One SITTAFORD HOUSE
One SITTAFORD HOUSE
Major Burnaby drew on his gum boots, buttoned his overcoat collar roundhis neck, took from a shelf near the door a hurricane lantern, and cau-tiously opened the front door of his little bungalow and peered out.
The scene that met his eyes was typical of the English countryside as de-picted on Xmas cards and in old-fashioned melodramas. Everywhere wassnow, deep drifts of it—no mere powdering an inch or two thick. Snowhad fallen all over England for the last four days, and up here on thefringe of Dartmoor it had attained a depth of several feet. All over Englandhouseholders were groaning over burst pipes, and to have a plumberfriend (or even a plumber’s mate) was the most coveted of all distinctions.
Up here, in the tiny village of Sittaford, at all times remote from theworld, and now almost completely cut off, the rigours of winter were avery real problem.
Major Burnaby, however, was a hardy soul. He snorted twice, gruntedonce, and marched resolutely out into the snow.
His destination was not far away. A few paces along a winding lane,then in at a gate, and so up a drive partially swept clear of snow to a houseof some considerable size built of granite.
The door was opened by a neatly clad parlourmaid. The Major was di-vested of his British Warm, his gum boots and his aged scarf.
A door was flung open and he passed through it into a room which con-veyed all the illusion of a transformation scene.
Although it was only half past three the curtains had been drawn, theelectric lights were on and a huge fire blazed cheerfully on the hearth.
Two women in afternoon frocks rose to greet the staunch old warrior.
“Splendid of you to turn out, Major Burnaby,” said the elder of the two.
“Not at all, Mrs. Willett, not at all. Very good of you to ask me.” He shookhands with them both.
“Mr. Garfield is coming,” went on Mrs. Willett, “and Mr. Duke, and Mr.
Rycroft said he would come—but one can hardly expect him at his age insuch weather. Really, it is too dreadful. One feels one must do something tokeep oneself cheerful. Violet, put another log on the fire.”
The Major rose gallantly to perform this task.
“Allow me, Miss Violet.”
He put the log expertly in the right place and returned once more to thearmchair his hostess had indicated. Trying not to appear as though hewere doing so, he cast surreptitious glances round the room. Amazinghow a couple of women could alter the whole character of a room—andwithout doing anything very outstanding that you could put your fingeron.
Sittaford House had been built ten years ago by Captain Joseph Trev-elyan, R.N., on the occasion of his retirement from the Navy. He was aman of substance, and he had always had a great hankering to live onDartmoor. He had placed his choice on the tiny hamlet of Sittaford. It wasnot in a valley like most of the villages and farms, but perched right on theshoulder of the moor under the shadow of Sittaford Beacon. He had pur-chased a large tract of ground, had built a comfortable house with its ownelectric light plant and an electric pump to save labour in pumping water.
Then, as a speculation, he had built six small bungalows, each in itsquarter acre of ground, along the lane.
The first of these, the one at his very gates, had been allotted to his oldfriend and crony, John Burnaby—the others had by degrees been sold,there being still a few people who from choice or necessity like to liveright out of the world. The village itself consisted of three picturesque butdilapidated cottages, a forge and a combined post office and sweet shop.
The nearest town was Exhampton, six miles away, a steady descent whichnecessitated the sign, “Motorists engage your lowest gear,” so familiar onthe Dartmoor roads.
Captain Trevelyan, as has been said, was a man of substance. In spite ofthis—or perhaps because of it—he was a man who was inordinately fondof money. At the end of October a house agent in Exhampton wrote to himasking if he would consider letting Sittaford House. A tenant had made in-quiries concerning it, wishing to rent it for the winter.
Captain Trevelyan’s first impulse was to refuse, his second to demandfurther information. The tenant in question proved to be a Mrs. Willett, awidow with one daughter. She had recently arrived from South Africa andwanted a house on Dartmoor for the winter.
“Damn it all, the woman must be mad,” said Captain Trevelyan. “Eh,Burnaby, don’t you think so?”
Burnaby did think so, and said so as forcibly as his friend had done.
“Anyway, you don’t want to let,” he said. “Let the fool woman go some-where else if she wants to freeze. Coming from South Africa too!”
But at this point Captain Trevelyan’s money complex asserted itself. Notonce in a hundred times would you get a chance of letting your house inmid-winter. He demanded what rent the tenant was willing to pay.
An offer of twelve guineas a week clinched matters. Captain Trevelyanwent into Exhampton, rented a small house on the outskirts at twoguineas a week, and handed over Sittaford House to Mrs. Willett, half therent to be paid in advance.
“A fool and her money are soon parted,” he growled.
But Burnaby was thinking this afternoon as he scanned Mrs. Willett cov-ertly, that she did not look a fool. She was a tall woman with a rather sillymanner—but her physiognomy was shrewd rather than foolish. She wasinclined to overdress, had a distinct Colonial accent, and seemed perfectlycontent with the transaction. She was clearly very well-off and that—asBurnaby had reflected more than once — really made the whole affairmore odd. She was not the kind of woman one would credit with a passionfor solitude.
As a neighbour she had proved almost embarrassingly friendly. Invita-tions to Sittaford House were rained on everybody. Captain Trevelyan wasconstantly urged to “Treat the house as though we hadn’t rented it.” Trev-elyan, however, was not fond of women. Report went that he had beenjilted in his youth. He persistently refused all invitations.
Two months had passed since the installation of the Willetts and thefirst wonder at their arrival had passed away.
Burnaby, naturally a silent man, continued to study his hostess, oblivi-ous to any need for small talk. Liked to make herself out a fool, but wasn’treally. So he summed up the situation. His glance shifted to Violet Willett.
Pretty girl—scraggy, of course—they all were nowadays. What was thegood of a woman if she didn’t look like a woman? Papers said curves werecoming back. About time too.
He roused himself to the necessity of conversation.
“We were afraid at first that you wouldn’t be able to come,” said Mrs.
Willett. “You said so, you remember. We were so pleased when you saidthat after all you would.”
“Friday,” said Major Burnaby, with an air of being explicit.
Mrs. Willett looked puzzled.
“Friday?”
“Every Friday go to Trevelyan’s. Tuesday he comes to me. Both of usdone it for years.”
“Oh! I see. Of course, living so near—”
“Kind of habit.”
“But do you still keep it up? I mean now that he is living in Exhampton—”
“Pity to break a habit,” said Major Burnaby. “We’d both of us miss thoseevenings.”
“You go in for competitions, don’t you?” asked Violet. “Acrostics andcrosswords and all those things.”
Burnaby nodded.
“I do crosswords. Trevelyan does acrostics. We each stick to our ownline of country. I won three books last month in a crossword competition,”
he volunteered.
“Oh! really. How nice. Were they interesting books?”
“Don’t know. Haven’t read them. Looked pretty hopeless.”
“It’s the winning them that matters, isn’t it?” said Mrs. Willett vaguely.
“How do you get to Exhampton?” asked Violet. “You haven’t got a car.”
“Walk.”
“What? Not really? Six miles.”
“Good exercise. What’s twelve miles? Keeps a man fit. Great thing to befit.”
“Fancy! Twelve miles. But both you and Captain Trevelyan were greatathletes, weren’t you?”
“Used to go to Switzerland together. Winter sports in winter, climbing insummer. Wonderful man on ice, Trevelyan. Both too old for that sort ofthing nowadays.”
“You won the Army Racquets Championship, too, didn’t you?” asked Vi-olet.
The Major blushed like a girl.
“Who told you that?” he mumbled.
“Captain Trevelyan.”
“Joe should hold his tongue,” said Burnaby. “He talks too much. What’sthe weather like now?”
Respecting his embarrassment, Violet followed him to the window. Theydrew the curtain aside and looked out over the desolate scene.
“More snow coming,” said Burnaby. “A pretty heavy fall too, I shouldsay.”
“Oh! how thrilling,” said Violet. “I do think snow is so romantic. I’venever seen it before.”
“It isn’t romantic when the pipes freeze, you foolish child,” said hermother.
“Have you lived all your life in South Africa, Miss Willett?” asked MajorBurnaby.
Some of the girl’s animation dropped away from her. She seemed al-most constrained in her manner as she answered.
“Yes—this is the first time I’ve ever been away. It’s all most frightfullythrilling.”
Thrilling to be shut away like this in a remote moorland village? Funnyideas. He couldn’t get the hang of these people.
The door opened and the parlourmaid announced:
“Mr. Rycroft and Mr. Garfield.”
There entered a little elderly, dried-up man and a fresh-coloured, boyishyoung man. The latter spoke first.
“I brought him along, Mrs. Willett. Said I wouldn’t let him be buried in asnowdrift. Ha, ha. I say, this all looks simply marvellous. Yule logs burn-ing.”
“As he says, my young friend very kindly piloted me here,” said Mr.
Rycroft as he shook hands somewhat ceremoniously. “How do you do,Miss Violet? Very seasonable weather—rather too seasonable, I fear.”
He moved to the fire talking to Mrs. Willett. Ronald Garfield buttonholedViolet.
“I say, can’t we get up any skating anywhere? Aren’t there some pondsabout?”
“I think path digging will be your only sport.”
“I’ve been at it all the morning.”
“Oh! you he-man.”
“Don’t laugh at me. I’ve got blisters all over my hands.”
“How’s your aunt?”
“Oh! she’s always the same—sometimes she says she’s better and some-times she says she’s worse, but I think it’s all the same really. It’s a ghastlylife, you know. Each year, I wonder how I can stick it—but there it is—ifone doesn’t rally round the old bird for Xmas—why, she’s quite capable ofleaving her money to a Cat’s Home. She’s got five of them, you know. I’malways stroking the brutes and pretending I dote upon them.”
“I like dogs much better than cats.”
“So do I. Any day. What I mean is a dog is—well, a dog’s a dog, youknow.”
“Has your aunt always been fond of cats?”
“I think it’s just a kind of thing old maids grow into. Ugh! I hate thebrutes.”
“Your aunt’s very nice, but rather frightening.”
“I should think she was frightening. Snaps my head off sometimes.
Thinks I’ve got no brains, you know.”
“Not really?”
“Oh! look here, don’t say it like that. Lots of fellows look like fools andare laughing underneath.”
“Mr. Duke,” announced the parlourmaid.
Mr. Duke was a recent arrival. He had bought the last of the six bunga-lows in September. He was a big man, very quiet and devoted to garden-ing. Mr. Rycroft who was an enthusiast on birds and who lived next doorto him had taken him up, overruling the section of thought which voicedthe opinion that of course Mr. Duke was a very nice man, quite unassum-ing, but was he, after all, quite—well, quite? Mightn’t he, just possibly, be aretired tradesman?
But nobody liked to ask him—and indeed it was thought better not toknow. Because if one did know, it might be awkward, and really in such asmall community it was best to know everybody.
“Not walking to Exhampton in this weather?” he asked of Major Burn-aby.
“No, I fancy Trevelyan will hardly expect me tonight.”
“It’s awful, isn’t it?” said Mrs. Willett with a shudder. “To be buried uphere, year after year—it must be ghastly.”
Mr. Duke gave her a quick glance. Major Burnaby too stared at her curi-ously.
But at that moment tea was brought in.
第一章 斯塔福特寓所
第一章 斯塔福特寓所
伯纳比少校穿上橡胶靴子，扣上大衣领子，围好围巾，从门边的架子上拿来一盏防风灯，小心翼翼地打开小屋的前门向外凝视。
映入眼帘的是典型英国乡村的景色，就像圣诞卡片上描绘的图画，或者老派戏剧的布景一样。到处都是雪，厚厚地堆积着，可不仅仅是一两英寸那么厚。英格兰已经下了整整四天的雪，在达特穆尔高原的边缘，积雪已经达到了数英尺之深。整个英格兰的房主都在抱怨破裂的管道，此时，拥有一个水管工朋友（哪怕只是水管工的助手），成了人们最梦寐以求的事。
小小的斯塔福特村几乎完全与外界隔绝，离一切都很遥远。在这里，寒冬成了真正严重的困境。
伯纳比少校却是个意志坚定的人。他用鼻子轻哼两声，又咕哝了一声，然后毅然决然地大步踏进了雪中。
他的目的地并不远。他沿着一条蜿蜒的小路前进，进入一户门中，走上一条清扫了部分积雪的私人车道，来到了一座相当大的花岗岩建造的房子前。
一个穿着整齐的客厅女侍打开了门。少校脱下了他的厚呢短大衣和橡胶靴子，摘下了脖子上的旧围巾。
一扇门被猛地打开，他走进一间屋子，顿时仿佛进入了另一个世界。
尽管现在只是下午三点半，窗帘却是拉上的，屋里开着灯，壁炉中明亮的火苗欢快地舔着木柴。两位身着优雅长裙的女士起身迎接这位忠诚的老战士。
“你能来真是太好了，伯纳比少校。”年长的那位女士说道。
“没什么，威利特夫人，这没什么。您能邀请我真是太好了。”他跟她们握了手。
“加菲尔德先生也要来。”威利特夫人继续说道，“还有杜克先生，瑞克夫特先生说他会来，但他这把年纪的人，不太可能在这种天气里出门。真的，天气太糟糕了，让你不得不做点什么来保持开心。维奥莱特，再给壁炉添点木柴。”
少校彬彬有礼地起身添了柴火：“请让我来吧，维奥莱特小姐。”
他熟练地将木柴放进壁炉，然后回到了女主人为他准备的扶手椅上，装作漫不经心的样子，偷偷打量起了这个房间。他很惊讶，几个女人竟可以改变整个屋子的特征，虽然她们并没有真的对屋子做出什么明显的改动。
斯塔福特寓所是十年前由皇家海军约瑟夫•特里威廉上尉建造的，当时他刚刚从海军退役。特里威廉小有资产，总是渴望能够在达特穆尔生活。他选择了一个叫作斯塔福特的小村庄。和大部分的村庄、农场不同的是，它并不是在山谷中，而是位于高原荒野的边缘处，斯塔福特灯塔山脚下。他购置了一大片土地，建造了一座舒适的房子，自带照明装置和可以节省人工的抽水电泵。然后，作为投机生意，他沿小路建造了六座小屋，每座小屋占地四分之一英亩。
第一间小屋，那间挨近大门的，已经留给了他的老朋友约翰•伯纳比。剩下的小屋也慢慢地卖了出去，毕竟，无论是出于自己的选择还是被逼无奈，总还是有人会想要离群索居的。村子本身有三座别致却荒废了的村舍，一家铁匠铺和一家卖糖果的邮局。离这里最近的镇子是六英里外的艾克汉普顿，两地间是一条倾斜的路，于是那块路标的必要性也就显露无遗：“请司机使用低速挡行驶”。这种路标在达特穆尔的公路上非常常见。
约瑟夫•特里威廉上尉正如人们常说的那样，是个有资产的人。尽管如此——或者说正因如此——他十分爱财。十月底的时候，艾克汉普顿的一位房产中介写信给他，问他是否考虑过将斯塔福特寓所租出去。一位租户看了房子的资料，想要租下来过冬。
约瑟夫•特里威廉上尉的第一反应是拒绝，第二反应是要求更多的信息。原来那位租客是威利特夫人，一位带着女儿的寡妇。她最近刚刚从南非返回，想要在达特穆尔找一座房子度过冬天的时光。
“该死的，这个女人肯定是疯了。”特里威廉上尉说，“嗯，伯纳比，你不觉得吗？”
伯纳比确实这么认为，态度和特里维廉上尉一样强硬。
“不管怎样，你不会想租出去的，”他说，“要是那个傻女人想被冻僵，就让她去别的地方吧。还是从南非回来的人呢！”
但是此时此刻，特里威廉上尉的爱财之心起了作用。在隆冬时节把房子租出去，这可是千载难逢的机会。他想知道租客会支付多少租金。
最终，一份每周十二几尼 [1] 的协议敲定了这件事。特里威廉上尉去了艾克汉普顿的郊区，以每周两几尼的价格租了一间小房子，将斯塔福特寓所交给了威利特夫人，而对方也预付了一半的租金。
“这个傻瓜，她和她的钱很快就会分开了。”他低声咆哮道。
但是伯纳比下午偷偷观察了威利特夫人，觉得她看上去并不像个傻瓜。她身材高挑，举止有些滑稽，但是相貌精明而非愚钝。她穿着讲究，有明显的殖民地口音，似乎对交易很是满意。很明显她非常富有，而且——伯纳比考虑再三——她会来租房真的很奇怪。她不像那种喜欢独处的女人。
作为邻居，她热情得几乎令人窘迫。她邀请每个人去斯塔福特寓所做客，还对特里威廉上尉说“请像我们没有租下这间房子一样对待它吧”。特里威廉却并不喜欢女人。据说他年轻时曾经被抛弃。他固执地拒绝了所有的邀请。
自威利特一家安顿下来已经过了两个月，最初她们搬来时引发的好奇也消退了。
伯纳比天性沉默，他继续研究着面前的女主人，很明显并不需要闲聊。她想让自己看起来愚钝，事实却并非如此。这就是他得出来的结论。他的目光转移到了维奥莱特•威利特的身上。漂亮的姑娘——当然，太瘦弱了——她们如今都是这样。要是女人都变得不像女人的话，还有什么意思？报纸上说曲线美要回归了。早该回归了。
他振作起来加入了谈话。
“我们原先还担心你不能来了，”威利特夫人说，“你这么说过，记得吗？所以最后你说你会来的时候，我们都很高兴。”
“星期五。”伯纳比少校说，带着明确的语气。
威利特夫人看上去很疑惑。
“星期五？”
“每个星期五我都去特里威廉那里。然后星期二他来我这里。这些年来我们一直都是这么做的。”
“哦！原来是这样。当然，住得这么近——”
“一种习惯罢了。”
“但是你现在还保留着这个习惯吗？我是说，现在他住在艾克汉普顿——”
“打破习惯是挺可惜的，”伯纳比少校说，“我们都很怀念那些晚上的时光。”
“你们会搞小竞赛，是吗？”维奥莱特问道，“离合诗 [2] 、填字游戏之类的。”
伯纳比点头。
“我玩填字游戏，特里威廉玩离合诗。我们各自守在自己精通的领域里。我上个月在填字游戏竞赛中赢了三本书。”他主动说道。
“哦！是吗？真棒！都是些有趣的书吗？”
“不知道。我还没读。看上去希望不大。”
“赢得奖品才是关键，不是吗？”威利特夫人含糊地说。
“你怎么去艾克汉普顿？”维奥莱特问，“你没有车。”
“走路去。”
“什么？不是吧？六英里呢！”
“这是种不错的锻炼方式。十二英里又怎样？可以锻炼身体。是很好的锻炼的方式。”
“哎呀！十二英里。你和特里威廉上尉都是很厉害的运动员。”
“过去我们总是一起去瑞士。冬季有冬季的运动项目，夏天就爬山。特里威廉是冰上运动的好手。我们都老了，现在都不适合那些运动了。”
“你也得过军队网球冠军，对吗？”维奥莱特问道。
少校像女孩一样脸红了。
“谁告诉你的？”他嘟囔着说。
“特里威廉上尉。”
“乔 [3] 应该管住自己的舌头。”伯纳比说，“他说得太多了。现在天气怎么样了？”
为了缓解他的窘迫，维奥莱特跟着他一起来到窗前。他们拉开窗帘，望着窗外荒凉的景象。
“要下更多的雪了。”伯纳比说，“估计是一场大雪。”
“哦！多令人激动。”维奥莱特说，“我觉得雪很浪漫，我以前从没见过。”
“水管冻住的时候一点都不浪漫，你这个傻孩子。”她妈妈说。
“你一直都住在南非吗，威利特小姐？”伯纳比少校问。
这个姑娘突然安静了下来，她回答的时候像是被什么束缚了一样。
“是的，这是我第一次离开那里。太令人激动了。”
激动？被关在这么一个遥远的荒野小村中？这想法太可笑。他实在搞不懂这些人。
门开了，客厅女侍通知说：
“瑞克夫特先生和加菲尔德先生来了。”
门口进来了一个干巴巴的小老头，还有一个面色红润、孩子气的年轻人。后者先说了话：
“我把他带来了，威利特夫人。我说了不会让他被埋在雪堆里的。哈，哈。要我说，这里简直太棒了。壁炉里还烧着圣诞柴。”
“就像他说的那样，这位年轻的朋友非常好心地把我带过来了。”瑞克夫特先生郑重地握了手，“您好吗，威利特小姐？这真是非常合时令的天气，恐怕有点太合时令了。”
他走到壁炉旁去和威利特夫人谈话。罗纳德•加菲尔德拉住了维奥莱特。
“我说，你想去滑冰吗？这里有没有池塘？”
“这里能做的运动大概只有铲雪了。”
“我整个上午尽干这个了。”
“哦！你还挺有男子气概的。”
“别笑话我，我手上磨出了好多水泡。”
“你姨妈怎么样了？”
“哦！她还是老样子。有时候说自己好多了，有时候又说更糟了，但我觉得她还是那样。真是糟透了的生活。每年我都不禁自问，我是怎么坚持下来的，但事情就是这样，要是你不陪着这些老家伙过圣诞节——哎呀，她就可能把钱都留给流浪猫之家。你知道，她自己就养了五只。我总得抚摸那些小畜生，假装我特别喜欢它们。”
“比起猫，我更喜欢狗。”
“我也是。怎样都好。我的意思是狗——好吧，狗就是狗，你知道的。”
“你姨妈一直都喜欢猫吗？”
“我觉得那不过是老女人发展出来的一种爱好罢了。唉！我讨厌那些小畜生。”
“你姨妈人很好，但是有点凶。”
“我也觉得她很凶。总是气势汹汹地训斥我，觉得我没脑子。”
“不是吧？”
“唉！好吧，别这么说嘛。好多人看上去傻乎乎的，内心却在笑呢。”
“杜克先生到了。”客厅女侍通报道。
杜克先生是最近新来的住户。他九月份买下了第六间小屋。他个头很大，很安静，热爱园艺，是住在隔壁房子、热衷鸟类研究的瑞克夫特先生介绍来的。当然，杜克先生是个不错的人，非常谦逊，但是他毕竟，非常——嗯，非常？可能只是个退休的零售商？瑞克夫特先生驳斥了这种看法。
但是没人想要问他这些。这种事情还是不要知道比较好。因为如果知道了，就可能会造成尴尬。不过，在这么小的交际圈里，最好还是要对身边的人知根知底。
“这种天气，不走路去艾克汉普顿了吧？”他问伯纳比少校。
“是的，我想特里威廉今晚也不会盼着我过去了。”
“这天气太糟了，不是吗？”威利特夫人打了个冷战，“年年都困在这里，真是糟糕透顶。”
杜克先生快速地瞥了她一眼，伯纳比少校也奇怪地盯着她。
就在这时，茶点被送上来了。
注释：
[1]英国旧金币，相当于一镑一先令。
[2]以各行字首或尾或某处特定的字母组合成词句，又称“字母诗”。
[3]乔是约瑟夫•特里威廉的昵称。
Two THE MESSAGE
Two THE MESSAGE
After tea, Mrs. Willett suggested bridge.
“There are six of us. Two can cut in.”
Ronnie’s eyes brightened.
“You four start,” he suggested. “Miss Willett and I will cut in.”
But Mr. Duke said that he did not play bridge.
Ronnie’s face fell.
“We might play a round game,” said Mrs. Willett.
“Or table-turning,” suggested Ronnie. “It’s a spooky evening. We spokeabout it the other day, you remember. Mr. Rycroft and I were talkingabout it this evening as we came along here.”
“I am a member of the Psychical Research Society,” explained Mr.
Rycroft in his precise way. “I was able to put my young friend right on oneor two points.”
“Tommy rot,” said Major Burnaby very distinctly.
“Oh! but it’s great fun, don’t you think?” said Violet Willett. “I mean, onedoesn’t believe in it or anything. It’s just an amusement. What do you say,Mr. Duke?”
“Anything you like, Miss Willett.”
“We must turn the lights out, and we must find a suitable table. No—notthat one, Mother. I’m sure it’s much too heavy.”
Things were settled at last to everyone’s satisfaction. A small roundtable with a polished top was brought from an adjoining room. It was setin front of the fire and everyone took his place round it with the lightsswitched off.
Major Burnaby was between his hostess and Violet. On the other side ofthe girl was Ronnie Garfield. A cynical smile creased the Major’s lips. Hethought to himself:
“In my young days it was Up Jenkins.” And he tried to recall the name ofa girl with fluffy hair whose hand he had held beneath the table at consid-erable length. A long time ago that was. But Up Jenkins had been a goodgame.
There were all the usual laughs, whispers, stereotyped remarks.
“The spirits are a long time.”
“Got a long way to come.”
“Hush—nothing will happen unless we are serious.”
“Oh! do be quiet—everyone.”
“Nothing’s happening.”
“Of course not—it never does at first.”
“If only you’d all be quiet.”
At last, after some time, the murmur of talk died away.
A silence.
“This table’s dead as mutton,” murmured Ronnie Garfield disgustedly.
“Hush.”
A tremor ran through the polished surface. The table began to rock.
“Ask it questions. Who shall ask? You, Ronnie.”
“Oh—er—I say—what do I ask it?”
“Is a spirit present?” prompted Violet.
“Oh! Hullo—is a spirit present?”
A sharp rock.
“That means yes,” said Violet.
“Oh! er—who are you?”
No response.
“Ask it to spell its name.”
The table started rocking violently.
“A B C D E F G H I—I say, was that I or J?”
“Ask it. Was that I?”
One rock.
“Yes. Next letter, please.”
The spirit’s name was Ida.
“Have you a message for anyone here?”
“Yes.”
“Who is it for? Miss Willett?”
“No.”
“Mrs. Willett?”
“No.”
“Mr. Rycroft?”
“No.”
“Me?”
“Yes.”
“It’s for you, Ronnie. Go on. Make it spell it out.”
The table spelt “Diana.”
“Who’s Diana? Do you know anyone called Diana?”
“No, I don’t. At least—”
“There you are. He does.”
“Ask her if she’s a widow?”
The fun went on. Mr. Rycroft smiled indulgently. Young people musthave their jokes. He caught one glance of his hostess’s face in a suddenflicker of the firelight. It looked worried and abstracted. Her thoughtswere somewhere faraway.
Major Burnaby was thinking of the snow. It was going to snow againthis evening. Hardest winter he ever remembered.
Mr. Duke was playing very seriously. The spirits, alas, paid very little at-tention to him. All the messages seemed to be for Violet and Ronnie.
Violet was told she was going to Italy. Someone was going with her. Nota woman. A man. His name was Leonard.
More laughter. The table spelt the name of the town. A Russian jumbleof letters—not in the least Italian.
The usual accusations were levelled.
“Look here, Violet,” (“Miss Willett” had been dropped) “you are shov-ing.”
“I’m not. Look, I take my hands right off the table and it rocks just thesame.”
“I like raps. I’m going to ask it to rap. Loud ones.”
“There should be raps.” Ronnie turned to Mr. Rycroft. “There ought tobe raps, oughtn’t there, sir?”
“Under the circumstances, I should hardly think it likely,” said Mr.
Rycroft drily.
There was a pause. The table was inert. It returned no answer to ques-tions.
“Has Ida gone away?”
One languid rock.
“Will another spirit come, please?”
Nothing. Suddenly the table began to quiver and rock violently.
“Hurrah. Are you a new spirit?”
“Yes.”
“Have you a message for someone?”
“Yes.”
“For me?”
“No.”
“For Violet?”
“No.”
“For Major Burnaby?”
“Yes.”
“It’s for you, Major Burnaby. Will you spell it out, please?”
The table started rocking slowly.
“T R E V—are you sure it’s V? It can’t be. T R E V—it doesn’t make sense.”
“Trevelyan, of course,” said Mrs. Willett. “Captain Trevelyan.”
“Do you mean Captain Trevelyan?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve got a message for Captain Trevelyan?”
“No.”
“Well, what is it then?”
The table began to rock—slowly, rhythmically. So slowly that it was easyto count the letters.
“D—” a pause. “E—A D.”
“Dead.”
“Somebody is dead?”
Instead of Yes or No, the table began to rock again till it reached the let-ter T.
“T—do you mean Trevelyan?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t mean Trevelyan is dead?”
“Yes.”
A very sharp rock. “Yes.”
Somebody gasped. There was a faint stir all round the table.
Ronnie’s voice as he resumed his questions held a different note—anawed uneasy note.
“You mean—that Captain Trevelyan is dead?”
“Yes.”
There was a pause. It was as though no one knew what to ask next, orhow to take this unexpected development.
And in the pause, the table started rocking again.
Rhythmically and slowly, Ronnie spelled out the letters aloud. .?.?.
M-U-R-D-E-R. .?.?.
Mrs. Willett gave a cry and took her hands off the table.
“I won’t go on with this. It’s horrible. I don’t like it.”
Mr. Duke’s voice rang out, resonant and clear. He was questioning thetable.
“Do you mean—that Captain Trevelyan has been murdered?”
The last word had hardly left his lips when the answer came. The tablerocked so violently and assertively that it nearly fell over. One rock only.
“Yes. .?.?.”
“Look here,” said Ronnie. He took his hands from the table. “I call this arotten joke.” His voice trembled.
“Turn up the lights,” said Mr. Rycroft.
Major Burnaby rose and did so. The sudden glare revealed a company ofpale uneasy faces.
Everyone looked at each other. Somehow—nobody quite knew what tosay.
“All rot, of course,” said Ronnie with an uneasy laugh.
“Silly nonsense,” said Mrs. Willett. “Nobody ought to—to make jokes likethat.”
“Not about people dying,” said Violet. “It’s—oh! I don’t like it.”
“I wasn’t shoving,” said Ronnie, feeling unspoken criticism levelled athim. “I swear I wasn’t.”
“I can say the same,” said Mr. Duke. “And you, Mr. Rycroft?”
“Certainly not,” said Mr. Rycroft warmly.
“You don’t think I’d make a joke of that kind, do you?” growled MajorBurnaby. “Rotten bad taste.”
“Violet dear—”
“I didn’t, Mother. Indeed, I didn’t. I wouldn’t do such a thing.”
The girl was almost tearful.
Everyone was embarrassed. A sudden blight had come over the cheerfulparty.
Major Burnaby pushed back his chair, went to the window and pulledaside the curtain. He stood there looking out with his back to the room.
“Twenty- five minutes past five,” said Mr. Rycroft glancing up at theclock. He compared it with his own watch and somehow everyone felt theaction was significant in some way.
“Let me see,” said Mrs. Willett with forced cheerfulness. “I think we’dbetter have cocktails. Will you ring the bell, Mr. Garfield?”
Ronnie obeyed.
Ingredients for cocktails were brought and Ronnie was appointedmixer. The situation grew a little easier.
“Well,” said Ronnie, raising his glass. “Here’s how.”
The others responded—all but the silent figure by the window.
“Major Burnaby. Here’s your cocktail.”
The Major roused himself with a start. He turned slowly.
“Thank you, Mrs. Willett. Not for me.” He looked once more out into thenight, then came slowly back to the group by the fire. “Many thanks for avery pleasant time. Good night.”
“You’re not going?”
“Afraid I must.”
“Not so soon. And on a night like this.”
“Sorry, Mrs. Willett—but it’s got to be done. If there were only a tele-phone.”
“A telephone?”
“Yes—to tell you the truth—I’m—well. I’d like to be sure that Joe Trev-elyan’s all right. Silly superstition and all that—but there it is. Naturally, Idon’t believe in this tommy rot—but—”
“But you can’t telephone from anywhere. There’s not such a thing in Sit-taford.”
“That’s just it. As I can’t telephone, I’ll have to go.”
“Go—but you couldn’t get a car down that road! Elmer wouldn’t take hiscar out on such a night.”
Elmer was the proprietor of the sole car in the place, an aged Ford, hiredat a handsome price by those who wished to go into Exhampton.
“No, no—car’s out of the question. My two legs will take me there, Mrs.
Willett.”
There was a chorus of protest.
“Oh! Major Burnaby—it’s impossible. You said yourself it was going tosnow.”
“Not for an hour—perhaps longer. I’ll get there, never fear.”
“Oh! you can’t. We can’t allow it.”
She was seriously disturbed and upset.
But argument and entreaty had no more effect on Major Burnaby thanif he were a rock. He was an obstinate man. Once his mind was made upon any point, no power on earth could move him.
He had determined to walk to Exhampton and see for himself that allwas well with his old friend, and he repeated that simple statement half adozen times.
In the end they were brought to realize that he meant it. He wrappedhimself up in his overcoat, lighted the hurricane lantern, and stepped outinto the night.
“I’ll just drop in to my place for a flask,” he said cheerily, “and then pushstraight on. Trevelyan will put me up for the night when I get there. Ri-diculous fuss, I know. Everything sure to be all right. Don’t worry, Mrs.
Willett. Snow or no snow—I’ll get there in a couple of hours. Good night.”
He strode away. The others returned to the fire.
Rycroft had looked up at the sky.
“It is going to snow,” he murmured to Mr. Duke. “And it will begin longbefore he gets to Exhampton. I—I hope he gets there all right.”
Duke frowned.
“I know. I feel I ought to have gone with him. One of us ought to havedone so.”
“Most distressing,” Mrs. Willett was saying, “most distressing. Violet, Iwill not have that silly game ever played again. Poor Major Burnaby willprobably plunge into a snowdrift—or if he doesn’t he’ll die of the cold andexposure. At his age, too. Very foolish of him to go off like that. Of course,Captain Trevelyan is perfectly all right.”
Everyone echoed:
“Of course.”
But even now they did not feel really too comfortable.
Supposing something had happened to Captain Trevelyan. .?.?.
Supposing. .?.?.
第二章 神秘的信息
第二章 神秘的信息
用过茶点后，威利特夫人提议玩桥牌。
“我们有六个人。有两个人可以中途加入。”
罗尼 [1] 的眼睛亮了。
“你们四个先开始吧。”他建议道，“威利特小姐和我之后再加入。”
但是杜克先生说他不玩桥牌。
罗尼的脸就拉下来了。
“我们可以玩回合制的扑克牌。”威利特夫人说。
“或者玩桌灵转 [2] 。”罗尼建议说，“这是个令人毛骨悚然的夜晚。我们之前说到过，你们记得吗？瑞克夫特先生和我来这里的路上还在说这事儿呢。”
“我是英国心灵研究协会的成员，”瑞克夫特先生精确地指出，“这位年轻的朋友有一两处说错了的地方，我可以纠正他。”
“荒唐。”伯纳比少校清楚地表达了他的想法。
“哦！这很有趣，你不觉得吗？”维奥莱特•威利特说，“我是说，大家并不相信这些东西。这只是娱乐。你怎么想呢，杜克先生？”
“你喜欢就好，威利特小姐。”
“我们必须把灯关上，而且必须找张合适的桌子。不，不是那张，母亲。那张太沉了。”
终于，大家都同意了这个提议。一张光面的小圆桌被从隔壁房间拿了过来，放置到了壁炉前，每个人都围着桌子坐下，灯被关上了。
伯纳比少校坐在女主人和维奥莱特之间。维奥莱特的另一边是罗尼•加菲尔德。少校的唇间现出一丝冷笑。他心想：
“我年轻的时候都玩‘举起手来，詹金斯’ [3] 。”他试着回忆起那个有着蓬松头发的女孩叫什么，他曾经在桌子底下和她十指相扣了很久。这些都是陈年往事了，但是“举起手来，詹金斯”曾经是个很不错的游戏。
他们都在大笑、低语、说些陈词滥调。
“幽灵可是要花很久才能到的。”
“有很长的路要走。”
“嘘——要是我们不认真的话就什么都不会发生。”
“哦！大家安静。”
“什么都没发生。”
“当然了。最开始都不会有什么的。”
“除非你们都安静下来。”
最后，过了一会儿，低声的谈话终于停止了。
一阵静默。
“这桌子不好用。”罗尼•加菲尔德愤慨地咕哝道。
“嘘。”
抛光的桌面上一阵颤动，桌子开始摇晃。
“问问题吧。谁来问？你来吧，罗尼。”
“哦……呃……我说……我要问什么？”
“有幽灵在吗？”维奥莱特提示说。
“哦！你好，有幽灵在吗？”
一阵剧烈的晃动。
“这是‘有’的意思。”维奥莱特说。
“哦！呃，你是谁？”
没有回答。
“问问它能不能拼出自己的名字来。”
桌子开始猛烈地晃动。
“ABCDEFGHI——我说，是I还是J？”
“问它。是I吗？”
一次晃动。
“是的。下个字母。”
幽灵的名字是艾达（Ida）。
“你有话要对这儿的人说吗？”
“是的。”
“对谁说？威利特小姐？”
“不是。”
“威利特夫人？”
“不是。”
“瑞克夫特先生？”
“不是。”
“我？”
“是的。”
“是给你的信息，罗尼。继续。让它拼出来。”
桌子拼出了“戴安娜（Diana）”的名字。
“戴安娜是谁？你认识谁叫戴安娜吗？”
“不，我不认识。至少——”
“你又来了。他认识。”
“问问她是不是个寡妇？”
娱乐还在继续。瑞克夫特先生宽容地微笑着。让年轻人玩吧。他突然瞥了一眼女主人在火光中闪烁的脸，似乎充满忧虑，心不在焉的样子。她的思绪已经远远地飘向了别处。
伯纳比少校在想着下雪的事情。晚上还要继续下雪。这是他记忆中最凛冽而寒冷的一个冬天。
杜克先生玩得很认真。幽灵，哎呀，几乎不注意他。似乎所有的信息都是给维奥莱特和罗尼的。
维奥莱特被告知她将会前往意大利。会有人和她同行。不是女人，而是男人。他的名字是莱纳德。
然后是更多笑声。桌子拼出了小镇的名字，一大堆乱糟糟的字母组合，根本就不是意大利文。
人们开始用那套老掉牙的理由互相调笑。
“你看，维奥莱特（大家已经不叫她威利特小姐了），你在推桌子。”
“我没有。看，我把手从桌子上拿开了，它还是一样在晃动。”
“我喜欢敲击。我要让幽灵敲几下，大点声。”
“会有敲击声吧。”罗尼转头对瑞克夫特先生说，“应该要有敲击声，不是吗，先生？”
“在这种情况下，我看很难。”瑞克夫特先生冷淡地说。
又是一阵静默。桌子静止不动，幽灵没有回答问题。
“是艾达离开了吗？”
桌子慢吞吞地摇了一下。
“会有其他幽灵过来吗？”
没有反应。突然间桌子开始震颤，摇晃得很激烈。
“棒极了。你是新的幽灵吗？”
“是的。”
“你有消息要给谁吗？”
“是的。”
“给我的吗？”
“不是。”
“给维奥莱特？”
“不是。”
“给伯纳比少校？”
“是的。”
“消息是给你的，伯纳比少校。请你拼出来可以吗？”
桌子开始慢慢地晃动。
“TREV——你确定是V？不可能呀。TREV——这没什么意义呀。”
“自然是特里威廉（Trevelyan），”威利特夫人说，“特里威廉上尉。”
“你是说特里威廉上尉吗？”
“是的。”
“你有消息要给特里威廉上尉？”
“不是。”
“好吧，是什么消息呢？”
桌子开始摇晃起来，缓慢地，富有节奏地。慢到可以很容易就判断出是哪个字母。
“D——”停顿了一下，“E——AD。”
“死亡（Dead）。”
“有谁死了吗？”
桌子没有回答是或者不是，而是又开始摇晃起来，一直晃到字母T为止。
“T——你是说，特里威廉？”
“是的。”
“你是说特里威廉死了？”
“是的。”
这是一阵很猛烈的摇晃。
“是的。”
有人倒吸了一口气，桌子周围的人开始骚动。
当罗尼重新开始提问时，他的声音都有些跑调了，变得惊恐不安。
“你是说，那位特里威廉上尉死了？”
“是的。”
一阵静默。没有人知道接下来要问些什么，或者该如何应对这意料之外的发展。
在这阵静默之中，桌子又开始摇晃。
随着富有节奏而缓慢的摇晃，罗尼大声拼出了字母……M-U-R-D-E-R（谋杀）……
威利特夫人发出一声尖叫，把手从桌子上拿开。
“我不想继续玩这个了，太恐怖了。我不喜欢这个。”
杜克先生的声音洪亮而清晰地响了起来，他正在问桌子问题：
“你是说，特里威廉上尉已经被谋杀了？”
问题的最后一个词才刚刚离开他的嘴唇，答案就到了。桌子非常剧烈而斩钉截铁地摇动了一下，几乎都要倒地了。只有一下晃动。
“是的……”
“喂，听我说，”罗尼说着把手从桌上拿开，“这真是个烂透了的玩笑。”他的声音颤抖着。
“把灯打开。”瑞克夫特先生说。
伯纳比少校站起身来开了灯。突如其来的强光照出了这些人苍白不安的面孔。
所有人都面面相觑。不知怎的，没有人知道要说些什么。
“当然了，这都是扯淡。”罗尼不安地笑着说。
“傻透了的胡说八道，”威利特夫人说，“人们不应该……不应该开这样的玩笑。”
“不应该开玩笑说有人死了。”维奥莱特说，“这——哦！我不喜欢这样。”
“我没有乱摇晃，”罗尼说，他感觉自己受到了无声的谴责，“我发誓我没有。”
“我也一样。”杜克先生说，“你也是吧，瑞克夫特先生？”
“我当然没有乱摇。”瑞克夫特温和地说道。
“你们不会认为是我开了那样的玩笑吧？”伯纳比少校低吼，“太糟心了。”
“维奥莱特，亲爱的——”
“我没有，妈妈。真的，我没有。我不可能做这样的事情。”
女孩眼看着就要哭出来了。
每个人都很窘迫。突如其来的阴影笼罩了这次愉快的聚会。
伯纳比少校向后推开他的椅子，来到窗前，拉开窗帘。他站在那里，背对着房间向外看去。
“五点二十五分。”瑞克夫特扫了一眼时钟，和自己的手表比对了一下，不知为何，这次活动中的每个人都觉得这个动作似乎具有某种特定的意义。
“总之，”威利特夫人强打起精神来说，“我们还是喝点鸡尾酒吧。可以请你帮忙按一下铃吗，加菲尔德先生？”
罗尼遵从了。
调配鸡尾酒的各种原料都已经被送过来了，罗尼被任命去调酒。气氛缓和了一些。
“嗯，”罗尼举起玻璃杯，说，“敬大家一杯。”
其他人都回应了，只有窗前的那个身影无动于衷。
“伯纳比少校，给你鸡尾酒。”
少校一惊，慢慢地转过身来。
“谢谢你，威利特夫人。我就不喝了。”他再次看向了夜色，然后慢慢地返回到炉火旁的人群中，“非常感谢今天这段美妙的时光。晚安。”
“你不是要过去吧？”
“恐怕我必须去。”
“你不能这么快就走，何况外面的天气还这么糟糕。”
“对不起，威利特夫人，但我肯定要去。除非现在有一部电话。”
“电话？”
“是的。跟你说实话吧，我……好吧。我必须确定乔•特里威廉平安无事才行。虽然这只是愚蠢的迷信，但是确实发生了那样的事。自然，我不相信这些荒唐的玩意儿，但是……”
“但是这里你打不了电话，斯塔福特根本没有电话。”
“正是这样。既然我不能打电话，就必须去一趟。”
“去……但是你在路上都找不到一辆车！这样的夜晚艾默尔是不会出车的。”
艾默尔是当地唯一拥有汽车的人，一辆老旧的福特，那些想去艾克汉普顿的人会以非常可观的价格来雇用这辆车。
“不，不。车不是问题。我可以走过去，威利特夫人。”
大家都异口同声地反对。
“天哪！伯纳比少校，这是不可能的。你自己都说了，还要下雪的。”
“一小时，甚至更长时间之内都不会下的。我会安全抵达，不必担心。”
“哦！不可能的，我们不能让你这么做。”
她看起来非常慌乱不安。
但是伯纳比少校对她的争辩和恳求毫不理睬，他就如同磐石一般坚定。他是个顽固的人，一旦做了什么决定，就绝不动摇。
他已经决定了要走路去艾克汉普顿看看他的老朋友是否一切无恙，还把这个简单的计划重复了六遍。
最后大家终于意识到了他是真的打算这么做。他裹上大衣，点亮防风灯，大步迈入夜色之中。
“我会顺便回家拿个水瓶，”他快活地说，“然后就直接过去。等我到了之后，特里威廉会留我住下的。我知道这都是些荒唐的大惊小怪。肯定没问题的，别担心，威利特夫人。
下不下雪我都会在两三个小时之内到达的。晚安。”
说完他大步离开。其他人都回到了壁炉前。
瑞克夫特抬头看了看天空。
“要下雪了，”他低声对杜克先生说，“而且会在他到达艾克汉普顿前就开始。我……我希望他能顺利到达。”
杜克先生皱起了眉头。
“我知道。我觉得我应该和他一起去。我们中应该有人这么做。”
“太让人痛苦了，”威利特夫人说，“太让人痛苦了。维奥莱特，我不会再允许谁玩这种愚蠢的游戏了。可怜的伯纳比少校有可能会陷入雪堆中。就算他没陷进去，考虑到他的年纪，也可能会被冻坏。就这样出门真是太不明智了。当然了，特里威廉上尉肯定也好好的。”
所有人都回应：
“当然了。”
但即便是现在，他们也没能真正放下心来。
万一确实有什么事发生在特里威廉上尉身上……
万一……
注释：
[1]罗尼（Ronnie）即罗纳德（Ronald）的昵称，也就是加菲尔德先生。
[2]指通过桌子的非人力转动来表示幽灵显灵的手法，即桌仙。
[3]Up Jenkins是一种聚会游戏，玩家在手掌中藏起一枚小硬币或者小纽扣，其对手要猜测硬币或纽扣在谁的哪只手里。该游戏规则广泛，并不固定，常常是喝酒时的惩罚游戏。
Three FIVE AND TWENTY PAST FIVE
Three FIVE AND TWENTY PAST FIVE
Two and a half hours later, just before eight o’clock, Major Burnaby, hur-ricane lantern in hand, his head dropped forward so as not to meet theblinding drive of snow, stumbled up the path to the door of “Hazelmoor,”
the small house tenanted by Captain Trevelyan.
The snow had begun to fall about an hour ago—great blinding flakes ofit. Major Burnaby was gasping, emitting the loud sighing gasps of an ut-terly exhausted man. He was numbed with cold. He stamped his feet,blew, puffed, snorted and applied a numbed finger to the bell push.
The bell trilled shrilly.
Burnaby waited. After a pause of a few minutes, as nothing happened,he pushed the bell again.
Once more there was no stir of life.
Burnaby rang a third time. This time he kept his finger on the bell.
It trilled on and on—but there was still no sign of life in the house.
There was a knocker on the door. Major Burnaby seized it and worked itvigorously, producing a noise like thunder.
And still the little house remained silent as the dead.
The Major desisted. He stood for a moment as though perplexed—thenhe slowly went down the path and out at the gate, continuing on the roadhe had come towards Exhampton. A hundred yards brought him to thesmall police station.
He hesitated again, then finally made up his mind and entered.
Constable Graves, who knew the Major well, rose in astonishment.
“Well, I never, sir, fancy you being out on a night like this.”
“Look here,” said Burnaby curtly. “I’ve been ringing and knocking at theCaptain’s house and I can’t get any answer.”
“Why, of course, it’s Friday,” said Graves who knew the habits of the twopretty well. “But you don’t mean to say you’ve actually come down fromSittaford on a night like this? Surely the Captain would never expect you.”
“Whether he’s expected me or not, I’ve come,” said Burnaby testily.
“And as I’m telling you, I can’t get in. I’ve rung and knocked and nobodyanswers.”
Some of his uneasiness seemed to communicate itself to the policeman.
“That’s odd,” he said, frowning.
“Of course, it’s odd,” said Burnaby.
“It’s not as though he’s likely to be out—on a night like this.”
“Of course he’s not likely to be out.”
“It is odd,” said Graves again.
Burnaby displayed impatience at the man’s slowness.
“Aren’t you going to do something?” he snapped.
“Do something?”
“Yes, do something.”
The policeman ruminated.
“Think he might have been taken bad?” His face brightened. “I’ll try thetelephone.” It stood at his elbow. He took it up and gave the number.
But to the telephone, as to the front door bell, Captain Trevelyan gave noreply.
“Looks as though he has been taken bad,” said Graves as he replaced thereceiver. “And all alone in the house, too. We’d best got hold of Dr. War-ren and take him along with us.”
Dr. Warren’s house was almost next door to the police station. The doc-tor was just sitting down to dinner with his wife and was not best pleasedat the summons. However, he grudgingly agreed to accompany them,drawing on an aged British Warm and a pair of rubber boots and mufflinghis neck with a knitted scarf.
The snow was still falling.
“Damnable night,” murmured the doctor. “Hope you haven’t broughtme out on a wild goose chase. Trevelyan’s as strong as a horse. Never hasanything the matter with him.”
Burnaby did not reply.
Arriving at Hazelmoor once more, they rang again and knocked, but eli-cited no response.
The doctor then suggested going round the house to one of the back win-dows.
“Easier to force than the door.”
Graves agreeing, they went round the back. There was a side doorwhich they tried on the way, but it too was locked, and presently theyemerged on the snow-covered lawn that led up to the back windows. Sud-denly, Warren uttered an exclamation.
“The window of the study—it’s open.”
True enough, the window, a French one, was standing ajar. Theyquickened their steps. On a night like this, no one in his senses wouldopen a window. There was a light in the room that streamed out in a thinyellow band.
The three men arrived simultaneously at the window—Burnaby was thefirst man to enter, the constable hard on his heels.
They both stopped dead inside and something like a muffled cry camefrom the ex-soldier. In another moment Warren was beside them, andsaw what they had seen.
Captain Trevelyan lay on the floor, face downwards. His arms sprawledwidely. The room was in confusion—drawers of the bureau pulled out, pa-pers lying about the floor. The window beside them was splintered whereit had been forced near the lock. Beside Captain Trevelyan was a darkgreen baize tube about two inches in diameter.
Warren sprang forward. He knelt down by the prostrate figure.
One minute sufficed. He rose to his feet, his face pale.
“He’s dead?” asked Burnaby.
The doctor nodded.
Then he turned to Graves.
“It’s for you to say what’s to be done. I can do nothing except examinethe body and perhaps you’d rather I didn’t do that until the Inspectorcomes. I can tell you the cause of death now. Fracture of the base of theskull. And I think I can make a guess at the weapon.”
He indicated the green baize tube.
“Trevelyan always had them along the bottom of the door—to keep thedraught out,” said Burnaby.
His voice was hoarse.
“Yes—a very efficient form of sandbag.”
“My God!”
“But this here—” the constable broke in, his wits arriving at the pointslowly. “You mean—this here is murder.”
The policeman stepped to the table on which stood a telephone.
Major Burnaby approached the doctor.
“Have you any idea,” he said, breathing hard, “how long he’s beendead?”
“About two hours, I should say, or possibly three. That’s a rough estim-ate.”
Burnaby passed his tongue over dry lips.
“Would you say,” he asked, “that he might have been killed at fivetwenty-five?”
The doctor looked at him curiously.
“If I had to give a time definitely, that’s just about the time I would sug-gest.”
“Oh my God,” said Burnaby.
Warren stared at him.
The Major felt his way blindly to a chair, collapsed onto it and mutteredto himself whilst a kind of staring terror overspread his face.
“Five and twenty past five—Oh my God, then it was true after all.”
第三章 五点二十五分
第三章 五点二十五分
两个半小时之后，正好在八点前。伯纳比少校手中提着防风灯，低着头，以防雪花迷眼，跌跌撞撞地爬上通往黑兹尔姆尔的小路，那座小房子就是特里威廉上尉租住的房子。
雪在一个小时之前就下起来了。蒙人眼的大雪。伯纳比少校喘着气，呼出大团的哈气，精疲力竭。他冻得麻木了，跺着脚，打着喷嚏，用麻木的手指去摁铃。
铃声颤抖而尖锐。
伯纳比等待着。数分钟的沉默之后，什么都没有发生，他又继续摁铃。
还是什么都没发生。
伯纳比摁了第三次铃。这一次，他一直就让铃响着。
铃一直响着，但是房子里依然没人回应。
门上有一个门环。伯纳比少校抓住它开始猛力扣动，击出雷鸣般的隆隆声。
房子依然一片死寂。
少校停下了动作。他糊里糊涂地站了一会儿，然后慢慢地回到路上，出了大门，继续走在他来艾克汉普顿的路上。走了一百码，到了一个小小的警察局。
他再次犹豫了，最后下定决心走了进去。
格雷夫斯警员认识少校，很是惊讶地站起来。
“哎呀，先生，没想到你今晚会出门。”
“听我说，”伯纳比简短地说，“我一直在上尉家门外按铃敲门，但是没有任何回应。”
“哦，当然了，今天是星期五。”格雷夫斯很了解他们两个的习惯，“别告诉我你还真大晚上的从斯塔福特跑到这儿来了，我敢说上尉肯定没盼着你来。”
“不管他有没有盼着我来，我还是来了。”伯纳比急躁地说，“而且我告诉你，我进不去。我一直又摁铃又敲门，但是没人应门。”
他的忧虑似乎传染给了警察。
“真是奇怪。”警察皱着眉头说。
“当然，很奇怪。”伯纳比说。
“他不可能出门，这种晚上。”
“当然了，他不可能出门。”
“太奇怪了。”格雷夫斯又说。
伯纳比对这个人漫不经心的态度表现出了不耐烦。
“你不打算做些什么吗？”他厉声说道。
“做些什么？”
“是的，做些什么。”
警察认真考虑着。
“他可能是生病了？”格雷夫斯的表情变得乐观起来，“我会试试打个电话。”电话在他的旁边，他拿起来拨了号码。
但是和门铃一样，特里威廉上尉没有回应。
“看起来他已经病倒了。”格雷夫斯放回了电话的听筒，“而且自己一个人在家。我们最好是叫上沃伦医生一起去看看。”
沃伦医生的家几乎就在警局的旁边。医生正在和他的妻子用餐，并不是很高兴被叫走，但是还是勉强同意跟他们一起去了，他穿上一件颇具年头的厚呢短大衣，套上一双旧胶靴，用编织围巾裹住了脖子。
雪仍在下。
“今晚天气真是糟透了，”医生咕哝道，“希望你们别让我白跑一回。特里威廉就像匹马一样结实，从来没有什么毛病。”
伯纳比没有回应。
他又一次来到了黑兹尔姆尔，摁响了铃，敲起了门，但依然没有回应。
医生建议绕着房子走一圈看看后面的窗户。
“从那里进比从门进要容易。”
格雷夫斯同意了，他们来到了房子后面。有一扇侧门。他们试着推开，但是门锁上了。很快，他们就站在了覆盖着白雪的草坪上，这里通向后窗。突然，沃伦发出一声大叫。
“书房的窗户——是开着的。”
确实如此，那扇法式窗户是半开着的。他们加快了步伐。像这样的夜晚，没有一个神志清醒的人会开着窗户。屋子中有灯光，透出了微弱的黄色光线。
三人同时来到窗前，伯纳比第一个进去，警察紧随其后。
他们两人都突然停住了脚步，这位退役军人的嘴里发出了一声压抑的叫喊。马上，紧随其后的沃伦医生也看到了这一切。
特里威廉上尉脸朝下趴在地板上，胳膊张开，房间里一片凌乱：书桌的抽屉被拉开了，文件也散落一地。旁边窗户靠近锁的地方裂成了碎片。特里威廉上尉旁边深绿色的台球桌布被卷成了直径两英寸的柱状沙袋。
沃伦纵身上前，跪到了这具卧倒的身体旁。
足足过了一分钟他才站起身来，脸色苍白。
“他死了？”伯纳比问道。
医生点点头。
然后他转身面对格雷夫斯。
“你来决定该怎么办吧。我除了检查尸体外什么都做不了，也许等探长来了再检查会更好。我现在就能告诉你死因。头骨粉碎，而且我想我能猜到凶器是什么。”
他指了指那根绿色的粗呢柱子。
“特里威廉常常把这东西堵在门下挡住穿堂风。”伯纳比说。
他的声音沙哑了。
“的确，台球布做成这样的沙袋很实用。”
“我的天哪！”
“但是这个——”警察插了一句，他终于开始明白了，“你是说——这是谋杀。”
警察走到放着电话的桌子边。
伯纳比少校走到医生旁边。
“你知不知道，”他呼吸沉重地说，“他大概死了多久？”
“大约两个小时，或者三个小时。只是个粗略的估计。”
伯纳比用舌头舔着干燥的嘴唇。
“你是说，”他问道，“他有可能是在五点二十五分被杀的吗？”
医生奇怪地看着他。
“如果一定要我说个准确时间的话，差不多就是那会儿吧。”
“天哪！”伯纳比说。
沃伦盯着他看。
少校摸索着找到了椅子，直接瘫倒在里面。他自言自语地嘟囔着，脸上满是惊恐。
“五点二十五分……天哪，那居然是真的！”
Four INSPECTOR NARRACOTT
Four INSPECTOR NARRACOTT
It was the morning after the tragedy, and two men were standing in thelittle study of Hazelmoor.
Inspector Narracott looked round him. A little frown appeared upon hisforehead.
“Ye-es,” he said thoughtfully. “Ye-es.”
Inspector Narracott was a very efficient officer. He had a quiet persist-ence, a logical mind and a keen attention to detail which brought him suc-cess where many another man might have failed.
He was a tall man with a quiet manner, rather faraway grey eyes, and aslow soft Devonshire voice.
Summoned from Exeter to take charge of the case, he had arrived on thefirst train that morning. The roads had been impassable for cars, evenwith chains, otherwise he would have arrived the night before. He wasstanding now in Captain Trevelyan’s study having just completed his ex-amination of the room. With him was Sergeant Pollock of the Exhamptonpolice.
“Ye-es,” said Inspector Narracott.
A ray of pale wintry sunshine came in through the window. Outside wasthe snowy landscape. There was a fence about a hundred yards from thewindow and beyond it the steep ascending slope of the snow-covered hill-side.
Inspector Narracott bent once more over the body which had been leftfor his inspection. An athletic man himself, he recognized the athlete’stype, the broad shoulders, narrow flanks, and the good muscular develop-ment. The head was small and well set on the shoulders, and the pointednaval beard was carefully trimmed. Captain Trevelyan’s age, he had ascer-tained, was sixty, but he looked not much more than fifty-one or two.
“Ah!” said Sergeant Pollock.
The other turned on him.
“What is your view of it?”
“Well—” Sergeant Pollock scratched his head. He was a cautious man,unwilling to advance further than necessary.
“Well,” he said, “as I see it, sir, I should say that the man came to thewindow, forced the lock, and started rifling the room. Captain Trevelyan, Isuppose, must have been upstairs. Doubtless the burglar thought thehouse was empty—”
“Where is Captain Trevelyan’s bedroom situated?”
“Upstairs, sir. Over this room.”
“At the present time of year it is dark at four o’clock. If Captain Trev-elyan was up in his bedroom the electric light would have been on, theburglar would have seen it as he approached this window.”
“You mean he’d have waited.”
“No man in his senses would break into a house with a light in it. If any-one forced this window — he did it because he thought the house wasempty.”
Sergeant Pollock scratched his head.
“Seems a bit odd, I admit. But there it is.”
“We’ll let it pass for the moment. Go on.”
“Well, suppose the Captain hears a noise downstairs. He comes down toinvestigate. The burglar hears him coming. He snatches up that bolster ar-rangement, gets behind the door, and as the Captain enters the roomstrikes him down from behind.”
Inspector Narracott nodded.
“Yes, that’s true enough. He was struck down when he was facing thewindow. But all the same, Pollock, I don’t like it.”
“No, sir?”
“No, as I say, I don’t believe in houses that are broken into at five o’clockin the afternoon.”
“We-ell, he may have thought it a good opportunity—”
“It is not a question of opportunity—slipping in because he found a win-dow unlatched. It was deliberate housebreaking—look at the confusioneverywhere—what would a burglar go for first? The pantry where the sil-ver is kept.”
“That’s true enough,” admitted the Sergeant.
“And this confusion—this chaos,” continued Narracott, “these drawerspulled out and their contents scattered. Pah! It’s bunkum.”
“Bunkum?”
“Look at the window, Sergeant. That window was not locked and forcedopen! It was merely shut and then splintered from the outside to give theappearance of forcing.”
Pollock examined the latch of the window closely, uttering an ejacula-tion to himself as he did so.
“You are right, sir,” he said with respect in his voice. “Who’d havethought of that now!”
“Someone who wishes to throw dust in our eyes — and hasn’t suc-ceeded.”
Sergeant Pollock was grateful for the “our.” In such small ways did In-spector Narracott endear himself to his subordinates.
“Then it wasn’t burglary. You mean, sir, it was an inside job.”
Inspector Narracott nodded. “Yes,” he said. “The only curious thing is,though, that I think the murderer did actually enter by the window. Asyou and Graves reported, and as I can still see for myself, there are damppatches still visible where the snow melted and was trodden in by themurderer’s boots. These damp patches are only in this room. ConstableGraves was quite positive that there was nothing of the kind in the hallwhen he and Dr. Warren passed through it. In this room he noticed themimmediately. In that case it seems clear that the murderer was admittedby Captain Trevelyan through the window. Therefore it must have beensomeone whom Captain Trevelyan knew. You are a local man, Sergeant,can you tell me if Captain Trevelyan was a man who made enemies eas-ily?”
“No, sir, I should say he hadn’t an enemy in the world. A bit keen onmoney, and a bit of a martinet—wouldn’t stand for any slackness or inci-vility—but bless my soul, he was respected for that.”
“No enemies,” said Narracott thoughtfully.
“Not here, that is.”
“Very true—we don’t know what enemies he may have made during hisnaval career. It’s my experience, Sergeant, that a man who makes enemiesin one place will make them in another, but I agree that we can’t put thatpossibility entirely aside. We come logically now to the next motive—themost common motive for every crime—gain. Captain Trevelyan was, I un-derstand, a rich man?”
“Very warm indeed by all accounts. But close. Not an easy man to touchfor a subscription.”
“Ah!” said Narracott thoughtfully.
“Pity it snowed as it did,” said the Sergeant. “But for that we’d have hadhis footprints as something to go on.”
“There was no one else in the house?” asked the Inspector.
“No. For the last five years Captain Trevelyan has only had one servant—retired naval chap. Up at Sittaford House a woman came in daily, butthis chap, Evans, cooked and looked after his master. About a month agohe got married—much to the Captain’s annoyance. I believe that’s one ofthe reasons he let Sittaford House to this South African lady. He wouldn’thave any woman living in the house. Evans lives just round the cornerhere in Fore Street with his wife, and comes in daily to do for his master.
I’ve got him here now for you to see. His statement is that he left here athalf past two yesterday afternoon, the Captain having no further need forhim.”
“Yes, I shall want to see him. He may be able to tell us something—use-ful.”
Sergeant Pollock looked at his superior officer curiously. There wassomething so odd about his tone.
“You think—” he began.
“I think,” said Inspector Narracott deliberately, “that there’s a lot morein this case than meets the eye.”
“In what way, sir?”
But the Inspector refused to be drawn.
“You say this man, Evans, is here now?”
“He’s waiting in the dining room.”
“Good. I’ll see him straight away. What sort of a fellow is he?”
Sergeant Pollock was better at reporting facts than at descriptive accur-acy.
“He’s a retired naval chap. Ugly customer in a scrap, I should say.”
“Does he drink?”
“Never been the worse for it that I know of.”
“What about this wife of his? Not a fancy of the Captain’s or anything ofthat sort?”
“Oh! no, sir, nothing of that kind about Captain Trevelyan. He wasn’tthat kind at all. He was known as a woman hater, if anything.”
“And Evans was supposed to be devoted to his master?”
“That’s the general idea, sir, and I think it would be known if he wasn’t.
Exhampton’s a small place.”
Inspector Narracott nodded.
“Well,” he said, “there’s nothing more to be seen here. I’ll interviewEvans and I’ll take a look at the rest of the house and after that we will goover to the Three Crowns and see this Major Burnaby. That remark of hisabout the time was curious. Twenty- five past five, eh? He must knowsomething he hasn’t told, or why should he suggest the time of the crimeso accurately?”
The two men moved towards the door.
“It’s a rum business,” said Sergeant Pollock, his eye wandering to thelittered floor. “All this burglary fake!”
“It’s not that that strikes me as odd,” said Narracott, “under the circum-stances it was probably the natural thing to do. No—what strikes me asodd is the window.”
“The window, sir?”
“Yes. Why should the murderer go to the window? Assuming it wassomeone Trevelyan knew and admitted without question, why not go tothe front door? To get round to this window from the road on a night likelast night would have been a difficult and unpleasant proceeding with thesnow lying as thick as it does. Yet there must have been some reason.”
“Perhaps,” suggested Pollock, “the man didn’t want to be seen turning into the house from the road.”
“There wouldn’t be many people about yesterday afternoon to see him.
Nobody who could help it was out of doors. No — there’s some otherreason. Well, perhaps it will come to light in due course.”
第四章 纳拉科特探长
第四章 纳拉科特探长
悲剧发生后的第二天早晨，有两个男人站在了黑兹尔姆尔的小书房中。
纳拉科特探长正在四处查看，皱起了眉。
“是的，”他若有所思地说，“对。”
纳拉科特探长是一位非常能干的警官。他为人沉稳而坚韧，头脑清晰，对细节有着敏锐的洞察力，能发现旁人注意不到的细节，而这也给他带来了成功。
他个子很高，举止沉着，有一双略显疏离的灰眼睛，还有一口柔和缓慢的德文郡口音。
他被从埃克塞特 [1] 召来负责这起案子，是乘坐早上第一班火车过来的。公路已经无法行车，就算上了防滑链条也不行，否则他昨晚就到了。现在他站在特里威廉上尉的书房中，刚刚检查完房间。和他一起办案的是艾克汉普顿的波洛克警佐。
“嗯。”纳拉科特探长说。
一缕黯淡的冬日阳光透过窗户照进来。外边是一片银装素裹。窗外大约一百码处有一道栅栏，栅栏外就是大雪覆盖的山坡。
纳拉科特再一次弯下腰对尸体进行检查，他自己也是个热衷运动的人，熟知运动员的体型，他们都有宽阔的肩膀，窄窄的侧腹，还有结实的肌肉。肩上的头部相对比较小，还有修剪整齐的海军式胡子。特里威廉上尉如今六十岁，但是看上去不过五十一二岁。
“啊！”波洛克警佐说。
纳拉科特转向了他。
“你怎么看？”
“嗯——”波洛克警佐抓抓脑袋。他是个谨慎的人，并不愿意做不必要的推测。
“嗯，”他说，“就我看来，长官，我会说这个凶手是走到窗前，撬锁进来偷东西的。而特里威廉上尉，我猜他当时一定是在楼上。所以盗贼以为这栋房子里没人——”
“特里威廉上尉的卧室在哪里？”
“在楼上，长官。就在这间房间的上面。”
“现在这个时节，四点钟天就黑了。如果特里威廉上尉在楼上的卧室里，应该会开着电灯，盗贼一靠近窗户就能看见。”
“所以他就会另找时候再来？”
“没有人会在房子还亮着灯的情况下闯进来的。如果小偷破坏了窗子，多半是因为他觉得屋里没人。”
波洛克警佐抓了抓脑袋。
“似乎是有点怪，我承认。但是情况就是这样的。”
“我们先跳过这里，继续。”
“嗯，假设上尉听到了楼下有声音，下来查看。盗贼听到了动静，抓起门口的沙袋，藏在门后，然后，等上尉走进房间的时候就从后方袭击了他。”
纳拉科特探长点点头。
“不错，很有可能。他是面对着窗户的时候被人击倒的。但是波洛克，我还是不赞同这个想法。”
“我说得不对吗，长官？”
“这样说不通。就像我说的，我不相信有人会在下午五点钟闯空门。”
“嗯，他可能认为这是个好机会——”
“这并不是机会的问题。不是偶然发现窗户没关好就趁机溜了进来，这是故意闯入。看看这里，到处都是一团糟。一个盗贼会最先去找什么呢？肯定是放着银餐具的餐具间。”
“确实很有可能。”警佐承认道。
“这里的混乱，”纳拉科特继续说道，“这些被拽出来的抽屉、散落在地上的物品。呸！
全都是假的。”
“假的？”
“你看看这窗户，警佐。这扇窗户并没有上锁，却被强行打破了！它只不过是被关上了，然后从外边给砸成碎片，造成破窗而入的假象。”
波洛克仔细地检查了窗户的插销，突然就叫出了声。
“长官，您是对的。”他的声音中饱含敬意，“谁会想到这点啊！”
“有人想要蒙蔽我们，却没有成功。”
波洛克警佐很感激纳拉科特用了“我们”这个词。纳拉科特探长用这种方式，赢得了许多下属的爱戴。
“所以，长官您的意思是，这不是入室盗窃，而是内部作案？”
纳拉科特探长点了点头。“是的。”他说，“唯一的疑点是，我认为凶手确实是从窗户进来的。就像你和格雷夫斯报告的那样，而且我自己也能看见，凶手的靴子踩过雪，雪融化的地方有湿脚印，依然清晰可见。这些潮湿的印迹只出现在了这间屋中。格雷夫斯警员非常肯定，当他和沃伦医生途经大厅的时候，大厅是没有印迹的。而一走进这间屋子，他立刻就注意到了。如果是那样的话，就是特里威廉上尉让凶手从窗户进来的。所以这一定是特里威廉上尉认识的人。你是个当地人，警佐，你能跟我说说特里威廉上尉是一个容易树敌的人吗？”
“不，长官，我可以说他在这世上没有仇敌。他在钱财上是有些吝啬，还有点军人作风，不能容忍懈怠或无礼，但是，天哪，他也因此而受人尊敬。”
“没有仇敌。”纳拉科特沉思着说。
“至少在当地没有。”
“没错。我们不知道他在海军服役的时候是否有仇家。虽然据我的经验来说，警佐，一个会与人结仇的人，无论在哪儿都会结下新的仇人，但是我同意，我们不能把这种可能性完全搁置。现在，再来想想别的动机——每个犯罪最常见的动机——利益。我记得没错的话，特里威廉上尉是个有钱人吧？”
“没错，他为人热情，但是吝啬。从他那里不容易获得捐助。”
“啊！”纳拉科特沉思道。
“那场雪下得可真大，”警佐说，“不过也多亏了那场大雪，我们才找到了嫌疑人的脚印，能作为继续追查下去的线索。”
“这栋房子里还有其他人居住吗？”探长问道。
“没有了。之前的五年，特里威廉上尉只有一个仆人。一个退役的年轻海军士兵。斯塔福特寓所那边有个女人每天会过来。不过负责煮饭和照顾上尉的是那个小伙子，伊万斯。
大约一个月以前，他结婚了，上尉很是烦恼。我觉得这也是他把斯塔福特寓所租给那位从南非来的女士的原因之一。他不希望有女人住在自己家里。伊万斯夫妇就住在这附近的福尔街，而且每天都会来为特里威廉工作。我已经把伊万斯带过来了。他说他是昨天下午两点半离开的，上尉当时并不需要他做什么。”
“好，我要见见他。也许他能告诉我一些有用的线索。”
波洛克警佐好奇地看着他的上司。纳拉科特探长的语调有些古怪。
“你认为——”他说道。
“我认为，”纳拉科特探长慎重地说，“这桩案子比看起来的要复杂得多。”
“您指的是哪些方面，长官？”
但是探长没有解释。
“你说的这个人，伊万斯，现在在这儿吗？”
“他就在餐厅等着。”
“好，我立刻就去见他。他是个什么样的人？”
比起精确的描述，波洛克警佐更擅长报告事实。
“他是个退伍的海军士兵。我得说，是个难对付的家伙。”
“他喝酒吗？”
“据我所知，没有比他喝得更凶的。”
“那他的妻子呢？是上尉会欣赏的类型吗？”
“哦！不是的，长官，特里威廉上尉可不是那种人。非要说的话，他是个有名的厌女症患者。”
“伊万斯忠于他的主人吗？”
“基本上是的，长官，而且我觉得他要是不忠的话别人会知道的。艾克汉普顿是个小地方。”
纳拉科特探长点点头。
“好，”他说，“这里也没什么可看的了。我去见见那个伊万斯，然后看看房子的其他地方，完事儿之后我们去三皇冠旅馆见见伯纳比少校。他说的那个时间让我很好奇。五点二十五分，嗯？他肯定是知道什么事儿，但是没说，否则他为什么能说出这么精确的犯罪时间？”
两个人走向门口。
“这可真是个怪案子，”波洛克警佐说，他扫视着凌乱的地板，“凶手还制造了入室盗窃的假象！”
“我倒是没觉得奇怪，”纳拉科特说，“在这种情况下，这样做也是正常的。不，让我觉得奇怪的是这扇窗户。”
“窗户？”
“是的。凶手为什么要走到窗户那里？假设特里威廉认识这个人，直接就让他进来了，为什么不走前门呢？在昨晚那种天气里，雪那么厚，从路上走到这扇窗户前，肯定十分困难，也不怎么令人愉快。他这么做肯定是有原因的。”
“可能，”波洛克说，“这个人不想让人看见他进了房子。”
“昨天下午不太有可能会有谁目击他，没人会待在外边。不，肯定是有些别的原因。
嗯，迟早会真相大白的。”
注释：
[1]英国的历史文化名城，德文郡郡治。