯定那就是自己想要找的房间的门。这对小情人根本就不理她。他们叹了口气，然后继续互相依偎着。
奥利弗夫人猜想着，他们能有多大呢？男孩儿也就十五岁，女孩儿十二岁多一点，虽然她的胸部看起来发育得挺成熟。
这栋叫“苹果林”的房子大小合宜，奥利弗夫人觉得肯定有几处隐蔽的角落。人们都太自私了，奥利弗夫人心想。不为他人着想，她突然想起这句老话。以前接二连三有人对她说这句话，先是保姆、奶妈，后来是家庭教师、她的祖母、两个姑婆，她的母亲，还有一些其他人也说过这句话。
“对不起。”奥利弗夫人清晰地喊道。
男孩儿和女孩儿搂得更紧了，嘴唇也紧紧贴在了一起。
“借光，”奥利弗夫人再次说道，“先让我过去行吗？我要进去。”
小情侣很不情愿地分开了。他们怒气冲冲地瞪着她。奥利弗夫人径自走进去，砰的一声把门关上，插上插销。
房门并不严实。她还是听到了门外微弱的谈话声。
“人们怎么这样？”一个有点变声的男高音说，“他们应该知道我们不愿意被打扰。”
“太自私啦，”女孩儿尖声说，“他们只想着自己，从来不考虑别人。”
“不为他人着想。”男孩儿附和说。
Two
Two
Preparations for a children’s party usually give far more trouble to the organizers than anentertainment devised for those of adult years. Food of good quality and suitable alcoholicrefreshment—with lemonade on the side, that, to the right people, is quite enough to make a partygo. It may cost more but the trouble is infinitely less. So Ariadne Oliver and her friend JudithButler agreed together.
“What about teenage parties?” said Judith.
“I don’t know much about them,” said Mrs. Oliver.
“In one way,” said Judith, “I think they’re probably least trouble of all. I mean, they just throwall of us adults out. And say they’ll do it all themselves.”
“And do they?”
“Well, not in our sense of the word,” said Judith. “They forget to order some of the things, andorder a lot of other things that nobody likes. Having turfed us out, then they say there were thingswe ought to have provided for them to find. They break a lot of glasses, and other things, andthere’s always somebody undesirable or who brings an undesirable friend. You know the sort ofthing. Peculiar drugs and—what do they call it?—Flower Pot or Purple Hemp or L.S.D., which Ialways have thought just meant money; but apparently it doesn’t.”
“I suppose it costs it,” suggested Ariadne Oliver.
“It’s very unpleasant, and Hemp has a nasty smell.”
“It all sounds very depressing,” said Mrs. Oliver.
“Anyway, this party will go all right. Trust Rowena Drake for that. She’s a wonderful organizer.
You’ll see.”
“I don’t feel I even want to go to a party,” sighed Mrs. Oliver.
“You go up and lie down for an hour or so. You’ll see. You’ll enjoy it when you get there. Iwish Miranda hadn’t got a temperature—she’s so disappointed at not being able to go, poor child.”
The party came into being at half past seven. Ariadne Oliver had to admit that her friend wasright. Arrivals were punctual. Everything went splendidly. It was well-imagined, well-run and ranlike clockwork. There were red and blue lights on the stairs and yellow pumpkins in profusion.
The girls and boys arrived holding decorated broomsticks for a competition. After greetings,Rowena Drake announced the programme for the evening. “First, judging of the broomstickcompetition,” she said, “three prizes, first, second and third. Then comes cutting the flour cake.
That’ll be in the small conservatory. Then bobbing for apples—there’s a list pinned upon the wallover there of the partners for that event—then there’ll be dancing. Every time the lights go out youchange partners. Then girls to the small study where they’ll be given their mirrors. After that,supper, Snapdragon and then prize giving.”
Like all parties, it went slightly stickily at first. The brooms were admired, they were very smallminiature brooms, and on the whole the decorating of them had not reached a very high standardof merit, “which makes it easier,” said Mrs. Drake in an aside to one of her friends. “And it’s avery useful thing because I mean there are always one or two children one knows only too wellwon’t win a prize at anything else, so one can cheat a little over this.”
“So unscrupulous, Rowena.”
“I’m not really. I just arrange so that things should be fair and evenly divided. The whole pointis that everyone wants to win something.”
“What’s the Flour Game?” asked Ariadne Oliver.
“Oh yes, of course, you weren’t here when we were doing it. Well, you just fill a tumbler withflour, press it in well, then you turn it out in a tray and place a sixpence on top of it. Then everyoneslices a slice off it very carefully so as not to tumble the sixpence off. As soon as someone tumblesthe sixpence off, that person goes out. It’s a sort of elimination. The last one left in gets thesixpence of course. Now then, away we go.”
And away they went. Squeals of excitement were heard coming from the library where bobbingfor apples went on, and competitors returned from there with wet locks and having disposed agood deal of water about their persons.
One of the most popular contests, at any rate among the girls, was the arrival of the Hallowe’enwitch played by Mrs. Goodbody, a local cleaning woman who, not only having the necessaryhooked nose and chin which almost met, was admirably proficient in producing a semi-cooingvoice which had definitely sinister undertones and also produced magical doggerel rhymes.
“Now then, come along, Beatrice, is it? Ah, Beatrice. A very interesting name. Now you want toknow what your husband is going to look like. Now, my dear, sit here. Yes, yes, under this lighthere. Sit here and hold this little mirror in your hand, and presently when the lights go out you’llsee him appear. You’ll see him looking over your shoulder. Now hold the mirror steady.
Abracadabra, who shall see? The face of the man who will marry me. Beatrice, Beatrice, you shallfind, the face of the man who shall please your mind.”
A sudden shaft of light shot across the room from a step-ladder, placed behind a screen. It hitthe right spot in the room, which was reflected in the mirror grasped in Beatrice’s excited hand.
“Oh!” cried Beatrice. “I’ve seen him. I’ve seen him! I can see him in my mirror!”
The beam was shut off, the lights came on and a coloured photograph pasted on a card floateddown from the ceiling. Beatrice danced about excitedly.
“That was him! That was him! I saw him,” she cried. “Oh, he’s got a lovely ginger beard.”
She rushed to Mrs. Oliver, who was the nearest person.
“Do look, do look. Don’t you think he’s rather wonderful? He’s like Eddie Presweight, the popsinger. Don’t you think so?”
Mrs. Oliver did think he looked like one of the faces she daily deplored having to see in hermorning paper. The beard, she thought, had been an afterthought of genius.
“Where do all these things come from?” she asked.
“Oh, Rowena gets Nicky to make them. And his friend Desmond helps. He experiments a gooddeal with photography. He and a couple of pals of his made themselves up, with a great deal ofhair or sideburns or beards and things. And then with the light on him and everything, of course itsends the girls wild with delight.”
“I can’t help thinking,” said Ariadne Oliver, “that girls are really very silly nowadays.”
“Don’t you think they always were?” asked Rowena Drake.
Mrs. Oliver considered.
“I suppose you’re right,” she admitted.
“Now then,” cried Mrs. Drake—“supper.”
Supper went off well. Rich iced cakes, savouries, prawns, cheese and nut confections. Theeleven-pluses stuffed themselves.
“And now,” said Rowena, “the last one for the evening. Snapdragon. Across there, through thepantry. That’s right. Now then. Prizes first.”
The prizes were presented, and then there was a wailing, banshee call. The children rushedacross the hall back to the dining room.
The food had been cleared away. A green baize cloth was laid across the table and here wasborne a great dish of flaming raisins. Everybody shrieked, rushing forward, snatching the blazingraisins, with cries of “Ow, I’m burned! Isn’t it lovely?” Little by little the Snapdragon flickeredand died down. The lights went up. The party was over.
“It’s been a great success,” said Rowena.
“So it should be with all the trouble you’ve taken.”
“It was lovely,” said Judith quietly. “Lovely.”
“And now,” she added ruefully, “we’ll have to clear up a bit. We can’t leave everything forthose poor women tomorrow morning.”
第二章
第二章
为小孩子准备晚会比准备成人的聚会麻烦多了。对成人聚会来说，有好酒好菜——再备上些柠檬汁，就足够了。虽然花的钱多，但是麻烦会少很多。在这一点上，阿里阿德涅•奥利弗和她的朋友朱迪思•巴特勒看法一致。
“那青少年的晚会呢？”朱迪思问。
“我也不太清楚。”奥利弗夫人答道。
“在某种程度上，”朱迪思说，“我觉得青少年的晚会最省事了。我是说，他们把大人都赶出去，然后一切都自己动手。”
“他们自己能弄好？”
“哦，跟我们理解的不一样，”朱迪思说，“他们会忘了买一些东西，要不就是买了一堆谁都不爱吃的东西。他们把我们赶出去了，可到时候又得抱怨说那些东西我们应该提前给他们准备好，放在他们能找到的地方。他们会摔碎许多玻璃杯之类的，还总会有让人讨厌的人不请自来，或者有人带来了讨人嫌的朋友。你懂的。他们还弄了些古怪的药——叫什么来着？——花盆、紫麻还是迷幻药，我一直以为就是指钱呢，可显然不是。”
“那些药值那么多钱吗？”阿里阿德涅•奥利弗问。
“一点儿也不好喝，而且大麻太难闻了。”
“听着就丧气。”奥利弗夫人说。
“不管怎么样，这次晚会肯定会很顺利。相信罗伊娜•德雷克，她非常善于组织晚会。
等着瞧吧。”
“我感觉我都不想参加什么晚会。”奥利弗夫人叹了口气。
“你去楼上躺一个来小时吧。到时候你肯定会喜欢的。要是米兰达没发烧就好了——她特别失望不能参加晚会，可怜的孩子。”
晚会七点半开始。阿里阿德涅•奥利弗不得不承认，她的朋友是对的。客人们都准时到场。一切进行得很顺利。晚会设计巧妙，进展顺利，一切井井有条。楼梯上装点着红灯、蓝灯，还有许多黄色的南瓜。到场的男孩儿女孩儿们都拿着装饰过的扫帚准备参加比赛。
开场白后，罗伊娜•德雷克开始宣布晚会的程序。“首先进行扫帚比赛，”她说，“评出第一二三名。然后切谷粉糕，在小温室里进行。接着是咬苹果，那边墙上钉着游戏配对的名单，然后就开始跳舞。每次灯灭的时候就交换舞伴。之后每个女孩儿都能去小书房领一面镜子。最后进行晚餐、抓火龙，还有发奖品。”
像所有的晚会一样，刚开始大家都有些扭捏。大家一起评选扫帚，都是一些小巧的扫帚，装饰得也都简陋粗糙。“这样更容易评选，”德雷克夫人在旁边对她的朋友说，“这个比赛很有用，我是说，我们都知道总有一两个孩子在别的比赛中得不了奖，所以就能在这场比赛中偏向他们一点儿。”
“太缺德了，罗伊娜。”
“也不算吧。我只想让比赛更公平一点，奖品能平均分配。关键是谁都想能赢点儿什么。”
“切谷粉糕怎么玩？” 阿里阿德涅•奥利弗问。
“哦，对了，以前我们玩的时候您不在这儿。是这样，拿一个平底酒杯装满面粉，压实，倒在托盘里，然后在上面放一枚六便士的硬币。接着每个人小心地切下一角，不能让硬币掉下来。让硬币掉下来的人就出局了。这是一场淘汰赛。自然，最后剩下的那个人就能赢得这六便士。喂，咱们走吧。”
她们走了出去。一阵阵兴奋的尖叫从藏书室传了出来，咬苹果游戏在那儿进行。从里面出来的选手头发都湿得一绺一绺的，身上也都湿漉漉的。
无论何时，最受女孩儿们欢迎的就是万圣节前夜女巫的来临。今年的女巫是由古德博迪夫人，一个当地的清洁女工扮演的。她不仅有女巫标志性的鹰钩鼻子和非常翘的下巴，而且能熟练地发出低沉邪恶的咕咕声，还能念出那些魔法咒语。
“下一个，过来，比阿特丽斯，是这么读吗？啊，比阿特丽斯。多么有意思的名字。你想知道你未来的丈夫长得什么样子。现在，亲爱的，坐在这儿。对，对，坐在这盏灯下面。坐在这儿，手里拿着这面小镜子，等下灯一灭你就能看到他了。你会看到他在你的上方看着你。现在握紧你的镜子。阿布拉卡达布拉，你将看见谁？将来会娶你的那个人的脸。比阿特丽斯，比阿特丽斯，你会看见，你心中所想的那个男人的脸。”
一束光突然穿过了房间，是从放在一个屏风后面的梯子上照射出来的。它照在房间特定的一个位置，正好反射在比阿特丽斯兴奋地拿着的镜子里。
“哇！”比阿特丽斯喊道，“我看到他了。我看到他啦！我能从镜子里看到他！”
光束消失了，灯光亮起来，一张印着彩色照片的卡片从天花板上飘下来。比阿特丽斯兴奋地手舞足蹈。
“就是他！就是他！我看见他了！”她喊道，“哦，他有漂亮的大胡子。”
她跑向离她最近的奥利弗夫人。
“您看看，看一看。您不觉得他很出色吗？他长得就像埃迪•普利斯维特，那个摇滚歌星。您不觉得吗？”
奥利弗夫人确实觉得他看着像她天天谴责为什么总出现在早报上的人之一。那络腮胡子，她觉得，是事后巧妙地添上去的。
“这些东西都是哪儿来的？”她问。
“哦，罗伊娜让尼克弄的。尼克的朋友德斯蒙德也帮了忙，他在摄影上很有经验。他和他的几个哥们儿化了妆，戴了一堆头发、鬓角、络腮胡什么的。再加上灯光还有其他东西的配合，当然会让女孩儿们欣喜若狂。”
“我忍不住想，”阿里阿德涅•奥利弗说道，“现在的女孩儿真是幼稚。”
“您不觉得一直都是吗？”罗伊娜•德雷克问道。
奥利弗夫人想了想。
“我想您是对的。”她承认。
“下面，”德雷克夫人喊道，“开饭啦。”
晚饭进行得很顺利。各种各样的糖霜蛋糕、小吃、虾、奶酪，还有坚果糖果。这些十多岁的孩子都把自己喂饱了。
“现在，”罗伊娜说，“进行晚会的最后一项，抓火龙。从这儿走过去，穿过备餐间。就是那儿。现在，先发奖品。”
奖品派发下去了，然后就听见一声女鬼似的哀号。孩子们就穿过大厅冲向餐厅。
食物已经被清理干净了。餐桌上铺上了绿色的粗呢桌布，桌面上有一大盘燃烧着的葡萄干。所有人都尖叫着，冲向桌子，抢夺燃烧着的葡萄干，边抢边喊：“哎哟，烫死我啦！
太漂亮啦！”火龙摇摇曳曳，一点点熄灭了。灯光亮起来，晚会结束了。
“晚会很成功。”罗伊娜说。
“你的辛苦没有白费。”
“晚会好极了。”朱迪思轻声说，“好极了。”
她悲伤地补充道：“现在，我们得稍微打扫打扫。不能把这一片狼藉给那些可怜的女人留到明天早上。”
Three
Three
In a flat in London the telephone bell rang. The owner of the flat, Hercule Poirot, stirred in hischair. Disappointment attacked him. He knew before he answered it what it meant. His friendSolly, with whom he had been going to spend the evening, reviving their never- endingcontroversy about the real culprit in the Canning Road Municipal Baths murder, was about to saythat he could not come. Poirot, who had collected certain bits of evidence in favour of his ownsomewhat far-fetched theory, was deeply disappointed. He did not think his friend Solly wouldaccept his suggestions, but he had no doubt that when Solly in his turn produced his own fantasticbeliefs, he himself, Hercule Poirot, would just as easily be able to demolish them in the name ofsanity, logic, order and method. It was annoying, to say the least of it, if Solly did not come thisevening. But it is true that when they had met earlier in the day, Solly had been racked with achesty cough and was in a state of highly infectious catarrh.
“He had a nasty cold,” said Hercule Poirot, “and no doubt, in spite of the remedies that I havehandy here, he would probably have given it to me. It is better that he should not come. Tout demême,” he added, with a sigh, “it will mean that now I shall pass a dull evening.”
Many of the evenings were dull now, Hercule Poirot thought. His mind, magnificent as it was(for he had never doubted that fact) required stimulation from outside sources. He had never beenof a philosophic cast of mind. There were times when he almost regretted that he had not taken tothe study of theology instead of going into the police force in his early days. The number of angelswho could dance on the point of a needle; it would be interesting to feel that that mattered and toargue passionately on the point with one’s colleagues.
His manservant, George, entered the room.
“It was Mr. Solomon Levy, sir.”
“Ah yes,” said Hercule Poirot.
“He very much regrets that he will not be able to join you this evening. He is in bed with aserious bout of ’flu.”
“He has not got ’flu,” said Hercule Poirot. “He has only a nasty cold. Everyone always thinksthey have ’flu. It sounds more important. One gets more sympathy. The trouble with a catarrhalcold is that it is hard to glean the proper amount of sympathetic consideration from one’s friends.”
“Just as well he isn’t coming here, sir, really,” said George. “Those colds in the head are veryinfectious. Wouldn’t be good for you to go down with one of those.”
“It would be extremely tedious,” Poirot agreed.
The telephone bell rang again.
“And now who has a cold?” he demanded. “I have not asked anyone else.”
George crossed towards the telephone.
“I will take the call here,” said Poirot. “I have no doubt that it is nothing of interest. But at anyrate—” he shrugged his shoulders “—it will perhaps pass the time. Who knows?”
George said, “Very good, sir,” and left the room.
Poirot stretched out a hand, raised the receiver, thus stilling the clamour of the bell.
“Hercule Poirot speaks,” he said, with a certain grandeur of manner designed to impresswhoever was at the other end of the line.
“That’s wonderful,” said an eager voice. A female voice, slightly impaired with breathlessness.
“I thought you’d be sure to be out, that you wouldn’t be there.”
“Why should you think that?” inquired Poirot.
“Because I can’t help feeling that nowadays things always happen to frustrate one. You wantsomeone in a terrible hurry, you feel you can’t wait, and you have to wait. I wanted to get hold ofyou urgently—absolutely urgently.”
“And who are you?” asked Hercule Poirot.
The voice, a female one, seemed surprised.
“Don’t you know?” it said incredulously.
“Yes, I know,” said Hercule Poirot. “You are my friend, Ariadne.”
“And I’m in a terrible state,” said Ariadne.
“Yes, yes, I can hear that. Have you also been running? You are very breathless, are you not?”
“I haven’t exactly been running. It’s emotion. Can I come and see you at once?”
Poirot let a few moments elapse before he answered. His friend, Mrs. Oliver, sounded in ahighly excitable condition. Whatever was the matter with her, she would no doubt spend a verylong time pouring out her grievances, her woes, her frustrations or whatever was ailing her. Oncehaving established herself within Poirot’s sanctum, it might be hard to induce her to go homewithout a certain amount of impoliteness. The things that excited Mrs. Oliver were so numerousand frequently so unexpected that one had to be careful how one embarked upon a discussion ofthem.
“Something has upset you?”
“Yes. Of course I’m upset. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know—oh, I don’t know anything.
What I feel is that I’ve got to come and tell you—tell you just what’s happened, for you’re theonly person who might know what to do. Who might tell me what I ought to do. So can I come?”
“But certainly, but certainly. I shall be delighted to receive you.”
The receiver was thrown down heavily at the other end and Poirot summoned George, reflecteda few minutes, then ordered lemon barley water, bitter lemon and a glass of brandy for himself.
“Mrs. Oliver will be here in about ten minutes,” he said.
George withdrew. He returned with the brandy for Poirot, who accepted it with a nod ofsatisfaction, and George then proceeded to provide the teetotal refreshment that was the only thinglikely to appeal to Mrs. Oliver. Poirot took a sip of brandy delicately, fortifying himself for theordeal which was about to descend upon him.
“It’s a pity,” he murmured to himself, “that she is so scatty. And yet, she has originality ofmind. It could be that I am going to enjoy what she is coming to tell me. It could be—” hereflected a minute “—that it may take a great deal of the evening and that it will all be excessivelyfoolish. Eh bien, one must take one’s risks in life.”
A bell sounded. A bell on the outside door of the flat this time. It was not a single pressure ofthe button. It lasted for a long time with a kind of steady action that was very effective, the sheermaking of noise.
“Assuredly, she has excited herself,” said Poirot.
He heard George go to the door, open it, and before any decorous announcement could be madethe door of his sitting room opened and Ariadne Oliver charged through it, with George in towbehind her, hanging on to something that looked like a fisherman’s sou’wester and oilskins.
“What on earth are you wearing?” said Hercule Poirot. “Let George take it from you. It’s verywet.”
“Of course it’s wet,” said Mrs. Oliver. “It’s very wet out. I never thought about water before.
It’s a terrible thing to think of.”
Poirot looked at her with interest.
“Will you have some lemon barley water,” he said, “or could I persuade you to a small glass ofeau de vie?”
“I hate water,” said Mrs. Oliver.
Poirot looked surprised.
“I hate it. I’ve never thought about it before. What it can do, and everything.”
“My dear friend,” said Hercule Poirot, as George extricated her from the flapping folds ofwatery oilskin. “Come and sit down here. Let George finally relieve you of—what is it you arewearing?”
“I got it in Cornwall,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Oilskins. A real, proper fisherman’s oilskin.”
“Very useful to him, no doubt,” said Poirot, “but not, I think, so suitable for you. Heavy towear. But come—sit down and tell me.”
“I don’t know how,” said Mrs. Oliver, sinking into a chair. “Sometimes, you know, I can’t feelit’s really true. But it happened. It really happened.”
“Tell me,” said Poirot.
“That’s what I’ve come for. But now I’ve got here, it’s so difficult because I don’t know whereto begin.”
“At the beginning?” suggested Poirot, “or is that too conventional a way of acting?”
“I don’t know when the beginning was. Not really. It could have been a long time ago, youknow.”
“Calm yourself,” said Poirot. “Gather together the various threads of this matter in your mindand tell me. What is it that has so upset you?”
“It would have upset you, too,” said Mrs. Oliver. “At least, I suppose it would.” She lookedrather doubtful. “One doesn’t know, really, what does upset you. You take so many things with alot of calm.”
“It is often the best way,” said Poirot.
“All right,” said Mrs. Oliver. “It began with a party.”
“Ah yes,” said Poirot, relieved to have something as ordinary and sane as a party presented tohim. “A party. You went to a party and something happened.”
“Do you know what a Hallowe’en party is?” said Mrs. Oliver.
“I know what Hallowe’en is,” said Poirot. “The 31st of October.” He twinkled slightly as hesaid, “When witches ride on broomsticks.”
“There were broomsticks,” said Mrs. Oliver. “They gave prizes for them.”
“Prizes?”
“Yes, for who brought the best decorated ones.”
Poirot looked at her rather doubtfully. Originally relieved at the mention of a party, he nowagain felt slightly doubtful. Since he knew that Mrs. Oliver did not partake of spirituous liquor, hecould not make one of the assumptions that he might have made in any other case.
“A children’s party,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Or rather, an eleven-plus party.”
“Eleven-plus?”
“Well, that’s what they used to call it, you know, in schools. I mean they see how bright youare, and if you’re bright enough to pass your eleven-plus, you go on to a grammar school orsomething. But if you’re not bright enough, you go to something called a Secondary Modern. Asilly name. It doesn’t seem to mean anything.”
“I do not, I confess, really understand what you are talking about,” said Poirot. They seemed tohave got away from parties and entered into the realms of education.
Mrs. Oliver took a deep breath and began again.
“It started really,” she said, “with the apples.”
“Ah yes,” said Poirot, “it would. It always might with you, mightn’t it?”
He was thinking to himself of a small car on a hill and a large woman getting out of it, and abag of apples breaking, and the apples running and cascading down the hill.
“Yes,” he said encouragingly, “apples.”
“Bobbing for apples,” said Mrs. Oliver. “That’s one of the things you do at a Hallowe’enparty.”
“Ah yes, I think I have heard of that, yes.”
“You see, all sorts of things were being done. There was bobbing for apples, and cuttingsixpence off a tumblerful of flour, and looking in a looking glass—”
“To see your true love’s face?” suggested Poirot knowledgeably.
“Ah,” said Mrs. Oliver, “you’re beginning to understand at last.”
“A lot of old folklore, in fact,” said Poirot, “and this all took place at your party.”
“Yes, it was all a great success. It finished up with Snapdragon. You know, burning raisins in agreat dish. I suppose—” her voice faltered, “—I suppose that must be the actual time when it wasdone.”
“When what was done?”
“A murder. After the Snapdragon everyone went home,” said Mrs. Oliver. “That, you see, waswhen they couldn’t find her.”
“Find whom?”
“A girl. A girl called Joyce. Everyone called her name and looked around and asked if she’dgone home with anyone else, and her mother got rather annoyed and said that Joyce must have felttired or ill or something and gone off by herself, and that it was very thoughtless of her not toleave word. All the sort of things that mothers say when things like that happen. But anyway, wecouldn’t find Joyce.”
“And had she gone home by herself?”
“No,” said Mrs. Oliver, “she hadn’t gone home…” Her voice faltered. “We found her in the end—in the library. That’s where—where someone did it, you know. Bobbing for apples. The bucketwas there. A big, galvanized bucket. They wouldn’t have the plastic one. Perhaps if they’d had theplastic one it wouldn’t have happened. It wouldn’t have been heavy enough. It might have tippedover—”
“What happened?” said Poirot. His voice was sharp.
“That’s where she was found,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Someone, you know, someone had shovedher head down into the water with the apples. Shoved her down and held her there so that she wasdead, of course. Drowned. Drowned. Just in a galvanized iron bucket nearly full of water.
Kneeling there, sticking her head down to bob at an apple. I hate apples,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Inever want to see an apple again.”
Poirot looked at her. He stretched out a hand and filled a small glass with cognac.
“Drink this,” he said. “It will do you good.”
第三章
第三章
伦敦一栋公寓的电话铃响起来，打扰了坐在椅子上的公寓的主人，赫尔克里•波洛。一阵失望向他袭来。不用接电话他就知道是什么事。他的朋友索利今天晚上原本要过来，接着跟他无休止地争论坎宁路公共浴池谋杀案真正的凶手是谁。而这通电话肯定是要告诉他，索利来不了了。波洛已经为自己那有些牵强的推论找出了许多证据，现在他更感到非常失望。他觉得索利不会同意他的推断，不过他也毫不怀疑，当索利提出他荒谬的想法时，他，赫尔克里•波洛，也能轻易地从情理、逻辑、次序和方法等方面推翻他的设想。索利今晚来不了，至少会让他心神不宁。但是今天早些时候他们俩见过面，当时索利确实咳嗽得厉害，他得了严重的传染性黏膜炎。
“他得了重感冒，”赫尔克里•波洛自言自语，“如果我去给他送特效药，很可能就会被传染上，所以他不来也挺好的。还是算了吧。”他叹了口气补充说，“这就意味着我得自己度过这个枯燥的夜晚了。”
很多夜晚都是这么枯燥，赫尔克里•波洛想。他卓绝的大脑（他从不怀疑这个事实）还是需要一些外部的刺激。他从来没有哲学辩证思想。有时他几乎有点儿后悔，当初怎么没去研究神学，而是进了警察局。一根针尖上有多少天使在跳舞？认为这个问题很重要并且和同事满怀热情地去争论，一定很有意思。
他的男仆乔治走了进来。
“先生，是所罗门•利维先生的电话。”
“嗯，说吧。” 赫尔克里•波洛说。
“他很遗憾今晚不能来陪您，他得了严重的流感卧病在床了。
“他得的不是流感，”赫尔克里•波洛纠正说，“他只是得了重感冒。人们总觉得自己得了流感。那样听起来更严重，更容易取得同情。要说自己得了黏膜炎性感冒，就很难从朋友那儿获得足够的同情和关心。”
“不管怎么说，他今晚来不了了，先生。真的，”乔治说，“这种感冒很容易传染，跟感冒病人在一起对您不好。”
“感冒了就太无聊了。”波洛很赞同。
电话铃再一次响起来。
“谁又感冒了？”他问道，“我没约别人。”
乔治走向电话。
“把电话拿来我接，”波洛说，“我知道没什么有意思的事儿，不过至少——”他耸了耸肩膀，“或许能打发点儿时间呢。谁知道呢？”
乔治说：“给您，先生。”然后退出了房间。
波洛伸出一只手，拿起听筒，喧嚣的铃声戛然而止。
“我是赫尔克里•波洛，”他刻意用庄严的语气说，想要给打电话的人留下深刻印象。
“太好啦！”电话那头急切地说。一个女人的声音，因为喘不过气而显得有些虚弱。“我还以为你肯定出去了，接不了电话呢。”
“您怎么会那么想呢？”波洛问。
“因为我总觉得现在的事情经常让人沮丧。比如你特别着急想找一个人，一分钟也等不了，可是你就不得不等着。我想马上找到你，特别着急。”
“您是哪位？” 赫尔克里•波洛问道。
那个声音，那个女人的声音，听起来很惊讶。
“你不知道我是谁？”那个声音用难以置信的口气问。
“知道，我知道，” 赫尔克里•波洛说，“您是我的朋友，阿里阿德涅。”
“而且我现在状态非常不好。”阿里阿德涅说。
“是，是的，我能听出来。你是刚跑过吗？上气不接下气的，不是吗？
“准确来说我没跑，是情绪激动。我能马上去找你吗？”
波洛沉默了一会儿才开口回答。他的朋友，奥利弗夫人，听起来处于高度兴奋状态。
不管发生了什么事，她都毫无疑问会花很长时间倾诉她的不满、她的悲痛、她的沮丧，以及一切让她不安的事情。一旦她来到波洛这方净土，除非采取一些不礼貌的措施，否则很难把她劝回家。能让奥利弗夫人兴奋的事情不计其数，总是让人无法预料，所以跟她说话必须小心措辞。
“有事儿让你心烦？”
“是的，当然我很烦，我不知道该做什么。我不知道。哎，我什么都不知道。我只知道我要去告诉你，告诉你发生了什么事，因为你是唯一可能知道该怎么做的人。没人能告诉我该怎么做。我能去吗？”
“当然能，当然啦。欢迎你来。”
对方重重地放下听筒，波洛唤来乔治，想了一会儿，然后点了柠檬大麦茶和苦柠檬汁，又为自己要了一杯白兰地。
“奥利弗夫人大概十分钟之后到这儿。”他说。
乔治退出去了，一会儿又回来为波洛端来一杯白兰地。波洛接过酒，满意地点了点头。接着乔治又端来了奥利弗夫人唯一可能喜欢的不含酒精的饮料。波洛细细地品了一口白兰地，为度过接下来的煎熬增加点儿勇气。
“太遗憾了，”他自言自语道，“她太浮躁了。不过，她的心思很有独创性。也许她要告诉我的事会让我喜欢。也可能——”他思索了一分钟，“今晚要不就是大收获，要不就是无聊透顶。哎，好吧，生活必须冒险。”
有铃声响起来。在这个时候按公寓的门铃，而且并不是按了一下按钮就松开，而是使劲儿按着不松，纯粹是在制造噪声。
“毫无疑问，她太兴奋了。”波洛说。
他听见乔治走向门口，打开门。还没听到通报声，客厅的门就被打开了。阿里阿德涅•奥利弗从门口冲进来，乔治紧随其后，手里抓着的好像是渔民的防雨帽和油布雨衣什么的。
“你穿的到底是什么呀？”赫尔克里•波洛问，“让乔治帮你脱下来。太湿了。”
“当然湿了，”奥利弗夫人回答说，“全都打湿了。我之前从没多考虑过水。想起来太可怕了。”
波洛饶有兴趣地看着她。
“喝些柠檬大麦茶吧，”他说，“或者我能请你喝一小杯白兰地吗？”
“我讨厌水。”奥利弗夫人说。
波洛有些吃惊。
“我讨厌水，我以前从没想过，没想过水能做什么之类的。”
“我亲爱的朋友——”赫尔克里•波洛说，乔治正为她脱下满是褶皱还滴着水的雨衣。
“过来坐吧。乔治终于把你从那里面解救出来了。你穿的到底是什么？”
“我在康沃尔买的，”奥利弗夫人说，“油布雨衣，一件真正的渔民穿的油布雨衣。”
“对渔民很管用，真的，”波洛说，“但是，我觉得并不适合你，穿起来太重了。过来，坐在这儿告诉我。”
“我不知道怎么说。”奥利弗夫人边说边一屁股坐进椅子里，“有时候，你知道，我感觉那不是真的。但是它确实发生了。真的发生了。”
“告诉我。”波洛说。
“我是为那件事来的。可是我到了这儿又很难开口了，因为不知道从哪儿开始说。”
“从一开始？”波洛建议道，“还是当时的行动太平常了？”
“我不知道从什么时候开始的。我不确定。可能是很久之前发生的，你知道的。”
“镇定点儿，把你知道的这件事的线索集中一下，然后告诉我。是什么让你这么不安呢？”
“你也会不安的。”奥利弗夫人说，“至少，我觉得会。”她满脸疑惑，“真不知道什么能让你不安。你遇到什么事都能那么平静。”
“平静往往是最好的方式。”波洛说。
“好吧，”奥利弗夫人说，“是从一个晚会开始的。”
“嗯，好，”波洛说，听到是一个平常合理的晚会他如释重负，“一个晚会。你去参加了一个晚会，然后发生了一些事。”
“万圣节前夜晚会，你知道是什么样吗？”奥利弗夫人问。
“我知道万圣节前夜，”波洛回答说，“在十月三十一号。”他眨了眨眼睛接着说，“会有女巫骑着扫帚飞来。”
“是有扫帚来着，”奥利弗夫人说，“还给他们发了奖品。”
“奖品？”
“嗯，给那些扫帚装饰得最漂亮的人。”
波洛疑惑地看着她。最初提到晚会他还松了口气，现在他又觉得有点儿困惑。他知道奥利弗夫人一口酒也没喝，所以他不能得出在任何其他情况下他已经得出的某个设想。
“一个孩子们的晚会。”奥利弗夫人说，“或者说，一个中学升学考试晚会。”
“升学考试？”
“是的，他们以前这么称呼它，你知道，在学校里面。我是说他们用来评价你有多聪明，如果你能通过升学考试，你就能上文法学校或者类似的学校了。如果你不够聪明，你就得上什么现代中学。这个名字太蠢了，没有什么意义。”
“我没明白，我承认，真没明白你在说什么。”波洛说。他们好像已经偏离晚会进入了教育领域。
奥利弗夫人深吸一口气，重新说起来。
“事情真正的起因，”她说，“和苹果有关。”
“啊，是的，”波洛说，“很可能。苹果总和你连在一起，不是吗？”
他沉浸在一个画面中：山上停着一辆小汽车，一个高大的女人正从车里下来。一个装苹果的袋子突然漏了，苹果洒落了一地，一个接一个骨碌碌地滚下山去。
“对。”他鼓励道，“苹果。”
“咬苹果，”奥利弗夫人说，“那是万圣节前夜晚会上必玩的游戏之一。”
“对，我好像以前听说过，没错。”
“你知道，人们玩各种游戏。有咬苹果，从一杯面粉上切硬币，还有照镜子看——”
“看你的真爱的样子？”波洛很在行地提示。
“啊！”奥利弗夫人叫道，“你终于开始明白了。”
“很多都是老传统，实际上。”波洛说，“你在晚会上都玩过啦。”
“是的，都很成功。最后玩的是抓火龙。你知道，一个大盘子里放着燃烧的葡萄干。我猜——”她的声音颤抖起来，“我猜事情就是在那时发生的。”
“什么时候发生了什么？”
“谋杀。抓火龙结束之后所有人都回家了。”奥利弗夫人说，“那时，你知道吗，我们找不到她了。”
“找不到谁？”
“一个女孩儿。一个叫乔伊斯的女孩儿。所有人都喊着她的名字找她，问她是不是跟别人一起回家了。她的妈妈很生气，说乔伊斯肯定是累了，或者不舒服就自己先走了，一句话也不说就走掉太粗心了——说了好些发生这种事时妈妈们都会唠叨的那种话。但是不管怎样，我们都找不到乔伊斯。”
“那她是自己先回家了吗？”
“不是，”奥利弗夫人说，“她没有回家……”她的声音有些颤抖，“最后我们发现了她，在藏书室。就在那儿，有人在那儿动手了，你知道吗？咬苹果是在那儿玩的。水桶还在那儿。一个大的、镀锌的水桶。他们不愿意用塑料桶玩。如果用的是塑料桶，或许事情就不会发生了。塑料桶没那么重，可能就被打翻了——”
“发生了什么事？”波洛问。他的语调尖锐起来。
“我们就在那儿找到了她，”奥利弗夫人说，“有人，你知道吗，有人把她的头摁在了漂着苹果的桶里。把她的头摁进去直到她死。当然，她淹死了。淹死的。就在一个快装满水的镀锌桶里。她跪在那儿，头朝下去咬苹果。我讨厌苹果，”奥利弗夫人说，“我再也不想看到苹果了。”
波洛看着她。他伸出手倒了一小杯白兰地。
“把这个喝了，”他说，“你会好受点儿。”
Four
Four
Mrs. Oliver put down the glass and wiped her lips.
“You were right,” she said. “That—that helped. I was getting hysterical.”
“You have had a great shock, I see now. When did this happen?”
“Last night. Was it only last night? Yes, yes, of course.”
“And you came to me.”
It was not quite a question, but it displayed a desire for more information than Poirot had yethad.
“You came to me—why?”
“I thought you could help,” said Mrs. Oliver. “You see, it’s—it’s not simple.”
“It could be and it could not,” said Poirot. “A lot depends. You must tell me more, you know.
The police, I presume, are in charge. A doctor was, no doubt, called. What did he say?”
“There’s to be an inquest,” said Mrs. Oliver.
“Naturally.”
“Tomorrow or the next day.”
“This girl, Joyce, how old was she?”
“I don’t know exactly. I should think perhaps twelve or thirteen.”
“Small for her age?”
“No, no, I should think rather mature, perhaps. Lumpy,” said Mrs. Oliver.
“Well-developed? You mean sexy-looking?”
“Yes, that is what I mean. But I don’t think that was the kind of crime it was—I mean thatwould have been more simple, wouldn’t it?”
“It is the kind of crime,” said Poirot, “of which one reads every day in the paper. A girl who isattacked, a school child who is assaulted—yes, every day. This happened in a private house whichmakes it different, but perhaps not so different as all that. But all the same, I’m not sure yet thatyou’ve told me everything.”
“No, I don’t suppose I have,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I haven’t told you the reason, I mean, why Icame to you.”
“You knew this Joyce, you knew her well?”
“I didn’t know her at all. I’d better explain to you, I think, just how I came to be there.”
“There is where?”
“Oh, a place called Woodleigh Common.”
“Woodleigh Common,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “Now where lately—” he broke off.
“It’s not very far from London. About—oh, thirty to forty miles, I think. It’s near Medchester.
It’s one of those places where there are a few nice houses, but where a certain amount of newbuilding has been done. Residential. A good school nearby, and people can commute from there toLondon or into Medchester. It’s quite an ordinary sort of place where people with what you mightcall everyday reasonable incomes live.”
“Woodleigh Common,” said Poirot again, thoughtfully.
“I was staying with a friend there. Judith Butler. She’s a widow. I went on a Hellenic cruise thisyear and Judith was on the cruise and we became friends. She’s got a daughter. A girl calledMiranda who is twelve or thirteen. Anyway, she asked me to come and stay and she said friends ofhers were giving this party for children, and it was to be a Hallowe’en party. She said perhaps Ihad some interesting ideas.”
“Ah,” said Poirot, “she did not suggest this time that you should arrange a murder hunt oranything of that kind?”
“Good gracious, no,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Do you think I should ever consider such a thingagain?”
“I should think it unlikely.”
“But it happened, that’s what’s so awful,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I mean, it couldn’t have happenedjust because I was there, could it?”
“I do not think so. At least—Did any of the people at the party know who you were?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Oliver. “One of the children said something about my writing books and thatthey liked murders. That’s how it—well—that’s what led to the thing—I mean to the thing thatmade me come to you.”
“Which you still haven’t told me.”
“Well, you see, at first I didn’t think of it. Not straight away. I mean, children do queer thingssometimes. I mean there are queer children about, children who—well, once I suppose they wouldhave been in mental homes and things, but they send them home now and tell them to leadordinary lives or something, and then they go and do something like this.”
“There were some young adolescents there?”
“There were two boys, or youths as they always seem to call them in police reports. Aboutsixteen to eighteen.”
“I suppose one of them might have done it. Is that what the police think?”
“They don’t say what they think,” said Mrs. Oliver, “but they looked as though they might thinkso.”
“Was this Joyce an attractive girl?”
“I don’t think so,” said Mrs. Oliver. “You mean attractive to boys, do you?”
“No,” said Poirot, “I think I meant—well, just the plain simple meaning of the word.”
“I don’t think she was a very nice girl,” said Mrs. Oliver, “not one you’d want to talk to much.
She was the sort of girl who shows off and boasts. It’s a rather tiresome age, I think. It soundsunkind what I’m saying, but—”
“It is not unkind in murder to say what the victim was like,” said Poirot. “It is very, verynecessary. The personality of the victim is the cause of many a murder. How many people werethere in the house at the time?”
“You mean for the party and so on? Well, I suppose there were five or six women, somemothers, a schoolteacher, a doctor’s wife, or sister, I think, a couple of middle-aged marriedpeople, the two boys of sixteen to eighteen, a girl of fifteen, two or three of eleven or twelve—wellthat sort of thing. About twenty-five or thirty in all, perhaps.”
“Any strangers?”
“They all knew each other, I think. Some better than others. I think the girls were mostly in thesame school. There were a couple of women who had come in to help with the food and thesupper and things like that. When the party ended, most of the mothers went home with theirchildren. I stayed behind with Judith and a couple of others to help Rowena Drake, the womanwho gave the party, to clear up a bit, so the cleaning women who came in the morning wouldn’thave so much mess to deal with. You know, there was a lot of flour about, and paper caps out ofcrackers and different things. So we swept up a bit, and we got to the library last of all. And that’swhen—when we found her. And then I remembered what she’d said.”
“What who had said?”
“Joyce.”
“What did she say? We are coming to it now, are we not? We are coming to the reason why youare here?”
“Yes. I thought it wouldn’t mean anything to—oh, to a doctor or the police or anyone, but Ithought it might mean something to you.”
“Eh bien,” said Poirot, “tell me. Was this something Joyce said at the party?”
“No—earlier in the day. That afternoon when we were fixing things up. It was after they’dtalked about my writing murder stories and Joyce said ‘I saw a murder once’ and her mother orsomebody said ‘Don’t be silly, Joyce, saying things like that’ and one of the older girls said‘You’re just making it up’ and Joyce said ‘I did. I saw it I tell you. I did. I saw someone do amurder,’ but no one believed her. They just laughed and she got very angry.”
“Did you believe her?”
“No, of course not.”
“I see,” said Poirot, “yes, I see.” He was silent for some moments, tapping a finger on the table.
Then he said: “I wonder—she gave no details—no names?”
“No. She went on boasting and shouting a bit and being angry because most of the other girlswere laughing at her. The mothers, I think, and the older people, were rather cross with her. Butthe girls and the younger boys just laughed at her! They said things like ‘Go on, Joyce, when wasthis? Why did you never tell us about it?’ And Joyce said, ‘I’d forgotten all about it, it was so longago.’”
“Aha! Did she say how long ago?”
“‘Years ago,’” she said. You know, in rather a would-be grown-up way.
“‘Why didn’t you go and tell the police then?’ one of the girls said. Ann, I think, or Beatrice.
Rather a smug, superior girl.”
“Aha, and what did she say to that?”
“She said: ‘Because I didn’t know at the time it was a murder.’”
“A very interesting remark,” said Poirot, sitting up rather straighter in his chair.
“She’d got a bit mixed up by then, I think,” said Mrs. Oliver. “You know, trying to explainherself and getting angry because they were all teasing her.
“They kept asking her why she hadn’t gone to the police, and she kept on saying ‘Because Ididn’t know then that it was a murder. It wasn’t until afterwards that it came to me quite suddenlythat that was what I had seen.’”
“But nobody showed any signs of believing her—and you yourself did not believe her—butwhen you came across her dead you suddenly felt that she might have been speaking the truth?”
“Yes, just that. I didn’t know what I ought to do, or what I could do. But then, later, I thought ofyou.”
Poirot bowed his head gravely in acknowledgement. He was silent for a moment or two, then hesaid:
“I must pose to you a serious question, and reflect before you answer it. Do you think that thisgirl had really seen a murder? Or do you think that she merely believed that she had seen amurder?”
“The first, I think,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I didn’t at the time. I just thought that she was vaguelyremembering something she had once seen and was working it up to make it sound important andexciting. She became very vehement, saying, ‘I did see it, I tell you. I did see it happen.’”
“And so.”
“And so I’ve come along to you,” said Mrs. Oliver, “because the only way her death makessense is that there really was a murder and that she was a witness to it.”
“That would involve certain things. It would involve that one of the people who were at theparty committed the murder, and that that same person must also have been there earlier that dayand have heard what Joyce said.”
“You don’t think I’m just imagining things, do you?” said Mrs. Oliver. “Do you think that it isall just my very far-fetched imagination?”
“A girl was murdered,” said Poirot. “Murdered by someone who had strength enough to holdher head down in a bucket of water. An ugly murder and a murder that was committed with whatwe might call, no time to lose. Somebody was threatened, and whoever it was struck as soon as itwas humanly possible.”
“Joyce could not have known who it was who did the murder she saw,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Imean she wouldn’t have said what she did if there was someone actually in the room who wasconcerned.”
“No,” said Poirot, “I think you are right there. She saw a murder, but she did not see themurderer’s face. We have to go beyond that.”
“I don’t understand exactly what you mean.”
“It could be that someone who was there earlier in the day and heard Joyce’s accusation knewabout the murder, knew who committed the murder, perhaps was closely involved with thatperson. It may have been that someone thought he was the only person who knew what his wifehad done, or his mother or his daughter or his son. Or it might have been a woman who knew whather husband or mother or daughter or son had done. Someone who thought that no one else knew.
And then Joyce began talking….”
“And so—”
“Joyce had to die?”
“Yes. What are you going to do?”
“I have just remembered,” said Hercule Poirot, “why the name of Woodleigh Common wasfamiliar to me.”
第四章
第四章
奥利弗夫人放下酒杯，擦了擦嘴。
“你说得对，”她说，“这酒——这酒确实有用。我刚才兴奋过头了。”
“你受了很大的惊吓，我现在知道了。那是什么时候发生的？”
“昨天晚上。是昨天晚上才发生的？对，对，就是。”
“然后你就来找我了？”
确切来说这不是一个问句，只是显示了波洛想要了解更多事实的欲望。
“你来找我，为什么？”
“我觉得你能帮忙，”奥利弗夫人说，“你看，这事——这事并不简单。”
“可能简单也可能复杂。”波洛说，“得视情况而定。你得跟我说详细些，好吗？我猜，警察已经接手了。法医也肯定到场了。他们怎么说？”
“他们会进行审讯。”奥利弗夫人说。
“自然。”
“明天或后天。”
“那个女孩儿，乔伊斯，她多大啦？”
“我也不确定，十二三岁吧。”
“比同龄人显小吗？”
“不，不，我倒是觉得挺成熟的，或者说，丰满。”奥利弗夫人说。
“发育得很好？你是说看上去很性感吗？”
“是的，就是这个意思。但是我觉得这次不是那种类型的犯罪，我是说如果是那样就简单多了，不是吗？”
“那种案件，”波洛说，“我们天天都能在报纸上看到。女孩儿被侵犯了，小学生被殴打了——对，每天都能看到。发生在私人住宅里的，情况就有些不同了，但也可能没有那么大区别。不过都一样，我觉得你是不是还有什么没告诉我。”
“嗯，我想还有。”奥利弗夫人说，“我还没告诉你原因呢，我是说，我为什么来找你。”
“你认识这个乔伊斯，还跟她很熟？”
“我根本就不认识她。我想我最好还是跟你解释一下我怎么会去那儿吧。”
“那儿是哪儿？”
“哦，一个叫伍德利的社区。”
“伍德利社区，”波洛仔细想了想，“我最近在哪儿——”他没说下去。
“离伦敦不远。大概，呃，三四十英里吧。在曼彻斯特附近。那儿有少数比较不错的房子，但是又有一大批新的建筑建起来。是个住宅区。附近有所好学校，可以乘火车往返于伦敦或者曼彻斯特。是一个很平常的你们所谓的中产阶级的人们生活的地方。”
“伍德利社区。”波洛若有所思地重复道。
“我住在那儿的一个朋友家。朱迪思•巴特勒，她是一个寡妇。今年我参加了一个‘海伦号’的巡游，朱迪思也在其中，我们就成了朋友。她有一个女儿，叫米兰达，大概十二三岁。后来她邀请我去她家作客，说她的朋友要为孩子们办晚会，也就是万圣节前夜晚会。
她说也许我能出些有趣的主意。”
“啊，”波洛说，“这次她没让你准备一个追捕谋杀凶手之类的游戏吧？”
“天哪，没有，”奥利弗夫人说，“你以为我还会再做一次那种事情吗？”
“我想也不太可能。”
“但还是出事了，这才更可怕。”奥利弗夫人说，“我的意思是，不是因为我在那儿才出事的吧，是吗？”
“我想不是。至少——晚会上有人知道你是谁吗？”
“有，”奥利弗夫人说，“有个孩子说了对我写的书的看法，他们喜欢谋杀案。这也是为什么……呃，是引起那件事的起因，也就是我来找你要说的那件事。”
“你还没告诉我的那件事。”
“好吧，你知道吗，最开始，我没想到那儿。没马上想到。我是指，孩子们有时会有一些古怪的行为。我是说有些古怪的孩子，有的孩子——呃，有的时候我都怀疑他们应该在精神病院，但是他们被送回家了，教导他们要过普通的生活等等，于是他们就做出了这种事。”
“在场的有青年人吗？”
“有两个男孩儿，或者称为青年，警方的报告中总这么称他们。大概十六到十八岁。”
“我猜可能是他们中的某个人干的。警察也是这么认为的吧？”
“他们没说怎么想的，”奥利弗夫人说，“但是他们看上去也是这么怀疑的。”
“这个乔伊斯很有魅力吗？”
“我觉得她不怎么友好，”奥利弗夫人说，“是那种你不愿意和她多说几句话的那种。还爱卖弄，自吹自擂。那个年龄段的女孩都很烦人，我觉得。我这么说有点儿刻薄，可是——”
“在谋杀案中描述受害人的情况没什么刻薄不刻薄的，”波洛说，“这是特别特别必要的。受害人的人格是引发许多谋杀案的原因。那时屋里总共有多少人？”
“你是指参加晚会的和相关的人吗？呃，我记得有五六个女人，几位母亲，一位学校教师，一个医生的妻子或者妹妹；我想还有几个已经结婚的中年人，两个十六到十八岁的男孩儿，一个十五岁和两三个十一二岁的女孩儿。大概就这些吧。大概一共二十五或者三十个人。”
“里面有陌生人吗？”
“我觉得他们彼此都认识。有些熟有些不太熟。我想女孩儿们大多都在一个学校。有几个女人去帮忙准备食物、晚饭之类的。晚会结束后，大部分母亲都带着孩子回家了。我和朱迪思，以及其他几个人留下来帮罗伊娜•德雷克，也就是晚会的主人，打扫打扫房间，省得第二天早上清洁女工忙不过来。你想想，到处都是面粉、饼干的包装纸，还有各种乱七八糟的东西。所以我们稍微打扫了一下。最后我们去了藏书室。就在那里——我们找到了她。然后我才想起了她之前说过的话。”
“谁说过的话？”
“乔伊斯。”
“她说过什么？咱们终于接近正题了，是吧？快要说到你来这儿的原因了。”
“嗯，我觉得告诉医生、警察或者别人都没意义，但是你可能会感兴趣。”
“哦，好，”波洛说，“告诉我吧，乔伊斯在晚会上说了什么话吗？”
“不是晚会上，而是在那天早些时候。那天下午我们在为晚会做准备。他们讨论了我写的谋杀案之后，乔伊斯说：‘我见过一次谋杀。’她的母亲还是别的人说：‘别傻了，乔伊斯，别乱说。’一个大点的女孩儿说：‘你是瞎编的。’然后乔伊斯说：‘真的，告诉你我真看见了，我见过。我看到有人杀人了。’但是没人相信她。人们都笑她，把她惹得很生气。”
“你信了吗？”
“没有，当然不信。”
“我知道了，”波洛说，“对，我明白了。”他沉默了半晌，一根手指轻叩着桌子。然后他问：“我猜她没说细节，没说出名字吧？”
“对。她继续吹嘘叫喊着，后来因为其他女孩儿都嘲笑她，她还生气了。我觉得，母亲们，还有其他那些年纪大点儿的人都很生她的气。而那些女孩儿和小男孩儿都笑话她！他们说些‘接着吹吧，乔伊斯，什么时候的事儿？你怎么从来没说过？’之类的话，然后乔伊斯就说：‘我以前都忘了，是很久以前了。’”
“啊哈！她说了是多久以前吗？”
“‘很多年以前。’她说。你知道吗，那口气可像个大人了。
“‘当时你怎么没报警呢？’有个女孩儿问她，安，或者是比阿特丽斯，我记不清了。一个自以为是的很高傲的女孩儿。”
“嗯，那她是怎么回答的？”
“她说：‘因为我当时不知道那是谋杀。’”
“这回答很有意思。”波洛说，坐得更端正了。
“她那会儿已经晕头转向了，我觉得，”奥利弗夫人说，“你知道的，她尽力想解释，而大家的讥讽让她非常生气。他们不停问她为什么没报警，她就一直强调‘因为我当时不知道那是谋杀，直到后来有一天我突然意识到那就是一场谋杀。’”
“可是没有人表示出一点儿相信她的意思，你自己当时都不相信她，直到发现她被杀，你才突然觉得她的话也许是真的，对吗？”
“对，就是这样。我不知道我该做些什么，或者能做什么。但是后来，我想起了你。”
波洛严肃地点了点头表示感谢。他沉默了片刻，然后问：“我必须提个严肃的问题，你考虑好了再回答。你觉得这个女孩儿真的见过一场谋杀吗？还是你觉得她仅仅是认为她自己看到过？”
“第一种，我觉得是，”奥利弗夫人说，“当时我还不信。我只以为她是对什么事有模糊的印象，然后添油加醋地说出来，让人听着觉得事情很重大很刺激。她后来情绪很激动，一直说：‘我见过，告诉你们。我真的见过谋杀。’”
“然后呢？”
“然后我就过来找你了，”奥利弗夫人说，“因为对于她的死唯一合理的解释就是真的有过一场谋杀，而她是目击者。”
“这就涉及一些问题，可能意味着晚会里的某个人就是凶手。那个人那天早些时候应该也在，并且听到了乔伊斯的话。”
“你不会觉得这一切都是我的想象吧？”奥利弗夫人问，“你觉得我太异想天开了吗？”
“一个女孩儿被杀了，”波洛说，“凶手的力气足够大，可以一直把她的头摁在一桶水里。残酷的谋杀，这场谋杀，用我们的话说，是一场抓准良机的谋杀。有人觉得受到了威胁，一旦找到了机会就毫不犹豫地动手了。”
“乔伊斯可能不知道她看到的谋杀案的凶手是谁。”奥利弗夫人说，“我是说，如果她知道房间里有当事人的话，她肯定不会说那些话。”
“对，”波洛说，“我同意你说的这一点。她看到了一场谋杀，但是她没看见凶手长什么样。我们还得越出这个范围。”
“什么意思？”
“也可能是那天早些时候听到乔伊斯的话的人中，有人知道那场谋杀，也知道凶手是谁，可能他跟凶手关系密切。这个人可能以为他是唯一知道他的妻子、母亲或者他的儿女的所作所为的人。也可能是一个女人，她知道她的丈夫、母亲或者儿女曾经做过。那个人以为别人都不知道。可是乔伊斯说了出来……”
“所以呢——”
“乔伊斯必须死？”
“哦。接下来你要怎么做？”
“我刚想起来了，”赫尔克里•波洛说，“伍德利社区为什么听着那么耳熟。”
Five
Five
Hercule Poirot looked over the small gate which gave admission to Pine Crest. It was a modern,perky little house, nicely built. Hercule Poirot was slightly out of breath. The small, neat house infront of him was very suitably named. It was on a hill top, and the hill top was planted with a fewsparse pines. It had a small neat garden and a large elderly man was trundling along a path a bigtin galvanized waterer.
Superintendent Spence’s hair was now grey all over instead of having a neat touch of grey hairat the temples. He had not shrunk much in girth. He stopped trundling his can and looked at thevisitor at the gate. Hercule Poirot stood there without moving.
“God bless my soul,” said Superintendent Spence. “It must be. It can’t be but it is. Yes, it mustbe. Hercule Poirot, as I live.”
“Aha,” said Hercule Poirot, “you know me. That is gratifying.”
“May your moustaches never grow less,” said Spence.
He abandoned the watering can and came down to the gate.
“Diabolical weeds,” he said. “And what brings you down here?”
“What has brought me to many places in my time,” said Hercule Poirot, “and what once a goodmany years ago brought you to see me. Murder.”
“I’ve done with murder,” said Spence, “except in the case of weeds. That’s what I’m doingnow. Applying weed killer. Never so easy as you think, something’s always wrong, usually theweather. Mustn’t be too wet, mustn’t be too dry and all the rest of it. How did you know where tofind me?” he asked as he unlatched the gate and Poirot passed through.
“You sent me a Christmas card. It had your new address notified on it.”
“Ah yes, so I did. I’m old-fashioned, you know. I like to send round cards at Christmas time to afew old friends.”
“I appreciate that,” said Poirot.
Spence said, “I’m an old man now.”
“We are both old men.”
“Not much grey in your hair,” said Spence.
“I attend to that with a bottle,” said Hercule Poirot. “There is no need to appear in public withgrey hair unless you wish to do so.”
“Well, I don’t think jet black would suit me,” said Spence.
“I agree,” said Poirot. “You look most distinguished with grey hair.”
“I should never think of myself as a distinguished man.”
“I think of you as such. Why have you come to live in Woodleigh Common?”
“As a matter of fact, I came here to join forces with a sister of mine. She lost her husband, herchildren are married and living abroad, one in Australia and the other in South Africa. So I movedin here. Pensions don’t go far nowadays, but we do pretty comfortably living together. Come andsit down.”
He led the way on to the small glazed-in verandah where there were chairs and a table or two.
The autumn sun fell pleasantly upon this retreat.
“What shall I get you?” said Spence. “No fancy stuff here, I’m afraid. No blackcurrant or rosehip syrup or any of your patent things. Beer? Or shall I get Elspeth to make you a cup of tea? Or Ican do you a shandy or Coca-Cola or some cocoa if you like it. My sister, Elspeth, is a cocoadrinker.”
“You are very kind. For me, I think a shandy. The ginger beer and the beer? That is right, is itnot?”
“Absolutely so.”
He went into the house and returned shortly afterwards carrying two large glass mugs. “I’mjoining you,” he said.
He drew a chair up to the table and sat down, placing the two glasses in front of himself andPoirot.
“What was it you said just now?” he said, raising his glass. “We won’t say ‘Here’s to crime.’
I’ve done with crime, and if you mean the crime I think you do, in fact which I think you have todo, because I don’t recall any other crime just lately. I don’t like the particular form of murderwe’ve just had.”
“No. I do not think you would do so.”
“We are talking about the child who had her head shoved into a bucket?”
“Yes,” said Poirot, “that is what I am talking about.”
“I don’t know why you come to me,” said Spence. “I’m nothing to do with the policenowadays. All that’s over many years ago.”
“Once a policeman,” said Hercule Poirot, “always a policeman. That is to say, there is alwaysthe point of view of the policeman behind the point of view of the ordinary man. I know, I whotalk to you. I, too, started in the police force in my country.”
“Yes, so you did. I remember now your telling me. Well, I suppose one’s outlook is a bitslanted, but it’s a long time since I’ve had any active connection.”
“But you hear the gossip,” said Poirot. “You have friends of your own trade. You will hear whatthey think or suspect or what they know.”
Spence sighed.
“One knows too much,” he said, “that is one of the troubles nowadays. There is a crime, a crimeof which the pattern is familiar, and you know, that is to say the active police officers know, prettywell who’s probably done that crime. They don’t tell the newspapers but they make their inquiries,and they know. But whether they’re going to get any further than that—well, things have theirdifficulties.”
“You mean the wives and the girl friends and the rest of it?”
“Partly that, yes. In the end, perhaps, one gets one’s man. Sometimes a year or two passes. I’dsay, you know, roughly, Poirot, that more girls nowadays marry wrong ’uns than they ever used toin my time.”
Hercule Poirot considered, pulling his moustaches.
“Yes,” he said, “I can see that that might be so. I suspect that girls have always been partial tothe bad lots, as you say, but in the past there were safeguards.”
“That’s right. People were looking after them. Their mothers looked after them. Their aunts andtheir older sisters looked after them. Their younger sisters and brothers knew what was going on.
Their fathers were not averse to kicking the wrong young men out of the house. Sometimes, ofcourse, the girls used to run away with one of the bad lots. Nowadays there’s no need even to dothat. Mother doesn’t know who the girl’s out with, father’s not told who the girl is out with,brothers know who the girl is out with but they think ‘more fool her.’ If the parents refuse consent,the couple go before a magistrate and manage to get permission to marry, and then when theyoung man who everyone knows is a bad lot proceeds to prove to everybody, including his wife,that he is a bad lot, the fat’s in the fire! But love’s love; the girl doesn’t want to think that herHenry has these revolting habits, these criminal tendencies, and all the rest of it. She’ll lie for him,swear black’s white for him and everything else. Yes, it’s difficult. Difficult for us, I mean. Well,there’s no good going on saying things were better in the old days. Perhaps we only thought so.
Anyway, Poirot, how did you get yourself mixed up in all this? This isn’t your part of the country,is it? Always thought you lived in London. You used to when I knew you.”
“I still live in London. I involved myself here at the request of a friend, Mrs. Oliver. Youremember Mrs. Oliver?”
Spence raised his head, closed his eyes and appeared to reflect.
“Mrs. Oliver? Can’t say that I do.”
“She writes books. Detective stories. You met her, if you will throw your mind back, during thetime that you persuaded me to investigate the murder of Mrs. McGinty. You will not haveforgotten Mrs. McGinty?”
“Good lord, no. But it was a long time ago. You did me a good turn there, Poirot, a very goodturn. I went to you for help and you didn’t let me down.”
“I was honoured—flattered—that you should come to consult me,” said Poirot. “I must say thatI despaired once or twice. The man we had to save—to save his neck in those days I believe, it islong ago enough for that—was a man who was excessively difficult to do anything for. The kindof standard example of how not to do anything useful for himself.”
“Married that girl, didn’t he? The wet one. Not the bright one with the peroxide hair. Wonderhow they got on together. Have you ever heard about it?”
“No,” said Poirot. “I presume all goes well with them.”
“Can’t see what she saw in him.”
“It is difficult,” said Poirot, “but it is one of the great consolations in nature that a man, howeverunattractive, will find that he is attractive—to some woman. One can only say or hope that theymarried and lived happily ever afterwards.”
“Shouldn’t think they lived happily ever afterwards if they had to have Mother to live withthem.”
“No, indeed,” said Poirot. “Or Stepfather,” he added.
“Well,” said Spence, “here we are talking of old days again. All that’s over. I always thoughtthat man, can’t remember his name now, ought to have run an undertaking parlour. Had just theface and manner for it. Perhaps he did. The girl had some money, didn’t she? Yes, he’d have madea very good undertaker. I can see him, all in black, calling for orders for the funeral. Perhaps hecan even have been enthusiastic over the right kind of elm or teak or whatever they use for coffins.
But he’d never have made good selling insurance or real estate. Anyway, don’t let’s harp back.”
Then he said suddenly, “Mrs. Oliver. Ariadne Oliver. Apples. Is that how she’s got herself mixedup in this? That poor child got her head shoved under water in a bucket of floating apples, didn’tshe, at a party? Is that what interested Mrs. Oliver?”
“I don’t think she was particularly attracted because of the apples,” said Poirot, “but she was atthe party.”
“Do you say she lived here?”
“No, she does not live here. She was staying with a friend, a Mrs. Butler.”
“Butler? Yes, I know her. Lives down not far from the church. Widow. Husband was an airlinepilot. Has a daughter. Rather nice-looking girl. Pretty manners. Mrs. Butler’s rather an attractivewoman, don’t you think so?”
“I have as yet barely met her, but, yes, I thought she was very attractive.”
“And how does this concern you, Poirot? You weren’t here when it happened?”
“No. Mrs. Oliver came to me in London. She was upset, very upset. She wanted me to dosomething.”
A faint smile showed on Superintendent Spence’s face.
“I see. Same old story. I came up to you, too, because I wanted you to do something.”
“And I have carried things one step further,” said Poirot. “I have come to you.”
“Because you want me to do something? I tell you, there’s nothing I can do.”
“Oh yes there is. You can tell me all about the people. The people who live here. The peoplewho went to that party. The fathers and mothers of the children who were at the party. The school,the teachers, the lawyers, the doctors. Somebody, during a party, induced a child to kneel down,and perhaps, laughing, saying: ‘I’ll show you the best way to get hold of an apple with your teeth.
I know the trick of it.’ And then he or she—whoever it was—put a hand on that girl’s head. Therewouldn’t have been much struggle or noise or anything of that kind.”
“A nasty business,” said Spence. “I thought so when I heard about it. What do you want toknow? I’ve been here a year. My sister’s been here longer—two or three years. It’s not a bigcommunity. It’s not a particularly settled one either. People come and go. The husband has a job ineither Medchester or Great Canning, or one of the other places round about. Their children go toschool here. Then perhaps the husband changes his job and they go somewhere else. It’s not afixed community. Some of the people have been here a long time, Miss Emlyn, the schoolmistress,has, Dr. Ferguson has. But on the whole, it fluctuates a bit.”
“One supposes,” said Hercule Poirot, “that having agreed with you that this was a nastybusiness, I might hope that you would know who are the nasty people here.”
“Yes,” said Spence. “It’s the first thing one looks for, isn’t it? And the next thing one looks foris a nasty adolescent in a thing of this kind. Who wants to strangle or drown or get rid of a lump ofa girl of thirteen? There doesn’t seem to have been any evidence of a sexual assault or anything ofthat kind, which would be the first thing one looks for. Plenty of that sort of thing in every smalltown or village nowadays. There again, I think there’s more of it than there used to be in myyoung day. We had our mentally disturbed, or whatever they call them, but not so many as wehave now. I expect there are more of them let out of the place they ought to be kept safe in. All ourmental homes are too full; overcrowded, so doctors say ‘Let him or her lead a normal life. Go backand live with his relatives,’ etc. And then the nasty bit of goods, or the poor afflicted fellow,whichever way you like to look at it, gets the urge again and another young woman goes outwalking and is found in a gravel pit, or is silly enough to take lifts in a car. Children don’t comehome from school because they’ve accepted a lift from a stranger, although they’ve been warnednot to. Yes, there’s a lot of that nowadays.”
“Does that quite fit the pattern we have here?”
“Well, it’s the first thing one thinks of,” said Spence. “Somebody was at the party who had theurge, shall we say. Perhaps he’d done it before, perhaps he’d only wanted to do it. I’d say roughlythat there might be some past history of assaulting a child somewhere. As far as I know, nobody’scome up with anything of that kind. Not officially, I mean. There were two in the right age groupat the party. Nicholas Ransom, nice looking lad, seventeen or eighteen. He’d be the right age.
Comes from the East Coast or somewhere like that, I think. Seems all right. Looks normal enough,but who knows? And there’s Desmond, remanded once for a psychiatric report, but I wouldn’t saythere was much to it. It’s got to be someone at the party, though of course I suppose anyone couldhave come in from outside. A house isn’t usually locked up during a party. There’s a side dooropen, or a side window. One of our half-baked people, I suppose could have come along to seewhat was on and sneaked in. A pretty big risk to take. Would a child agree, a child who’d gone toa party, to go playing apple games with anyone she didn’t know? Anyway, you haven’t explainedyet, Poirot, what brings you into it. You said it was Mrs. Oliver. Some wild idea of hers?”
“Not exactly a wild idea,” said Poirot. “It is true that writers are prone to wild ideas. Ideas,perhaps, which are on the far side of probability. But this was simply something that she heard thegirl say.”
“What, the child Joyce?”
“Yes.”
Spence leant forward and looked at Poirot inquiringly.
“I will tell you,” said Poirot.
Quietly and succinctly he recounted the story as Mrs. Oliver had told it to him.
“I see,” said Spence. He rubbed his moustache. “The girl said that, did she? Said she’d seen amurder committed. Did she say when or how?”
“No,” said Poirot.
“What led up to it?”
“Some remark, I think, about the murders in Mrs. Oliver’s books. Somebody said somethingabout it to Mrs. Oliver. One of the children, I think, to the effect that there wasn’t enough blood inher books or enough bodies. And then Joyce spoke up and said she’d seen a murder once.”
“Boasted of it? That’s the impression you’re giving me.”
“That’s the impression Mrs. Oliver got. Yes, she boasted of it.”
“It mightn’t have been true.”
“No, it might not have been true at all,” said Poirot.
“Children often make these extravagant statements when they wish to call attention tothemselves or to make an effect. On the other hand, it might have been true. Is that what youthink?”
“I do not know,” said Poirot. “A child boasts of having witnessed a murder. Only a few hourslater, that child is dead. You must admit that there are grounds for believing that it might—it’s afar-fetched idea perhaps—but it might have been cause and effect. If so, somebody lost no time.”
“Definitely,” said Spence. “How many were present at the time the girl made her statement remurder, do you know exactly?”
“All that Mrs. Oliver said was that she thought there were about fourteen or fifteen people,perhaps more. Five or six children, five or six grown-ups who were running the show. But forexact information I must rely on you.”
“Well, that will be easy enough,” said Spence. “I don’t say I know offhand at the moment, butit’s easily obtained from the locals. As to the party itself, I know pretty well already. Apreponderance of women, on the whole. Fathers don’t turn up much at children’s parties. But theylook in, sometimes, or come to take their children home. Dr. Ferguson was there, the vicar wasthere. Otherwise, mothers, aunts, social workers, two teachers from the school. Oh, I can give youa list—and roughly about fourteen children. The youngest not more than ten—running on intoteenagers.”
“And I suppose you would know the list of probables amongst them?” said Poirot.
“Well, it won’t be so easy now if what you think is true.”
“You mean you are no longer looking for a sexually disturbed personality. You are lookinginstead for somebody who has committed a murder and got away with it, someone who neverexpected it to be found out and who suddenly got a nasty shock.”
“Blest if I can think who it could have been, all the same,” said Spence. “I shouldn’t have saidwe had any likely murderers round here. And certainly nothing spectacular in the way ofmurders.”
“One can have likely murderers anywhere,” said Poirot, “or shall I say unlikely murderers, butnevertheless murderers. Because unlikely murderers are not so prone to be suspected. There isprobably not very much evidence against them, and it would be a rude shock to such a murderer tofind that there had actually been an eyewitness to his or her crime.”
“Why didn’t Joyce say anything at the time? That’s what I’d like to know. Was she bribed tosilence by someone, do you think? Too risky surely.”
“No,” said Poirot. “I gather from what Mrs. Oliver mentioned that she didn’t recognize that itwas a murder she was looking at at the time.”
“Oh, surely that’s most unlikely,” said Spence.
“Not necessarily,” said Poirot. “A child of thirteen was speaking. She was rememberingsomething she’d seen in the past. We don’t know exactly when. It might have been three or evenfour years previously. She saw something but she didn’t realize its true significance. That mightapply to a lot of things you know, mon cher. Some rather peculiar car accident. A car where itappeared that the driver drove straight at the person who was injured or perhaps killed. A childmight not realize it was deliberate at the time. But something someone said, or something she sawor heard a year or two later might awaken her memory and she’d think perhaps: ‘A or B or X did iton purpose.’ ‘Perhaps it was really a murder, not just an accident.’ And there are plenty of otherpossibilities. Some of them I will admit suggested by my friend, Mrs. Oliver, who can easily comeup with about twelve different solutions to everything, most of them not very probable but all ofthem faintly possible. Tablets added to a cup of tea administered to someone. Roughly that sort ofthing. A push perhaps on a dangerous spot. You have no cliffs here, which is rather a pity from thepoint of view of likely theories. Yes, I think there could be plenty of possibilities. Perhaps it issome murder story that the girl reads which recalls to her an incident. It may have been an incidentthat puzzled her at the time, and she might, when she reads the story, say: ‘Well, that might havebeen so-and-so and so-and-so. I wonder if he or she did it on purpose?’ Yes, there are a lot ofpossibilities.”
“And you have come here to inquire into them?”
“It would be in the public interest, I think, don’t you?” said Poirot.
“Ah, we’re to be public spirited, are we, you and I?”
“You can at least give me information,” said Poirot. “You know the people here.”
“I’ll do what I can,” said Spence. “And I’ll rope in Elspeth. There’s not much about people shedoesn’t know.”
第五章
第五章
赫尔克里•波洛的目光穿过小巧的大门看向“松冠居”。那是一座现代的、生机勃勃的房子，建得很精巧。赫尔克里•波洛有些上气不接下气。他面前这座小巧整洁的房子的名字十分贴切。它建在山顶，山顶上稀松地种着几棵松树。里面有一个整洁的小花园，一个身材魁梧的老人正缓慢地推着一只锡皮镀锌的大水罐，沿着小路浇水。
斯彭斯警司已经从只有两边鬓角各有一缕整齐的白发变成了满头银发，腰围倒是没见小。他停下了浇水的动作，抬头看着门口的客人。赫尔克里•波洛站在那儿一动不动。
“天哪！”斯彭斯警司说，“一定是他。不可能，但确实是。啊，肯定是他。赫尔克里•波洛，没错。”
“啊哈，”赫尔克里•波洛说，“您还记得我。我受宠若惊。”
“祝愿你的胡子永远不会变少。”斯彭斯说。
他丢下水罐走向了门口。
“可恶的杂草。”他念叨着，“哪阵风把你吹来的？”
“这股风把我吹到过很多地方，”赫尔克里•波洛说，“很多年前这股风也把您吹到我面前。就是谋杀案。”
“我早就跟谋杀案断绝关系了，”斯彭斯说，“除了在处理杂草的问题上。我现在就做这些，喷洒除草剂。绝不像你想象得那么简单，总有事情不尽如人意，通常是天气。不能太湿，也不能太干，诸如此类的。你怎么知道我在哪儿的？”他边问边打开门让波洛进来。
“您寄给我了一张圣诞贺卡，上面写着您的新地址。”
“啊对，我是寄过。我很守旧，你知道。我总喜欢在圣诞节给几个老朋友寄贺卡。”
“我很喜欢。”波洛说。
斯彭斯说：“我老啦。”
“我们都老啦。”
“你还没什么白头发呢。”斯彭斯说。
“白头发被我染黑了。”赫尔克里•波洛说，“没必要顶着一头白发出去，除非你想那样。”
“唔，我觉得乌黑的头发不适合我了。”斯彭斯说。
“我觉得也是，”波洛说，“满头银发让您看起来更尊贵。”
“我从来没觉得我有多尊贵。”
“我觉得您很尊贵。您怎么搬到伍德利社区了？”
“事实上，我是来和妹妹一起住的。她的丈夫去世了，孩子们都结婚居住在国外，一个在澳大利亚，一个在南非。所以我就搬过来了。退休金现在不禁用了，但是我们住在一起过得很舒服。过来坐吧。”
他领着波洛来到一个玻璃封起来的小阳台，里面有几把椅子，还有一两张桌子。秋天的阳光惬意地照耀着这处安静的所在。
“想喝点儿什么？”斯彭斯问，“恐怕我这儿没什么高档饮料。没有黑醋栗和野蔷薇果汁之类你专属的东西。啤酒喝吗？或者我让埃尔斯佩斯沏杯茶给你。你要爱喝的话，我也能给你弄一杯搀干姜汁的麦酒、可口可乐、可可茶什么的。我的妹妹，埃尔斯佩斯就爱喝可可茶。”
“谢谢您。我要一杯姜汁麦酒就行啦。把姜汁麦酒和啤酒混合在一起？是这样弄吗？”
“完全正确。”
他走进屋里，很快就端了两个大玻璃杯出来。“我陪你喝。”他说。
他拉了张椅子到桌边，坐下，把两杯酒放在他们俩面前。
“你刚才说什么来着？”他边说便举起酒杯，“咱们不说‘为谋杀案干杯’了。我已经不管谋杀案了，如果你说的案子是我所想的那件。事实上我觉得只能是那件，因为我想不起来最近还有别的什么案子。我不喜欢这起谋杀案的那种特殊形式。”
“是的。我觉得您也不会喜欢。”
“咱们谈的是那个头被摁进水桶的孩子吧？”
“对，”波洛说，“我说的就是这个案子。”
“我不知道你为什么来找我，”斯彭斯说，“我现在和警察一点儿关系也没有。很多年前一切就都结束了。”
“一朝为警，”赫尔克里•波洛说，“永远为警。就是说，除了从普通人的视角看问题外，您往往会不自觉地从警察的角度看问题。我深有体会，因为我在我的祖国最初也是警察。”
“嗯，你是。我还记得你告诉过我。好吧，我觉得每个人的观点都有些倾向性，但是我已经很久没怎么和他们打交道了。”
“但您能听到一些小道消息。”波洛说，“您在这个圈子里有朋友，您能打听到他们的想法、推测还有他们查到的情况。”
斯彭斯叹了口气。
“人们知道得太多了，”他说，“这也是现在的问题之一。如果发生了犯罪，犯罪的手段比较常见，你知道，那也就意味着参与案件的警察很清楚地知道嫌疑人可能是谁。他们不告诉报社，而是自己进行审讯。他们知道了一些情况。但是无论他们是否继续调查下去——哎，什么事都有它难办的地方。”
“您是指那些妻子、女朋友之类的吗？”
“是一部分吧。最后，或许，每个人都能找到自己的归宿。有时候一两年就过去了。我想说，你知道，波洛，相比我们那个时代，如今更多姑娘所嫁非人。”
赫尔克里•波洛边想边捋着胡子。
“是的，”他说，“我能明白您的意思，可能确实如此。我猜女孩儿们都偏爱坏小子，正如您所说的那样，但是在过去她们被监护得比较好。”
“就是这样。她们像待在温室里。母亲看着她们，姑姑阿姨姐姐关心她们，弟弟妹妹也留心风吹草动。他们的父亲也会毫不犹豫地把坏小子们踢出门外。当然，也有女孩儿跟那些坏家伙私奔的。不过现在那些都没必要了。母亲根本不知道女儿跟谁去约会了，也没人告诉父亲女儿约会的对象是谁。弟弟们知道姐姐跟谁在一起，可是他们只会想‘她真傻’。
父母如果不同意，两个人就会跑到法官面前设法获得结婚批准。之后当那个众所周知的坏蛋又开始向所有人，包括他的妻子，证明他就是一个坏蛋的时候，已经生米煮成熟饭了。
但是爱情就是爱情，女孩儿不愿意承认她的亨利有那些讨厌的毛病、有犯罪倾向等等。她为了他不仅会说谎、颠倒是非，还会做出其他一些事。是的，那很困难。我是说，对我们来说很困难。好吧，总说过去比现在好也没什么用。或许只是我们想多了罢了。不管怎样吧，波洛，你怎么也卷进来啦？这不在你负责的范围内，对吧？我一直以为你住在伦敦。
我认识你的时候你住在那儿。”
“我现在还住在伦敦。我是应朋友奥利弗夫人之求才参与此案的。您还记得奥利弗夫人吗？”
斯彭斯抬起头，闭着眼睛，像是在思考。
“奥利弗夫人？我记不起来了。”
“她是位作家，写侦探小说的。您见过她，往前想想，在您说服我参与麦克金蒂夫人谋杀案调查的时候（注：指阿加莎•克里斯蒂的另一部作品《清洁女工之死》。）。您不会忘了麦克金蒂夫人吧？”
“天啊，当然不会。不过时间太久啦。那时你帮了我一个大忙，波洛，很大的忙。我去找你帮忙，你也没让我失望。”
“那是我的荣幸——我受宠若惊——没想到您会找我商量。”波洛说，“我得说，有一两次我都感到绝望了。我们不得不救的那个人——我相信那时是救了他的命，过了太久啦——是个特别难伺候的人。他是个典型的做事对自己百害而无一利的人。”
“他娶了那个女孩儿，是吗？傻乎乎的那个。不是那个染过头发的伶俐的女孩儿。不知道他们过得怎么样。你听说过吗？”
“没听说，”波洛说，“我猜过得不错。”
“真不知道她看上他哪一点了。”
“很难说，”波洛说，“不过这本身就是一个很大的安慰：一个男人，无论他多么平庸，也总会有女孩儿被他吸引。我们只能祝福他们婚后过得幸福。”
“如果他们得和母亲住在一起，我觉得以后不一定一直过得幸福。”
“是的，确实，”波洛说，“跟继父住在一起也好过不了。”他补充道。
“哎，”斯彭斯说，“咱们又说起过去来了。都过去了。我经常想起那个人，现在记不起他的名字了，他应该是开殡仪馆的吧。他那张脸和行为举止，天生就是做这个的。那个女孩儿有些钱，是吧？没错，他应该是个好的殡仪店主。我可以想象他穿着一身黑衣主持葬礼的情景。或许他还会热情地告诉人家用榆木还是柚木做棺材好。但是他永远都做不好保险和房地产推销。行啦，不说那些老话了。”他突然说，“奥利弗夫人。阿里阿德涅•奥利弗。苹果。她是因为苹果才和案子扯上关系的吗？那个可怜的女孩儿在晚会上被人把头摁进了漂着苹果的水桶里，她是因为这个吗？这是让奥利弗夫人产生兴趣的地方吧？”
“我觉得她不是因为苹果才特别感兴趣的，”波洛说，“而是因为她参加了那个晚会。”
“你是说她住在这儿？”
“不是，她不住这儿。她当时在一个朋友家做客，巴特勒夫人家。”
“巴特勒？哦，我知道她。她住在离教堂不远的地方。是个寡妇。她的丈夫是飞行员。
她有个女儿，长得很漂亮的一个小姑娘，教养也很好。巴特勒夫人很有魅力，你说是吗？”
“我还没见过她，不过，呃，我猜她会很吸引人。”
“这些和你有什么关系呢，波洛？案发的时候你不在这儿吧？”
“我不在。奥利弗夫人去伦敦找我了。她很不安，特别不安。她希望我能做些什么。”
斯彭斯警司脸上浮起一丝不易觉察的笑意。
“我知道了。老一套了。我也去找过你，因为我希望你能帮忙。”
“我让事情更近了一步，”波洛说，“我来找你了。”
“因为你想让我帮忙？我跟你说，我帮不上什么。”
“哦不，您帮得上。您可以告诉我这些人的情况，住在这儿的这些人，还有参加晚会的人；参加晚会的孩子的父母，还有附近的学校、老师、律师、医生什么的。晚会上有人骗一个孩子跪在桶边，笑着说：‘我告诉你一个用牙咬住苹果的好办法，我有绝招。’然后他或她——不管是谁——把手摁在女孩儿的头上。那样女孩儿就挣扎不了多久，也弄不出什么声音。”
“太残忍了，”斯彭斯说，“我听到这个案子时就这么觉得。你想知道什么？我在这儿住了一年了。我妹妹住得久一点儿，两三年吧。这个社区不大，人口也不是特别固定。人们搬来搬去的。丈夫在伦敦、大坎宁或者附近别的地方上班，他们的孩子在这儿的学校上学。一旦丈夫要换工作，他们就搬走了。社区的人员不稳定。有的已经在这儿住了很久了，像埃姆林小姐，学校教师，弗格森医生。但是整体来说还是有一些流动性。”
“我同意您说的，” 赫尔克里•波洛说，“这太残忍了。我希望您能告诉我这里有哪些比较歹毒的人。”
“对啊，”斯彭斯说，“每个人都会首先想到这一点，对吧？然后找一个做过类似事情的坏小子。谁会想去掐死、溺死或者摆脱一个年仅十三岁的小女孩儿呢？看起来没有性骚扰或者类似情况的迹象，人们往往会最先想到这方面。现在每个小城镇和农村都发生过不少这种事。又说到这儿了，我还是觉得比我年轻的时候发生得多。那时也有被称为精神错乱或者什么的人，但是没有现在这么多。我猜有很多应该受监管的人被放了出来。我们的精神病院都满员了，超负荷了，所以医生说‘让他（她）去过正常生活吧，回家跟他的亲戚一起住吧’之类的。所以这类残忍的人——或者说可怜的人，看你从什么角度看了——又控制不了自己的欲望了，就这样，一个年轻女人出去散步然后尸体在采砾坑被发现了，要不就是傻乎乎地上了别人的车。或者孩子放学后没有回家，把之前的警告都抛到脑后，搭陌生人的车走了。现在这种事太多了。”
“这些情况跟这次案件相符吗？”
“呃，这是首先会想到的情况。”斯彭斯说，“晚会上某个人有了这种动机，我们可以推断。或许他以前做过，也许只是想做。简单地说他以前可能在什么地方有过侵犯儿童的经历。据我所知，所有的想法都不是凭空产生的。纯属个人观点。晚会上有两个人在这个年龄段。尼古拉斯•兰瑟姆，一个很帅气的小伙子，大概十七八岁。他的年龄比较符合。从东海岸还是什么地方来的，我记得。人好像很不错。看起来很正常，不过谁又知道呢？另一个是德斯蒙德，因为心理报告被关押过，不过我不想说这和案子有多大关系。应该是参加晚会的某个人干的，虽然我觉得任何人都可能从外面进来。举办晚会的时候门一般都开着，侧门或者侧面的窗户也开着。可能会有哪个不正常的人去凑热闹，悄悄溜进去。但这样很有风险。一个孩子，去参加晚会的孩子，会答应跟一个陌生人玩咬苹果的游戏吗？不管怎么样，波洛，你还没解释为什么你参与进来了呢。你说因为奥利弗夫人。是她什么异想天开的想法？”
“算不上异想天开。”波洛说，“的确，作家总有一些异想天开的想法。那些想法或许完全没有可能性。但是这次只是她听到那个女孩儿说的一些话。”
“什么话？那个乔伊斯说的？”
“是的。”
斯彭斯身体往前倾，探寻地看着波洛。
“我这就告诉您。”波洛说。
他平静简洁地把奥利弗夫人告诉他的故事给斯彭斯复述了一遍。
“我明白了，”斯彭斯说，捻着胡须，“那个女孩儿说的那些，是吧？她说她曾经见过一场谋杀。她说了谋杀发生的时间或方式了吗？”
“没说。”波洛说。
“她怎么提起这个的？”
“我觉得是关于奥利弗夫人书里的谋杀案引起来的。有人对奥利弗夫人说了一些关于她的书的评价，大概是说她写的故事不够血腥，尸体不够多。然后乔伊斯开口说她曾经见过一次谋杀。”
“吹牛呢吧？听完你的话我这么觉得。”
“奥利弗夫人当时也这么觉得。没错，她在吹牛。”
“可能不是真的吧？”
“对，有可能根本不是真的，”波洛说。
“孩子们为了引人注意或者制造某种效应经常会说一些夸大其词的言论。但另一方面，也可能是真的。你是这么认为的吧？”
“我不确定。”波洛说，“一个孩子炫耀说她曾经见过一场谋杀，仅仅几小时后那个孩子就被杀了。您必须承认有理由相信那是真的。尽管或许有些牵强，但是有可能是因果关系。如果是真的，那么就是有人等不及了。”
“的确。”斯彭斯说，“那个女孩儿提起谋杀案的时候有多少人在场呢，你知道准确人数吗？”
“奥利弗夫人说她知道的大概有十四五个人，或者更多点儿。五六个孩子，五六个准备晚会的大人。但是具体的信息我还得仰仗您了。”
“哦，那倒不难。”斯彭斯说，“我现在还不知道，但是从当地人那里很容易打听出来。
至于这个晚会本身，我现在已经知道得很清楚了。晚会上大部分是女人。父亲很少参加孩子们的晚会，但是有时候他们会进去看看，或者接孩子回家。弗格森医生在那儿，教区牧师在那儿。其他的还有母亲、姑姑阿姨们、社区工作人员，两名教师。哦，我可以给你列一个名单，还有大概十四个孩子。最小的还不到十岁，正在奔向青少年的行列。”
“我猜您肯定知道他们之中谁有嫌疑。”波洛说。
“可是，如果你觉得那件事是真的的话，事情就不太简单了。”
“您是说您不再寻找可能进行性侵犯的人员，而是开始寻找一个曾经杀过人却没被发现的人。那个人从没想过会东窗事发，因此非常震惊。”
“不管是什么情况，上帝保佑我知道是谁干的。”斯彭斯说，“我不认为这附近有杀人犯，当然也没什么引人注意的杀人手法。”
“任何地方都可能有杀人犯，”波洛说，“或者我应该说，看起来不像杀人犯的人实际上可能就是。因为看起来不像杀人犯的人不会轻易被怀疑。很可能没什么证据能证明他犯过案，所以当他知道作案时被人发现了，对这种杀人犯肯定是一个沉重的打击。”
“为什么乔伊斯当时什么都没说呢？这是我想知道的。你觉得是有人给了她封口费吗？
当然那样太冒险了。”
“不是，”波洛说，“从奥利弗夫人提到的情况我推断，当她看到的时候，她并没有意识到那是谋杀。”
“哦，这是最不可能的了。”斯彭斯说。
“不一定。”波洛说，“这话是一个年仅十三岁的孩子说的。她在回忆她以前见过的一些事情。我们不知道事情的确切时间。可能是三年甚至四年前。她可能见到了一些事情，但是当时并不知道事情的真实意义。很多事情会有这种情况，亲爱的。比如一场古怪的车祸。一个司机开车直直撞向某人，那个人受伤或者死了。一个孩子可能意识不到那是蓄意的。但是有人说了一些话，或者一两年后她看到或听到的一些事情唤醒了她的记忆，她开始怀疑：‘A或B是故意那么做的。’‘或许那是谋杀，不仅是一场事故。’还有许多别的可能性。我承认，其中有一些可能性是奥利弗夫人提出的，她能轻而易举地提出十几种不同的见解。尽管大多可能性不大，但是，每一种仍有微弱的可能。比如在某人的茶水中下药。
大概就是类似的推断，在危险的地点推了某人一把。这附近没有悬崖，对类似的推论来说太遗憾了。也可能是某个谋杀故事唤起了她对那场事故的回忆。那场事故一直让她迷惑，直到有一天她看到一个故事，说：‘啊，那场事故可能就是这样这样发生的。我怀疑他或她是不是故意的？’是的，这有很多可能性。”
“你是过来调查这些可能性的？”
“我觉得这符合公众利益，您觉得呢？”波洛说。
“啊，我们就是为公众服务的，是吧，你和我？”
“您至少可以给我提供一些信息，”波洛说，“您了解这儿的人。”
“我会尽力的。”斯彭斯说，“我也会说服埃尔斯佩斯参与进来，这里很少有她不知道的人或事。”
Six
Six
Satisfied with what he had achieved, Poirot took leave of his friend.
The information he wanted would be forthcoming—he had no doubt as to that. He had gotSpence interested. And Spence, once set upon a trail, was not one to relinquish it. His reputation asa retired high- ranking officer of the C.I.D. would have won him friends in the local policedepartments concerned.
And next—Poirot consulted his watch—he was to meet Mrs. Oliver in exactly ten minutes’ timeoutside a house called Apple Trees. Really, the name seemed uncannily appropriate.
Really, thought Poirot, one didn’t seem able to get away from apples. Nothing could be moreagreeable than a juicy English apple—And yet here were apples mixed up with broomsticks, andwitches, and old-fashioned folklore, and a murdered child.
Following the route indicated to him, Poirot arrived to the minute outside a red brick Georgianstyle house with a neat beech hedge enclosing it, and a pleasant garden showing beyond.
He put his hand out, raised the latch and entered through the wrought iron gate which bore apainted board labelled “Apple Trees.” A path led up to the front door. Looking rather like one ofthose Swiss clocks where figures come out automatically of a door above the clock face, the frontdoor opened and Mrs. Oliver emerged on the steps.
“You’re absolutely punctual,” she said breathlessly. “I was watching for you from the window.”
Poirot turned and closed the gate carefully behind him. Practically on every occasion that he hadmet Mrs. Oliver, whether by appointment or by accident, a motif of apples seemed to beintroduced almost immediately. She was either eating an apple or had been eating an apple—witness an apple core nestling on her broad chest—or was carrying a bag of apples. But todaythere was no apple in evidence at all. Very correct, Poirot thought approvingly. It would have beenin very bad taste to be gnawing an apple here, on the scene of what had been not only a crime buta tragedy. For what else can it be but that? thought Poirot. The sudden death of a child of onlythirteen years old. He did not like to think of it, and because he did not like to think of it he was allthe more decided in his mind that that was exactly what he was going to think of until by somemeans or other, light should shine out of the darkness and he should see clearly what he had comehere to see.
“I can’t think why you wouldn’t come and stay with Judith Butler,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Insteadof going to a fifth-class guest house.”
“Because it is better that I should survey things with a certain degree of aloofness,” said Poirot.
“One must not get involved, you comprehend.”
“I don’t see how you can avoid getting involved,” said Mrs. Oliver. “You’ve got to seeeveryone and talk to them, haven’t you?”
“That most decidedly,” said Poirot.
“Who have you seen so far?”
“My friend, Superintendent Spence.”
“What’s he like nowadays?” said Mrs. Oliver.
“A good deal older than he was,” said Poirot.
“Naturally,” said Mrs. Oliver, “what else would you expect? Is he deafer or blinder or fatter orthinner?”
Poirot considered.
“He has lost a little weight. He wears spectacles for reading the paper. I do not think he is deaf,not to any noticeable extent.”
“And what does he think about it all?”
“You go too quickly,” said Poirot.
“And what exactly are you and he going to do?”
“I have planned my programme,” said Poirot. “First I have seen and consulted with my oldfriend. I asked him to get me, perhaps, some information that would not be easy to get otherwise.”
“You mean the police here will be his buddies and he’ll get a lot of inside stuff from them?”
“Well, I should not put it exactly like that, but yes, those are the lines along which I have beenthinking.”
“And after that?”
“I come to meet you here, Madame. I have to see just where this thing happened.”
Mrs. Oliver turned her head and looked up at the house.
“It doesn’t look the sort of house there’d be a murder in, does it?” she said.
Poirot thought again: What an unerring instinct she has!
“No,” he said, “it does not look at all that sort of a house. After I have seen where, then I gowith you to see the mother of the dead child. I hear what she can tell me. This afternoon my friendSpence is making an appointment for me to talk with the local inspector at a suitable hour. Ishould also like a talk with the doctor here. And possibly the headmistress at the school. At sixo’clock I drink tea and eat sausages with my friend Spence and his sister again in their house andwe discuss.”
“What more do you think he’ll be able to tell you?”
“I want to meet his sister. She has lived here longer than he has. He came here to join her whenher husband died. She will know, perhaps, the people here fairly well.”
“Do you know what you sound like?” said Mrs. Oliver. “A computer. You know. You’reprogramming yourself. That’s what they call it, isn’t it? I mean you’re feeding all these things intoyourself all day and then you’re going to see what comes out.”
“It is certainly an idea you have there,” said Poirot, with some interest. “Yes, yes, I play the partof the computer. One feeds in the information—”
“And supposing you come up with all the wrong answers?” said Mrs. Oliver.
“That would be impossible,” said Hercule Poirot. “Computers do not do that sort of a thing.”
“They’re not supposed to,” said Mrs. Oliver, “but you’d be surprised at the things that happensometimes. My last electric light bill, for instance. I know there’s a proverb which says ‘To err ishuman,’ but a human error is nothing to what a computer can do if it tries. Come on in and meetMrs. Drake.”
Mrs. Drake was certainly something, Poirot thought. She was a tall, handsome woman of forty-odd, her golden hair was lightly tinged with grey, her eyes were brilliantly blue, she oozedcompetence from the fingertips downwards. Any party she had arranged would have been asuccessful one. In the drawing room a tray of morning coffee with two sugared biscuits wasawaiting them.
Apple Trees, he saw, was a most admirably kept house. It was well furnished, it had carpets ofexcellent quality, everything was scrupulously polished and cleaned, and the fact that it had hardlyany outstanding object of interest in it was not readily noticeable. One would not have expected it.
The colours of the curtains and the covers were pleasant but conventional. It could have been letfurnished at any moment for a high rent to a desirable tenant, without having to put away anytreasures or make any alterations to the arrangement of the furniture.
Mrs. Drake greeted Mrs. Oliver and Poirot and concealed almost entirely what Poirot could nothelp suspecting was a feeling of vigorously suppressed annoyance at the position in which shefound herself as the hostess at a social occasion at which something as antisocial as murder hadoccurred. As a prominent member of the community of Woodleigh Common, he suspected thatshe felt an unhappy sense of having herself in some way proved inadequate. What had occurredshould not have occurred. To someone else in someone else’s house—yes. But at a party forchildren, arranged by her, given by her, organized by her, nothing like this ought to havehappened. Somehow or other she ought to have seen to it that it did not happen. And Poirot alsohad a suspicion that she was seeking round irritably in the back of her mind for a reason. Not somuch a reason for murder having taken place, but to find out and pin down some inadequacy onthe part of someone who had been helping her and who had by some mismanagement or somelack of perception failed to realize that something like this could happen.
“Monsieur Poirot,” said Mrs. Drake, in her fine speaking voice, which Poirot thought wouldcome over excellently in a small lecture room or the village hall, “I am so pleased you could comedown here. Mrs. Oliver has been telling me how invaluable your help will be to us in this terriblecrisis.”
“Rest assured, Madame, I shall do what I can, but as you no doubt realize from your experienceof life, it is going to be a difficult business.”
“Difficult?” said Mrs. Drake. “Of course it’s going to be difficult. It seems incredible, absolutelyincredible, that such an awful thing should have happened. I suppose,” she added, “the police mayknow something? Inspector Raglan has a very good reputation locally, I believe. Whether or notthey ought to call Scotland Yard in, I don’t know. The idea seems to be that this poor child’s deathmust have had a local significance. I needn’t tell you, Monsieur Poirot—after all, you read thepapers as much as I do—that there have been very many sad fatalities with children all over thecountryside. They seem to be getting more and more frequent. Mental instability seems to be onthe increase, though I must say that mothers and families generally are not looking after theirchildren properly, as they used to do. Children are sent home from school alone, on dark evenings,go alone on dark early mornings. And children, however much you warn them, are unfortunatelyvery foolish when it comes to being offered a lift in a smart-looking car. They believe what they’retold. I suppose one cannot help that.”
“But what happened here, Madame, was of an entirely different nature.”
“Oh, I know—I know. That is why I used the term incredible. I still cannot quite believe it,”
said Mrs. Drake. “Everything was entirely under control. All the arrangements were made.
Everything was going perfectly, all according to plan. It just seems—seems incredible. PersonallyI consider myself that there must be what I call an outside significance to this. Someone walkedinto the house—not a difficult thing to do under the circumstances—someone of highly disturbedmentality, I suppose, the kind of people who are let out of mental homes simply because there isno room for them there, as far as I can see. Nowadays, room has to be made for fresh patients allthe time. Anyone peeping in through a window could see a children’s party was going on, and thispoor wretch—if one can really feel pity for these people, which I really must say I find it very hardto do myself sometimes—enticed this child away somehow and killed her. You can’t think such athing could happen, but it did happen.”
“Perhaps you would show me where—”
“Of course. No more coffee?”
“I thank you, no.”
Mrs. Drake got up. “The police seem to think it took place while the Snapdragon was going on.
That was taking place in the dining room.”
She walked across the hall, opened the door and, rather in the manner of someone doing thehonours of a stately home to a party of charabanc goers, indicated the large dining table and theheavy velvet curtains.
“It was dark here, of course, except for the blazing dish. And now—”
She led them across the hall and opened the door of a small room with armchairs, sportingprints and bookshelves.
“The library,” said Mrs. Drake, and shivered a little. “The bucket was here. On a plastic sheet,of course—”
Mrs. Oliver had not accompanied them into the room. She was standing outside in the hall—“I can’t come in,” she said to Poirot. “It makes me think of it too much.”
“There’s nothing to see now,” said Mrs. Drake. “I mean, I’m just showing you where, as youasked.”
“I suppose,” said Poirot, “there was water—a good deal of water.”
“There was water in the bucket, of course,” said Mrs. Drake.
She looked at Poirot as though she thought that he was not quite all there.”
“And there was water on the sheet. I mean, if the child’s head was pushed under water, therewould be a lot of water splashed about.”
“Oh yes. Even while the bobbing was going on, the bucket had to be filled up once or twice.”
“So the person who did it? That person also would have got wet, one would think.”
“Yes, yes, I suppose so.”
“That was not specially noticed?”
“No, no, the Inspector asked me about that. You see, by the end of the evening nearly everyonewas a bit dishevelled or damp or floury. There doesn’t seem to be any useful clues there at all. Imean, the police didn’t think so.”
“No,” said Poirot. “I suppose the only clue was the child herself. I hope you will tell me all youknow about her.”
“About Joyce?”
Mrs. Drake looked slightly taken aback. It was as though Joyce in her mind had by nowretreated so far out of things that she was quite surprised to be reminded of her.
“The victim is always important,” said Poirot. “The victim, you see, is so often the cause of thecrime.”
“Well, I suppose, yes, I see what you mean,” said Mrs. Drake, who quite plainly did not. “Shallwe come back to the drawing room?”
“And then you will tell me about Joyce,” said Poirot.
They settled themselves once more in the drawing room.
Mrs. Drake was looking uncomfortable.
“I don’t know really what you expect me to say, Monsieur Poirot,” she said. “Surely allinformation can be obtained quite easily from the police or from Joyce’s mother. Poor woman, itwill be painful for her, no doubt, but—”
“But what I want,” said Poirot, “is not a mother’s estimate of a dead daughter. It is a clear,unbiased opinion from someone who has a good knowledge of human nature. I should say,Madame, that you yourself have been an active worker in many welfare and social fields here.
Nobody, I am sure, could sum up more aptly the character and disposition of someone whom youknow.”
“Well—it is a little difficult. I mean, children of that age—she was thirteen, I think, twelve orthirteen—are very much alike at a certain age.”
“Ah no, surely not,” said Poirot. “There are very great differences in character, in disposition.
Did you like her?”
Mrs. Drake seemed to find the question embarrassing.
“Well, of course I—I liked her. I mean, well, I like all children. Most people do.”
“Ah, there I do not agree with you,” said Poirot. “Some children I consider are mostunattractive.”
“Well, I agree, they’re not brought up very well nowadays. Everything seems left to the school,and of course they lead very permissive lives. Have their own choice of friends and—er—oh,really, Monsieur Poirot.”
“Was she a nice child or not a nice child?” said Poirot insistently.
Mrs. Drake looked at him and registered censure.
“You must realize, Monsieur Poirot, that the poor child is dead.”
“Dead or alive, it matters. Perhaps if she was a nice child, nobody would have wanted to killher, but if she was not a nice child, somebody might have wanted to kill her, and did so—”
“Well, I suppose—Surely it isn’t a question of niceness, is it?”
“It could be. I also understand that she claimed to have seen a murder committed.”
“Oh that,” said Mrs. Drake contemptuously.
“You did not take that statement seriously?”
“Well, of course I didn’t. It was a very silly thing to say.”
“How did she come to say it?”
“Well, I think really they were all rather excited about Mrs. Oliver being here. You are a veryfamous person, you must remember, dear,” said Mrs. Drake, addressing Mrs. Oliver.
The word “dear” seemed included in her speech without any accompanying enthusiasm.
“I don’t suppose the subject would ever have arisen otherwise, but the children were excited bymeeting a famous authoress—”
“So Joyce said that she had seen a murder committed,” said Poirot thoughtfully.
“Yes, she said something of the kind. I wasn’t really listening.”
“But you do remember that she said it?”
“Oh yes, she said it. But I didn’t believe it,” said Mrs. Drake. “Her sister hushed her up at once,very properly.”
“And she was annoyed about that, was she?”
“Yes, she went on saying that it was true.”
“In fact, she boasted about it.”
“When you put it that way, yes.”
“It might have been true, I suppose,” said Poirot.
“Nonsense! I don’t believe it for one minute,” said Mrs. Drake. “It’s the sort of stupid thingJoyce would say.”
“She was a stupid girl?”
“Well, she was the kind, I think, who liked to show off,” said Mrs. Drake. “You know, shealways wanted to have seen more or done more than other girls.”
“Not a very lovable character,” said Poirot.
“No indeed,” said Mrs. Drake. “Really the kind that you have to be shutting up all the time.”
“What did the other children who were here have to say about it? Were they impressed?”
“They laughed at her,” said Mrs. Drake. “So, of course, that made her worse.”
“Well,” said Poirot, as he rose, “I am glad to have your positive assurance on that point.” Hebowed politely over her hand. “Goodbye, Madame, thank you so much for allowing me to viewthe scene of this very unpleasant occurrence. I hope it has not recalled unpleasant memories toodefinitely to you.”
“Of course,” said Mrs. Drake, “it is very painful to recall anything of this kind. I had so hopedour little party would go off well. Indeed, it was going off well and everyone seemed to beenjoying it so much till this terrible thing happened. However, the only thing one can do is to tryand forget it all. Of course, it’s very unfortunate that Joyce should have made this silly remarkabout seeing a murder.”
“Have you ever had a murder in Woodleigh Common?”
“Not that I can remember,” said Mrs. Drake firmly.
“In this age of increased crime that we live in,” said Poirot, “that really seems somewhatunusual, does it not?”
“Well, I think there was a lorry driver who killed a pal of his—something like that—and a littlegirl whom they found buried in a gravel pit about fifteen miles from here, but that was years ago.
They were both rather sordid and uninteresting crimes. Mainly the result of drink, I think.”
“In fact, the kind of murder unlikely to have been witnessed by a girl of twelve or thirteen.”
“Most unlikely, I should say. And I can assure you, Monsieur Poirot, this statement that the girlmade was solely in order to impress friends and perhaps interest a famous character.” She lookedrather coldly across at Mrs. Oliver.
“In fact,” said Mrs. Oliver, “it’s all my fault for being at the party, I suppose.”
“Oh, of course not, my dear, of course I didn’t mean it that way.”
Poirot sighed as he departed from the house with Mrs. Oliver by his side.
“A very unsuitable place for a murder,” he said, as they walked down the path to the gate. “Noatmosphere, no haunting sense of tragedy, no character worth murdering, though I couldn’t helpthinking that just occasionally someone might feel like murdering Mrs. Drake.”
“I know what you mean. She can be intensely irritating sometimes. So pleased with herself andso complacent.”
“What is her husband like?”
“Oh, she’s a widow. Her husband died a year or two ago. He got polio and had been a cripplefor years. He was a banker originally, I think. He was very keen on games and sport and hatedhaving to give all that up and be an invalid.”
“Yes, indeed.” He reverted to the subject of the child Joyce. “Just tell me this. Did anyone whowas listening take this assertion of the child Joyce about murder seriously?”
“I don’t know. I shouldn’t have thought anyone did.”
“The other children, for instance?”
“Well, I was thinking really of them. No, I don’t think they believed what Joyce was saying.
They thought she was making up things.”
“Did you think that, too?”
“Well, I did really,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Of course,” she added, “Mrs. Drake would like tobelieve that the murder never really happened, but she can’t very well go as far as that, can she?”
“I understand that this may be painful for her.”
“I suppose it is in a way,” said Mrs. Oliver, “but I think that by now, you know, she is actuallygetting quite pleased to talk about it. I don’t think she likes to have to bottle it up all the time.”
“Do you like her?” asked Poirot. “Do you think she’s a nice woman?”
“You do ask the most difficult questions. Embarrassing ones,” said Mrs. Oliver. “It seems theonly thing you are interested in is whether people are nice or not. Rowena Drake is the bossy type—likes running things and people. She runs this whole place more or less, I should think. But runsit very efficiently. It depends if you like bossy women. I don’t much—”
“What about Joyce’s mother whom we are on our way to see?”
“She’s quite a nice woman. Rather stupid, I should think. I’m sorry for her. It’s pretty awful tohave your daughter murdered, isn’t it? And everyone here thinks it was a sex crime which makes itworse.”
“But there was no evidence of sexual assault, or so I understand?”
“No, but people like to think these things happen. It makes it more exciting. You know whatpeople are like.”
“One thinks one does—but sometimes—well—we do not really know at all.”
“Wouldn’t it be better if my friend Judith Butler was to take you to see Mrs. Reynolds? Sheknows her quite well, and I’m a stranger to her.”
“We will do as planned.”
“The Computer Programme will go on,” murmured Mrs. Oliver rebelliously.
第六章
第六章
达成目标，波洛心满意足地和朋友道别离开了。
他想要的信息马上就会被送来——这一点他毫不怀疑。他成功地引起了斯彭斯的兴趣。至于斯彭斯，一旦踏上调查之路，就绝不会半路撒手。而他作为刑事调查局的一名退休高官，在当地相关的警察部门肯定会交到不少朋友。
那么下一步——波洛看了看表——距离他和奥利弗夫人约定的见面时间正好还有十分钟，他们约定的地方是一栋叫“苹果林”的房子。说真的，这名字还真是出奇的巧合。
真的，波洛想，她和苹果还真是分不开。没什么比一个多汁的英国苹果更让人愉快的了——而现在，苹果和扫帚、女巫、古老的习俗，还有一个被害的孩子纠缠在一起。
沿着指给他的路径，波洛正好准时到达一座乔治王朝时期风格的红砖房子外，房子周围整齐地围了一圈榉木篱笆，里边有一座漂亮的花园。
他伸出手，抬起门闩，从锻铁大门走了进去，大门上挂着写有“苹果林”的牌子。一条小径直通前门。像一到整点自动从钟面的一个门里跳出来的小人儿一样，前门打开了，奥利弗夫人出来站在台阶上。
“你真是太准时了，”她上气不接下气地说，“我一直从窗户往外望你。”
波洛转过身，小心地把身后的门关好。他几乎每次见到奥利弗夫人，无论是约好了还是偶然碰到，总会马上看到苹果。她要不就是正在吃苹果，要不就是刚刚吃完苹果——可以从她宽广的胸膛上栖息的苹果核看出来——要不就是抱着一袋子苹果。但是今天这里看不到丝毫苹果的痕迹。这样才对，波洛满意地想。如果在这儿啃苹果的话，味道肯定特别糟糕，毕竟这里发生的不仅是犯罪，还是一场悲剧。因为除了悲剧还能是什么呢？波洛想。一个仅仅十三岁的女孩儿突然死亡。他不愿意去想，也正因为不愿意去想才更让他下定决心，他更要仔细考虑，直到通过一些手段，拨云见日，让他清楚地看到他来这里所要看到的东西。
“我想不明白为什么你不愿意住在朱迪思•巴特勒家，”奥利弗夫人问，“反而要去五等宾馆住。”
“因为我最好从一个超然的角度观察事情。”波洛说，“一个人只有置身其外，才能看得更全面。”
“我看不出来你怎么能置身事外。”奥利弗夫人说，“你得去找每个人，跟他们谈话，对吗？”
“那是肯定的。”波洛说。
“你都见过谁了？”
“我的朋友，斯彭斯警司。”
“他现在过得怎么样？”奥利弗夫人问。
“比他过去老太多了，”波洛说。
“那是自然，”奥利弗夫人说，“你还能指望怎么样？他是更聋了、更瞎了、更胖了还是更瘦了？”
波洛思索着。
“他稍微瘦了点儿。他看报纸要戴眼镜。我不觉得他耳聋，至少还没那么明显。”
“那他是怎么看这个案子的？”
“你跳过的太多了。”波洛说。
“那你和他究竟准备怎么做呢？”
“我已经有了计划，”波洛说，“首先我去见我的老朋友，征求他的意见。我请他帮我弄一些在别处或许很难获得的信息。”
“你是说这里的警局里有他的朋友，他能得到很多内部消息吗？”
“呃，我不该说得那么明确，不过，对，这是我的一个思路。”
“在那之后呢？”
“我来这里见你了，夫人。我必须看看事发现场。”
奥利弗夫人转过头，抬头看着这座房子。
“它看起来不像会发生命案的那种房子，是吧？”她问。
波洛再次感叹：多么准确的直觉呀！
“是的，”他说，“根本不像那类房子。我先去看看现场，然后我跟你去见一见被害者的母亲，听听她所知道的事情。斯彭斯帮我约了当地的督察，今天下午有空一起谈谈。我也想和这里的医生谈一谈，如果可能的话，还有学校的校长。六点钟去斯彭斯家，一边喝茶吃香肠，一边跟他和他妹妹讨论案情。”
“他还能告诉你什么呢？”
“我想见见他的妹妹。他妹妹比他在这里住的时间长。他是在他妹夫去世之后才搬来的。或许她对这里的人们很了解。”
“你知道你听起来像什么吗？”奥利弗夫人说，“一台计算机。你知道吗，你正在给自己编程序。他们是这么说的吧？我是指你整天把这些东西输入自己的脑子里，然后等着结果出来。”
“这当然又是你冒出来的想法。”波洛颇有兴趣地说，“对，对，我扮演计算机的角色，有人输入信息——”
“如果你得出的是错误的答案呢？”奥利弗夫人说。
“那不可能，”赫尔克里•波洛说，“计算机从不犯错。”
“它们不应该犯错，”奥利弗夫人说，“但是有时候事情会出乎你的意料。比如，我上次的电费单就出错了。我知道有一句谚语‘人孰能无过’，但是人犯的错误和计算机出错相比就不值一提了。进来见一见德雷克夫人吧。”
德雷克夫人肯定是个人物，波洛想。她是一个高挑健美的女人，四十出头，金黄的头发淡淡地染了一层灰色，眼睛湛蓝明亮，从头到脚都透出精明能干的气息。她组织的每一场晚会都取得了成功。客厅里迎接他们的是摆在托盘里的晨间咖啡和甜饼干。
在波洛看来苹果林是一栋打理得特别好的房子。房间装修精美，地毯品质优良，摆设一尘不染。事实上，屋里很难找出什么出众的物品，但是这点很少被注意到。人们很少往那方面去想。窗帘和桌布的颜色都很传统，但是看着赏心悦目。这里可以随时装修一下，高价租给出得起价的房客，而不必收起一些贵重物品，或者调整家具的摆放。
德雷克夫人问候了奥利弗夫人和波洛，之后把所有的情绪都隐藏起来。波洛忍不住猜测，那是一种强烈的隐忍的恼怒，因为她作为社会活动的举办者，却发现活动中发生了谋杀这种反社会的活动。波洛怀疑，德雷克夫人作为伍德利社区的优秀成员，却在某些方面被证明她不够称职，这让她很不高兴。发生在别人身上、别人家里——无所谓；但是一个孩子的晚会上，还是她安排、并组织举办的，这种事情不应该发生。或者她应该在未发生之前就发现它。波洛还怀疑她仍急切地在脑中搜寻一个原因。不一定是谋杀发生的原因，而是确定晚会帮忙的人是否存在一些不足，或者是否有一些错误的安排，或者因为疏忽而没发现事情的苗头等。
“波洛先生，”德雷克夫人说，声音非常动听，波洛觉得如果是在小教室或者乡村礼堂里听会更悠扬，“我很高兴您能来这儿。奥利弗夫人一直告诉我，您会在这次难关中给我们很大的帮助。”
“放心，夫人，我会竭尽全力的，但是毫无疑问，正如您根据您的人生经验所意识到的那样，这案子很难解决。”
“难？”德雷克夫人说，“当然困难重重。这不可思议，太不可思议了，竟然发生了那么可怕的事情。我猜，”她补充道，“警察可能知道一些事情吧？拉格伦督察在这里声誉很好，我相信。我不知道他们是不是要让伦敦警察厅介入，因为这个孩子的死在当地好像引起了很大的反响。不需要我告诉您，波洛先生——毕竟您看的报纸不比我少——孩子被杀的案件在乡村时有发生，而且好像越来越多、越来越频繁了。心理不稳定的人好像越来越多，尽管我必须说，现在的母亲和家庭对孩子的照顾不如以前到位了。孩子们要在漆黑的夜晚独自回家或者蒙蒙亮的早上独自上学。而且孩子，无论你怎么警告他们，当有一辆漂亮的小汽车停下，有人邀请他们搭车的时候，都会把一切警告抛之脑后。他们相信那些陌生人说的话。我想那就没人能管得了了。”
“但是夫人，在这里发生的一切，跟那些性质完全不同。”
“哦，我知道——我知道。这也是我为什么说不可思议。我到现在还不敢相信发生的这一切，”德雷克夫人说，“所有的事情都在掌控之中。一切都安排得有条不紊，事情进行得也很顺利，都是按计划来的。似乎太——太不可思议了。从我个人来说，我觉得肯定是有外来者的介入。在那种环境下很容易有不速之客走进房子——那个人有严重的精神问题，我猜，他刚从精神病院出来，据我所知只是因为里面人太满了，容不下他们了。现在病房总要为新病人腾出来。那个人从窗户看见里面正为孩子开晚会，然后这个可怜的倒霉蛋——如果有人真的同情他们的话，我觉得我自己很难做到——把那个孩子引诱出去并杀了她。我们都觉得这种事情不可能发生，可它就是发生了。”
“也许您能领我去案发现场——”
“当然可以。再来点儿咖啡吗？”
“谢谢您，不用了。”
德雷克夫人站起来。“警察好像认为案子发生在我们玩抓火龙的时候。抓火龙是在餐厅玩儿的。”
她穿过大厅，打开餐厅的门，然后以女主人向参观团的游客展示自己华贵的家的姿态，指点着宽大的餐桌还有厚重的天鹅绒窗帘。
“那时屋里是黑的，当然，除了燃烧的盘子。接下来——”
她领着他们穿过大厅，打开了一个小屋的门。屋里放着几把扶手椅，墙上贴着体育海报，周围立着几个书架。
“藏书室，”德雷克夫人说，身体稍微有些颤抖，“水桶放在这儿，当然，下面铺着塑料布。”
奥利弗夫人没有陪他们一起进去，她在外面大厅等着。
“我不能进去，”她对波洛说，“那会让我回想起太多。”
“这儿没什么看的了。”德雷克夫人说，“我是说，我只是给您看看事发现场，如您所要求的那样。”
“我猜，”波洛说，“这里有水，很多水。”
“桶里有水，当然。”德雷克夫人说。
她看着波洛，好像觉得他心不在焉似的。
“塑料布上也有水。我是说，孩子的头被摁进水桶里，会有很多水溢出来。”
“哦，对，在玩咬苹果的时候还往桶里加了一两次水呢。”
“所以干那件事儿的人呢？那个人肯定都湿透了，我们可以猜测。”
“对，是的，我也那么觉得。”
“这方面没有特别引人注意的吗？”
“没，没有，督察也问过我。您知道，到那天晚上的时候，基本每个人都有些衣衫不整，衣服湿了或者沾上了面粉。这方面好像没有明显的线索。我是指，警察这么认为。”
“乔伊斯的情况呢？”
德雷克夫人好像有些吃惊。就好像在她的心目中乔伊斯已经退到了很远的一个角落，以至于当有人再次提起乔伊斯的时候她很吃惊。
“被害人一直很重要，”波洛说，“被害人，您知道，往往是犯罪的起因。”
“好吧，我猜，是的，我明白您说的。”德雷克夫人说，而她看起来很明显不明白，“咱们回客厅好吗？”
“然后您告诉我一些乔伊斯的情况。”波洛说。
他们再次坐在了客厅。
德雷克夫人看起来很不舒服。
“我真不明白您想让我说什么，波洛先生。”她说，“那些情况肯定很容易从警察或者乔伊斯的妈妈那里得到。可怜的女人，她肯定特别痛苦，毫无疑问，但是——”
“但是我想知道的，”波洛说，“不是母亲对她死去女儿的评价，而是一位了解人性的人清晰、没有偏见的看法。我应该说，夫人，您在慈善和社会活动中一直很积极。我肯定，您对一个人性格脾气的评价是最适宜的，没有人能与您相比了。”
“好吧。这有些困难。我是说，那个年龄的孩子——十三岁，我觉得，十二三岁——同一个年龄段的孩子都很像。”
“啊，不，当然不是，”波洛说，“在性格、脾气方面都有很大区别。您喜欢她吗？”
德雷克夫人看起来觉得这个问题很尴尬。
“呃，当然，我……我喜欢她。我是指，嗯，所有的孩子我都喜欢。大部分人都是。”
“啊，我不同意您这种说法，”波洛说，“我觉得有些孩子很不招人喜欢。”
“好吧，我同意，现在的孩子教养不是很好，家长把所有的事情都丢给了学校，而在学校他们过得很随意。他们可以自由地选择朋友，并且——呃，哦，真的，波洛先生。”
“她是不是一个好孩子？”波洛坚持问道。
德雷克夫人满是责备地看着他。
“您必须意识到，波洛先生，那个可怜的孩子已经死了。”
“不管她是活着还是死了，这个问题都很关键。如果她是一个好孩子，那么就没有人想要杀死她，而如果她是个坏孩子，那么很有可能有人想要杀死她，并且付诸行动了——”
“好吧，我想——这当然不是好坏的问题，是吗？”
“也可能。我还得知她声明说她看到过一起谋杀案。”
“哦，那个呀。”德雷克夫人轻蔑地说。
“您没把那句话当真？”
“嗯，我当然没有。她说的都是傻话。”
“她怎么说起这个的？”
“好吧，我觉得她们真的因为奥利弗夫人在场而特别兴奋。你是一个名人，你得记住，亲爱的。”德雷克夫人向奥利弗夫人说道。
“亲爱的”这个词在她的言辞中不包含一点儿热情。
“我觉得这个话题在别的场合都提不起来。孩子们见到一位有名的女作家都特别兴奋——”
“所以乔伊斯就说出了她曾经见过一场谋杀。”波洛思索着说。
“是的，她说了一些类似的话。我没怎么听。”
“但是您确实记得她那么说过？”
“哦，对，她说了。但是我不相信。”德雷克夫人说，“她姐姐马上就让她闭嘴，这才对。”
“然后她对此很恼怒，是吗？”
“是的，她继续说那是真的。”
“实际上，她是在吹牛。”
“您要这么说的话，是的。”
“但也可能是真的，我猜。”波洛说。
“胡说！我从没相信过。”德雷克夫人说，“只有乔伊斯会做这种蠢事儿。”
“她很蠢吗？”
“好吧，她是那种，我觉得，爱炫耀的人。”德雷克夫人说，“您知道，她总是希望比别的女孩儿见的或做的更多。”
“不是非常讨喜的性格。”波洛说。
“的确不讨喜，”德雷克夫人说，“就是那种你一直想让她闭嘴的类型。”
“在场的别的孩子听了她的话说什么了？他们信不信？”
“他们嘲笑她了，”德雷克夫人说，“所以，当然，让她更生气了。”
“好的，”波洛一边说一边站起来，“我很高兴在这一点上能知道您明确的态度。”他有礼貌地鞠了一躬。“再见，夫人，非常感谢您让我查看事故现场。我希望不会让您想起太多不愉快的回忆。”
“当然，”德雷克夫人说，“回忆起这些事情太痛苦了。我是那么希望这个小小的晚会能顺利完满。的确，晚会进行得很顺利，每个人看起来都玩得很开心，直到那件恐怖的事情发生。然而，我唯一能做的就是试着忘记这件事。当然，很不幸，乔伊斯说了那些关于见过谋杀的话。”
“伍德利社区曾经发生过谋杀吗？”
“我记得没有。”德雷克夫人坚定地说。
“在我们这个犯罪率上升的时代，”波洛说，“这看起来有些不太正常，是吧？”
“嗯，我想起来有一个卡车司机杀了他的一个同事——大概是这样吧——还有一个小女孩儿被发现埋在离这儿十五英里外的砾石坑里，但那是几年前的事了。都是些很卑鄙、没什么意思的案件。都是醉鬼干的，我觉得。”
“而事实上，这种案件都不可能被一个十二三岁的女孩儿看见。”
“很不可能，我想。而且我可以向您保证，波洛先生，那个女孩儿所说的那些都是为了哗众取宠，吸引她的朋友和一位名人的注意。”她冷冷地看向奥利弗夫人。
“归根结底，”奥利弗夫人说，“我猜都怪我，我不该出现在晚会上。”
“哦，当然不是，亲爱的，我绝不是那个意思。”
波洛一边叹气，一边和奥利弗夫人一起离开了。
“一个非常不适合谋杀的地方，”他边说边沿着小路走向大门，“没有气氛，没有萦绕心头的悲伤，也没有值得谋杀的对象。尽管我有时候禁不住想，有人会想要杀死德雷克夫人。”
“我明白你的意思。她有时候太容易激怒人了。总是洋洋自得、目中无人。”
“她丈夫是个什么样的人？”
“哦，她是寡妇。她的丈夫一两年前去世了。他得了脊髓灰质炎，跛了很多年。我记得他以前是个银行家，喜欢体育比赛和运动。他讨厌成为残疾人，并且不得不放弃那些体育活动。”
“是的，确实。”他返回关于乔伊斯的话题，“你就告诉我，在场听到的人里有没有把乔伊斯的那番话当真的？”
“我不知道，我认为没有。”
“那其他孩子呢？”
“嗯，我正在想他们。没有，我觉得他们都不相信乔伊斯说的。他们认为是她瞎编的。”
“你也是那么认为的，是吗？”
“对，我真那么想。”奥利弗夫人说，“当然，”她补充道，“德雷克夫人更愿意相信谋杀没有发生过，她接受不了这个事实，不是吗？”
“我能理解，这对她来说很难受。”
“在某种程度上吧。”奥利弗夫人说，“但是我现在觉得，你知道吗，她实际上很乐意谈这些。我觉得她不会想把那些话都闷在心里。”
“你喜欢她吗？”波洛问，“你觉得她是个友好的人吗？”
“这个问题太难回答了，让人尴尬。”奥利弗夫人说，“看起来你唯一感兴趣的就是一个人是好人还是坏人。罗伊娜•德雷克是那种喜欢发号施令的类型——喜欢支配人和事物。从某种程度上说，她掌管着这个社区。但是管理得很有成效。这要看你是否喜欢强势的女人了。我不是很——”
“我们现在要去见的乔伊斯的母亲是什么样的呢？”
“她挺善良的。有些笨。我为她难过，女儿被杀是件非常可怕的事，不是吗？这里的人们都认为是强奸案，这让情况更糟糕。”
“但是现场没有性侵犯的迹象吧，我理解得没错吧？”
“没错，但是人们愿意去想象有这类事情发生。那样更刺激。你知道人们就是这样。”
“人们觉得自己知道——但是有时——呃，我们根本一点儿也不了解。”
“让我的朋友朱迪思•巴特勒带你去见雷诺兹夫人好吗？她们俩很熟，而我们根本就算不认识。”
“我们还是按计划进行吧。”
“计算机程序继续运行。”奥利弗夫人小声地反抗道。
Seven
Seven
Mrs. Reynolds was a complete contrast to Mrs. Drake. There was no air of poised competenceabout her, nor indeed was there ever likely to be.
She was wearing conventional black, had a moist handkerchief clasped in her hand and wasclearly prepared to dissolve into tears at any moment.
“It’s very kind of you, I’m sure,” she said to Mrs. Oliver, “to bring a friend of yours down hereto help us.” She put a damp hand into Poirot’s and looked at him doubtfully. “And if he can helpin any way I’m sure I’ll be very grateful, though I don’t see what anyone can do. Nothing willbring her back, poor child. It’s awful to think of. How anyone could deliberately kill anyone ofthat age. If she had only cried out—though I suppose he rammed her head under water straightaway and held it there. Oh, I can’t bear to think of it. I really can’t.”
“Indeed, Madame, I do not want to distress you. Please do not think of it. I only want to ask youa few questions that might help—help, that is, to find your daughter’s murderer. You’ve no ideayourself, I suppose, who it can possibly be?”
“How could I have any idea? I shouldn’t have thought there was anyone, anyone living here, Imean. This is such a nice place. And the people living here are such nice people. I suppose it wasjust someone—some awful man who came in through one of the windows. Perhaps he’d takendrugs or something. He saw the light and that it was a party, so he gate-crashed.”
“You are quite sure that the assailant was male?”
“Oh, it must have been.” Mrs. Reynolds sounded shocked. “I’m sure it was. It couldn’t havebeen a woman, could it?”
“A woman might have been strong enough.”
“Well, I suppose in a way I know what you mean. You mean women are much more athleticnowadays and all that. But they wouldn’t do a thing like this, I’m sure. Joyce was only a child—thirteen years old.”
“I don’t want to distress you by staying here too long, Madame, or to ask you difficultquestions. That already, I am sure, the police are doing elsewhere, and I don’t want to upset youby dwelling on painful facts. It was just concerning a remark that your daughter made at the party.
You were not there yourself, I think?”
“Well, no, I wasn’t. I haven’t been very well lately and children’s parties can be very tiring. Idrove them there, and then later I came back to fetch them. The three children went together, youknow. Ann, that’s the older one, she is sixteen, and Leopold who is nearly eleven. What was itJoyce said that you wanted to know about?”
“Mrs. Oliver, who was there, will tell you what your daughter’s words were exactly. She said, Ibelieve, that she had once seen a murder committed.”
“Joyce? Oh, she couldn’t have said a thing like that. What murder could she possibly have seencommitted?”
“Well, everyone seems to think it was rather unlikely,” said Poirot. “I just wondered if youthought it likely. Did she ever speak to you about such a thing?”
“Seeing a murder? Joyce?”
“You must remember,” said Poirot, “that the term murder might have been used by someone ofJoyce’s age in a rather loose way. It might have been just a question of somebody being run overby a car, or of children fighting together perhaps and one pushing another into a stream or over abridge. Something that was not meant seriously, but which had an unfortunate result.”
“Well, I can’t think of anything like that happening here that Joyce could have seen, and shecertainly never said anything about it to me. She must have been joking.”
“She was very positive,” said Mrs. Oliver. “She kept on saying that it was true and that she’dseen it.”
“Did anyone believe her?” asked Mrs. Reynolds.
“I don’t know,” said Poirot.
“I don’t think they did,” said Mrs. Oliver, “or perhaps they didn’t want to—er—well, encourageher by saying they believed it.”
“They were inclined to jeer at her and say she was making it all up,” said Poirot, lesskindhearted than Mrs. Oliver.
“Well, that wasn’t very nice of them,” said Mrs. Reynolds. “As though Joyce would tell a lot oflies about things like that.” She looked flushed and indignant.
“I know. It seems unlikely,” said Poirot. “It was more possible, was it not, that she might havemade a mistake, that she might have seen something she did think could have been described as amurder. Some accident, perhaps.”
“She’d have said something about it to me, if so, wouldn’t she?” said Mrs. Reynolds, stillindignant.
“One would think so,” said Poirot. “She did not say so at any time in the past? You might haveforgotten. Especially if it wasn’t really important.”
“When do you mean?”
“We don’t know,” said Poirot. “That is one of the difficulties. It might have been three weeksago—or three years. She said she had been ‘quite young’ at the time. What does a thirteen-year-old consider quite young? There was no sensational happening round here that you can recall?”
“Oh, I don’t think so. I mean, you do hear of things. Or read about them in the papers. Youknow, I mean women being attacked, or a girl and her young man, or things like that. But nothingimportant that I can remember, nothing that Joyce took an interest in or anything of that kind.”
“But if Joyce said positively she saw a murder, would you think she really thought so?”
“She wouldn’t say so unless she really did think so, would she?” said Mrs. Reynolds. “I thinkshe must have got something mixed up really.”
“Yes, it seems possible. I wonder,” he asked, “if I might speak to your two children who werealso at the party?”
“Well, of course, though I don’t know what you can expect them to tell you. Ann’s doing herwork for her ‘A’ levels upstairs and Leopold’s in the garden assembling a model aeroplane.”
Leopold was a solid, pudgy-faced boy entirely absorbed, it seemed, in mechanical construction.
It was some few moments before he could pay attention to the questions he was being asked.
“You were there, weren’t you, Leopold? You heard what your sister said. What did she say?”
“Oh, you mean about the murder?” He sounded bored.
“Yes, that’s what I mean,” said Poirot. “She said she saw a murder once. Did she really see sucha thing?”
“No, of course she didn’t,” said Leopold. “Who on earth would she see murdered? It was justlike Joyce, that.”
“How do you mean, it was just like her?”
“Showing off,” said Leopold, winding round a piece of wire and breathing forcefully throughhis nose as he concentrated. “She was an awfully stupid sort of girl,” he added. “She’d sayanything, you know, to make people sit up and take notice.”
“So you really think she invented the whole thing?”
Leopold shifted his gaze to Mrs. Oliver.
“I expect she wanted to impress you a bit,” he said. “You write detective stories, don’t you? Ithink she was just putting it on so that you should take more notice of her than you did of theothers.”
“That would also be rather like her, would it?” said Poirot.
“Oh, she’d say anything,” said Leopold. “I bet nobody believed her though.”
“Were you listening? Do you think anyone believed it?”
“Well, I heard her say it, but I didn’t really listen. Beatrice laughed at her and so did Cathie.
They said ‘that’s a tall story,’ or something.”
There seemed little more to be got out of Leopold. They went upstairs to where Ann, lookingrather more than her sixteen years, was bending over a table with various study books spreadround her.
“Yes, I was at the party,” she said.
“You heard your sister say something about having seen a murder?”
“Oh yes, I heard her. I didn’t take any notice, though.”
“You didn’t think it was true?”
“Of course it wasn’t true. There haven’t been any murders here for ages. I don’t think there’sbeen a proper murder for years.”
“Then why do you think she said so?”
“Oh, she likes showing off. I mean she used to like showing off. She had a wonderful story onceabout having travelled to India. My uncle had been on a voyage there and she pretended she wentwith him. Lots of girls at school actually believed her.”
“So you don’t remember any what you call murders taking place here in the last three or fouryears?”
“No, only the usual kind,” said Ann. “I mean, the ones you read every day in the newspaper.
And they weren’t actually here in Woodleigh Common. They were mostly in Medchester, Ithink.”
“Who do you think killed your sister, Ann? You must have known her friends, you would knowany people who didn’t like her.”
“I can’t imagine who’d want to kill her. I suppose someone who was just batty. Nobody elsewould, would they?”
“There was no one who had—quarrelled with her or who did not get on with her?”
“You mean, did she have an enemy? I think that’s silly. People don’t have enemies really. Thereare just people you don’t like.”
As they departed from the room, Ann said:
“I don’t want to be nasty about Joyce, because she’s dead, and it wouldn’t be kind, but shereally was the most awful liar, you know. I mean, I’m sorry to say things about my sister, but it’squite true.”
“Are we making any progress?” said Mrs. Oliver as they left the house.
“None whatever,” said Hercule Poirot. “That is interesting,” he said thoughtfully.
Mrs. Oliver looked as though she didn’t agree with him.
第七章
第七章
雷诺兹夫人和德雷克夫人是完全相反的两个类型。她身上没有一点儿精明能干的影子，或许从来就没有过。
她穿着传统的黑色丧服，手里紧紧地攥着一块儿湿漉漉的手帕，很明显是准备擦拭随时会滚落下来的眼泪。
“太谢谢您了，”她对奥利弗夫人说，“把朋友带过来帮忙。”她向波洛伸出一只湿漉漉的手，怀疑地打量着他，“我非常感激，如果他能在某方面帮得上忙的话——尽管我觉得没人能帮上什么。怎么会有人忍心杀害一个小孩儿。如果她能喊出来就好了——不过我觉得那个人直接把她的头一直摁在水里了。哦，想起来我就受不了。我真不能再想了。”
“夫人，我真的不想让您难过。请您别再想了。我只想问您几个可能会有帮助的问题——我说的帮助，就是说，帮助找到杀害您女儿的凶手。我猜，您不知道凶手可能是谁吧？”
“我怎么会知道？我也不认为是任何人，我是指，住在这里的人。这是多么好的一个地方。而且住在这里的人们都很友善。我猜可能就是有人——一个可怕的人，从窗户钻进来了。也许他嗑了药或者什么。他看见灯光，知道那是一个晚会，于是就擅自闯了进来。”
“您很确定凶手是个男人？”
“哦，肯定是的。”雷诺兹夫人听起来很吃惊，“我肯定。不可能是个女人，怎么可能？”
“可能是一个力气很大的女人呢？”
“好吧，我有点儿明白您的意思了。您是说现在的女人比以前强壮些。但是她们肯定不会做这样的事情，我相信。乔伊斯还是一个孩子——才十三岁。”
“夫人，我不想在这儿打扰您太长时间，或者问您一些难以回答的问题。那些问题，我相信，警察已经问过了，我也不想在那些让人痛苦的事实上刨根问底。我想问的是您的女儿在晚会上说的一些话。您本人当时并不在场，是吗？”
“嗯，不在。我最近一直不太舒服，孩子们的晚会又非常累人。我开车把他们送到那儿，后来又开车去接她们，三个孩子一起去的，您知道。安是姐姐，十六岁了，利奥波德最小，快十一岁了。乔伊斯说了什么话让您想知道呢？”
“奥利弗夫人当时在场，稍后让她告诉您您的女儿具体说了什么。我相信，她说她曾经见过一场谋杀。”
“乔伊斯？哦，她不可能看见过那样的事情。什么样的谋杀可能会被她撞见呢？”
“好吧，似乎所有人都觉得不可能，”波洛说，“我只是想知道您是否觉得有些可能。她以前跟您提过类似的事情吗？”
“见过谋杀？乔伊斯？”
“您得记着，”波洛说，“谋杀这个字眼儿很可能会被乔伊斯这个年龄的孩子滥用。很可能只是有人被车撞了，或者一群孩子一起打闹，或者有人把一个人推下水或者推下桥之类的。那些事情可能不是故意的，但是造成的结果很不幸。”
“呃，我想不出来乔伊斯可能看到过类似的事情，而且，她没对我说过任何相关的情况。她一定是开玩笑呢。”
“她非常肯定，”奥利弗夫人说，“她坚持说是真的，她亲眼见过。”
“有人相信她吗？”雷诺兹夫人问道。
“我不知道。”波洛说。
“我认为他们不相信，”奥利弗夫人说，“或者他们不想——呃，嗯，因为说相信她而鼓励她接着说下去。”
“他们嘲笑她，说她是瞎编的。”波洛说，他可不像奥利弗夫人那么好心。
“哎，他们太不友善了，”雷诺兹夫人说，“好像乔伊斯在这种事上会撒个大谎似的。”她愤愤不平地说，脸也气红了。
“我知道。那听起来很不可能，”波洛说，“更可能的是，她犯了一个错误，对吗？她可能看到了一些事情，她认为可以当成‘谋杀’。一场事故，也许。”
“如果是那样，她应该会跟我说的，不是吗？”雷诺兹夫人还是有些愤慨。
“应该会，”波洛说，“她过去从来没说过？也许是您忘了。尤其是那件事不怎么重要的时候。”
“您是指什么时候？”
“我们也不清楚，”波洛说，“这是其中一个难题。可能是三个星期，也可能是三年之前。她说她那时候还‘太小’。一个十三岁的孩子认为她还‘太小’的时候是什么时候？您能想起这附近发生过什么比较轰动的事儿吗？”
“哦，我觉得没有。我是指，确实会听说或者从报纸上读到一些事情。您知道，我指女人受到袭击，或者女孩儿和她的小男友之类的。但是我想不起有什么重要的事件，没什么会让乔伊斯特别感兴趣的事件。”
“但是如果乔伊斯非常肯定地说她见过一场谋杀，您认为她是真的那么觉得吗？”
“如果她不是真的那么认为，她是不会说的，是吧？”雷诺兹夫人说，“我觉得她肯定是把事情弄混了。”
“是的，很有可能。我想问，”波洛问，“我能跟参加晚会的其他两个孩子谈谈吗？”
“嗯，当然。尽管我不知道您希望他们能告诉您什么。安在楼上为争取‘优秀’做功课，利奥波德在花园里组装飞机模型呢。”
利奥波德是个敦实的、脸蛋儿胖乎乎的男孩儿，他看起来完全沉浸在机械结构中。过了好一会儿，他才注意到问他的问题。
“你在现场，是吗，利奥波德？你听到你姐姐说的话了。她说了什么？”
“哦，你说关于谋杀的那些啊？”他听起来十分厌烦。
“是的，我就是指那个。”波洛说，“她说她看见过一场谋杀。她真的见过类似的事情吗？”
“没有，她当然没有。”利奥波德说，“她到底看见谁被杀了？那是乔伊斯的作风，就那样。”
“乔伊斯的作风，什么意思？”
“炫耀呗。”利奥波德说，他集中精神缠着一根电线，鼻子里喘着粗气，“她是那种特别蠢的人，”他补充道，“为了吸引别人的注意，她会说任何话。”
“所以你觉得这整件事都是她编出来的？”
利奥波德把目光转向奥利弗夫人。
“我觉得她想要引起您的注意。”他说，“您写侦探小说，是吗？我想她编这些东西只是为了让您多注意她。”
“这也是她的作风，是吗？”波洛说。
“哦，她什么都说。”利奥波德说，“我打赌没人相信她。”
“你当时听到了吗？你觉得有人相信吗？”
“好吧，我听到她说了，但是其实没听进去。比阿特丽斯嘲笑她，凯西也是。她们说‘那是个荒诞的故事’什么的。”
似乎不能从利奥波德那儿得到更多信息了。他们上楼去找安。安看起来要比她的实际年龄成熟，她弯腰坐在桌子旁，身边放着各种教材。
“是的，我当时在晚会上。”她说。
“你听到你妹妹说看到过一场谋杀的话了吗？”
“哦是的，我听到她说了。但是我没往心里去。”
“你觉得那不是真的？”
“当然不是真的。这里很长时间都没发生过谋杀案了。我觉得这几年都没有真正的谋杀案发生。”
“那你觉得她为什么那么说呢？”
“哦，她喜欢炫耀。我是说她以前爱炫耀。她还有一段去印度旅行的精彩故事呢。我叔叔曾经去过印度，她就假装自己和他一起去了。学校里许多女孩儿都相信她了。”
“所以你不记得最近三四年附近发生过可以称之为谋杀案的事件了？”
“没有，只有一些平常的。”安说，“我是指，您天天在报纸上看到的那些。而且那些也不是在伍德利社区发生的。大多数发生在曼彻斯特。”
“你觉得是谁害了你妹妹呢，安？你肯定认识她的朋友，你知不知道有谁不喜欢她？”
“我想象不出来有谁想要杀了她。我猜是个疯疯癫癫的人。正常人不会，不是吗？”
“有没有人和她——吵过架或者跟她合不来？”
“你是说，她有没有敌人？我觉得这问题很傻。人们没有真正的敌人，只有你不喜欢的人。”
当他们离开房间的时候，安说：“我不想说乔伊斯的坏话，因为她已经死了，那样不好。但是她真的经常说谎。我是说，这样说自己的妹妹我很难过，可这确实是真的。”
“我们有什么进展吗？”离开的时候奥利弗夫人问。
“一点儿也没有，”赫尔克里•波洛说，“这很有意思。”他若有所思地说。
奥利弗夫人似乎不觉得有意思。
Eight
Eight
It was six o’clock at Pine Crest. Hercule Poirot put a piece of sausage into his mouth and followedit up with a sip of tea. The tea was strong and to Poirot singularly unpalatable. The sausage, on theother hand, was delicious. Cooked to perfection. He looked with appreciation across the table towhere Mrs. McKay presided over the large brown teapot.
Elspeth McKay was as unlike her brother, Superintendent Spence, as she could be in every way.
Where he was broad, she was angular. Her sharp, thin face looked out on the world with shrewdappraisal. She was thin as a thread, yet there was a certain likeness between them. Mainly the eyesand the strongly marked line of the jaw. Either of them, Poirot thought, could be relied upon forjudgement and good sense. They would express themselves differently, but that was all.
Superintendent Spence would express himself slowly and carefully as the result of due thoughtand deliberation. Mrs. McKay would pounce, quick and sharp, like a cat upon a mouse.
“A lot depends,” said Poirot, “upon the character of this child. Joyce Reynolds. This is whatpuzzles me most.”
He looked inquiringly at Spence.
“You can’t go by me,” said Spence, “I’ve not lived here long enough. Better ask Elspeth.”
Poirot looked across the table, his eyebrows raised inquiringly. Mrs. McKay was sharp as usualin response.
“I’d say she was a proper little liar,” she said.
“Not a girl whom you’d trust and believe what she said?”
Elspeth shook her head decidedly.
“No, indeed. Tell a tall tale, she would, and tell it well, mind you. But I’d never believe her.”
“Tell it with the object of showing off?”
“That’s right. They told you the Indian story, didn’t they? There’s many as believed that, youknow. Been away for the holidays, the family had. Gone abroad somewhere. I don’t know if it washer father and mother or her uncle and aunt, but they went to India and she came back from thoseholidays with tall tales of how she’d been taken there with them. Made a good story of it, she did.
A Maharajah and a tiger shoot and elephants—ah, it was fine hearing and a lot of those around herhere believed it. But I said straight along, she’s telling more than ever happened. Could be, Ithought at first, she was just exaggerating. But the story got added to every time. There were moretigers, if you know what I mean. Far more tigers than could possibly happen. And elephants, too,for that matter. I’d known her before, too, telling tall stories.”
“Always to get attention?”
“Aye, you’re right there. She was a great one for getting attention.”
“Because a child told a tall story about a travel trip she never took,” said SuperintendentSpence, “you can’t say that every tall tale she told was a lie.”
“It might not be,” said Elspeth, “but I’d say the likelihood was that it usually would be.”
“So you think that if Joyce Reynolds came out with a tale that she’d seen a murder committed,you’d say she was probably lying and you wouldn’t believe the story was true?”
“That’s what I’d think,” said Mrs. McKay.
“You might be wrong,” said her brother.
“Yes,” said Mrs. McKay. “Anyone may be wrong. It’s like the old story of the boy who cried‘Wolf, wolf,’ and he cried it once too often, when it was a real wolf, and nobody believed him,and so the wolf got him.”
“So you’d sum it up—”
“I’d still say the probabilities are that she wasn’t speaking the truth. But I’m a fair woman. Shemay have been. She may have seen something. Not quite so much as she said she saw, butsomething.”
“And so she got herself killed,” said Superintendent Spence. “You’ve got to mind that, Elspeth.
She got herself killed.”
“That’s true enough,” said Mrs. McKay. “And that’s why I’m saying maybe I’ve misjudged her.
And if so, I’m sorry. But ask anyone who knew her and they’ll tell you that lies came natural toher. It was a party she was at, remember, and she was excited. She’d want to make an effect.”
“Indeed, they didn’t believe her,” said Poirot.
Elspeth McKay shook her head doubtfully.
“Who could she have seen murdered?” asked Poirot.
He looked from brother to sister.
“Nobody,” said Mrs. McKay with decision.
“There must have been deaths here, say, over the last three years.”
“Oh that, naturally,” said Spence. “Just the usual—old folks or invalids or what you’d expect—or maybe a hit-and-run motorist—”
“No unusual or unexpected deaths?”
“Well—” Elspeth hesitated. “I mean—”
Spence took over.
“I’ve jotted a few names down here.” He pushed the paper over to Poirot. “Save you a bit oftrouble, asking questions around.”
“Are these suggested victims?”
“Hardly as much as that. Say within the range of possibility.”
Poirot read aloud.
“Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe. Charlotte Benfield. Janet White. Lesley Ferrier—” He broke off,looked across the table and repeated the first name. Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe.
“Could be,” said Mrs. McKay. “Yes, you might have something there.” She added a word thatsounded like “opera.”
“Opera?” Poirot looked puzzled. He had heard of no opera.
“Went off one night, she did,” said Elspeth, “was never heard of again.”
“Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe?”
“No, no. The opera girl. She could have put something in the medicine easily enough. And shecame into all the money, didn’t she—or so she thought at the time?”
Poirot looked at Spence for enlightenment.
“And never been heard of since,” said Mrs. McKay. “These foreign girls are all the same.”
The significance of the word “opera” came to Poirot.
“An au pair girl,” he said.
“That’s right. Lived with the old lady, and a week or two after the old lady died, the au pair girljust disappeared.”
“Went off with some man, I’d say,” said Spence.
“Well, nobody knew of him if so,” said Elspeth. “And there’s usually plenty to talk about here.
Usually know just who’s going with who.”
“Did anybody think there had been anything wrong about Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe’s death?”
asked Poirot.
“No. She’d got heart trouble. Doctor attended her regularly.”
“But you headed your list of possible victims with her, my friend?”
“Well, she was a rich woman, a very rich woman. Her death was not unexpected but it wassudden. I’d say offhand that Dr. Ferguson was surprised, even if only slightly surprised. I think heexpected her to live longer. But doctors do have these surprises. She wasn’t one to do as the doctorordered. She’d been told not to overdo things, but she did exactly as she liked. For one thing, shewas a passionate gardener, and that doesn’t do heart cases any good.”
Elspeth McKay took up the tale.
“She came here when her health failed. She was living abroad before. She came here to be nearher nephew and niece, Mr. and Mrs. Drake, and she bought the Quarry House. A big Victorianhouse which included a disused quarry which attracted her as having possibilities. She spentthousands of pounds on turning that quarry into a sunk garden or whatever they call the thing. Hada landscape gardener down from Wisley or one of these places to design it. Oh, I can tell you, it’ssomething to look at.”
“I shall go and look at it,” said Poirot. “Who knows—it might give me ideas.”
“Yes, I would go if I were you. It’s worth seeing.”
“And she was rich, you say?” said Poirot.
“Widow of a big shipbuilder. She had packets of money.”
“Her death was not unexpected because she had a heart condition, but it was sudden,” saidSpence. “No doubts arose that it was due to anything but natural causes. Cardiac failure, orwhatever the longer name is that doctors use. Coronary something.”
“No question of an inquest ever arose?”
Spence shook his head.
“It has happened before,” said Poirot. “An elderly woman told to be careful, not to run up anddown stairs, not to do any intensive gardening, and so on and so on. But if you get an energeticwoman who’s been an enthusiastic gardener all her life and done as she liked in most ways, thenshe doesn’t always treat these recommendations with due respect.”
“That’s true enough. Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe made a wonderful thing of the quarry—or rather,the landscape artist did. Three or four years they worked at it, he and his employer. She’d seensome garden, in Ireland I think it was, when she went on a National Trust tour visiting gardens.
With that in mind, they fairly transformed the place. Oh yes, it has to be seen to be believed.”
“Here is a natural death, then,” said Poirot, “certified as such by the local doctor. Is that thesame doctor who is here now? And whom I am shortly going to see?”
“Dr. Ferguson—yes. He’s a man of about sixty, good at his job and well-liked here.”
“But you suspect that her death might have been murder? For any other reason than those thatyou’ve already given me?”
“The opera girl, for one thing,” said Elspeth.
“Why?”
“Well, she must have forged the Will. Who forged the Will if she didn’t?”
“You must have more to tell me,” said Poirot. “What is all this about a forged Will?”
“Well, there was a bit of fuss when it came to probating, or whatever you call it, the old lady’sWill.”
“Was it a new Will?”
“It was what they call—something that sounded like fish—a codi—a codicil.”
Elspeth looked at Poirot, who nodded.
“She’d made Wills before,” said Spence. “All much the same. Bequests to charities, legacies toold servants, but the bulk of her fortune always went to her nephew and his wife, who were hernear relatives.”
“And this particular codicil?”
“Left everything to the opera girl,” said Elspeth, “because of her devoted care and kindness.
Something like that.”
“Tell me, then, more about the au pair girl.”
“She came from some country in the middle of Europe. Some long name.”
“How long had she been with the old lady?”
“Just over a year.”
“You call her the old lady always. How old was she?”
“Well in the sixties. Sixty-five or six, say.”
“That is not so very old,” said Poirot feelingly.
“Made several Wills, she had, by all accounts,” said Elspeth. “As Bert has told you, all of themmuch the same. Leaving money to one or two charities and then perhaps she’d change the charitiesand some different souvenirs to old servants and all that. But the bulk of the money always went toher nephew and his wife, and I think some other old cousin who was dead, though, by the time shedied. She left the bungalow she’d built to the landscape man, for him to live in as long as he liked,and some kind of income for which he was to keep up the quarry garden and let it be walked in bythe public. Something like that.”
“I suppose the family claimed that the balance of her mind had been disturbed, that there hadbeen undue influence?”
“I think probably it might have come to that,” said Spence. “But the lawyers, as I say, got on tothe forgery sharply. It was not a very convincing forgery, apparently. They spotted it almost atonce.”
“Things came to light to show that the opera girl could have done it quite easily,” said Elspeth.
“You see, she wrote a great many of Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe’s letters for her and it seems Mrs.
Llewellyn-Smythe had a great dislike of typed letters being sent to friends or anything like that. Ifit wasn’t a business letter, she’d always say ‘write it in handwriting and make it as much like mineas you can and sign it with my name.’ Mrs. Minden, the cleaning woman, heard her say that oneday, and I suppose the girl got used to doing it and copying her employer’s handwriting and then itcame to her suddenly that she could do this and get away with it. And that’s how it all came about.
But as I say, the lawyers were too sharp and spotted it.”
“Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe’s own lawyers?”
“Yes. Fullerton, Harrison and Leadbetter. Very respectable firm in Medchester. They’d alwaysdone all her legal business for her. Anyway, they got experts on to it and questions were asked andthe girl was asked questions and got the wind up. Just walked out one day leaving half her thingsbehind her. They were preparing to take proceedings against her, but she didn’t wait for that. Shejust got out. It’s not so difficult, really, to get out of this country, if you do it in time. Why, you cango on day trips on the Continent without a passport, and if you’ve got a little arrangement withsomeone on the other side, things can be arranged long before there is any real hue and cry. She’sprobably gone back to her own country or changed her name or gone to friends.”
“But everyone thought that Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe died a natural death?” asked Poirot.
“Yes, I don’t think there was ever any question of that. I only say it’s possible because, as I say,these things have happened before where the doctor has no suspicion. Supposing that girl Joycehad heard something, had heard the au pair girl giving medicines to Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe, andthe old lady saying ‘this medicine tastes different to the usual one.’ Or ‘this has got a bitter taste’
or ‘it’s peculiar.’”
“Anyone would think you’d been there listening to things yourself, Elspeth,” saidSuperintendent Spence. “This is all your imagination.”
“When did she die?” said Poirot. “Morning, evening, indoors, out of doors, at home or awayfrom home?”
“Oh, at home. She’d come up from doing things in the garden one day, breathing rather heavily.
She said she was very tired and she went to lie down on her bed. And to put it in one sentence, shenever woke up. Which is all very natural, it seems, medically speaking.”
Poirot took out a little notebook. The page was already headed “Victims.” Under, he wrote,“No. 1. suggested, Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe.” On the next pages of his book he wrote down theother names that Spence had given him. He said, inquiringly:
“Charlotte Benfield?”
Spence replied promptly. “Sixteen-year-old shop assistant. Multiple head injuries. Found on afootpath near the Quarry Wood. Two young men came under suspicion. Both had walked out withher from time to time. No evidence.”
“They assisted the police in their inquiries?” asked Poirot.
“As you say. It’s the usual phrase. They didn’t assist much. They were frightened. Told a fewlies, contradicted themselves. They didn’t carry conviction as likely murderers. But either of themmight have been.”
“What were they like?”
“Peter Gordon, twenty-one. Unemployed. Had had one or two jobs but never kept them. Lazy.
Quite good-looking. Had been on probation once or twice for minor pilferings, things of that kind.
No record before of violence. Was in with a rather nasty lot of likely young criminals, but usuallymanaged to keep out of serious trouble.”
“And the other one?”
“Thomas Hudd. Twenty. Stammered. Shy. Neurotic. Wanted to be a teacher, but couldn’t makethe grade. Mother a widow. The doting mother type. Didn’t encourage girlfriends. Kept him asclose to her apron strings as she could. He had a job in a stationer’s. Nothing criminal knownagainst him, but a possibility psychologically, so it seems. The girl played him up a good deal.
Jealousy a possible motive, but no evidence that we could prosecute on. Both of them had alibis.
Hudd’s was his mother’s. She would have sworn to kingdom come that he was indoors with herall that evening, and nobody can say he wasn’t or had seen him elsewhere or in the neighbourhoodof the murder. Young Gordon was given an alibi by some of his less reputable friends. Not worthmuch, but you couldn’t disprove it.”
“This happened when?”
“Eighteen months ago.”
“And where?”
“In a footpath in a field not far from Woodleigh Common.”
“Three quarters of a mile,” said Elspeth.
“Near Joyce’s house—the Reynolds’ house?”
“No, it was on the other side of the village.”
“It seems unlikely to have been the murder Joyce was talking about,” said Poirot thoughtfully.
“If you see a girl being bashed on the head by a young man you’d be likely to think of murderstraight away. Not to wait for a year before you began to think it was murder.”
Poirot read another name.
“Lesley Ferrier.”
Spence spoke again. “Lawyer’s clerk, twenty-eight, employed by Messrs Fullerton, Harrisonand Leadbetter of Market Street, Medchester.”
“Those were Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe’s solicitors, I think you said.”
“Yes. Same ones.”
“And what happened to Lesley Ferrier?”
“He was stabbed in the back. Not far from the Green Swan Pub. He was said to have beenhaving an affair with the wife of the landlord, Harry Griffin. Handsome piece, she was, indeed stillis. Getting perhaps a bit long in the tooth. Five or six years older than he was, but she liked themyoung.”
“The weapon?”
“The knife wasn’t found. Les was said to have broken with her and taken up with some othergirl, but what girl was never satisfactorily discovered.”
“Ah. And who was suspected in this case? The landlord or the wife?”
“Quite right,” said Spence. “Might have been either. The wife seemed the more likely. She washalf gypsy and a temperamental piece. But there were other possibilities. Our Lesley hadn’t led ablameless life. Got into trouble in his early twenties, falsifying his accounts somewhere. With aspot of forgery. Was said to have come from a broken home and all the rest of it. Employers spokeup for him. He got a short sentence and was taken on by Fullerton, Harrison and Leadbetter whenhe came out of prison.”
“And after that he’d gone straight?”
“Well, nothing proved. He appeared to do so as far as his employers were concerned, but he hadbeen mixed up in a few questionable transactions with his friends. He’s what you might call awrong ’un but a careful one.”
“So the alternative was?”
“That he might have been stabbed by one of his less reputable associates. When you’re in with anasty crowd you’ve got it coming to you with a knife if you let them down.”
“Anything else?”
“Well, he had a good lot of money in his bank account. Paid in in cash, it had been. Nothing toshow where it came from. That was suspicious in itself.”
“Possibly pinched from Fullerton, Harrison and Leadbetter?” suggested Poirot.
“They say not. They had a chartered accountant to work on it and look into things.”
“And the police had no idea where else it might have come from?”
“No.”
“Again,” said Poirot, “not Joyce’s murder, I should think.”
He read the last name, “Janet White.”
“Found strangled on a footpath which was a short cut from the schoolhouse to her home. Sheshared a flat there with another teacher, Nora Ambrose. According to Nora Ambrose, Janet Whitehad occasionally spoken of being nervous about some man with whom she’d broken off relations ayear ago, but who had frequently sent her threatening letters. Nothing was ever found out aboutthis man. Nora Ambrose didn’t know his name, didn’t know exactly where he lived.”
“Aha,” said Poirot, “I like this better.”
He made a good, thick black tick against Janet White’s name.
“For what reason?” asked Spence.
“It is a more likely murder for a girl of Joyce’s age to have witnessed. She could haverecognized the victim, a schoolteacher whom she knew and who perhaps taught her. Possibly shedid not know the attacker. She might have seen a struggle, heard a quarrel between a girl whomshe knew and a strange man. But thought no more of it than that at the time. When was JanetWhite killed?”
“Two and a half years ago.”
“That again,” said Poirot, “is about the right time. Both for not realizing that the man she mayhave seen with his hands round Janet White’s neck was not merely necking her, but might havebeen killing her. But then as she grew more mature, the proper explanation came to her.”
He looked at Elspeth. “You agree with my reasoning?”
“I see what you mean,” said Elspeth. “But aren’t you going at all this the wrong way round?
Looking for a victim of a past murder instead of looking for a man who killed a child here inWoodleigh Common not more than three days ago?”
“We go from the past to the future,” said Poirot. “We arrive, shall we say, from two and a halfyears ago to three days ago. And, therefore, we have to consider—what you, no doubt, havealready considered—who was there in Woodleigh Common amongst the people who were at theparty who might have been connected with an older crime?”
“One can narrow it down a bit more than that now,” said Spence. “That is if we are right inaccepting your assumption that Joyce was killed because of what she claimed earlier in the dayabout seeing murder committed. She said those words during the time the preparations for theparty were going on. Mind you, we may be wrong in believing that that was the motive for killing,but I don’t think we are wrong. So let us say she claimed to have seen a murder, and someone whowas present during the preparations for the party that afternoon could have heard her and acted assoon as possible.”
“Who was present?” said Poirot. “You know, I presume.”
“Yes, I have the list for you here.”
“You have checked it carefully?”
“Yes, I’ve checked and re-checked, but it’s been quite a job. Here are the eighteen names.”
List of people present during preparation for Hallowe’en PartyMrs. Drake (owner of house)
Mrs. Butler
Mrs. Oliver
Miss Whittaker (schoolteacher)
Rev. Charles Cotterell (Vicar)
Simon Lampton (Curate)
Miss Lee (Dr. Ferguson’s dispenser)
Ann Reynolds
Joyce Reynolds
Leopold Reynolds
Nicholas Ransom
Desmond Holland
Beatrice Ardley
Cathie Grant
Diana Brent
Mrs. Garlton (household help)
Mrs. Minden (cleaning woman)
Mrs. Goodbody (helper)
“You are sure these are all?”
“No,” said Spence. “I’m not sure. I can’t really be sure. Nobody can. You see, odd peoplebrought things. Somebody brought some coloured light bulbs. Somebody else supplied somemirrors. There were some extra plates. Someone lent a plastic pail. People brought things,exchanged a word or two and went away again. They didn’t remain to help. Therefore such aperson could have been overlooked and not remembered as being present. But that somebody,even if they had only just deposited a bucket in the hall, could have overheard what Joyce wassaying in the sitting room. She was shouting, you know. We can’t really limit it to this list, but it’sthe best we can do. Here you are. Take a look at it. I’ve made a brief descriptive note against thenames.”
“I thank you. Just one question. You must have interrogated some of these people, those forinstance who were also at the party. Did anyone, anyone at all, mention what Joyce had said aboutseeing a murder?”
“I think not. There is no record of it officially. The first I heard of it is what you told me.”
“Interesting,” said Poirot. “One might also say remarkable.”
“Obviously no one took it seriously,” said Spence.
Poirot nodded thoughtfully.
“I must go now to keep my appointment with Dr. Ferguson, after his surgery,” he said.
He folded up Spence’s list and put it in his pocket.
第八章

第八章
下午六点，松冠居。赫尔克里•波洛把一片香肠送进嘴里，然后抿了一口茶。茶太浓了，非常不合他的口味。而香肠却非常美味，做得太完美了。他感激地看着桌子对面拿着棕色大茶壶的麦凯夫人。
埃尔斯佩斯•麦凯跟她的哥哥斯彭斯警司要多不像有多不像。他长得宽阔的地方，她就长得瘦削。她的脸又尖又瘦，看一切仿佛都带着精明的审视。她瘦成了一条线，但是他们之间还是有某种相似之处。主要是眼睛，还有下巴处强硬的线条。他们每一个，波洛心想，都能做出正确的判断和准确的推理。他们的表达方式也许不同，但仅此而已。斯彭斯警司会深思熟虑之后缓慢认真地说出自己的意见，麦凯夫人却会马上出击，快速犀利，像猫扑向老鼠一样。
“很多事情取决于，”波洛说，“这个孩子的性格。乔伊斯•雷诺兹。这是最让我迷惑的。”
他询问地看着斯彭斯。
“你问我也没用，”斯彭斯说，“我在这儿住的时间太短了。你最好问埃尔斯佩斯。”
波洛看向桌子对面，眉毛因为疑问而扬了起来。麦凯夫人的回答跟平时一样一针见血。
“我得说她是个名副其实的小骗子。”她说。
“她说的话你都不会相信？”
“不会，肯定。她会说一些荒诞不经的故事，还说得有头有尾。提醒您一下，反正我从来不相信她说的。”
“她那么说的目的是炫耀？”
“很正确。他们告诉您那个印度的故事了吗？有很多人相信了，您知道。她和家人一起去度假，去了国外的某个地方。我忘了是和她的父母还是叔叔阿姨去的了，反正他们去了印度，假期之后她就带回了那些关于她如何被带到那儿去的离奇故事。故事编得有声有色，真的。见到印度的国王，开枪打死一只老虎，还有看到很多大象——啊，听起来跟真的似的，她周围很多人都相信了。但是恕我直言，她越讲数量越多。我最初想，她可能只是有些夸大。可她每讲一次，数量就增加一点。越来越多的老虎，如果您能明白我的意思。打死那么多的老虎真让人难以置信。同样，大象也是，越来越多。我这才知道，她之前所说的也是在编故事。”
“都是为了吸引注意力？”
“啊，你说对了。她特别希望吸引别人的注意。”
“你不能因为一个孩子说了一个关于旅行的谎言，就说她讲过的夸张的事都是谎言。”斯彭斯警司说。
“可能不都是，”埃尔斯佩斯说，“但是我觉得是谎言的可能性很大。”
“所以如果乔伊斯•雷诺兹说她曾经见过一场谋杀，那么您会认为她很可能是在说谎，不会相信她的话是真的，对吗？”
“我就是这么想的。”麦凯夫人说。
“也许你错了。”她哥哥说。
“是的，”麦凯夫人说，“每个人都可能会犯错。就像故事里那个男孩儿总大喊‘狼来啦，狼来啦’，当狼真的来了的时候已经没有人相信他了，于是他被狼吃掉了。”
“所以您的意思是——”
“我还是认为她没有说实话，但我是个公正的人。她可能没说谎，也许她看到了什么东西，不像她说得那么夸张，但是她确实看到了什么。”
“于是她给自己招来了杀身之祸。”斯彭斯警司说，“不要忘了，埃尔斯佩斯，她最后遇害了。”
“这是事实，”麦凯夫人说，“所以我才说也许我误会她了，如果是那样，我很抱歉。但是你去问问任何认识她的人，他们都会告诉你，说谎对她来说是信手拈来。她当时在参加一个晚会，别忘了，她很兴奋。她想要引起轰动。”
“确实，他们都不相信。”波洛说。
埃尔斯佩斯•麦凯疑虑重重地摇了摇头。
“她看到的被谋杀的人可能是谁呢？”波洛问。
他看看哥哥，又看看妹妹。
“没有人。”麦凯夫人坚定地说。
“附近肯定有人去世吧，我们就说过去这三年。”
“哦，那自然，”斯彭斯说，“只是平常的——老人、病人，还有一些你能预料到的——或者被车撞死的——”
“没有不寻常的或者意料之外的？”
“呃——”埃尔斯佩斯犹豫道，“我是说——”
斯彭斯插进话来。
“我在这儿简单记了几个人名。”他把一张纸递给波洛，“省得你到处去问了。”
“这些可能是被害人吗？”
“不会有那么多。只是一个参考范围。”
波洛大声读出来。
“卢埃林-史密斯夫人。夏洛特•本菲尔德。珍妮特•怀特。莱斯利•费里尔——”他停了一下，看向桌子对面，然后重复第一个名字，“卢埃林-史密斯夫人。”
“有可能，”麦凯夫人说，“是的，也许能从里面查出点儿什么。”她又说了一个词，听起来像“呼唤声”。
“呼唤声？”波洛一脸疑惑。他没听见什么呼唤声。
“有一天晚上她离开了，走了。”埃尔斯佩斯说，“以后就再没听说过她。”
“卢埃林-史密斯夫人？”
“不，不，那个‘呼唤声’女孩儿。她能轻而易举地往药里加点儿东西，然后她就能拿到那些财产，不是吗——或许她这么想过吧？”
波洛看向斯彭斯寻求解释。
“从那以后就没有她的消息了，”麦凯夫人说，“那些外国女孩儿都一样。”
波洛恍然大悟，明白了“呼唤声”到底是什么。
“一个互换生女孩儿。”他说。
“对。跟老太太一起住，老太太死后一两周，那个互换生女孩儿就消失了。”
“是跟某个男人私奔了，我敢说。”斯彭斯说。
“但如果是那样，怎么会没人知道他是谁呢？”埃尔斯佩斯说，“一般都会有很多流言，说谁要跟谁走了。”
“有人觉得卢埃林-史密斯夫人的死有什么不妥之处吗？”波洛问。
“没有，她患有心脏病，定期看医生。”
“但是老朋友，您为什么把她列在了名单首位？”
“哦，她很有钱，非常富有。她的死虽然并不出人意料，但是非常突然。我得说毫无预兆，弗格森医生就吃了一惊，虽然只是稍微有些惊讶。我猜在他的预期里，她还能活得更长些。但是医生也免不了会吃惊。她不是个乖乖遵医嘱的人。医生告诉她不要过度劳累，可她仍然随心所欲。比如，她非常热衷园艺，那对她的心脏并不好。”
埃尔斯佩斯•麦凯接过话茬说道：“她是在身体状况很不好的时候才搬到这儿来的。之前住在国外。她搬来这儿是为了离她的侄子和侄媳妇近点儿，就是德雷克夫妇。她买了石矿府，一座维多利亚式的大房子，吸引她的是里面一个废弃的采矿场。她花了数千英镑把那个采矿场打造成了一个地下花园，大概是这么叫的。她从威斯利还是哪儿请的一位造园师设计的。哦，我跟您说，那个地方值得一看。”
“我会去看看的，”波洛说，“谁知道呢——也许它能给我点儿灵感。”
“对啊，如果我是你，我会去看看。很值得一去。”
“您刚才说，她很有钱？”波洛问。
“一个大型造船商的遗孀。她有成袋成袋的钱。”
“她的死并不意外，因为她有心脏病，但是她的死很突然。”斯彭斯说，“没人怀疑她不是自然死亡。心脏衰竭，或者医生们说的一长串的什么名词，冠状动脉什么的。”
“也从没提出过验尸吗？”
斯彭斯摇了摇头。
“以前也发生过这种事，”波洛说，“一个老太太被叮嘱说行动要小心，不能来回上下楼，不能干高强度的园艺活计，等等。但是如果碰上一个精力充沛的老太太，她一生热衷于园艺，大多数时候都是随心所欲，那么她自然不会把那些嘱咐放在心里。”
“完全正确。卢埃林-史密斯夫人把一个采矿场建成了那么美妙的花园——或者说是造园师弄的。他和他的雇主忙活了三四年。她曾经见过很多园林，在爱尔兰，我觉得。她在一次国家信托旅行活动中参观了很多园林。以此为蓝图，他们彻底改造了那片地方。哦，对，眼见为实。”
“那么这是自然死亡，”波洛说，“当地医生证实了这个说法。现在这里的医生还是那个人吗？就是我一会儿要去见的那个医生？”
“弗格森医生——是的。他快六十了，医术精湛，在这里颇受爱戴。”
“但是您怀疑她的死可能是谋杀，是吗？还有什么原因您没告诉我呢？”
“首先，是那个互换生女孩儿。”埃尔斯佩斯说。
“为什么？”
“嗯，她肯定伪造了遗嘱。如果不是她，还能有谁呢？”
“您说得详细点儿，”波洛说，“伪造遗嘱，到底怎么回事？”
“好吧，遗嘱检验的时候出了一些麻烦，随便你怎么称呼它，那个老太太的遗嘱。”
“那是一份新遗嘱？”
“他们称它——听起来像什么鱼——捕鱼——补遗。”
埃尔斯佩斯看看波洛，见他点了点头。
“她以前立过遗嘱，”斯彭斯说，“大体都差不多。捐给慈善机构的，给老仆人的，但是大部分她的财产都是留给她的侄子和他妻子的，他们是她的近亲。”
“那这个特别的补遗呢？”
“把所有的财产都留给那个互换生女孩儿了，”埃尔斯佩斯说，“因为她的悉心照顾和善良美好。大概是这么写的。”
“那么，多告诉我一些这个互换生女孩儿的情况。”
“她来自中欧的某个国家，名字特别长。”
“她和老太太一起住了多久？”
“刚一年多点儿。”
“您总叫她老太太。她到底多大岁数？”
“六十好几了。大概六十五六。”
“也不是特别老。”波洛感慨道。
“加起来算，她立过好几份遗嘱了，”埃尔斯佩斯说，“像伯特告诉你的那样，基本大同小异。捐些钱给一两个慈善机构，有时候会换成别的慈善机构，或者把留给老仆人的纪念品换成其他东西什么的。但是大部分钱都留给她的侄子和侄媳妇，可能还有一个老表妹，但是那个人比她去世得还早。她把她建的一栋平房留给了造园师，让他想住多久就住多久，还给他一笔钱来维护采矿场花园，让人们参观。就是这类内容。”
“我猜她的家人一定是称她的心智突然紊乱失衡才造成了这样糟糕的结果吧？”
“我觉得可能这么提过，”斯彭斯说，“但是律师，像我说的那样，很快就把矛头对准了遗嘱是仿造的。那份遗嘱并不让人信服，很明显。他们马上就辨认出来了。”
“而有证据显示那个互换生女孩儿能很轻易地做到这一点，”埃尔斯佩斯说，“您知道吗，她替卢埃林-史密斯夫人写了很多信，而且卢埃林-史密斯夫人好像特别不喜欢用打字机给朋友写信。如果不是商业信函，她都会说：‘你替我写吧，越像我的字越好，替我签上名字。’明登夫人，她的清洁女工，有一天听到她这么说了。我觉得那个女孩儿已经习惯了替她写信，而且游刃有余。就这样，那个想法突然冒了出来。但是我说过，律师的眼太尖了，马上就发现了。”
“卢埃林-史密斯夫人的私人律师？”
“是的，富勒顿、哈里森和莱德贝特，他们的事务所在曼彻斯特很有名。他们一直为她处理法律事务。无论如何，他们请了专家进行鉴别，提出了不少问题，那个女孩儿也一直被盘问，弄得紧张兮兮的。有一天她就走了，一半的东西都没收拾。他们还想进一步询问她，但是她已经溜走了，摆脱了那一切。离开了这个国家，只要选好了时间，说真的，并不太难。因为你不用护照就能在这片大陆进行一日游，如果你和那边的人稍稍安排一下——当然也可能是在有任何风吹草动之前就安排好了。她可能回了自己的国家，或者隐姓埋名，也可能投奔朋友去了。”
“但是所有人都认为卢埃林-史密斯夫人是自然死亡啊？”波洛问。
“是的，我不觉得这里面有什么问题，我只是说有可能。因为，我说过，这些事是在医生确定没有疑点之前发生的。我猜是乔伊斯听到了一些东西，比如那个互换生女孩儿给卢埃林-史密斯夫人端药，而老太太说‘这药喝着跟以前味道不一样’，或者‘这药苦味儿更大了’，或者‘药味儿真奇怪’之类的。”
“你这么说大家会以为你当时在场，埃尔斯佩斯，”斯彭斯警司说，“这都是你的想象。”
“她是什么时候死的？”波洛问，“早上还是晚上？在屋里还是外面？在家还是别的地方？”
“哦，在家。那天她从花园干活回来时，呼吸非常急促。她说她特别累，就去床上躺着了。总而言之，她再没醒过来。好像从医学角度说，非常正常。”
波洛拿出一个小笔记本。一页纸上已经写着“被害人”几个字。在下面，他写道：第一位可能的受害人，卢埃林-史密斯夫人。他在后面几页分别写上了斯彭斯提出的其他几个人。然后他询问道：“夏洛特•本菲尔德呢？”
斯彭斯马上回答：“十六岁，商店售货员，头部多处受伤。尸体是在采矿场树林附近的小路上发现的。嫌疑人是两个小伙子。他们都曾陪她出去过。但没有证据。”
“他们配合审讯吗？”波洛问。
“如你所说，都含糊其辞。他们不怎么配合，两人都吓坏了。说谎，还自相矛盾。虽然证据不足不能判定他们是嫌犯，但是也不排除他们中某个就是凶手。”
“他们都是什么样的人？”
“彼得•戈登，二十一岁。无业。曾有过一两份工作，但都时间不长就被辞退了。懒惰。外表不错。曾有一两次因小偷小摸被判缓刑察看。之前没有施暴记录。和一群青少年犯混在一起，但是总能从严重的纠纷中脱身。”
“另一个呢？”
“托马斯•赫德。二十岁。有些口吃。腼腆。容易过度焦虑。想做一名老师，可成绩不合格。母亲是寡妇，十分溺爱孩子。不鼓励他交女朋友，千方百计把他捆在身边。他在一家文具店工作。没有犯罪前科，但是有心理犯罪的可能。那个女孩儿把他玩弄得很苦。妒忌可能是一个动机，不过我们没有起诉的证据。两人都有不在场证明。赫德的母亲证明他不在现场，她指天发誓说她的儿子一整晚都和她在家。也没人证明他不在家，或者在别的地方见过他，或者他在现场附近。小戈登的一些狐朋狗友证明他不在场。不怎么可信，但是也无法反驳。”
“这是什么时候发生的？”
“十八个月之前。”
“地点呢？”
“离伍德利社区不远的一条田间小路上。”
“四分之三英里远。”埃尔斯佩斯说。
“离乔伊斯家——雷诺兹家近吗？”
“不近，在村子的另一边。”
“这看起来不像乔伊斯所说的谋杀案。”波洛若有所思地说道，“如果你看见一个小伙子使劲儿击打一个女孩儿的头部，你马上就能想到那是谋杀，不需要等一年的时间才想明白。”
波洛读出下一个名字。
“莱斯利•费里尔。”
斯彭斯又开口说道：“律师事务所职员，二十八岁，任职于曼彻斯特市场街的富勒顿、哈里森和莱德贝特律师事务所。”
“他们是卢埃林-史密斯夫人的法律顾问吧，我记得您提过。”
“是的，就是他们。”
“那莱斯利•费里尔出了什么事？”
“他被人从背后砍死了。在离绿天鹅旅店不远的地方。据说他跟房东哈里•格里芬的太太暧昧不清。她曾经是个美人，现在还风韵犹存。可能年纪有些大了，比他大五六岁，但是她就喜欢年轻人。”
“凶器呢？”
“没有找到作案的匕首。据说莱斯利跟她分手，和别的女孩儿好上了，但是很遗憾，一直都没弄清楚这个女孩儿是谁。”
“啊，那这个案子的嫌疑人是谁？房东或者他的妻子？”
“完全正确，”斯彭斯说，“很可能就是他们中的一个。妻子的嫌疑更大。她有一半吉卜赛血统，而且喜怒无常。不过也有其他可能。我们的莱斯利过去也不是完全清白的。二十来岁的时候卷入了一场麻烦，在某个地方做了假账，有了伪造罪的污点。据说他来自一个破碎的家庭，诸如此类。有雇主为他说话。他被判了短期徒刑，出狱后就进了富勒顿、哈里森和莱德贝特的律师事务所。”
“那之后他改邪归正了吗？”
“呃，不知道。据他的雇主所说他很规矩，但是他和他的朋友有几笔有问题的交易。你可以称他为问题青年，但是他行事很小心。”
“还有别的可能吗？”
“还可能是他那群没有信誉的狐朋狗友中的一个干的。在那么一个流氓团伙里，一旦你让他们失望了，就有可能有人在背后捅你一刀。”
“还有其他情况吗？”
“哦，他的银行账户里有很多钱。用现金存的。没有证据显示是哪儿来的。这本身就值得怀疑。”
“是偷的富勒顿、哈里森和莱德贝特的吗？”
“他们说不是。他们有注册会计师管理账目，并负责监督。”
“警察也不知道这笔钱可能是从什么地方来的吗？”
“不知道。”
“也不是。”波洛说，“不像是乔伊斯说的谋杀，我觉得。”
他念到最后一个名字：“珍妮特•怀特。”
“死在一条从校舍到她家的捷径上，被人掐死的。她和另一位老师，诺拉•安布罗斯合住一套公寓。据诺拉•安布罗斯说，珍妮特•怀特偶尔说过一个一年前就跟她分手的男人经常给她寄恐吓信，弄得她特别害怕。诺拉•安布罗斯不知道那个男人的名字，也不知道他的准确住址。”
“啊，”波洛说，“我觉得这个更有可能。”
他在珍妮特•怀特的名字前打了一个又粗又黑的勾。
“这更像乔伊斯那个年龄所能看到的谋杀。她可能认出了被害者，是她认识或者教过她的教师；她很可能不认识那个凶手。她可能看到两个人在扭打，或者听到她认识的人和一个陌生男人在吵架，但是在那个时候没有多想。珍妮特•怀特的被害时间是什么时候？”
“两年半之前。”
“同样，”波洛说，“时间也比较符合。那个年龄她还意识不到那个男人把手环绕着珍妮特•怀特的脖子不仅可能是相拥互吻，还可能是要掐死她。但是随着她逐渐懂事，她突然想到了更合理的解释。”
他看向埃尔斯佩斯。“您同意我的推理吗？”
“我明白您的意思，”埃尔斯佩斯说。“但是您这样不是太绕远了吗？去追查一桩过去的谋杀案，而不是去查三天前杀死伍德利社区那个孩子的凶手？”
“我们顺着过去追查未来，”波洛说，“也就是说，我们从两年半之前下手，一直追查到三天前。然后，因此，我们得考虑，毫无疑问，您已经思考过的——伍德利社区的这些人中谁可能和一桩旧案有牵连？”
“那现在我们可以把范围缩小一些了。”斯彭斯说，“前提是我们认为你的推论是正确的，也就是乔伊斯被杀的原因是她那天宣称见过一场谋杀，她是在为晚会做准备的时候说那些话的。提醒你，我们把这一点当作作案动机可能是错的，虽然我认为没有错。在这个基础上我们推断，她声称见过一场谋杀，而当时为晚会做准备的人中的某人听到了她的话，并且迫不及待地动手了。”
“都有谁在场？”波洛问，“我相信，您一定知道。”
“是的，我给你列了个名单。”
“您仔细核对过了吧？”
“是的，我检查了很多遍，但是这工作很麻烦，列出了十八个人名。”
万圣节前夜晚会准备期间在场人员名单德雷克夫人（主人）巴特勒夫人
奥利弗夫人
惠特克小姐（学校教师）
查尔斯•科特雷尔牧师（教区牧师）
西蒙•兰普顿（副牧师）
李小姐（弗格森医生的配药师）
安•雷诺兹
乔伊斯•雷诺兹
利奥波德•雷诺兹
尼古拉斯•兰瑟姆
德斯蒙德•霍兰德比阿特丽斯•阿德利
凯西•格兰特
戴安娜•布伦特
加尔顿夫人（家政服务）
明登夫人（女清洁工）
古德博迪夫人（帮工）
“您确定这是在场的所有人吗？”
“不，”斯彭斯说，“我不确定。我真的确定不了。没人能确定。你知道，会有人临时送各种东西，有人拿来一些彩灯，有人提供一些镜子，还有送盘子的，有拿来塑料桶的。那些人把东西拿过来，说了几句话，然后又走了。他们没留下来帮忙，所以这些人可能被忽视，想不起来他也在现场。但是有人，即使只是把水桶拿进大厅的工夫，也有可能听到乔伊斯在客厅说的话。她几乎是在大喊大叫。我们不能局限于这个名单，可我们只能做这么多。给你。你看一看。个别名字旁边我做了简单的描述。”
“非常感谢您。还有一个问题。您肯定问过当时在场的一些人了。有没有人，任何人，提起过关于乔伊斯说看到过谋杀案的事？”
“我觉得没有。没有任何官方记录。我是听你说才知道的。”
“很有意思，”波洛说，“这也很不寻常。”
“很明显没人把它当真。”斯彭斯说。
波洛若有所思地点了点头。
“我得去赴和弗格森医生的约会了，他应该做完手术了。”
他把斯彭斯给他的名单折起来放进口袋里。
Nine
Nine
Dr. Ferguson was a man of sixty, of Scottish extraction with a brusque manner. He looked Poirotup and down with shrewd eyes under bristling eyebrows, and said:
“Well, what’s all this about? Sit down. Mind that chair leg. The castor’s loose.
“I should perhaps explain,” said Dr. Ferguson. “Everybody knows everything in a place likethis. That authoress woman brought you down here as God’s greatest detective to puzzle policeofficers. That’s more or less right, isn’t it?”
“In part,” said Poirot. “I came here to visit an old friend ex-Superintendent Spence, who liveswith his sister here.”
“Spence? Hm. Good type, Spence. Bulldog breed. Good honest police officer of the old type.
No graft. No violence. Not stupid either. Straight as a die.”
“You appraise him correctly.”
“Well,” said Ferguson, “what did you tell him and what did he tell you?”
“Both he and Inspector Raglan have been exceedingly kind to me. I hope you will likewise.”
“I’ve nothing to be kind about,” said Ferguson. “I don’t know what happened. Child gets herhead shoved in a bucket and is drowned in the middle of a party. Nasty business. Mind you, doingin a child isn’t anything to be startled about nowadays. I’ve been called out to look at too manymurdered children in the last seven to ten years—far too many. A lot of people who ought to beunder mental restraint aren’t under mental restraint. No room in the asylums. They go about,nicely spoken, nicely got up and looking like everybody else, looking for somebody they can doin. And enjoy themselves. Don’t usually do it at a party, though. Too much chance of gettingcaught, I suppose, but novelty appeals even to a mentally disturbed killer.”
“Have you any idea who killed her?”
“Do you really suppose that’s a question I can answer just like that? I’d have to have someevidence, wouldn’t I? I’d have to be sure.”
“You could guess,” said Poirot.
“Anyone can guess. If I’m called in to a case I have to guess whether the chap’s going to havemeasles or whether it’s a case of an allergy to shellfish or to feather pillows. I have to askquestions to find out what they’ve been eating, or drinking, or sleeping on, or what other childrenthey’ve been meeting. Whether they’ve been in a crowded bus with Mrs. Smith’s or Mrs.
Robinson’s children who’ve all got the measles, and a few other things. Then I advance a tentativeopinion as to which it is of the various possibilities, and that, let me tell you, is what’s calleddiagnosis. You don’t do it in a hurry and you make sure.”
“Did you know this child?”
“Of course. She was one of my patients. There are two of us here. Myself and Worrall. I happento be the Reynolds’ doctor. She was quite a healthy child, Joyce. Had the usual small childishailments. Nothing peculiar or out of the way. Ate too much, talked too much. Talking too muchhadn’t done her any harm. Eating too much gave her what used to be called in the old days abilious attack from time to time. She’d had mumps and chicken pox. Nothing else.”
“But she had perhaps talked too much on one occasion, as you suggest she might be able todo?”
“So that’s the tack you’re on? I heard some rumour of that. On the lines of ‘what the butlersaw’—only tragedy instead of comedy. Is that it?”
“It could form a motive, a reason.”
“Oh yes. Grant you that. But there are other reasons. Mentally disturbed seems the usual answernowadays. At any rate, it does always in the Magistrates’ courts. Nobody gained by her death,nobody hated her. But it seems to me with children nowadays you don’t need to look for thereason. The reason’s in another place. The reason’s in the killer’s mind. His disturbed mind or hisevil mind or his kinky mind. Any kind of mind you like to call it. I’m not a psychiatrist. There aretimes when I get tired of hearing those words: ‘Remanded for a psychiatrist’s report,’ after a ladhas broken in somewhere, smashed the looking glasses, pinched the bottles of whisky, stolen thesilver, knocked an old woman on the head. Doesn’t matter much what it is now. Remand them forthe psychiatrist’s report.”
“And who would you favour, in this case, to remand for a psychiatrist’s report?”
“You mean of those there at the ‘do’ the other night?”
“Yes.”
“The murderer would have had to be there, wouldn’t he? Otherwise there wouldn’t have been amurder. Right? He was among the guests, he was among the helpers or he walked in through thewindow with malice aforethought. Probably he knew the fastenings of that house. Might havebeen in there before, looking round. Take your man or boy. He wants to kill someone. Not at allunusual. Over in Medchester we had a case of that. Came to light after about six or seven years.
Boy of thirteen. Wanted to kill someone, so he killed a child of nine, pinched a car, drove it sevenor eight miles into a copse, burned her there, went away, and as far as we know led a blamelesslife until he was twenty-one or two. Mind you, we have only his word for that, he may have goneon doing it. Probably did. Found he liked killing people. Don’t suppose he’s killed too many, orsome police force would have been on to him before now. But every now and then he felt the urge.
Psychiatrist’s report. Committed murder while mentally disturbed. I’m trying to say myself thatthat’s what happened here. That sort of thing, anyway. I’m not a psychiatrist myself, thankgoodness. I have a few psychiatrist friends. Some of them are sensible chaps. Some of them—well, I’ll go as far as saying they ought to be remanded for a psychiatrist’s report themselves. Thischap who killed Joyce probably had nice parents, ordinary manners, good appearance. Nobody’ddream anything was wrong with him. Ever had a bite at a nice red juicy apple and there, down bythe core, something rather nasty rears itself up and wags its head at you? Plenty of human beingsabout like that. More than there used to be, I’d say nowadays.”
“And you’ve no suspicion of your own?”
“I can’t stick my neck out and diagnose a murderer without some evidence.”
“Still, you admit it must have been someone at the party. You cannot have a murder without amurderer.”
“You can easily in some detective stories that are written. Probably your pet authoress writesthem like that. But in this case I agree. The murderer must have been there. A guest, a domestichelp, someone who walked in through the window. Easily done if he’d studied the catch of thewindow beforehand. It might have struck some crazy brain that it would be a novel idea and a bitof fun to have a murder at a Hallowe’en party. That’s all you’ve got to start off with, isn’t it? Justsomeone who was at the party.”
Under bushy brows a pair of eyes twinkled at Poirot.
“I was there myself,” he said. “Came in late, just to see what was doing.”
He nodded his head vigorously.
“Yes, that’s the problem, isn’t it? Like a social announcement in the papers:
‘Amongst those present was—
A Murderer.’”
第九章
第九章
弗格森医生六十岁上下，有苏格兰血统，举止粗鲁。他用竖起的眉毛下那双敏锐的眼睛把波洛从上到下打量一遍，然后说：“好吧，你有何贵干？坐吧，小心那条椅子腿儿，脚轮松了。”
“我得先说明一下，”弗格森医生说，“在这样一个地方，哪儿有点风吹草动大家就都知道了。那个女作家把你当作世界上最优秀的侦探，因此带到这儿来让警察头疼——这么说差不多吧，对吗？”
“也不完全是。”波洛说，“我来这儿看望一位老朋友，前警司斯彭斯，他和他的妹妹住在这儿。”
“斯彭斯，嗯。斯彭斯是好样儿的。当斗牛犬培养出来的老实忠厚的旧派警察。不渎职，不暴力，也不蠢，绝对诚实可靠。”
“您的评价恰如其分。”
“那么，”弗格森说，“你们都谈了些什么？”
“他和拉格伦督察对我都特别热情。您也能那样就好了。”
“我没什么能热心的地方。”弗格森医生说，“我不清楚发生了什么事。一个孩子在晚会上被人把头摁进水桶里淹死了，真残忍。提醒你，杀害孩子在这个社会已经不是少见多怪的事了。最近十年里，我有很多次被叫去查看孩子们的尸体——太多啦。很多应该被严加看管的有精神问题的人没有被约束起来。精神病院腾不出地方了。所以他们自由出行，说话、行为举止都和正常人一样，可实际他们正在寻找下手的目标。他们还自得其乐。虽然很少有人在晚会上动手。我猜，是因为被抓住的可能性太大，但是精神错乱的杀人犯也可能会被那种新鲜感诱惑。”
“您对杀死她的凶手有什么看法呢？”
“您真认为我可以回答这样的问题吗？我得有证据，不是吗？我必须得确定。”
“您可以猜猜。”波洛说。
“谁都会猜。如果我去给一个孩子看病，我得猜他是得了麻疹还是吃海鲜或者是睡羽毛枕过敏了。我得问清他们吃了什么、喝了什么、睡的什么枕头，或者他们有没有见别的孩子。他们是否和史密斯夫人还有罗宾森夫人家的孩子一起坐了一辆拥挤的公交车，那几个孩子有没有得麻疹，类似这些问题。然后我才能得出一个近一步的结论，而这个结论还有很多可能性。我跟你说，这就是诊断，不能操之过急，一定要步步为营。”
“您认识那个孩子吗？”
“当然，她是我的一个病人。这里有两个医生，我和沃洛。我正好是雷诺兹一家的家庭医生。乔伊斯是个挺健康的孩子。得过一些小孩子都会得的小病，没什么特殊或异常的，能吃能说。能说对她没什么不好，但是太能吃让她时不时受过去被称为胆汁病的折磨。她得过腮腺炎和水痘，就这些。”
“但是她可能在某个场合说得太多了，像您提到的那样，有可能吗？”
“这就是你调查的方向？我听到过类似的说法。就是‘男管家看见了什么’之类的情节——这次的悲剧是这样吗？”
“这很可能成为一个动机，一个理由。”
“哦，对，我同意。不过还有一些别的理由。如今常见的答案就是精神分裂。至少，在曼彻斯特法庭上经常这么宣布。没人能从她的死得利，没人恨她。但是我觉得在现在这个社会，你不必在孩子身上找原因。原因在别的地方，藏在凶手的心里。在他错乱的心智、邪恶的灵魂还有扭曲的心灵里。不管你怎么形容吧。我不是心理学家，我有时候都听腻了什么‘建议让心理医生做个鉴定’之类的话。一个小伙子闯进了什么地方，打碎了镜子，偷了几瓶威士忌或者银器，砸了一个老太太的头，等等。是什么动机都不重要了，反正都会让他们去看心理医生。”
“在这个案子里，您觉得谁应该去看心理医生呢？”
“你是说那天晚上在现场的人吗？”
“对。”
“凶手当时肯定在现场，是吗？否则也就不会发生谋杀了吧？他可能在客人之中，在帮手之中，或者有预谋地从窗户跳进来了。他可能熟悉那栋房子窗户的锁扣。也可能以前就去过，四处查看过。不管是男人还是男孩儿，他就想要杀人。这并不罕见。曼彻斯特有过这么一个案子。一个十三岁的男孩儿，他想杀人，于是他杀死了一个九岁的孩子，偷了一辆车，开到七八英里外的一片矮林，把她埋在那儿，然后走了。直到他二十一二岁之前我们一直以为他清清白白的。不过我们只是听他这么说，他可能准备那么做，也可能已经干过了。我们发觉他爱杀人。别以为他杀了很多人，或者以前警察找过他他就不干了。他时不时就有杀人的冲动，心理报告说他是在精神错乱期间杀的人。我想说有这样的一个案子，这一类的。我不是心理医生，谢天谢地。我有一些做心理医生的朋友。他们有的很理智，还有的——哦，我得说他们自己也得去看心理医生了。杀死乔伊斯的那个家伙可能有善良的父母、正常的举止、英俊的外表，没人认为他有什么问题。一口咬上一个多汁的红苹果，咬到了苹果核，一个邪恶的想法就摇头摆尾地冒了出来。很多人有这种情况，我不得不说，现在比以前多很多。”
“您自己有怀疑对象吗？”
“我不能冒险，没有证据就随便判定谁是凶手。”
“不过，您得承认肯定是当时在晚会上的某个人做的。没有凶手哪儿来的谋杀案。”
“侦探小说里的谋杀案都是那么写的吧。也许您那位宝贝女作家就是那么写的。但是在这个案子里，我同意这个说法。凶手肯定之前去过那儿。也许是客人，也许是仆人，也可能是某个从窗户进去的人。如果他事先查看过窗栓，很容易就能进去。某个疯子可能突然觉得在万圣节前夜晚会上杀人很新鲜有趣。这就是你着手的地方，是吗？就是某个当时在晚会上的人。”
浓密眉毛下的一双眼睛冲着波洛眨了眨。
“我自己当时也在场，”他说，“进去得比较晚，只是去看看进行得怎么样了。”
他用力点点头。
“对，这就是问题，不是吗？就像报纸上写的社会公告——”
“在场的人中有一个是——杀人凶手。”
Ten
Ten
Poirot looked up at The Elms and approved of it.
He was admitted and taken promptly by what he judged to be a secretary to the headmistress’sstudy. Miss Emlyn rose from her desk to greet him.
“I am delighted to meet you, Mr. Poirot. I’ve heard about you.”
“You are too kind,” said Poirot.
“From a very old friend of mine, Miss Bulstrode. Former headmistress of Meadowbank. Youremember Miss Bulstrode, perhaps?”
“One would not be likely to forget her. A great personality.”
“Yes,” said Miss Emlyn. “She made Meadowbank the school it is.” She sighed slightly andsaid, “It has changed a little nowadays. Different aims, different methods, but it still holds its ownas a school of distinction, of progress, and also of tradition. Ah well, we must not live too much inthe past. You have come to see me, no doubt, about the death of Joyce Reynolds. I don’t know ifyou have any particular interest in her case. It’s out of your usual run of things, I imagine. Youknew her personally, or her family perhaps?”
“No,” said Poirot. “I came at the request of an old friend, Mrs. Ariadne Oliver, who was stayingdown here and was present at the party.”
“She writes delightful books,” said Miss Emlyn. “I have met her once or twice. Well, thatmakes the whole thing easier, I think, to discuss. So long as no personal feelings are involved, onecan go straight ahead. It was a horrifying thing to happen. If I may say so, it was an unlikely thingto happen. The children involved seem neither old enough nor young enough for it to fall into anyspecial class. A psychological crime is indicated. Do you agree?”
“No,” said Poirot. “I think it was a murder, like most murders, committed for a motive, possiblya sordid one.”
“Indeed. And the reason?”
“The reason was a remark made by Joyce; not actually at the party, I understand, but earlier inthe day when preparations were being made by some of the older children and other helpers. Sheannounced that she had once seen a murder committed.”
“Was she believed?”
“On the whole, I think she was not believed.”
“That seems the most likely response. Joyce—I speak plainly to you, Monsieur Poirot, becausewe do not want unnecessary sentiment to cloud mental faculties—she was a rather mediocre child,neither stupid nor particularly intellectual. She was, quite frankly, a compulsive liar. And by that Ido not mean that she was specially deceitful. She was not trying to avoid retribution or to avoidbeing found out in some peccadillo. She boasted. She boasted of things that had not happened, butthat would impress her friends who were listening to her. As a result, of course, they inclined notto believe the tall stories she told.”
“You think that she boasted of having seen a murder committed in order to make herselfimportant, to intrigue someone—?”
“Yes. And I would suggest that Ariadne Oliver was doubtless the person whom she wanted toimpress….”
“So you don’t think Joyce saw a murder committed at all?”
“I should doubt it very much.”
“You are of the opinion that she made the whole thing up?”
“I would not say that. She did witness, perhaps, a car accident, or someone perhaps who was hitwith a ball on the golf links and injured—something that she could work up into an impressivehappening that might, just conceivably, pass as an attempted murder.”
“So the only assumption we can make with any certainty is that there was a murderer present atthe Hallowe’en party.”
“Certainly,” said Miss Emlyn, without turning a grey hair. “Certainly. That follows on logically,does it not?”
“Would you have any idea who that murderer might be?”
“That is certainly a sensible question,” said Miss Emlyn. “After all, the majority of the childrenat the party were aged between nine and fifteen, and I suppose nearly all of them had been or werepupils at my school. I ought to know something about them. Something, too, about their familiesand their backgrounds.”
“I believe that one of your own teachers, a year or two ago, was strangled by an unknownkiller.”
“You are referring to Janet White? About twenty-four years of age. An emotional girl. As far asis known, she was out walking alone. She may, of course, have arranged to meet some young man.
She was a girl who was quite attractive to men in a modest sort of way. Her killer has not beendiscovered. The police questioned various young men or asked them to assist them in theirinquiries, as the technique goes, but they were not able to find sufficient evidence to bring a caseagainst anyone. An unsatisfactory business from their point of view. And, I may say, from mine.”
“You and I have a principle in common. We do not approve of murder.”
Miss Emlyn looked at him for a moment or two. Her expression did not change, but Poirot hadan idea that he was being sized up with a great deal of care.
“I like the way you put it,” she said. “From what you read and hear nowadays, it seems thatmurder under certain aspects is slowly but surely being made acceptable to a large section of thecommunity.”
She was silent for a few minutes, and Poirot also did not speak. She was, he thought,considering a plan of action.
She rose and touched a bell.
“I think,” she said, “that you had better talk to Miss Whittaker.”
Some five minutes passed after Miss Emlyn had left the room and then the door opened and awoman of about forty entered. She had russet-coloured hair, cut short, and came in with a briskstep.
“Monsieur Poirot?” she said. “Can I help you? Miss Emlyn seems to think that that might beso.”
“If Miss Emlyn thinks so, then it is almost a certainty that you can. I would take her word forit.”
“You know her?”
“I have only met her this afternoon.”
“But you have made up your mind quickly about her.”
“I hope you are going to tell me that I am right.”
Elizabeth Whittaker gave a short, quick sigh.
“Oh, yes, you’re right. I presume that this is about the death of Joyce Reynolds. I don’t knowexactly how you come into it. Through the police?” She shook her head slightly in a dissatisfiedmanner.
“No, not through the police. Privately, through a friend.”
She took a chair, pushing it back a little so as to face him.
“Yes. What do you want to know?”
“I don’t think there is any need to tell you. No need to waste time asking questions that may beof no importance. Something happened that evening at the party which perhaps it is well that Ishould know about. Is that it?”
“Yes.”
“You were at the party?”
“I was at the party.” She reflected a minute or two. “It was a very good party. Well-run. Well-arranged. About thirty-odd people were there, that is, counting helpers of different kinds. Children—teenagers—grown-ups—and a few cleaning and domestic helpers in the background.”
“Did you take part in the arrangements which were made, I believe, earlier that afternoon or thatmorning?”
“There was nothing really to do. Mrs. Drake was fully competent to deal with all the variouspreparations with a small number of people to help her. It was more domestic preparations thatwere needed.”
“I see. But you came to the party as one of the guests?”
“That is right.”
“And what happened?”
“The progress of the party, I have no doubt, you already know. You want to know if there isanything I can tell you that I specially noticed or that I thought might have a certain significance? Idon’t want to waste your time unduly, you understand.”
“I am sure you will not waste my time. Yes, Miss Whittaker, tell me quite simply.”
“The various events happened in the way already arranged for. The last event was what wasreally more a Christmas festivity or associated with Christmas, than it would be with Hallowe’en.
The Snapdragon, a burning dish of raisins with brandy poured over them, and those round snatchat the raisins—there are squeals of laughter and excitement. It became very hot, though, in theroom, with the burning dish, and I left it and came out in the hall. It was then, as I stood there, thatI saw Mrs. Drake coming out of the lavatory on the first floor landing. She was carrying a largevase of mixed autumn leaves and flowers. She stood at the angle of the staircase, pausing for amoment before coming downstairs. She was looking down over the well of the staircase. Not inmy direction. She was looking towards the other end of the hall where there is a door leading intothe library. It is set just across the hall from the door into the dining room. As I say, she waslooking that way and pausing for a moment before coming downstairs. She was shifting slightlythe angle of the vase as it was a rather awkward thing to carry, and weighty if it was, as Ipresumed, full of water. She was shifting the position of it rather carefully so that she could hold itto her with one arm, and put out the other arm to the rail of the staircase as she came round theslightly shaped corner stairway. She stood there for a moment or two, still not looking at what shewas carrying, but towards the hall below. And suddenly she made a sudden movement—a start Iwould describe it as—yes, definitely something had startled her. So much so that she relinquishedher hold of the vase and it fell, reversing itself as it did so so that the water streamed over her andthe vase itself crashed down to the hall below, where it broke in smithereens on the hall floor.”
“I see,” said Poirot. He paused a minute or two, watching her. Her eyes, he noticed, wereshrewd and knowledgeable. They were asking now his opinion of what she was telling him. “Whatdid you think had happened to startle her?”
“On reflection, afterwards, I thought she had seen something.”
“You thought she had seen something,” repeated Poirot, thoughtfully. “Such as?”
“The direction of her eyes, as I have told you, was towards the door of the library. It seems tome possible that she may have seen that door open or the handle turn, or indeed she might haveseen something slightly more than that. She might have seen somebody who was opening thatdoor and preparing to come out of it. She may have seen someone she did not expect to see.”
“Were you looking at the door yourself?”
“No. I was looking in the opposite direction up the stairs towards Mrs. Drake.”
“And you think definitely that she saw something that startled her?”
“Yes. No more than that, perhaps. A door opening. A person, just possibly an unlikely person,emerging. Just sufficient to make her relinquish her grasp on the very heavy vase full of water andflowers, so that she dropped it.”
“Did you see anyone come out of that door?”
“No. I was not looking that way. I do not think anyone actually did come out into the hall.
Presumably whoever it was drew back into the room.”
“What did Mrs. Drake do next?”
“She made a sharp exclamation of vexation, came down the stairs and said to me, ‘Look whatI’ve done now! What a mess!’ She kicked some of the broken glass away. I helped her sweep it ina broken pile into a corner. It wasn’t practicable to clear it all up at that moment. The childrenwere beginning to come out of the Snapdragon room. I fetched a glass cloth and mopped her up abit, and shortly after that the party came to an end.”
“Mrs. Drake did not say anything about having been startled or make any reference as to whatmight have startled her?”
“No. Nothing of the kind.”
“But you think she was startled.”
“Possibly, Monsieur Poirot, you think that I am making a rather unnecessary fuss aboutsomething of no importance whatever?”
“No,” said Poirot, “I do not think that at all. I have only met Mrs. Drake once,” he addedthoughtfully, “when I went to her house with my friend, Mrs. Oliver, to visit—as one might say, ifone wishes to be melodramatic—the scene of the crime. It did not strike me during the brief periodI had for observation that Mrs. Drake could be a woman who is easily startled. Do you agree withmy view?”
“Certainly. That is why I, myself, since have wondered.”
“You asked no special questions at the time?”
“I had no earthly reason to do so. If your hostess has been unfortunate to drop one of her bestglass vases, and it has smashed to smithereens, it is hardly the part of a guest to say ‘What on earthmade you do that?’; thereby accusing her of a clumsiness which I can assure you is not one ofMrs. Drake’s characteristics.”
“And after that, as you have said, the party came to an end. The children and their mothers orfriends left, and Joyce could not be found. We know now that Joyce was behind the library doorand that Joyce was dead. So who could it have been who was about to come out of the librarydoor, a little while earlier, shall we say, and then hearing voices in the hall shut the door again andmade an exit later when there were people milling about in the hall making their farewells, puttingon their coats and all the rest of it? It was not until after the body had been found, I presume, MissWhittaker, that you had time to reflect on what you had seen?”
“That is so.” Miss Whittaker rose to her feet. “I’m afraid there’s nothing else that I can tell you.
Even this may be a very foolish little matter.”
“But noticeable. Everything noticeable is worth remembering. By the way, there is one questionI should like to ask you. Two, as a matter of fact.”
Elizabeth Whittaker sat down again. “Go on,” she said, “ask anything you like.”
“Can you remember exactly the order in which the various events occurred at the party?”
“I think so.” Elizabeth Whittaker reflected for a moment or two. “It started with a broomstickcompetition. Decorated broomsticks. There were three or four different small prizes for that. Thenthere was a kind of contest with balloons, punching them and batting them about. A sort of mildhorseplay to get the children warmed up. There was a looking glass business where the girls wentinto a small room and held a mirror where a boy’s or young man’s face reflected in it.”
“How was that managed?”
“Oh, very simply. The transom of the door had been removed, and so different faces lookedthrough and were reflected in the mirror a girl was holding.”
“Did the girls know who it was they saw reflected in the glass?”
“I presume some of them did and some of them didn’t. A little makeup was employed on themale half of the arrangement. You know, a mask or a wig, sideburns, a beard, some greasepainteffects. Most of the boys were probably known to the girls already and one or two strangers mighthave been included. Anyway, there was a lot of quite happy giggling,” said Miss Whittaker,showing for a moment or two a kind of academic contempt for this kind of fun. “After that therewas an obstacle race and then there was flour packed into a glass tumbler and reversed, sixpencelaid on top and everyone took a slice off. When the flour collapsed that person was out of thecompetition and the others remained until the last one claimed the sixpence. After that there wasdancing, and then there was supper. After that, as a final climax, came the Snapdragon.”
“When did you yourself see the girl Joyce last?”
“I’ve no idea,” said Elizabeth Whittaker. “I don’t know her very well. She’s not in my class.
She wasn’t a very interesting girl so I wouldn’t have been watching her. I do remember I saw hercutting the flour because she was so clumsy that she capsized it almost at once. So she was alivethen—but that was quite early on.”
“You did not see her go into the library with anyone?”
“Certainly not. I should have mentioned it before if I had. That at least might have beensignificant and important.”
“And now,” said Poirot, “for my second question or questions. How long have you been at theschool here?”
“Six years this next autumn.”
“And you teach—?”
“Mathematics and Latin.”
“Do you remember a girl who was teaching here two years ago—Janet White by name?”
Elizabeth Whittaker stiffened. She half rose from her chair, then sat down again.
“But that—that has nothing to do with all this, surely?”
“It could have,” said Poirot.
“But how? In what way?”
Scholastic circles were less well-informed than village gossip, Poirot thought.
“Joyce claimed before witnesses to have seen a murder done some years ago. Could thatpossibly have been the murder of Janet White, do you think? How did Janet White die?”
“She was strangled, walking home from school one night.”
“Alone?”
“Probably not alone.”
“But not with Nora Ambrose?”
“What do you know about Nora Ambrose?”
“Nothing as yet,” said Poirot, “but I should like to. What were they like, Janet White and NoraAmbrose?”
“Oversexed,” said Elizabeth Whittaker, “but in different ways. How could Joyce have seenanything of the kind or know anything about it? It took place in a lane near Quarry Wood. Shewouldn’t have been more than ten or eleven years old.”
“Which one had the boyfriend?” asked Poirot. “Nora or Janet?”
“All this is past history.”
“Old sins have long shadows,” quoted Poirot. “As we advance through life, we learn the truth ofthat saying. Where is Nora Ambrose now?”
“She left the school and took another post in the North of England—she was, naturally, veryupset. They were—great friends.”
“The police never solved the case?”
Miss Whittaker shook her head. She got up and looked at her watch.
“I must go now.”
“Thank you for what you have told me.”
第十章
第十章
波洛抬头看看榆树小学，暗暗赞赏。
一位校长秘书模样的人接待了他并把他带了进去。埃姆林小姐从桌子前站起来迎接他。
“很高兴见到您，波洛先生。久仰大名。”
“您真客气。”波洛说。
“我的一个老朋友跟我提过您，布尔斯特罗德小姐，芳草地学校的前任校长（注：见阿加莎•克里斯蒂另一部作品《鸽群中的猫》。）。您还记得布尔斯特罗德小姐吧？”
“一般人都不可能忘了她吧。她是个了不起的人物。”
“是的，”埃姆林小姐说。“她把芳草地建成了一所名校。”她轻轻叹了口气，“现在芳草地也有些变了。目标变了，方法也变了，但还是一个坚持有特色、有进步、有传统的学校。啊，好吧，我们不能总活在过去。您来找我，毫无疑问，是为了乔伊斯•雷诺兹被杀的事吧？我不知道您对这个案子有什么特殊的兴趣。这不在您的负责范围之内吧，我猜。还是您认识她，或者她的家人？”
“不认识，”波洛说，“我是应一位老朋友阿里阿德涅•奥利弗夫人之邀来的，她当时在这边作客并且参加了晚会。”
“她的书写得很棒，”埃姆林小姐说，“我见过她一两次。好吧，这样事情讨论起来就简单多了，我猜。没有掺杂个人感情，说话就不用拐弯抹角。发生这样的事真是太可怕了。
如果我能这么说，这看起来像不可能发生的事情。涉及的孩子都半大不小，没法儿把案子归进哪个特殊类型。说明这是心理问题导致的犯罪。您赞成吗？”
“不，”波洛说，“我觉得这是谋杀，跟大多谋杀案一样，有作案动机，也许还是个卑鄙的动机。”
“的确。理由呢？”
“理由就是乔伊斯说的那些话。并不是在晚会上，据我所知，是在那天早些时候，一些大一点的孩子和帮手正为晚会做准备时，她宣称她见过一次谋杀。”
“有人相信她吗？”
“整体来说，我觉得没人相信她。”
“那应该是大家最有可能的反应。乔伊斯——我坦白跟您说，波洛先生，因为我们不想让不必要的感情干扰理智——她是个很平庸的孩子，不笨，也不是特别聪明。她在说谎方面有强迫症。不是试图逃避惩罚或者遮掩什么小过失，她就是吹牛。编一些没发生过的但是可以吸引她的朋友的事儿。结果，当然，没人愿意相信她那些离奇的话。”
“您认为她炫耀说看到过一场谋杀是为了显摆自己，吸引别人的注意？”
“是的，而且我觉得她肯定是想引起阿里阿德涅•奥利弗夫人的注意……”
“所以您根本不相信乔伊斯看到过谋杀？”
“我很怀疑。”
“您的意思是，那都是她编出来的？”
“也不能那么说。她可能确实见到了什么，也许是一场车祸，也许是看到有人在高尔夫球场上被球砸伤了——诸如此类的事情，她就可以夸大成一桩让您信服的谋杀案。”
“所以我们唯一能确定的就是，凶手去过万圣节前夜晚会。”
“当然，”埃姆林小姐说，丝毫没有惊慌，“当然，这符合逻辑，不是吗？”
“您觉得凶手会是谁呢？”
“这个问题太敏感了。”埃姆林小姐说，“毕竟，晚会上大部分孩子都在九到十五岁之间，我猜他们基本都在或者曾经在这所学校上过学。我应该对他们有所了解，包括他们的家庭和背景。”
“我听说一两年前贵校的一位老师被一个不知名的人掐死了。”
“您是说珍妮特•怀特？她大概二十四岁，多愁善感。据大家所知，那天她独自出了门，也许是和某个小伙子有约会。她是那种很低调却很有魅力的女孩儿。杀害她的凶手一直没找到。警察找了很多小伙子问话，希望他们配合调查，可是都没找到足够的证据来起诉某个人。对警察来说这很让人失望。对我来说，也一样。”
“我们都有一个共同的原则，反对谋杀。”
埃姆林小姐盯着他看了一会儿。她的表情没变，但是波洛能感觉到她正密切观察着他，衡量着什么。
“我同意您的说法。”她说，“从现在我们的所见所闻看，对大部分人来说，谋杀已经慢慢变得可以接受了。”
她沉默了几分钟，波洛没有打扰她。他觉得，她是在考虑下一个行动方案。
她站起来，按了一个铃。
“我觉得，”她说，“您最好和惠特克小姐谈一谈。”
埃姆林小姐出去大约五分钟之后，门开了，一个四十岁左右的女人出现了。她顶着一头黄褐色的短发，轻快地走进来。
“波洛先生？”她说，“我能帮什么忙吗？埃姆林小姐好像觉得我能帮忙。”
“如果埃姆林小姐这么认为，那您就肯定能。我相信她的话。”
“您认识她？”
“我今天下午第一次见到她。”
“但是您很快就认可她了。”
“我希望您能证明我是对的。”
伊丽莎白•惠特克短促地叹息一声。
“哦，对，您是对的。我猜您是为了乔伊斯•雷诺兹的死来的。我不清楚您是怎么参与进来的。通过警方？”她不满意地轻轻摇了摇头。
“不是，不是通过警方，而是私人的，通过一个朋友。”
她在一把椅子上坐下，往后推了推，以便和他面对面。
“哦。您想知道什么？”
“我想没必要细说了。不必在那些无所谓的问题上浪费时间。那天晚会上发生的一些事正是我想了解的，不是吗？”
“是的。”
“您当时在晚会上吗？”
“我在。”她回想了一下，“晚会办得很好，进行得很顺利，安排得也很周到。大概有三十来个人，包括各种帮手，孩子、青少年、大人、还有一些清洁工、家里的仆人什么的在后面忙活。”
“您参加了晚会的准备工作吗，在那天下午或早上？”
“其实没什么好帮忙的。只要有少数几个人帮忙，德雷克夫人就完全有能力做好各种准备工作。更需要的是一些家务事儿的准备。”
“我明白了。不过，您是作为宾客去参加晚会的吗？”
“是的。”
“发生了什么事？”
“晚会的流程，毫无疑问，您已经都知道了。您想知道我是不是注意到了一些特别的或者我觉得可能有某种意义的事吧？我不想白白浪费您的时间。”
“我肯定您不会浪费我的时间。好的，惠特克小姐，简单跟我描述一下。”
“各种项目按事先的安排进行。最后一个项目更像是圣诞节的游戏，而不太和万圣节有什么关系。抓火龙，浇了白兰地的一大盘燃烧的葡萄干，周围的人用手去抓葡萄干——人们兴奋地尖叫大笑。因为燃烧的盘子，房间里变得很热，所以我离开房间去了大厅。就在那时，我站在那儿，看见德雷克夫人从一楼楼梯平台的盥洗室出来，抱着一个盛着秋叶和鲜花的大花瓶。她在楼梯的拐角处站了一会儿才下楼。她越过楼梯往下看，没看我的方向。她在看大厅的另一边，那里有一道门通向藏书室，正对着通向餐厅的门。像我说的那样，她站在那儿往那边看了一会儿才下楼。她稍微调整了一下花瓶的角度，那只花瓶很不好拿，而且如果里面都是水我猜肯定很沉。她小心地调整了一下抱花瓶的姿势，那样她就能一只手抱着花瓶，一只手扶着楼梯扶手，从比较难走的拐弯处下来。她在那儿站了好一会儿，还是没看怀里抱着的花瓶，而是看向大厅下面。然后她突然动了一下——我想把它描述成惊跳——对，肯定有什么事吓到她了。她太震惊了，以致抱花瓶的手松了，花瓶落了下去，瓶口翻转过来洒了她一身水，然后掉到大厅的地上，摔得粉碎。”
“我知道了。”波洛说。他盯着她看了一会儿，发现她的眼睛精明而睿智。它们在询问他对刚才这些话的看法。“您觉得是发生了什么让她受到了惊吓呢？”
“后来回想起来，我觉得她是看到了一些什么。”
“您觉得她看到了些什么，”波洛若有所思，“比如呢？”
“她看的方向，我告诉过您，是藏书室的门的方向。我觉得很可能她是看到藏书室的门开着或者门把手转动了，她还有可能看见了更多东西。她可能看见有人打开门正要从里面出来，也可能是看到了意料之外的人。”
“您看那扇门了吗？”
“没有，我看的是相反的方向，顺着楼梯向上看德雷克夫人。”
“但您很确信她看到了让她很震惊的事？”
“是的，也许就只是那样——门开了，出来了一个人，一个让她意想不到的人。那种冲击足够让她震惊得没抱稳那个盛满花和水的沉重花瓶，让它摔了下去。”
“您看见有人从那扇门出来吗？”
“没有，我没看那边。我不认为真的有人从那里出来了，更有可能那个人又缩回去了。”
“那接下来德雷克夫人做了什么？”
“她苦恼地尖叫了一声，走下楼来，对我说：‘看看我干的好事儿！真是糟糕透了！’她把一些碎片踢到了一边，我又帮她把一些碎片扫到了角落。在那时候没法儿彻底地清理干净。孩子们从玩抓火龙的房间里跑出来。我找来一块儿布，帮她稍微擦了擦身上的水，之后很快晚会就结束了。”
“德雷克夫人没说她被吓到了，或者提到是什么吓到她了之类的话吗？”
“没有，什么都没提。”
“但是您认为她被吓到了。”
“可能是，波洛先生。您认为这是一些无关紧要的事，是我小题大做了吗？”
“不，”波洛说，“我绝没那么想。我只见过德雷克夫人一次，”他若有所思地补充道，“我和朋友奥利弗夫人去她家——或者可以说，如果想要听起来更戏剧化——去查看作案现场。那次短短的会面给我的印象是，德雷克夫人不是一个很容易被吓到的人。”
“的确。这也是我后来一直觉得奇怪的原因。”
“您当时没问怎么回事吗？”
“我根本没有理由那么做。如果您作客时女主人不小心失手摔碎了她最好的玻璃花瓶，作为客人，您绝对不应该说出‘你怎么把花瓶摔了呢？’这样的话指责她笨手笨脚，而我向您保证，笨手笨脚绝不是她的个性。”
“在那之后，您说过，晚会就结束了。孩子和他们的母亲或朋友离开了，而大家找不到乔伊斯。现在我们都知道她在藏书室的门后了。那么在稍早一点，我们是不是可以推测，有人刚要从藏书室出来，忽然听到了大厅花瓶摔碎的声音，就重新关上了书房的门，等听到人们在大厅里穿外套并互相打招呼告别，才偷偷溜走了？直到尸体被发现，我猜，惠特克小姐，您才有时间去回想您看到的那一幕吧？”
“就是这样。”惠特克小姐站了起来，“很抱歉我只能告诉您这么多了。甚至这些也都是无关紧要的小事。”
“但是很值得注意。任何引人注意的东西都值得记住。顺便我还有一个问题要问您。实际上，是两个问题。”
伊丽莎白•惠特克重新坐下。“问吧，”她说，“您想问什么？”
“您还记得晚会上各个项目的准确顺序吗？”
“应该记得。”伊丽莎白•惠特克回想了片刻，“最先是扫帚比赛，装饰过的扫帚。有三四种不同的小奖品。然后是一种气球比赛，用手或者球拍拍着到处走。这样的小游戏让孩子们热热身。还有照镜子把戏，女孩儿们在一间屋子里拿着镜子，会有男孩儿或者小伙子的脸出现在里面。”
“那是怎么弄的？”
“哦，很容易。把门上的气窗摘下来，不同的人从那儿往里看，就能反射到镜子里了。”
“那女孩儿们知道她们在镜子里看到的是谁吗？”
“我猜有的知道，有的不知道。男孩儿都化了妆，您知道，戴了面具或者假发、连鬓胡子、络腮胡，或者涂了油彩。大部分都是女孩儿认识的男孩儿，也可能有一两个陌生人在里面。不管怎么说，女孩儿们咯咯笑得挺开心的。”惠特克小姐说，有一刻露出了对这种乐趣不屑的表情，“那之后是障碍赛跑，然后是把一杯面粉压实倒扣在桌子上，上面放上一枚六便士的硬币，每个人切一角面粉下来，让硬币滑下来的那个人就出局，最后剩下的那个人就赢得了那六便士。再之后是跳舞，然后是晚餐。之后，最后的高潮，就是抓火龙。”
“您最后一次见到乔伊斯是什么时候呢？”
“我记不清了，” 伊丽莎白•惠特克说，“我不是很了解她。我不教她，她也不是一个特别有趣的孩子，所以我没怎么注意她。但是我确实记得看见她切面粉了，因为她笨手笨脚的，一下子就切散了。所以那时候她还活着——但是那会儿还早呢。”
“您看见她和什么人进藏书室了吗？”
“当然没有。如果有的话我之前就会提到了。这一点会很重要。”
“那么现在，”波洛说，“我开始问第二个问题，或者第二组问题。您来这所学校多久啦？”
“今年秋天就六年了。”
“您教——”
“数学和拉丁文。”
“您记得两年前在这儿教书的一个女孩儿吗，她叫珍妮特•怀特？”
伊丽莎白•惠特克的身体僵了一下，她从椅子上站起来，然后又坐下。
“但是那件事——那件事和这个案子没有关系吧？”
“也可能有关系。”波洛说。
“但是怎么会？有什么样的关系？”
学校圈子听到的流言比村子里少多了，波洛想。
“乔伊斯之前声称她几年前见过一场谋杀。您认为，她说的可能是珍妮特•怀特的死吗？珍妮特•怀特是怎么死的？”
“被掐死的，一天晚上在从学校回家的路上。”
“她自己？”
“也许不是自己。”
“不是和诺拉•安布罗斯？”
“您了解诺拉•安布罗斯吗？”
“目前还完全不了解，”波洛说，“但是我很想知道。她们年是什么样的人，珍妮特•怀特和诺拉•安布罗斯？”
“都纵欲过度，”伊丽莎白•惠特克说，“但是在不同方面。乔伊斯怎么会看到或者知道这些事呢？那发生在离采矿区不远的一个树林里。她当时才不过十一二岁。”
“她们俩谁有男朋友？”波洛问，“诺拉还是珍妮特？”
“这些都过去了。”
“罪过会跟人一辈子，”波洛引用老话说，“随着我们在生活中前进，就越来越能体会这句话的真意。诺拉•安布罗斯现在在哪儿？”
“她离开了学校，在英格兰北部找了个工作——她当时，很自然，非常紧张。她们俩曾经——很要好。”
“警察一直没破案吗？”
惠特克小姐摇摇头。她站起来看了看表。
“我得走了。”
“感谢您告诉我这些情况。”
Eleven
Eleven
Hercule Poirot looked up at the fa?ade of Quarry House. A solid, well-built example of mid-Victorian architecture. He had a vision of its interior—a heavy mahogany sideboard, a centralrectangular table also of heavy mahogany, a billiard room, perhaps, a large kitchen with adjacentscullery, stone flags on the floor, a massive coal range now no doubt replaced by electricity or gas.
He noted that most of the upper windows were still curtained. He rang the front doorbell. It wasanswered by a thin, grey-haired woman who told him that Colonel and Mrs. Weston were away inLondon and would not be back until next week.
He asked about the Quarry Woods and was told that they were open to the public withoutcharge. The entrance was about five minutes’ walk along the road. He would see a notice board onan iron gate.
He found his way there easily enough, and passing through the gate began to descend a paththat led downwards through trees and shrubs.
Presently he came to a halt and stood there lost in thought. His mind was not only on what hesaw, on what lay around him. Instead he was conning over one or two sentences, and reflectingover one or two facts that had given him at the time, as he expressed it to himself, furiously tothink. A forged Will, a forged Will and a girl. A girl who had disappeared, the girl in whosefavour the Will had been forged. A young artist who had come here professionally to make out ofan abandoned quarry of rough stone a garden, a sunk garden. Here again, Poirot looked round himand nodded his head with approval of the phrase. A Quarry Garden was an ugly term. It suggestedthe noise of blasting rock, the carrying away by lorries of vast masses of stone for road making. Ithad behind it industrial demand. But a Sunk Garden—that was different. It brought with it vagueremembrances in his own mind. So Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe had gone on a National Trust tour ofgardens in Ireland. He himself, he remembered, had been in Ireland five or six years ago. He hadgone there to investigate a robbery of old family silver. There had been some interesting pointsabout the case which had aroused his curiosity, and having (as usual)—Poirot added this bracket tohis thoughts—solved his mission with full success, he had put in a few days travelling around andseeing the sights.
He could not remember now the particular garden he had been to see. Somewhere, he thought,not very far from Cork. Killarney? No, not Killarney. Somewhere not far from Bantry Bay. Andhe remembered it because it had been a garden quite different from the gardens which he had sofar acclaimed as the great successes of this age, the gardens of the Ch?teaux in France, the formalbeauty of Versailles. Here, he remembered, he had started with a little group of people in a boat. Aboat difficult to get into if two strong and able boatmen had not practically lifted him in. They hadrowed towards a small island, not a very interesting island, Poirot had thought, and began to wishthat he had not come. His feet were wet and cold and the wind was blowing through the crevicesof his mackintosh. What beauty, he had thought, what formality, what symmetrical arrangement ofgreat beauty could there be on this rocky island with its sparse trees? A mistake—definitely amistake.
They had landed at the little wharf. The fishermen had landed him with the same adroitness theyhad shown before. The remaining members of the party had gone on ahead, talking and laughing.
Poirot, readjusting his mackintosh in position and tying up his shoes again, had followed them upthe rather dull path with shrubs and bushes and a few sparse trees either side. A most uninterestingpark, he thought.
And then, rather suddenly, they had come out from among the scrub on to a terrace with stepsleading down from it. Below it he had looked down into what struck him at once as somethingentirely magical. Something as it might have been if elemental beings such as he believed werecommon in Irish poetry, had come out of their hollow hills and had created there, not so much bytoil and hard labour as by waving a magic wand, a garden. You looked down into the garden. Itsbeauty, the flowers and bushes, the artificial water below in the fountain, the path round it,enchanted, beautiful and entirely unexpected. He wondered how it had been originally. It seemedtoo symmetrical to have been a quarry. A deep hollow here in the raised ground of the island, butbeyond it you could see the waters of the Bay and the hills rising the other side, their misty tops anenchanting scene. He thought perhaps that it might have been that particular garden which hadstirred Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe to possess such a garden of her own, to have the pleasure of takingan unkempt quarry set in this smug, tidy, elementary and essentially conventional countryside ofthat part of England.
And so she had looked about for the proper kind of well-paid slave to do her bidding. And shehad found the professionally qualified young man called Michael Garfield and had brought himhere and had paid him no doubt a large fee, and had in due course built a house for him. MichaelGarfield, thought Poirot, had not failed her.
He went and sat down on a bench, a bench which had been strategically placed. He pictured tohimself what the sunken quarry would look like in the spring. There were young beech trees andbirches with their white shivering barks. Bushes of thorn and white rose, little juniper trees. Butnow it was autumn, and autumn had been catered for also. The gold and red of acers, a parrotia ortwo, a path that led along a winding way to fresh delights. There were flowering bushes of gorseor Spanish broom—Poirot was not famous for knowing the names of either flowers or shrubs—only roses and tulips could he approve and recognize.
But everything that grew here had the appearance of having grown by its own will. It had notbeen arranged or forced into submission. And yet, thought Poirot, that is not really so. All hasbeen arranged, all has been planned to this tiny little plant that grows here and to that largetowering bush that rises up so fiercely with its golden and red leaves. Oh yes. All has been plannedhere and arranged. What is more, I would say that it had obeyed.
He wondered then whom it had obeyed. Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe or Michael Garfield? It makesa difference, said Poirot to himself, yes, it makes a difference. Mrs. Llewellyn- Smythe wasknowledgeable, he felt sure. She had gardened for many years, she was no doubt a Fellow of theRoyal Horticultural Society, she went to shows, she consulted catalogues, she visited gardens. Shetook journeys abroad, no doubt, for botanical reasons. She would know what she wanted, shewould say what she wanted. Was that enough? Poirot thought it was not quite enough. She couldhave given orders to gardeners and made sure her orders were carried out. But did she know—really know—see in her mind’s eye exactly what her orders would look like when they had beencarried out? Not in the first year of their planting, not even the second, but things that she wouldsee two years later, three years later, perhaps, even six or seven years later. Michael Garfield,thought Poirot, Michael Garfield knows what she wants because she has told him what she wants,and he knows how to make this bare quarry of stone and rock blossom as a desert can blossom. Heplanned and he brought it about; he had no doubt the intense pleasure that comes to an artist whois commissioned by a client with plenty of money. Here was his conception of a fairy-land tuckedaway in a conventional and rather dull hillside, and here it would grow up. Expensive shrubs forwhich large cheques would have to be written, and rare plants that perhaps would only beobtainable through the goodwill of a friend, and here, too, the humble things that were needed andwhich cost next to nothing at all. In spring on the bank just to his left there would be primroses,their modest green leaves all bunched together up the side of it told him that.
“In England,” said Poirot, “people show you their herbaceous borders and they take you to seetheir roses and they talk at inordinate length about their iris gardens, and to show they appreciateone of the great beauties of England, they take you on a day when the sun shines and the beechtrees are in leaf, and underneath them are all the bluebells. Yes, it is a very beautiful sight, but Ihave been shown it, I think, once too often. I prefer—” the thought broke off in his mind as hethought back to what he had preferred. A drive through Devon lanes. A winding road with greatbanks up each side of it, and on those banks a great carpet and showing of primroses. So pale, sosubtly and timidly yellow, and coming from them that sweet, faint, elusive smell that the primrosehas in large quantities, which is the smell of spring almost more than any other smell. And so itwould not be all rare shrubs here. There would be spring and autumn, there would be little wildcyclamen and there would be autumn crocus here too. It was a beautiful place.
He wondered about the people who lived in Quarry House now. He had their names, a retiredelderly Colonel and his wife, but surely, he thought, Spence might have told him more about them.
He had the feeling that whoever owned this now had not got the love of it that dead Mrs.
Llewellyn-Smythe had had. He got up and walked along the path a little way. It was an easy path,carefully levelled, designed, he thought, to be easy for an elderly person to walk where she wouldat will, without undue amount of steep steps, and at a convenient angle and convenient intervals aseat that looked rustic but was much less rustic than it looked. In fact, the angle for the back andfor one’s feet was remarkably comfortable. Poirot thought to himself, I’d like to see this MichaelGarfield. He made a good thing of this. He knew his job, he was a good planner and he gotexperienced people to carry his plans out, and he managed, I think, to get his patron’s plans soarranged that she would think that the whole planning had been hers. But I don’t think it was onlyhers. It was mostly his. Yes, I’d like to see him. If he’s still in the cottage—or the bungalow—thatwas built for him, I suppose—his thought broke off.
He stared. Stared across a hollow that lay at his feet where the path ran round the other side ofit. Stared at one particular golden red branching shrub which framed something that Poirot did notknow for a moment was really there or was a mere effect of shadow and sunshine and leaves.
What am I seeing? thought Poirot. Is this the result of enchantment? It could be. In this placehere, it could be. Is it a human being I see, or is it—what could it be? His mind reverted to someadventures of his many years ago which he had christened “The Labours of Hercules.” Somehow,he thought, this was not an English garden in which he was sitting. There was an atmosphere here.
He tried to pin it down. It had qualities of magic, of enchantment, certainly of beauty, bashfulbeauty, yet wild. Here, if you were staging a scene in the theatre, you would have your nymphs,your fauns, you would have Greek beauty, you would have fear too. Yes, he thought, in this sunkgarden there is fear. What did Spence’s sister say? Something about a murder that took place inthe original quarry years ago? Blood had stained the rock there, and afterwards, death had beenforgotten, all had been covered over, Michael Garfield had come, had planned and had created agarden of great beauty, and an elderly woman who had not many more years to live had paid outmoney for it.
He saw now it was a young man who stood on the other side of the hollow, framed by goldenred leaves, and a young man, so Poirot now recognized, of an unusual beauty. One didn’t think ofyoung men that way nowadays. You said of a young man that he was sexy or madly attractive, andthese evidences of praise are often quite justly made. A man with a craggy face, a man with wildgreasy hair and whose features were far from regular. You didn’t say a young man was beautiful.
If you did say it, you said it apologetically as though you were praising some quality that had beenlong dead. The sexy girls didn’t want Orpheus with his lute, they wanted a pop singer with araucous voice, expressive eyes and large masses of unruly hair.
Poirot got up and walked round the path. As he got to the other side of the steep descent, theyoung man came out from the trees to meet him. His youth seemed the most characteristic thingabout him, yet, as Poirot saw, he was not really young. He was past thirty, perhaps nearer forty.
The smile on his face was very, very faint. It was not quite a welcoming smile, it was just a smileof quiet recognition. He was tall, slender, with features of great perfection such as a classicalsculptor might have produced. His eyes were dark, his hair was black and fitted him as a wovenchain mail helmet or cap might have done. For a moment Poirot wondered whether he and thisyoung man might not be meeting in the course of some pageant that was being rehearsed. If so,thought Poirot, looking down at his galoshes, I, alas, shall have to go to the wardrobe mistress toget myself better equipped. He said:
“I am perhaps trespassing here. If so, I must apologize. I am a stranger in this part of the world.
I only arrived yesterday.”
“I don’t think one could call it trespassing.” The voice was very quiet; it was polite yet in acurious way uninterested, as if this man’s thoughts were really somewhere quite far away. “It’s notexactly open to the public, but people do walk round here. Old Colonel Weston and his wife don’tmind. They would mind if there was any damage done, but that’s not really very likely.”
“No vandalism,” said Poirot, looking round him. “No litter that is noticeable. Not even a littlebasket. That is very unusual, is it not? And it seems deserted—strange. Here you would think,” hewent on, “there would be lovers walking.”
“Lovers don’t come here,” said the young man. “It’s supposed to be unlucky for some reason.”
“Are you, I wonder, the architect? But perhaps I’m guessing wrong.”
“My name is Michael Garfield,” said the young man.
“I thought it might be,” said Poirot. He gesticulated with a hand around him. “You made this?”
“Yes,” said Michael Garfield.
“It is beautiful,” said Poirot. “Somehow one feels it is always rather unusual when somethingbeautiful is made in—well, frankly, what is a dull part of the English landscape.
“I congratulate you,” he said. “You must be satisfied with what you have done here.”
“Is one ever satisfied? I wonder.”
“You made it, I think, for a Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe. No longer alive, I believe. There is aColonel and Mrs. Weston, I believe? Do they own it now?”
“Yes. They got it cheap. It’s a big, ungainly house—not easy to run—not what most peoplewant. She left it in her Will to me.”
“And you sold it.”
“I sold the house.”
“And not the Quarry Garden?”
“Oh yes. The Quarry Garden went with it, practically thrown in, as one might say.”
“Now why?” said Poirot. “It is interesting, that. You do not mind if I am perhaps a littlecurious?”
“Your questions are not quite the usual ones,” said Michael Garfield.
“I ask not so much for facts as for reasons. Why did A do so and so? Why did B do somethingelse? Why was C’s behaviour quite different from that of A and B?”
“You should be talking to a scientist,” said Michael. “It is a matter—or so we are told nowadays—of genes or chromosomes. The arrangement, the pattern, and so on.”
“You said just now you were not entirely satisfied because no one ever was. Was youremployer, your patron, whatever you like to call her — was she satisfied? With this thing ofbeauty?”
“Up to a point,” said Michael. “I saw to that. She was easy to satisfy.”
“That seems most unlikely,” said Hercule Poirot. “She was, I have learned, over sixty. Sixty-five at least. Are people of that age often satisfied?”
“She was assured by me that what I had carried out was the exact carrying out of herinstructions and imagination and ideas.”
“And was it?”
“Do you ask me that seriously?”
“No,” said Poirot. “No. Frankly I do not.”
“For success in life,” said Michael Garfield, “one has to pursue the career one wants, one has tosatisfy such artistic leanings as one has got, but one has as well to be a tradesman. You have to sellyour wares. Otherwise you are tied to carrying out other people’s ideas in a way which will notaccord with one’s own. I carried out mainly my own ideas and I sold them, marketed them perhapsis a better word, to the client who employed me, as a direct carrying out of her plans and schemes.
It is not a very difficult art to learn. There is no more to it than selling a child brown eggs ratherthan white ones. The customer has to be assured they are the best ones, the right ones. The essenceof the countryside. Shall we say, the hen’s own preference? Brown, farm, country eggs. One doesnot sell them if one says ‘they are just eggs. There is only one difference in eggs. They are newlaid or they are not.’”
“You are an unusual young man,” said Poirot. “Arrogant,” he said thoughtfully.”
“Perhaps.”
“You have made here something very beautiful. You have added vision and planning to therough material of stone hollowed out in the pursuit of industry, with no thought of beauty in thathacking out. You have added imagination, a result seen in the mind’s eye, that you have managedto raise the money to fulfil. I congratulate you. I pay my tribute. The tribute of an old man who isapproaching a time when the end of his own work is come.”
“But at the moment you are still carrying it on?”
“You know who I am, then?”
Poirot was pleased indubitably. He liked people to know who he was. Nowadays, he feared,most people did not.
“You follow the trail of blood…It is already known here. It is a small community, news travels.
Another public success brought you here.”
“Ah, you mean Mrs. Oliver.”
“Ariadne Oliver. A best seller. People wish to interview her, to know what she thinks aboutsuch subjects as student unrest, socialism, girls’ clothing, should sex be permissive, and manyother things that are no concern of hers.”
“Yes, yes,” said Poirot, “deplorable, I think. They do not learn very much, I have noticed, fromMrs. Oliver. They learn only that she is fond of apples. That has now been known for twenty yearsat least, I should think, but she still repeats it with a pleasant smile. Although now, I fear, she nolonger likes apples.”
“It was apples that brought you here, was it not?”
“Apples at a Hallowe’en party,” said Poirot. “You were at that party?”
“No.”
“You were fortunate.”
“Fortunate?” Michael Garfield repeated the word, something that sounded faintly like surprisein his voice.
“To have been one of the guests at a party where murder is committed is not a pleasantexperience. Perhaps you have not experienced it, but I tell you, you are fortunate because—”
Poirot became a little more foreign “—il y a des ennuis, vous comprenez? People ask you times,dates, impertinent questions.” He went on, “You knew the child?”
“Oh yes. The Reynolds are well known here. I know most of the people living round here. Weall know each other in Woodleigh Common, though in varying degrees. There is some intimacy,some friendships, some people remain the merest acquaintances, and so on.”
“What was she like, the child Joyce?”
“She was—how can I put it?—not important. She had rather an ugly voice. Shrill. Really, that’sabout all I remember about her. I’m not particularly fond of children. Mostly they bore me. Joycebored me. When she talked, she talked about herself.”
“She was not interesting?”
Michael Garfield looked slightly surprised.
“I shouldn’t think so,” he said. “Does she have to be?”
“It is my view that people devoid of interest are unlikely to be murdered. People are murderedfor gain, for fear or for love. One takes one’s choice, but one has to have a starting point—”
He broke off and glanced at his watch.
“I must proceed. I have an engagement to fulfil. Once more, my felicitations.”
He went on down, following the path and picking his way carefully. He was glad that for oncehe was not wearing his tight patent leather shoes.
Michael Garfield was not the only person he was to meet in the sunk garden that day. As hereached the bottom he noted that three paths led from here in slightly different directions. At theentrance of the middle path, sitting on a fallen trunk of a tree, a child was awaiting him. She madethis clear at once.
“I expect you are Mr. Hercule Poirot, aren’t you?” she said.
Her voice was clear, almost bell-like in tone. She was a fragile creature. Something about hermatched the sunk garden. A dryad or some elf-like being.
“That is my name,” said Poirot.
“I came to meet you,” said the child. “You are coming to tea with us, aren’t you?”
“With Mrs. Butler and Mrs. Oliver? Yes.”
“That’s right. That’s Mummy and Aunt Ariadne.” She added with a note of censure: “You’rerather late.”
“I am sorry. I stopped to speak to someone.”
“Yes, I saw you. You were talking to Michael, weren’t you?”
“You know him?”
“Of course. We’ve lived here quite a long time. I know everybody.”
Poirot wondered how old she was. He asked her. She said,“I’m twelve years old. I’m going to boarding school next year.”
“Will you be sorry or glad?”
“I don’t really know till I get there. I don’t think I like this place very much, not as much as Idid.” She added, “I think you’d better come with me now, please.”
“But certainly. But certainly. I apologize for being late.”
“Oh, it doesn’t really matter.”
“What’s your name?”
“Miranda.”
“I think it suits you,” said Poirot.
“Are you thinking of Shakespeare?”
“Yes. Do you have it in lessons?”
“Yes. Miss Emlyn read us some of it. I asked Mummy to read some more. I liked it. It has awonderful sound. A brave new world. There isn’t anything really like that, is there?”
“You don’t believe in it?”
“Do you?”
“There is always a brave new world,” said Poirot, “but only, you know, for very special people.
The lucky ones. The ones who carry the making of that world within themselves.”
“Oh, I see,” said Miranda, with an air of apparently seeing with the utmost ease, though whatshe saw Poirot rather wondered.
She turned, started along the path and said,
“We go this way. It’s not very far. You can go through the hedge of our garden.”
Then she looked back over her shoulder and pointed, saying:
“In the middle there, that’s where the fountain was.”
“A fountain?”
“Oh, years ago. I suppose it’s still there, underneath the shrubs and the azaleas and the otherthings. It was all broken up, you see. People took bits of it away but nobody has put a new onethere.”
“It seems a pity.”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure. Do you like fountains very much?”
“Ca dépend,” said Poirot.
“I know some French,” said Miranda. “That’s it depends, isn’t it?”
“You are quite right. You seem very well-educated.”
“Everyone says Miss Emlyn is a very fine teacher. She’s our headmistress. She’s awfully strictand a bit stern, but she’s terribly interesting sometimes in the things she tells us.”
“Then she is certainly a good teacher,” said Hercule Poirot. “You know this place very well—you seem to know all the paths. Do you come here often?”
“Oh yes, it’s one of my favourite walks. Nobody knows where I am, you see, when I come here.
I sit in trees—on the branches, and watch things. I like that. Watching things happen.”
“What sort of things?”
“Mostly birds and squirrels. Birds are very quarrelsome, aren’t they? Not like in the bit ofpoetry that says ‘birds in their little nests agree.’ They don’t really, do they? And I watchsquirrels.”
“And you watch people?”
“Sometimes. But there aren’t many people who come here.”
“Why not, I wonder?”
“I suppose they are afraid.”
“Why should they be afraid?”
“Because someone was killed here long ago. Before it was a garden, I mean. It was a quarryonce and then there was a gravel pile or a sand pile and that’s where they found her. In that. Doyou think the old saying is true—about you’re born to be hanged or born to be drowned?”
“Nobody is born to be hanged nowadays. You do not hang people any longer in this country.”
“But they hang them in some other countries. They hang them in the streets. I’ve read it in thepapers.”
“Ah. Do you think that is a good thing or a bad thing?”
Miranda’s response was not strictly in answer to the question, but Poirot felt that it was perhapsmeant to be.
“Joyce was drowned,” she said. “Mummy didn’t want to tell me, but that was rather silly, Ithink, don’t you? I mean, I’m twelve years old.”
“Was Joyce a friend of yours?”
“Yes. She was a great friend in a way. She told me very interesting things sometimes. All aboutelephants and rajahs. She’d been to India once. I wish I’d been to India. Joyce and I used to telleach other all our secrets. I haven’t so much to tell as Mummy. Mummy’s been to Greece, youknow. That’s where she met Aunt Ariadne, but she didn’t take me.”
“Who told you about Joyce?”
“Mrs. Perring. That’s our cook. She was talking to Mrs. Minden who comes and cleans.
Someone held her head down in a bucket of water.”
“Have you any idea who that someone was?”
“I shouldn’t think so. They didn’t seem to know, but then they’re both rather stupid really.”
“Do you know, Miranda?”
“I wasn’t there. I had a sore throat and a temperature so Mummy wouldn’t take me to the party.
But I think I could know. Because she was drowned. That’s why I asked if you thought peoplewere born to be drowned. We go through the hedge here. Be careful of your clothes.”
Poirot followed her lead. The entrance through the hedge from the Quarry Garden was moresuited to the build of his childish guide with her elfin slimness—it was practically a highway toher. She was solicitous for Poirot, however, warning him of adjacent thorn bushes and holdingback the more prickly components of the hedge. They emerged at a spot in the garden adjacent toa compost heap and turned a corner by a derelict cucumber frame to where two dustbins stood.
From there on a small neat garden mostly planted with roses gave easy access to the smallbungalow house. Miranda led the way through an open french window, announcing with themodest pride of a collector who has just secured a sample of a rare beetle:
“I’ve got him all right.”
“Miranda, you didn’t bring him through the hedge, did you? You ought to have gone round bythe path at the side gate.”
“This is a better way,” said Miranda. “Quicker and shorter.”
“And much more painful, I suspect.”
“I forget,” said Mrs. Oliver—“I did introduce you, didn’t I, to my friend Mrs. Butler?”
“Of course. In the post office.”
The introduction in question had been a matter of a few moments while there had been a queuein front of the counter. Poirot was better able now to study Mrs. Oliver’s friend at close quarters.
Before it had been a matter of a slim woman in a disguising headscarf and a mackintosh. JudithButler was a woman of about thirty-five, and whilst her daughter resembled a dryad or a woodnymph, Judith had more the attributes of a water-spirit. She could have been a Rhine maiden. Herlong blonde hair hung limply on her shoulders, she was delicately made with a rather long faceand faintly hollow cheeks, whilst above them were big sea-green eyes fringed with long eyelashes.
“I’m very glad to thank you properly, Monsieur Poirot,” said Mrs. Butler. “It was very good ofyou to come down here when Ariadne asked you.”
“When my friend, Mrs. Oliver, asks me to do anything I always have to do it,” said Poirot.
“What nonsense,” said Mrs. Oliver.
“She was sure, quite sure, that you would be able to find out all about this beastly thing.
Miranda, dear, will you go into the kitchen? You’ll find the scones on the wire tray above theoven.”
Miranda disappeared. She gave, as she went, a knowledgeable smile directed at her mother thatsaid as plainly as a smile could say, “She’s getting me out of the way for a short time.”
“I tried not to let her know,” said Miranda’s mother, “about this—this horrible thing thathappened. But I suppose that was a forlorn chance from the start.”
“Yes indeed,” said Poirot. “There’s nothing that goes round any residential centre with the samerapidity as news of a disaster, and particularly an unpleasant disaster. And anyway,” he added,“one cannot go long through life without knowing what goes on around one. And children seemparticularly apt at that sort of thing.”
“I don’t know if it was Burns or Sir Walter Scott who said ‘There’s a chiel among you takingnotes,’” said Mrs. Oliver, “but he certainly knew what he was talking about.”
“Joyce Reynolds certainly seems to have noticed such a thing as a murder,” said Mrs. Butler.
“One can hardly believe it.”
“Believe that Joyce noticed it?”
“I meant believe that if she saw such a thing she never spoke about it earlier. That seems veryunlike Joyce.”
“The first thing that everybody seems to tell me here,” said Poirot, in a mild voice, “is that thisgirl, Joyce Reynolds, was a liar.”
“I suppose it’s possible,” said Judith Butler, “that a child might make up a thing and then itmight turn out to be true?”
“That is certainly the focal point from which we start,” said Poirot. “Joyce Reynolds wasunquestionably murdered.”
“And you have started. Probably you know already all about it,” said Mrs. Oliver.
“Madame, do not ask impossibilities of me. You are always in such a hurry.”
“Why not?” said Mrs. Oliver. “Nobody would ever get anything done nowadays if they weren’tin a hurry.”
Miranda returned at this moment with a plateful of scones.
“Shall I put them down here?” she asked. “I expect you’ve finished talking by now, haven’tyou? Or is there anything else you would like me to get from the kitchen?”
There was a gentle malice in her voice. Mrs. Butler lowered the Georgian silver teapot to thefender, switched on an electric kettle which had been turned off just before it came to the boil,duly filled the teapot and served the tea. Miranda handed hot scones and cucumber sandwicheswith a serious elegance of manner.
“Ariadne and I met in Greece,” said Judith.
“I fell into the sea,” said Mrs. Oliver, “when we were coming back from one of the islands. Ithad got rather rough and the sailors always say ‘jump’ and, of course, they always say jump justwhen the thing’s at its furthest point which makes it come right for you, but you don’t think thatcan possibly happen and so you dither and you lose your nerve and you jump when it looks closeand, of course, that’s the moment when it goes far away.” She paused for breath. “Judith helpedfish me out and it made a kind of bond between us, didn’t it?”
“Yes, indeed,” said Mrs. Butler. “Besides, I liked your Christian name,” she added. “It seemedvery appropriate, somehow.”
“Yes, I suppose it is a Greek name,” said Mrs. Oliver. “It’s my own, you know. I didn’t justmake it up for literary purposes. But nothing Ariadne-like has ever happened to me. I’ve neverbeen deserted on a Greek island by my own true love or anything like that.”
Poirot raised a hand to his moustache in order to hide the slight smile that he could not helpcoming to his lips as he envisaged Mrs. Oliver in the r?le of a deserted Greek maiden.
“We can’t all live up to our names,” said Mrs. Butler.
“No, indeed. I can’t see you in the r?le of cutting off your lover’s head. That is the way ithappened, isn’t it, Judith and Holofernes, I mean?”
“It was her patriotic duty,” said Mrs. Butler, “for which, if I remember rightly, she was highlycommended and rewarded.”
“I’m not really very well up in Judith and Holofernes. It’s the Apocrypha, isn’t it? Still, if onecomes to think of it, people do give other people—their children, I mean—some very queernames, don’t they? Who was the one who hammered some nails in someone’s head? Jael orSisera. I never remember which is the man or which is the woman there. Jael, I think. I don’t thinkI remember any child having been christened Jael.”
“She laid butter before him in a lordly dish,” said Miranda unexpectedly, pausing as she wasabout to remove the tea tray.
“Don’t look at me,” said Judith Butler to her friend, “it wasn’t I who introduced Miranda to theApocrypha. “That’s her school training.”
“Rather unusual for schools nowadays, isn’t it?” said Mrs. Oliver. “They give them ethical ideasinstead, don’t they?”
“Not Miss Emlyn,” said Miranda. “She says that if we go to church nowadays we only get themodern version of the Bible read to us in the lessons and things, and that it has no literary meritwhatsoever. We should at least know the fine prose and blank verse sometimes of the AuthorizedVersion. I enjoyed the story of Jael and Sisera very much,” she added. “It’s not a thing,” she saidmeditatively, “that I should ever have thought of doing myself. Hammering nails, I mean, intosomeone’s head when they were asleep.”
“I hope not indeed,” said her mother.
“And how would you dispose of your enemies, Miranda?” asked Poirot.
“I should be very kind,” said Miranda in a gently contemplative tone. “It would be moredifficult, but I’d rather have it that way because I don’t like hurting things. I’d use a sort of drugthat gives people euthanasia. They would go to sleep and have beautiful dreams and they justwouldn’t wake up.” She lifted some tea cups and the bread and butter plate. “I’ll wash up,Mummy,” she said, “if you like to take Monsieur Poirot to look at the garden. There are still someQueen Elizabeth roses at the back of the border.”
She went out of the room carefully carrying the tea tray.
“She’s an astonishing child, Miranda,” said Mrs. Oliver.
“You have a very beautiful daughter, Madame,” said Poirot.
“Yes, I think she is beautiful now. One doesn’t know what they will look like by the time theygrow up. They acquire puppy fat and look like well-fattened pigs sometimes. But now—now sheis like a wood nymph.”
“One does not wonder that she is fond of the Quarry Garden which adjoins your house.”
“I wish she wasn’t so fond of it sometimes. One gets nervous about people wandering about inisolated places, even if they are quite near people or a village. One’s—oh, one’s very frightenedall the time nowadays. That’s why—why you’ve got to find out why this awful thing happened toJoyce, Monsieur Poirot. Because until we know who that was, we shan’t feel safe for a minute—about our children, I mean. Take Monsieur Poirot out in the garden, will you, Ariadne? I’ll joinyou in a minute or two.”
She took the remaining two cups and a plate and went into the kitchen. Poirot and Mrs. Oliverwent out through the french window. The small garden was like most autumn gardens. It retaineda few candles of golden rod and michaelmas daisies in a border, and some Queen Elizabeth rosesheld their pink statuesque heads up high. Mrs. Oliver walked rapidly down to where there was astone bench, sat down, and motioned Poirot to sit down beside her.
“You said you thought Miranda was like a wood nymph,” she said. “What do you think ofJudith?”
“I think Judith’s name ought to be Undine,” said Poirot.
“A water spirit, yes. Yes, she does look as though she’d just come out of the Rhine or the sea ora forest pool or something. Her hair looks as though it had been dipped in water. Yet there’snothing untidy or scatty about her, is there?”
“She, too, is a very lovely woman,” said Poirot.
“What do you think about her?”
“I have not had time to think as yet. I just think that she is beautiful and attractive and thatsomething is giving her great concern.”
“Well, of course, wouldn’t it?”
“What I would like, Madame, is for you to tell me what you know or think about her.”
“Well, I got to know her very well on the cruise. You know, one does make quite intimatefriends. Just one or two people. The rest of them, I mean, they like each other and all that, but youdon’t really go to any trouble to see them again. But one or two you do. Well, Judith was one ofthe ones I did want to see again.”
“You did not know her before the cruise?”
“No.”
“But you know something about her?”
“Well, just ordinary things. She’s a widow,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Her husband died a good manyyears ago—he was an air pilot. He was killed in a car accident. One of those pileup things, I thinkit was, coming off the M what-is-it that runs near here on to the ordinary road one evening, orsomething of that kind. He left her rather badly off, I imagine. She was very broken up about it, Ithink. She doesn’t like talking about him.”
“Is Miranda her only child?”
“Yes. Judith does some part-time secretarial work in the neighbourhood, but she hasn’t got afixed job.”
“Did she know the people who lived at the Quarry House?”
“You mean old Colonel and Mrs. Weston?”
“I mean the former owner, Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe, wasn’t it?”
“I think so. I think I’ve heard that name mentioned. But she died two or three years ago, so ofcourse one doesn’t hear about her much. Aren’t the people who are alive enough for you?”
demanded Mrs. Oliver with some irritation.
“Certainly not,” said Poirot. “I have also to inquire into those who have died or disappearedfrom the scene.”
“Who’s disappeared?”
“An au pair girl,” said Poirot.
“Oh well,” said Mrs. Oliver, “they’re always disappearing, aren’t they? I mean, they come overhere and get their fare paid and then they go straight into hospital because they’re pregnant andhave a baby, and call it Auguste, or Hans or Boris, or some name like that. Or they’ve come overto marry someone, or to follow up some young man they’re in love with. You wouldn’t believe thethings friends tell me! The thing about au pair girls seems to be either they’re Heaven’s gift tooverworked mothers and you never want to part with them, or they pinch your stockings—or getthemselves murdered—” She stopped. “Oh!” she said.
“Calm yourself, Madame,” said Poirot. “There seems no reason to believe that an au pair girlhas been murdered—quite the contrary.”
“What do you mean by quite the contrary? It doesn’t make sense.”
“Probably not. All the same—”
He took out his notebook and made an entry in it.
“What are you writing down there?”
“Certain things that have occurred in the past.”
“You seem to be very perturbed by the past altogether.”
“The past is the father of the present,” said Poirot sententiously.
He offered her the notebook.
“Do you wish to see what I have written?”
“Of course I do. I daresay it won’t mean anything to me. The things you think important towrite down, I never do.”
He held out the small black notebook.
“Deaths: e.g. Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe (Wealthy). Janet White (Schoolteacher). Lawyer’s clerk—Knifed, Former prosecution for forgery.”
Below it was written “Opera girl disappears.”
“What opera girl?”
“It is the word my friend, Spence’s sister, uses for what you and I call an au pair girl.”
“Why should she disappear?”
“Because she was possibly about to get into some form of legal trouble.”
Poirot’s finger went down to the next entry. The word was simply “Forgery,” with two questionmarks after it.
“Forgery?” said Mrs. Oliver. “Why forgery?”
“That is what I asked. Why forgery?”
“What kind of forgery?”
“A Will was forged, or rather a codicil to a Will. A codicil in the au pair girl’s favour.”
“Undue influence?” suggested Mrs. Oliver.
“Forgery is something rather more serious than undue influence,” said Poirot.
“I don’t see what that’s got to do with the murder of poor Joyce.”
“Nor do I,” said Poirot. “But, therefore, it is interesting.”
“What is the next word? I can’t read it.”
“Elephants.”
“I don’t see what that’s got to do with anything.”
“It might have,” said Poirot, “believe me, it might have.”
He rose.
“I must leave you now,” he said. “Apologize, please, to my hostess for my not saying good-byeto her. I much enjoyed meeting her and her lovely and unusual daughter. Tell her to take care ofthat child.”
“‘My mother said I never should, play with the children in the wood,’” quoted Mrs. Oliver.
“Well, good-bye. If you like to be mysterious, I suppose you will go on being mysterious. Youdon’t even say what you’re going to do next.”
“I have made an appointment for tomorrow morning with Messrs Fullerton, Harrison andLeadbetter in Medchester.”
“Why?”
“To talk about forgery and other matters.”
“And after that?”
“I want to talk to certain people who were also present.”
“At the party?”
“No—at the preparation for the party.”
第十一章
第十一章
赫尔克里•波洛抬头看着石矿府的正面。这是一座坚固精美的、典型的维多利亚时代中期建筑。他可以想象出建筑内部的情景——一个沉重的桃花心木餐具柜，中央是同样材质的矩形餐桌，一间台球房，也许还有带碗碟储藏间的大厨房，地面上铺着石板，有一个庞大的煤炉，当然现在肯定已经改成电炉或者煤气炉了。
他注意到楼上大部分房间都拉着窗帘。他按响了前门的门铃。应门的是一个身材瘦削、头发花白的老太太，她告诉他上校和韦斯顿夫人都去了伦敦，得下周才回来。
他问起石矿树林，被告知那里是免费对公众开放的。沿着路走五分钟就能到达入口。
他将会看到大铁门上挂着一个告示牌。
波洛很容易就找到了地方，穿过大门，走上一条通向树林和灌木的小路。
不久，他停下来，陷入了沉思。他的思绪没有停留在眼前的景色和身边的环境上，而是反复重复着一两句话，回忆着一两个已经知道的事实，他一边说给自己听，一边飞快地想着。一份伪造的遗嘱，伪造的遗嘱和一个女孩儿。一个消失的女孩儿，遗嘱是从对女孩儿有利的方面伪造的。一位年轻的园艺师来到这儿，通过专业技能把一个废弃的、布满粗糙石头的采矿场建成了一个花园，一个地下花园。想到这儿，波洛看了看四周，点了点头赞成这个名字。石矿花园听起来很粗俗，会让人想起石头爆破时的噪音，还有被卡车拉走去修路的一堆堆碎石。那都是工业的需求。但是一个地下花园——那就不一样了。这勾起了他心里很多模糊的记忆。卢埃林-史密斯夫人曾参加过一次国家信托的爱尔兰园林观光团。他本人五六年前也去过爱尔兰，是去调查一桩古老家族的银器被盗案。那桩案子里有几处很有意思，激起了他的好奇心，而且（像往常一样）——波洛在心里括了个括号——成功完成了他的使命。之后他抽了几天时间到处游玩观光。
他记不清参观的到底是哪个园林了。他想大概离科克不远。基拉尼湖吗？不，不是基拉尼湖。离班特里湾不远的一个地方。他记得那个园林是因为它与众不同，他称它为这个时代最伟大的创造之一，如同法国的城堡园林和庄严美丽的凡尔赛宫一样。他记得，他和几个人一起乘一条小船出发，如果不是两个强壮有力的船夫拉了他一把，他都很难登上那条船。他们划着船向一个小岛驶去，一个没什么意思的小岛，波洛那时甚至希望自己没有来。他的双脚又湿又冷，冷风从雨衣的缝隙灌进来。在这样一个遍地石头、树木稀疏的小岛，能有什么样的美景，什么样壮美、对称的自然奇观呢？失误——来这里太失误了。
他们在一个小码头登陆。渔夫又熟练地把他架下小船。其他人走在前面，边走边笑。
波洛整理了一下雨衣，重新把鞋子系紧，跟上他们沿着小路向前走去，路旁有灌木、矮树，还有疏松的树木。一个非常没意思的花园，他想。
然后，他们突然从灌木林中走了出来，站在了一个平台上，有台阶直通底部。他举目望去，堪称奇迹的景象马上映入眼帘。那浑然天成的景色看不出是人工苦力建造出来的，就像爱尔兰诗歌中常常出现的精灵从山谷中飞出来，轻轻一挥魔杖，一座园林就展现在人们的眼前。站在平台鸟瞰下面的花园，鲜花环绕，灌木丛生，喷泉下人工泉水静静流淌，幽静的小路迂回其中，各种景致都让人沉醉，美妙的布局完全出人意料。他想知道这里原来是什么样子的，布局如此对称，不太可能是一个采石场。花园处于小岛的一个凹陷处，但是越过花园可以看到远处海湾的海水，还有另一边环绕的山峦，烟雾缭绕的山顶同样引人入胜。他觉得也许就是这个特别的花园激起了卢埃林-史密斯夫人想要拥有如此一座园林的愿望，因此她兴致勃勃地买下了地处英格兰一隅的一个整洁朴素且传统的乡村里的一个乱糟糟的采石场。
然后她付高薪到处寻找可以执行她的设想的人。于是她找到了精于园艺的年轻人迈克尔•加菲尔德。她把他带到这里，无疑付了很高的薪水，并且给他建了一所房子。迈克尔•加菲尔德，波洛想道，没有让她失望。
他走过去坐在一张长椅上，这张长椅放得很巧妙。他坐在那儿，心里描绘着地下花园在春天时候的美景：还没长大的山毛榉和桦树银色的树皮在日光下闪耀，带刺的矮树林、白色的玫瑰花，还有小刺柏错落交织在一起。但是现在是秋天，而秋天这里的风景同样宜人。有金红色的槭树，一两株银缕梅，一条弯曲的小径通向令人愉悦的景致。那边绽放着一丛丛荆豆，也许是西班牙金雀花——波洛并不精通花草的名称，他只能认出玫瑰和郁金香。
这里的所有植物都像是自由生长的，不是被安排或者约束的。其实，波洛心想，事实并非如此。所有的一切都是精心布置的，小到一株小草，大到挂满金色和黄色树叶、疯狂生长的高大灌木。哦，没错，所有的一切都是安排、计划好了的。更甚者，是完全服从安排者意愿的。
然而他想知道这是服从谁的意愿，卢埃林-史密斯夫人，还是迈克尔•加菲尔德？这有很大的区别，波洛自言自语道，没错，区别很大。他肯定卢埃林-史密斯夫人见多识广。她从事园艺多年，肯定是皇家园艺协会的一员。她参加各种展览，参阅植物目录，参观园林，无疑，还会为了各种植物出国旅行。她一定知道并且说出了自己想要的效果。但是那样够吗？波洛觉得并不够。她肯定曾给园丁下达了各种命令，并保证她的命令得到了执行，但是她知道——真的知道，并能在脑海中预见她的命令被完全实施后的确切效果吗？不是种上后第一年甚至第二年的样子，而是两年后、三年后，甚至六七年之后的效果。迈克尔•加菲尔德，波洛猜想，迈克尔•加菲尔德知道她想要的效果，因为她曾告诉过他，他也知道怎样让这片光秃秃、遍地石头的采石场绽放出美丽的花朵，如同沙漠绽满鲜花。他精心设计并把它变成了现实；和所有受到一个有钱的雇主委托的艺术家一样，毫无疑问，他将欣喜若狂。
他心中理想的仙境就隐藏在这片传统而单调的山坡上。这里有斥巨资买来的灌木丛，有只有通过朋友善意赠予才能得到的珍稀植物，同样，也有几乎不用花钱的卑微植物。在他左侧的山坡，春天会开满报春花，他可以从那边那一束束交织在一起的普通绿叶猜测出来。
“在英格兰，”波洛说，“人们向你展示种满草本植物的花坛，带你去看他们种的玫瑰花，大谈特谈他们的鸢尾花花园。还会为了显示他们对英格兰某处美景的热爱，在一个明光明媚的日子带你去参观那里枝叶繁茂的山毛榉，和树下的野风信子。不错，景色确实很美，但是我被带着看过很多次了，太多次了。我更倾向——”回想起当时更喜欢的景色时，他之前的思绪断了。那是某次开车从德文郡经过，行驶在蜿蜒的道路上，道路两旁是宽广的斜坡，上面满满的都是报春花，如同铺了一层地毯。那么浅淡、精巧和羞怯的黄色，散发着甜甜的、微弱的、若有似无的香气，那是只有大片的报春花才会散发出的味道，比其他味道更有春天的气息。所以在这儿不仅要有各种稀有的灌木。春秋轮换，既要有属于春天的野生仙客来，也要有秋天绽放的番红花。这是一个美丽的地方。
他想了解石矿府现在的主人的情况，是一位退休的老上校和他的妻子，他只知道他们的名字，但是，斯彭斯可以告诉他更多的情况。他有一种感觉，无论现在石矿府的主人是谁，都不会像已经逝去的卢埃林-史密斯夫人那样对它情有独钟。他站起来沿着小路向前走去。路很好走，路面修得很平整。小路的设计，他想，很适合老人走，没有过于陡峭的台阶，在每个合适的拐角或者合适的距离都有一个看起来粗糙、坐上去舒适的座椅。事实上，椅背和脚踏的角度都非常合适。波洛暗自想，我想见见这个迈克尔•加菲尔德。他把这里建得很精致。他了解他的工作，精心设计，然后找来经验丰富的工人实践他的想法，而且，他成功地，把他的资助人的想法进行了巧妙的安排，并且让她觉得这一切都是她的计划。但是我觉得这不仅是她的设计，大部分应该来自他。没错，我想见一见他。如果他还住在为自己建的小屋，或者说平房里，我猜——他的思绪突然断了。
波洛凝神盯着前方，盯着小路通向的另一边的凹地，盯着一株枝叶繁茂的灌木金红色的叶子中间，那里有一个轮廓。有一刻波洛不确定到底是不是真的有东西，还是只是光、影和树叶交织出来的错觉。
我看到了什么？波洛想。这是幻想吗？有可能。在这样一个地方很有可能。我看到的是个人吗，或者是——可能是什么呢？他的思绪退回到很多年前的一些历险，他把他们命名为“赫尔克里的考验”。不知怎么的，他认为他所在的并不是一座英格兰的园林。这里有一种氛围，他试图寻找它。它像有魔法一样，迷人心智。当然是美丽、羞怯的魅力，却又有一种野性。如果在这里上演一出戏剧，你会想到仙女、半人半兽的农牧神还有希腊美女，你还会感到恐惧。没错，这个地下花园会令人感到恐惧。斯彭斯的妹妹曾经说过什么？好像是几年前在原来的采石场发生过谋杀？鲜血溅到了那里的石头上，而之后，谋杀案被人们遗忘了，所有的一切都被覆盖。迈克尔•加菲尔德来了，他设计并建造了一个美丽无双的花园，一位时日不多的老太太出资实现了这一切。
现在他看清站在凹地那边的是一个年轻人，被金红色的叶子勾勒出轮廓。那个小伙子具有不同寻常的美貌。现在人们不再这么形容小伙子了。你会说一个小伙子性感或者有着致命的吸引力，这种赞扬似乎也很公正，因为你形容的是粗糙的脸，乱蓬蓬、油乎乎的头发，以及说不上匀称的五官。你不再称赞一个小伙子漂亮。如果你这么说的话，也是带着歉意说的，就好像你称赞的是一个早已不存在的品质。性感的女孩儿不喜欢弹竖琴的俄耳浦斯，她们喜欢嗓音沙哑、含情脉脉、头发凌乱的流行歌手。
波洛站起来沿着小路走去。等他走到陡峭斜坡的另一面时，年轻人从树丛里钻出来和他打招呼。年轻似乎是他最显著的特点，尽管，波洛看得出，实际上他并不年轻。他已经三十多岁，甚至接近四十岁了。他脸上的微笑特别淡。那并不是一个欢迎的微笑，只是安静的、表示友好的笑容。他个子很高，身材修长，五官如同雕刻家手下的作品一样完美无瑕。眼睛是深色的，乌黑的头发服帖得就像精心编织的锁子甲头盔或帽子。有一瞬间，波洛怀疑他们是不是正身处某个盛典的预演中。如果是那样的话，波洛想着，低头看看自己的橡胶鞋套，我，唉，我是不是应该让服装管理员帮我收拾收拾呢。
波洛说：“我是不是私闯禁地了？是的话，我很抱歉，我对这儿还不熟悉，我昨天刚到这里。”
“我觉得称不上私闯。”对方说话的声音很平静，很有礼貌，却淡漠得让人吃惊，就好像这个人的思绪其实在很远的地方，“这儿并没有明确对外开放，但是人们经常在附近散步。韦斯顿老上校和他的妻子并不介意。他们只介意是不是哪里损坏了，但是其实不怎么可能。”
“没有人恶意破坏，”波洛看了看周围说，“看不到垃圾，连个小篮子也没有。这很不寻常，不是吗？而且像被废弃了一样——很奇怪。在这里你会想，”他接着说，“会有很多情侣来散步。”
“情侣们不来这儿，”年轻人说，“出于一些原因，人们觉得这儿不吉利。”
“你是……我猜，是花园的建筑师吗？也许我猜错了。”
“我是迈克尔•加菲尔德。”年轻人说。
“我猜就是。”波洛说，用手指着周围问道，“这都是您建的？”
“是的。”迈克尔•加菲尔德说。
“很漂亮。”波洛说，“不知怎么，人们会觉得把如此美景建在——呃，坦白讲，风景如此单调的英格兰一隅，真是不同寻常。恭喜您，您肯定对您成就的这一切感到满意。”
“人真的会满足吗？我不知道。”
“这个花园，您是为卢埃林-史密斯夫人建的吧。我听说她已经去世了。现在住在这里的是一位上校和他的妻子，是吗？他们现在是花园的主人吗？”
“是的。他们用很低的价格买到手的，一幢庞大、毫无收益的房子——不容易运转——并不是大多数人所需要的。她在遗嘱中把它留给了我。”
“你把它卖了。”
“我把房子卖了。”
“没卖石矿花园？”
“哦，卖了，跟房子一起，实际上是白送的，像人们说的那样。”
“为什么呢？”波洛问，“这很有趣，白送。我有一些好奇，您不介意吧？”
“您的问题都不太寻常。”迈克尔•加菲尔德说。
“我对原因的追问多于事实。甲为什么这么做？乙为什么做这些？丁的行为为什么和甲乙完全不一样？”
“您应该和科学家谈谈，”迈克尔说，“那是由——如今人们都这么说——基因和染色体决定的。它们的排列和布局，等等。”
“您刚才说您并不完全满意，因为没有人会真正满足。那么您的雇主，您的赞助人——不管您怎么称呼她——她满意吗？对这个美丽的花园？”
“在一定程度上是满意的，”迈克尔说，“我特别注意过这一点。她也很容易满足。”
“这似乎不可能。”赫尔克里•波洛说，“她应该，据我了解，六十多岁了。至少六十五岁。这个年纪的人会很容易满足吗？”
“我向她保证我会严格按照她的指示、设想和观点实施。”
“事实是这样的吗？”
“您是很认真地问我这个问题吗？”
“不，”波洛说，“不，坦白说，我不是。”
“为了取得成功，”迈克尔•加菲尔德说，“一个人必须追求他想要的事业，满足他所中意的艺术风格，同时他还要做一个商人。你得把你的理念卖出去，否则你就必须按照别人的主意做事，而那往往和你自己的目标不一致。我实施的大多是我自己的理念，然后我把它们卖给——说得好听点儿就是推销给——我的雇主，就说是直接实施她的计划和蓝图的效果。这个技能并不难学，就像卖给一个孩子棕色鸡蛋而不是白色鸡蛋一样。你必须向顾客保证这是最好的鸡蛋，最好的选择，是乡村的精品。我们能说这是母鸡自己的偏好吗？棕色的乡下养鸡场的鸡蛋而已。但是如果只说‘就是鸡蛋而已’，那他很难把鸡蛋卖出去。其实鸡蛋只有一个区别，是新下的还是以前的。”
“你真是个不同寻常的年轻人，傲慢。”波洛若有所思地说。
“也许吧。”
“你把这里建得很美。因为追求工业利益，这些石材被开采一空，毫不顾忌环境的美感。而你通过想象，预见到了最终的效果，并且成功筹集到了钱来实现这一切。祝贺你。
我献上我的敬意，一个工作即将走到尽头的老人的敬意。”
“但是现在您还在继续工作？”
“这么说你知道我是谁？”
毫无疑问，波洛感到很高兴。他希望人们都认识他。如今，他恐怕大多数人都不知道他是谁了。
“您追寻血迹而来……这在这里众所周知。这是个很小的社区，消息传播得很快。是另一位知名人士把您带过来的。”
“啊，你是说奥利弗夫人。”
“阿里阿德涅•奥利弗。一位畅销书作家。人们希望采访她，询问她关于学生骚乱、社会主义、女孩儿的着装、性解放等很多和她毫无关系的话题的看法。”
“对，对，”波洛说，“糟糕透了，我觉得。他们没从奥利弗夫人身上学到什么，我注意到他们只知道她喜欢吃苹果。我记得她已经说了二十多年，但每次都还是面带微笑地重复。尽管现在，我恐怕她再也不喜欢苹果了。”
“是苹果把您带来的，不是吗？”
“万圣节前夜晚会上的苹果。”波洛说，“你当时在晚会上吗？”
“不在。”
“你很幸运。”
“幸运？”迈克尔•加菲尔德重复着这个词，他的口气听起来似乎有些许惊讶。
“出席发生了谋杀案的晚会并不是愉快的经历。也许你没经历过，但是我告诉你，你很幸运，因为——”波洛用法语说道，“总有麻烦找上你，你懂吗？人们不停地问你时间、日期等无理的问题。”他接着问，“你认识那个孩子吗？”
“哦，认识。雷诺兹一家在这儿很有名。我认识附近的大部分人。伍德利社区的人都彼此认识，只是熟悉程度不同。有些比较亲密，有些是朋友，还有一些只是点头之交。”
“这个叫乔伊斯的孩子怎么样？”
“她——怎么形容呢——无足轻重。她的声音很难听，很尖锐。真的，这是我对她的全部印象。我不是很喜欢孩子，大多数孩子让我厌烦，乔伊斯就是一个。她一开口说话，话题就只围绕着她自己转。”
“她不让人感兴趣吗？”
迈克尔•加菲尔德看起来稍微有点儿惊讶。
“我觉得不，”他说，“她应该让人感兴趣吗？”
“我的观点是：缺乏关注的人一般不太可能成为谋杀对象。谋杀一般是因为利益、恐惧或者爱情。每个人有他的选择，但是每个人都必须有一个出发点——”
波洛停下来，看了看手表。
“我得走了。我得去赴约。再一次祝贺你。”
他继续走下去，沿着小路谨慎地走着，他一度很庆幸没有穿一双黑漆皮鞋。
迈克尔•加菲尔德并不是他今天在地下花园里见到的唯一的人。当他走到斜坡尽头的时候，他注意到面前有三条通向不同方向的小路，中间那条路上有一个孩子，坐在一截倒下的枯木上等他。那孩子很快便证实了他的猜测。
“我希望您就是赫尔克里•波洛先生，对吗？”她说。
她的声音很清晰，语调像银铃一样。她是个相貌精致的小家伙，身上的有些东西和地下花园很相配，像一个小树妖或者小精灵。
“我是。”波洛说。
“我来接您，”孩子说，“您要来和我们一起喝茶的，对吗？”
“跟巴特勒夫人和奥利弗夫人？是的。”
“对，那是我妈妈和阿里阿德涅阿姨。”她有些责备地补充道，“您迟到了很久。”
“很抱歉，我停下来和一个人聊了会儿。”
“是的，我看见您了。您在和迈克尔说话，对吧？”
“你认识他？”
“当然。我们在这儿住了很久了，每个人我都认识。”
波洛想知道她多大了。他问她。她回答说：“我十二岁了，明年就要去寄宿学校了。”
“那你是难过还是高兴呢？”
“我得到了那儿才知道。我觉得我不是特别喜欢这里，不像以前那么喜欢了。”她补充道，“我想您最好现在就跟我来。”
“当然，当然。很抱歉我迟到了。”
“哦，没关系。”
“你叫什么名字？”
“米兰达。”
“很适合你。”波洛说。
“您是想到了莎士比亚吗？”
“是的，你在学校学过吗？”
“学过，埃姆林小姐给我们读过一些。我又让妈妈多给我读了些。我很喜欢。听起来很美妙。一个美丽新世界。现实中并没有那样的世界，是吗？”
“你不相信有吗？”
“您信吗？”
“总是存在一个美丽新世界，”波洛说，“但只是，你知道，为特殊的人存在——幸运的人们，那些在自己心里创造出美丽新世界的人。”
“哦，我懂了。”米兰达说，似乎轻而易举就明白了，但是波洛很好奇她懂了什么。
她转过身，边走边对他说：“咱们走这条路，不太远。你可以从我家花园的篱笆钻过去。”
然后她扭过头，指着不远处说：“在那儿中间，以前有座喷泉。”
“喷泉？”
“哦，几年以前。我猜它还在那儿，在灌木丛、杜鹃花还有那些东西下面。都碎了，您知道。人们把碎块移走了，但是没有人拿新的过来。”
“很遗憾。”
“我不明白为什么没人管。您很喜欢喷泉吗？”
“看情况。”波洛用法语说。
“我知道一点法语，”米兰达说，“那是看情况的意思，对吗？”
“你说得很对。你看起来受了很好的教育。”
“所有人都说埃姆林小姐是位好老师。她是我们的校长。她非常严格，甚至有点儿严厉，但是她给我们讲的东西都特别有意思。”
“那么她肯定是位好老师。”赫尔克里•波洛说，“你很熟悉这个地方——好像每条路都认识。你经常来这儿吗？”
“哦，是的，我最喜欢来这儿散步。我在这儿的时候没有人知道我在哪儿，您知道，我坐在树林里——树枝上，看着四周。我喜欢那样，看着事情发生。”
“什么样的事情？”
“大多时候是看小鸟和松鼠。小鸟有时候很爱吵架，不是吗？不像诗里说的那样‘小鸟在小小的鸟巢里相亲相爱’。其实它们不是，对吧？我还观察松鼠。”
“那你观察人吗？”
“有时候。但是这里很少有人来。”
“为什么不来呢？我觉得这很奇怪。”
“我猜他们是害怕。”
“他们为什么害怕？”
“因为很久以前有个人在这里被杀了。在这儿变成花园之前，我是说。它曾经是座采石场，有一个砾石坑或者沙坑，人们就在那儿发现了她的尸体。在那里面。您认为那个古老的说法是真的吗——关于有人生来就注定要被绞死或者溺死？”
“现在没有人生来注定要被绞死，这个国家现在没有绞刑了。”
“但是别的国家还会绞死人。他们把人悬挂在大街上。我从报纸上看到过。”
“啊。你觉得那是件好事还是坏事？”
严格来说米兰达所答非所问，但是波洛觉得她很想回答。
“乔伊斯淹死了，”她说，“妈妈不想告诉我。那很笨，我觉得，您觉得呢？我是说，我都十二岁了。”
“你和乔伊斯是朋友吗？”
“是的，在某种程度上她是个很好的朋友。她有时候给我讲很有意思的故事。关于大象还有王公什么的。她去过印度。我希望我也能去，我和乔伊斯过去经常分享彼此的秘密，我不像妈妈有那么多东西能讲。妈妈去过希腊，您知道。她就是在那儿认识阿里阿德涅阿姨的，但是她不带我去。”
“谁告诉你乔伊斯的事儿的？”
“佩林夫人，我们的厨师。她和来打扫的明登夫人谈论来着。有人把她的头摁进了一桶水里。”
“你对凶手是谁有什么想法吗？”
“没有。她们好像也不知道，但是她们真的太笨了。”
“那你知道吗，米兰达？”
“我不在那儿。我嗓子疼，还有点儿发烧，所以妈妈不让我去参加晚会。但是我想我应该知道。因为她是被淹死的。这也是为什么我问您有些人是不是生来注定就要被淹死。咱们从篱笆这边钻过去。小心您的衣服。”
波洛紧跟在她身后。石矿花园篱笆墙上的出口更适合他这位身材像小精灵一样纤细的小向导——那对她来说简直是一条宽阔的大路。但她还是很贴心地提醒波洛，小心旁边的灌木，并且替他拉开篱笆上多刺的枝条。他们从一堆混合肥旁边钻了出来，在一个废弃的黄瓜架后面拐了个弯儿，那里立着两个垃圾桶。从那儿开始就是一个整洁的小花园，里面种的大多是玫瑰，一条宽宽的路通向一栋小平房。米兰达领着他从一扇打开的落地窗进去，像一位收藏家刚刚保护好一个稀有的甲虫标本一样骄傲地宣布：“我把他平安带来啦。”
“米兰达，你带他钻篱笆过来的，对吗？你应该带他走大路从侧门进来。”
“这条路更好，”米兰达说，“又近又快。”
“我想也更难走。”
“我忘了，”奥利弗夫人说，“我给你介绍过了吗，我的朋友巴特勒夫人？”
“当然，在邮局的时候。”
所说的介绍实际上只是在邮局柜台前排队的时候一起待了一小会儿。现在波洛可以更好地近距离观察奥利弗夫人的朋友了。之前他的印象只局限于一个穿着雨衣、裹着头巾的苗条女人。朱迪思•巴特勒大概三十五岁，如果说她的女儿是森林女神或者树仙，朱迪思则更有水中精灵的特质，她可能是一位莱茵河女神。金黄色的长发柔顺地垂在她的肩头，面容精致，长脸蛋儿，微微凹陷的双颊，长长的睫毛下闪烁着一双海绿色的大眼睛。
“我很高兴能当面向您道谢，波洛先生。”巴特勒夫人说，“阿里阿德涅请您来，您就屈尊过来了，您真是太好了。”
“我的朋友奥利弗夫人让我做什么，上刀山下火海我也去。”波洛说。
“油嘴滑舌。”奥利弗夫人说。
“她确信，非常确信您一定会查出这一桩残忍案件的真相。米兰达，亲爱的，你能去一趟厨房吗？把烤箱上面金属托盘里的烤饼端过来。”
米兰达很快就不见了。临走之前她对妈妈露出一个了然的微笑，好像在说“她要把我支开呢”。
“我不想让她知道，”米兰达的妈妈说，“关于这——这件恐怖的事。但是从一开始就希望渺茫。”
“是的，确实，”波洛说。“在居民区，没什么比灾难，特别是让人不愉快的灾祸传播得更快的了。无论如何，”他补充道，“没人能两耳不闻窗外事地生活一辈子。孩子似乎在这方面更敏感。”
“我忘了是斯彭斯还是沃尔特•斯科特爵士说过：‘你们中有个小伙子在做记录。’”奥利弗夫人说，“但是他肯定知道他指的是什么。”
“乔伊斯•雷诺兹似乎真的看见了一桩谋杀案，”巴特勒夫人说，“虽然这很难让人们相信。”
“相信乔伊斯曾经见过？”
“我是说如果她真的见过这样的事，她怎么以前从没说过？那不像乔伊斯的风格。”
“这里所有人告诉我的第一件事，”波洛温和地说，“都是这个女孩儿，乔伊斯•雷诺兹，总是撒谎。”
“我猜有可能是，”朱迪思•巴特勒夫人说，“一个孩子编了一个故事，而恰巧那是真的。”
“这正是我们的出发点。”波洛说，“毫无疑问，乔伊斯•雷诺兹被谋杀了。”
“你已经开始调查了，也许你已经知道来龙去脉了。”奥利弗夫人说。
“夫人，请不要问我不可能的事。你总是太心急了。”
“为什么不呢？”奥利弗夫人说，“现在的社会，如果不加紧催着的话，很多人什么事儿都干不成。”
这时米兰达端着一盘烤饼回来了。
“我把这些放在这儿行吗？”她问，“我希望你们已经谈完了，或者你还需要我从厨房拿些别的什么？”
她的语气稍微有些抱怨。巴特勒夫人把乔治亚式的银茶壶放在壁炉的围栏上，打开电水壶的开关，水一开就马上关上了，然后立即把水倒进茶壶里，给大家斟上茶。米兰达把热腾腾的烤饼和黄瓜三明治分给大家，举止既庄重又优雅。
“我和阿里阿德涅是在希腊认识的。”朱迪思说。
“我掉进了海里，”奥利弗夫人说，“那时我们正从一个小岛上回来。海浪很大，水手们总在船漂离海岸最远的时候喊‘跳啊’，当然这是对的，但是你总觉得那不太可能，所以你犹犹豫豫，当你终于鼓起勇气，在看起来离海岸很近的时候跳了下去，当然在那瞬间，船又荡远了。”她停下来喘了口气，“朱迪思把我从海里捞了出来，这也让我们结下了不解之缘，不是吗？”
“是的，确实。”巴特勒夫人说，“还有，我喜欢你的教名，”她补充道，“不知怎的，我感觉特别适合你。”
“是的，我猜那是个希腊名字。”奥利弗夫人说，“那就是我的本名，而不是我自己取的笔名。但是我从来没碰到过发生在阿里阿德涅身上那样的事。我从没被我最爱的人丢弃在一个希腊小岛上（注：阿里阿德涅(Ariadne)，古希腊神话中克里特岛国王米诺斯的女儿。
因帮助雅典王子忒修斯杀死牛头人身的怪物米诺陶而相爱。后命运女神梦谕忒修斯，他们的爱情不被祝福，他们的结合只能带来厄运，于是忒修斯将熟睡中的阿里阿德涅独自留在了纳克索斯岛上，自己驾船离开了。）。”
波洛抬起手摸着胡子以掩饰他情不自禁的微笑。一想到奥利弗夫人成为一个被抛弃的希腊少女的样子，他就忍不住笑了出来。
“我们不可能都按我们名字所取的那样活着。”
“对，的确。我想象不到你把情人的头砍下来的样子。我是指，朱迪思和荷罗孚尼，他们之间是这样的，对吗？”
“那是她爱国的表现，”巴特勒夫人说，“如果我没记错的话，她因此赢得了很多赞扬和奖赏。”
“我不是很清楚朱迪思和荷罗孚尼的故事。是《新约外传》里写的吗（注：应出自《旧约全书•犹滴传》。犹滴，又译朱迪思，犹太美貌寡妇。当犹太民族遭遇敌军围困时，朱迪思依靠上帝的帮助，用美人计刺杀敌军首领荷罗孚尼，割下他的首级，顺利拯救全民族。）？但是，如果仔细想的话，人们会给其他人——我是指他们的孩子，取一些很奇怪的名字，是吧？把钉子钉进一个人脑袋里的是谁来着？雅亿或者西西拉。我永远都分不清这两个名字哪个是男人哪个是女人。雅亿，我想。我想不出来哪个孩子的教名是雅亿（注：出自《圣经》。以色列女士师底波拉召来巴拉率领一万人迎战迦南王耶宾的军长西西拉，西西拉战败，逃到雅亿的帐篷，向雅亿讨水喝。雅亿为示热情，降低他的警觉，用自己的奶来款待他。当他睡着了，雅亿悄悄地到他旁边，用锤子将帐篷的橛子钉进他的鬓角，将他杀死。）。”
“她把一只盛着黄油的贵重盘子放在他面前。”米兰达正要撤走茶盘，突然停下来开口说道。
“别看我，”朱迪思•巴特勒夫人对她的朋友说，“我没引导米兰达读《新约外传》。那是她学校里的课程。”
“这在现在的学校里很不寻常，不是吗？”奥利弗夫人说，“现在他们已经转为教伦理知识了。”
“埃姆林小姐不一样，”米兰达说，“她说现在我们去教堂听到的都是现代版本的《圣经》里的故事和训诫，那些已经没什么文学价值了。我们至少应该了解钦定版本里那些优美的散文和无韵诗。我很喜欢雅亿和西西拉的故事。”她补充道，“我永远也不会，”她一脸沉思地说，“想到自己去做那么一件事。我是指，趁一个人睡觉的时候，把钉子钉进的他脑袋里。”
“我也不想那样做。”她的妈妈说。
“那么你会怎么处置你的敌人呢，米兰达？”波洛问。
“我会很仁慈，”米兰达一边沉思一边温和地说，“这样很难，但我还是宁愿那样，因为我不喜欢伤害。我会用一种能让人们安乐死的药，他们会睡着，做一个美梦，只是不会再醒来。”她拿起一些茶杯和盛面包、黄油的碟子，“我去洗碗，妈妈，”她说，“如果你愿意，可以带波洛先生去花园看看，有些伊丽莎白女王玫瑰还开着，在花坛后面呢。”
她小心翼翼地端着茶盘走了出去。
“米兰达真是个让人惊奇的孩子。”奥利弗夫人说。
“您有一个非常美丽的女儿，夫人。”波洛说。
“是的，她现在很漂亮。但是不知道长大了会是什么样子。小孩子有时候会有婴儿肥，看起来像一只喂饱了的小肥猪。但是现在——现在她看起来像一个小树精。”
“她肯定特别喜欢您家附近的石矿花园吧。”
“我有时候真希望她没那么喜欢那儿。在一个被孤立的地方闲逛太让人紧张了，即使离人群和村庄很近也不行。人们——哦，现在人们每时每刻都提心吊胆的。这也是为什么您必须查清乔伊斯身上为什么发生了这么可怕的事，波洛先生。因为不知道谁是凶手，我们一分钟也安宁不了——我是指，为了我们的孩子。阿里阿德涅，你先带波洛先生去花园好吗？我稍后去找你们。”
她拿着剩下的两个杯子和一个盘子去了厨房。波洛和奥利弗夫人从落地长窗走了出去。这个小花园和大多数秋天的花园一样，残留着几株一枝黄和紫菀，一些伊丽莎白女王玫瑰高昂着优美得如同雕像的粉色花盘。奥利弗夫人快步走到一个石椅旁，坐下去，然后示意波洛坐在她旁边。
“你说你觉得米兰达像一个小树精，”她说，“那你觉得朱迪思呢，她像什么？”
“我觉得朱迪思应该叫乌狄妮。”波洛说。
“一个水中女神，没错，她看起来就像刚从莱茵河、大海或者池塘之类的地方出来的。
她的头发总像是刚在水里浸湿一般，但是一点儿也不显得凌乱或者疯狂，是吧？”
“同样，她也是个非常迷人的女人。”波洛说。
“你觉得她怎么样？”
“我还没来得及想呢。我只觉得她漂亮、有魅力，而且好像有什么事让她非常担心。”
“好吧，当然，不应该担心吗？”
“我想知道，夫人，你对她的了解和看法。”
“我是在旅行途中跟她认识并熟悉的。你知道，旅途中交到的非常亲密的朋友一般只有一两个，其他的，也许会喜欢彼此，但是你不会费事再去看他们。只会有一两个让你破例。好吧，朱迪思就是我想再见面的少数人中的一个。”
“在那之前你不认识她？”
“是的。”
“那你了解她的情况吗？”
“呃，就是些平常的事儿。她是个寡妇，”奥利弗夫人说，“她的丈夫很多年前就去世了——他是个飞行员，在一次交通事故中丧生。汽车连环相撞事件，我记得是这样的，一天晚上从高速下到普通公路的时候撞上了之类的。他没给她留下什么财产，我猜。这件事让她非常伤心，她不喜欢提起他。”
“她只有米兰达这一个孩子吗？”
“对，朱迪思在附近做些文秘类的兼职，但她没有正式工作。”
“她认识住在石矿府的人吗？”
“你是说老上校和韦斯顿夫人？”
“我是指前房主，卢埃林-史密斯夫人，是她吧？”
“我想是。我听人提过这个名字。但是她两三年前就死了，人们就很少谈起她了。还活着的这些人对你来说还不够吗？”奥利弗夫人有些愤怒地责问道。
“当然不够，”波洛说，“我们还得调查这里死去和失踪的人。”
“谁失踪了？”
“一个互换生女孩儿。”波洛说。
“哦，好吧，”奥利弗夫人说，“她们经常失踪，不是吗？我是说，她们从别的地方来到这儿，拿着发给她们的工资，然后直接去医院，因为怀孕了。她们生下孩子，给他们起名叫奥古斯特、汉斯或者鲍里斯这类的。她们来这儿是为了跟某个人结婚，或者是追随和她相爱的某个年轻人而来。你不会相信朋友们跟我讲过的那些事！那些互换生女孩儿，她们要不就是上天给那些不堪重负的妈妈的礼物，让你永远不想和她们分开，要不就偷袜子——或者被杀了——”她停下来，“哦！”她说。
“冷静点儿，夫人，”波洛说，“现在没有理由认为有个互换生女孩儿被谋杀了——很可能正好相反。”
“你说正好相反是什么意思？这没道理。”
“也许没有。都一样——”
他拿出笔记本，在上面写下一句话。
“你在上面写了些什么？”
“发生在过去的一些事。”
“你好像总是纠结过去那些事。”
“没有过去就没有现在。”波洛简洁地说。
他把笔记本递给她。
“想看看我写的是什么吗？”
“当然想。我敢说我对那些东西不感兴趣。你觉得很重要需要写下来的，我总感觉无关紧要。”
波洛举起黑色的小笔记本。
“死亡名单：卢埃林-史密斯夫人（有钱），珍妮特•怀特（学校老师），律师事务所员工——被刀砍死，有伪造前科。”
下面写着“呼唤声女孩儿失踪”。
“什么呼唤声女孩儿？”
“我朋友，斯彭斯的妹妹，这么称呼她，她指的就是咱们说的互换生女孩儿。”
“她为什么会失踪呢？”
“因为她很可能卷进了一些法律麻烦中。”
波洛的手指移到下一行。那里只写了两个字——“伪造”，后面还画着两个问号。
“伪造？”奥利弗夫人说，“为什么要伪造？”
“我也想问。为什么要伪造？”
“伪造什么了？”
“一份遗嘱，或者可以说是遗嘱的补遗条款。一条对互换生女孩儿有利的补遗。”
“她对死者施加了不当压力？”奥利弗夫人提示道。
“伪造要比施加不当压力严重很多。”波洛说。
“我看不出来这些和可怜的乔伊斯被杀有什么联系。”
“我也是，”波洛说，“但是，这样才更有意思。”
“下面这个词儿是什么，我看不清。”
“大象。”
“这和哪件事儿都没关系吧。”
“可能有，”波洛说，“相信我，可能会有关系。”
他站起来。
“我必须走了，”他说，“请替我对女主人说抱歉，原谅我不辞而别。我很高兴能见到她和她美丽而特别的女儿。告诉她，照顾好那个孩子。”
“‘妈妈天天对我说，不要和朋友在树林里玩耍。’”奥利弗夫人引用道，“好吧，再见。
如果你喜欢这么神秘，你就继续神秘吧。你甚至都没说你下一步要做什么。”
“我明天上午约好了要去曼彻斯特的富勒顿、哈里森和莱德贝特事务所。”
“去干什么？”
“讨论伪造的事。”
“然后呢？”
“去和当时在现场的几个人谈谈。”
“晚会上的？”
“不是——在晚会准备过程中的。”
Twelve
Twelve
The premises of Fullerton, Harrison and Leadbetter were typical of an old-fashioned firm of theutmost respectability. The hand of time had made itself felt. There were no more Harrisons and nomore Leadbetters. There was a Mr. Atkinson and a young Mr. Cole, and there was still Mr. JeremyFullerton, senior partner.
A lean, elderly man, Mr. Fullerton, with an impassive face, a dry, legal voice, and eyes thatwere unexpectedly shrewd. Beneath his hand rested a sheet of notepaper, the few words on whichhe had just read. He read them once again, assessing their meaning very exactly. Then he looked atthe man whom the note introduced to him.
“Monsieur Hercule Poirot?” He made his own assessment of the visitor. An elderly man, aforeigner, very dapper in his dress, unsuitably attired as to the feet in patent leather shoes whichwere, so Mr. Fullerton guessed shrewdly, too tight for him. Faint lines of pain were alreadyetching themselves round the corners of his eyes. A dandy, a fop, a foreigner and recommended tohim by, of all people, Inspector Henry Raglan, C.I.D., and also vouched for by SuperintendentSpence (retired), formerly of Scotland Yard.
“Superintendent Spence, eh?” said Mr. Fullerton.
Fullerton knew Spence. A man who had done good work in his time, had been highly thought ofby his superiors. Faint memories flashed across his mind. Rather a celebrated case, morecelebrated actually than it had showed any signs of being, a case that had seemed cut and dried. Ofcourse! It came to him that his nephew Robert had been connected with it, had been JuniorCounsel. A psychopathic killer, it had seemed, a man who had hardly bothered to try and defendhimself, a man whom you might have thought really wanted to be hanged (because it had meanthanging at that time). No fifteen years, or indefinite number of years in prison. No. You paid thefull penalty—and more’s the pity they’ve given it up, so Mr. Fullerton thought in his dry mind.
The young thugs nowadays thought they didn’t risk much by prolonging assault to the point whereit became mortal. Once your man was dead, there’d be no witness to identify you.
Spence had been in charge of the case, a quiet, dogged man who had insisted all along thatthey’d got the wrong man. And they had got the wrong man, and the person who found theevidence that they’d got the wrong man was some sort of an amateurish foreigner. Some retireddetective chap from the Belgian police force. A good age then. And now—senile, probably,thought Mr. Fullerton, but all the same he himself would take the prudent course. Information,that’s what was wanted from him. Information which, after all, could not be a mistake to give,since he could not see that he was likely to have any information that could be useful in thisparticular matter. A case of child homicide.
Mr. Fullerton might think he had a fairly shrewd idea of who had committed that homicide, buthe was not so sure as he would like to be, because there were at least three claimants in the matter.
Any one of three young ne’er-do-wells might have done it. Words floated through his head.
Mentally retarded. Psychiatrist’s report. That’s how the whole matter would end, no doubt. All thesame, to drown a child during a party—that was rather a different cup of tea from one of theinnumerable school children who did not arrive home and who had accepted a lift in a car afterhaving been repeatedly warned not to do so, and who had been found in a nearby copse or gravelpit. A gravel pit now. When was that? Many, many years ago now.
All this took about four minutes’ time and Mr. Fullerton then cleared his throat in a slightlyasthmatic fashion, and spoke.
“Monsieur Hercule Poirot,” he said again. “What can I do for you? I suppose it’s the business ofthis young girl, Joyce Reynolds. Nasty business, very nasty business. I can’t see actually where Ican assist you. I know very little about it all.”
“But you are, I believe, the legal adviser to the Drake family?”
“Oh yes, yes. Hugo Drake, poor chap. Very nice fellow. I’ve known them for years, ever sincethey bought Apple Trees and came here to live. Sad thing, polio—he contracted it when they wereholidaying abroad one year. Mentally, of course, his health was quite unimpaired. It’s sad when ithappens to a man who has been a good athlete all his life, a sportsman, good at games and all therest of it. Yes. Sad business to know you’re a cripple for life.”
“You were also, I believe, in charge of the legal affairs of Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe?”
“The aunt, yes. Remarkable woman really. She came here to live after her health broke down,so as to be near her nephew and his wife. Bought that white elephant of a place, Quarry House.
Paid far more than it was worth—but money was no object to her. She was very well off. Shecould have found a more attractive house, but it was the quarry itself that fascinated her. Got alandscape gardener on to it, fellow quite high up in his profession, I believe. One of thosehandsome, long-haired chaps, but he had ability all right. He did well for himself in this quarrygarden work. Got himself quite a reputation over it, illustrated in Homes and Gardens and all therest of it. Yes, Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe knew how to pick people. It wasn’t just a question of ahandsome young man as a protégé. Some elderly women are foolish that way, but this chap hadbrains and was at the top of his profession. But I’m wandering on a bit. Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythedied nearly two years ago.”
“Quite suddenly.”
Fullerton looked at Poirot sharply.
“Well, no, I wouldn’t say that. She had a heart condition and doctors tried to keep her fromdoing too much, but she was the sort of woman that you couldn’t dictate to. She wasn’t ahypochondriac type.” He coughed and said, “But I expect we are getting away from the subjectabout which you came to talk to me.”
“Not really,” said Poirot, “although I would like, if I may, to ask you a few questions on acompletely different matter. Some information about one of your employees, by name LesleyFerrier.”
Mr. Fullerton looked somewhat surprised. “Lesley Ferrier?” he said. “Lesley Ferrier. Let mesee. Really you know, I’d nearly forgotten his name. Yes, yes, of course. Got himself knifed,didn’t he?”
“That is the man I mean.”
“Well, I don’t really know that I can tell you much about him. It took place some years ago.
Knifed near the Green Swan one night. No arrest was ever made. I daresay the police had someidea who was responsible, but it was mainly, I think, a matter of getting evidence.”
“The motive was emotional?” inquired Poirot.
“Oh yes, I should think certainly so. Jealousy, you know. He’d been going steady with amarried woman. Her husband had a pub. The Green Swan at Woodleigh Common. Unpretentiousplace. Then it seems young Lesley started playing around with another young woman—or morethan one, it was said. Quite a one for the girls, he was. There was a bit of trouble once or twice.”
“You were satisfied with him as an employee?”
“I would rather describe it as not dissatisfied. He had his points. He handled clients well andwas studying for his articles, and if only he’d paid more attention to his position and keeping up agood standard of behaviour, it would have been better instead of mixing himself up with one girlafter another, most of whom I am apt in my old-fashioned way to consider as considerably beneathhim in station. There was a row one night at the Green Swan, and Lesley Ferrier was knifed on hisway home.”
“Was one of the girls responsible, or would it be Mrs. Green Swan, do you think?”
“Really, it is not a case of knowing anything definite. I believe the police considered it was acase of jealousy—but—” He shrugged his shoulders.
“But you are not sure?”
“Oh, it happens,” said Mr. Fullerton. “‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.’ That is alwaysbeing quoted in Court. Sometimes it’s true.”
“But I think I discern that you yourself are not at all sure that that was the case here.”
“Well, I should have preferred rather more evidence, shall we say. The police would havepreferred rather more evidence, too. Public prosecutor threw it out, I believe.”
“It could have been something quite different?”
“Oh yes. One could propound several theories. Not a very stable character, young Ferrier. Wellbrought up. Nice mother—a widow. Father not so satisfactory. Got himself out of several scrapesby the skin of his teeth. Hard luck on his wife. Our young man in some ways resembled his father.
He was associated once or twice with rather a doubtful crowd. I gave him the benefit of the doubt.
He was still young. But I warned him that he was getting himself mixed up with the wrong lot.
Too closely connected with fiddling transactions outside the law. Frankly, but for his mother, Iwouldn’t have kept him. He was young, and he had ability; I gave him a warning or two which Ihoped might do the trick. But there’s a lot of corruption about these days. It’s been on the increasefor the last ten years.”
“Someone might have had it in for him, you think?”
“Quite possible. These associations—gangs is a rather melodramatic word—but you run acertain danger when you get tangled up with them. Any idea that you may split on them, and aknife between your shoulder blades isn’t an uncommon thing to happen.”
“Nobody saw it happen?”
“No. Nobody saw it happen. They wouldn’t, of course. Whoever took the job on would have allthe arrangements nicely made. Alibi at the proper place and time, and so on and so on.”
“Yet somebody might have seen it happen. Somebody quite unlikely. A child, for instance.”
“Late at night? In the neighbourhood of the Green Swan? Hardly a very credible idea, MonsieurPoirot.”
“A child,” persisted Poirot, “who might remember. A child coming home from a friend’s house.
At some short distance, perhaps, from her own home. She might have been coming by a footpathor seen something from behind a hedge.”
“Really, Monsieur Poirot, what an imagination you have got. What you are saying seems to memost unlikely.”
“It does not seem so unlikely to me,” said Poirot. “Children do see things. They are so often,you see, not expected to be where they are.”
“But surely when they go home and relate what they have seen?”
“They might not,” said Poirot. “They might not, you see, be sure of what they had seen.
Especially if what they had seen had been faintly frightening to them. Children do not always gohome and report a street accident they have seen, or some unexpected violence. Children keeptheir secrets very well. Keep them and think about them. Sometimes they like to feel that theyknow a secret, a secret which they are keeping to themselves.”
“They’d tell their mothers,” said Mr. Fullerton.
“I am not so sure of that,” said Poirot. “In my experience the things that children do not telltheir mothers are quite numerous.”
“What interests you so much, may I know, about this case of Lesley Ferrier? The regrettabledeath of a young man by a violence which is so lamentably often amongst us nowadays?”
“I know nothing about him. But I wanted to know something about him because his is a violentdeath that occurred not many years ago. That might be important to me.”
“You know, Mr. Poirot,” said Mr. Fullerton, with some slight acerbity. “I really cannot quitemake out why you have come to me, and in what you are really interested. You cannot surelysuspect any tie-up between the death of Joyce Reynolds and the death of a young man of promisebut slightly criminal activities who has been dead for some years?”
“One can suspect anything,” said Poirot. “One has to find out more.”
“Excuse me, what one has to have in all matters dealing with crime, is evidence.”
“You have perhaps heard that the dead girl Joyce was heard by several witnesses to say that shehad with her own eyes witnessed a murder.”
“In a place like this,” said Mr. Fullerton, “one usually hears any rumour that may be goinground. One usually hears it, too, if I may add these words, in a singularly exaggerated form notusually worthy of credence.”
“That also,” said Poirot, “is quite true. Joyce was, I gather, just thirteen years of age. A child ofnine could remember something she had seen—a hit-and-run accident, a fight or a struggle withknives on a dark evening, or a schoolteacher who was strangled, say—all these things might leavea very strong impression on a child’s mind about which she would not speak, being uncertain,perhaps, of the actual facts she had seen, and mulling them over in her own mind. Forgetting aboutthem even, possibly, until something happened to remind her. You agree that that is a possiblehappening?”
“Oh yes, yes, but I hardly—I think it is an extremely far-fetched supposition.”
“You had, also, I believe, a disappearance here of a foreign girl. Her name, I believe, was Olgaor Sonia—I am not sure of the surname.”
“Olga Seminoff. Yes, indeed.”
“Not, I fear, a very reliable character?”
“No.”
“She was companion or nurse attendant to Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe, was she not, whom youdescribed to me just now? Mrs. Drake’s aunt—”
“Yes. She had had several girls in that position—two other foreign girls, I think, one of themwith whom she quarrelled almost immediately, and another one who was nice but painfully stupid.
Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe was not one to suffer fools gladly. Olga, her last venture, seems to havesuited her very well. She was not, if I remember rightly, a particularly attractive girl,” said Mr.
Fullerton. “She was short, rather stocky, had rather a dour manner, and people in theneighbourhood did not like her very much.”
“But Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe did like her,” suggested Poirot.
“She became very much attached to her—unwisely so, it seemed at one moment.”
“Ah, indeed.”
“I have no doubt,” said Mr. Fullerton, “that I am not telling you anything that you have notheard already. These things, as I say, go round the place like wildfire.”
“I understand that Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe left a large sum of money to the girl.”
“A most surprising thing to happen,” said Mr. Fullerton. “Mrs. Llewellyn- Smythe had notchanged her fundamental testamentary disposition for many years, except for adding new charitiesor altering legacies left void by death. Perhaps I am telling you what you know already, if you areinterested in this matter. Her money had always been left jointly to her nephew, Hugo Drake, andhis wife, who was also his first cousin, and so also niece to Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe. If either ofthem predeceased her the money went to the survivor. A good many bequests were left to charitiesand to old servants. But what was alleged to be her final disposal of her property was made aboutthree weeks before her death, and not, as heretofore, drawn up by our firm. It was a codicil writtenin her own handwriting. It included one or two charities—not so many as before—the old servantshad no legacies at all, and the whole residue of her considerable fortune was left to Olga Seminoffin gratitude for the devoted service and affection she had shown her. A most astonishingdisposition, one that seemed totally unlike anything Mrs. Llewellyn- Smythe had ever donebefore.”
“And then?” said Poirot.
“You have presumably heard more or less the developments. From the evidence of handwritingexperts, it became clear that the codicil was a complete forgery. It bore only a faint resemblance toMrs. Llewellyn-Smythe’s handwriting, no more than that. Mrs. Smythe had disliked the typewriterand had frequently got Olga to write letters of a personal nature, as far as possible copying heremployer’s handwriting—sometimes, even, signing the letter with her employer’s signature. Shehad had plenty of practice in doing this. It seems that when Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe died the girlwent one step further and thought that she was proficient enough to make the handwritingacceptable as that of her employer. But that sort of thing won’t do with experts. No, indeed itwon’t.”
“Proceedings were about to be taken to contest the document?”
“Quite so. There was, of course, the usual legal delay before the proceedings actually came tocourt. During that period the young lady lost her nerve and well, as you said yourself just now, she—disappeared.”
第十二章
第十二章
富勒顿、哈里森和莱德贝特事务所的房屋是典型的享有盛誉的老式公司的样式。时间在不知不觉中流逝，这里已经没有哈里森，也没有莱德贝特了，现在是一位阿特金森先生和一位年轻的科尔先生。杰里米•富勒顿先生还健在，他是事务所的主要合伙人。
富勒顿先生是一位清瘦的老人，他面无表情，声音冰冷严肃，眼睛出奇地敏锐。他的手静静地放在一张信纸上面，他刚刚读过信纸上那几行字。他又一次读起来，仔细思量每个词的准确意思。然后他抬起头，看着信纸上引荐的这个人。
“赫尔克里•波洛先生？”富勒顿先生对这个客人做出了自己的评判。一位老人，外国人，穿得衣冠楚楚，脚上的黑漆皮鞋并不合适，富勒顿先生敏锐地猜测，对他来说太紧了，他的眼角已经不自觉地显示出他的疼痛。一个注重打扮、衣着讲究的外国人，而把他引荐来的人竟然是刑侦调查局的亨利•拉格伦督察，还有退休的伦敦警察厅的斯彭斯警司为他担保。
“斯彭斯警司，是吗？”富勒顿先生说。
富勒顿先生知道斯彭斯，他在职期间表现非常出色，上司对他评价很高。富勒顿先生脑海中闪过一些模糊的记忆。那是一个非常著名的案子，实际上比它本身的名声还要有名很多，一个看起来已经结案的案子。当然！他突然想起来他的侄子罗伯特跟这件案子有关，他那时是初级律师。凶手是个精神有问题的人，而且似乎并没有费力去为自己辩护，你会认为那个人想被处以绞刑（那时绞刑还没被废除）。不是十五年的监禁或者无期徒刑，不是。杀人偿命——很遗憾现在废除绞刑了，富勒顿先生在他冷静的头脑里这样想。
现在年轻的暴徒认为他们把殴打变成杀人所承担的风险并不大。即使那个人死了，也没有人指证你。
斯彭斯当时主管那个案子，他平静而倔强地坚持说他们抓错了人。而他们确实错了，帮助他们回到正途的是一个外国人，一个比利时警察局的退休侦探。肯定一把年纪了。那么现在——高龄，应该是，富勒顿先生想道，而同样，他本人也到了要小心翼翼的阶段了。信息，这是对方来找他的目的。毕竟介绍信上写的不会有错，可他看不出来他有什么对这件特殊的案子有用的信息。一桩儿童被害案。
富勒顿先生对这个案子的凶手是谁有非常敏锐的想法，但他也不敢确定，因为最少有三个嫌疑人。那三个游手好闲的年轻人谁都有可能是凶手。他在心里想着措辞。智力低下。心理报告。毫无疑问，这就是案件的结局。尽管如此，在一个晚会上淹死一个孩子——这跟以往那些数不胜数的案例不是同一类型。那些孩子放学后不回家，而是搭乘陌生人的车，尽管他们被警告了很多次不要那么做，之后在附近的杂树林或者砾石坑里发现他们的尸体。提起砾石坑，那是什么时候的事儿？很多很多年前了。
想这些花了四分钟时间，然后富勒顿先生有些气喘地清了清嗓子，接着开口说话了。
“赫尔克里•波洛先生，”他再一次说道，“我能为您做些什么呢？我猜是关于那个小女孩儿，乔伊斯•雷诺兹的。残忍，太残忍了。我不明白我哪里能帮到您。我对此知之甚少。”
“但您是——我听说，是德雷克家族的法律顾问？”
“哦，对，对。雨果•德雷克，可怜的家伙。一位很好的伙伴。从他们买了苹果林搬来这儿住我就认识他们，很多年了。脊髓灰质炎——有一年他在国外度假的时候得的。沉重的精神打击，当然，他的健康也受损严重。对一个一生热爱运动的人，一个热爱比赛的运动员来说，非常可悲。是的，知道你一生都要跛着太可悲了。”
“您也负责处理卢埃林-史密斯夫人的法律事务，对吧。”
“他的姑妈，没错。一个了不起的女人。她是在身体垮了之后搬来这里的，离侄子侄媳更近点儿。花大价钱买了那栋华而不实的石矿府，实际它值不了那么多钱——但是她从来不愁钱。她非常富有。她本可以找一栋更好的房子，却被石矿本身吸引了。找了一位园艺师改造它。那个人在园艺业一定很有名。是个留着长头发、英俊潇洒的小伙子，而且能力出众。石矿花园的工程为他赢得了赞誉，《家居与园艺》等杂志都用它作了插图。是的，卢埃林-史密斯夫人很会挑选人才，不光是在这位英俊的年轻人这件事上。有些老女人在这方面很愚钝，但她有头脑还有能力。我扯得太远了。卢埃林-史密斯夫人两年前就去世了。”
“非常突然。”
富勒顿先生警觉地看着波洛。
“好吧，不，我不这么觉得。她有心脏病，医生们试图劝她少干点儿活，可她听不进劝。她不是疑病症那种类型的老人。”他咳嗽了一声然后说，“我觉得咱们偏离你来找我的主题了吧。”
“也不见得，”波洛说，“我还希望，如果您允许的话，问几个关于另一件完全不同的事的问题。关于您的一个雇员莱斯利•费里尔的一些情况。”
富勒顿先生看起来有些吃惊。“莱斯利•费里尔？”他说，“莱斯利•费里尔。让我想想。
您知道，我几乎都快忘了这个名字了。是的，是的。被人用刀砍死的，是吗？”
“我说的就是这个人。”
“好吧，我觉得我告诉不了您太多关于他的情况。那是好几年前了。一天晚上在绿天鹅旅店附近有人拿刀砍死了他。没有抓到凶手。我敢说警察大概知道谁是凶手，主要是因为……我觉得没有证据。”
“杀人动机是因为感情吗？”波洛问。
“哦，是的，我觉得肯定是。嫉妒，你知道。他跟一个已婚女人混在一起。她的丈夫开了家旅店，伍德利社区的绿天鹅旅店。是个挺不起眼的地方。后来莱斯利好像跟另一个年轻女孩儿在一起了——据说还不止一个。他是个挺会招惹女孩儿的人。曾经有过一两次麻烦。”
“他作为您的雇员的表现让您满意吗？”
“我只能说差强人意。他有自己的优点。他很擅长接待客户，在学徒期间也很好学。如果他再多放点儿精力在工作上，行为检点一些就好了。他总是跟一个又一个的女孩儿鬼混，而以我的老眼光来看，她们大多配不上他。有天晚上绿天鹅旅店发生了争执，接着莱斯利就在回家的路上被刀砍死了。”
“您认为嫌疑人是那些女孩儿中的一个，还是绿天鹅旅店的女主人呢？”
“实际上，警方并没有找到确凿的证据。他们认为这桩谋杀是出于嫉妒，但是——”他耸了耸肩膀。
“但是您也不确定？”
“哦，这种事经常发生。”富勒顿先生说，“‘黄蜂尾后针，最毒妇人心’，法庭上经常引用这句话，有时候确实是这样。”
“但是我能看出对这件案子您并不这么认为。”
“好吧，我希望能有更多的证据，警方也是。我记得检察官没有受理这个案子。”
“有可能是完全不同的情况？”
“对。我们可以提出好几种推论。小莱斯利的性格并不稳定。他家境很好，有个好母亲——是个寡妇。父亲不怎么正经，好几次都险些陷入困境，他的妻子太倒霉了。我们这位年轻人在某些方面很像他的父亲。有一两次他和一群可疑人员混在一起，我替他担保。他还很年轻。我警告他别和那些团伙混在一起，别做一些违法的伪造交易。他还年轻，也很能干，我给过他一两次警告，希望能有效。但是现在社会风气太腐败了，过去十年一直在恶化。”
“您认为，有人把他拉下水了？”
“很有可能。这些团体——夸张点儿说叫帮派——当你和他们搅和在一起的时候你得冒一定的风险。一旦你有想要脱离他们的意思，有人马上会捅你一刀，这并不少见。”
“案发时没人看见吗？”
“没有，没人看见。当然，他们也不会让人看见。凶手作案之前肯定已经把一切都安排好了。做好了不在场证明，等等。”
“但也有可能有人看见了。很不可能的人，比如，一个孩子。”
“深夜？在绿天鹅旅店附近？非常不可能，波洛先生。”
“一个孩子，”波洛坚持说，“她可能记得。她正从朋友家回来，在回家的某条近路上，也许。她可能在一条小路上或者透过篱笆看到了一些东西。”
“真的，波洛先生，这都是您的想象。您说的这些我觉得根本不可能。”
“可我觉得并不是那么不可能，”波洛说，“孩子们确实会看到一些事。他们经常——您知道，出现在出人意料的地方。”
“但是他们回家后肯定会说看见了什么吧？”
“也可能不会。”波洛说，“您知道，他们可能并不确定看到的是什么，尤其是看到的东西让他们有些害怕的时候。孩子们并不总是一回家就报告在路上看见了一场车祸，或者看到了暴力事件等，他们把自己的秘密隐藏得很好。守口如瓶，只自己去思考。有时候他们享受拥有一个只有自己知道的秘密的感觉。”
“他们会告诉母亲。”富勒顿先生说。
“这一点我觉得不一定，”波洛说，“以我的经验来看，孩子不告诉母亲的例子也数不胜数。”
“能告诉我莱斯利的案子为什么让您这么感兴趣吗？一个年轻人因暴力而死的可悲案例，这种情况在现今社会太多了。”
“我对他并不了解。但是我希望能了解一些他的情况，因为他是近几年被杀的。这一点对我来说可能很重要。”
“您知道，波洛先生，”富勒顿先生有些尖刻地说，“我实在弄不明白您为什么来找我，也不明白您到底对什么感兴趣。您不会是怀疑乔伊斯•雷诺兹的死跟几年前一个有前途却轻度涉及违法活动的年轻人的死有什么关联吧？”
“人只有怀疑一切，才能发现更多。”波洛说。
“恕我直言，在处理一切与犯罪相关的事情时所需要的，都是证据。”
“您也许听说了，有不少人听见被杀的乔伊斯说她亲眼见过一场谋杀。”
“在这个地方，”富勒顿先生说，“人们总能听到四面八方的流言。他们听得太多了，如果我能这样描述的话——夸大其词，根本不足为信。”
“这也是实情。”波洛说，“据我所知，乔伊斯才十三岁。一个九岁的孩子就能记住他看到的一切——一场肇事逃逸的车祸，黑夜里一场拿着匕首的打斗或者争执，或者一位学校老师被掐死，这些都可能给那个孩子留下深刻印象，但是她不会说出去。也许是因为不确定她看到的到底是什么，就一直在心里琢磨。直到又发生了什么事提醒了她，使她终于想明白了。您同意这很可能发生吗？”
“哦，对，对，但是——我觉得这种推测太牵强了。”
“这里还有一件事，我相信。一个外国女孩儿失踪了。她的名字，我记得，叫奥尔加或者索尼亚，我不知道她的姓。”
“奥尔加•塞米诺娃。对，没错。”
“我恐怕，她不是一个可靠的人。”
“不是。”
“她是陪护或者护士，伺候刚才您跟我说的卢埃林-史密斯夫人，德雷克的姑妈，对吗？”
“是的，她请过几个女孩儿照顾她——还有另外两个外国女孩儿。有一个她几乎马上就和她吵架了。另一个很善良，但是特别笨。卢埃林-史密斯夫人忍受不了那么蠢的人。奥尔加是她最后的冒险，似乎很适合她。她并不是一个——如果我没记错的话——特别吸引人的姑娘。”富勒顿先生说，“她身材矮小，很壮实，不苟言笑，附近的人们并不是很喜欢她。”
“但是卢埃林-史密斯夫人很喜欢她。”
“她非常依赖她——这很不明智。”
“啊，确实。”
“我毫不怀疑，”富勒顿先生说，“我无法告诉您任何您不知道的信息，这些东西，如我所说，像野火一样早就传遍了。”
“我听说卢埃林-史密斯夫人留了一大笔钱给这个女孩儿。”
“非常出人意料。”富勒顿先生说，“卢埃林-史密斯夫人的遗嘱很多年都没有根本性的变化，只是增加一些慈善机构或者修改因为继承人死亡而空出的遗产。如果您对这件事有兴趣，那我说的这些您早就都知道了吧。她的财产总是留给她的侄子雨果•德雷克和他的妻子，她是他的表妹，也是卢埃林-史密斯夫人的外甥女。如果他们中有人先去世了，那么财产就都归另一个所有。还有很多遗赠物是留给慈善机构和老仆人的。但是据说最终的遗产分配是在她死前三个星期确定的，而那，不是由我们事务所起草的。她亲笔书写了一份遗嘱补遗。包括一两个慈善机构——没以前那么多了——老仆人们的份额也少之又少，剩下的巨额财富都留给了奥尔加•塞米诺娃，以感谢她无微不至的关怀和照顾。非常让人震惊的分配方法，一点儿也不像卢埃林-史密斯夫人以前的行事风格。”
“然后呢？”波洛问。
“您可能或多或少听过事情的发展了。从笔迹鉴定专家提供的证据看，那条补遗完全是伪造的，只是稍微有点儿像卢埃林-史密斯夫人的笔迹而已。史密斯夫人不喜欢用打字机，总让奥尔加尽量模仿她的笔迹写一些私人信件——有时甚至模仿她去签名。她做这种事的经验很丰富。卢埃林-史密斯夫人去世之后，这个女孩儿似乎得寸进尺了，以为她模仿雇主的笔迹能够以假乱真。但是这种事瞒不过专家。对，肯定瞒不过。”
“为辨别那份文件的真假，会提起诉讼吧？”
“的确。当然，在法庭接受诉讼之前通常有一段法定延误，而在那期间，那个年轻女孩儿失去了勇气，如你刚才所说的那样，她——失踪了。”
Thirteen
Thirteen
When Hercule Poirot had taken his leave and departed, Jeremy Fullerton sat before his deskdrumming gently with his fingertips. His eyes, however, were far away—lost in thought.
He picked up a document in front of him and dropped his eyes down to it, but without focusinghis glance. The discreet buzz of the house telephone caused him to pick up the receiver on hisdesk.
“Yes, Miss Miles?”
“Mr. Holden is here, sir.”
“Yes. Yes, his appointment, I believe was for nearly three quarters of an hour ago. Did he giveany reason for having been so late?…Yes, yes. I quite see. Rather the same excuse he gave lasttime. Will you tell him I’ve seen another client, and I am now too short of time. Make anappointment with him for next week, will you? We can’t have this sort of thing going on.”
“Yes, Mr. Fullerton.”
He replaced the receiver and sat looking thoughtfully down at the document in front of him. Hewas still not reading it. His mind was going over events of the past. Two years—close on twoyears ago—and that strange little man this morning with his patent leather shoes and his bigmoustaches, had brought it back to him, asking all those questions.
Now he was going over in his own mind a conversation of nearly two years ago.
He saw again, sitting in the chair opposite him, a girl, a short, stocky figure—the olive brownskin, the dark red generous mouth, the heavy cheekbones and the fierceness of the blue eyes thatlooked into his beneath the heavy, beetling brows. A passionate face, a face full of vitality, a facethat had known suffering—would probably always know suffering—but would never learn toaccept suffering. The kind of woman who would fight and protest until the end. Where was shenow, he wondered? Somehow or other she had managed—what had she managed exactly? Whohad helped her? Had anyone helped her? Somebody must have done so.
She was back again, he supposed, in some trouble-stricken spot in Central Europe where shehad come from, where she belonged, where she had had to go back to because there was no othercourse for her to take unless she was content to lose her liberty.
Jeremy Fullerton was an upholder of the law. He believed in the law, he was contemptuous ofmany of the magistrates of today with their weak sentences, their acceptance of scholastic needs.
The students who stole books, the young married women who denuded the supermarkets, the girlswho filched money from their employers, the boys who wrecked telephone boxes, none of them inreal need, none of them desperate, most of them had known nothing but overindulgence inbringing up and a fervent belief that anything they could not afford to buy was theirs to take. Yetalong with his intrinsic belief in the administration of the law justly, Mr. Fullerton was a man whohad compassion. He could be sorry for people. He could be sorry, and was sorry, for OlgaSeminoff though he was quite unaffected by the passionate arguments she advanced for herself.
“I came to you for help. I thought you would help me. You were kind last year. You helped mewith forms so that I could remain another year in England. So they say to me: ‘You need notanswer any questions you do not wish to. You can be represented by a lawyer.’ So I come to you.”
“The circumstances you have instanced—” and Mr. Fullerton remembered how drily and coldlyhe had said that, all the more drily and coldly because of the pity that lay behind the dryness of thestatement “—do not apply. In this case I am not at liberty to act for you legally. I am representingalready the Drake family. As you know, I was Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe’s solicitor.”
“But she is dead. She does not want a solicitor when she is dead.”
“She was fond of you,” said Mr. Fullerton.
“Yes, she was fond of me. That is what I am telling you. That is why she wanted to give me themoney.”
“All her money?”
“Why not? Why not? She did not like her relations.”
“You are wrong. She was very fond of her niece and nephew.”
“Well, then, she may have liked Mr. Drake but she did not like Mrs. Drake. She found her verytiresome. Mrs. Drake interfered. She would not let Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe do always what sheliked. She would not let her eat the food she liked.”
“She is a very conscientious woman, and she tried to get her aunt to obey the doctor’s orders asto diet and not too much exercise and many other things.”
“People do not always want to obey a doctor’s orders. They do not want to be interfered with byrelations. They like living their own lives and doing what they want and having what they want.
She had plenty of money. She could have what she wanted! She could have as much as she likedof everything. She was rich—rich—rich, and she could do what she liked with her money. Theyhave already quite enough money, Mr. and Mrs. Drake. They have a fine house and clothes andtwo cars. They are very well-to-do. Why should they have any more?”
“They were her only living relations.”
“She wanted me to have the money. She was sorry for me. She knew what I had been through.
She knew about my father, arrested by the police and taken away. We never saw him again, mymother and I. And then my mother and how she died. All my family died. It is terrible, what Ihave endured. You do not know what it is like to live in a police state, as I have lived in it. No, no.
You are on the side of the police. You are not on my side.”
“No,” Mr. Fullerton said, “I am not on your side. I am very sorry for what has happened to you,but you’ve brought this trouble about yourself.”
“That is not true! It is not true that I have done anything I should not do. What have I done? Iwas kind to her, I was nice to her. I brought her in lots of things that she was not supposed to eat.
Chocolates and butter. All the time nothing but vegetable fats. She did not like vegetable fats. Shewanted butter. She wanted lots of butter.”
“It’s not just a question of butter,” said Mr. Fullerton.
“I looked after her, I was nice to her! And so she was grateful. And then when she died and Ifind that in her kindness and her affection she has left a signed paper leaving all her money to me,then those Drakes come along and say I shall not have it. They say all sorts of things. They say Ihad a bad influence. And then they say worse things than that. Much worse. They say I wrote theWill myself. That is nonsense. She wrote it. She wrote it. And then she sent me out of the room.
She got the cleaning woman and Jim the gardener. She said they had to sign the paper, not me.
Because I was going to get the money. Why should not I have the money? Why should I not havesome good luck in my life, some happiness? It seemed so wonderful. All the things I planned to dowhen I knew about it.”
“I have no doubt, yes, I have no doubt.”
“Why shouldn’t I have plans? Why should not I rejoice? I am going to be happy and rich andhave all the things I want. What did I do wrong? Nothing. Nothing, I tell you. Nothing.”
“I have tried to explain to you,” said Mr. Fullerton.
“That is all lies. You say I tell lies. You say I wrote the paper myself. I did not write it myself.
She wrote it. Nobody can say anything different.”
“Certain people say a good many things,” said Mr. Fullerton. “Now listen. Stop protesting andlisten to me. It is true, is it not, that Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe in the letters you wrote for her, oftenasked you to copy her handwriting as nearly as you could? That was because she had an old-fashioned idea that to write typewritten letters to people who are friends or with whom you have apersonal acquaintance, is an act of rudeness. That is a survival from Victorian days. Nowadaysnobody cares whether they receive handwritten letters or typewritten ones. But to Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe that was discourtesy. You understand what I am saying?”
“Yes, I understand. And so she asks me. She says, ‘Now, Olga,’ she says. ‘These four lettersyou will answer as I have told you and that you have taken down in shorthand. But you will writethem in handwriting and you will make the handwriting as close to mine as possible.’ And she toldme to practise writing her handwriting, to notice how she made her a’s, and her b’s and her l’s andall the different letters. ‘So long as it is reasonably like my handwriting,’ she said, ‘that will do,and then you can sign my name. But I do not want people to think that I am no longer able to writemy own letters. Although, as you know, the rheumatism in my wrist is getting worse and I find itmore difficult, but I don’t want my personal letters typewritten.’”
“You could have written them in your ordinary handwriting,” said Mr. Fullerton, “and put anote at the end saying ‘per secretary’ or per initials if you liked.”
“She did not want me to do that. She wanted it to be thought that she wrote the letters herself.”
And that, Mr. Fullerton thought, could be true enough. It was very like Louise Llewellyn-Smythe. She was always passionately resentful of the fact that she could no longer do the thingsshe used to do, that she could no longer walk far or go up hills quickly or perform certain actionswith her hands, her right hand especially. She wanted to be able to say “I’m perfectly well,perfectly all right and there’s nothing I can’t do if I set my mind to it.” Yes, what Olga was tellinghim now was perfectly true, and because it was true it was one of the reasons why the codicilappended to the last Will properly drawn out and signed by Louise Llewellyn-Smythe had beenaccepted at first without suspicion. It was in his own office, Mr. Fullerton reflected, that suspicionshad arisen because both he and his younger partner knew Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe’s handwritingvery well. It was young Cole who had first said,“You know, I really can’t believe that Louise Llewellyn-Smythe wrote that codicil. I know shehad arthritis lately but look at these specimens of her own writing that I’ve brought along fromamongst her papers to show you. There’s something wrong about that codicil.”
Mr. Fullerton had agreed that there was something wrong about it. He had said they would takeexpert opinion on this handwriting question. The answer had been quite definite. Separate opinionshad not varied. The handwriting of the codicil was definitely not that of Louise Llewellyn-Smythe.
If Olga had been less greedy, Mr. Fullerton thought, if she had been content to write a codicilbeginning as this one had done—“Because of her great care and attention to me and the affectionand kindness she has shown me, I leave—” That was how it had begun, that was how it could havebegun, and if it had gone on to specify a good round sum of money left to the devoted au pair girl,the relations might have considered it overdone, but they would have accepted it withoutquestioning. But to cut out the relations altogether, the nephew who had been his aunt’s residuarylegatee in the last four wills she had made during a period of nearly twenty years, to leaveeverything to the stranger Olga Seminoff—that was not in Louise Llewellyn-Smythe’s character.
In fact, a plea of undue influence could upset such a document anyway. No. She had been greedy,this hot, passionate child. Possibly Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe had told her that some money wouldbe left to her because of her kindness, because of her attention, because of a fondness the old ladywas beginning to feel for this girl who fulfilled all her whims, who did whatever she asked her.
And that had opened up a vista for Olga. She would have everything. The old lady should leaveeverything to her, and she would have all the money. All the money and the house and the clothesand the jewels. Everything. A greedy girl. And now retribution had caught up with her.
And Mr. Fullerton, against his will, against his legal instincts and against a good deal more, feltsorry for her. Very sorry for her. She had known suffering since she was a child, had known therigours of a police state, had lost her parents, lost a brother and a sister and known injustice andfear, and it had developed in her a trait that she had no doubt been born with but which she hadnever been able so far to indulge. It had developed a childish passionate greed.
“Everyone is against me,” said Olga. “Everyone. You are all against me. You are not fairbecause I am a foreigner, because I do not belong to this country, because I do not know what tosay, what to do. What can I do? Why do you not tell me what I can do?”
“Because I do not really think there is anything much you can do,” said Mr. Fullerton. “Yourbest chance is to make a clean breast of things.”
“If I say what you want me to say, it will be all lies and not true. She made that Will. She wroteit down there. She told me to go out of the room while the others signed it.”
“There is evidence against you, you know. There are people who will say that Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe often did not know what she was signing. She had several documents of different kinds,and she did not always reread what was put before her.”
“Well, then she did not know what she was saying.”
“My dear child,” said Mr. Fullerton, “your best hope is the fact that you are a first offender, thatyou are a foreigner, that you understand the English language only in a rather rudimentary form.
In that case you may get off with a minor sentence—or you may, indeed, get put on probation.”
“Oh, words. Nothing but words. I shall be put in prison and never let out again.”
“Now you are talking nonsense,” Mr. Fullerton said.
“It would be better if I ran away, if I ran away and hid myself so that nobody could find me.”
“Once there is a warrant out for your arrest, you would be found.”
“Not if I did it quickly. Not if I went at once. Not if someone helped me. I could get away. Getaway from England. In a boat or a plane. I could find someone who forges passports or visas, orwhatever you have to have. Someone who will do something for me. I have friends. I have peoplewho are fond of me. Somebody could help me to disappear. That is what I needed. I could put on awig. I could walk about on crutches.”
“Listen,” Mr. Fullerton had said, and he had spoken then with authority, “I am sorry for you. Iwill recommend you to a lawyer who will do his best for you. You can’t hope to disappear. Youare talking like a child.”
“I have got enough money. I have saved money.” And then she had said, “You have tried to bekind. Yes, I believe that. But you will not do anything because it is all the law—the law. Butsomeone will help me. Someone will. And I shall get away where nobody will ever find me.”
Nobody, Mr. Fullerton thought, had found her. He wondered—yes; he wondered very much—where she was or could be now.
第十三章
第十三章
赫尔克里•波洛告辞离开之后，杰里米•富勒顿先生坐在桌前，指尖轻轻敲打着桌面。然而他的眼睛望向远方——陷入了沉思。
他拿起面前的一份文件，垂下眼睛看着它，目光却没有焦点。内线电话小声地响起来，他拿起桌上的听筒。
“什么事，迈尔斯小姐？”
“霍尔登先生来了，先生。”
“对，对，他有预约，我想已经晚了四十多分钟了吧。他说了为什么来晚了吗？……是，是，我很明白。每次迟到他都是这个理由。你告诉他我已经在接见下一位客户了，没时间见他。你跟他约下周，好吗？我们不能忍受这样的事情一而再再而三地发生。”
“好的，富勒顿先生。”
他放下听筒，一脸深思地看着面前的文件，但还是没读它。他的思绪飞回到了过去。
两年——差不多正好两年了——今天早上来的那个穿着黑漆皮鞋、留着小胡子的奇怪小老头问了各种问题，把他带回到过去之中。
现在他在脑海中回想着两年前的那场对话。
他再一次看见，在他对面的椅子里坐着一个女孩儿，矮小，健壮——橄榄般棕色的皮肤，暗红色的大嘴巴，高高的颧骨，浓黑突出的眉毛下一双蓝色的眼睛犀利地盯着他的眼睛。一张饱含热情的脸，一张充满生机的脸，一张经受过痛苦的脸——也许一直都要承受痛苦——但是永远也学不会接受苦难。她是那种会一直反抗到底的人。她现在在哪儿呢？
他想知道。她用了什么方法怎么做到了——她到底做到了什么呢？谁帮了她？有人帮了她吗？肯定是。
他猜她回去了，回到中欧某个动乱不断的国家。她从那里来，她属于那里，最终也不得不回到那里，因为已经没有别的路可走了，除非她想要失去自由。
杰里米•富勒顿是法律的支持者。他相信法律，蔑视现在很多法官总是从轻发落、墨守成规。学生们偷书，新婚少妇在超市小偷小摸，女孩儿偷拿雇主的钱，男孩儿毁坏电话亭拿里面的硬币。他们中没有人是真正需要钱，没有人是走投无路的；他们大多数都是从小被溺爱，什么都不懂，只相信他们买不起的东西都可以伸手去拿。然而在他那坚定的坚持法律的公正的信仰之下，富勒顿先生还是一个有同情心的人。他可能会为人们感到难过。
他可能会，也确实为奥尔加•塞米诺娃感到难过，尽管他没有被她为自己激烈的辩护所影响。
“我来寻求您的帮助。我想您能帮我。去年您对我很好，您帮我填了那些表格，我才能多在英格兰待一年。所以当他们对我说‘你有权不回答任何不想回答的问题，你可以找律师代表你’的时候，我想到了您。”
“你现在所处的这种环境——”富勒顿先生记得他当时说这话时是多么冷静和冷漠。因为要隐藏他的遗憾，说起话来就更加冷漠，他说：“并不合适。在这个案子里我没办法在法律上代表你。我已经代表德雷克一家了。如你所知，我是卢埃林-史密斯夫人的律师。”
“但是她已经死了。她死了，不再需要律师了。”
“她很喜欢你。”富勒顿先生说。
“是的，她很喜欢我。这也是我要告诉您的。这就是她为什么要把钱留给我。”
“她所有的钱？”
“为什么不呢？为什么不能？她不喜欢她的亲戚。”
“你错了，她很喜欢她的侄子和侄媳。”
“好吧，她可能喜欢德雷克先生，但是她不喜欢德雷克夫人。她觉得她很烦。德雷克夫人总是干涉她的生活。她不让卢埃林-史密斯夫人做她一直喜欢做的事，不让她吃喜欢吃的东西。”
“她是个有良心的人，试图劝她的姑妈听从医生的嘱咐，注意饮食，不要过度运动，等等。”
“人们都不愿意听从医生的嘱咐。他们不想被亲戚干涉。他们喜欢过自己的日子，做喜欢的事，吃喜欢的东西。她有很多钱，她想要什么就有什么！要多少有多少！她很有钱——有钱——有钱！她可以用她的钱做任何事。他们已经很有钱了，德雷克先生和夫人，他们有一栋好房子，有足够的衣服，还有两辆车。他们非常富有了。为什么还要给他们钱？”
“他们是她唯一在世的亲戚。”
“她想把钱留给我。她为我难过。她知道我受过很多苦，她知道我爸爸被警察逮捕了，我和妈妈再没见过他。她知道我妈妈的事，也知道她是怎么死的。我的家人都死了。很可怕，我经历的这一切。您不知道究竟是什么样子。您没站在我这边。”
“没有，”富勒顿先生说，“我没站在你那边。听到你经历的这些事，我很难过，但是你又惹祸上身了。”
“那不是真的！不是真的，我没做过不该做的事。我做了什么？我对她很好。我给她拿了很多医生不建议她吃的东西，巧克力和黄油。他们一直只给她吃植物油，她不喜欢植物油，她想吃黄油，她想要很多黄油。”
“这不是黄油的问题。”富勒顿先生说。
“我照顾她，我对她很好！所以她很感激我。她去世的时候，我发现她很好心地签了一张纸，把她的钱都留给我了，然后德雷克一家就来找我，说我不应该拥有这些钱。他们说了很多难听的话。他们说我不正当施压。还有更难听的话，越来越难听。他们说我自己写的那份遗嘱。胡说八道。她写的，她亲笔写的。那时候她让我离开房间，把清洁女工还有园丁吉姆叫过去了。她说他们得在上面签字，我不能签。因为我会得到那笔钱。为什么我不能得到那笔钱？为什么我的生命里就不能有一些幸运，有一些幸福？我知道这件事后还计划去做很多事，那些计划是那么美妙。”
“我毫不怀疑，是的，我毫不怀疑。”
“为什么我不能有计划？为什么我不能高兴？我将会很幸福很富有，拥有我想要的一切。我做错什么了？没有，没有，我告诉您，我什么都没做错。”
“我向你解释过了。”富勒顿先生说。
“都是谎话。您觉得我在说谎。您说我自己写的那份遗嘱。不是我写的。是她写的。没人能改变这一点。”
“每个人都有自己的立场。”富勒顿先生说，“现在听着，别再抱怨了，听我说。卢埃林-史密斯夫人经常让你尽量模仿她的笔迹写信，是真的吧？那是因为她还保留着维多利亚时期的老传统，认为用打字机给朋友或者亲密的人写信是不礼貌的。现在没人关心信是手写的还是打印的了，但是对卢埃林-史密斯夫人来说那就是无礼。你能明白我说的是什么吧？”
“是的，我明白。她也是这么要求我的。‘哦，奥尔加，’她说，‘按我刚才让你速记下来的话给这四封信回信，但是你得用手写，写得越像我的字越好。’她让我练习她的笔迹，注意她的笔画是怎么写的。‘只要和我的笔迹有些像，’她说，‘就可以了，然后你可以签上我的名字。我不希望人们觉得我自己连字都写不了了。尽管，你知道，我手腕的风湿越来越严重，但是我不想用打字机打私人信件。’”
“你可以用你的字体回信，”富勒顿先生说，“然后在后面注明‘秘书代写’之类的。”
“她不让我那么做。她希望人们认为那就是她亲笔写的。”
这一点，富勒顿先生想，很可能是真的。很像卢埃林-史密斯夫人的风格。她总是非常不满一些事实：她不能再做以前做的事儿了，不能像以前那样走远路或者爬山了，不能用手做一些特定的动作，尤其是右手。她希望能说：“我非常健康，非常好，如果我想做，没什么我做不了的。”是的，奥尔加刚才告诉他的绝对是真的，而正因为这是真的，才使得卢埃林-史密斯夫人签的最后那条遗嘱补遗在最开始被毫无疑问地接受了。那是在他的办公室，富勒顿先生回想起来。他们起了疑心，是因为他和他年轻的搭档都非常熟悉卢埃林-史密斯夫人的字体。小科尔最先说：“您知道吗，我真不敢相信卢埃林-史密斯夫人写了那条补遗。我知道她最近得了关节炎，但是看看这些我从以前的文件里找到的她的手写字。这条补遗不太对劲儿。”
富勒顿先生也觉得不太对劲儿。他说在字迹问题上可以询问专家的意见。得到的答案非常肯定。补遗上面的手写字绝对不是卢埃林-史密斯夫人写的。如果奥尔加没有那么贪心，富勒顿先生想，如果她知足地去写跟这个一样开头的一条补遗——“为感谢她无微不至地照顾和关心，以及她对我表现出的亲密和友善，我赠予她——”这是补遗的开头，也只能这样开头。如果她在下面明确写明有一大笔钱要留给忠诚的互换生女孩儿，亲戚们可能会觉得有点儿太过了，但他们还是会毫无疑问地接受。然而排除所有亲戚，甚至包括一直是她过去二十年的四份遗嘱中剩余财产继承人的侄子，把遗产都留给这个陌生人奥尔加•塞米诺娃——这不是路易丝•卢埃林-史密斯夫人的性格。事实上，一条不正当施压就能推翻这样一份遗嘱。不，她太贪婪了，这个激动热情的孩子。可能卢埃林-史密斯夫人告诉过她会留一笔钱给她，因为她无微不至地照顾、关心，而且对她百依百顺，做任何主人让她做的事，这让老太太开始喜欢这个孩子。而这让奥尔加开始憧憬。她将会拥有一切。老太太会把一切都留给她，她会得到所有的东西。钱、房子、衣服，还有首饰珠宝。一切东西。一个贪婪的女孩儿。而现在她要遭到惩罚了。
而富勒顿先生，有悖他的意志、有悖他的法律直觉、有悖他许多原则，为这个女孩儿感到难过。非常为她难过。据说她从还是孩子的时候就开始遭受苦难，体会了国家的严酷，失去了父母，失去了一位兄弟，一位姐妹，知道了不公和恐惧。这一切造就了她的一种特性，一种与生俱来的特性，只是一直没有机会表现出来。这导致了一种孩子般狂热的贪婪。
“所有人都跟我作对，”奥尔加说，“每个人。你们都跟我作对。您不公平，因为我是外国人，因为我不属于这个国家，因为我不知道该说什么、该做什么。我能做什么？为什么您不告诉我我该做什么？”
“因为我真的不认为我能为你做什么。”富勒顿先生说，“你最好的选择就是坦白从宽。”
“如果我按你说的做，那就是说谎，是假话。她写的那份遗嘱。她写在那儿的。他们在那儿签字的时候她让我离开房间了。”
“证据都对你不利，你知道的。有人会说卢埃林-史密斯夫人有时候根本不知道自己签的是什么。她有各种不同的文件，她有时候根本不读她面前放的是什么。”
“好吧，那她根本就不知道自己说的是什么了。”
“我亲爱的孩子，”富勒顿先生说，“对你最有利的只有两个事实，一是你是初犯，二是你是外国人，对英语并不精通。这样的话你可以被从轻发落——或者你可以，真的，缓刑察看。”
“哦，措辞。只是措辞不同而已。我会被关进监狱，永远出不来了。”
“你是在胡思乱想。”富勒顿先生说。
“那我还不如逃跑，如果我跑了，藏起来，就没有人能找得到我了。”
“一旦发出了逮捕令，你就会被找到的。”
“如果我够快的话就不会。如果我现在马上就走，如果有人帮我，我就能离开，离开英国。坐船或者坐飞机。我可以找人伪造通行证或者护照或者需要的任何东西。有人会帮我，我有朋友。有喜欢我的人，有人会帮我消失。这就是我需要的。我可以戴上假发，或者拄着拐棍儿走路。”
“听着，”富勒顿先生当时说很有威信地说，“我为你难过，我会给你推荐一位律师，他会尽全力帮助你。你不能希望借消失了事。那都是孩子话。”
“我有足够的钱。我攒钱了。”然后她接着说，“您已经尽力帮我了，是的，我相信。但是您不会做任何事情，因为法律——法律。但是有人会帮我。有人会。我会去一个没有人能找到我的地方。”
富勒顿先生想，果然没有人再找到她。他很好奇——是的，他非常好奇——她现在哪儿，或者可能在哪儿。
Fourteen
Fourteen
IAdmitted to Apple Trees, Hercule Poirot was shown into the drawing room and told that Mrs.
Drake would not be long.
In passing through the hall he heard the hum of female voices behind what he took to be thedining room door.
Poirot crossed to the drawing room window and surveyed the neat and pleasant garden. Welllaid out, kept studiously in control. Rampant autumn michaelmas daisies still survived, tied upseverely to sticks; chrysanthemums had not yet relinquished life. There were still a persistent roseor two scorning the approach of winter.
Poirot could discern no sign as yet of the preliminary activities of a landscape gardener. All wascare and convention. He wondered if Mrs. Drake had been one too many for Michael Garfield. Hehad spread his lures in vain. It showed every sign of remaining a splendidly kept suburban garden.
The door opened.
“I am sorry to have kept you waiting, Monsieur Poirot,” said Mrs. Drake.
Outside in the hall there was a diminishing hum of voices as various people took their leave anddeparted.
“It’s our church Christmas fête,” explained Mrs. Drake. “A Committee Meeting forarrangements for it and all the rest of it. These things always go on much longer than they oughtto, of course. Somebody always objects to something, or has a good idea—the good idea usuallybeing a perfectly impossible one.”
There was a slight acerbity in her tone. Poirot could well imagine that Rowena Drake would putthings down as quite absurd, firmly and definitely. He could understand well enough from remarkshe had heard from Spence’s sister, from hints of what other people had said and from various othersources, that Rowena Drake was that dominant type of personality whom everyone expects to runthe show, and whom nobody has much affection for while she is doing it. He could imagine, too,that her conscientiousness had not been the kind to be appreciated by an elderly relative who washerself of the same type. Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe, he gathered, had come here to live so as to benear to her nephew and his wife, and that the wife had readily undertaken the supervision and careof her husband’s aunt as far as she could do so without actually living in the house. Mrs.
Llewellyn-Smythe had probably acknowledged in her own mind that she owed a great deal toRowena, and had at the same time resented what she had no doubt thought of as her bossy ways.
“Well, they’ve all gone now,” said Rowena Drake, hearing the final shutting of the hall door.
“Now what can I do for you? Something more about that dreadful party? I wish I’d never had ithere. But no other house really seemed suitable. Is Mrs. Oliver still staying with Judith Butler?”
“Yes. She is, I believe, returning to London in a day or two. You had not met her before?”
“No. I love her books.”
“She is, I believe, considered a very good writer,” said Poirot.
“Oh well, she is a good writer. No doubt of that. She’s a very amusing person too. Has she anyideas herself—I mean about who might have done this dreadful thing?”
“I think not. And you, Madame?”
“I’ve told you already. I’ve no idea whatever.”
“You would perhaps say so, and yet—you might, might you not, have, perhaps, what amountsto a very good idea, but only an idea. A half-formed idea. A possible idea.”
“Why should you think that?”
She looked at him curiously.
“You might have seen something — something quite small and unimportant but which onreflection might seem more significant to you, perhaps, than it had done at first.”
“You must have something in your mind, Monsieur Poirot, some definite incident.”
“Well, I admit it. It is because of what someone said to me.”
“Indeed! And who was that?”
“A Miss Whittaker. A schoolteacher.”
“Oh yes, of course. Elizabeth Whittaker. She’s the mathematics mistress, isn’t she, at TheElms? She was at the party, I remember. Did she see something?”
“It was not so much that she saw something as she had the idea that you might have seensomething.”
Mrs. Drake looked surprised and shook her head.
“I can’t think of anything I can possibly have seen,” said Rowena Drake, “but one neverknows.”
“It had to do with a vase,” said Poirot. “A vase of flowers.”
“A vase of flowers?” Rowena Drake looked puzzled. Then her brow cleared. “Oh, of course, Iknow. Yes, there was a big vase of autumn leaves and chrysanthemums on the table in the angle ofthe stairs. A very nice glass vase. One of my wedding presents. The leaves seemed to be droopingand so did one or two of the flowers. I remember noticing it as I passed through the hall—it wasnear the end of the party, I think, by then, but I’m not sure—I wondered why it looked like that,and I went up and dipped my fingers into it and found that some idiot must have forgotten to putany water into it after arranging it. It made me very angry. So I took it into the bathroom and filledit up. But what could I have seen in that bathroom? There was nobody in it. I am quite sure of that.
I think one or two of the older girls and boys had done a little harmless, what the Americans call‘necking,’ there during the course of the party, but there was certainly nobody when I went into itwith the vase.”
“No, no, I do not mean that,” said Poirot. “But I understood that there was an accident. That thevase slipped out of your hand and it fell to the hall below and was shattered to pieces.”
“Oh yes,” said Rowena. “Broken to smithereens. I was rather upset about it because as I’ve said,it had been one of our wedding presents, and it was really a perfect flower vase, heavy enough tohold big autumn bouquets and things like that. It was very stupid of me. My fingers just slipped. Itwent out of my hand and crashed on the hall floor below. Elizabeth Whittaker was standing there.
She helped me to pick up the pieces and sweep some of the broken glass out of the way in casesomeone stepped on it. We just swept it into a corner by the Grandfather clock to be cleared uplater.”
She looked inquiringly at Poirot.
“Is that the incident you mean?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Poirot. “Miss Whittaker wondered, I think, how you had come to drop the vase. Shethought that something perhaps had startled you.”
“Startled me?” Rowena Drake looked at him, then frowned as she tried to think again. “No, Idon’t think I was startled, anyway. It was just one of those ways things do slip out of your hands.
Sometimes when you’re washing up. I think, really, it’s a result of being tired. I was pretty tired bythat time, what with the preparations for the party and running the party and all the rest of it. Itwent very well, I must say. I think it was—oh, just one of those clumsy actions that you can’t helpwhen you’re tired.”
“There was nothing—you are sure—that startled you? Something unexpected that you saw?”
“Saw? Where? In the hall below? I didn’t see anything in the hall below. It was empty at themoment because everyone was in at the Snapdragon excepting, of course, for Miss Whittaker. AndI don’t think I even noticed her until she came forward to help when I ran down.”
“Did you see someone, perhaps, leaving the library door?”
“The library door…I see what you mean. Yes, I could have seen that.” She paused for quite along time, then she looked at Poirot with a very straight, firm glance. “I didn’t see anyone leavethe library,” she said. “Nobody at all….”
He wondered. The way in which she said it was what aroused the belief in his mind that she wasnot speaking the truth, that instead she had seen someone or something, perhaps the door justopening a little, a mere glance perhaps of a figure inside. But she was quite firm in her denial.
Why, he wondered, had she been so firm? Because the person she had seen was a person she didnot want to believe for one moment had had anything to do with the crime committed on the otherside of the door? Someone she cared about, or someone—which seemed more likely, he thought—someone whom she wished to protect. Someone, perhaps, who had not long passed beyondchildhood, someone whom she might feel was not truly conscious of the awful thing they had justdone.
He thought her a hard creature but a person of integrity. He thought that she was, like manywomen of the same type, women who were often magistrates, or who ran councils or charities, orinterested themselves in what used to be called “good works.” Women who had an inordinatebelief in extenuating circumstances, who were ready, strangely enough, to make excuses for theyoung criminal. An adolescent boy, a mentally retarded girl. Someone perhaps who had alreadybeen—what is the phrase—“in care.” If that had been the type of person she had seen coming outof the library, then he thought it possible that Rowena Drake’s protective instinct might have comeinto play. It was not unknown in the present age for children to commit crimes, quite youngchildren. Children of seven, of nine and so on, and it was often difficult to know how to dispose ofthese natural, it seemed, young criminals who came before the juvenile courts. Excuses had to bebrought for them. Broken homes. Negligent and unsuitable parents. But the people who spoke themost vehemently for them, the people who sought to bring forth every excuse for them, wereusually the type of Rowena Drake. A stern and censorious woman, except in such cases.
For himself, Poirot did not agree. He was a man who thought first always of justice. He wassuspicious, had always been suspicious, of mercy—too much mercy, that is to say. Too muchmercy, as he knew from former experience both in Belgium and this country, often resulted infurther crimes which were fatal to innocent victims who need not have been victims if justice hadbeen put first and mercy second.
“I see,” said Poirot. “I see.”
“You don’t think it’s possible that Miss Whittaker might have seen someone go into thelibrary?” suggested Mrs. Drake.
Poirot was interested.
“Ah, you think that that might have been so?”
“It seemed to me merely a possibility. She might have caught sight of someone going in throughthe library, say, perhaps five minutes or so earlier, and then, when I dropped the vase it might havesuggested to her that I could have caught a glimpse of the same person. That I might have seenwho it was. Perhaps she doesn’t like to say anything that might suggest, unfairly perhaps, someperson whom she had perhaps only half glimpsed—not enough to be sure of. Some back viewperhaps of a child, or a young boy.”
“You think, do you not, Madame, that it was—shall we say, a child—a boy or girl, a mere child,or a young adolescent? You think it was not any definite one of these but, shall we say, you thinkthat that is the most likely type to have committed the crime we are discussing?”
She considered the point thoughtfully, turning it over in her mind.
“Yes,” she said at last, “I suppose I do. I haven’t thought it out. It seems to me that crimes areso often associated nowadays with the young. People who don’t really know quite what they aredoing, who want silly revenges, who have an instinct for destruction. Even the people who wrecktelephone boxes, or who slash the tyres of cars, do all sorts of things just to hurt people, justbecause they hate—not anyone in particular, but the whole world. It’s a sort of symptom of thisage. So I suppose when one comes across something like a child drowned at a party for no reasonreally, one does assume that it’s someone who is not yet fully responsible for their actions. Don’tyou agree with me that—that—well, that that is certainly the most likely possibility here?”
“The police, I think, share your point of view—or did share it.”
“Well, they should know. We have a very good class of policeman in this district. They’ve donewell in several crimes. They are painstaking and they never give up. I think probably they willsolve this murder, though I don’t think it will happen very quickly. These things seem to take along time. A long time of patient gathering of evidence.”
“The evidence in this case will not be very easy to gather, Madame.”
“No, I suppose it won’t. When my husband was killed—He was a cripple, you know. He wascrossing the road and a car ran over him and knocked him down. They never found the personwho was responsible. As you know, my husband—or perhaps you don’t know—my husband wasa polio victim. He was partially paralyzed as a result of polio, six years ago. His condition hadimproved, but he was still crippled, and it would be difficult for him to get out of the way if a carbore down upon him quickly. I almost felt that I had been to blame, though he always insisted ongoing out without me or without anyone with him, because he would have resented very muchbeing in the care of a nurse, or a wife who took the part of a nurse, and he was always carefulbefore crossing a road. Still, one does blame oneself when accidents happen.”
“That came on top of the death of your aunt?”
“No. She died not long afterwards. Everything seems to come at once, doesn’t it?”
“That is very true,” said Hercule Poirot. He went on: “The police were not able to trace the carthat ran down your husband?”
“It was a Grasshopper Mark 7, I believe. Every third car you notice on the road is aGrasshopper Mark 7—or was then. It’s the most popular car on the market, they tell me. Theybelieve it was pinched from the Market Place in Medchester. A car park there. It belonged to a Mr.
Waterhouse, an elderly seed merchant in Medchester. Mr. Waterhouse was a slow and carefuldriver. It was certainly not he who caused the accident. It was clearly one of those cases whereirresponsible young men help themselves to cars. Such careless, or should I say such callousyoung men, should be treated, one sometimes feels, more severely than they are now.”
“A long gaol sentence, perhaps. Merely to be fined, and the fine paid by indulgent relatives,makes little impression.”
“One has to remember,” said Rowena Drake, “that there are young people at an age when it isvital that they should continue with their studies if they are to have the chance of doing well inlife.”
“The sacred cow of education,” said Hercule Poirot. “That is a phrase I have heard uttered,” headded quickly, “by people—well, should I say people who ought to know. People who themselveshold academic posts of some seniority.”
“They do not perhaps make enough allowances for youth, for a bad bringing up. Brokenhomes.”
“So you think they need something other than gaol sentences?”
“Proper remedial treatment,” said Rowena Drake firmly.
“And that will make—(another old-fashioned proverb)—a silk purse out of a sow’s ear? You donot believe in the maxim ‘the fate of every man have we bound about his neck?’”
Mrs. Drake looked extremely doubtful and slightly displeased.
“An Islamic saying, I believe,” said Poirot. Mrs. Drake looked unimpressed.
“I hope,” she said, “we do not take our ideas—or perhaps I should say our ideals—from theMiddle East.”
“One must accept facts,” said Poirot, “and a fact that is expressed by modern biologists—Western biologists—” he hastened to add, “—seems to suggest very strongly that the root of aperson’s actions lies in his genetic makeup. That a murderer of twenty-four was a murderer inpotential at two or three or four years old. Or of course a mathematician or a musical genius.”
“We are not discussing murderers,” said Mrs. Drake. “My husband died as a result of anaccident. An accident caused by a careless and badly adjusted personality. Whoever the boy oryoung man was, there is always the hope of eventual adjustment to a belief and acceptance that itis a duty to consider others, to be taught to feel an abhorrence if you have taken life unawares,simply out of what may be described as criminal carelessness that was not really criminal inintent?”
“You are quite sure, therefore, that it was not criminal in intent?”
“I should doubt it very much.” Mrs. Drake looked slightly surprised. “I do not think that thepolice ever seriously considered that possibility. I certainly did not. It was an accident. A verytragic accident which altered the pattern of many lives, including my own.”
“You say we are not discussing murderers,” said Poirot. “But in the case of Joyce that is justwhat we are discussing. There was no accident about that. Deliberate hands pushed that child’shead down into water, holding her there till death occurred. Deliberate intent.”
“I know. I know. It’s terrible. I don’t like to think of it, to be reminded of it.”
She got up, moving about restlessly. Poirot pushed on relentlessly.
“We are still presented with a choice there. We still have to find the motive involved.”
“It seems to me that such a crime must have been quite motiveless.”
“You mean committed by someone mentally disturbed to the extent of enjoying killingsomeone? Presumably killing someone young and immature.”
“One does hear of such cases. What is the original cause of them is difficult to find out. Evenpsychiatrists do not agree.”
“You refuse to accept a simpler explanation?”
She looked puzzled. “Simpler?”
“Someone not mentally disturbed, not a possible case for psychiatrists to disagree over.
Somebody perhaps who just wanted to be safe.”
“Safe? Oh, you mean—”
“The girl had boasted that same day, some hours previously, that she had seen someone commita murder.”
“Joyce,” said Mrs. Drake, with calm certainty, “was really a very silly little girl. Not, I amafraid, always very truthful.”
“So everyone has told me,” said Hercule Poirot. “I am beginning to believe, you know, thatwhat everybody has told me must be right,” he added with a sigh. “It usually is.”
He rose to his feet, adopting a different manner.
“I must apologize, Madame. I have talked of painful things to you, things that do not trulyconcern me here. But it seemed from what Miss Whittaker told me—”
“Why don’t you find out more from her?”
“You mean—?”
“She is a teacher. She knows, much better than I can, what potentialities (as you have calledthem) exist amongst the children she teaches.”
She paused and then said:
“Miss Emlyn, too.”
“The headmistress?” Poirot looked surprised.
“Yes. She knows things. I mean, she is a natural psychologist. You said I might have ideas—half-formed ones—as to who killed Joyce. I haven’t—but I think Miss Emlyn might.”
“This is interesting….”
“I don’t mean has evidence. I mean she just knows. She could tell you—but I don’t think shewill.”
“I begin to see,” said Poirot, “that I have still a long way to go. People know things—but theywill not tell them to me.” He looked thoughtfully at Rowena Drake.
“Your aunt, Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe, had an au pair girl who looked after her, a foreign girl.”
“You seem to have got hold of all the local gossip.” Rowena spoke dryly. “Yes, that is so. Sheleft here rather suddenly soon after my aunt’s death.”
“For good reasons, it would seem.”
“I don’t know whether it’s libel or slander to say so—but there seems no doubt that she forged acodicil to my aunt’s Will—or that someone helped her to do so.”
“Someone?”
“She was friendly with a young man who worked in a solicitor’s office in Medchester. He hadbeen mixed up in a forgery case before. The case never came to court because the girl disappeared.
She realized the Will would not be admitted to probate, and that there was going to be a courtcase. She left the neighbourhood and has never been heard of since.”
“She too came, I have heard, from a broken home,” said Poirot.
Rowena Drake looked at him sharply but he was smiling amiably.
“Thank you for all you have told me, Madame,” he said.
II
When Poirot had left the house, he went for a short walk along a turning off the main road whichwas labelled “Helpsly Cemetery Road.” The cemetery in question did not take him long to reach.
It was at most ten minutes’ walk. It was obviously a cemetery that had been made in the last tenyears, presumably to cope with the rising importance of Woodleigh as a residential entity. Thechurch, a church of reasonable size dating from some two or three centuries back, had had a verysmall enclosure round it already well filled. So the new cemetery had come into being with afootpath connecting it across two fields. It was, Poirot thought, a businesslike, modern cemeterywith appropriate sentiments on marble or granite slabs; it had urns, chippings, small plantations ofbushes or flowers. No interesting old epitaphs or inscriptions. Nothing much for an antiquarian.
Cleaned, neat, tidy and with suitable sentiments expressed.
He came to a halt to read a tablet erected on a grave contemporary with several others near it, alldating within two or three years back. It bore a simple inscription, “Sacred to the Memory of HugoEdmund Drake, beloved husband of Rowena Arabella Drake, who departed this life March the20th 19—”
He giveth his beloved sleep
It occurred to Poirot, fresh from the impact of the dynamic Rowena Drake, that perhaps sleepmight have come in welcome guise to the late Mr. Drake.
An alabaster urn had been fixed in position there and contained the remains of flowers. Anelderly gardener, obviously employed to tend the graves of good citizens departed this life,approached Poirot in the pleasurable hopes of a few minutes’ conversation while he laid his hoeand his broom aside.
“Stranger in these parts, I think,” he said, “aren’t you, sir?”
“It is very true,” said Poirot. “I am a stranger with you as were my fathers before me.”
“Ah, aye. We’ve got that text somewhere or summat very like it. Over down the other corner, itis.” He went on, “He was a nice gentleman, he were, Mr. Drake. A cripple, you know. He had thatinfant paralysis, as they call it, though as often as not it isn’t infants as suffer from it. It’s grown-ups. Men and women too. My wife, she had an aunt, who caught it in Spain, she did. Went therewith a tour, she did, and bathed somewhere in some river. And they said afterwards as it was thewater infection, but I don’t think they know much. Doctors don’t, if you ask me. Still, it’s made alot of difference nowadays. All this inoculation they give the children, and that. Not nearly asmany cases as there were. Yes, he were a nice gentleman and didn’t complain, though he took ithard, being a cripple, I mean. He’d been a good sportsman, he had, in his time. Used to bat for ushere in the village team. Many a six he’s hit to the boundary. Yes, he were a nice gentleman.”
“He died of an accident, did he not?”
“That’s right. Crossing the road, towards twilight this was. One of these cars come along, acouple of these young thugs in it with beards growing up to their ears. That’s what they say.
Didn’t stop either. Went on. Never looked to see. Abandoned the car somewhere in a car parktwenty miles away. Wasn’t their own car either. Pinched from a car park somewhere. Ah, it’sterrible, a lot of those accidents nowadays. And the police often can’t do anything about them.
Very devoted to him, his wife was. Took it very hard, she did. She comes here, nearly every week,brings flowers and puts them here. Yes, they were a very devoted couple. If you ask me, she won’tstay here much longer.”
“Really? But she has a very nice house here.”
“Yes, oh yes. And she does a lot in the village, you know. All these things—women’s institutesand teas and various societies and all the rest of it. Runs a lot of things, she does. Runs a bit toomany for some people. Bossy, you know. Bossy and interfering, some people say. But the vicarrelies on her. She starts things. Women’s activities and all the rest of it. Gets up tours and outings.
Ah yes. Often thought myself, though I wouldn’t like to say it to my wife, that all these goodworks as ladies does, doesn’t make you any fonder of the ladies themselves. Always know best,they do. Always telling you what you should do and what you shouldn’t do. No freedom. Notmuch freedom anywhere nowadays.”
“Yet you think Mrs. Drake may leave here?”
“I shouldn’t wonder if she didn’t go away and live somewhere abroad. They liked being abroad,used to go there for holidays.”
“Why do you think she wants to leave here?”
A sudden rather roguish smile appeared on the old man’s face.
“Well, I’d say, you know, that she’s done all she can do here. To put it scriptural, she needsanother vineyard to work in. She needs more good works. Aren’t no more good works to be doneround here. She’s done all there is, and even more than there need be, so some think. Yes.”
“She needs a new field in which to labour?” suggested Poirot.
“You’ve hit it. Better settle somewhere else where she can put a lot of things right and bully alot of other people. She’d got us where she wants us here and there’s not much more for her todo.”
“It may be,” said Poirot.
“Hasn’t even got her husband to look after. She looked after him a good few years. That gaveher a kind of object in life, as you might say. What with that and a lot of outside activities, shecould be busy all the time. She’s the type likes being busy all the time. And she’s no children,more’s the pity. So it’s my view as she’ll start all over again somewhere else.”
“You may have something there. Where would she go?”
“I couldn’t say as to that. One of these Riviery places, maybe—or there’s them as goes to Spainor Portugal. Or Greece—I’ve heard her speak of Greece—Islands. Mrs. Butler, she’s been toGreece on one of them tours. Hellenic, they call them, which sounds more like fire and brimstoneto me.”
Poirot smiled.
“The isles of Greece,” he murmured. Then he asked: “Do you like her?”
“Mrs. Drake? I wouldn’t say I exactly like her. She’s a good woman. Does her duty to herneighbour and all that—but she’ll always need a power of neighbours to do her duty to—and ifyou ask me, nobody really likes people who are always doing their duty. Tells me how to prunemy roses which I know well enough myself. Always at me to grow some newfangled kind ofvegetable. Cabbage is good enough for me, and I’m sticking to cabbage.”
Poirot smiled. He said, “I must be on my way. Can you tell me where Nicholas Ransom andDesmond Holland live?”
“Past the church, third house on the left. They board with Mrs. Brand, go into MedchesterTechnical every day to study. They’ll be home by now.”
He gave Poirot an interested glance.
“So that’s the way your mind is working, is it? There’s some already as thinks the same.”
“No, I think nothing as yet. But they were among those present—that is all.”
As he took leave and walked away, he mused, “Among those present—I have come nearly tothe end of my list.”
第十四章 威劳比医生
第十四章
1获准进入苹果林之后，赫尔克里•波洛被带到客厅，然后被告知德雷克夫人马上就来。
穿过大厅时他听到了一群女人谈话的嗡嗡声，他判断那声音应该是从餐厅传来的。
波洛走到窗前，观察着外面整齐美丽的花园。规划得很好，管理也很精心。大片的紫菀仍然盛开着，被紧紧地绑在柱子上；菊花也还没有完全枯萎。甚至还有一两株玫瑰傲视着冬天的到来。
波洛看不出任何园艺师规划的痕迹。所有的一切都打理得很细心，而且都遵循传统。
他怀疑德雷克夫人对迈克尔•加菲尔德来说太碍手碍脚了。所有的迹象都表明这就是一个管理出色的普通郊区花园。
门开了。
“很抱歉让您久等了，波洛先生。”德雷克夫人说。
大厅外面的嘈杂声随着人们离开慢慢消失了。
“是为了我们教堂的圣诞庆典，”德雷克夫人解释说，“开了一个委员会，商量盛典的安排和其他事宜。这种事总比预计要花的时间长，当然。总有人提出反对意见，或者有个好主意——这个好主意通常是很不可能实施的主意。”
她的语气有点儿尖刻。波洛能想象出她坚定明确地驳倒那些意见的情景。根据斯彭斯妹妹的评论、其他人的暗示还有别的途径听到的消息，波洛能肯定罗伊娜•德雷克是那种支配型的人，所有人都希望她来主持安排，而在她那么做时又没有人喜欢她。同样，他能想象，她的这种责任心是不讨与她同样性格的长辈喜欢的。卢埃林-史密斯夫人，据他所知，搬到这里来住是为了离她的侄子侄媳更近些，而这位妻子欣然担负起了尽可能监护和照顾她丈夫的姑妈的责任，虽然她并没有真的和她住在一起。卢埃林-史密斯夫人可能在心里很感激罗伊娜，但同时也会反感她独断专横的方式。
“好了，现在他们都走了。”罗伊娜•德雷克听到客厅传来的关门声后说，“我能为您做些什么呢？关于那个可怕的晚会的更多信息？我真希望晚会不是在这儿开的，但是没有别的合适的房子了。奥利弗夫人还住在朱迪思•巴特勒家吗？”
“是的，她一两天内就要回伦敦了。您以前没见过她吗？”
“没有，我喜欢她的书。”
“我相信她是一个很好的作家。”波洛说。
“哦，好吧，她是个好作家。毫无疑问，也是个很幽默的人。她有什么看法吗——我是说关于谁是这个可怕的案件的凶手。”
“我觉得没有。您呢，夫人？”
“我已经告诉过您了。我没什么看法。”
“您可以这么说，但是——您可能，也许，有些不错的看法，但只是一个想法。一个不完整的想法；一个可能的想法。”
“您为什么那么想呢？”
她好奇地看着他。
“您可能看到了什么事——很小的微不足道的一件事，回想起来的时候才发现也许比当初认为的更有意义。”
“您一定有什么想法，波洛先生，一些确定的小事。”
“好吧，我承认，因为有人告诉了我一些事。”
“果然！谁呀？”
“惠特克小姐，学校教师。”
“哦是的，当然，伊丽莎白•惠特克。她是数学老师，对吗，在榆树小学？我记得，她当时在晚会上。她看到什么了吗？”
“她看到了什么倒是没什么关系，反而是她觉得您可能看到了什么。”
德雷克夫人看起来很吃惊，然后摇了摇头。
“我怎么想不起来我看到了什么别人都不知道的事。”罗伊娜•德雷克说。
“跟一个花瓶有关，”波洛说，“一个放满花的花瓶。”
“一个放满花的花瓶？”罗伊娜•德雷克似乎有些迷惑。接着她的眉头展开了。“哦，当然，我知道了，对，有一个装着秋叶和菊花的花瓶，放在楼梯拐角的桌子上。一个非常漂亮的玻璃花瓶。那是我的一件结婚礼物。里面的叶子都有些枯萎了，有一两朵花也是。我记得我是在从大厅经过的时候注意到它的——那时晚会已经接近尾声了，我依稀记得，但我不是特别确定。我走上去，把手伸进去，发现肯定是哪个粗心的人把花放进去之后忘了放水了。我很生气。所以我把它拿进盥洗间，装满水。可我能在盥洗间看到什么呢？里面没有人。我很确定。我以为会有一些年龄大点儿的男孩儿女孩儿在晚会期间做些无伤大雅的举动，美国人称之为拥吻，但是当我抱着花瓶进去的时候里面确实一个人也没有。”
“不，不，我不是指那个。”波洛说，“我听说发生了一起事故。花瓶从您手里滑落了，掉到大厅的地上摔碎了。”
“哦，对。”罗伊娜说，“摔得粉碎。为此我非常伤心，我说过，那是一件结婚礼物，而且确实是一个非常好的花瓶。它够沉，装秋天的花束什么的也能稳稳的。我太笨手笨脚了。手一滑，它就从我手里掉出去，摔到了下面大厅的地上。伊丽莎白•惠特克小姐正好站在旁边。她帮我捡起了碎片，并把碎玻璃扫到一边，免得有人踩到上面。我们先把它们扫到了一座老时钟的后面，等稍后再清理。”
她询问地看着波洛。
“这就是您说的事件吗？”
“是的，”波洛说，“惠特克小姐怀疑——我觉得——您怎么把花瓶摔下去了呢，她觉得可能是有什么事儿吓到您了。”
“吓到我？”罗伊娜•德雷克看着他，伴随着沉思，她的眉头又皱到了一起，“不，我不觉得我被吓到了，没有。那就是一时手滑，有时刷碗的时候也会发生，真的，就是因为太累了。那时我已经很累了，准备晚会、主持晚会什么的。晚会进行得很顺利，我必须说。我曾经那么觉得——哦，那就是累极了的时候笨拙的举动。”
“您肯定没有任何事吓到您？没看到什么出乎您意料的事？”
“看到？在哪儿？在大厅？我没看见大厅里有什么。那会儿大厅里没人，因为大家都在玩抓火龙，除了，当然，除了惠特克小姐。我觉得在她过来帮我清扫之前我都没注意到她。”
“您看没看到什么人，也许，正要离开藏书室？”
“藏书室……我明白您的意思了。是的，我能看见那扇门。”她停了很久，然后用既坦诚又坚定的眼神看着波洛，说，“我没看见任何人离开藏书室，”她说，“没有人……”
波洛很怀疑。她说这些话的方式让他更坚定地认为她没有说实话。她肯定看到了什么人或什么事。也许门只打开了一点点，只能模糊地看到里面有个人影。但是她否定得很坚决。为什么她这么坚定呢？他想知道。因为她一时不愿意相信她看到的那个人在门后做了什么犯罪活动？一个她关心的人，或者，一个——似乎更可能是——一个她想保护的人。
那个人，刚刚度过童年阶段，她认为那个人还没有真正意识到他做了多么可怕的事。
波洛相信她是个强硬的人，也很正直。他觉得她和很多女人是同一类型，她们通常是治安官，或者管理法庭或慈善机构，或者投身于过去所说的“慈善事业”。她们又过度地相信情有可原，随时准备——非常奇怪——为未成年罪犯开脱罪责，比如青春期男孩儿，反应迟钝的女孩儿，觉得他们也许已经——那个词儿是什么来着——被“管教”了。如果她看见从藏书室出来的是这类人的话，很可能罗伊娜•德雷克的保护本能就开始发作了。在现在这个时代，儿童——可能是很小的孩子，七岁、九岁之类——犯罪并不是前所未见，而且如何处理少年法庭上这些似乎是天生的青少年罪犯是个难题，因为人们会找各种理由为他们开脱，家庭破碎、父母照顾的疏忽和不当，等等。而为他们辩护得最激烈的，能为他们找出各种借口的，通常就是罗伊娜•德雷克这类人。除了对这些青少年罪犯，她们对别的人或事都严厉苛刻，吹毛求疵。
对波洛而言，他并不赞同。他是那种永远以公正为首的人。他向来对仁慈——更确切地说，是过多的仁慈——持怀疑态度。据他在比利时及这个国家之前的经验来看，如果将公正置于仁慈之后，通常会导致进一步犯罪，使本来可以不必受害的无辜的人遭受不幸。
“我知道了，”波洛说，“我知道了。”
“您不认为惠特克小姐可能看见有人进藏书室了吗？”德雷克夫人提示道。
波洛颇有兴趣。
“啊，您认为可能是这样？”
“我只是觉得有这种可能。她可能瞥见有人进藏书室了，比如说五分钟或者更早之前，所以当我把花瓶弄掉了的时候，她就认为我可能也看见那个人了，也许我看清那个人是谁了。或许她只是匆匆瞥见了那人一眼，并不确定是谁，所以不想猜测是谁，以免不公平。
也许是一个小孩或者年轻男孩儿的背影。”
“您是不是认为，夫人，那是一个——一个孩子——男女都有可能，一个小孩子，或者一个青少年？您不确定是上面哪一种，但是可以说，您认为这个案子的凶手最有可能是这一类人？”
她在脑海中反复思量。
“是的，”她最后说，“我是这么认为的。尽管我还没彻底想明白。我觉得现代社会的犯罪似乎很多都和青少年联系在一起，他们并不真正清楚自己在做什么，只是愚蠢地想要报复，想要毁灭。还有那些破坏电话亭、刺破汽车轮胎等，想要伤害他人的人，只是因为他们厌恶——不是特定的某个人，而是整个世界。这是这个时代的症状。所以我觉得，当遇到一个孩子无端在晚会上被溺死之类的事，人们自然会猜测凶手可能是还不用完全为自己的行为负责的人。您同意我的话吗？就是……就是，好吧，这是现在这种情况下最可能的解释，不是吗？”
“我想，警察和您的观点一样，或者说曾经一样。”
“嗯，他们应该知道。这个地区的警察很能干。他们破获了好多案子。他们吃苦耐劳，从不放弃。我觉得他们能查明这个案子，尽管可能不会很快。这种案子好像通常都要花很长时间，要有足够的耐心调查取证。”
“这个案子的证据很难搜集，夫人。”
“是的，很难。我丈夫被害时，他的腿瘸了。他正在过马路，一辆车冲过来，把他撞倒了。他们一直没找到凶手。我的丈夫——也许您不知道——六年前我丈夫得了脊髓灰质炎而半身不遂了。后来他的身体有所好转，但腿还是有些跛，所以当有车向他飞驰而来的时候他很难躲开。我觉得这些都是我的责任，尽管他总坚持不让我陪他出去，不让任何人陪着，因为他讨厌让护士照看他，妻子也不行。他过马路的时候一直很小心。虽然这样，事情发生之后人们还是会很自责。”
“那是在您姑母去世之后吗？”
“不，她是在那之后不久去世的。这就叫祸不单行，不是吗？”
“的确。”赫尔克里•波洛说。他接着问：“警察没有找到撞到您丈夫的车吗？”
“那是一辆蚱蜢七型车。路上看到的每三辆车里面就有一辆蚱蜢七型车——至少那时是那样。那是市场上最流行的车，他们告诉我。他们相信那车是从曼彻斯特的集市上偷来的。车停在那儿，车主是沃特豪斯先生，在曼彻斯特卖种子的老人。沃特豪斯先生开车很慢很小心，很显然他不是肇事者。肯定是不负责任的年轻人偷了车。那些粗心大意，或者我应该说铁石心肠的年轻人，我有时候觉得，他们应该受到更严厉的惩罚。”
“也许应该多判几年监禁。仅仅罚款——而且罚款都是由纵容他们的亲属支付，这完全没有作用。”
“人们得记着，”罗伊娜•德雷克说，“处于关键年龄的年轻人必须继续接受教育，这样他们将来才有可能有所成就。”
“教育是神圣不可侵犯的，”赫尔克里•波洛说，“我常常听——”他飞快地补充道，“嗯，了解这一点的人这么说。受过教育，拥有学位的人。”
“但他们没有把那些成长条件不佳年轻人考虑进去，比如家庭破碎的孩子。”
“所以您认为除了长期监禁还应该有别的方式？”
“合适的补救措施。”罗伊娜•德雷克坚定地说。
“那样就能——另一句谚语——用猪耳朵做出丝线包（注：英国谚语：make a silk purseout of a sow’s ear，意思是朽木不可雕。）？您不相信那句格言，‘人的命运是生来注定的’？”
德雷克夫人看起来非常疑惑，同时还有些不高兴。
“这是句伊斯兰格言，我记得。”波洛说。德雷克夫人好像并不在意。
“我希望，”她说，“我们不要从中东照搬观念——或者我应该说，理想。”
“我们必须得接受事实，”波洛说，“现代生物学家所阐述的事实——西方的生物学家，”他急忙补充道，“似乎很强调基因构成是影响一个人行为的根源。一个二十四岁的杀人犯在他两三岁或者四岁的时候就是一个潜在的杀人犯，数学家和音乐天才也一样。”
“我们并不是在讨论杀人犯，”德雷克夫人说，“我丈夫是因为交通意外去世的，是一个粗心大意而又教养不好的人造成的。无论那个男孩儿或年轻人是谁，都有希望通过教育让他们明白，为他人考虑是一种责任，明白即使无意中要了别人的命也是令人憎恶的行为。
他们的行为只能描述为过失杀人，而不是真正的蓄意谋杀，不是吗？”
“这么说您很肯定，那不是蓄意杀人？”
“我倒是想怀疑。”德雷克夫人看起来有些吃惊，“我觉得警察从来没有考虑过这种可能性。当然我也没有。那就是一场意外。一场改变了很多人的命运的意外，包括我自己的。”
“您说我们讨论的不是凶手，”波洛说，“但是在乔伊斯的案子里我们就是要讨论凶手。
这里面没有意外。一双早有预谋的手把那个孩子的头摁进水里，把她摁在那儿直到她死。
这是蓄意谋杀。”
“我知道，我知道，这很恐怖。我不愿意想起，不愿意提起这件事。”
她站起来，不安地来回走动。波洛毫不留情地继续说下去。
“我们面前还有一个选择。我们必须找到作案动机。”
“在我看来，这样的犯罪肯定没什么动机。”
“您是说凶手是个精神分裂的人，甚至以杀人为乐？可能喜欢杀年幼无知的小孩儿？”
“这种事也不是没发生过。原始病因很难查明，甚至精神病专家的意见都不一致。”
“您拒绝接受一个更简单的解释？”
她看起来很疑惑。“更简单的？”
“凶手可能不是精神分裂，不是那种可能让精神病专家意见不一的案例。凶手可能只是想要自保。”
“自保？哦，您的意思是——”
“在案发几小时之前，这个女孩儿吹嘘说，她见过某人杀人。”
“乔伊斯，”德雷克夫人相当平静而确定地说，“真是个很傻的小丫头。我恐怕，她的话通常不可信。”
“所有人都是这么告诉我的，” 赫尔克里•波洛说，“我开始相信了，每个人都这么说，那就一定是真的。”他叹了口气补充道，“通常都是。”
他站起身来，换了一种方式。
“我很抱歉，夫人。我提起了那些不愉快的事，这些事其实跟我并没有关系。但是从惠特克小姐告诉我的来看，似乎——”
“为什么您不再多向她了解一下？”
“您是指——”
“她是一位教师。她比我更了解她教的那些学生的——潜在的可能性，像您刚才说的。”她停了一下接着说，“埃姆林小姐也是。”
“校长？”波洛有些吃惊。
“是的。她知道很多事情。我是说，她是个天生的心理学家。您说我可能会对杀害乔伊斯的凶手有些看法——不成形的观点。我没有，但是我觉得埃姆林小姐会有。”
“这很有意思……”
“我不是说有证据。我是说她有可能知道。她能告诉您，但是我觉得她不会告诉您。”
“我开始明白了，”波洛说，“我还有很长的路要走。人们知道一些事情——但是他们不会告诉我。”他意味深长地注视着罗伊娜•德雷克。
“您的姑妈，卢埃林-史密斯夫人，曾经雇过一个互换生女孩儿照顾她，一个外国女孩儿。”
“您似乎已经知道附近所有的流言了。”罗伊娜冷淡地说，“对，是这样。我姑妈去世之后不久她就突然离开了。”
“出于一些原因，似乎是。”
“我不知道这么说算不算诽谤或中伤——但是毫无疑问，是她伪造了我姑妈的一条遗嘱补遗——或者有人帮她做的。”
“有人？”
“她跟一个在曼彻斯特的年轻律师很要好。那个人好像以前卷进过一起伪造案。这桩案子没有上法庭，因为那个女孩儿消失了。她可能意识到那份遗嘱通不过遗嘱检验，她将会被起诉，所以她就离开了这里，之后再没听到过她的消息。”
“我听说她也来自一个破碎的家庭。”波洛说。
罗伊娜•德雷克突然看向他，而波洛在温和地微笑。
“谢谢您告诉我这些，夫人。”他说。
2从苹果林出来，波洛沿着主路走了一小段，然后拐向了一条标着“海尔普斯里公墓路”的小路。他很快就找到了标牌上所说的公墓，也就最多十分钟的路程。很明显是近十年建起来的公墓，很可能是为了突显伍德利社区作为居住实体越来越重要的地位而配套建设的。这里的教堂规模不大，是两三个世纪前建起来的，教堂的围栏里已经竖满了墓碑。而公墓建在两地之间，有一条小路将其与教堂连起来。它是，波洛想，一个商业式的现代公墓，合适的悼词雕刻在大理石或者花岗岩的墓碑上；这里有碎石路，还有小片的灌木和鲜花。没有有趣的古老悼词或碑文。没什么适合古文物学家的东西。干净、整洁，还散发着淡淡的哀思。
他停下来，读起一块墓碑上的字，同周围几个墓碑一样，都是近两三年竖起来的。上面的碑文很简单：“纪念雨果•埃德蒙•德雷克，罗伊娜•阿拉贝拉•德雷克深爱的丈夫，逝于一九xx年三月二十日。”
愿他安息
与精力充沛的罗伊娜•德雷克的谈话还记忆犹新，波洛突然觉得，也许安息对逝去的德雷克先生也是一种解脱。
一个雪花石膏的骨灰盒放在那里，上面残留着一些鲜花。一位老园丁，明显是受雇照管这些逝去的市民的墓地的，放下他的锄头和扫帚走过来，愉快地想聊上几句。
“您不是这里人，”他说，“对吗，先生？”
“确实，”波洛说，“我对您，及面前的这位先人来说都是陌生人。”
“啊，对。这些经文是我们从一些论文还是什么地方找来的。那边那个角上的也是。”他接着说，“他是位很好的绅士，曾经是，德雷克先生。他瘸了，您知道。他得了小儿麻痹症，人们这么称呼它，可通常得这个病的并不是婴儿，而是大人。男人女人都会得。我老伴儿，她有一个姨妈，就在西班牙染上这个病了，是的。她是去那儿旅行，是的，在一个什么地方的河里洗了个澡。后来他们说是河水传染，但是我觉得他们也不是很清楚。要我说，我觉得医生们也不知道。现在已经好多了，孩子们会接种疫苗什么的，现在得这病的比以前少多了。是的，他是个很好的绅士，从不抱怨，尽管他很难接受自己成了一个瘸子。他以前是个不错的运动员，他活着的时候，在村子里的板球队击球，打出过很多飞出边界线的六分好球。是的，他是个很好的绅士。”
“他死于意外，是吗？”
“没错。过马路的时候，快到晚上了那会儿，一辆车开过来，两个大胡子都快长到耳朵的小混混坐在里边。他们是那么说的。他们连停都没停，直接开走了。都没下来看一眼。
把车扔在了二十公里远的一个停车场。那不是他们的车，是从哪儿的一个停车场偷的。
啊，太可怕了，现在总是发生这种事，而警察也不能拿他们怎么样。他的妻子很爱他。这对她打击太大了。她几乎每个星期都来这儿，带着鲜花。是的，他们俩很恩爱。让我说，她在这儿待不了多久啦。”
“真的？但是她在这儿有幢很好的房子。”
“是的，哦，是的。她在村里做了许多事，您知道。所有那些事——妇女协会啊，茶会啊，各种其他的协会。她负责很多事。有人就嫌她管得太多了。发号施令，您知道。发号施令，还什么事儿都掺和，有人这么说。但是牧师很依赖她。她能组织各种活动，女人的活动，旅行啊远足啊，等等。是的，我经常自己这么想，我不愿意跟老伴儿说，女人做的这些事并不会让你更喜欢她。她们永远知道什么最好，总是告诉你你应该做什么，不应该做什么。没自由。现在哪儿都没什么自由。”
“但是您觉得德雷克夫人可能要离开这儿？”
“如果哪天她不是外出旅游，而是去国外某个地方生活了，我一点儿也不会奇怪。他们喜欢在国外待着，经常去度假。”
“您为什么觉得她要离开这儿呢？”
老人的脸上突然露出了一个调皮的笑。
“好吧，我觉得，她已经做完了她在这儿能做的一切。用经文来说，她需要去开垦另外一片葡萄园。这里没什么好干的了，她都干完了，甚至比需要的还多。所以我这么想，是的。”
“她需要一片新的土地去劳作？”波洛提示说。
“您说对了。最好是在别的地方住下来，在那儿她就能纠正一堆事儿，能使唤别人了。
她想让我们做的事儿我们都做了，她在这儿没什么可干的了。”
“可能吧。”波洛说。
“甚至没有丈夫要照顾了。她照顾了他很多年。那给了她生活目标，您可能会这么说。
照顾丈夫，再加上一堆户外活动，她就会一直很忙。她是那种喜欢一直忙个不停的人。她没孩子，这更遗憾啦。所以我觉得，她会到另外某个地方重新开始。”
“您说得还挺有道理。她会去哪儿呢？”
“这个我也说不准。海边的某个地方，或者像他们去的西班牙或者葡萄牙，或者是希腊，我听她说过希腊小岛。巴特勒夫人，她有次旅行的时候去了希腊。海伦号，他们这么叫的。我听起来更像炼狱之苦。”
波洛笑了笑。
“希腊的小岛。”他喃喃说道。然后他问：“您喜欢她吗？”
“德雷克夫人？不能说我真的喜欢她。她是个好女人。对邻居很尽责——但她总是需要职权，以便让她行使职责——让我说，没人真的喜欢一直尽职尽责的人。告诉我怎么修剪玫瑰，可我觉得已经剪得够好了。总让我种一些新流行的蔬菜，但卷心菜对我来说就够好了，我就喜欢吃卷心菜。”
波洛笑了。他说：“我得走了。你能告诉我尼古拉斯•兰瑟姆和德斯蒙德•霍兰德住哪儿吗？”
“过了教堂，左边第三栋房子。他们寄宿在布兰德夫人家，每天都去曼彻斯特技校上学。现在他们应该到家了。”
他颇有兴趣地看了看波洛。
“您就是这么思考的，是吗？已经有了一些想法。”
“不，我还没有任何想法。只是他们当时在场——仅此而已。”
他告辞离开，边走边默默想道：当时在场的人们……我几乎都见过一遍了。
Fifteen
Fifteen
Two pairs of eyes looked at Poirot uneasily.
“I don’t see what else we can tell you. We’ve both been interviewed by the police, M. Poirot.”
Poirot looked from one boy to the other. They would not have described themselves as boys;their manner was carefully adult. So much so that if one shut one’s eyes, their conversation couldhave passed as that of elderly clubmen. Nicholas was eighteen. Desmond was sixteen.
“To oblige a friend, I make my inquiries of those present on a certain occasion. Not theHallowe’en party itself—the preparations for that party. You were both active in these.”
“Yes, we were.”
“So far,” Poirot said, “I have interviewed cleaning women, I have had the benefit of policeviews, of talks to a doctor — the doctor who examined the body first — have talked to aschoolteacher who was present, to the headmistress of the school, to distraught relatives, haveheard much of the village gossip—By the way, I understand you have a local witch here?”
The two young men confronting him both laughed.
“You mean Mother Goodbody. Yes, she came to the party and played the part of the witch.”
“I have come now,” said Poirot, “to the younger generation, to those of acute eyesight and acutehearing and who have up-to-date scientific knowledge and shrewd philosophy. I am eager—veryeager—to hear your views on this matter.”
Eighteen and sixteen, he thought to himself, looking at the two boys confronting him. Youths tothe police, boys to him, adolescents to newspaper reporters. Call them what you will. Products oftoday. Neither of them, he judged, at all stupid, even if they were not quite of the high mentalitythat he had just suggested to them by way of a flattering sop to start the conversation. They hadbeen at the party. They had also been there earlier in the day to do helpful offices for Mrs. Drake.
They had climbed up stepladders, they had placed yellow pumpkins in strategic positions, theyhad done a little electrical work on fairy lights, one or other of them had produced some clevereffects in a nice batch of phoney photographs of possible husbands as imagined hopefully byteenage girls. They were also, incidentally, of the right age to be in the forefront of suspects in themind of Inspector Raglan and, it seemed, in the view of an elderly gardener. The percentage ofmurders committed by this group had been increasing in the last few years. Not that Poirotinclined to that particular suspicion himself, but anything was possible. It was even possible thatthe killing which had occurred two or three years ago might have been committed by a boy, youth,or adolescent of fourteen or twelve years of age. Such cases had occurred in recent newspaperreports.
Keeping all these possibilities in mind he pushed them, as it were, behind a curtain for themoment, and concentrated instead on his own appraisement of these two, their looks, their clothes,their manner, their voices and so on and so forth, in the Hercule Poirot manner, masked behind aforeign shield of flattering words and much increased foreign mannerisms, so that they themselvesshould feel agreeably contemptuous of him, though hiding that under politeness and goodmanners. For both of them had excellent manners. Nicholas, the eighteen-year-old, was good-looking, wearing sideburns, hair that grew fairly far down his neck, and a rather funereal outfit ofblack. Not as a mourning for the recent tragedy, but what was obviously his personal taste inmodern clothes. The younger one was wearing a rose-coloured velvet coat, mauve trousers and akind of frilled shirting. They both obviously spent a good deal of money on their clothes whichwere certainly not purchased locally and were probably paid for by themselves and not by theirparents or guardians.
Desmond’s hair was ginger-coloured and there was a good deal of fluffy profusion about it.
“You were there in the morning or afternoon of the party, I understand, helping with thepreparations for it?”
“Early afternoon,” corrected Nicholas.
“What sort of preparations were you helping with? I have heard of preparation from severalpeople, but I am not quite clear. They don’t all agree.”
“A good deal of the lighting, for one thing.”
“Getting up on steps for things that had to be put high up.”
“I understand there were some very good photographic results too.”
Desmond immediately dipped into his pocket and took out a folder from which he proudlybrought certain cards.
“We faked up these beforehand,” he said. “Husbands for the girls,” he explained. “They’re allalike, birds are. They all want something up-to-date. Not a bad assortment, are they?”
He handed a few specimens to Poirot who looked with interest at a rather fuzzy reproduction ofa ginger-bearded young man and another young man with an aureole of hair, a third one whosehair came to his knees almost, and there were a few assorted whiskers, and other facialadornments.
“Made ’em pretty well all different. It wasn’t bad, was it?”
“You had models, I suppose?”
“Oh, they’re all ourselves. Just makeup, you know. Nick and I got ’em done. Some Nick took ofme and some I took of him. Just varied what you might call the hair motif.”
“Very clever,” said Poirot.
“We kept ’em a bit out of focus, you know, so that they’d look more like spirit pictures, as youmight say.”
The other boy said,
“Mrs. Drake was very pleased with them. She congratulated us. They made her laugh too. Itwas mostly electrical work we did at the house. You know, fitting up a light or two so that whenthe girls sat with the mirror one or other of us could take up a position, you’d only to bob up overa screen and the girl would see a face in the mirror with, mind you, the right kind of hair. Beard orwhiskers or something or other.”
“Did they know it was you and your friend?”
“Oh, I don’t think so for a moment. Not at the party, they didn’t. They knew we had beenhelping at the house with some things, but I don’t think they recognized us in the mirrors. Weren’tsmart enough, I should say. Besides, we’d got sort of an instant makeup to change the image. Firstme, then Nicholas. The girls squeaked and shrieked. Damned funny.”
“And the people who were there in the afternoon? I do not ask you to remember who was at theparty.”
“At the party, there must have been about thirty, I suppose, knocking about. In the afternoonthere was Mrs. Drake, of course, and Mrs. Butler. One of the schoolteachers, Whittaker I think hername is. Mrs. Flatterbut or some name like that. She’s the organist’s sister or wife. Dr. Ferguson’sdispenser, Miss Lee; it’s her afternoon off and she came along and helped too and some of the kidscame to make themselves useful if they could. Not that I think they were very useful. The girls justhung about and giggled.”
“Ah yes. Do you remember what girls there were there?”
“Well, the Reynolds were there. Poor old Joyce, of course. The one who got done in and herelder sister Ann. Frightful girl. Puts no end of side on. Thinks she’s terribly clever. Quite sureshe’s going to pass all her ‘A’ levels. And the small kid, Leopold, he’s awful,” said Desmond.
“He’s a sneak. He eavesdrops. Tells tales. Real nasty bit of goods. And there was Beatrice Ardleyand Cathie Grant, who is dim as they make and a couple of useful women, of course. Cleaningwomen, I mean. And the authoress woman—the one who brought you down here.”
“Any men?”
“Oh, the vicar looked in if you count him. Nice old boy, rather dim. And the new curate. Hestammers when he’s nervous. Hasn’t been here long. That’s all I can think of now.”
“And then I understand you heard this girl—Joyce Reynolds—saying something about havingseen a murder committed.”
“I never heard that,” said Desmond. “Did she?”
“Oh, they’re saying so,” said Nicholas. “I didn’t hear her, I suppose I wasn’t in the room whenshe said it. Where was she—when she said that, I mean?”
“In the drawing room.”
“Yes, well, most of the people were in there unless they were doing something special. Ofcourse Nick and I,” said Desmond, “were mostly in the room where the girls were going to lookfor their true loves in mirrors. Fixing up wires and various things like that. Or else we were out onthe stairs fixing fairy lights. We were in the drawing room once or twice putting the pumpkins upand hanging up one or two that had been hollowed out to hold lights in them. But I didn’t hearanything of that kind when we were there. What about you, Nick?”
“I didn’t,” said Nick. He added with some interest, “Did Joyce really say that she’d seen amurder committed? Jolly interesting, you know, if she did, isn’t it?”
“Why is it so interesting?” asked Desmond.
“Well, it’s E.S.P., isn’t it? I mean there you are. She saw a murder committed and within anhour or two she herself was murdered. I suppose she had a sort of vision of it. Makes you think abit. You know these last experiments they’ve been having seems as though there is something youcan do to help it by getting an electrode, or something of that kind, fixed up to your jugular vein.
I’ve read about it somewhere.”
“They’ve never got very far with this E.S.P. stuff,” said Desmond, scornfully. “People sit indifferent rooms looking at cards in a pack or words with squares and geometrical figures on them.
But they never see the right things, or hardly ever.”
“Well, you’ve got to be pretty young to do it. Adolescents are much better than older people.”
Hercule Poirot, who had no wish to listen to this high-level scientific discussion, broke in.
“As far as you can remember, nothing occurred during your presence in the house whichseemed to you sinister or significant in any way. Something which probably nobody else wouldhave noticed, but which might have come to your attention.”
Nicholas and Desmond frowned hard, obviously racking their brains to produce some incidentof importance.
“No, it was just a lot of clacking and arranging and doing things.”
“Have you any theories yourself?”
Poirot addressed himself to Nicholas.
“What, theories as to who did Joyce in?”
“Yes. I mean something that you might have noticed that could lead you to a suspicion onperhaps purely psychological grounds.”
“Yes, I can see what you mean. There might be something in that.”
“Whittaker for my money,” said Desmond, breaking into Nicholas’s absorption in thought.
“The schoolmistress?” asked Poirot.
“Yes. Real old spinster, you know. Sex-starved. And all that teaching, bottled up among a lot ofwomen. You remember, one of the teachers got strangled a year or two ago. She was a bit queer,they say.”
“Lesbian?” asked Nicholas, in a man of the world voice.
“I shouldn’t wonder. D’you remember Nora Ambrose, the girl she lived with? She wasn’t a badlooker. She had a boy friend or two, so they said, and the girl she lived with got mad with herabout it. Someone said she was an unmarried mother. She was away for two terms with someillness and then came back. They’d say anything in this nest of gossip.”
“Well, anyway, Whittaker was in the drawing room most of the morning. She probably heardwhat Joyce said. Might have put it into her head, mightn’t it?”
“Look here,” said Nicholas, “supposing Whittaker—what age is she, do you think? Forty odd?
Getting on for fifty—Women do go a bit queer at that age.”
They both looked at Poirot with the air of contented dogs who have retrieved something usefulwhich master has asked for.
“I bet Miss Emlyn knows if it is so. There’s not much she doesn’t know, about what goes on inher school.”
“Wouldn’t she say?”
“Perhaps she feels she has to be loyal and shield her.”
“Oh, I don’t think she’d do that. If she thought Elizabeth Whittaker was going off her head, wellthen, I mean, a lot of the pupils at the school might get done in.”
“What about the curate?” said Desmond hopefully. “He might be a bit off his nut. You know,original sin perhaps, and all that, and the water and the apples and the things and then—look here,I’ve got a good idea now. Suppose he is a bit barmy. Not been here very long. Nobody knowsmuch about him. Supposing it’s the Snapdragon put it into his head. Hell fire! All those flamesgoing up! Then, you see, he took hold of Joyce and he said ‘come along with me and I’ll show yousomething,’ and he took her to the apple room and he said ‘kneel down.’ He said ‘This is baptism,’
and pushed her head in. See? It would all fit. Adam and Eve and the apple and hell fire and theSnapdragon and being baptised again to cure you of sin.”
“Perhaps he exposed himself to her first,” said Nicholas hopefully. “I mean, there’s always gotto be a sex background to all these things.”
They both looked with satisfied faces to Poirot.
“Well,” said Poirot, “you’ve certainly given me something to think about.”
第十五章
第十五章
两双眼睛不自在地看着波洛。
“我不知道还能帮您什么。警察已经找我们问过话了，波洛先生。”
波洛来回打量着这两个男孩儿。他们肯定不把自己称为男孩儿了。他们极力模仿大人的行为方式，模仿得也很像。如果你闭上眼睛，还以为是两个老俱乐部会员在谈话。而实际上，尼古拉斯十八岁，德斯蒙德十六岁。
“受一位朋友之托，我要对在某个场合的人进行一些调查。并不是在万圣节前夜晚会现场——而是为晚会做准备的时候。你们当时都在那儿帮忙吧？”波洛说，“目前为止，我已经走访了清洁女工，听取了警方的观点，跟一位医生交流过——进行尸检的那位医生，还跟当时在场的一位老师、学校校长和伤心的死者家属谈过，我也听到了许多本地的流言——顺便问一下，我听说你们这儿有一位女巫，是吗？”
他面前的两个年轻人都大笑起来。
“你是说古德博迪大妈。是的，她参加晚会了，还扮演了女巫。”
“现在我想采访，”波洛说，“你们这些年轻的一代，耳聪目明的年轻人，你们了解最新的科学知识，能做出敏锐的判断。我迫不及待——非常迫不及待——想听听你们对这个案子的看法。”
十八岁和十六岁，他看着面前这两个男孩儿，心里暗自思索。对警察来说是青年，对他来说是孩子，对报社的记者来说是青少年。想怎么称呼他们都行。这是时代的产物。他们两个，波洛判断，即使不如他为了引起话题而吹捧的那样高智商，也一点儿都不笨。他们在晚会现场，而且稍早的时候帮了德雷克夫人不少忙。
他们爬上梯子，把金黄的南瓜放在特定的位置，还为装饰的彩灯拉好电线并通电。不知道他们中的谁，还想了个巧妙的办法伪造了一沓照片，让那些女孩儿以为是她们未来丈夫的样子。他们还正好处于最合适的年龄，因此成为拉格伦督察，似乎还有老园丁的首要怀疑对象。最近几年，这个年龄段的犯罪率一直在上升。波洛本人倒没有特别怀疑他们，但是一切都有可能。甚至两三年前那起谋杀案的凶手也可能是十四岁或者十二岁的男孩儿、青年或青少年。最近的报纸上总会刊登这类案件。
他把这些可能性都压在脑后，暂时不去细想，先集中精神评价他面前的这两个人，他们的长相、服饰、举止、言谈，等等。以赫尔克里•波洛自己的方式，并且隐藏在外国人的曲意奉承和夸张做作的面具之下，让他们欣然轻视他，尽管他们也把那份轻视隐藏在了礼貌和良好的举止之后。他们都举止得体。尼古拉斯，十八岁的那个男孩儿，长相英俊，留着短络腮胡子，长发披肩，穿着一身丧服似的黑西装。不像是悼念最近的这出悲剧，而是他自己的现代穿衣品味。年纪小点儿的那个穿着玫瑰色的天鹅绒大衣，紫红色的裤子，还有带花边的衬衫。他们在着装上应该都花了不少钱，而且肯定不是在本地买的。不过或许是他们自己挣钱买的，而不是花父母或者监护人的钱。
德斯蒙德的头发是淡黄色的，有很多绒毛。
“我听说晚会那天早上和下午你们在那儿，帮忙为晚会做准备？”
“下午早些时候。”尼古拉斯纠正道。
“你们帮忙准备什么呀？我听好几个人说过准备工作，但我不是很清楚。他们说的都不一致。”
“比如很多的灯。”
“爬上梯子把一些东西放在高处。”
“我还听说有一些很棒的照片。”
德斯蒙德马上把手伸进口袋里，掏出一沓东西，又骄傲地从里面抽出几张卡片。
“我们提前给这些做了伪装。”他说，“为女孩儿们准备的未来丈夫。”他解释说，“她们都差不多，女孩都这样。她们想要时髦点儿的东西。这些都不错，是吧？”
他把一些样本递给波洛，波洛饶有兴趣地看着那些失真的复制品：有一个长满络腮胡的年轻人，另一个年轻人的头发盘出一个发髻，第三个的头发都垂到了膝盖，还有各种各样的胡子，或者不同的面部装饰。
“做得都挺好，还都不一样，不错吧，是吧？”
“我猜你们有模特吧？”
“哦，都是我们自己。就是化妆而已。都是尼克（注：尼古拉斯的昵称。）和我两个人弄的。有些是尼克拍的我，有些是我拍的他。不同的只是——您可以称之为毛发样式。”
“太聪明了。”波洛说。
“我们故意不对准焦距，您知道，那样看起来就更像是想象出来的图像啦。”
另一个男孩儿说：“德雷克夫人对这些很满意。她肯定了我们的作品，这些让她笑个不停。主要还是我们在那个屋子里布置的灯光起的效果。您知道，安了一两盏灯，当女孩儿们坐在那儿的时候，我们中的一个就突然把一张照片从屏幕上晃过，女孩儿就能从镜子里看到一张脸。提醒您，只是发型不同而已，还有不同的胡须之类的。”
“那她们知道看到的是你们或是你们的朋友吗？”
“哦，我觉得当时不知道。至少在晚会上她们还不知道。她们知道我们在房子里帮忙布置，但我觉得她们认不出镜子里的就是我们。要我说，她们不怎么聪明。另外，我们还在脸上化了妆改变样子。先是我，接着是尼古拉斯。女孩儿们一直尖叫，好玩极了。”
“下午在那儿的人都有谁呢？我不是问参加晚会的人。”
“我猜晚会上肯定有三十个人左右，来回走动。下午有德雷克夫人，当然，有巴特勒夫人。一位学校老师，好像叫惠特克小姐。还有一个好像叫福莱特巴德夫人还是什么的，她是牙医的妹妹或妻子。弗格森医生的配药师李小姐也在，那天下午她休息，所以就来帮忙。有些小孩儿也过来想帮忙，我觉得他们帮不上什么。女孩儿们就三五成群到处乱逛，不停地咯咯笑。”
“啊，是的，那你记得那些女孩儿都是谁吗？”
“呃，雷诺兹家的孩子都在那儿。当然，可怜的乔伊斯也在，就是那个被杀的孩子。还有她的姐姐，安，讨厌的女孩儿，总是盛气凌人，认为自己聪明绝顶，门门都能得‘优’。
还有那个小男孩，利奥波德，他很可怕。”德斯蒙德说，“他总是偷偷摸摸的。他偷听，还告密，净干些讨厌的事儿。还有比阿特丽斯•阿德雷和凯西•格兰特，都很笨。当然还有几个真正能帮忙的女人，我是指清洁女工。还有那位女作家——把您带到这儿来的那位。”
“男人呢？”
“哦，牧师进来看了看，要是您把他算上的话。一个好老头，就是有点儿笨。还有新来的助理牧师，他一紧张说话就结巴，他也没在那儿待多久。我就只能想起这么多来了。”
“听说你们听见那个女孩儿——乔伊斯•雷诺兹——说她看到过一场谋杀之类的话了？”
“我没听到呀，”德斯蒙德说，“她说了吗？”
“哦，是有人这么说。”尼古拉斯说，“我没听到，她说的时候我可能没在房间。她在哪儿——我是指她说这话的时候？”
“在客厅。”
“对，好吧，除了一些做特殊事儿的，大部分人都在那儿。当然尼克和我，”德斯蒙德说，“大部分时间都在女孩儿们要照镜子看丈夫的那个房间。安装电线什么的，或者在楼梯上安装彩灯。我们可能有一两次在客厅，摆放中间掏空、安着蜡烛的南瓜。但是我们在那儿的时候没听到这类话。你呢，尼克？”
“我也没听到。”尼克说，然后又饶有兴趣地补充说，“乔伊斯真的说她亲眼见过一场谋杀？如果她真那么说了，就太有意思了，不是吗？”
“为什么那么有意思啊？”德斯蒙德问。
“好吧，超感知觉，不是吗？就是这样。她说她看到了一场谋杀，然后两三个小时之后她自己就被杀了。我猜她早有预料。得让人想想。您知道在最新的实验里他们好像能帮人实现超感知觉，通过把电极还是什么东西固定在颈部静脉上。我在哪儿读到过。”
“他们对什么超感知觉的研究永远没什么进步，”德斯蒙德轻蔑地说，“他们坐在不同的房间里，看着一堆方框里写着字或者画着几何图形的卡片，但是他们从来没看见过想看到的东西，或者几乎没有过。”
“好吧，必须得让年轻人做才行呢。青少年比老人成功的机会大。”
赫尔克里•波洛不想再继续听关于高科技的讨论了，他插话说：“在你们的记忆里，当你们在那儿的时候，有没有什么让你们觉得不祥，或有什么特殊意义的，一些别人或许没注意，但是你们可能留心的事情？”
尼古拉斯和德斯蒙德都紧紧皱着眉，明显是在搜肠刮肚地想找出点儿重要的情况。
“没有，就是一群人唠唠叨叨地说话，摆放东西，干活儿。”
“你有什么推测吗？”波洛对尼古拉斯说道。
“什么，推测谁杀了乔伊斯？”
“是的，我是说你可能注意到了什么事，让你有所怀疑，或者纯粹是基于心理分析。”
“是的，我明白您的意思了。可能还真能想出点儿什么来。”
“我看是惠特克。”德斯蒙德说，打断了尼古拉斯的沉思。
“那位学校老师？”波洛问。
“对，名副其实的老处女，您知道。性饥渴。一直教书，在一群女人中间打转。你还记得吧，一两年前有个女老师被掐死了。她有点儿奇怪，人们都这么说。”
“女同性恋？”尼古拉斯以一种老于世故的口气问。
“一点儿也不奇怪。你记得诺拉•安布罗斯吗，跟她一起住的那个女孩儿？长得不难看。她交过一两个男朋友，他们那么说，跟她一起住的女孩儿为此非常生气。有人说她是个未婚妈妈。她曾经称病歇了两个学期的假。在这个流言满天飞的地方，说什么的都有。”
“好吧，无论如何，那天早上惠特克大部分时间都在客厅。她很可能听到乔伊斯说的话，记在脑子里了，不是吗？”
“听我说，”尼古拉斯说，“如果是惠特克——你觉得，她多大了？四十多？快五十了。
那个年纪的女人都有点古怪。”
他们两个都看着波洛，那眼神就像是为主人取回了想要的东西而心满意足的小狗。
“我打赌，如果是她做的，那么埃姆林小姐肯定知道。学校里的事儿没什么是她不知道的。”
“她不会说出来吧？”
“也许她觉得她应该对朋友忠诚，并且保护她。”
“哦，我觉得她不会那么做。因为她应该想到，如果伊丽莎白•惠特克发了疯，就会有许多学生被杀。”
“那个助理牧师怎么样？”德斯蒙德满怀希望地问，“他可能有些神志不清。您知道，也许是原罪之类的，有水，有苹果还有其他的——您听，我想到一个可能。他来这儿没多久，大家都不怎么了解他。假如抓火龙给了他灵感。地狱之火！火焰熊熊燃烧！然后，您想，他拉住乔伊斯说：‘跟我来，我给你看一些东西。’然后他把她带到有苹果的房间，说‘跪在这儿’，说‘这是洗礼’，然后他把她的头摁了进去。明白了吗？这就都说得通了。亚当和夏娃，苹果、地狱之火、抓火龙，然后再次洗礼以除去原罪。”
“或许他先在她面前脱光了衣服。”尼古拉斯信心满满地说，“我是说，这种案子通常都和性有关系。”
他们都一脸邀功地看着波洛。
“好吧，”波洛说，“你们确实给我提供了一些想法。”
Sixteen
Sixteen
Hercule Poirot looked with interest at Mrs. Goodbody’s face. It was indeed perfect as a model fora witch. The fact that it almost undoubtedly went with extreme amiability of character did notdispel the illusion. She talked with relish and pleasure.
“Yes, I was up there right enough, I was. I always does the witches round here. Vicar hecomplimented me last year and he said as I’d done such a good job in the pageant as he’d give mea new steeple hat. A witch’s hat wears out just like anything else does. Yes, I was right up therethat day. I does the rhymes, you know. I mean the rhymes for the girls, using their own Christianname. One for Beatrice, one for Ann and all the rest of it. And I gives them to whoever is doingthe spirit voice and they recite it out to the girl in the mirror, and the boys, Master Nicholas andyoung Desmond, they send the phoney photographs floating down. Make me die of laughing,some of it does. See those boys sticking hair all over their faces and photographing each other.
And what they dress up in! I saw Master Desmond the other day, and what he was wearing you’dhardly believe. Rose-coloured coat and fawn breeches. Beat the girls hollow, they do. All the girlscan think of is to push their skirts higher and higher, and that’s not much good to them becausethey’ve got to put on more underneath. I mean what with the things they call body stockings andtights, which used to be for chorus girls in my day and none other—they spend all their money onthat. But the boys—my word, they look like kingfishers and peacocks or birds of paradise. Well, Ilike to see a bit of colour and I always think it must have been fun in those old historical days asyou see on the pictures. You know, everybody with lace and curls and cavalier hats and all the restof it. Gave the girls something to look at, they did. And doublet and hose. All the girls could thinkof in historical times, as far as I can see, was to put great balloon skirts on, crinolines they calledthem later, and great ruffles around their necks! My grandmother, she used to tell me that heryoung ladies—she was in service, you know, in a good Victorian family—and her young ladies(before the time of Victoria I think it was)—it was the time the King what had a head like a pearwas on the throne—Silly Billy, wasn’t it, William IVth—well then, her young ladies, I mean mygrandmother’s young ladies, they used to have muslin gowns very long down to their ankles, veryprim but they used to damp their muslins with water so they stuck to them. You know, stuck tothem so it showed everything there was to show. Went about looking ever so modest, but it tickledup the gentlemen, all right, it did.
“I lent Mrs. Drake my witch ball for the party. Bought that witch ball at a jumble salesomewhere. There it is hanging up there now by the chimney, you see? Nice bright dark blue. Ikeep it over my door.”
“Do you tell fortunes?”
“Mustn’t say I do, must I?” she chuckled. “The police don’t like that. Not that they mind thekind of fortunes I tell. Nothing to it, as you might say. Place like this you always know who’sgoing with who, and so that makes it easy.”
“Can you look in your witch ball, look in there, see who killed that little girl, Joyce?”
“You got mixed up, you have,” said Mrs. Goodbody. “It’s a crystal ball you look in to seethings, not a witch ball. If I told you who I thought it was did it, you wouldn’t like it. Say it wasagainst nature, you would. But lots of things go on that are against nature.”
“You may have something there.”
“This is a good place to live, on the whole. I mean, people are decent, most of them, butwherever you go, the devil’s always got some of his own. Born and bred to it.”
“You mean—black magic?”
“No, I don’t mean that.” Mrs. Goodbody was scornful. “That’s nonsense, that is. That’s forpeople who like to dress up and do a lot of tomfoolery. Sex and all that. No, I mean those that thedevil has touched with his hand. They’re born that way. The sons of Lucifer. They’re born so thatkilling don’t mean nothing to them, not if they profit by it. When they want a thing, they want it.
And they’re ruthless to get it. Beautiful as angels, they can look like. Knew a little girl once. Sevenyears old. Killed her little brother and sister. Twins they were. Five or six months old, no more.
Stifled them in their prams.”
“That took place here in Woodleigh Common?”
“No, no, it wasn’t in Woodleigh Common. I came across that up in Yorkshire, far as Iremember. Nasty case. Beautiful little creature she was, too. You could have fastened a pair ofwings on her, let her go on a platform and sing Christmas hymns, and she’d have looked right forthe part. But she wasn’t. She was rotten inside. You’ll know what I mean. You’re not a youngman. You know what wickedness there is about in the world.”
“Alas!” said Poirot. “You are right. I do know only too well. If Joyce really saw a murdercommitted—”
“Who says she did?” said Mrs. Goodbody.
“She said so herself.”
“That’s no reason for believing. She’s always been a little liar.” She gave him a sharp glance.
“You won’t believe that, I suppose?”
“Yes,” said Poirot, “I do believe it. Too many people have told me so, for me to continuedisbelieving it.”
“Odd things crop up in families,” said Mrs. Goodbody. “You take the Reynolds, for example.
There’s Mr. Reynolds. In the estate business he is. Never cut much ice at it and never will. Nevergot on much, as you’d say. And Mrs. Reynolds, always getting worried and upset about things.
None of their three children take after their parents. There’s Ann, now, she’s got brains. She’sgoing to do well with her schooling, she is. She’ll go to college, I shouldn’t wonder, maybe getherself trained as a teacher. Mind you, she’s pleased with herself. She’s so pleased with herselfthat nobody can stick her. None of the boys look at her twice. And then there was Joyce. Shewasn’t clever like Ann, nor as clever as her little brother Leopold, either, but she wanted to be. Shewanted always to know more than other people and to have done better than other people andshe’d say anything to make people sit up and take notice. But don’t you believe any single wordshe ever said was true. Because nine times out of ten it wasn’t.”
“And the boy?”
“Leopold? Well, he’s only nine or ten, I think, but he’s clever all right. Clever with his fingersand other ways, too. He wants to study things like physics. He’s good at mathematics, too. Quitesurprised about it they were, in school. Yes, he’s clever. He’ll be one of these scientists, I expect.
If you ask me, the things he does when he’s a scientist and the things he’ll think of—they’ll benasty, like atom bombs! He’s one of the kind that studies and are ever so clever and think upsomething that’ll destroy half the globe, and all us poor folk with it. You beware of Leopold. Heplays tricks on people, you know, and eavesdrops. Finds out all their secrets. Where he gets all hispocket money from I’d like to know. It isn’t from his mother or his father. They can’t afford togive him much. He’s got lots of money always. Keeps it in a drawer under his socks. He buysthings. Quite a lot of expensive gadgets. Where does he get the money from? That’s what I’d liketo know. Finds people’s secrets out, I’d say, and makes them pay him for holding his tongue.”
She paused for breath.
“Well, I can’t help you, I’m afraid, in any way.”
“You have helped me a great deal,” said Poirot. “What happened to the foreign girl who is saidto have run away?”
“Didn’t go far, in my opinion. ‘Ding dong dell, pussy’s in the well.’ That’s what I’ve alwaysthought, anyway.”
第十六章
第十六章
赫尔克里•波洛兴致勃勃地看着古德博迪夫人。那简直就是一张女巫的脸，让人自然而然就想到女巫，虽然她本人非常和蔼，但还是打破不了这个联想。她说起话来很吸引人，也让人很愉快。
“对，我当时在那儿，没错。我经常扮演女巫。牧师去年还夸我，说我在庆典上演得特别成功，要奖励我一顶新的尖帽子。女巫的帽子和其他东西一样，也会用坏。是的，那天我在那儿。我会编一些小诗，您知道。我是说给女孩儿们写的那些诗，用她们的洗礼名编的。比阿特丽斯一首，安一首，其他人也有。我把这些告诉模仿神灵说话的人，他们再对着镜子里的女孩儿读出来。那些男孩儿，尼古拉斯少爷和小德斯蒙德，他们就让伪造的照片飘下来。快笑死我了，有一些特别好笑。那些男孩儿把毛发粘得满脸都是，然后互相照相。看看他们都穿了什么！有一天我看到德斯蒙德少爷了，您很难想象他穿的什么。玫瑰色的大衣还有浅黄褐色的马裤。穿得比女孩儿们还暴露，是的。女孩儿们现在想的就是把裙子拉高点儿，再拉高点儿，那对她们没什么好处，因为她们得在里面穿更多。我是说她们称为连体紧身衣裤和紧身衣的东西，在我们那个年代只有合唱团的舞女才穿，好女孩是不穿的。她们把钱都花在了这上面。但是男孩儿，要我说，他们就像翠鸟、孔雀或者是极乐鸟。好吧，我愿意看到一点儿颜色，并且一直觉得古时候挺好玩，像从图片上看到的那样。您知道，每个人的衣服上都有花边，留着鬈发，戴着绅士帽什么的。他们确实做了些好东西让那些女孩儿看。还有紧身衣和紧身裤。据我所知，提到过去，女孩儿们想的几乎都是穿上蓬蓬的大裙子——他们后来称它衬布裙——以及领子边围一圈荷叶边！我祖母，她曾跟我讲过她的那些小姐们。她是女佣，为维多利亚时的一个富有家庭服务。她的小姐们——我想应该是在维多利亚时期之前——当时在位的是脑袋像颗梨的那位国王——傻子比利，不是吗，威廉四世——那时候，她的小姐们，我是指我祖母照顾的小姐们，她们要穿长到脚踝的棉布外衣，非常保守，但是她们经常把布用水打湿，让它们贴在身上。您知道，紧贴着身体，就能展示想展示的一切。然后穿着走来走去，看着非常端庄，但实际上让那些绅士看得心里直痒，没错，确实是。
“我把驱邪球借给德雷克夫人办晚会用。是从一个杂物拍卖会上买的。就挂在烟囱那儿，您看到了吗？非常明亮的深蓝色。我一直把它挂在门的上方。”
“您会预见未来吗？”
“肯定不能说我会，是吗？”她笑道，“警察不喜欢我那么说。倒不是他们介意我预见什么而是没什么用。在这样一个地方，你不用问就知道谁和谁在一起了，所以很容易预言。”
“您能从驱邪球里看看，看着那儿，看见是谁杀了那个女孩儿，乔伊斯吗？”
“您搞混了，真的。”古德博迪夫人说，“能看见万物的是水晶球，不是驱邪球。如果我告诉您我认为是谁做的，您也不会相信。您会说这是违反自然规律的。但是确实发生的好多事都违反了自然规律。”
“您说的话有些道理。”
“这是一个宜居的好地方，至少整体上是。大多数人都很体面，但是无论您去哪儿总会有一些是魔鬼的后代。他们生来就是魔鬼。”
“您是指——黑魔法？”
“不，不是。”古德博迪夫人轻蔑地说，“那都是胡说八道，胡说。那是那些总干蠢事的人的托词。包括性还有其他的。不，我是指魔鬼之手碰过的那些人。他们生来就是如此。
撒旦的儿子。他们生性如此，所以杀戮对他们来说不值一提，只要能得到好处就行了。他们想要什么就必须得到什么，为此不择手段。即使他们长得像天使一样美丽。我知道有个小女孩儿，七岁。杀了她的小弟弟和小妹妹。那是一对双胞胎，才五六个月大。她在婴儿车里掐死了他们。”
“是在伍德利社区发生的吗？”
“不，不，不是在伍德利社区。我记得是在约克郡。真残忍。她也是个美丽的小家伙。
您可以给她安上一对翅膀，让她上台去唱圣诞颂歌，她看上去非常适合这个角色。但她不是，她的内心糟糕透了。您明白我的意思。您不年轻了。您了解这个世界，到处都有这种邪恶。”
“唉！”波洛感叹道，“您说得对。我再熟悉不过了。如果乔伊斯真的见过一场谋杀——”
“谁说她见过？”古德博迪夫人问。
“她自己这么说的。”
“没必要相信她的话。她经常说谎。”她瞪了他一眼，“您不会相信吧？”
“不，”波洛说，“我相信。太多人对我说别相信她。”
“家家都有一本难念的经。”古德博迪夫人说道，“拿雷诺兹一家来说，雷诺兹先生，他是做房地产生意的，从来没做成过大买卖，以后也不会。永远不会出人头地，您可以这么说。而雷诺兹夫人，总是非常焦虑，对什么都感到不安。他们的三个孩子没一个像他们。
安，首先，她很有头脑。她的学业会很顺利。我毫不怀疑，她会上大学，也许她会成为一位老师。不过要注意，她对自己非常满意。太自鸣得意了，没人受得了她。男孩儿们都不愿意看她第二眼。然后是乔伊斯，她没她姐姐那么聪明，也没弟弟利奥波德聪明，但是她总想显得聪明。她总想知道得比别人多，做得比别人好，她会为了让别人坐直身子注意她而说任何事。但是她说的话一个字也不能相信，因为十有八九是假的。”
“那个男孩儿呢？”
“利奥波德？好吧，他只有九岁还是十岁，但是他确实很聪明。手很巧，别的方面也不错。他想学物理学，对数学也很擅长，让学校的老师都很吃惊。他很聪明，以后会成为科学家。但让我说，他成为科学家之后做的事，想做的事——会是很残忍的，比如原子弹！
他是那种太聪明的人，聪明得想要毁掉半个地球，连同我们这些可怜的人类。你得提防利奥波德。他经常耍花招，还偷听，揭发人们的秘密。我想知道他的零花钱都是哪儿来的。
不是他爸妈给的，他们给不了他那么多。他总是有很多钱，藏在抽屉里的袜子下面。他经常买东西，很多挺贵的小玩意儿。他的钱都是从哪儿来的？我猜，他发现人们的秘密，然后让他们给他封口费。”
她停下来喘了口气。
“好吧，恐怕我帮不了您了。”
“您已经帮了我很多了。”波洛说，“那个据说逃跑了的外国女孩儿去哪儿了呢？”
“我觉得，走不远。‘铃儿响叮咚，猫咪在井中’。无论如何，我一直这么想。”
Seventeen
Seventeen
“Excuse me, Ma’am, I wonder if I might speak to you a minute.”
Mrs. Oliver, who was standing on the verandah of her friend’s house looking out to see if therewere any signs of Hercule Poirot approaching—he had notified her by telephone that he would becoming round to see her about now—looked round.
A neatly attired woman of middle age was standing, twisting her hands nervously in their neatcotton gloves.
“Yes?” said Mrs. Oliver, adding an interrogation point by her intonation.
“I’m sorry to trouble you, I’m sure, Madam, but I thought—well, I thought….”
Mrs. Oliver listened but did not attempt to prompt her. She wondered what was worrying thewoman so much.
“I take it rightly as you’re the lady who writes stories, don’t I? Stories about crimes and murdersand things of that kind.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Oliver, “I’m the one.”
Her curiosity was now aroused. Was this a preface for a demand for an autograph or even asigned photograph? One never knew. The most unlikely things happened.
“I thought as you’d be the right one to tell me,” said the woman.
“You’d better sit down,” said Mrs. Oliver.
She foresaw that Mrs. Whoever-it-was—she was wearing a wedding ring so she was a Mrs.—was the type who takes some time in getting to the point. The woman sat down and went ontwisting her hands in their gloves.
“Something you’re worried about?” said Mrs. Oliver, doing her best to start the flow.
“Well, I’d like advice, and it’s true. It’s about something that happened a good while ago and Iwasn’t really worried at the time. But you know how it is. You think things over and you wish youknew someone you could go and ask about it.”
“I see,” said Mrs. Oliver, hoping to inspire confidence by this entirely meretricious statement.
“Seeing the things what have happened lately, you never do know, do you?”
“You mean—?”
“I mean what happened at the Hallowe’en party, or whatever they called it. I mean it shows youthere’s people who aren’t dependable here, doesn’t it? And it shows you things before that weren’tas you thought they were. I mean, they mightn’t have been what you thought they were, if youunderstand what I mean.”
“Yes?” said Mrs. Oliver, adding an even greater tinge of interrogation to the monosyllable. “Idon’t think I know your name,” she added.
“Leaman. Mrs. Leaman. I go out and do cleaning to oblige ladies here. Ever since my husbanddied, and that was five years ago. I used to work for Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe, the lady who livedup at the Quarry House, before Colonel and Mrs. Weston came. I don’t know if you ever knewher.”
“No,” said Mrs. Oliver, “I never knew her. This is the first time I have been down to WoodleighCommon.”
“I see. Well, you wouldn’t know much about what was going on perhaps at that time, and whatwas said at that time.”
“I’ve heard a certain amount about it since I’ve been down here this time,” said Mrs. Oliver.
“You see, I don’t know anything about the law, and I’m worried always when it’s a question oflaw. Lawyers, I mean. They might tangle it up and I wouldn’t like to go to the police. It wouldn’tbe anything to do with the police, being a legal matter, would it?”
“Perhaps not,” said Mrs. Oliver, cautiously.
“You know perhaps what they said at the time about the codi—I don’t know, some word likecodi. Like the fish I mean.”
“A codicil to the Will?” suggested Mrs. Oliver.
“Yes, that’s right. That’s what I’m meaning. Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe, you see, made one ofthese cod—codicils and she left all her money to the foreign girl what looked after her. And it wasa surprise, that, because she’d got relations living here, and she’d come here anyway to live nearthem. She was very devoted to them, Mr. Drake, in particular. And it struck people as pretty queer,really. And then the lawyers, you see, they began saying things. They said as Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe hadn’t written the codicil at all. That the foreign pair girl had done it, seeing as she got allthe money left to her. And they said as they were going to law about it. That Mrs. Drake wasgoing to counterset the Will—if that is the right word.”
“The lawyers were going to contest the Will. Yes, I believe I did hear something about that,”
said Mrs. Oliver encouragingly. “And you know something about it, perhaps?”
“I didn’t mean no harm,” said Mrs. Leaman. A slight whine came into her voice, a whine withwhich Mrs. Oliver had been acquainted several times in the past.
Mrs. Leaman, she thought, was presumably an unreliable woman in some ways, a snooperperhaps, a listener at doors.
“I didn’t say nothing at the time,” said Mrs. Leaman, “because you see I didn’t rightly know.
But you see I thought it was queer and I’ll admit to a lady like you, who knows what these thingsare, that I did want to know the truth about it. I’d worked for Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe for sometime, I had, and one wants to know how things happened.”
“Quite,” said Mrs. Oliver.
“If I thought I’d done what I oughtn’t to have done, well, of course, I’d have owned up to it. ButI didn’t think as I’d done anything really wrong, you see. Not at the time, if you understand,” sheadded.
“Oh yes,” said Mrs. Oliver, “I’m sure I shall understand. Go on. It was about this codicil.”
“Yes, you see one day Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe—she hadn’t felt too good that day and so sheasked us to come in. Me that was, and young Jim who helps down in the garden and brings thesticks in and the coals, and things like that. So we went into her room, where she was, and she’dgot papers before her there on the desk. And she turns to this foreign girl—Miss Olga we all calledher—and said ‘You go out of the room now, dear, because you mustn’t be mixed up in this part ofit,’ or something like that. So Miss Olga, she goes out of the room and Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe,she tells us to come close and she says ‘This is my Will, this is.’ She got a bit of blotting paperover the top part of it but the bottom of it’s quite clear. She said ‘I’m writing something here onthis piece of paper and I want you to be a witness of what I’ve written and of my signature at theend of it.’ So she starts writing along the page. Scratchy pen she always used, she wouldn’t useBiros or anything like that. And she writes two or three lines of writing and then she signed hername, and then she says to me, ‘Now, Mrs. Leaman, you write your name there. Your name andyour address’ and then she says to Jim ‘And now you write your name underneath there, and youraddress too. There. That’ll do. Now you’ve seen me write that and you’ve seen my signature andyou’ve written your names, both of you, to say that’s that.’ And then she says ‘That’s all. Thankyou very much.’ So we goes out of the room. Well, I didn’t think nothing more of it at the time,but I wondered a bit. And it happened as I turns my head just as I was going out of the room. Yousee the door doesn’t always latch properly. You have to give it a pull, to make it click. And so Iwas doing that—I wasn’t really looking, if you know what I mean—”
“I know what you mean,” said Mrs. Oliver, in a noncommittal voice.
“And so I sees Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe pull herself up from the chair—she’d got arthritis andhad pain moving about sometimes—and go over to the bookcase and she pulled out a book andshe puts that piece of paper she’d just signed—in an envelope it was—in one of the books. A bigtall book it was in the bottom shelf. And she sticks it back in the bookcase. Well, I never thoughtof it again, as you might say. No, really I didn’t. But when all this fuss came up, well, of course Ifelt—at least, I—” She came to a stop.
Mrs. Oliver had one of her useful intuitions.
“But surely,” she said, “you didn’t wait as long as all that—”
“Well, I’ll tell you the truth, I will. I’ll admit I was curious. After all, I mean, you want to knowwhen you’ve signed anything, what you’ve signed, don’t you? I mean, it’s only human nature.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Oliver, “it’s only human nature.”
Curiosity, she thought, was a highly component part in Mrs. Leaman’s human nature.
“So I will admit that next day, when Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe had driven into Medchester and Iwas doing her bedroom as usual—a bedsitting room she had because she had to rest a lot. And Ithinks, ‘Well, one ought really to know when you’ve signed a thing, what it is you’ve signed.’ Imean they always say with these hire purchase things, you should read the small print.”
“Or in this case, the handwriting,” suggested Mrs. Oliver.
“So I thought, well, there’s no harm—it’s not as though I was taking anything. I mean to say I’dhad to sign my name there, and I thought I really ought to know what I’d signed. So I had a lookalong the bookshelves. They needed dusting anyway. And I found the one. It was on the bottomshelf. It was an old book, a sort of Queen Victoria’s kind of book. And I found this envelope witha folded paper in it and the title of the book said Enquire Within upon Everything. And it seemedthen as though it was, sort of meant, if you know what I mean?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Oliver. “It was clearly meant. And so you took out the paper and looked at it.”
“That’s right, Madam. And whether I did wrong or not I don’t know. But anyway, there it was.
It was a legal document all right. On the last page there was the writing what she’d made themorning before. New writing with a new scratchy pen she was using. It was clear enough to read,though, although she had a rather spiky handwriting.”
“And what did it say,” said Mrs. Oliver, her curiosity now having joined itself to that previouslyfelt by Mrs. Leaman.
“Well, it said something like, as far as I remember—the exact words I’m not quite sure of—something about a codicil and that after the legacies mentioned in her Will, she bequeathed herentire fortune to Olga—I’m not sure of the surname, it began with an S. Seminoff, or somethinglike that—in consideration of her great kindness and attention to her during her illness. And thereit was written down and she’d signed it and I’d signed it, and Jim had signed it. So I put it backwhere it was because I shouldn’t like Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe to know that I’d been poking aboutin her things.
“But well, I said to myself, well, this is a surprise. And I thought, fancy that foreign girl gettingall that money because we all know as Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe was very rich. Her husband hadbeen in shipbuilding and he’d left her a big fortune, and I thought, well, some people have all theluck. Mind you, I wasn’t particularly fond of Miss Olga myself. She had a sharp way with hersometimes and she had quite a bad temper. But I will say as she was always very attentive andpolite and all that, to the old lady. Looking out for herself, all right, she was, and she got awaywith it. And I thought, well, leaving all that money away from her own family. Then I thought,well, perhaps she’s had a tiff with them and likely as not that will blow over, so maybe she’ll tearthis up and make another Will or codicil after all. But anyway, that was that, and I put it back and Iforgot about it, I suppose.
“But when all the fuss came up about the Will, and there was talk of how it had been forged andMrs. Llewellyn-Smythe could never have written that codicil herself—for that’s what they weresaying, mind you, as it wasn’t the old lady who had written that at all, it was somebody else—”
“I see,” said Mrs. Oliver. “And so, what did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything. And that’s what’s worrying me…I didn’t get the hang of things at once.
And when I’d thought things over a bit I didn’t know rightly what I ought to do and I thought,well, it was all talk because the lawyers were against the foreigner, like people always are. I’m notvery fond of foreigners myself, I’ll admit. At any rate, there it was, and the young lady herself wasswanking about, giving herself airs, looking as pleased as Punch and I thought, well, maybe it’s alla legal thing of some kind and they’ll say she’s no right to the money because she wasn’t relatedto the old lady. So everything will be all right. And it was in a way because, you see, they gave upthe idea of bringing the case. It didn’t come to court at all and as far as anyone knew, Miss Olgaran away. Went off back to the Continent somewhere, where she came from. So it looks as thoughthere must have been some hocus-pocus of some kind on her part. Maybe she threatened the oldlady and made her do it. You never know, do you? One of my nephews who’s going to be adoctor, says you can do wonderful things with hypnotism. I thought perhaps she hypnotized theold lady.”
“This was how long ago?”
“Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe’s been dead for—let me see, nearly two years.”
“And it didn’t worry you?”
“No, it didn’t worry me. Not at the time. Because you see, I didn’t rightly see that it mattered.
Everything was all right, there wasn’t any question of that Miss Olga getting away with themoney, so I didn’t see as it was any call for me—”
“But now you feel differently?”
“It’s that nasty death—the child that was pushed into a bucket of apples. Saying things about amurder, saying she’d seen something or known something about a murder. And I thought maybeas Miss Olga had murdered the old lady because she knew all this money was coming to her andthen she got the wind up when there was a fuss and lawyers and the police, maybe, and so she ranaway. So then I thought well, perhaps I ought to—well, I ought to tell someone, and I thoughtyou’d be a lady as has got friends in legal departments. Friends in the police perhaps, and you’dexplain to them that I was only dusting a bookshelf, and this paper was there in a book and I put itback where it belonged. I didn’t take it away or anything.”
“But that’s what happened, was it, on that occasion? You saw Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe write acodicil to her Will. You saw her write her name and you yourself and this Jim someone were boththere and you both wrote your own names yourselves. That’s it, isn’t it?”
“That’s right.”
“So if you both saw Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe write her name, then that signature couldn’t havebeen a forgery, could it? Not if you saw her write it herself.”
“I saw her write it herself and that’s the absolute truth I’m speaking. And Jim’d say so too onlyhe’s gone to Australia, he has. Went over a year ago and I don’t know his address or anything. Hedidn’t come from these parts, anyway.”
“And what do you want me to do?”
“Well, I want you to tell me if there’s anything I ought to say, or do—now. Nobody’s asked me,mind you. Nobody ever asked me if I knew anything about a Will.”
“Your name is Leaman. What Christian name?”
“Harriet.”
“Harriet Leaman. And Jim, what was his last name?”
“Well, now, what was it? Jenkins. That’s right. James Jenkins. I’d be much obliged if you couldhelp me because it worries me, you see. All this trouble coming along and if that Miss Olga did it,murdered Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe, I mean, and young Joyce saw her do it…She was ever so cock-a-hoop about it all, Miss Olga was, I mean about hearing from the lawyers as she’d come into a lotof money. But it was different when the police came round asking questions, and she went off verysudden, she did. Nobody asked me anything, they didn’t. But now I can’t help wondering if Iought to have said something at the time.”
“I think,” said Mrs. Oliver, “that you will probably have to tell this story of yours to whoeverrepresented Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe as a lawyer. I’m sure a good lawyer will quite understandyour feelings and your motive.”
“Well, I’m sure if you’d say a word for me and tell them, being a lady as knows what’s what,how it came about, and how I never meant to—well, not to do anything dishonest in any way. Imean, all I did—”
“All you did was to say nothing,” said Mrs. Oliver. “It seems quite a reasonable explanation.”
“And if it could come from you—saying a word for me first, you know, to explain, I’d be everso grateful.”
“I’ll do what I can,” said Mrs. Oliver.
Her eyes strayed to the garden path where she saw a neat figure approaching.
“Well, thanks ever so much. They said as you were a very nice lady, and I’m sure I’m muchobliged to you.”
She rose to her feet, replaced the cotton gloves which she had twisted entirely off in heranguish, made a kind of half nod or bob, and trotted off. Mrs. Oliver waited until Poirotapproached.
“Come here,” she said, “and sit down. What’s the matter with you? You look upset.”
“My feet are extremely painful,” said Hercule Poirot.
“It’s those awful tight patent leather shoes of yours,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Sit down. Tell me whatyou came to tell me, and then I’ll tell you something that you may be surprised to hear!”
第十七章
第十七章
“很抱歉，夫人，我想跟您说几句话，可以吗？”
奥利弗夫人正在她朋友家的走廊上向外张望，看赫尔克里•波洛到了没有——他刚才打电话说马上就过来见她。
一位穿着整洁的中年妇女站在那儿，戴着棉手套的手紧张地来回搓着。
“什么事？”奥利弗夫人说，语气里多了几分疑问。
“很抱歉打扰您，夫人，但是我想——呃，我想……”
奥利弗夫人听着，没有试图催促她。她很纳闷是什么让这个女人这么忧心。
“我想我没认错，您就是写小说的那位夫人，对吗？关于犯罪和谋杀之类的小说。”
“是的，”奥利弗夫人说，“就是我。”
她的好奇心已经被激起来了。这是要签名或者签名照的开场白吗？谁也不知道。最不可能的事情都发生过。
“我想您就是能告诉我该怎么做的那个人了。”那个女人说。
“您坐下说吧。”奥利弗夫人说。
她可以预知这位某某夫人——她戴着婚戒，肯定是一位夫人——是那种需要花些时间才能说到正题的类型。对方坐下，继续搓着手。
“您在担心什么吗？”奥利弗夫人说，尽力把话题引上正轨。
“好吧，我需要有人给我出主意，真的。是关于很久以前发生的一些事，我当时并不担心。但是您能明白，事情总是这样。你反复思量一些事，然后你希望能找一个人问一问。”
“我明白了。”奥利弗夫人说，希望借这句华而不实的话激起她的信心。
“看看最近发生的这些事，您永远也想不到，是吧？”
“您的意思是——”
“我是说万圣节前夜晚会上发生的那件事。我的意思是，这让我们知道这里有不可靠的人，不是吗？也让人明白以前发生的一些事跟你原来想的是不一样的。我是说那些事情可能不是你想的那样，如果您能明白我的意思。”
“哦？”奥利弗夫人说，这个字的疑问语气又加重了几分，“我还不知道您的名字，”她补充说。
“利曼，利曼夫人。我帮这里的女士们做一些清扫工作。从五年前我丈夫去世后就开始了。我为卢埃林-史密斯夫人工作过，就是在上校和韦斯顿夫人之前住在石矿府的那位女士。我不知道您以前认不认识她。”
“不，”奥利弗夫人回答说，“我不认识她。这是我第一次来到伍德利社区。”
“我知道了，好吧，那您应该对那时候的事和传言不太了解。”
“我来这儿的这段时间听说了一些。”奥利弗夫人说。
“您知道，我一点也不了解法律，我总是怀疑这是一个法律问题。得找律师，我是指。
但他们会把事弄得更乱，而且我也不想去警察局。只是个法律问题，跟警察没关系，不是吗？”
“可能吧。”奥利弗夫人颇为谨慎地答道。
“您也许知道那会儿他们说的捕鱼——我不确定，听着像捕鱼的一个词儿。我的意思是像什么鱼。”
“遗嘱的补遗？”奥利弗夫人提示道。
“对，就是这个。我说的就是这个。卢埃林-史密斯夫人，您知道，写了一条捕——补遗，把她所有的钱都留给照顾她的那个外国女孩儿。很让人意外，因为她有亲戚住在这里，她也是为了离他们近点儿才搬来的。她对他们很好，尤其是德雷克先生。所以人们都觉得很可疑，确实。然后律师们，您看，他们开始说话了。他们说卢埃林-史密斯夫人根本没写这条补遗。是那个外国女孩儿自己写的，看吧，钱不是都留给她自己了吗？他们还说要起诉她。德雷克夫人还要推翻那份遗嘱——好像是这么个词儿。”
“律师们要检验那份遗嘱。对，我确实听过这些事。”奥利弗夫人鼓励道，“您是不是知道什么内情？”
“我没什么恶意的。”利曼夫人说，声音里稍微有些抱怨，这种抱怨奥利弗夫人以前听到过好几次。
利曼夫人，她暗想，也许不是什么可以信赖的人，很可能爱窥探别人的隐私，在墙角偷听。
“我那时候什么都没说，”利曼夫人说，“因为您知道，我当时也不确定。我只是觉得很奇怪，夫人，您明白事理，我向您承认，我确实想知道事情的真相。我为卢埃林-史密斯夫人工作过一段时间，真的，我真想知道究竟是怎么回事。”
“的确。”奥利弗夫人说。
“如果我觉得我做了什么不该做的事，当然，我早就承认了。但是我不觉得我真的错了，至少当时不觉得。您能明白吧？”她补充道。
“哦，是的，”奥利弗夫人说，“我想我能明白。您继续说，关于那条补遗。”
“是的，有一天卢埃林-史密斯夫人——那天她不太舒服，所以她把我们叫了进去。有我，另一个是小吉姆，他在花园帮忙，搬树枝搬煤之类的。我们进了她的房间，她坐在桌子前，面前放了些文件。然后她对那个外国女孩儿说——我们都叫她奥尔加小姐——她说：‘你先出去，亲爱的，因为这部分你不能参与。’大概是这个意思。所以奥尔加小姐就走出了房间。然后卢埃林-史密斯夫人让我们走近些，她说：‘这是我的遗嘱，就是这个。’她拿了几张吸墨纸把遗嘱的上半部分盖住了，但是下半部分看得很清楚。她说：‘我要在这张纸上写一些东西，我希望你们能见证这是我亲笔写的，下面是我亲笔签的名。’说完她就开始在纸上写字，她总是用钢笔，从来不用圆珠笔什么的。她写了两三行字，签上了她的名字。然后她对我说：‘现在，利曼夫人，在这儿签上你的名字。名字还有地址。’接着对吉姆说：‘你把名字写在下面这儿，地址，写在这儿。好了，这就行了。现在你们看见是我亲笔写的，还有亲笔签名，你们也都签上了名字。这就有效了。’然后她说：‘就这些，谢谢你们。’我们就出去了。好吧，当时我并没有多想。但是当我回过头去关门的时候，您知道那扇门总是关不严，得使劲儿拉一把，咔嗒响了才行。我当时就在关门——我不是故意要看，如果您明白我的意思——”
“我明白。”奥利弗夫人含糊其辞。
“我正好看见卢埃林-史密斯夫人费力地从椅子上站起来——她有关节炎，动的时候有时候会疼——走到书架前，从上面抽出一本书，把她刚签的那张纸——那张纸装在一个信封里——夹进那本书里。一本又宽又厚的书，她把那本书放回了书架底层。好吧，之后我再没想过它。没有，我真没有。但是再想起来的时候，好吧，我当然觉得——至少，我——”她停了下来。
奥利弗夫人的作家直觉发挥了作用。
“但是肯定，”她说，“没过多久您就——”
“好吧，我跟您说实话。我承认我很好奇。毕竟，我是说，当你签了什么东西，你会想知道你签的是什么，不是吗？我是说，这就是人的天性。”
“是的，”奥利弗夫人说，“这就是人的天性。”
好奇，她想，在利曼夫人的天性中占了很大比重。
“我承认第二天……那天卢埃林-史密斯夫人去曼彻斯特了，我像平常一样打扫她的卧室——实际上是卧室兼起居室，因为她必须多休息。然后我想，好吧，人们真应该知道自己签的是什么。我是指人们分期付款买东西的时候总是说，你不应该放过任何一个印刷字母。”
“在这件事里面，是手写字母。”奥利弗夫人说。
“所以我想，好吧，看看也没关系——我又不是要偷东西。我是说我已经签上名字了，我觉得我应该知道自己签的是什么。我就在书架上找起来，反正书架也要擦的。我找到了那本书，在书架底层。那是一本很古老的书，维多利亚女王时期的书。我找到了装着一些折起来的纸的信封，那本书的名字叫《探寻一切奥秘》，跟当时的情况很像——有几分像，您明白我说的吗？”
“是的，”奥利弗夫人说，“您说得很清楚。所以您就拿出那张纸，看了上面的字。”
“没错，夫人。我不知道我做得对不对，但是反正已经看了。毫无疑问那是一份法律文件。最后一页纸上是她前一天早上写的东西。字迹很新，是她用一只新钢笔写上去的。还是很容易认出来的，尽管她写的字又长又尖。”
“那上面写的是什么呢？”奥利弗夫人问，她的好奇心和当初利曼太太的不相上下。
“好吧，她写了一些，我能想起来的——准确的词句我记不清了——是关于一条补遗，除了遗嘱里提到的那些遗物，她把所有的财产都赠给奥尔加——我不确定她姓什么，是塞开头的，塞米诺娃之类的——以感谢她在她生病期间无微不至的关怀和照顾。她在下面签了名，后面是我和吉姆的签名。然后我就把它放回了原处，因为我不想让卢埃林-史密斯夫人知道我乱动她的东西。
“但是，好吧，我对自己说，好吧，太让人吃惊了。想不到那个外国女孩儿能得到她所有的钱。我们都知道卢埃林-史密斯夫人非常有钱。她丈夫是造船商，给她留下了一大笔财富。好吧，有的人真是太幸运了。跟您说，我本人并不是很喜欢奥尔加小姐。她有时很尖刻，而且脾气很坏。但是我必须说，她对那位老太太一直很关心，很有礼貌。她为自己留心着，好吧，还侥幸成功了。我想，好家伙，一点儿钱也不留给她的家人，也许她是和他们吵架了，过不了多久气消了，她就会撕了这份遗嘱，重新立一份或者再写一条补遗。但是反正，当时就是这样，然后我就把它放回去了，也忘了这件事。
“但是当遗嘱出现纠纷的时候，有流言说遗嘱是伪造的，说那条补遗绝不是卢埃林-史密斯夫人亲笔写的——他们就是这么说的，说根本不是老太太亲笔写的，而是别人写的——”
“我明白了。”奥利弗夫人说，“那然后呢，您做了什么？”
“我什么也没做。这也是我为什么担心……我一时没有摸清情况。当我有些明白了的时候，我不知道该怎么做才对，然后我想，都是说说而已，律师原来也和其他人一样都不会偏向外国人。我自己就不是很喜欢外国人，我承认。无论如何，事实就是这样。那个年轻的女孩儿总是到处炫耀，还摆架子，和潘趣（注：著名木偶戏《潘趣和朱迪》中的男主人公，形象狰狞，行为恶劣，而且总能逃脱制裁。）一样自得其乐，我就想，可能这都是法律问题，他们会说她没权拥有这笔钱，因为她不是老太太的亲戚。所以什么都不会改变。
在某种程度上也确实是这样，因为，您看，他们放弃了起诉。最后根本没有开庭，而据大家所知，奥尔加小姐逃走了。逃回了中欧的某个地方，她就是从那儿来的。看起来就像是她使了一些诡计。也许是她威胁老太太让她那么做的。我们永远不知道，对吧？我有一个快要当医生的侄子说，用催眠术能做很多奇妙的事。我觉得可能是她把老太太催眠了。”
“这是多久以前的事？”
“卢埃林-史密斯夫人死了——让我算算，快两年了。”
“这件事没让您烦恼吗？”
“没有，没让我烦恼。当时没有。因为您知道，我没觉得那有多大关系。一切都很正常，毫无疑问是那位奥尔加小姐想要把钱卷走，我觉得没什么必要——”
“但是现在您改变看法了？”
“都是那残忍的谋杀——那个被摁进一桶漂着苹果的水里的孩子，说了什么谋杀的事，说她看到或者知道关于一场谋杀的事。我才想到也许是奥尔加小姐杀了那位老太太，因为她知道那笔钱将会留给她。然而出现麻烦，律师和警察都掺和进来的时候她又开始害怕了，于是她就逃跑了。所以这时候我觉得，好吧，或者我应该——哦，应该告诉什么人，然后我就想到了您，您肯定有朋友在法律部门，或者有朋友是警察。您得帮我解释，我只是在擦书架，但是那张纸就夹在书里，而我把它们放回了原处。我没把它拿走，也没拿任何东西。”
“但那件事是事实，对吗？您看到卢埃林-史密斯夫人在她的遗嘱上写了一条补遗，您看见她签上了她的名字，您自己还有那位吉姆都在那儿，而且也签上了你们的名字。就是这样的，不是吗？”
“对。”
“那么既然你们都看见卢埃林-史密斯夫人签名了，那么那个签名就不是伪造的，对吧？肯定不是，如果你们都看见了。”
“我看见她自己写的，绝对是事实。吉姆也会这么说，只是他去了澳大利亚。一年多以前去的，我不知道他的地址什么的。反正他也不是本地人。”
“您想让我做什么呢？”
“好吧，我希望您告诉我，我应该说什么或者做什么——现在。没人问过我。没人问过我是不是知道一份遗嘱的事。”
“您的名字是利曼。那洗礼名是什么呢？”
“哈莉特。”
“哈莉特•利曼。吉姆，他姓什么呢？”
“哦，是什么来着？詹金斯。对，詹姆斯•詹金斯。如果您能帮我就太谢谢您了，这让我很困扰，您知道。麻烦一连串的来了，如果是奥尔加小姐做的，她杀了卢埃林-史密斯夫人，我是说，小乔伊斯看见她杀人了……她是那么洋洋得意，那个奥尔加小姐，当她从律师那儿听说她会得到一大笔钱的时候。但是当警察来问话的时候一切就都不同了，她非常突然地走了，很突然。没人问过我任何事情。但是现在我忍不住怀疑，当时是不是应该把这些事说出来。”
“我觉得，”奥利弗夫人说，“您必须把这个故事告诉卢埃林-史密斯夫人的律师。我相信一个好的律师能理解您的感受和动机。”
“嗯，我相信您会为我说句话的。您明白事情的来龙去脉，您告诉他们，我不是故意……呃，没有做任何不忠诚的事。我是说，我做的一切——”
“您所做的只是保持沉默，”奥利弗夫人说，“这听起来是个很合理的解释。”
“如果您能帮我……先为我说句话，您知道，解释一下，我会非常感激您。”
“我会尽力的。”奥利弗夫人说。
利曼夫人瞟了一眼花园小路，看到一个衣着整洁的身影正在走近。
“好的，谢谢您。他们说您是一位非常友善的女士。太感谢您了。”
她站起来，重新戴上手套，之前她苦恼得一直搓手，把手套都搓掉了。她轻轻点了点头，快步离开了。奥利弗夫人等波洛走近。
“过来，”她说，“坐下。你怎么了？看起来很不好。”
“我的脚太疼了。”赫尔克里•波洛说。
“都是你这双难受的黑漆皮鞋。”奥利弗夫人说，“坐下。先说你想说的，然后我会告诉你一件让你意外的事！”
Eighteen
Eighteen
Poirot sat down, stretched out his legs and said: “Ah! that is better.”
“Take your shoes off,” said Mrs. Oliver, “and rest your feet.”
“No, no, I could not do that.” Poirot sounded shocked at the possibility.
“Well, we’re old friends together,” said Mrs. Oliver, “and Judith wouldn’t mind if she came outof the house. You know, if you’ll excuse me saying so, you oughtn’t to wear patent leather shoesin the country. Why don’t you get yourself a nice pair of suède shoes? Or the things all the hippy-looking boys wear nowadays? You know, the sort of shoes that slip on, and you never have toclean them—apparently they clean themselves by some extraordinary process or other. One ofthese laboursaving gimmicks.”
“I would not care for that at all,” said Poirot severely. “No, indeed!”
“The trouble with you is,” said Mrs. Oliver, beginning to unwrap a package on the table whichshe had obviously recently purchased, “the trouble with you is that you insist on being smart. Youmind more about your clothes and your moustaches and how you look and what you wear thancomfort. Now comfort is really the great thing. Once you’ve passed, say, fifty, comfort is the onlything that matters.”
“Madame, chère Madame, I do not know that I agree with you.”
“Well, you’d better,” said Mrs. Oliver. “If not, you will suffer a great deal, and it will be worseyear after year.”
Mrs. Oliver fished a gaily covered box from its paper bag. Removing the lid of this, she pickedup a small portion of its contents and transferred it to her mouth. She then licked her fingers,wiped them on a handkerchief, and murmured, rather indistinctly:
“Sticky.”
“Do you no longer eat apples? I have always seen you with a bag of apples in your hand, oreating them, or on occasions the bag breaks and they tumble out on the road.”
“I told you,” said Mrs. Oliver, “I told you that I never want to see an apple again. No. I hateapples. I suppose I shall get over it some day and eat them again, but—well, I don’t like theassociations of apples.”
“And what is it that you eat now?” Poirot picked up the gaily coloured lid decorated with apicture of a palm tree. “Tunis dates,” he read. “Ah, dates now.”
“That’s right,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Dates.”
She took another date and put it in her mouth, removed a stone which she threw into a bush andcontinued to munch.
“Dates,” said Poirot. “It is extraordinary.”
“What is extraordinary about eating dates? People do.”
“No, no, I did not mean that. Not eating them. It is extraordinary that you should say to me likethat—dates.”
“Why?” asked Mrs. Oliver.
“Because,” said Poirot, “again and again you indicate to me the path, the how do you say, thechemin that I should take or that I should have already taken. You show me the way that I shouldgo. Dates. Till this moment I did not realize how important dates were.”
“I can’t see that dates have anything to do with what’s happened here. I mean, there’s no realtime involved. The whole thing took place what—only five days ago.”
“The event took place four days ago. Yes, that is very true. But to everything that happens therehas to be a past. A past which is by now incorporated in today, but which existed yesterday or lastmonth or last year. The present is nearly always rooted in the past. A year, two years, perhaps eventhree years ago, a murder was committed. A child saw that murder. Because that child saw thatmurder on a certain date now long gone by, that child died four days ago. Is not that so?”
“Yes. That’s so. At least, I suppose it is. It mightn’t have been at all. It might be just somementally disturbed nut who liked killing people and whose idea of playing with water is to pushsomebody’s head under it and hold it there. It might have been described as a mental delinquent’sbit of fun at a party.”
“It was not that belief that brought you to me, Madame.”
“No,” said Mrs. Oliver, “no, it wasn’t. I didn’t like the feel of things. I still don’t like the feel ofthings.”
“And I agree with you. I think you are quite right. If one does not like the feel of things, onemust learn why. I am trying very hard, though you may not think so, to learn why.”
“By going around and talking to people, finding out if they are nice or not and then asking themquestions?”
“Exactly.”
“And what have you learnt?”
“Facts,” said Poirot. “Facts which will have in due course to be anchored in their place by dates,shall we say.”
“Is that all? What else have you learnt?”
“That nobody believes in the veracity of Joyce Reynolds.”
“When she said she saw someone killed? But I heard her.”
“Yes, she said it. But nobody believes it is true. The probability is, therefore, that it was nottrue. That she saw no such thing.”
“It seems to me,” said Mrs. Oliver, “as though your facts were leading you backwards instead ofremaining on the spot or going forward.”
“Things have to be made to accord. Take forgery, for instance. The fact of forgery. Everybodysays that a foreign girl, the au pair girl, so endeared herself to an elderly and very rich widow thatthat rich widow left a Will, or a codicil to a Will, leaving all her money to this girl. Did the girlforge that Will or did somebody else forge it?”
“Who else could have forged it?”
“There was another forger in this village. Someone, that is, who had once been accused offorgery but had got off lightly as a first offender and with extenuating circumstances.”
“Is this a new character? One I know?”
“No, you do not know him. He is dead.”
“Oh? When did he die?”
“About two years ago. The exact date I do not as yet know. But I shall have to know. He issomeone who had practised forgery and who lived in this place. And because of a little what youmight call girl trouble arousing jealousy and various emotions, he was knifed one night and died. Ihave the idea, you see, that a lot of separated incidents might tie up more closely than anyone hasthought. Not any of them. Probably not all of them, but several of them.”
“It sounds interesting,” said Mrs. Oliver, “but I can’t see—”
“Nor can I as yet,” said Poirot. “But I think dates might help. Dates of certain happenings,where people were, what happened to them, what they were doing. Everybody thinks that theforeign girl forged the Will and probably,” said Poirot, “everybody was right. She was the one togain by it, was she not? Wait—wait—”
“Wait for what?” said Mrs. Oliver.
“An idea that passed through my head,” said Poirot.
Mrs. Oliver sighed and took another date.
“You return to London, Madame? Or are you making a long stay here?”
“Day after tomorrow,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I can’t stay any longer. I’ve got a good many thingscropping up.”
“Tell me, now—in your flat, your house, I cannot remember which it is now, you have movedso many times lately, there is room there to have guests?”
“I never admit that there is,” said Mrs. Oliver. “If you ever admit that you’ve got a free guestroom in London, you’ve asked for it. All your friends, and not only your friends, youracquaintances or indeed your acquaintances’ third cousins sometimes, write you letters and saywould you mind just putting them up for a night. Well, I do mind. What with sheets and laundry,pillow cases and wanting early morning tea and very often expecting meals served to them, peoplecome. So I don’t let on that I have got an available spare room. My friends come and stay with me.
The people I really want to see, but the others—no, I’m not helpful. I don’t like just being madeuse of.”
“Who does?” said Hercule Poirot. “You are very wise.”
“And anyway, what’s all this about?”
“You could put up one or two guests, if need arose?”
“I could,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Who do you want me to put up? Not you yourself. You’ve got asplendid flat of your own. Ultra modern, very abstract, all squares and cubes.”
“It is just that there might be a wise precaution to take.”
“For whom? Somebody else going to be killed?”
“I trust and pray not, but it might be within the bound of possibility.”
“But who? Who? I can’t understand.”
“How well do you know your friend?”
“Know her? Not well. I mean, we liked each other on a cruise and got in the habit of pairing offtogether. There was something—what shall I say?—exciting about her. Different.”
“Did you think you might put her in a book some day?”
“I do hate that phrase being used. People are always saying it to me and it’s not true. Not really.
I don’t put people in books. People I meet, people I know.”
“Is it perhaps not true to say, Madame, that you do put people in books sometimes? People thatyou meet, but not, I agree, people that you know. There would be no fun in that.”
“You’re quite right,” said Mrs. Oliver. “You’re really rather good at guessing things sometimes.
It does happen that way. I mean, you see a fat woman sitting in a bus eating a currant bun and herlips are moving as well as eating, and you can see she’s either saying something to someone orthinking up a telephone call that she’s going to make, or perhaps a letter she’s going to write. Andyou look at her and you study her shoes and the skirt she’s got on and her hat and guess her ageand whether she’s got a wedding ring on and a few other things. And then you get out of the bus.
You don’t want ever to see her again, but you’ve got a story in your mind about somebody calledMrs. Carnaby who is going home in a bus, having had a very strange interview somewhere whereshe saw someone in a pastry cook’s and was reminded of someone she’d only met once and whoshe had heard was dead and apparently isn’t dead. Dear me,” said Mrs. Oliver, pausing for breath.
“You know, it’s quite true. I did sit across from someone in a bus just before I left London, andhere it is all working out beautifully inside my head. I shall have the whole story soon. The wholesequence, what she’s going back to say, whether it’ll run her into danger or somebody else intodanger. I think I even know her name. Her name’s Constance. Constance Carnaby. There’s onlyone thing would ruin it.”
“And what is that?”
“Well, I mean, if I met her again in another bus, or spoke to her or she talked to me or I beganto know something about her. That would ruin everything, of course.”
“Yes, yes. The story must be yours, the character is yours. She is your child. You have madeher, you begin to understand her, you know how she feels, you know where she lives and youknow what she does. But that all started with a real, live human being and if you found out whatthe real live human being was like—well then, there would be no story, would there?”
“Right again,” said Mrs. Oliver. “As to what you were saying about Judith, I think that is true. Imean, we were together a lot on the cruise, and we went to see the places but I didn’t really get toknow her particularly well. She’s a widow, and her husband died and she was left badly off withone child, Miranda, whom you’ve seen. And it’s true that I’ve got rather a funny feeling aboutthem. A feeling as though they mattered, as though they’re mixed up in some interesting drama. Idon’t want to know what the drama is. I don’t want them to tell me. I want to think of the sort ofdrama I would like them to be in.”
“Yes. Yes, I can see that they are—well, candidates for inclusion for another best seller byAriadne Oliver.”
“You really are a beast sometimes,” said Mrs. Oliver. “You make it all sound so vulgar.” Shepaused thoughtfully. “Perhaps it is.”
“No, no, it is not vulgar. It is just human.”
“And you want me to invite Judith and Miranda to my flat or house in London?”
“Not yet,” said Poirot. “Not yet until I am sure that one of my little ideas might be right.”
“You and your little ideas! Now I’ve got a piece of news for you.”
“Madame, you delight me.”
“Don’t be too sure. It will probably upset your ideas. Supposing I tell you that the forgery youhave been so busy talking about wasn’t a forgery at all.”
“What is that you say?”
“Mrs. Ap Jones Smythe, or whatever her name is, did make a codicil to her Will leaving all hermoney to the au pair girl and two witnesses saw her sign it, and signed it also in the presence ofeach other. Put that in your moustache and smoke it.”
第十八章
第十八章
波洛坐下来，把腿伸直，说：“啊！舒服多了。”
“把鞋脱了，”奥利弗夫人说，“让你的脚放松放松。”
“不，不，我不能那么做。”这个提议让波洛很震惊。
“喂，我们都是老朋友了，”奥利弗夫人说，“就是朱迪思出来看见了也不会介意的。别介意我这么说，你就不该在乡下穿黑漆皮鞋。为什么不给自己买双舒服的绒面鞋呢？或者那些看起来像嬉皮士的年轻人穿的那种？你知道，那种鞋一蹬就穿进去了，而且永远不用擦——很明显，某种先进的工艺能让它们自行清洁。节约人力的小花招。”
“我才不会喜欢那种东西，”波洛严厉地回绝，“不，绝对不要！”
“你的毛病就是，”奥利弗夫人说，一边拆开桌子上的一个很明显是新买来的包裹，“你的毛病就是你总是坚持衣冠楚楚。你更在意你的穿着、你的胡子还有你的样子，而不在意是不是舒服。现在舒服才是最重要的事情。人一旦过了，比方说，五十岁，舒服就是唯一重要的了。”
“夫人，亲爱的夫人，我可不同意您的说法。”
“嗯，你最好同意，”奥利弗夫人说，“不然，你的身体会很受损伤，岁数越大身体越差。”
奥利弗夫人从纸袋里掏出一个包装很华丽的盒子，把盖子揭开，从里面拣出了一个小东西，送进了嘴里。然后舔了舔手指，又在手帕上擦了擦，然后含含糊糊地嘟囔道：“黏死了。”
“你不吃苹果了吗？我每次见你你手里都有一袋苹果，要不就是在吃，要不就是袋子破了，苹果撒了一地。”
“我告诉过你，”奥利弗夫人说，“我已经告诉你了，我再也不想看见苹果了。不要。我讨厌苹果。我猜或许有天我能缓过来再接着吃苹果，但我也不会喜欢苹果带来的联想。”
“你现在吃的是什么？”波洛拿起那个色彩鲜艳、上面画着一棵椰枣树的盖子，“突尼斯椰枣。”他读道，“啊，开始吃枣啦。”
“没错，”奥利弗夫人说，“枣。”
她又捡起一颗枣放进嘴里，吐出枣核，把它扔进了灌木丛里，然后接着嚼起来。
“枣，”波洛说，“这很特别。”
“吃枣有什么特别的？大家都会吃。”
“不，不，我不是指那个。不是吃不吃。特别的是这个词的发音就像——日期（注：英文中枣和日期都是date。）。”
“为什么？”奥利弗夫人问。
“因为，”波洛说，“你一次又一次地暗示了我要走的路，你是怎么说的，我应该走或者已经走了的路。日期，直到现在我才明白事情发生的日期是多么重要。”
“我看不出日期跟这个案子有什么关系。我是说，这案子并没有涉及日期。整件事情发生在多久——才五天之前。”
“案子发生在四天前。对，一点儿没错。但是对现在发生的每一件事来说都有一个过去。每一个过去都融进了今天，却存在于昨天、上个月或者去年。现在的根源都在过去。
一年、两年、甚至三年前发生了一场谋杀。一个女孩儿目睹了那场谋杀。而正因为很早之前那个孩子看到了那场谋杀，所以她才会在四天前被杀。不是这样吗？”
“是，是那样。至少，我猜是。也可能根本不是这样。可能就是一个精神错乱的杀人狂，在他心里，玩水就是把一个人的脑袋摁进水里，然后一直摁着。可能就是那种精神不正常的少年在晚会上的一点乐趣。”
“您当初找我的时候可不是这么认为的，夫人。”
“不，”奥利弗夫人说，“不，我当时不这么认为。我那时不喜欢这件事的感觉，现在还是不喜欢。”
“我同意。我觉得你说得对。如果不喜欢这些事，就必须知道真相。我很努力地——也许你不这么认为——在调查真相。”
“就通过到处闲逛跟人们谈话，看他们善不善良，然后问他们问题，来调查真相？”
“就是这样。”
“那你查到什么了？”
“事实，”波洛说，“可以按日期排列起来的事实。”
“就这些？还查到别的了吗？”
“还有就是没有人相信乔伊斯•雷诺兹说的话。”
“当她说她看到有人被杀的时候？但是我听到她说了。”
“是的，她说了。但是没人相信那是真的。因此，很可能，那不是真的。她没见过那些。”
“我感觉，”奥利弗夫人说，“你的调查不仅没有让你停留在原地或者前进，反而让你倒退了。”
“事情必须保持一致性。比如说伪造，伪造的事实。所有人都说那个外国女孩儿，那个互换生女孩儿，尽力讨一个时日不多但是很有钱的寡妇的欢心，于是老太太就留下一份遗嘱，或者说一条遗嘱的补遗，把所有的钱都留给这个女孩儿了。是那个女孩儿伪造了遗嘱还是别人伪造的呢？”
“谁还可能伪造遗嘱呢？”
“这个村子里还有一个会伪造的人。那个人曾因为仿造被起诉过，但因为是初犯，并且情有可原，就被从轻处罚了。”
“是个新人物吗？还是我认识的？”
“不，你不认识他。他死了。”
“哦？什么时候？”
“大概两年前。确切时间我现在也不知道。但我会知道的。他做过伪造的勾当，还在这里住过。而且因为某种因嫉妒和感情纠葛引发的女孩儿方面的麻烦，在一天晚上被人用刀砍死了。我有个主意，你看，很多独立的小事之间的联系可能比我们任何人所想的都要紧密得多。不是所有的都这样。可能不能都连起来，但是有一些可以联系到一起。”
“听起来很有意思，”奥利弗夫人说，“可我看不出来——”
“我现在也看不出来，”波洛说，“我觉得日期会有用。一些事情发生的日期，那时人们在哪儿，发生了什么，在做什么。每个人都认为那个外国女孩儿伪造了遗嘱，可能，”波洛说，“大家的想法是对的。她是获益者，不是吗？等等——等等——”
“等什么？”奥利弗夫人问。
“我脑子里闪过一个想法。”波洛说。
奥利弗夫人叹了口气，然后又拿起了一颗枣。
“你要回伦敦了吗，夫人？还是在这儿多待一段时间？”
“后天。”奥利弗夫人说，“我不能再待在这儿了，我还有好多事情要处理。”
“告诉我，现在——你的公寓，你的房子，我想不起来是哪个了，你最近搬家太频繁了，有客房吗？”
“我从不承认有。”奥利弗夫人说，“一旦你承认你在伦敦空着一间客房，就有人会去住。所有的朋友——不仅是朋友，还有那些泛泛之交，有时候甚至泛泛之交的常、表兄妹，都会写信给你，问你介不介意让他们住一晚。好吧，我很介意。要准备床单、换洗衣服、枕头什么的，还要准备早茶，有的还要给他们提供饭菜。所以我永远不会说我有一间空房。我的朋友能来和我住在一起，我真正想见的人，但是其他人——不，我帮不上忙。
我不喜欢被利用。”
“谁会喜欢？”赫尔克里•波洛说，“你很聪明。”
“不过，你问这个做什么？”
“你得收留两位客人，可以满足我的要求吗？”
“我能。”奥利弗夫人说，“你想让谁住过去？不是你本人。你自己有栋很豪华的公寓。
很现代，非常抽象，到处都是方方正正的。”
“只是想做好明智的预防措施。”
“为谁？还有人会被杀吗？”
“我祈祷不会，但不排除这种可能。”
“是谁？谁？我不明白。”
“你对你的朋友了解多少？”
“对她的了解？不是很多。我是指，我们在旅行途中一见如故，习惯在一起待着。她很——我该怎么说呢？她很独特，与众不同。”
“你想过有一天把她写进你的书里吗？”
“我很讨厌这种说法。人们经常这么对我说，但并不是那样。不全是。我不会把我遇到的人、我认识的人写进书里。”
“那这么说对不对，夫人，你有时候确实会把一些人写进书里？你遇见的那些人，而不是你认识的人们——这一点我也同意，那样就没意思了。”
“说得很对，”奥利弗夫人说，“你有时候真的特别擅于猜测。确实是这么回事。我是说，你看见一个胖女人坐在公交车里吃葡萄干面包，她的嘴唇一张一合的。你可以想象她是在跟谁说话，或者思考稍后要打的一个电话或者是要写的信。你看着她，观察她的鞋、她的衬衫和帽子，猜测她的年龄，看她有没有戴婚戒，等等。然后你就下车了。你不想再见到她了，但是你的心里已经有了一个故事：某位卡纳比夫人正坐公交回家，她刚刚在某个地方经历了一场奇怪的会面，她在一家蛋糕店看见了一个人，一个她以前见过一次，而且听说已经死了的人，但是显然他没死。天啊，”奥利弗夫人停下来喘了口气，“你知道，这是真的，我离开伦敦的时候在公交车上就坐在那样一个人对面，我就想出了这个故事，已经成形了。我很快就能编出完整的故事。一连串要发生的事，她回到家会说什么，会不会给她或者别人带来危险。我甚至知道她的名字。她叫康斯坦斯。康斯坦斯•卡纳比。可是有一件事会把它全毁了。”
“什么事？”
“好吧，我是说，如果我在另一辆公交上又碰到她了，或者跟她说话，或者她跟我说话了，我开始有些了解她。这都会把一切毁了，毫无疑问。”
“对，对。这个故事必须是你的，里面的人物也是你的。她是你的孩子。你把她塑造出来，你开始了解她，知道她的感受，知道她住哪儿，知道她会做什么。但是这些都来源于一个真的、活生生的人，如果你追查现实生活中那个人的样子——那么，就不会有故事了，不是吗？”
“又说对了。”奥利弗夫人说，“至于你说朱迪思的话，我觉得是真的。我是说，我们旅行途中总是在一起，一起去各处参观，但是我并不是特别了解她。她是个寡妇，她的丈夫死了，没给她留下什么钱，只留下一个孩子，米兰达，你已经见过了。我确实对她们有些奇怪的感觉，感觉她们有什么事，就好像她们参与了一出很有趣的戏剧。我不想知道那台戏是什么样的，也不想让她们告诉我。我想写一出我希望她们演的戏。”
“是的，是的，我能看出她们是……好吧，阿里阿德涅•奥利弗夫人新的畅销书的角色候选人了。”
“你有时候太讨厌了，”奥利弗夫人说，“你说的这些听起来太庸俗了。”她停下来沉思了一会儿，“不过，也许正是这样。”
“不，不，这不是庸俗。这是人性。”
“你想让我邀请朱迪思和米兰达去我伦敦的公寓？”
“还不一定，”波洛说，“我要先确定我那个小念头对不对。”
“你和你的小念头！我有个新消息要告诉你。”
“夫人，你让我高兴。”
“别太肯定。很可能会打乱你的想法。如果我告诉你你一直谈论的仿造根本不是仿造呢？”
“你说的是怎么回事？”
“阿•琼斯•史密斯夫人，哦，管她叫什么名字呢，确实在她的遗嘱上写了一条补遗，把她所有的钱都留给互换生女孩儿。有两个见证人看着她签字，并且当着彼此的面在上面签字了。你仔细想想吧。”
Nineteen
Nineteen
“Mrs.—Leaman—” said Poirot, writing down the name.
“That’s right. Harriet Leaman. And the other witness seems to have been a James Jenkins. Lastheard of going to Australia. And Miss Olga Seminoff seems to have been last heard of returning toCzechoslovakia, or wherever she came from. Everybody seems to have gone somewhere else.”
“How reliable do you think this Mrs. Leaman is?”
“I don’t think she made it all up, if that’s what you mean. I think she signed something, that shewas curious about it, and that she took the first opportunity she had of finding out what she’dsigned.”
“She can read and write?”
“I suppose so. But I agree that people aren’t very good sometimes, at reading old ladies’
handwriting, which is very spiky and very hard to read. If there were any rumours flying aboutlater, about this Will or codicil, she might have thought that that was what she’d read in this ratherundecipherable handwriting.”
“A genuine document,” said Poirot. “But there was also a forged codicil.”
“Who says so?”
“Lawyers.”
“Perhaps it wasn’t forged at all.”
“Lawyers are very particular about these matters. They were prepared to come into court withexpert witnesses.”
“Oh well,” said Mrs. Oliver, “then it’s easy to see what must have happened, isn’t it?”
“What is easy? What happened?”
“Well, of course, the next day or a few days later, or even as much as a week later, Mrs.
Llewellyn-Smythe either had a bit of a tiff with her devoted au pair attendant, or she had adelicious reconciliation with her nephew, Hugo, or her niece Rowena, and she tore up the Will orscratched out the codicil or something like that, or burnt the whole thing.”
“And after that?”
“Well, after that, I suppose, Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe dies, and the girl seizes her chance andwrites a new codicil in roughly the same terms in as near to Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe’s handwritingas she can, and the two witnessing signatures as near as she can. She probably knows Mrs.
Leaman’s writing quite well. It would be on national health cards or something like that, and sheproduces it, thinking that someone will agree to having witnessed the Will and that all would bewell. But her forgery isn’t good enough and so trouble starts.”
“Will you permit me, chère Madame, to use your telephone?”
“I will permit you to use Judith Butler’s telephone, yes.”
“Where is your friend?”
“Oh, she’s gone to get her hair done. And Miranda has gone for a walk. Go on, it’s in the roomthrough the window there.”
Poirot went in and returned about ten minutes later.
“Well? What have you been doing?”
“I rang up Mr. Fullerton, the solicitor. I will now tell you something. The codicil, the forgedcodicil that was produced for probate was not witnessed by Harriet Leaman. It was witnessed by aMary Doherty, deceased, who had been in service with Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe but had recentlydied. The other witness was the James Jenkins, who, as your friend Mrs. Leaman has told you,departed for Australia.”
“So there was a forged codicil,” said Mrs. Oliver. “And there seems to have been a real codicilas well. Look here, Poirot, isn’t this all getting a little too complicated?”
“It is getting incredibly complicated,” said Hercule Poirot. “There is, if I may mention it, toomuch forgery about.”
“Perhaps the real one is still in the library at Quarry House, within the pages of Enquire Withinupon Everything.”
“I understand all the effects of the house were sold up at Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe’s death, exceptfor a few pieces of family furniture and some family pictures.”
“What we need,” said Mrs. Oliver, “is something like Enquire Within here now. It’s a lovelytitle, isn’t it? I remember my grandmother had one. You could, you know, inquire within abouteverything, too. Legal information and cooking recipes and how to take ink stains out of linen.
How to make homemade face powder that would not damage the complexion. Oh—and lots more.
Yes, wouldn’t you like to have a book like that now?”
“Doubtless,” said Hercule Poirot, “it would give the recipe for treatment of tired feet.”
“Plenty of them, I should think. But why don’t you wear proper country shoes?”
“Madame, I like to look soigné in my appearance.”
“Well, then you’ll have to go on wearing things that are painful, and grin and bear it,” said Mrs.
Oliver. “All the same, I don’t understand anything now. Was that Leaman woman telling me apack of lies just now?”
“It is always possible.”
“Did someone tell her to tell a pack of lies?”
“That too is possible.”
“Did someone pay her to tell me a pack of lies?”
“Continue,” said Poirot, “continue. You are doing very nicely.”
“I suppose,” said Mrs. Oliver thoughtfully, “that Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe, like many anotherrich woman, enjoyed making Wills. I expect she made a good many during her life. You know;benefiting one person and then another. Changing about. The Drakes were well off, anyway. Iexpect she always left them at least a handsome legacy, but I wonder if she ever left anyone else asmuch as she appears, according to Mrs. Leaman and according to the forged Will as well, to thatgirl Olga. I’d like to know a bit more about that girl, I must say. She certainly seems a verysuccessful disappearess.”
“I hope to know more about her shortly,” said Hercule Poirot.
“How?”
“Information that I shall receive shortly.”
“I know you’ve been asking for information down here.”
“Not here only. I have an agent in London who obtains information for me both abroad and inthis country. I should have some news possibly soon from Herzogovinia.”
“Will you find out if she ever arrived back there?”
“That might be one thing I should learn, but it seems more likely that I may get information of adifferent kind—letters perhaps written during her sojourn in this country, mentioning friends shemay have made here, and become intimate with.”
“What about the schoolteacher?” said Mrs. Oliver.
“Which one do you mean?”
“I mean the one who was strangled—the one Elizabeth Whittaker told you about?” She added,“I don’t like Elizabeth Whittaker much. Tiresome sort of woman, but clever, I should think.” Sheadded dreamily, “I wouldn’t put it past her to have thought up a murder.”
“Strangle another teacher, do you mean?”
“One has to exhaust all the possibilities.”
“I shall rely, as so often, on your intuition, Madame.”
Mrs. Oliver ate another date thoughtfully.
第十九章
第十九章
“利曼——夫人——”波洛边说便把名字写下来。
“对，哈莉特•利曼。另一个见证人好像是詹姆斯•詹金斯，说后来去了澳大利亚。奥尔加•塞米诺娃小姐据说是回她的家乡了，捷克斯洛伐克还是什么地方。所有人好像都去别的地方了。”
“你觉得利曼夫人可信吗？”
“我觉得不是她编的，如果你是想问这个的话。我觉得她确实签了什么东西，她很好奇，所以她第一时间抓住了机会，弄清了她签的到底是什么。”
“她会读写？”
“我猜会。但是我同意，人们通常很难辨认一个老太太写的字。那些字又尖又长，很难认出来。如果后来传出了很多关于遗嘱或补遗的流言，她可能会认为那就是她看到的那份很难辨认的手迹。”
“一份真的文件，”波洛说，“但是还有一条伪造的补遗。”
“谁说是伪造的？”
“律师们。”
“也许根本不是伪造的呢。”
“律师在这方面很谨慎。他们准备请专家在法庭上作证。”
“哦，好吧，”奥利弗夫人说，“那就很容易知道后面发生什么了，不是吗？”
“什么容易？发生了什么？”
“好吧，当然，第二天，或者几天之后，或者甚至一星期之后，卢埃林-史密斯夫人和全心服务她的互换生侍女发生了一些争吵，或者是她和她的侄子雨果或者侄媳罗伊娜和解了，所以她就撕毁了那份遗嘱，或者把补遗之类的划掉了，或者干脆把那些都烧了。”
“然后呢？”
“嗯，那之后，我猜，卢埃林-史密斯夫人死了，那个女孩儿就抓住机会尽力模仿卢埃林-史密斯夫人的笔迹写了一条新补遗，并且模仿两位见证人签了名。她可能很清楚利曼夫人的笔迹，可能在健康卡或者什么上面见过，然后她也把她的名字签上了，觉得有人会承认见证过这份遗嘱，一切都会很顺利。但是她伪造得不太成功，所以引来了麻烦。”
“请允许我，亲爱的夫人，用一下您的电话，可以吗？”
“我允许你使用朱迪思•巴特勒的电话，是的。”
“你的朋友去哪儿呢？”
“哦，她去做头发了。米兰达去散步了。往前走，在从窗户穿过去的那个房间里呢。”
波洛走进去，十分钟之后回来了。
“怎么样？你干什么去了？”
“我给富勒顿先生打了通电话，他是当时的律师。我现在告诉你一些事情。那份补遗，遗嘱检验时的那份伪造的补遗并不是利曼夫人见证的。是一位已故的玛丽•多尔蒂，她曾经在卢埃林-史密斯夫人家工作过，但是不久前死了。另一位见证人是詹姆斯•詹金斯，他，如你的朋友利曼夫人所说，离开这儿去澳大利亚了。”
“所以，确实有一份伪造的补遗，”奥利弗夫人说，“而且似乎也有一份真的补遗。看啊，波洛，这是不是变得更错综复杂了？”
“变得太复杂了，”赫尔克里•波洛说，“这里面，要我说，这里面有太多伪造了。”
“也许那份真的还在石矿府的藏书室里呢，在《探寻一切奥秘》里面夹着。”
“我听说卢埃林-史密斯夫人死后，除了几件老家具和照片，别的都被卖了。”
“我们需要的，”奥利弗夫人说，“就是像《探寻一切奥秘》这样的东西。很可爱的书名，不是吗？我记得我祖母就有一本。你能在里面找到任何你想要的答案。诸如法律信息，食谱，怎样洗掉亚麻布上的墨点，怎样自制不伤皮肤的粉饼，哦——还有很多很多。
是的，你现在不想要这么一本书吗？”
“毫无疑问，”赫尔克里•波洛说，“它能告诉我怎么能让脚不累。”
“我觉得有很多方法。但是为什么你不穿一双适合在乡下穿的鞋呢？”
“夫人，我希望我的外表看起来整齐些。”
“好吧，那你继续穿你那些挤脚的鞋子，自己忍着吧。”奥利弗夫人说，“所有事，我现在都不太理解了。利曼夫人跟我说的都是假话吗？”
“这很有可能。”
“有人让她来说假话？”
“也有可能。”
“有人花钱让她把那些假话说给我听？”
“继续，”波洛说，“接着说，说得很好。”
“我猜，”奥利弗夫人若有所思地说，“那位卢埃林-史密斯夫人跟其他很多富人一样，喜欢写遗嘱。我觉得她生前写过很多份遗嘱。你知道，受益人总是换来换去，来回换。反正德雷克一家也很有钱。我猜她每次都至少会留给他们一大笔钱，但是我怀疑她会不会给别人那么多钱，鉴于利曼夫人所说的，还有受益人写着奥尔加的那份伪造的遗嘱。我必须承认，我想多了解一点奥尔加的情况了。她消失得似乎太彻底了。”
“我希望很快就能知道更多她的情况。”赫尔克里•波洛说。
“怎样知道？”
“我很快就能收到消息。”
“我知道你一直在打探这里的消息。”
“不只是这里。我在伦敦的助手在为我收集国内外的信息。我可能很快就能收到来自黑塞哥维那的消息。”
“那你会查到她到底回去了没有吗？”
“这一点我应该会知道，不过更有可能得到另一种消息——她在这个国家期间很可能写过信，信里面提到她在这儿交的朋友，特别是知己。”
“那个学校老师怎么样？”奥利弗夫人问道。
“你指哪个？”
“被掐死的那个——伊丽莎白•惠特克跟你说的那个？”她补充道，“我不是很喜欢伊丽莎白•惠特克。烦人的女人，但是聪明，我得承认。”她又恍惚地补充道，“想到她会杀人我一点儿也不奇怪。”
“掐死另一位老师，是这个意思吗？”
“我得把所有的可能性都考虑到。”
“如往常一样，我会信赖您的直觉，夫人。”
奥利弗夫人一边吃着枣，一边沉思起来。
Twenty
Twenty
When he left Mrs. Butler’s house, Poirot took the same way as had been shown him by Miranda.
The aperture in the hedge, it seemed to him, had been slightly enlarged since last time. Somebody,perhaps, with slightly more bulk than Miranda, had used it also. He ascended the path in thequarry, noticing once more the beauty of the scene. A lovely spot, and yet in some way, Poirot feltas he had felt before, that it could be a haunted spot. There was a kind of pagan ruthlessness aboutit. It could be along these winding paths that the fairies hunted their victims down or a coldgoddess decreed that sacrifices would have to be offered.
He could understand why it had not become a picnic spot. One would not want for some reasonto bring your hard-boiled eggs and your lettuce and your oranges and sit down here and crackjokes and have a jollification. It was different, quite different. It would have been better, perhaps,he thought suddenly, if Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe had not wanted this fairy-like transformation.
Quite a modest sunk garden could have been made out of a quarry without the atmosphere, but shehad been an ambitious woman, ambitious and a very rich woman. He thought for a moment or twoabout Wills, the kind of Wills made by rich women, the kind of lies told about Wills made by richwomen, the places in which the Wills of rich widows were sometimes hidden, and he tried to puthimself back into the mind of a forger. Undoubtably the Will offered for probate had been aforgery. Mr. Fullerton was a careful and competent lawyer. He was sure of that. The kind oflawyer, too, who would never advise a client to bring a case or to take legal proceedings unlessthere was very good evidence and justification for so doing.
He turned a corner of the pathway feeling for the moment that his feet were much moreimportant than his speculations. Was he taking a short cut to Superintendent Spence’s dwelling orwas he not? As the crow flies, perhaps, but the main road might have been more good to his feet.
This path was not a grassy or mossy one, it had the quarry hardness of stone. Then he paused.
In front of him were two figures. Sitting on an outcrop of rock was Michael Garfield. He had asketching block on his knees and he was drawing, his attention fully on what he was doing. A littleway away from him, standing close beside a minute but musical stream that flowed down fromabove, Miranda Butler was standing. Hercule Poirot forgot his feet, forgot the pains and ills of thehuman body, and concentrated again on the beauty that human beings could attain. There was nodoubt that Michael Garfield was a very beautiful young man. He found it difficult to know whetherhe himself liked Michael Garfield or not. It is always difficult to know if you like anyone beautiful.
You like beauty to look at, at the same time you dislike beauty almost on principle. Women couldbe beautiful, but Hercule Poirot was not at all sure that he liked beauty in men. He would not haveliked to be a beautiful young man himself, not that there had ever been the least chance of that.
There was only one thing about his own appearance which really pleased Hercule Poirot, and thatwas the profusion of his moustaches, and the way they responded to grooming and treatment andtrimming. They were magnificent. He knew of nobody else who had any moustache half as good.
He had never been handsome or good-looking. Certainly never beautiful.
And Miranda? He thought again, as he had thought before, that it was her gravity that was soattractive. He wondered what passed through her mind. It was the sort of thing one would neverknow. She would not say what she was thinking easily. He doubted if she would tell you what shewas thinking, if you asked her. She had an original mind, he thought, a reflective mind. He thoughttoo she was vulnerable. Very vulnerable. There were other things about her that he knew, orthought he knew. It was only thinking so far, but yet he was almost sure.
Michael Garfield looked up and said,
“Ha! Se?or Moustachios. A very good afternoon to you, sir.”
“Can I look at what you are doing or would it incommode you? I do not want to be intrusive.”
“You can look,” said Michael Garfield, “it makes no difference to me.” He added gently, “I’menjoying myself very much.”
Poirot came to stand behind his shoulder. He nodded. It was a very delicate pencil drawing, thelines almost invisible. The man could draw, Poirot thought. Not only design gardens. He said,almost under his breath:
“Exquisite!”
“I think so too,” said Michael Garfield.
He let it be left doubtful whether he referred to the drawing he was making, or to the sitter.
“Why?” asked Poirot.
“Why am I doing it? Do you think I have a reason?”
“You might have.”
“You’re quite right. If I go away from here, there are one or two things I want to remember.
Miranda is one of them.”
“Would you forget her easily?”
“Very easily. I am like that. But to have forgotten something or someone, to be unable to bringa face, a turn of a shoulder, a gesture, a tree, a flower, a contour of landscape, to know what it waslike to see it but not to be able to bring that image in front of one’s eyes, that sometimes causes—what shall I say—almost agony. You see, you record—and it all passes away.”
“Not the Quarry Garden or park. That has not passed away.”
“Don’t you think so? It soon will. It soon will if no one is here. Nature takes over, you know. Itneeds love and attention and care and skill. If a Council takes it over—and that’s what happensvery often nowadays—then it will be what they call ‘kept up.’ The latest sort of shrubs may be putin, extra paths will be made, seats will be put at certain distances. Litter bins even may be erected.
Oh, they are so careful, so kind at preserving. You can’t preserve this. It’s wild. To keepsomething wild is far more difficult than to preserve it.”
“Monsieur Poirot.” Miranda’s voice came across the stream.
Poirot moved forward, so that he came within earshot of her.
“So I find you here. So you came to sit for your portrait, did you?”
She shook her head.
“I didn’t come for that. That just happened.”
“Yes,” said Michael Garfield, “yes, it just happened. A piece of luck sometimes comes one’sway.”
“You were just walking in your favourite garden?”
“I was looking for the well, really,” said Miranda.
“A well?”
“There was a wishing well once in this wood.”
“In a former quarry? I didn’t know they kept wells in quarries.”
“There was always a wood round the quarry. Well, there were always trees here. Michaelknows where the well is but he won’t tell me.”
“It will be much more fun for you,” said Michael Garfield, “to go on looking for it. Especiallywhen you’re not at all sure it really exists.”
“Old Mrs. Goodbody knows all about it.”
And added:
“She’s a witch.”
“Quite right,” said Michael. “She’s the local witch, Monsieur Poirot. There’s always a localwitch, you know, in most places. They don’t always call themselves witches, but everyone knows.
They tell a fortune or put a spell on your begonias or shrivel up your peonies or stop a farmer’scow from giving milk and probably give love potions as well.”
“It was a wishing well,” said Miranda. “People used to come here and wish. They had to goround it three times backwards and it was on the side of the hill, so it wasn’t always very easy todo.”
She looked past Poirot at Michael Garfield. “I shall find it one day,” she said, “even if youwon’t tell me. It’s here somewhere, but it was sealed up, Mrs. Goodbody said. Oh! years ago.
Sealed up because it was said to be dangerous. A child fell into it years ago—Kitty Somebody.
Someone else might have fallen into it.”
“Well, go on thinking so,” said Michael Garfield. “It’s a good local story, but there is a wishingwell over at Little Belling.”
“Of course,” said Miranda. “I know all about that one. It’s a very common one,” she said.
“Everybody knows about it, and it’s very silly. People throw pennies into it and there’s not anywater in it any more so there’s not even a splash.”
“Well, I’m sorry.”
“I’ll tell you when I find it,” said Miranda.
“You mustn’t always believe everything a witch says. I don’t believe any child ever fell into it. Iexpect a cat fell into it once and got drowned.”
“Ding dong dell, pussy’s in the well,” said Miranda. She got up. “I must go now,” she said.
“Mummy will be expecting me.”
She moved carefully from the knob of rock, smiled at both the men and went off down an evenmore intransigent path that ran the other side of the water.
“‘Ding dong dell,’” said Poirot, thoughtfully. “One believes what one wants to believe, MichaelGarfield. Was she right or was she not right?”
Michael Garfield looked at him thoughtfully, then he smiled.
“She is quite right,” he said. “There is a well, and it is as she says sealed up. I suppose it mayhave been dangerous. I don’t think it was ever a wishing well. I think that’s Mrs. Goodbody’s ownbit of fancy talk. There’s a wishing tree, or there was once. A beech tree halfway up the hillsidethat I believe people did go round three times backwards and wished.”
“What’s happened to that? Don’t they go round it any more?”
“No. I believe it was struck by lightning about six years ago. Split in two. So that pretty story’sgone west.”
“Have you told Miranda about that?”
“No. I thought I’d rather leave her with her well. A blasted beech wouldn’t be much fun for her,would it?”
“I must go on my way,” said Poirot.
“Going back to your police friend?”
“Yes.”
“You look tired.”
“I am tired,” said Hercule Poirot. “I am extremely tired.”
“You’d be more comfortable in canvas shoes or sandals.”
“Ah, ?a, non.”
“I see. You are sartorially ambitious.” He looked at Poirot. “The tout ensemble, it is very goodand especially, if I may mention it, your superb moustache.”
“I am gratified,” said Poirot, “that you have noticed it.”
“The point is rather, could anyone not notice it?”
Poirot put his head on one side. Then he said:
“You spoke of the drawing you are doing because you wish to remember the young Miranda.
Does that mean you’re going away from here?”
“I have thought of it, yes.”
“Yet you are, it seems to me, bien placé ici.”
“Oh yes, eminently so. I have a house to live in, a house small but designed by myself, and Ihave my work, but that is less satisfactory than it used to be. So restlessness is coming over me.”
“Why is your work less satisfactory?”
“Because people wish me to do the most atrocious things. People who want to improve theirgardens, people who bought some land and they’re building a house and want the gardendesigned.”
“Are you not doing her garden for Mrs. Drake?”
“She wants me to, yes. I made suggestions for it and she seemed to agree with them. I don’tthink, though,” he added thoughtfully, “that I really trust her.”
“You mean that she would not let you have what you wanted?”
“I mean that she would certainly have what she wanted herself and that though she is attractedby the ideas I have set out, she would suddenly demand something quite different. Somethingutilitarian, expensive and showy, perhaps. She would bully me, I think. She would insist on herideas being carried out. I would not agree, and we should quarrel. So on the whole it is better Ileave here before I quarrel. And not only with Mrs. Drake but many other neighbours. I am quitewell-known. I don’t need to stay in one spot. I could go and find some other corner of England, orit could be some corner of Normandy or Brittany.”
“Somewhere where you can improve, or help, nature? Somewhere where you can experiment oryou can put strange things where they have never grown before, where neither sun will blister norfrost destroy? Some good stretch of barren land where you can have the fun of playing at beingAdam all over again? Have you always been restless?”
“I never stayed anywhere very long.”
“You have been to Greece?”
“Yes. I should like to go to Greece again. Yes, you have something there. A garden on a Greekhillside. There may be cypresses there, not much else. A barren rock. But if you wished, whatcould there not be?”
“A garden for gods to walk—”
“Yes. You’re quite a mind reader, aren’t you, Mr. Poirot?”
“I wish I were. There are so many things I would like to know and do not know.”
“You are talking now of something quite prosaic, are you not?”
“Unfortunately so.”
“Arson, murder and sudden death?”
“More or less. I do not know that I was considering arson. Tell me, Mr. Garfield, you have beenhere some considerable time, did you know a young man called Lesley Ferrier?”
“Yes, I remember him. He was in a Medchester solicitor’s office, wasn’t he? Fullerton, Harrisonand Leadbetter. Junior clerk, something of that kind. Good-looking chap.”
“He came to a sudden end, did he not?”
“Yes. Got himself knifed one evening. Woman trouble, I gather. Everyone seems to think thatthe police know quite well who did it, but they can’t get the evidence they want. He was more orless tied up with a woman called Sandra—can’t remember her name for the moment—SandraSomebody, yes. Her husband kept the local pub. She and young Lesley were running an affair, andthen Lesley took up with another girl. Or that was the story.”
“And Sandra did not like it?”
“No, she did not like it at all. Mind you, he was a great one for the girls. There were two orthree that he went around with.”
“Were they all English girls?”
“Why do you ask that, I wonder? No, I don’t think he confined himself to English girls, so longas they could speak enough English to understand more or less what he said to them, and he couldunderstand what they said to him.”
“There are doubtless from time to time foreign girls in this neighbourhood?”
“Of course there are. Is there any neighbourhood where there aren’t? Au pair girls—they’re apart of daily life. Ugly ones, pretty ones, honest ones, dishonest ones, ones that do some good todistracted mothers and some who are no use at all and some who walk out of the house.”
“Like the girl Olga did?”
“As you say, like the girl Olga did.”
“Was Lesley a friend of Olga’s?”
“Oh, that’s the way your mind is running. Yes, he was. I don’t think Mrs. Llewellyn-Smytheknew much about it. Olga was rather careful, I think. She spoke gravely of someone she hoped tomarry some day in her own country. I don’t know whether that was true or whether she made itup. Young Lesley was an attractive young man, as I said. I don’t know what he saw in Olga—shewasn’t very beautiful. Still—” he considered a minute or two “—she had a kind of intensity abouther. A young Englishman might have found that attractive, I think. Anyway, Lesley did all right,and his other girl friends weren’t pleased.”
“That is very interesting,” said Poirot. “I thought you might give me information that I wanted.”
Michael Garfield looked at him curiously.
“Why? What’s it all about? Where does Lesley come in? Why this raking up of the past?”
“Well, there are things one wants to know. One wants to know how things come into being. Iam even looking farther back still. Before the time that those two, Olga Seminoff and LesleyFerrier, met secretly without Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe knowing about it.”
“Well, I’m not sure about that. That’s only my—well, it’s only my idea. I did come across themfairly frequently but Olga never confided in me. As for Lesley Ferrier, I hardly knew him.”
“I want to go back behind that. He had, I gather, certain disadvantages in his past.”
“I believe so. Yes, well, anyway it’s been said here locally. Mr. Fullerton took him on andhoped to make an honest man of him. He’s a good chap, old Fullerton.”
“His offence had been, I believe, forgery?”
“Yes.”
“It was a first offence, and there were said to be extenuating circumstances. He had a sickmother or drunken father or something of that kind. Anyway, he got off lightly.”
“I never heard any of the details. It was something that he seemed to have got away with tobegin with, then accountants came along and found him out. I’m very vague. It’s only hearsay.
Forgery. Yes, that was the charge. Forgery.”
“And when Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe died and her Will was to be admitted to probate, it wasfound the Will was forged.”
“Yes, I see the way your mind’s working. You’re fitting those two things as having aconnection with each other.”
“A man who was up to a point successful in forging. A man who became friends with the girl, agirl who, if a Will had been accepted when submitted to probate, would have inherited the largerpart of a vast fortune.”
“Yes, yes, that’s the way it goes.”
“And this girl and the man who had committed forgery were great friends. He had given up hisown girl and he’d tied up with the foreign girl instead.”
“What you’re suggesting is that that forged Will was forged by Lesley Ferrier.”
“There seems a likelihood of it, does there not?”
“Olga was supposed to have been able to copy Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe’s handwriting fairlywell, but it seemed to me always that that was rather a doubtful point. She wrote handwrittenletters for Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe but I don’t suppose that they were really particularly similar.
Not enough to pass muster. But if she and Lesley were in it together, that’s different. I daresay hecould pass off a good enough job and he was probably quite cocksure that it would go through.
But then he must have been sure of that when he committed his original offence, and he waswrong there, and I suppose he was wrong this time. I suppose that when the balloon went up,when the lawyers began making trouble and difficulties, and experts were called in to examinethings and started asking questions, it could be that she lost her nerve, and had a row with Lesley.
And then she cleared out, hoping he’d carry the can.”
He gave his head a sharp shake. “Why do you come and talk to me about things like that here,in my beautiful wood?”
“I wanted to know.”
“It’s better not to know. It’s better never to know. Better to leave things as they are. Not pushand pry and poke.”
“You want beauty,” said Hercule Poirot. “Beauty at any price. For me, it is truth I want. Alwaystruth.”
Michael Garfield laughed. “Go on home to your police friends and leave me here in my localparadise. Get thee beyond me, Satan.”
第二十章
第二十章
离开巴特勒夫人家的时候，波洛走的是米兰达带他来的那条路。篱笆上的缺口看起来好像比上次大了一些。有人，或许比米兰达体型稍大一些，也从这里钻过。他顺着小路走进石矿花园，再一次被这里的美景吸引。一个美丽的地方，可是不知怎么回事，波洛总有一些感觉 ——上次也是——这是一个诡异的地方，充满着异教徒的冷酷无情，让人觉得那些弯曲的小路上有小精灵在追捕猎物，或者一位冷酷的女神在命令人们献祭贡品。
他能理解为什么人们不来这里野餐。出于一些原因，人们不愿意带着煮熟的鸡蛋和生菜、橙子来坐在这里，开着玩笑，热热闹闹地玩耍。这里的气氛不一样，很不一样。也许，他突然想，如果卢埃林-史密斯夫人没有把这里弄成这种仙境般的效果，可能会好一些。可以把石矿改造成一个没有这种气氛的普通的地下花园。但她是一个野心勃勃的人，野心勃勃而又非常富有。又有一两个瞬间，他想到了遗嘱，富太太们立的那种遗嘱，富太太们在遗嘱上撒的谎，藏遗嘱的地方，然后他又试着去想一份伪造的遗嘱。毫无疑问拿去检验的那份遗嘱是伪造的。富勒顿先生是一个谨慎且有能力的律师，这一点是肯定的。而且他是那种没有充足的证据和把握，不会轻易建议客户提起诉讼或采取法律程序的律师。
他沿着小路拐了个弯儿，发觉比起思考，他的脚现在更重要。要不要抄近道去斯彭斯警司家呢？
直线距离可能近些，可是走大路可能对他的脚更好些。那条近路上没有草也没有苔藓，上面布满了硬石块儿。波洛停了下来。
他面前有两个人。坐在一块儿凸出的岩石上的是迈克尔•加菲尔德。他膝盖上放着活页画簿，正在画画，他的注意力都集中在画上面。离他不远的地方，有一条从山上流下来的叮咚作响的小溪，米兰达•巴特勒站在小溪边。赫尔克里•波洛忘了他的脚，忘了人类身体的疼痛，再一次沉浸在人类的美丽之中。毫无疑问，迈克尔•加菲尔德是个美男子。波洛发现很难弄清自己究竟喜不喜欢迈克尔•加菲尔德。人们总是很难知道自己喜不喜欢好看的人。
人们喜欢看美人，但是又本能地不喜欢美人。女人美丽还好，但是赫尔克里•波洛不确定他喜不喜欢男人的美。他本人并不想成为一个美男子，也从来没有机会成为美男子。赫尔克里•波洛对自己的长相唯一满意的一点就是他的胡子，特别是经过清洗、保养、修剪过之后它的样子，是那么壮观。他认识的人里面没有谁的胡子有他的一半好。他从来称不上潇洒或好看，当然更称不上美丽了。
而米兰达呢？他再次思考，是她的严肃让她这么吸引人吗？他很想知道她的脑子里都在想些什么。那是人们永远都不会知道的东西。她不会轻易把她的想法说出来。他怀疑即使你问她，她也不会告诉你。她的想法很单纯，他想，同时也很深入。他也感觉到她很脆弱，非常脆弱。他还知道一些关于她的事情，也许是他以为他知道，目前为止还都只是想象，不过也已经基本肯定了。
迈克尔•加菲尔德抬起头来说：“哈！胡子先生来啦。下午好，先生。”
“我能看看您在画什么吗？会妨碍到您吗？我不想打扰您。”
“看吧，”迈克尔•加菲尔德说，“对我没影响。”他轻轻补充道，“我很享受这个过程。”
波洛走到他身后。他点点头。那是一幅非常精美的铅笔素描，细密得几乎看不到明显的线条。这个人很会画画，波洛想，不仅仅会设计园林。他低声说：“完美！”
“我也这么觉得。”迈克尔•加菲尔德说。
不知道他指的是他正在画的这幅画，还是坐在那边的模特。
“为什么？”波洛问。
“为什么要画？您认为我有原因？”
“可能有。”
“您说对了。如果我离开这儿了，这里会有一两样我想记住的东西，而米兰达就是其中之一。”
“您会很容易忘记她吗？”
“会的，我就是这样。总会忘记什么事或什么人，不能想起一张脸、一个转身、一个姿势、一棵树、一朵花或者一处地形；知道它是什么样子，但是眼前却看不到那些影像，有时候会——该怎么说呢——让人痛苦。看见了，把它记录下来——不然就会消失。”
“石矿花园不会，它不会消失。”
“您认为不会吗？很快就会的。如果没有人打理很快就会消失。会被大自然接管，您知道。它需要爱护、关心、照顾和技巧。如果是一个委员会接管的——现在这种情况很普遍——那么它就会被‘开发’。他们会在里面种上最新品种的灌木丛，开辟新的小路，每隔一段距离就设个座位，甚至还会竖起垃圾桶。哦，他们非常细心、非常善意地想要保持原貌，但是你保护不了这一切。它是天然的。让东西保持天然要比保护它困难得多。”
“波洛先生。”米兰达的声音从小溪边传来。
波洛向前走去，以便能听清她说话。
“没想到你在这儿。你是专门来让他帮你画像的吗？”
她摇了摇头。
“我不是专门来的。只是碰巧而已。”
“是的，”迈克尔•加菲尔德说，“是的，只是碰巧。幸运有时候会降临到你身上。”
“你只是来你喜欢的花园散步吗？”
“其实，我是在找那口井。”米兰达说。
“一口井？”
“这片树林里以前有一口许愿井。”
“在原来的采石场里吗？我不知道他们还会在采石场打井。”
“以前采石场周围有一片树林，那里有许多树。迈克尔知道在哪儿，可是他不告诉我。”
“这样才更有意思，”迈克尔•加菲尔德说，“你继续寻找它，特别是你不确定它到底存不存在的时候。”
“古德博迪奶奶就都知道。”
她又补充说：“她是女巫。”
“没错，”迈克尔说，“她是本地的女巫，波洛先生。您知道，大多数地方都会有一个女巫。她们通常不称自己为女巫，但是所有人都知道她们是。她们能预知命运，会在你的秋海棠上施咒，或者让你的牡丹枯萎，或者让农民的奶牛不产奶了，还可能会制春药。”
“那是一口许愿井，”米兰达说，“人们以前会来这儿许愿。他们得围着它倒转三圈。那口井在山坡上，所以做起来挺不容易的。”她越过波洛看着迈克尔•加菲尔德，“总有一天，我肯定会找到它的，”她说，“即使你不告诉我。它就在这儿的某个地方，只不过是被封起来了，古德博迪奶奶说的。哦！几年前的事。因为据说它很危险。几年前有个小孩儿——叫基蒂还是什么，掉进去了。可能还有别人掉进去过。”
“好，你继续这么想吧。”迈克尔•加菲尔德说，“这是本地的传说，但是在小白岭确实有一口许愿井。”
“当然，”米兰达说，“我知道那个，是一口普通的井。”她说，“每个人都知道那口井，挺傻的。人们往里面扔硬币，但是井里面早就没水了，连个水花也溅不起来。”
“哦，真遗憾。”
“等我找到了我就告诉你。”米兰达说。
“你不能总是相信女巫说的话。我不相信有小孩儿掉进去了。我猜是一只小猫掉进去淹死了。”
“铃儿响叮咚，猫咪在井中。”米兰达说。
她站起来。“我得走了，”她说，“妈妈肯定在等我呢。”
她小心地从凸起的石块儿上下来，冲着两位男士笑了笑，沿着小溪那边一条更崎岖的小路走了。
“‘铃儿响叮咚’，”波洛若有所思地说道，“人们总是相信他们愿意相信的东西，迈克尔•加菲尔德。她说没说对呢？”
迈克尔• 加菲尔德若有所思地看了他一会儿，然后笑了。
“她说得很对，”他说，“是有一口井，像她说的那样，封起来了。我猜是因为它比较危险。我觉得那不是什么许愿井，只是古德博迪夫人编的故事而已。这儿有一棵许愿树，或者曾经有。半山腰上的一棵山毛榉树，人们确实绕着它倒转三圈许愿。”
“那棵树后来怎么了？人们现在不绕着它许愿了吗？”
“不了，我听说大概六年前被闪电劈中了。劈成了两半。所以那个美好的故事也就消失了。”
“你告诉过米兰达这些吗？”
“没有，我宁愿她相信有一口许愿井。一棵被击毁的树对她来说没什么意思，不是吗？”
“我得走了。”波洛说。
“去您的警察朋友那儿？”
“是的。”
“您看起来很累。”
“我很累，”赫尔克里•波洛说，“特别累。”
“您穿帆布鞋或便鞋会舒服点儿。”
“啊，那个，不行。”
“我明白了，您讲究着装。”他打量着波洛，“整体效果很好，特别是，如果让我说的话，您完美的胡子。”
“我很高兴，”波洛说，“你能注意到它。”
“太显眼了，谁都会注意到。”
波洛把头侧向一边，然后说：“你说你画这幅画是为了记住小米兰达。那意思是你要离开这儿了吗？”
“我这么想过，是的。”
“尽管您，在我看来，在这儿住得挺好的。”
“哦，没错，完全正确。我有一座房子，虽然小，却是我自己设计的。我有我的工作，但是我已经不满足了。所以我的心又开始不安定了。”
“为什么您的工作不再让您满足了呢？”
“因为人们希望我做一些特别糟糕的事。他们希望我改善他们的花园，要不就是买了一块地，建了栋房子，然后让我设计个花园。”
“你不是为德雷克夫人管理花园吗？”
“她想让我弄，没错。我提了建议，她似乎也赞同。尽管我并不觉得，”他若有所思地补充道，“她是真心的。”
“你是说她不会按你说的做？”
“我是说她肯定会按她的想法做，尽管她会被我提出的一些设想吸引，但是她会突然要求一些根本不同的东西，一些功利的、昂贵的、浮华的东西。她会强迫我，我觉得。她会坚持实施她的方案。我不会同意，我们就会吵起来。不仅是和德雷克夫人，许多别的邻居也一样。我很清楚。我没必要总是待在一个地方。我可以去英格兰的另一个角落，也可以是诺曼底或者布列塔尼的某个角落。”
“一个你可以改善或帮助自然的地方？一个你可以种上从来没在那儿生长过的植物做实验的地方？一个没有烈日也没有寒霜的地方？一片荒瘠的土地，让您可以像亚当一样从头再来？您一直这么不安定吗？”
“我从不在一个地方久待。”
“您去过希腊吗？”
“是的，我还想再去一次希腊。没错，那儿有一些东西。希腊的一处山坡上有一个花园，里面可能有一些柏树，没什么别的。都是光秃秃的石头。但是如果你愿意，想弄成什么样不行呢？”
“一个让神行走的花园——”
“没错，您总能读懂人的心思，不是吗，波洛先生？”
“我也希望我能。有太多事我想要知道，但是还不知道。”
“您现在说的是那些很没意思的事，对吗？”
“不幸被您说中了。”
“纵火、谋杀，还是突然死亡？”
“差不多吧。我好像没考虑过纵火。告诉我，加菲尔德先生，您在这儿住了也有一段时间了，您认识一个叫莱斯利•费里尔的年轻人吗？”
“认识，我记得他。他在曼彻斯特的律师事务所上班，对吗？富勒顿、哈里森和利德博德事务所。初级律师之类的。长得挺好看的一个小伙子。”
“他死得很突然，不是吗？”
“没错，有天晚上被人用刀砍死了。女人的麻烦，我猜。大家似乎都觉得警察知道凶手是谁，但是他们没有足够的证据。他好像是和一个叫桑德拉——一时想不起她姓什么了——桑德拉某某有纠缠。她的丈夫在当地开个小旅馆。她和小莱斯利有奸情，后来莱斯利又勾搭上了另外一个女孩儿。大概就是这么回事。”
“桑德拉吃醋了？”
“没错，她吃醋了。提醒您，他很招女孩儿，身边总是有两三个女孩儿围着他。”
“都是英国女孩儿吗？”
“我想知道您为什么这么问？不，我觉得他不会把自己局限在英国女孩儿里，只要她们能或多或少听懂他说的话，而他也能听懂她就行。”
“这附近总会有外国女孩儿来吗？”
“当然有。有什么地方不是这样吗？互换生女孩儿——她们是日常生活的一部分。难看的、可爱的、诚实的、不诚实的、给母亲们帮了很多忙的、毫无用处的，还有突然出走的。”
“像奥尔加一样？”
“对，跟奥尔加似的。”
“莱斯利是奥尔加的朋友吗？”
“哦，您是这么想的啊。是的，他是。我觉得卢埃林-史密斯夫人对此不是很清楚。奥尔加很谨慎，我觉得。她很严肃地说她希望有一天能回她的家乡跟某个人结婚。我不知道那是真的还是她编的。小莱斯利是个很有魅力的小伙子。我不知道他看上奥尔加哪一点了——她不怎么漂亮。但是——”他考虑了一两分钟，“她身上有一种热情。我猜一个年轻的英国人可能会觉得那很吸引人。反正莱斯利这么做了，他其他的女朋友都很不高兴。”
“这很有意思，”波洛说，“我认为您能告诉我我想要的信息。”
迈克尔•加菲尔德好奇地盯着他。
“为什么？这是怎么回事？莱斯利怎么卷进来的？怎么又说起过去的事儿了？”
“好吧，人们总想知道一些事情，知道事情是怎么发生的。我还想再往前看。在奥尔加•塞米诺娃和莱斯利•费里尔两个人背着卢埃林-史密斯夫人见面之前。”
“哦，我不清楚。那只是我的——呃，只是我的想法。我的确经常见到他们在一起，但是奥尔加从没向我吐露过什么。至于莱斯利•费里尔，我一点儿也不了解他。”
“我还想了解在那之前的事。我听说，他曾经做过一些不光彩的事。”
“我想是这样的。对，呃，反正当地一直有这种说法。富勒顿先生接纳了他，希望可以让他改过自新。他是个好人，老富勒顿。”
“我听说他犯的是伪造罪？”
“对。”
“他是初犯，而且听说情有可原。他的母亲生病或者父亲酗酒之类的，所以就从轻处置了。”
“我没听说过细节。好像是他刚开始做手脚就被会计发现了，我知道得很模糊。只是道听途说而已。伪造，对，就是这个罪名。伪造。”
“卢埃林-史密斯夫人死后，她的遗嘱被送去检验，然后发现遗嘱是伪造的。”
“没错，我明白您的思路了。您认为这两件事彼此相关。”
“一个某种程度上很有前途的人，和这个女孩儿是朋友，而一旦遗嘱通过检验，这个女孩儿就能继承巨额财产的一大部分。”
“对，对，是这样。”
“这个女孩儿和进行伪造的那个人是亲密的朋友。他抛弃了原来的女友，转而和这个外国女孩儿在一起了。”
“您在暗示那份伪造的遗嘱是出自莱斯利•费里尔之手？”
“很有可能，不是吗？”
“据说奥尔加模仿卢埃林-史密斯夫人的笔迹非常像，但是我总觉得这一点很让人怀疑。她替卢埃林-史密斯夫人写信，可我觉得她们的字迹不会特别像，至少通不过检验。但如果她是和莱斯利一起做的，那就不一样了。我敢说他做得特别像，他自己也确信一定可以通过检验。不过他忘了，他第一次伪造就被查出来了，这一次也不会例外。我猜当丑行揭发出来的时候，律师开始制造各种麻烦和困难，专家也被叫去进行检验，并且问各种问题，然后她可能失去了勇气，跟莱斯利吵了一架，后来她就逃跑了，希望让他来承担罪责。”
迈克尔猛地摇了摇头。“您为什么在我美丽的树林里跟我谈这样一些事？”
“我想了解情况。”
“还是不知道的好。永远不知道才好呢。就让一切都保持原样。不要推动，不要探查，也不要揭穿。”
“您想要美丽，”赫尔克里•波洛说，“任何代价换来的美丽。而我，我想要的是真相。一直是真相。”
迈克尔•加菲尔德笑了起来。“去你的警察朋友家吧，让我留在我的天堂。远离我吧，撒旦。”
Twenty-one
Twenty-one
Poirot went on up the hill. Suddenly he no longer felt the pain of his feet. Something had come tohim. The fitting together of the things he had thought and felt, had known they were connected,but had not seen how they were connected. He was conscious now of danger—danger that mightcome to someone any minute now unless steps were taken to prevent it. Serious danger.
Elspeth McKay came out to the door to meet him. “You look fagged out,” she said. “Come andsit down.”
“Your brother is here?”
“No. He’s gone down to the station. Something’s happened, I believe.”
“Something has happened?” He was startled. “So soon? Not possible.”
“Eh?” said Elspeth. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing. Nothing. Something has happened to somebody, do you mean?”
“Yes, but I don’t know who exactly. Anyway, Tim Raglan rang up and asked for him to godown there. I’ll get you a cup of tea, shall I?”
“No,” said Poirot, “thank you very much, but I think—I think I will go home.” He could notface the prospect of black bitter tea. He thought of a good excuse that would mask any signs ofbad manners. “My feet,” he explained. “My feet. I am not very suitably attired as to footwear forthe country. A change of shoes would be desirable.”
Elspeth McKay looked down at them. “No,” she said. “I can see they’re not. Patent leatherdraws the feet. There’s a letter for you, by the way. Foreign stamps on it. Come from abroad—c/oSuperintendent Spence, Pine Crest. I’ll bring it to you.”
She came back in a minute or two, and handed it to him.
“If you don’t want the envelope, I’d like it for one of my nephews—he collects stamps.”
“Of course.” Poirot opened the letter and handed her the envelope. She thanked him and wentback into the house.
Poirot unfolded the sheet and read.
Mr. Goby’s foreign service was run with the same competence that he showed in his Englishone. He spared no expense and got his results quickly.
True, the results did not amount to much—Poirot had not thought that they would.
Olga Seminoff had not returned to her hometown. She had had no family still living. She hadhad a friend, an elderly woman, with whom she had corresponded intermittently, giving news ofher life in England. She had been on good terms with her employer who had been occasionallyexacting, but had also been generous.
The last letters received from Olga had been dated about a year and a half ago. In them therehad been mention of a young man. There were hints that they were considering marriage, but theyoung man, whose name she did not mention, had, she said, his way to make, so nothing could besettled as yet. In her last letter she spoke happily of their prospects being good. When no moreletters came, the elderly friend assumed that Olga had married her Englishman and changed heraddress. Such things happened frequently when girls went to England. If they were happilymarried they often never wrote again.
She had not worried.
It fitted, Poirot thought. Lesley had spoken of marriage, but might not have meant it. Mrs.
Llewellyn-Smythe had been spoken of as “generous.” Lesley had been given money by someone,Olga perhaps (money originally given her by her employers), to induce him to do forgery on herbehalf.
Elspeth McKay came out on the terrace again. Poirot consulted her as to his surmises about apartnership between Olga and Lesley.
She considered a moment. Then the oracle spoke.
“Kept very quiet about it, if so. Never any rumours about those two. There usually is in a placelike this if there’s anything in it.”
“Young Ferrier was tied up to a married woman. He might have warned the girl not to sayanything about him to her employer.”
“Likely enough. Mrs. Smythe would probably know that Lesley Ferrier was a bad character,and would warn the girl to have nothing to do with him.”
Poirot folded up the letter and put it into his pocket.
“I wish you’d let me get you a pot of tea.”
“No, no—I must go back to my guest house and change my shoes. You do not know when yourbrother will be back?”
“I’ve no idea. They didn’t say what they wanted him for.”
Poirot walked along the road to his guest house. It was only a few hundred yards. As he walkedup to the front door it was opened and his landlady, a cheerful lady of thirty odd, came out to him.
“There’s a lady here to see you,” she said. “Been waiting some time. I told her I didn’t knowwhere you’d gone exactly or when you’d be back, but she said she’d wait.” She added, “It’s Mrs.
Drake. She’s in a state, I’d say. She’s usually so calm about everything, but really I think she’s hada shock of some kind. She’s in the sitting room. Shall I bring you in some tea and something?”
“No,” said Poirot, “I think it will be better not. I will hear first what she has to say.”
He opened the door and went into the sitting room. Rowena Drake had been standing by thewindow. It was not the window overlooking the front path so she had not seen his approach. Sheturned abruptly as she heard the sound of the door.
“Monsieur Poirot. At last. It seemed so long.”
“I am sorry, Madame. I have been in the Quarry Wood and also talking to my friend, Mrs.
Oliver. And then I have been talking to two boys. To Nicholas and Desmond.”
“Nicholas and Desmond? Yes, I know. I wonder—oh! one thinks all sorts of things.”
“You are upset,” said Poirot gently.
It was not a thing he thought he would ever see. Rowena Drake upset, no longer mistress ofevents, no longer arranging everything, and enforcing her decisions on others.
“You’ve heard, haven’t you?” she asked. “Oh well, perhaps you haven’t.”
“What should I have heard?”
“Something dreadful. He’s—he’s dead. Somebody killed him.”
“Who is dead, Madame?”
“Then you haven’t really heard. And he’s only a child, too, and I thought—oh, what a fool I’vebeen. I should have told you. I should have told you when you asked me. It makes me feel terrible—terribly guilty for thinking I knew best and thinking—but I did mean it for the best, MonsieurPoirot, indeed I did.”
“Sit down, Madame, sit down. Calm yourself and tell me. There is a child dead—anotherchild?”
“Her brother,” said Mrs. Drake. “Leopold.”
“Leopold Reynolds?”
“Yes. They found his body on one of the field paths. He must have been coming back fromschool and gone out of his way to play in the brook near here. Somebody held him down in thebrook—held his head under water.”
“The same kind of thing as they did to the child Joyce?”
“Yes, yes. I can see it must be—it must be madness of some kind. And one doesn’t know who,that’s what’s so awful. One hasn’t the least idea. And I thought I knew. I really thought—Isuppose, yes, it was a very wicked thing.”
“You must tell me, Madame.”
“Yes, I want to tell you. I came here to tell you. Because, you see, you came to me after you’dtalked to Elizabeth Whittaker. After she’d told you that something had startled me. That I’d seensomething. Something in the hall of the house, my house. I said that I hadn’t seen anything andthat nothing had startled me because, you see, I thought—” she stopped.
“What did you see?”
“I ought to have told you then. I saw the door of the library open, open rather carefully and—then he came out. At least, he didn’t come right out. He just stood in the doorway and then pulledthe door back quickly and went back inside.”
“Who was this?”
“Leopold. Leopold, the child that’s been killed now. And you see, I thought I—oh, what amistake, what an awful mistake. If I’d told you, perhaps—perhaps you’d have got at what wasbehind it.”
“You thought?” Poirot said. “You thought that Leopold had killed his sister. Is that what youthought?”
“Yes, that’s what I thought. Not then, of course, because I didn’t know she was dead. But hehad a queer look on his face. He’s always been a queer child. In a way you’re a little afraid of himbecause you feel he’s not—not quite right. Very clever and a high I.Q., but all the same not allthere.
“And I thought ‘Why is Leopold coming out of there instead of being at the Snapdragon?’ and Ithought ‘What’s he been doing—he looks so queer?’ And then, well then I didn’t think of it againafter that, but I suppose, the way he looked upset me. And that’s why I dropped the vase.
Elizabeth helped me to pick up the glass pieces, and I went back to the Snapdragon and I didn’tthink of it again. Until we found Joyce. And that’s when I thought—”
“You thought that Leopold had done it?”
“Yes. Yes, I did think that. I thought it explained the way he’d looked. I thought I knew. Ialways think—I’ve thought too much all my life that I know things, that I’m right about things.
And I can be very wrong. Because, you see, his being killed must mean something quite different.
He must have gone in there, and he must have found her there—dead—and it gave him a terribleshock and he was frightened. And so he wanted to come out of the room without anyone seeinghim and I suppose he looked up and saw me and he got back into the room and shut the door andwaited until the hall was empty before coming out. But not because he’d killed her. No. Just theshock of finding her dead.”
“And yet you said nothing? You didn’t mention who it was you’d seen, even after the death wasdiscovered?”
“No. I—oh, I couldn’t. He’s—you see, he’s so young—was so young, I suppose I ought to saynow. Ten. Ten—eleven at most and I mean—I felt he couldn’t have known what he was doing, itcouldn’t have been his fault exactly. He must have been morally not responsible. He’s alwaysbeen rather queer, and I thought one could get treatment for him. Not leave it all to the police. Notsend him to approved places. I thought one could get special psychological treatment for him, ifnecessary. I—I meant well. You must believe that, I meant well.”
Such sad words, Poirot thought, some of the saddest words in the world. Mrs. Drake seemed toknow what he was thinking.
“Yes,” she said, “‘I did it for the best.’ ‘I meant well.’ One always thinks one knows what isbest to do for other people, but one doesn’t. Because, you see, the reason he looked so taken abackmust have been that he either saw who the murderer was, or saw something that would give a clueto who the murderer might be. Something that made the murderer feel that he himself wasn’t safe.
And so—and so he’s waited until he got the boy alone and then drowned him in the brook so thathe shouldn’t speak, so that he shouldn’t tell. If I’d only spoken out, if I’d told you, or told thepolice, or told someone, but I thought I knew best.”
“Only today,” said Poirot, after he had sat silent for a moment or two, watching Mrs. Drakewhere she sat controlling her sobs, “I was told that Leopold had been very flush of money lately.
Somebody must have been paying him to keep silent.”
“But who—who?”
“We shall find out,” said Poirot. “It will not be long now.”
第二十一章
第二十一章
波洛爬上山坡。他突然感觉不到脚疼了。他想通了一些事情。之前他一直觉得那几件事互相联系，但是又不知道是怎么联系起来的，现在他终于把事情始末理清了。他感觉到了危险——如果不采取行动阻止，有人随时会有危险。致命的危险。
埃尔斯佩斯•麦凯从门里出来迎接他。“您看起来累坏了，”她说，“进来坐会儿吧。”
“您哥哥在家吗？”
“不在。他去警察局了。我想是出了什么事。”
“已经出事了？”他很吃惊，“这么快？不可能。”
“啊？”埃尔斯佩斯说，“您是什么意思？”
“没什么，没什么。有人出事了，是吗？”
“对，但是我不知道到底是谁。反正蒂姆•拉格伦打电话让他过去。我去给您倒杯茶，好吗？”
“不用了，”波洛说，“谢谢您，我想——我想我得回家了。”他一想到那又浓又苦的茶就受不了，于是找了一个很好的理由来掩饰这种不礼貌。“我的脚，”他解释道，“我的脚。
我穿的鞋不适合在乡间行走。我回去换双鞋应该好一点。”
埃尔斯佩斯•麦凯低头看看。“的确，”她说，“我能看出来它们确实不合适。黑漆皮鞋太挤脚了。对了，这儿有您一封信，贴的是外国邮票。来自国外——请松冠居斯彭斯警司转交。我去给您拿。”
一两分钟后她拿回来了，把信递给波洛。
“如果您不要这个信封的话，能把它给我吗？我想给我侄子——他集邮。”
“当然。”波洛取出信，把信封递给她。她道了谢，然后就回屋去了。
波洛打开信纸读起来。
戈比先生在外国的办事能力跟在英国一样高效并且不惜花费邮资，以最快的速度把结果告诉波洛。
实际上，里面的信息并不多——波洛也没指望会有多少。
奥尔加•塞米诺娃没有回她的家乡。她的家人都去世了。她有一个朋友，一位老太太。
奥尔加她一直断断续续地给她写信，告诉她自己在英国的生活。她和雇主的关系很好，虽然她的雇主有时候很严厉，但是很慷慨。
最后一次收到奥尔加的信是在一年半之前。信里提到了一个年轻人，还暗示他们在考虑结婚。但是那个年轻人，她没提到他的名字，她说他有自己的目标，所以现在一切都没确定。在最后一封信里，她高兴地提到他们未来的生活会是美好的。后来再没收到她的信，她那位忘年交就猜想奥尔加大概是和她那位英国小伙子结婚了，换了地址。女孩儿们去英格兰之后这种事情屡见不鲜。如果她们婚姻幸福，就不再写信了。
她没有担心。
这跟之前发生的事能对得上，波洛想。莱斯利可能提到过结婚，但是他根本不是认真的。据说卢埃林-史密斯夫人很“慷慨”。有人曾经给过莱斯利一大笔钱，可能是奥尔加（用她的雇主给她的工资），引诱他伪造一份受益人是她的遗嘱。
埃尔斯佩斯•麦凯又出来了，站在台阶上。波罗询问她关于奥尔加和莱斯利的关系。
她思索了一会儿。然后这位行家说话了。
“如果是这样的话，他们隐藏得够好的。从来没听过他们俩的流言。如果真有其事的话，在这么一个地方肯定会有风言风语的。”
“小莱斯利和一个已婚女人搞在一起，他可能警告那个女孩儿不能向她的雇主透露一点消息。”
“很有可能。史密斯夫人可能知道莱斯利•费里尔人品不好，于是告诫那个女孩儿别和他交往。”
波洛把信叠起来，放进口袋里。
“我去给您拿壶茶喝吧。”
“不，不用了——我得回旅馆换鞋了。您不知道您哥哥什么时候回来吧？”
“我不知道。他们没说让他去做什么了。”
波洛沿路走回他下榻的旅店，只有几百码远。他走到旅店门口时，门开了，旅店的老板娘，一位三十出头的女士，乐呵呵地跟他打招呼。
“有一位夫人来这里找您，”她说，“等了有一会儿了。我告诉她不知道您具体什么时候能回来，但是她说她要等您。”她补充道，“是德雷克夫人。她很焦躁不安，我能看出来。
她平时无论发生什么事都那么冷静，但是这次我看她真的受到什么打击了。她在会客厅呢。需要我给您端些茶什么的吗？”
“不用了，”波洛说，“我想最好还是不用了。我先听听她要说什么。”
他打开门走进了会客厅。罗伊娜正在窗前站着，不是冲着前门的窗户，所以没看到他进来。听到门响，她猛地转过身来。
“波洛先生。您终于回来了。时间过得太慢了。”
“很抱歉，夫人，我在石矿树林跟我的朋友奥利弗夫人聊了会儿天，后来又跟两个男孩儿说了会儿话，尼古拉斯还有德斯蒙德。”
“尼古拉斯和德斯蒙德？哦，我知道了。我想知道——哦！人们总会想到这类事。”
“您很不安。”波洛温和地说。
他以为永远不会看见这种情形。罗伊娜•德雷克不安，不再对一切颐指气使，不再组织安排一切，把她的决定强加给别人。
“您已经听说了，是吗？”她问，“哦，算了，也许您还没听说。”
“我该听说什么了？”
“一件可怕的事，他——他死了。有人杀了他。”
“谁死了，夫人？”
“那么你真的还没听说。他还只是个孩子，我想——哦，我太傻了。我应该早告诉你。
你问我的时候我就该告诉你。我感觉很难受——很自责，我知道得最清楚——但我不是故意的，波洛先生，我真的不是故意的。”
“坐下来，夫人，坐下。冷静一下，然后告诉我。有一个孩子死了——另一个孩子？”
“她弟弟，”德雷克夫人说，“利奥波德。”
“利奥波德•雷诺兹？”
“对，他们在一条田间小道上发现了他的尸体。他一定是在放学回家的路上跑去附近的小溪边玩了。有人把他摁进小溪里——把他的头摁进了水里。”
“就像对乔伊斯那样？”
“对，没错。我说这一定是——一定是疯了。还不知道那个人是谁，这太可怕了。一点儿想法都没有。我还以为我知道，我真的以为——我猜，哦，这太恶毒了。”
“您得告诉我，夫人。”
“对，我想告诉您，我是来告诉您的。因为，您知道，您跟伊丽莎白•惠特克谈过之后来找我了，因为她告诉您我可能看到了什么让人震惊的事儿。我确实看到了一些东西。发生在我家，我家客厅的一些事。我说我没看见什么让我震惊的事，是因为，您知道，我觉得——”她停了下来。
“您看到了什么？”
“我当时就该告诉您。我看见藏书室的门打开了，非常小心地打开了——然后他从里面出来了。或者说他没有完全出来，他只是站在门口，然后又飞快地把门拉上，又回屋里去了。”
“那个人是谁？”
“利奥波德。利奥波德，刚刚被杀的那个孩子。您明白，我觉得我——哦，太离谱了，大错特错。如果我告诉您，也许——也许您已经找出幕后的那个人了。”
“您认为？”波洛说，“您那时以为利奥波德杀了她的姐姐。是这样吗？”
“是的，我当时就是这么想的。不是那天晚上，当然，因为我还不知道她已经死了。但是他脸上有一种古怪的表情。他一直是个古怪的孩子。有时候你会有些害怕他，因为你觉得他不……不是很正常。非常聪明，智商很高，但还是不太对劲儿。
“那时我想‘为什么利奥波德从这儿出来了，而不是在玩抓火龙呢？’然后我想‘他在做什么呢，看起来这么奇怪？’然后，那之后我就没再想那件事了，但是我猜，可能是他的样子让我有些不安，所以我才失手把花瓶摔碎了。伊丽莎白帮我捡起了玻璃碎片，然后我就去抓火龙那儿了，也没再想那件事。直到我们发现了乔伊斯。那时我就以为——”
“您认为那是利奥波德干的？”
“对，对，我就是那么想的。我想这就解释了他为什么看起来那么奇怪。我以为我知道了。我总是觉得……我一生都以为我知道所有的事情，我是对的。可是我大错特错了。因为，您瞧，他被杀就意味着事情完全不一样。他肯定是进去了，发现她在那儿——死了——那让他很震惊，他很害怕。所以他想趁着没人看见时从房间里溜出来。我猜他出来往上看，看见我了，所以又回到了房间，关上门，直到大厅里没人了才出来。是这样，而不是因为他刚刚杀了她。不是。只是因为发现她死了他很震惊。”
“可是您什么都没说？您没提过您看见谁了，甚至发现她死了之后也没提？”
“没有。我——哦，我不能。他——您知道，他还那么小——太小了，我想我现在应该说。十岁。十岁——最多十一岁，我是说——我觉得他肯定不知道自己在做什么，确切来说那并不是他的错。从道德上说他还无法为自己的行为负责。他总是非常奇怪。我想应该可以找人教他，不能把一切都交给警察。不要把他送进少改所。我想如果必要的话可以找心理医生给他做心理辅导。我……我是好心。您一定要相信我，我是出于好心。”
多么伤心的话，波洛想，这是世界上最伤心的话了。德雷克夫人似乎知道他在想什么。
“是的，”她说，“‘我为他好才这么做’，‘我是出于好心’。人们总是觉得自己知道怎样对别人最好，但实际上他不知道。因为，您瞧，他看起来那么吃惊，他要么看到了凶手是谁，要么就是看到了可以证明凶手是谁的线索。有时这就让凶手感觉到自己不安全。所以——所以他等到男孩儿独自出去的时候把他摁进小溪里淹死了，那样他就说不了话，就不会告诉警察或者别人了，但是我以为我全都知道。”
“直到今天，”波洛说，他又沉默地坐了一会儿，看着德雷克夫人直到她控制住了她的抽泣声，“我才被告知利奥波德最近有很多零花钱。有人付了他封口费。”
“但是是谁——谁呢？”
“我们会查出来的，”波洛说，“不会等太久了。”
Twenty-two
Twenty-two
It was not very characteristic of Hercule Poirot to ask the opinions of others. He was usually quitesatisfied with his own opinions. Nevertheless, there were times when he made exceptions. Thiswas one of them. He and Spence had had a brief conversation together and then Poirot had got intouch with a car hire service and after another short conversation with his friend and withInspector Raglan, he drove off. He had arranged with the car to drive him back to London but hehad made one halt on the way there. He drove to The Elms. He told the driver of the car that hewould not be long—a quarter of an hour at most—and then he sought audience with Miss Emlyn.
“I am sorry to disturb you at this hour. It is no doubt the hour of your supper or dinner.”
“Well, I do you at least the compliment, Monsieur Poirot, to think you would not disturb me ateither supper or dinner unless you have a valid reason for so doing.”
“You are very kind. To be frank, I want your advice.”
“Indeed?”
Miss Emlyn looked slightly surprised. She looked more than surprised, she looked sceptical.
“That does not seem very characteristic of you, Monsieur Poirot. Are you not usually satisfiedwith your own opinions?”
“Yes, I am satisfied with my own opinions, but it would give me solace and support if someonewhose opinion I respected agreed with them.”
She did not speak, merely looked at him inquiringly.
“I know the killer of Joyce Reynolds,” he said. “It is my belief that you know it also.”
“I have not said so,” said Miss Emlyn.
“No. You have not said so. And that might lead me to believe that it is on your part an opiniononly.”
“A hunch?” inquired Miss Emlyn, and her tone was colder than ever.
“I would prefer not to use that word. I would prefer to say that you had a definite opinion.”
“Very well then. I will admit that I have a definite opinion. That does not mean that I shallrepeat to you what my opinion is.”
“What I should like to do, Mademoiselle, is to write down four words on a piece of paper. I willask you if you agree with the four words I have written.”
Miss Emlyn rose. She crossed the room to her desk, took a piece of writing paper and cameacross to Poirot with it.
“You interest me,” she said. “Four words.”
Poirot had taken a pen from his pocket. He wrote on the paper, folded it and handed it to her.
She took it, straightened out the paper and held it in her hand, looking at it.
“Well?” said Poirot.
“As to two of the words on that paper, I agree, yes. The other two, that is more difficult. I haveno evidence and, indeed, the ideas had not entered my head.”
“But in the case of the first two words, you have definite evidence?”
“I consider so, yes.”
“Water,” said Poirot, thoughtfully. “As soon as you heard that, you knew. As soon as I heardthat I knew. You are sure, and I am sure. And now,” said Poirot, “a boy has been drowned in abrook. You have heard that?”
“Yes. Someone rang me up on the telephone and told me. Joyce’s brother. How was heconcerned?”
“He wanted money,” said Poirot. “He got it. And so, at a suitable opportunity, he was drownedin a brook.”
His voice did not change. It had, if anything, not a softened, but a harsher note,“The person who told me,” he said, “was riddled with compassion. Upset emotionally. But I amnot like that. He was young, this second child who died, but his death was not an accident. It was,as so many things in life, a result of his actions. He wanted money and he took a risk. He wasclever enough, astute enough to know he was taking a risk, but he wanted the money. He was tenyears old but cause and effect is much the same at that age as it would be at thirty or fifty orninety. Do you know what I think of first in such a case?”
“I should say,” said Miss Emlyn, “that you are more concerned with justice than withcompassion.”
“Compassion,” said Poirot, “on my part would do nothing to help Leopold. He is beyond help.
Justice, if we obtain justice, you and I, for I think you are of my way of thinking over this—justice, one could say, will also not help Leopold. But it might help some other Leopold, it mighthelp to keep some other child alive, if we can reach justice soon enough. It is not a safe thing, akiller who has killed more than once, to whom killing has appealed as a way of security. I am nowon my way to London where I am meeting with certain people to discuss a way of approach. Toconvert them, perhaps, to my own certainty in this case.”
“You may find that difficult,” said Miss Emlyn.
“No, I do not think so. The ways and means to it may be difficult but I think I can convert themto my knowledge of what has happened. Because they have minds that understand the criminalmind. There is one thing more I would ask you. I want your opinion. Your opinion only this time,not evidence. Your opinion of the character of Nicholas Ransom and Desmond Holland. Wouldyou advise me to trust them?”
“I should say that both of them were thoroughly trustworthy. That is my opinion. They are inmany ways extremely foolish, but that is only in the ephemeral things of life. Fundamentally, theyare sound. Sound as an apple without maggots in it.”
“One always comes back to apples,” said Hercule Poirot sadly. “I must go now. My car iswaiting. I have one more call still to pay.”
第二十二章
第二十二章
询问别人的意见从来就不是波洛的作风。他通常对自己的想法非常满意。尽管如此，他还是有破例的时候，这就是其中一次。他和斯彭斯警司简要地谈了几句，然后租了一辆车，又分别和另一位朋友以及拉格伦督察短暂地交谈了几句，之后他坐车离开了。他让车直接回伦敦，半路停一会儿。他要去趟榆树小学。他告诉司机说不会太久——最多一刻钟——然后就去拜访埃姆林小姐了。
“很抱歉这个时间打扰您，想必您正在用晚餐吧。”
“哦，我接受您的歉意，波洛先生，我想您没有急事是不会打扰我吃晚饭的。”
“您太好了。说实话，我需要您的意见。”
“真的？”
埃姆林小姐看起来稍微有些吃惊。不仅是吃惊，还有些疑惑。
“这不太像您的作风，波洛先生。您通常不是对自己的判断非常满意吗？”
“是的，我对自己的想法很满意，但是如果我敬重的人的意见跟我一致，那会给我安慰和支持。”
她没有说话，只是探询地看着他。
“我知道杀死乔伊斯•雷诺兹的凶手是谁，”他说，“我相信您也知道。”
“我没那么说过。”埃姆林小姐说。
“对，您没这么说。但我认为您有一个观点。”
“一种直觉？”埃姆林小姐问，语调比平时更冷淡。
“我不用这个词儿，我更倾向于说您有一个明确的观点。”
“好吧。我承认我有一个明确的观点。但这并不代表我会告诉您我的观点是什么。”
“我想做的是，小姐，在一张纸上写四个词。我会问您是否同意我写的那四个词。”
埃姆林小姐站起来。走到房间那头儿的桌子边，取了一张纸，然后拿着纸走向波洛。
“您让我产生兴趣了，”她说，“写四个词吧。”
波洛从口袋里掏出一支笔，在那张纸上写了几个词，折起来递给她。她接过纸，展开，拿好，开始看上面的词。
“怎么样？”波洛问。
“上面的两个词，我同意，是的。另外两个有些牵强。我没有证据，而且我确实没想到过这一点。”
“那么针对前两个词，您有确凿的证据吗？”
“我想是的，对。”
“水，”波洛若有所思地说，“当您听到那件事的时候，您就知道了。我听到的时候我也知道了。您很肯定，我也肯定。那么现在，”波洛说，“有个男孩儿被淹死在小溪里了，您听说了吗？”
“听说了。有人打电话告诉我了。乔伊斯的弟弟。他是怎么牵扯进来的？”
“他需要钱，”波洛说，“他知道了真相。所以，在一个合适的时候，他被淹死了。”
他的声音没有变。如果非要说有什么变化的话，不是变柔和了，而是更加严厉了。
“把这件事告诉我的那个人，”他说，“好像充满了同情，情绪非常不安。但我没有这种感觉。他很小，死的第二个孩子，但是他的死不是意外，而是跟生活中的许多事情一样，是由他自己的行为导致的。他想要钱，于是他冒了险。他够聪明，够机敏，肯定知道自己在冒险，可还是被钱吸引了。他只有十岁，但这种因果报应对谁都一样，跟他是三十岁、五十岁甚至九十岁没有关系。您知道听到这种案子，我最先想的是什么吗？”
“让我说，”埃姆林小姐说，“相比同情，您更在乎正义。”
“同情，”波洛说，“在我看来帮不了利奥波德。怎么都帮不了他了。正义，您和我——我觉得在这一点上您和我的观点是一致的，我们可以伸张正义。有人会说即使这样也帮不了利奥波德了，但是如果我们行动够迅速的话，就可以帮助其他的利奥波德，可以保住其他孩子的性命。情况很危险，那个凶手已经杀了不止一个人，对那个人来说，杀人已经成了一种自保手段。我现在正要回伦敦，回去之后我会和一些人商量行动方案，也许，我还要先说服他们接受我的论断。”
“那不太容易吧。”埃姆林小姐说。
“是的，我知道很难。作案的手段和动机都很难确定，但是我想我能说服他们接受我对案子的猜想，因为他们了解罪犯的心理。还有一件事我想问问您，我需要您的建议。这次只是您的观点，不需要证据。您对尼古拉斯•兰瑟姆和德斯蒙德•霍兰德人品的看法如何？您觉得我能相信他们吗？”
“我觉得他们完全可以信赖。这是我的观点。在某些方面他们很愚蠢，但那些只是生活中的一些小事。从本质上说，他们是完好无瑕的，就像没有被虫蛀过的苹果。”
“我们总是不经意间就又提到苹果了。”赫尔克里•波洛难过地说，“我得走了。车在外面等着呢。我还有一个人要去拜访。”
Twenty-three
Twenty-three
I“Have you heard what’s on at Quarry Wood?” said Mrs. Cartwright, putting a packet of FluffyFlakelets and Wonder White into her shopping bag.
“Quarry Wood?” said Elspeth McKay, to whom she was talking. “No, I haven’t heard anythingparticular.” She selected a packet of cereal. The two women were in the recently openedsupermarket making their morning purchases.
“They’re saying the trees are dangerous there. Couple of forestry men arrived this morning. It’sthere on the side of the hill where there’s a steep slope and a tree leaning sideways. Could be Isuppose, that a tree could come down there. One of them was struck by lightning last winter butthat was farther over, I think. Anyway, they’re digging round the roots of the trees a bit, and a bitfarther down too. Pity. They’ll make an awful mess of the place.”
“Oh well,” said Elspeth McKay, “I suppose they know what they’re doing. Somebody’s calledthem in, I suppose.”
“They’ve got a couple of the police there, too, seeing that people don’t come near. Making surethey keep away from things. They say something about finding out which the diseased trees arefirst.”
“I see,” said Elspeth McKay.
Possibly she did. Not that anyone had told her but then Elspeth never needed telling.
II
Ariadne Oliver smoothed out a telegram she had just taken as delivered to her at the door. She wasso used to getting telegrams through the telephone, making frenzied hunts for a pencil to take themdown, insisting firmly that she wanted a confirmatory copy sent to her, that she was quite startledto receive what she called to herself a “real telegram” again.
“PLEASE BRING MRS BUTLER AND MIRANDA
TO YOUR FLAT AT ONCE. NO TIME TO LOSE.
IMPORTANT SEE DOCTOR FOR OPERATION.”
She went into the kitchen where Judith Butler was making quince jelly.
“Judy,” said Mrs. Oliver, “go and pack a few things, I’m going back to London and you’recoming with me and Miranda, too.”
“It’s very nice of you, Ariadne, but I’ve got a lot of things on here. Anyway, you needn’t rushaway today, need you?”
“Yes, I need to, I’ve been told to,” said Mrs. Oliver.
“Who’s told you—your housekeeper?”
“No,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Somebody else. One of the few people I obey. Come on. Hurry up.”
“I don’t want to leave home just now. I can’t.”
“You’ve got to come,” said Mrs. Oliver. “The car is ready. I brought it round to the front door.
We can go at once.”
“I don’t think I want to take Miranda. I could leave her here with someone, with the Reynoldsor Rowena Drake.”
“Miranda’s coming, too,” Mrs. Oliver interrupted definitely. “Don’t make difficulties, Judy.
This is serious. I don’t see how you can even consider leaving her with the Reynolds. Two of theReynolds children have been killed, haven’t they?”
“Yes, yes, that’s true enough. You think there’s something wrong with that house. I meanthere’s someone there who—oh, what do I mean?”
“We’re talking too much,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Anyway,” she added, “if anyone is going to bekilled, it seems to me that probably the most likely one would be Ann Reynolds.”
“What’s the matter with the family? Why should they all get killed, one after another? Oh,Ariadne, it’s frightening!”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Oliver, “but there are times when it’s quite right to be frightened. I’ve just hada telegram and I’m acting upon it.”
“Oh, I didn’t hear the telephone.”
“It didn’t come through the telephone. It came to the door.”
She hesitated a moment, then she held it out to her friend.
“What’s this mean? Operation?”
“Tonsils, probably,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Miranda had a bad throat last week, hadn’t she? Well,what more likely than that she should be taken to consult a throat specialist in London?”
“Are you quite mad, Ariadne?”
“Probably,” said Mrs. Oliver, “raving mad. Come on. Miranda will enjoy being in London. Youneedn’t worry. She’s not going to have any operation. That’s what’s called ‘cover’ in spy stories.
We’ll take her to a theatre, or an opera or the ballet, whichever way her tastes lie. On the whole Ithink it would be best to take her to the ballet.”
“I’m frightened,” said Judith.
Ariadne Oliver looked at her friend. She was trembling slightly. She looked more than ever,Mrs. Oliver thought, like Undine. She looked divorced from reality.
“Come on,” said Mrs. Oliver, “I promised Hercule Poirot I’d bring you when he gave me theword. Well, he’s given me the word.”
“What’s going on in this place?” said Judith. “I can’t think why I ever came here.”
“I sometimes wondered why you did,” said Mrs. Oliver, “but there’s no accounting for wherepeople go to live. A friend of mine went to live in Moreton-in-the-Marsh the other day. I askedhim why he wanted to go and live there. He said he’d always wanted to and thought about it.
Whenever he retired he meant to go there. I said that I hadn’t been to it myself but it sounded tome bound to be damp. What was it actually like? He said he didn’t know what it was like becausehe’d never been there himself. But he had always wanted to live there. He was quite sane, too.”
“Did he go?”
“Yes.”
“Did he like it when he got there?”
“Well, I haven’t heard that yet,” said Mrs. Oliver. “But people are very odd, aren’t they? Thethings they want to do, the things they simply have to do…” She went to the garden and called,“Miranda, we’re going to London.”
Miranda came slowly towards them.
“Going to London?”
“Ariadne’s going to drive us there,” said her mother. “We’ll go and see a theatre there. Mrs.
Oliver thinks perhaps she can get tickets for the ballet. Would you like to go to the ballet?”
“I’d love it,” said Miranda. Her eyes lighted up. “I must go and say goodbye to one of myfriends first.”
“We’re going practically at once.”
“Oh, I shan’t be as long as that, but I must explain. There are things I promised to do.”
She ran down the garden and disappeared through the gate.
“Who are Miranda’s friends?” asked Mrs. Oliver, with some curiosity.”
“I never really know,” said Judith. “She never tells one things, you know. Sometimes I thinkthat the only things that she really feels are her friends are the birds she looks at in the woods. Orsquirrels or things like that. I think everybody likes her but I don’t know that she has anyparticular friends. I mean, she doesn’t bring back girls to tea and things like that. Not as much asother girls do. I think her best friend really was Joyce Reynolds.” She added vaguely: “Joyce usedto tell her fantastic things about elephants and tigers.” She roused herself. “Well, I must go up andpack, I suppose, as you insist. But I don’t want to leave here. There are lots of things I’m in themiddle of doing, like this jelly and—”
“You’ve got to come,” said Mrs. Oliver. She was quite firm about it.
Judith came downstairs again with a couple of suitcases just as Miranda ran in through the sidedoor, somewhat out of breath.
“Aren’t we going to have lunch first?” she demanded.
In spite of her elfin woodland appearance, she was a healthy child who liked her food.
“We’ll stop for lunch on the way,” said Mrs. Oliver. “We’ll stop at The Black Boy atHaversham. That would be about right. It’s about three-quarters of an hour from here and theygive you quite a good meal. Come on, Miranda, we’re going to start now.”
“I shan’t have time to tell Cathie I can’t go to the pictures with her tomorrow. Oh, perhaps Icould ring her up.”
“Well, hurry up,” said her mother.
Miranda ran into the sitting room where the telephone was situated. Judith and Mrs. Oliver putsuitcases into the car. Miranda came out of the sitting room.
“I left a message,” she said breathlessly. “That’s all right now.”
“I think you’re mad, Ariadne,” said Judith, as they got into the car. “Quite mad. What’s it allabout?”
“We shall know in due course, I suppose,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I don’t know if I’m mad or he is.”
“He? Who?”
“Hercule Poirot,” said Mrs. Oliver.
III
In London Hercule Poirot was sitting in a room with four other men. One was Inspector TimothyRaglan, looking respectful and poker-faced as was his invariable habit when in the presence of hissuperiors; the second was Superintendent Spence. The third was Alfred Richmond, ChiefConstable of the County and the fourth was a man with a sharp, legal face from the PublicProsecutor’s office. They looked at Hercule Poirot with varying expressions, or what one mightdescribe as nonexpressions.
“You seem quite sure, Monsieur Poirot.”
“I am quite sure,” said Hercule Poirot. “When a thing arranges itself so, one realizes that it mustbe so, one only looks for reasons why it should not be so. If one does not find the reasons why itshould not be so, then one is strengthened in one’s opinion.”
“The motives seem somewhat complex, if I may say so.”
“No,” said Poirot, “not complex really. But so simple that they are very difficult to see clearly.”
The legal gentleman looked sceptical.
“We shall have one piece of definite evidence very soon now,” said Inspector Raglan. “Ofcourse, if there has been a mistake on that point….”
“Ding dong dell, no pussy in the well?” said Hercule Poirot. “That is what you mean?”
“Well, you must agree it is only a surmise on your part.”
“The evidence pointed to it all along. When a girl disappears, there are not many reasons. Thefirst is that she has gone away with a man. The second is that she is dead. Anything else is veryfar-fetched and practically never happens.”
“There are no special points that you can bring to our attention, Monsieur Poirot?”
“Yes. I have been in touch with a well-known firm of estate agents. Friends of mine, whospecialize in real estate in the West Indies, the Aegean, the Adriatic, the Mediterranean and otherplaces. They specialize in sunshine and their clients are usually wealthy. Here is a recent purchasethat might interest you.”
He handed over a folded paper.
“You think this ties up?”
“I’m sure it does.”
“I thought the sale of islands was prohibited by that particular government?”
“Money can usually find a way.”
“There is nothing else that you would care to dwell upon?”
“It is possible that within twenty-four hours I shall have for you something that will more orless clinch matters.”
“And what is that?”
“An eyewitness.”
“You mean—”
“An eyewitness to a crime.”
The legal man looked at Poirot with mounting disbelief.
“Where is this eyewitness now?”
“On the way to London, I hope and trust.”
“You sound—disturbed.”
“That is true. I have done what I can to take care of things, but I will admit to you that I amfrightened. Yes, I am frightened in spite of the protective measure I have taken. Because, you see,we are—how shall I describe it?—we are up against ruthlessness, quick reactions, greed pushedbeyond an expectable human limit and perhaps—I am not sure but I think it possible—a touch,shall we say, of madness? Not there originally, but cultivated. A seed that took root and growsfast. And now perhaps has taken charge, inspiring an inhuman rather than a human attitude tolife.”
“We’ll have to have a few extra opinions on this,” said the legal man. “We can’t rush intothings. Of course, a lot depends on the—er—forestry business. If that’s positive, we’d have tothink again.”
Hercule Poirot rose to his feet.
“I will take my leave. I have told you all that I know and all that I fear and envisage as possible.
I shall remain in touch with you.”
He shook hands all round with foreign precision, and went out.
“The man’s a bit of a mountebank,” said the legal man. “You don’t think he’s a bit touched, doyou? Touched in the head himself, I mean? Anyway, he’s a pretty good age. I don’t know that onecan rely on the faculties of a man of that age.”
“I think you can rely upon him,” said the Chief Constable. “At least, that is my impression.
Spence, I’ve known you a good many years. You’re a friend of his. Do you think he’s become alittle senile?”
“No, I don’t,” said Superintendent Spence. “What’s your opinion, Raglan?”
“I’ve only met him recently, sir. At first I thought his—well, his way of talking, his ideas, mightbe fantastic. But on the whole I’m converted. I think he’s going to be proved right.”
第二十三章
第二十三章
1“你听说石矿树林里发生了什么吗？”卡特莱特夫人一边说，一边把一包松软薄饼和一瓶奇效净白液放进购物袋里。
“石矿树林？”埃尔斯佩斯•麦凯问道，“没有，我没听说有什么事啊。”她挑了一袋麦片。这两个女人正在新开张的超级市场进行晨间采购。
“他们说那些树很危险。今天早上来了几个伐木工。就在那边小山的陡坡上，有棵树向一边斜着。我有时候猜会不会有树要掉下来。有一棵去年冬天还被闪电击中过，但是我觉得离得挺远的呢。反正他们围着树根挖坑呢，挖得还挺深的。可惜了，他们会把那片地方弄得一团糟。”
“哦，这样啊，”埃尔斯佩斯•麦凯说，“他们肯定知道自己在做什么。肯定是有人让他们来的。”
“那儿还有几个警察，不让人们靠近，确保人们离得远远的。他们说先要找到那些有问题的树。”
“我明白了。”埃尔斯佩斯•麦凯说。
她可能真的明白了，没有人告诉过她，但是埃尔斯佩斯根本不需要别人来告诉。
2阿里阿德涅•奥利弗打开她刚从门口拿回的电报。她习惯先从电话里接收电报，用铅笔潦草地把内容记下来，再坚定地要求给她寄一份复印件以便核实。所以接到一份她称为“真的电报”的电报的时候，她吃了一惊。
速带巴特勒夫人和米兰达去你家刻不容缓
急需去看医生动手术
她径直走到厨房，朱迪思•巴特勒正在那儿做柑橘果冻。
“朱迪，”奥利弗夫人说，“快去收拾一下行李。我要回伦敦了，你和米兰达跟我一起回去。”
“谢谢你，阿里阿德涅，但是我这里还有很多事要做。而且你不用今天就急匆匆往回赶吧，不是吗？”
“不，我必须走，有人告诉我必须走。”奥利弗夫人说。
“谁告诉你的——你的管家吗？”
“不是，”奥利弗夫人说，“别人。是我会服从的少数人之一。快点儿，得赶紧。”
“我现在不想离开家呢，我不去了。”
“你必须去，”奥利弗夫人说，“车已经准备好了，我让他在门口等着呢。我们马上就能走。”
“我不想带着米兰达。我可以把她托给别人照顾，雷诺兹家或者罗伊娜•德雷克。”
“米兰达也得去。”奥利弗夫人坚决地打断她说，“别推搪了，朱迪思。这很严重。我都不明白你怎么会想把米兰达留在雷诺兹家，他们家有两个孩子都被杀了！”
“对，是这样。你是说他家的房子有什么问题吗？我是说他家有人……哦，我想说什么呢？”
“我们说得太多了。”奥利弗夫人说，“别管那么多了。”她补充道，“如果还会有人被杀，我觉得最可能的就是安•雷诺兹。”
“他们家这是怎么了？为什么一个接一个都要被杀呢？哦，阿里阿德涅，太可怕了！”
“是的，”奥利弗夫人说，“但有时候就该感到害怕。我刚接到一份电报，我必须按上面说的行动。”
“哦，我没听到电话响呀。”
“不是通过电话发来的，是直接送到门口的。”
她犹豫了一会儿，然后把电报递给了她的朋友。
“这是什么意思？手术？”
“扁桃体炎，可能是，”奥利弗夫人说，“米兰达上周不是嗓子疼吗？是不是该带米兰达去伦敦看看喉科专家？”
“你疯了吗，阿里阿德涅？”
“可能吧，”奥利弗夫人说，“我可能在胡言乱语。快点儿。米兰达会很喜欢在伦敦的生活的，你不用担心。她不用去做什么手术。这只是侦探小说里说的‘幌子’。我们会带她去剧院，看歌剧或者芭蕾，她想看什么都行。总的来说，我觉得带她去看芭蕾更好。”
“我被吓到了。”朱迪思说。
阿里阿德涅•奥利弗看着她的朋友。她稍微有些发抖。奥利弗夫人想，她看起来比平时更像水中女神了，更超凡脱俗了。
“快走吧，”奥利弗夫人说，“我答应过赫尔克里•波洛，一接到他的消息就带你们走。现在，他已经通知我了。”
“究竟发生了什么？”朱迪思问，“我真不知道我为什么要走到这一步。”
“我有时也想知道，”奥利弗夫人说，“但是谁也不知道谁会住到哪儿去。我有一个朋友有一天搬到沼泽地的大叶榕底下去住了。我问他为什么想搬到那里住，他说他一直想去，并且住在那儿，一退休他就打算去了。我从没去过那儿，但听着就潮乎乎的。那儿究竟是什么样的呢？他说他也不知道，因为他也没去过，可就是一直向往住在那儿。顺便说一下，他头脑很清醒。”
“那他去了吗？”
“去了。”
“到那儿之后他喜欢那儿吗？”
“这个，我还没听说呢。”奥利弗夫人说，“但是人总是很奇怪。他们想去做的事，或者觉得非做不可的事……”她走到花园里，喊道，“米兰达，我们要去伦敦啦。”
米兰达慢慢地向她们走过来。
“去伦敦？”
“咱们坐阿里阿德涅的车去，”她妈妈说，“咱们去那儿的剧院。奥利弗夫人可能能买到芭蕾演出的票。你想去看芭蕾吗？”
“我想看。”米兰达说。她的眼睛亮晶晶的。“我得先去跟我的一个朋友说一声，跟他告别。”
“我们马上就要走啦。”
“哦，我会很快的，我得说一声，我答应过的。”
她顺着花园跑出去，在门口消失了。
“米兰达的朋友是谁？”奥利弗夫人有些好奇地问。
“我也不知道，”朱迪思说，“她从来不说这些事，你知道。我想她当作朋友的就只有她在林子里看到的小鸟或者松鼠之类的。我觉得大家都很喜欢她，但是我不知道她有什么特别的朋友。我是说她没带过女孩儿回来喝茶什么的。不像别的女孩儿那样。我觉得她最好的朋友就是乔伊斯•雷诺兹。”她含含糊糊地补充说，“乔伊斯总是给她讲一些大象啊老虎啊之类的奇遇。”她让自己清醒了一下，“好了，既然你这么坚持，我猜我得去收拾打包了。
但是我真的不想离开这儿。我还有许多事没做完，像这个果冻，还有——”
“你必须去。”奥利弗夫人说。她非常坚定。
朱迪思拿着几个行李箱从楼上走下来，米兰达也从侧门跑了进来，跑得上气不接下气的。
“我们不先吃午饭吗？”她问道。
虽然她长得像一个小树妖，但其实她是个爱吃饭的健康孩子。
“我们路上会找个地方吃午饭，”奥利弗夫人说，“在哈弗沙姆的黑孩子饭店就不错。时间应该正好。大概四十分钟到那儿，那儿的饭非常好吃。来吧，米兰达，咱们该出发了。”
“我还没告诉凯西我明天不能跟她一起去看画展了呢。哦，我给她打个电话吧。”
“好吧，你快点儿。”她妈妈说。
米兰达跑进客厅，电话在那儿放着。朱迪思和奥利弗夫人把行李箱搬进汽车里。米兰达从客厅出来了。
“我给她留言了，”她上气不接下气地说，“可以走啦。”
“我觉得你疯了，阿里阿德涅，”朱迪思一边上车一边说，“真是疯了。这到底是为什么呢？”
“到时候就知道了，我猜。”奥利弗夫人说，“我不知道是我疯了还是他疯了。”
“他？谁呀？”
“赫尔克里•波洛。”奥利弗夫人回答说。
3伦敦。赫尔克里•波洛正和其他四个人坐在一间房间里。第一位是蒂莫西•拉格伦督察，在他的上司面前他总是这副恭恭敬敬、一本正经的样子；第二位是斯彭斯警司；第三位是阿尔弗雷德•里士满，该郡的警察局局长；最后一位是来自公诉办的一位检察官，表情冷酷，一看就是搞法律的。四个人表情各异地看着波洛，或者也可以称为面无表情。
“您似乎很肯定，波洛先生？”
“我的确很确定。”赫尔克里•波洛说，“如果一个案子是这么发生的，那人们就会认为它肯定是这样，除非能找出反证。如果找不出反证，那就会更加印证人们的观点。”
“让我说的话，作案动机太复杂了。”
“不，”波洛说，“实际上一点儿也不复杂，而是太简单了，简单到我们很难认清。”
检察官看起来颇为怀疑。
“我们很快就能有一份确凿的证据了，”拉格伦督察说，“当然，如果这一点是错误的……”
“铃儿响叮咚，猫咪不在井中？”赫尔克里•波洛问，“您是这个意思吗？”
“嗯，你得承认这只是你的猜测。”
“证据都指向那里。让一个女孩儿消失的原因并不多。一是她跟一个男人走了，二是她死了。其他的都太牵强，实际上从没发生过。”
“您有什么特别值得一提的证据吗，波洛先生？”
“是的。我联系了一家很著名的房地产公司。我的一个朋友，他专门负责西印度群岛、爱琴海、亚德里亚海和地中海等区域的房地产业务，主要是些气候宜人的小岛。他们的顾客通常都非常富有。这是一份最近的交易文件，你们也许会感兴趣。”
他递过去一张折着的纸。
“您认为这和案子相关？”
“没错。”
“我觉得买卖岛屿是那个国家禁止的吧？”
“有钱能使鬼推磨。”
“您还能提出其他证据吗？”
“二十四小时之内，我也许能提供一个或多或少能起决定作用的证据。”
“是什么？”
“一位目击证人。”
“您是指——”
“亲眼见到谋杀的证人。”
那位检察官先生一脸怀疑地打量着波洛。
“那位目击证人现在在哪儿？”
“来伦敦的路上，我相信并希望如此。”
“您似乎有点儿——不安。”
“的确，我尽力去保护她们，但是我承认我很害怕。是的，即使采取了保护措施我还是害怕。因为，您知道，我们——我该怎么说呢？——我们的对手残忍冷酷、反应迅速、贪得无厌，超乎我们的想象。我不确定，但我觉得有可能——可以说，有点发疯了吧？不是天生的，而是后天的。一颗种子生根发芽，并且迅速成长起来，而现在已经控制了他，使他对生命非常残忍，泯灭了人性。”
“我们必须听取其他意见，”检察官先生说，“不能仓促行事。当然，很大程度上取决于——林业部门的报告。如果那是真的，我们就得重新考虑了。”
赫尔克里•波洛站了起来。“我得走了。我已经把我知道的、我担心的，以及我能预见的情况都说了。我会跟您保持联系的。”
他用外国礼节和在场的人挨个儿握了手，然后离开了。
“这个人怎么跟江湖骗子似的。”检察官先生说，“您不觉得他有些疯疯癫癫吗？我是说，脑子有些不正常。而且他都一大把年纪了，我觉得不能相信这么大年纪的人的能力。”
“我觉得您可以信赖他，”警察局局长说，“至少，这是我的印象。斯彭斯，我们认识很多年了，你是他的朋友，你觉得他有点儿老糊涂了吗？”
“不，我不这么觉得。”斯彭斯警司说，“你怎么认为，拉格伦？”
“我最近才认识他，先生。刚开始我觉得他——呃，他说话的方式、他的想法都很古怪。但是我基本被他说服了。我想结果会证明他是对的。”
Twenty-four
Twenty-four
IMrs. Oliver had ensconced herself at a table in the window of The Black Boy. It was still fairlyearly, so the dining room was not very full. Presently, Judith Butler returned from powdering hernose and sat down opposite her and examined the menu.
“What does Miranda like?” asked Mrs. Oliver. “We might as well order for her as well. Isuppose she’ll be back in a minute.”
“She likes roast chicken.”
“Well, that’s easy then. What about you?”
“I’ll have the same.”
“Three roast chickens,” Mrs. Oliver ordered.
She leaned back, studying her friend.
“Why are you staring at me in that way?”
“I was thinking,” said Mrs. Oliver.
“Thinking what?”
“Thinking really how very little I knew about you.”
“Well, that’s the same with everybody, isn’t it?”
“You mean, one never knows all about anyone.”
“I shouldn’t think so.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” said Mrs. Oliver.
Both women were silent for some time.
“They’re rather slow serving things here.”
“It’s coming now, I think,” said Mrs. Oliver.
A waitress arrived with a tray full of dishes.
“Miranda’s a long time. Does she know where the dining room is?”
“Yes, of course she does. We looked in on the way.” Judith got up impatiently. “I’ll have to goand fetch her.”
“I wonder if perhaps she gets car sick.”
“She used to when she was younger.”
She returned some four or five minutes later.
“She’s not in the Ladies’,” she said. “There’s a door outside it into the garden. Perhaps she wentout that way to look at a bird or something. She’s like that.”
“No time to look at birds today,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Go and call her or something. We want toget on.”
II
Elspeth McKay pricked some sausages with a fork, laid them on a baking dish, put it in theFrigidair and started to peel potatoes.
The telephone rang.
“Mrs. McKay? Sergeant Goodwin here. Is your brother there?”
“No. He’s in London today.”
“I’ve rung him there—he’s left. When he gets back, tell him we’ve had a positive result.”
“You mean you’ve found a body in the well?”
“Not much use clamming up about it. The word’s got around already.”
“Who is it? The au pair girl?”
“Seems like it.”
“Poor girl,” said Elspeth. “Did she throw herself in—or what?”
“It wasn’t suicide—she was knifed. It was murder all right.”
III
After her mother had left the Ladies’ Room, Miranda waited for a minute or two. Then she openedthe door, cautiously peered out, opened the side door to the garden which was close at hand andran down the garden path that led round to the back yard of what had once been a coaching innand was now a garage. She went out at a small door that enabled pedestrians to get into a laneoutside. A little farther down the lane a car was parked. A man with beetling grey eyebrows and agrey beard was sitting in it reading a newspaper. Miranda opened the door and climbed in besidethe driving seat. She laughed.
“You do look funny.”
“Have a hearty laugh, there’s nothing to stop you.”
The car started, went down the lane, turned right, turned left, turned right again and came out ona secondary road.
“We’re all right for time,” said the grey-bearded man. “At the right moment you’ll see thedouble axe as it ought to be seen. And Kilterbury Down, too. Wonderful view.”
A car dashed past them so closely that they were almost forced into the hedge.
“Young idiots,” said the grey-bearded man.
One of the young men had long hair reaching over his shoulders and large, owlish spectacles.
The other one affected a more Spanish appearance with sideburns.
“You don’t think Mummy will worry about me?” asked Miranda.
“She won’t have time to worry about you. By the time she worries about you, you’ll have gotwhere you want to be.”
IV
In London, Hercule Poirot picked up the telephone. Mrs. Oliver’s voice came over.
“We’ve lost Miranda.”
“What do you mean, lost her?”
“We had lunch at The Black Boy. She went to the loo. She didn’t come back. Somebody saidthey saw her driving away with an elderly man. But it mightn’t have been her. It might have beensomeone else. It—”
“Someone should have stayed with her. Neither of you ought to have let her out of your sight. Itold you there was danger. Is Mrs. Butler very worried?”
“Of course she’s worried. What do you think? She’s frantic. She insists on ringing the police.”
“Yes, that would be the natural thing to do. I will ring them also.”
“But why should Miranda be in danger?”
“Don’t you know? You ought to by now.” He added, “The body’s been found. I’ve just heard—”
“What body?”
“A body in a well.”
第二十四章
第二十四章
1奥利弗夫人舒适地坐在黑孩子餐厅靠窗户的一张桌子前。时间还很早，餐厅里人不多。朱迪思•巴特勒从洗手间出来，走到她对面坐下，拿起菜单看起来。
“米兰达爱吃什么？”奥利弗夫人问，“我们替她一起点了，她应该很快就回来了。”
“她爱吃烤鸡。”
“好，那就简单了。你呢？”
“我也一样。”
“我们要三份烤鸡。”奥利弗夫人点了菜。
她靠在椅背上，盯着她的朋友看。
“你这么盯着我干什么？”
“我在思考。”奥利弗夫人说。
“思考什么？”
“思考我到底有多不了解你。”
“这个，每个人都一样，不是吗？”
“你是说，人们永远不会完全了解一个人？”
“我觉得是这样。”
“也许你说对了。”奥利弗夫人说。
两个人都沉默了一段时间。
“他们上菜有点儿慢。”
“该上了，我想。”奥利弗夫人说。
一个女服务员端了满满一托盘菜过来了。
“米兰达怎么去了这么久。她知道餐厅在哪儿吗？”
“知道，肯定知道。我们在路上看到了。”朱迪思不耐烦地站起来，“我去叫她。”
“我猜她也许是晕车了。”
“她小时候总是晕车。”
四五分钟之后，朱迪思回来了。
“她没在女洗手间。”她说，“那儿有一扇门通到花园，也许她从那儿出去看小鸟什么的去了。她经常这样。”
“今天可没时间看小鸟。”奥利弗夫人说，“去找找她吧，我们得赶路。”
2埃尔斯佩斯•麦凯用叉子把香肠叉到烤盘里，然后放进冰箱，开始削土豆皮。
电话铃响起来。
“是麦凯夫人吧？我是古德温警官。您哥哥在家吗？”
“不在。他在伦敦。”
“我给那儿打电话了——他已经走了。等他回来，麻烦您告诉他结果跟预想的一样。”
“您是说你们在井里发现尸体了？”
“想保密也没用了。消息已经都传开了。”
“是谁的？互换生女孩儿？”
“应该是她。”
“可怜的姑娘，”埃尔斯佩斯说，“是她自己跳进去的——还是？”
“不是自杀——她是被刀刺死的。肯定是谋杀。”
3妈妈从洗手间出去之后，米兰达又等了一小会儿，然后她打开门，谨慎地向外看了看，打开通向花园的侧门，顺着花园的小径向一个汽修厂的后院跑去。她从一个仅能容一个人通过的小门钻出去，外面是一条乡间小道。小道的不远处停着一辆车，一个眉毛胡子都灰白的人正坐在里面看报纸。米兰达打开车门，爬上副驾驶座。她哈哈大笑起来。
“你看上去很滑稽。”
“尽情笑吧，没人管你。”
车开了，沿着小路一直走，右转，左转，然后又右转，开上了一条二级公路。
“时间正好来得及，”灰白胡子的人说，“到时候你就能看到双斧了。还有坎特伯雷丘陵。景色非常棒。”
一辆车紧擦着他们的车超了过去，差点儿把他们挤到路边的石头上。
“年轻的傻瓜们。”灰白胡子的人说。
其中一个年轻人头发垂到了肩膀上，戴着大大的、猫头鹰似的大墨镜，另一个留着络腮胡，看上去更像西班牙人。
“你说妈妈会担心我吗？”米兰达问。
“她没时间担心你。等她开始担心的时候，你已经到你想去的地方了。”
4伦敦。赫尔克里•波洛拿起电话。奥利弗夫人的声音传过来。
“我们把米兰达弄丢了。”
“什么意思，把她丢了？”
“我们在黑孩子餐厅吃午饭，她去厕所了，然后就没回来。有人说看到她坐上一位老人的车走了。但也可能不是她，可能是别人。那——”
“你们应该跟她在一块儿，不应该让她离开你们的视线。我告诉过你们会有危险。巴特勒夫人很担心吧？”
“她当然担心。你怎么想？她要急疯了，一直要报警。”
“嗯，当然要报警。我也会给他们打电话。”
“但是你为什么说米兰达会有危险？”
“你还不知道？你现在应该知道了。”波洛补充道，“尸体找到了。我刚听说——”
“什么尸体？”
“井里的尸体。”
Twenty-five
Twenty-five
“It’s beautiful,” said Miranda, looking round her.
Kilterbury Ring was a local beauty spot though its remains were not particularly famous. Theyhad been dismantled many hundreds of years ago. Yet here and there a tall megalithic stone stillstood, upright, telling of a long past ritual worship. Miranda asked questions.
“Why did they have all these stones here?”
“For ritual. Ritual worship. Ritual sacrifice. You understand about sacrifice, don’t you,Miranda?”
“I think so.”
“It has to be, you see. It’s important.”
“You mean, it’s not a sort of punishment? It’s something else?”
“Yes, it’s something else. You die so that others should live. You die so that beauty should live.
Should come into being. That’s the important thing.”
“I thought perhaps—”
“Yes, Miranda?”
“I thought perhaps you ought to die because what you’ve done has killed someone else.”
“What put that into your head?”
“I was thinking of Joyce. If I hadn’t told her about something, she wouldn’t have died, wouldshe?”
“Perhaps not.”
“I’ve felt worried since Joyce died. I needn’t have told her, need I? I told her because I wantedto have something worth while telling her. She’d been to India and she kept talking about it—about the tigers and about the elephants and their gold hangings and decorations and theirtrappings. And I think, too—suddenly I wanted somebody else to know, because you see I hadn’treally thought about it before.” She added: “Was—was that a sacrifice, too?”
“In a way.”
Miranda remained contemplative, then she said, “Isn’t it time yet?”
“The sun is not quite right yet. Another five minutes, perhaps, and then it will fall directly onthe stone.”
Again they sat silent, beside the car.
“Now, I think,” said Miranda’s companion, looking up at the sky where the sun was dippingtowards the horizon. “Now is a wonderful moment. No one here. Nobody comes up at this time ofday and walks up to the top of Kilterbury Down to see Kilterbury Ring. Too cold in Novemberand the blackberries are over. I’ll show you the double axe first. The double axe on the stone.
Carved there when they came from Mycenae or from Crete hundreds of years ago. It’s wonderful,Miranda, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it’s very wonderful,” said Miranda. “Show it me.”
They walked up to the topmost stone. Beside it lay a fallen one and a little farther down theslope a slightly inclined one leant as though bent with the weariness of years.
“Are you happy, Miranda?”
“Yes, I’m very happy.”
“There’s the sign here.”
“Is that really the double axe?”
“Yes, it’s worn with time but that’s it. That’s the symbol. Put your hand on it. And now—nowwe will drink to the past and the future and to beauty.”
“Oh, how lovely,” said Miranda.
A golden cup was put into her hand, and from a flask her companion poured a golden liquid intoit.
“It tastes of fruit, of peaches. Drink it, Miranda, and you will be happier still.”
Miranda took the gilt cup. She sniffed at it.
“Yes. Yes, it does smell of peaches. Oh look, there’s the sun. Really red gold—looking asthough it was lying on the edge of the world.”
He turned her towards it.
“Hold the cup and drink.”
She turned obediently. One hand was still on the megalithic stone and its semierased sign. Hercompanion now was standing behind her. From below the inclined stone down the hill, two figuresslipped out, bent half double. Those on the summit had their backs to them, and did not evennotice them. Quickly but stealthily they ran up the hill.
“Drink to beauty, Miranda.”
“Like hell she does!” said a voice behind them.
A rose velvet coat shot over a head, a knife was knocked from the hand that was slowly rising.
Nicholas Ransom caught hold of Miranda, clasping her tightly and dragging her away from theother two who were struggling.
“You bloody little idiot,” said Nicholas Ransom. “Coming up here with a barmy murderer. Youshould have known what you were doing.”
“I did in a way,” said Miranda. “I was going to be a sacrifice, I think, because you see it was allmy fault. It was because of me that Joyce was killed. So it was right for me to be a sacrifice,wasn’t it? It would be a kind of ritual killing.”
“Don’t start talking nonsense about ritual killings. They’ve found that other girl. You know, theau pair girl who has been missing so long. A couple of years or something like that. They allthought she’d run away because she’d forged a Will. She hadn’t run away. Her body was found inthe well.”
“Oh!” Miranda gave a sudden cry of anguish. “Not in the wishing well? Not in the wishing wellthat I wanted to find so badly? Oh, I don’t want her to be in the wishing well. Who—who put herthere?”
“The same person who brought you here.”
第二十五章
第二十五章
“真漂亮。”米兰达看着她周围的一切感叹道。
坎特伯雷石环是当地的一处景点，尽管它现在没有以前出名了。几百年前它就被拆除了，但是这里到处残留着高大的花岗岩，高高耸立的岩石向人们讲述着很久之前的礼拜仪式。米兰达一直问个不停。
“为什么他们在这儿弄了这么多石头？”
“为了仪式。礼拜仪式。献祭仪式。你知道什么是献祭吧，米兰达？”
“我知道。”
“必须那么做，你知道，那很重要。”
“你是说，那不是一种惩罚？是别的什么？”
“对，是别的。只有你死了，别人才能活下去。你死了，美丽才能存在，才能制造美。
这才是重要的事。”
“我觉得也许——”
“也许什么，米兰达？”
“我觉得一个人应该去死，是因为他做的事把别人害死了。”
“你怎么会这么想呢？”
“我想到了乔伊斯。如果我没告诉她那些事，她就不会死了，不是吗？”
“可能吧。”
“乔伊斯死了之后我一直很难过。我不必告诉她的，不是吗？我告诉她只是因为我想有什么值得告诉她的事。她去过印度，她一直讲那些——老虎啊大象啊还有人们的金挂饰什么的。所以我也想——我突然想让别人也知道。因为你知道，我以前真的没那么想过。”她补充说，“那——那也算献祭吗？”
“也算是。”
米兰达继续沉思，过了一会儿她突然问：“时间还没到吗？”
“太阳还没到那个位置。再等五分钟就差不多了，它会直接照在石头上。”
他们又在车旁陷入了沉默。
“就是现在。”米兰达的同伴说，他看着天空，太阳正慢慢向地平线沉去，“这是一个美妙的时刻。没有其他人在这儿。没人会在这个时间爬到坎特伯雷丘陵上来看坎特伯雷石环。十一月太冷了，也没有黑莓采了。我先给你指双斧。双斧是刻在石头上的，几百年前从迈锡尼或者克里特岛运过来的时候就有。很奇妙，不是吗，米兰达？”
“是的，非常奇妙，指给我看吧。”米兰达说。
他们走到了最高的石头上。旁边的一块石头落到了地上，稍微远点的斜坡上有一块微微倾斜着，仿佛被岁月压弯了腰。
“你快乐吗，米兰达？”
“是的，我很快乐。”
“就在这儿。”
“那真是双斧吗？”
“是的。随着时间的流逝有些磨损，但确实是它。这是一种象征。把你的手放在上面。
现在——我们一起为过去和未来，为美干杯。”
“哦，太美了。”米兰达说。
一只金色的酒杯放在了她的手上，她的同伴用一个细颈瓶往里面倒金色的液体。
“水果味的，蜜桃味。喝了它，米兰达，你就会一直快乐下去。”
米兰达拿起镀金的酒杯，闻了闻。
“对，没错，闻起来是桃子味儿。哦，看，太阳。真正的金红色——就好像它躺在世界的边缘。”
他把她的头转过来对着酒杯。
“拿起酒杯，喝了它。”
她顺从地转过身来。一只手还放在花岗岩上快被磨平的印记上。她的同伴站在她的身后。山坡下倾斜的那块石头旁，两条人影悄悄地溜了出来，弯着腰前进。高处的那两个人背对着他们，一点儿也没有发现。他们很快就悄悄爬上了山顶。
“为美干杯，米兰达。”
“不要命了她才喝！”一个声音在他们背后说。
一件玫瑰色的天鹅绒大衣朝他的头飞来，一把匕首从缓缓举起来的手里脱落了。尼古拉斯•兰瑟姆紧紧抓住米兰达，把她从正在打斗的两个人身边拉走。
“你这个小笨蛋，”尼古拉斯•兰瑟姆说，“怎么跟一个精神不正常的杀人凶手跑到这儿来了。你应该知道你在做什么。”
“我知道，”米兰达说，“我想我要成为祭品了，因为那都是我的错。都是因为我乔伊斯才被杀的，所以我应该成为祭品，不是吗？这是一种献祭仪式。”
“别胡说，哪儿有什么祭祀仪式。他们找到那个女孩儿了。你知道的，那个消失了很久的互换生女孩儿。大家都以为她逃跑了，因为她伪造了遗嘱。其实她没逃跑。他们在井里发现了她的尸体。”
“啊！”米兰达突然痛苦地尖叫一声，“不是许愿井吧？不是我一直想找的许愿井吧？
哦，我不希望她在许愿井里。谁——是谁把她扔进去的？”
“就是把你带到这儿的那个人。”
Twenty-six
Twenty-six
Once again four men sat looking at Poirot. Timothy Raglan, Superintendent Spence and the ChiefConstable had the pleased expectant look of a cat who is counting on a saucer of cream tomaterialize at any moment. The fourth man still had the expression of one who suspends belief.
“Well, Monsieur Poirot,” said the Chief Constable, taking charge of the proceedings and leavingthe D.P.P. man to hold a watching brief. “We’re all here—”
Poirot made a motion with his hand. Inspector Raglan left the room and returned ushering in awoman of thirty odd, a girl, and two adolescent young men.
He introduced them to the Chief Constable. “Mrs. Butler, Miss Miranda Butler, Mr. NicholasRansom and Mr. Desmond Holland.”
Poirot got up and took Miranda’s hand. “Sit here by your mother, Miranda—Mr. Richmondhere who is what is called a Chief Constable, wants to ask you some questions. He wants you toanswer them. It concerns something you saw—over a year ago now, nearer two years. Youmentioned this to one person, and, so I understand, to one person only. Is that correct?”
“I told Joyce.”
“And what exactly did you tell Joyce?”
“That I’d seen a murder.”
“Did you tell anyone else?”
“No. But I think Leopold guessed. He listens, you know. At doors. That sort of thing. He likesknowing people’s secrets.”
“You have heard that Joyce Reynolds, on the afternoon before the Hallowe’en party, claimedthat she herself had seen a murder committed. Was that true?”
“No. She was just repeating what I’d told her—but pretending that it had happened to her.”
“Will you tell us now just what you did see.”
“I didn’t know at first that it was a murder. I thought there had been an accident. I thought she’dfallen from up above somewhere.”
“Where was this?”
“In the Quarry Garden—in the hollow where the fountain used to be. I was up in the branchesof a tree. I’d been looking at a squirrel and one has to keep very quiet, or they rush away. Squirrelsare very quick.”
“Tell us what you saw.”
“A man and a woman lifted her up and were carrying her up the path. I thought they weretaking her to a hospital or to the Quarry House. Then the woman stopped suddenly and said,‘Someone is watching us,’ and stared at my tree. Somehow it made me feel frightened. I kept verystill. The man said ‘Nonsense,’ and they went on. I saw there was blood on a scarf and there was aknife with blood on that—and I thought perhaps someone had tried to kill themselves—and I wenton keeping very still.”
“Because you were frightened?”
“Yes, but I don’t know why.”
“You didn’t tell your mother?”
“No. I thought perhaps I oughtn’t to have been there watching. And then the next day nobodysaid anything about an accident, so I forgot about it. I never thought about it again until—”
She stopped suddenly. The Chief Constable opened his mouth—then shut it. He looked atPoirot and made a very slight gesture.
“Yes, Miranda,” said Poirot, “until what?”
“It was as though it was happening all over again. It was a green woodpecker this time, and Iwas being very still, watching it from behind some bushes. And those two were sitting theretalking—about an island—a Greek island. She said something like, ‘It’s all signed up. It’s ours,we can go to it whenever we like. But we’d better go slow still—not rush things.’ And then thewoodpecker flew away, and I moved. And she said—‘Hush—be quiet—somebody’s watching us.’
It was just the way she’d said it before, and she had just the same look on her face, and I wasfrightened again, and I remembered. And this time I knew. I knew it had been a murder I had seenand it had been a dead body they were carrying away to hide somewhere. You see, I wasn’t a childany more. I knew—things and what they must mean—the blood and the knife and the dead bodyall limp—”
“When was this?” asked the Chief Constable. “How long ago?”
Miranda thought for a moment.
“Last March—just after Easter.”
“Can you say definitely who these people were, Miranda?”
“Of course I can.” Miranda looked bewildered.
“You saw their faces?”
“Of course.”
“Who were they?”
“Mrs. Drake and Michael….”
It was not a dramatic denunciation. Her voice was quiet, with something in it like wonder, but itcarried conviction.
The Chief Constable said, “You did not tell anyone. Why not?”
“I thought—I thought it might have been a sacrifice.”
“Who told you that?”
“Michael told me—he said sacrifices were necessary.”
Poirot said gently, “You loved Michael?”
“Oh yes,” said Miranda, “I loved him very much.”
第二十六章
第二十六章
四个男人再次坐在一起看着波洛。蒂莫西•拉格伦、斯彭斯警司和警察局局长都一脸期盼，好像期待着马上就能吃到一碟奶油的猫。而第四个人还是将信将疑。
“那么，波洛先生，”警察局局长主导着会议的议程，委托公诉办的检察官先生代为提醒法院的各个程序。“我们都到齐了——”
波洛打了个手势。拉格伦督察离开房间，带回来一个三十岁左右的女人、一个女孩儿和两个年轻人。
他一一为警察局局长介绍。“巴特勒夫人，米兰达•巴特勒小姐，尼古拉斯•兰瑟姆先生和德斯蒙德•霍兰德先生。”
波洛站起来，牵着米兰达的手。“坐在你妈妈身边，米兰达——这位是里士满先生，是郡里的警察局局长，他有几个问题想问你，是关于你看到的一些事——一年多前的，大概快两年了吧。你对一个人提起过，据我所知，只对那一个人说过。对吗？”
“我告诉乔伊斯了。”
“告诉她什么了？”
“我见过一起谋杀。”
“你告诉过别人吗？”
“没有。但是我觉得利奥波德可能猜到了。他经常偷听，您知道。在门口偷听什么的。
他喜欢偷听人们的秘密。”
“你应该也听说了，乔伊斯•雷诺兹在万圣节前夜晚会之前说她自己看到过一场谋杀，那是真的吗？”
“不是，她只是在重复我的话——假装是她亲眼看到的。”
“告诉我们你究竟看到了什么。”
“我刚开始不知道那是谋杀。我以为那是意外，我以为是她自己从高处摔下来的。”
“你在哪儿看见的？”
“在石矿花园——以前有喷泉的凹地那儿。我在树枝上坐着，观察一只松鼠，所以得非常安静，要不就把它吓跑了。松鼠跑得特别快。”
“你看到了什么？”
“一个男人和一个女人把她抬起来，抬着她沿着小路往前走。我以为他们是带她去医院或者去石矿府。突然那个女人停下来，说：‘有人在看我们。’她还往我待的那棵树上看。
不知道怎么的我就很害怕，我吓得一动也不敢动。那个男人说：‘不可能。’他们就走了。
我看见围巾上面有血，还有一把带血的刀在上面——我就想也许是有人想要自杀——不过我还是没敢动。”
“因为你很害怕？”
“是的，但是我也不知道为什么。”
“你没告诉你妈妈？”
“没有。我想也许我不该在那儿看的。第二天也没人说谁出了什么意外，所以我就把那件事儿忘了。我没再想起来过，直到——”
她突然停下了。警察局局长张了张嘴——又闭上了。他看了看波洛，隐晦地向他打了个手势。
“接着说，米兰达，”波洛说，“直到什么？”
“就好像那天的事又发生了一遍。这次是一只绿色的啄木鸟，我在灌木丛后面一动不动地看着它。那两个人正坐在那儿说话——关于一个小岛——希腊的小岛。她好像是说：‘都签好了，它是我们的了，我们随时可以去那儿。但是我们最好还是慢慢来——不能匆忙行事。’这时候啄木鸟飞走了，我动了一下。然后她说：‘嘘——安静——有人在看我们。’跟上次她说话时的语气一样，表情也一样。我又开始害怕，想起了上次的事。这次我知道了。我知道了上次我看到的就是谋杀，他们抬走的是一具尸体，他们要把它藏起来。您瞧，我不是个孩子了。我明白了那些东西，还有它们的意义，血、刀子，还有软绵绵的尸体——”
“这是什么时候的事？”警察局局长问道，“多久以前？”
米兰达想了一会儿。
“去年三月——刚过了复活节。”
“你能确定那两个人是谁吗，米兰达？”
“当然能。”米兰达有些迷惑。
“你看到他们的脸了吗？”
“当然。”
“他们是谁？”
“德雷克夫人还有迈克尔……”
她的话里并没有夸张的指责意味。她的声音很平静，有一点好奇，但是很肯定。
警察局局长问道：“你没告诉别人，为什么呢？”
“我以为——我以为那是祭祀。”
“谁告诉你这些的？”
“迈克尔说的——他说献祭是必不可少的。”
波洛温和地问：“你爱迈克尔吗？”
“哦，是的，”米兰达说，“我很爱他。”
Twenty-seven
Twenty-seven
“Now I’ve got you here at last,” said Mrs. Oliver, “I want to know all about everything.”
She looked at Poirot with determination and asked severely:
“Why haven’t you come sooner?”
“My excuses, Madame, I have been much occupied assisting the police with their inquiries.”
“It’s criminals who do that. What on earth made you think of Rowena Drake being mixed up ina murder? Nobody else would have dreamed of it?”
“It was simple as soon as I got the vital clue.”
“What do you call the vital clue?”
“Water. I wanted someone who was at the party and who was wet, and who shouldn’t have beenwet. Whoever killed Joyce Reynolds would necessarily have got wet. You hold down a vigorouschild with its head in a full bucket of water, and there will be struggling and splashing and you arebound to be wet. So something has got to happen to provide an innocent explanation of how yougot wet. When everyone crowded into the dining room for the Snapdragon, Mrs. Drake took Joycewith her to the library. If your hostess asks you to come with her, naturally you go. And certainlyJoyce had no suspicion of Mrs. Drake. All Miranda had told her was that she had once seen amurder committed. And so Joyce was killed and her murderer was fairly well soaked with water.
There must be a reason for that and she set about creating a reason. She had to get a witness as tohow she got wet. She waited on the landing with an enormous vase of flowers filled with water. Indue course Miss Whittaker came out from the Snapdragon room—it was hot in there. Mrs. Drakepretended to start nervously, and let the vase go, taking care that it flooded her person as it crasheddown to the hall below. She ran down the stairs and she and Miss Whittaker picked up the piecesand the flowers while Mrs. Drake complained at the loss of her beautiful vase. She managed togive Miss Whittaker the impression that she had seen something or someone coming out of theroom where a murder had been committed. Miss Whittaker took the statement at its face value, butwhen she mentioned it to Miss Emlyn, Miss Emlyn realized the really interesting thing about it.
And so she urged Miss Whittaker to tell me the story.
“And so,” said Poirot, twirling his moustaches, “I, too, knew who the murderer of Joyce was.”
“And all the time Joyce had never seen any murder committed at all!”
“Mrs. Drake did not know that. But she had always suspected that someone had been there inthe Quarry Wood when she and Michael Garfield had killed Olga Seminoff, and might have seen ithappen.”
“When did you know it had been Miranda and not Joyce?”
“As soon as common sense forced me to accept the universal verdict that Joyce was a liar. ThenMiranda was clearly indicated. She was frequently in the Quarry Wood, observing birds andsquirrels. Joyce was, as Miranda told me, her best friend. She said: ‘We tell each othereverything.’ Miranda was not at the party, so the compulsive liar Joyce could use the story herfriend had told her of having once seen a murder committed—probably in order to impress you,Madame, the well-known crime writer.”
“That’s right, blame it all on me.”
“No, no.”
“Rowena Drake,” mused Mrs. Oliver. “I still can’t believe it of her.”
“She had all the qualities necessary. I have always wondered,” he added, “exactly what sort ofwoman Lady Macbeth was. What would she be like if you met her in real life? Well, I think I havemet her.”
“And Michael Garfield? They seem such an unlikely pair.”
“Interesting—Lady Macbeth and Narcissus, an unusual combination.”
“Lady Macbeth,” Mrs. Oliver murmured thoughtfully.
“She was a handsome woman — efficient and competent — a born administrator — anunexpectedly good actress. You should have heard her lamenting over the death of the little boyLeopold and weeping large sobs into a dry handkerchief.”
“Disgusting.”
“You remember I asked you who, in your opinion, were or were not nice people.”
“Was Michael Garfield in love with her?”
“I doubt if Michael Garfield has ever loved anyone but himself. He wanted money—a lot ofmoney. Perhaps he believed at first he could influence Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe to dote upon him tothe extent of making a Will in his favour—but Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe was not that kind ofwoman.”
“What about the forgery? I still don’t understand that. What was the point of it all?”
“It was confusing at first. Too much forgery, one might say. But if one considered it, thepurpose of it was clear. You had only to consider what actually happened.
“Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe’s fortune all went to Rowena Drake. The codicil produced was soobviously forged that any lawyer would spot it. It would be contested, and the evidence of expertswould result in its being upset, and the original Will would stand. As Rowena Drake’s husbandhad recently died she would inherit everything.”
“But what about the codicil that the cleaning woman witnessed?”
“My surmise is that Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe discovered that Michael Garfield and RowenaDrake were having an affair—probably before her husband died. In her anger Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe made a codicil to her Will leaving everything to her au pair girl. Probably the girl toldMichael about this—she was hoping to marry him.”
“I thought it was young Ferrier?”
“That was a plausible tale told me by Michael. There was no confirmation of it.”
“Then if he knew there was a real codicil why didn’t he marry Olga and get hold of the moneythat way?”
“Because he doubted whether she really would get the money. There is such a thing as undueinfluence. Mrs. Llewellyn- Smythe was an elderly woman and a sick woman also. All herpreceding Wills had been in favour of her own kith and kin—good sensible Wills such as lawcourts approve of. This girl from foreign parts had been known to her only a year—and had nokind of claim upon her. That codicil even though genuine could have been upset. Besides, I doubtif Olga could have put through the purchase of a Greek island—or would even have been willingto do so. She had no influential friends, or contacts in business circles. She was attracted toMichael, but she looked upon him as a good prospect matrimonially, who would enable her to livein England—which is what she wanted to do.”
“And Rowena Drake?”
“She was infatuated. Her husband had been for many years a crippled invalid. She was middle-aged but she was a passionate woman, and into her orbit came a young man of unusual beauty.
Women fell for him easily—but he wanted—not the beauty of women—but the exercise of hisown creative urge to make beauty. For that he wanted money—a lot of money. As for love—heonly loved himself. He was Narcissus. There is an old French song I heard many years ago—”
He hummed softly.
“Regarde, Narcisse
Regarde dans l’eau
Regarde, Narcisse, que tu es beau
Il n’y a au monde
Que la Beauté
Et la Jeunesse,
Hélas! Et la Jeunesse…
Regarde, Narcisse…
Regarde dans l’eau….”
“I can’t believe—I simply can’t believe that anyone would do murder just to make a garden ona Greek island,” said Mrs. Oliver unbelievingly.
“Can’t you? Can’t you visualize how he held it in his mind? Bare rock, perhaps, but so shapedas to hold possibilities. Earth, cargoes of fertile earth to clothe the bare bones of the rocks—andthen plants, seeds, shrubs, trees. Perhaps he read in the paper of a shipping millionaire who hadcreated an island garden for the woman he loved. And so it came to him—he would make agarden, not for a woman, but—for himself.”
“It still seems to me quite mad.”
“Yes. That happens. I doubt if he even thought of his motive as sordid. He thought of it only asnecessary for the creation of more beauty. He’d gone mad on creation. The beauty of the QuarryWood, the beauty of other gardens he’d laid out and made—and now he envisaged even more—awhole island of beauty. And there was Rowena Drake, infatuated with him. What did she mean tohim but the source of money with which he could create beauty. Yes—he had become mad,perhaps. Whom the gods destroy, they first drive mad.”
“He really wanted his island so much? Even with Rowena Drake tied round his neck as well?
Bossing him the whole time?”
“Accidents can happen. I think one might possibly have happened to Mrs. Drake in due course.”
“One more murder?”
“Yes. It started simply. Olga had to be removed because she knew about the codicil—and shewas also to be the scapegoat, branded as a forger. Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe had hidden the originaldocument, so I think that young Ferrier was given money to produce a similar forged document.
So obviously forged that it would arouse suspicion at once. That sealed his death warrant. LesleyFerrier, I soon decided, had had no arrangement or love affair with Olga. That was a suggestionmade to me by Michael Garfield, but I think it was Michael who paid money to Lesley. It wasMichael Garfield who was laying siege to the au pair girl’s affections, warning her to keep quietabout this and not tell her employer, speaking of possible marriage in the future but at the sametime marking her down cold-bloodedly as the victim whom he and Rowena Drake would need ifthe money was to come to them. It was not necessary for Olga Seminoff to be accused of forgery,or prosecuted. She needed only to be suspected of it. The forgery appeared to benefit her. It couldhave been done by her very easily, there was evidence to the effect that she did copy heremployer’s handwriting and if she was suddenly to disappear, it would be assumed that she hadbeen not only a forger, but quite possibly might have assisted her employer to die suddenly. So ona suitable occasion Olga Seminoff died. Lesley Ferrier was killed in what is purported to havebeen a gang knifing or a knifing by a jealous woman. But the knife that was found in the wellcorresponds very closely with the knife wounds that he suffered. I knew that Olga’s body must behidden somewhere in this neighbourhood, but I had no idea where until I heard Miranda one dayinquiring about a wishing well, urging Michael Garfield to take her there. And he was refusing.
Shortly afterwards when I was talking to Mrs. Goodbody, I said I wondered where that girl haddisappeared to, and she said ‘Ding dong dell, pussy’s in the well’ and then I was quite sure thegirl’s body was in the wishing well. I discovered it was in the wood, in the Quarry Wood, on anincline not far from Michael Garfield’s cottage and I thought that Miranda could have seen eitherthe actual murder or the disposal of the body later. Mrs. Drake and Michael feared that someonehad been a witness—but they had no idea who it was—and as nothing happened they were lulledinto security. They made their plans—they were in no hurry, but they set things in motion. Shetalked about buying land abroad—gave people the idea she wanted to get away from WoodleighCommon. Too many sad associations, referring always to her grief over her husband’s death.
Everything was nicely in train and then came the shock of Hallowe’en and Joyce’s suddenassertion of having witnessed a murder. So now Rowena knew, or thought she knew, who it hadbeen in the wood that day. So she acted quickly. But there was more to come. Young Leopoldasked for money—there were things he wanted to buy, he said. What he guessed or knew isuncertain, but he was Joyce’s brother, and so they probably thought he knew far more than hereally did. And so—he, too, died.”
“You suspected her because of the water clue,” said Mrs. Oliver. “How did you come to suspectMichael Garfield?”
“He fitted,” said Poirot simply. “And then—the last time I spoke to Michael Garfield, I wassure. He said to me, laughing—‘Get thee beyond me, Satan. Go and join your police friends.’ AndI knew then, quite certainly. It was the other way round. I said to myself: ‘I am leaving you behindme, Satan.’ A Satan so young and beautiful as Lucifer can appear to mortals….”
There was another woman in the room—until now she had not spoken, but now she stirred inher chair.
“Lucifer,” she said. “Yes, I see now. He was always that.”
“He was very beautiful,” said Poirot, “and he loved beauty. The beauty that he made with hisbrain and his imagination and his hands. To it he would sacrifice everything. In his own way, Ithink, he loved the child Miranda—but he was ready to sacrifice her—to save himself. He plannedher death very carefully—he made of it a ritual and, as one might put it, indoctrinated her with theidea. She was to let him know if she were leaving Woodleigh Common—he instructed her to meethim at the Inn where you and Mrs. Oliver lunched. She was to have been found on KilterburyRing—there by the sign of the double axe, with a golden goblet by her side—a ritual sacrifice.”
“Mad,” said Judith Butler. “He must have been mad.”
“Madame, your daughter is safe—but there is something I would like to know very much.”
“I think you deserve to know anything I can tell you, Monsieur Poirot.”
“She is your daughter—was she also Michael Garfield’s daughter?”
Judith was silent for a moment, and then she said, “Yes.”
“But she doesn’t know that?”
“No. She has no idea. Meeting him here was a pure coincidence. I knew him when I was ayoung girl. I fell wildly in love with him and then—and then I got afraid.”
“Afraid?”
“Yes. I don’t know why. Not of anything he would do or that sort of thing, just afraid of hisnature. His gentleness, but behind it, a coldness and a ruthlessness. I was even afraid of his passionfor beauty and for creation in his work. I didn’t tell him I was going to have a child. I left him—Iwent away and the baby was born. I invented the story of a pilot husband who had had a crash. Imoved about rather restlessly. I came to Woodleigh Common more or less by chance. I had gotcontacts in Medchester where I could find secretarial work.
“And then one day Michael Garfield came here to work in the Quarry Wood. I don’t think Iminded. Nor did he. All that was over long ago, but later, although I didn’t realize how oftenMiranda went there to the Wood, I did worry—”
“Yes,” said Poirot, “there was a bond between them. A natural affinity. I saw the likenessbetween them—only Michael Garfield, the follower of Lucifer the beautiful, was evil, and yourdaughter has innocence and wisdom, and there is no evil in her.”
He went over to his desk and brought back an envelope. Out of it he drew a delicate pencildrawing.
“Your daughter,” he said.
Judith looked at it. It was signed “Michael Garfield.”
“He was drawing her by the stream,” said Poirot, “in the Quarry Wood. He drew it, he said, sothat he should not forget. He was afraid of forgetting. It wouldn’t have stopped him killing her,though.”
Then he pointed to a pencilled word across the top left hand corner.
“Can you read that?”
She spelt it out slowly.
“Iphigenia.”
“Yes,” said Poirot, “Iphigenia. Agamemnon sacrificed his daughter, so that he should get a windto take his ships to Troy. Michael would have sacrificed his daughter so that he should have a newGarden of Eden.”
“He knew what he was doing,” said Judith. “I wonder—if he would ever have had regrets?”
Poirot did not answer. A picture was forming in his mind of a young man of singular beautylying by the megalithic stone marked with a double axe, and still clasping in his dead fingers thegolden goblet he had seized and drained when retribution had come suddenly to save his victimand to deliver him to justice.
It was so that Michael Garfield had died—a fitting death, Poirot thought—but, alas, there wouldbe no garden blossoming on an island in the Grecian Seas….
Instead there would be Miranda—alive and young and beautiful.
He raised Judith’s hand and kissed it.
“Goodbye, Madame, and remember me to your daughter.”
“She ought always to remember you and what she owes you.”
“Better not—some memories are better buried.”
He went on to Mrs. Oliver.
“Good night, chère Madame. Lady Macbeth and Narcissus. It has been remarkably interesting. Ihave to thank you for bringing it to my notice—”
“That’s right,” said Mrs. Oliver in an exasperated voice, “blame it all on me as usual!”
第二十七章
第二十七章
“你可算来了，”奥利弗夫人说，“我想知道事情的始末。”
她严肃地看着波洛，语气有些嗔怪：“你怎么现在才来？”
“抱歉，夫人，我一直在配合警方的调查。”
“只有罪犯才要接受调查。你到底怎么想到罗伊娜•德雷克会杀人的呢？别人做梦也想不到是她吧？”
“当我得知那条重要线索的时候，就很容易知道了。”
“什么重要线索？”
“水。我想要找到一个在晚会上本来不应该弄湿衣服却湿了的人。杀了乔伊斯•雷诺兹的人肯定都湿透了。把一个活力充沛的孩子的头摁进水里，她肯定会拼命挣扎，水溅得到处都是，那个人肯定会被弄湿。所以那个人就需要一个理由来解释为什么会弄一身水。所有人蜂拥去餐厅玩抓火龙的时候，德雷克夫人把乔伊斯带到了藏书室。如果女主人让你跟她去，你肯定会去的。所以乔伊斯对德雷克夫人没有任何怀疑。米兰达告诉她的只是她看到过一场谋杀。乔伊斯被杀了，而杀她的凶手也会被弄得全身是水，必须有理由解释，于是她就要制造一个理由。她需要一个目击了她被弄湿的证人。她抱着一个盛满花的巨大花瓶在楼梯拐角等着。这时候惠特克小姐从玩抓火龙的房间出来了——里面很热。德雷克夫人假装很紧张，让花瓶掉落了，并留心让花瓶里的水洒到她身上然后再摔下去。她走下楼梯，和惠特克小姐一起捡起花瓶的碎片和鲜花，她还抱怨自己打碎了漂亮的花瓶。她很成功地让惠特克小姐觉得她看到了什么东西，也许是有人从谋杀发生的房间出来。惠特克小姐只看到了事情的表面，但是当她告诉埃姆林小姐之后，埃姆林小姐就意识到了事情背后的真相。所以她劝惠特克小姐把这件事告诉了我。就这样，”波洛捻着胡子说，“我，同样，也知道了杀害乔伊斯的凶手是谁。”
“可是其实乔伊斯根本没见过什么谋杀！”
“德雷克夫人并不知道。可是她一直怀疑她和迈克尔•加菲尔德杀死奥尔加•塞米诺娃的时候有人在石矿花园里，那个人可能看到了他们的所作所为。”
“你是什么时候知道那是米兰达看到的，而不是乔伊斯呢？”
“大家异口同声地说乔伊斯是个小骗子，我也不得不相信。这时，候很多线索开始指向米兰达。她经常在石矿花园里观察小鸟和松鼠。而且米兰达告诉我，乔伊斯是她最好的朋友。她说：‘我们会把所有事情告诉对方。’米兰达没有参加晚会，所以惯于撒谎的乔伊斯就可以讲她朋友的故事，说自己见过一场谋杀——可能是为了吸引你的注意，夫人，一位著名的侦探小说作家。”
“是啊，都是我的错。”
“不，不。”
“罗伊娜•德雷克，”奥利弗夫人思忖着，“我还是无法相信是她。”
“她具备做这件事所必需的所有特性。我以前一直想知道，”他补充道，“麦克白夫人究竟是个什么样的女人。在现实生活中她会是什么样的？现在，我想我已经见过了。”
“那迈克尔•加菲尔德呢？他们看起来可真不像一对儿。”
“很有意思——麦克白夫人和那喀索斯（注：希腊神话中河神刻斐索斯与水泽女神利里俄珀之子。他是一位长相十分清秀的美少年，却对任何姑娘都不动心，只对自己的水中倒影爱慕不已，最终在顾影自怜中抑郁死去。化作水仙花，仍留在水边守望着自己的影子。）。非同寻常的组合。”
“麦克白夫人。”奥利弗夫人若有所思地嘟囔着。
“她很漂亮——还精明能干——一个天生的管理者——还是个出人意料的好演员。你应该听听小利奥波德死了之后她的痛哭声，哭得不能自已，手帕却是干的。”
“真恶心。”
“你记得我问过你，你觉得谁是好人谁不是吗？”
“迈克尔•加菲尔德爱上她了吗？”
“我怀疑除了他自己，他谁也没爱过。他想要钱——很多钱。也许他最初相信他能影响卢埃林-史密斯夫人，让她在遗嘱中赠给他一笔钱——但是卢埃林-史密斯夫人不是那种人。”
“那伪造是怎么回事？我还是理解不了。伪造到底是为了什么？”
“乍一看确实很让人迷惑。必须得说，伪造物太多了。但是如果仔细想的话，伪造的目的是明确的。你只要考虑最终结果就行。
“卢埃林-史密斯夫人的财产最后全部都归罗伊娜•德雷克所有。那条补遗的伪造痕迹太明显了，任何律师都看得出来，所以肯定会进行检验，专家的论证也会推翻这条补遗，原来的遗嘱就会生效。而罗伊娜•德雷克的丈夫已经去世，所以她会继承全部的财产。”
“但是清洁女工见证的那条补遗是怎么回事？”
“我推测卢埃林-史密斯夫人已经发现迈克尔•加菲尔德和罗伊娜•德雷克的不正当关系了——很可能在她丈夫死之前就开始了。卢埃林-史密斯夫人一怒之下就在遗嘱里加了一条补遗，把所有的钱留给那个互换生女孩儿。那个女孩儿可能把这些都告诉了迈克尔——她正盼着跟他结婚。”
“我还以为是小费里尔呢？”
“那是迈克尔给我放的烟幕弹。并没有证据证明此事跟费里尔有关。”
“那如果他知道有一份真的补遗，他为什么不娶了奥尔加呢，那样他也能得到那些钱吧？”
“因为他怀疑她是不是真能得到那笔钱。还有不正当施压这一说呢。卢埃林-史密斯夫人已经年老多病。她之前所有的遗嘱都把遗产留给了她的亲戚，这才是法庭认可的合情合理的遗嘱。她才认识这个外国女孩儿不到一年，女孩儿没有权利继承她的遗产。即使是真的补遗，也能被推翻。另外，我怀疑奥尔加是不是能买到一座希腊小岛，或者甚至她愿不愿意买。她没有有影响力的朋友，跟商业圈也没有接触。她被迈克尔吸引了，只是把他当作一个很好的结婚对象，那样她就能留在英格兰生活了，那是她梦寐以求的。”
“那罗伊娜•德雷克呢？”
“她被迈克尔迷住了。她的丈夫很多年前就残疾了。她已近中年，但她是个热情的女人，而她的身边出现了一个异常英俊的年轻人。女人很容易爱上他，但他要的不是女人的美丽——而是实现自己的欲望去创造美。因此他需要钱——很多钱。至于爱——他只爱他自己。他是那喀索斯。很多年前我听到过一首法国老歌——”
波洛轻轻地哼起来。
看吧，那喀索斯
看那水里
看吧，那喀索斯
你多美丽
在这世间
只有你的美丽
和青春活力
啊！青春活力……
看吧，那喀索斯……
看那水里……
“我不相信——我真的不敢相信有人会为了在希腊的小岛上建一个花园而杀人。”奥利弗夫人不敢相信地说。
“不能？你能看到他脑子里在想些什么吗？可能只有光秃秃的石头，但是也充满其他可能性。土，一船船肥沃的土壤运过去覆盖在石头上——然后种上各种植物、种子、灌木和树。也许他在报纸上看到过一个造船的富翁为他爱的人建造了一座岛屿花园，所以他就想到——他要建一座花园，不是为一个女人，而是为他自己。”
“在我看来这太疯狂了。”
“没错。确实是。我怀疑他根本没想过自己的动机是多么卑鄙，他想的只是那对于创造更多的美来说是必要的。他为了创造美已经疯了。石矿花园的美，他建造的其他花园的美——现在他在构想更多——整个岛的美丽。而这里有个罗伊娜•德雷克为他着迷，她对他而言，却只是他创造美所需的钱的来源。没错，也许他已经疯了，上帝要谁灭亡，必先让其疯狂。”
“他真的这么想要一个小岛？即使罗伊娜•德雷克缠着他，对他指手画脚的？”
“总会有意外发生嘛。我想合适的时候德雷克夫人也会发生意外。”
“又一场谋杀？”
“对。起因很简单。奥尔加必须被除掉，因为她知道了那条补遗，并且她还能成为伪造的替罪羊。卢埃林-史密斯夫人把原件藏起来了，所以小费里尔受雇做了一份伪造的文件。
那份伪造文件的破绽很明显，马上引起了怀疑。而这也注定了他的死亡。我很快就断定，莱斯利•费里尔，跟奥尔加没有任何协议或交往。那只是迈克尔•加菲尔德对我的暗示，但是我怀疑付钱给莱斯利的是迈克尔，而获得互换生女孩儿芳心的也是迈克尔。他警告她要保密，不能告诉她的雇主，向她承诺说将来要和她结婚，同时却冷酷地把她作为必要时的牺牲品，以便他和罗伊娜•德雷克能拿到那笔钱。奥尔加•塞米诺娃不需要以伪造罪被控告或者起诉，她只要被怀疑就足够了。伪造的遗嘱对她有利，她也能轻易伪造出来，因为有证据证明她可以模仿雇主的笔迹。一旦她突然消失，人们就会怀疑她不仅伪造了遗嘱，还可能导致了她雇主的突然死亡。所以在一个恰当的时机，奥尔加被杀了。莱斯利•费里尔，人们以为他死于帮派内讧或者死于女人的嫉妒。但是在井里找到的那把刀跟他所受的刀伤很吻合。我知道奥尔加的尸体肯定被藏在这附近，但是我一直想不到在哪儿，直到我听到米兰达问一口许愿井在哪儿，想要迈克尔•加菲尔德领她去，但是他拒绝了。之后我跟古德博迪夫人谈话时，我说我想知道那个女孩儿消失到哪儿去了，她说‘铃儿响叮咚，猫咪在井中’，那时我就很确定那个女孩儿的尸体在许愿井里了。我发现那口井在树林里，石矿树林，离迈克尔•加菲尔德的屋子不远的一个山坡上。我开始想到米兰达可能看到了谋杀过程或是之后处理尸体。德雷克夫人和迈克尔怀疑有人看到他们了，但是他们不知道那个人是谁。因为一直没人提起什么，他们也就渐渐放心了。他们做了计划——虽然并不着急，但已经开始行动了。她到处说要在国外买一个小岛，让人们觉得她要离开伍德利社区了。这里有太多伤心的事，总是暗示她沉浸在失去丈夫的悲伤中。所有的事情都按计划进行，这时乔伊斯在万圣节前夜突然宣称她见过一场谋杀，对她来说就是晴天霹雳，所以她迅速展开了行动。但是更多的麻烦来了。小利奥波德向她要钱——他说他要买很多东西。其实她并不确定他猜到或者知道多少，但他是乔伊斯的弟弟，所以他们以为他知道更多。于是——他，同样，也死了。”
“你怀疑她是因为水，”奥利弗夫人说，“那你是怎么开始怀疑迈克尔•加菲尔德的？”
“他符合条件。”波洛简要地说，“还有，我最后一次跟迈克尔•加菲尔德谈话的时候我就确定了。他大笑着对我说——‘离我远点儿，撒旦。去找你的警察朋友吧。’那时我就知道，非常肯定。实际是完全相反的。我对自己说：‘我在离你远去，撒旦。’这么年轻、美丽、好像人间的路西法的撒旦……”
房间里还有另外一个女人——目前为止一句话都没说，但是现在她在椅子里颤抖了一下。
“路西法，”她说，“是的，我现在知道了。他总是这样。”
“他很美丽，”波洛说，“他也热爱美丽，爱他用大脑、用想象、用双手创造出来的美。
为了美他可以牺牲任何东西。我想，他用他自己的方式爱着米兰达这个孩子——但是他也随时准备牺牲她——来救他自己。他非常仔细地计划着她的死亡——他把那一切说成是仪式，可以说他一直向她灌输这个观念。她告诉他她要离开伍德利社区——他教她怎样在你们吃午餐的餐厅跟他见面。她将会在坎特伯雷石环被发现——紧挨着双斧标记，旁边有一只金色的酒杯——一种献祭仪式。”
“疯了，”朱迪思•巴特勒说，“他肯定是疯了。”
“夫人，您的女儿安全了——但是我有些事情很想知道。”
“您想知道任何事我都会告诉您，波洛先生。”
“她是您的女儿——也是迈克尔•加菲尔德的女儿吗？”
朱迪思沉默了一会儿，回答道：“是的。”
“但是她不知道吗？”
“不，她不知道。在这里遇见他纯粹是巧合。我还是个小女孩儿的时候认识他的。我疯狂地爱上了他，后来——后来我开始害怕。”
“害怕？”
“没错，我不知道为什么。不是害怕他会做什么事，而是害怕他的本性。他很温和，但是在那表象之后，是冷漠和残忍。我甚至害怕他对美和创造的热情。我没告诉他我怀孕了。我离开了他，远走高飞。后来孩子出生了。我就谎称我的丈夫是飞行员，因为车祸去世了。我到处搬家。来伍德利社区或多或少也是巧合，因为我在曼彻斯特有熟人，我可以在那儿找一些文书工作。
“后来有一天迈克尔•加菲尔德来石矿树林工作了。我觉得我不介意。他也是。那都是很久以前的事了。但是不久之后，尽管我还没意识到米兰达去石矿树林那么频繁，我确实担心——”
“是的，”波洛说，“他们两个之间有一种羁绊。一种天生的亲密。我能看出他们很像——只是迈克尔•加菲尔德，这位路西法美丽的追随者很邪恶，而您的女儿纯洁聪敏，天真无邪。”
他走到桌子前拿起一个信封，从里面拿出一幅精致的铅笔画。
“您的女儿。”他说。
朱迪思看着画，署名是“迈克尔•加菲尔德”。
“他在小溪边为她画的。”波洛说，“在石矿树林。他说，画下来，他就不会忘记。他害怕会忘了。尽管这也阻止不了他对她下毒手。”
然后他指向画的左上角的铅笔字。
“您能看到这儿写的是什么吗？”
她慢慢地拼了出来。
“伊菲琴尼亚。”
“没错，”波洛说，“伊菲琴尼亚。阿伽门农用自己的女儿献祭，以祈求海风带他的船到特洛伊。迈克尔会牺牲他的女儿，来给自己换取一个新的伊甸园。”
“他知道自己在做什么吗？”朱迪思说，“我怀疑——他会不会后悔呢？”
波洛没有回答。他的脑海中浮现出一幅画面：一个无比美丽的年轻人躺在刻有双斧的巨石旁，手里还紧紧抓着一个金色的酒杯。在报应突然到来，救走他的祭品的时候，他喝了杯里的酒，处决了自己。
迈克尔•加菲尔德就这样死了——罪有应得，波洛想。但是，唉，在希腊海的某个小岛上就不会有鲜花盛开的花园了……
但是还有米兰达——鲜活、年轻、美丽。
他执起朱迪思的手亲吻了一下。
“再见，夫人，代我向您的女儿问好。”
“她会永远记得您，记得您的恩情的。”
“最好不要——有些记忆最好还是埋藏起来。”
“晚安，亲爱的夫人。麦克白夫人和那喀索斯。非常有意思。感谢您让我经历这些——”
“对，对，”奥利弗夫人怒气冲冲地说道，“每次都是怪我！”