BOOK 1 One
BOOK 1
ROSEMARY
“What can I do to drive away
remembrances from mine eyes?”
Six people were thinking of Rose-
mary Barton who had died nearly a
year ago. . . .
One
IRIS MARLE
I
Iris Marle was thinking about her sister, Rosemary.
For nearly a year she had deliberately tried to put the thought of Rose-
mary away from her. She hadn’t wanted to remember.
It was too painful—too horrible!
The blue cyanosed face, the convulsed clutching fingers. . . .
The contrast between that and the gay lovely Rosemary of the day be-
fore . . . Well, perhaps not exactly gay. She had had ’flu—she had been de-
pressed, run-down . . . All that had been brought out at the inquest. Iris
herself had laid stress on it. It accounted, didn’t it, for Rosemary’s suicide?
Once the inquest was over, Iris had deliberately tried to put the whole
thing out of her mind. Of what good was remembrance? Forget it all! For-
get the whole horrible business.
But now, she realized, she had got to remember. She had got to think
back into the past . . . To remember carefully every slight unimportant
seeming incident. . . .
That extraordinary interview with George last night necessitated re-
membrance.
It had been so unexpected, so frightening. Wait—had it been so unex-
pected? Hadn’t there been indications beforehand? George’s growing ab-
sorption, his absentmindedness, his unaccountable actions — his — well,
queerness was the only word for it! All leading up to that moment last
night when he had called her into the study and taken the letters from the
drawer of the desk.
So now there was no help for it. She had got to think about Rosemary—
to remember.
Rosemary—her sister. . . .
With a shock Iris realized suddenly that it was the first time in her life
she had ever thought about Rosemary. Thought about her, that is, object-
ively, as a person.
She had always accepted Rosemary without thinking about her. You
didn’t think about your mother or your father or your sister or your aunt.
They just existed, unquestioned, in those relationships.
You didn’t think about them as people. You didn’t ask yourself, even,
what they were like.
What had Rosemary been like?
That might be very important now. A lot might depend upon it. Iris cast
her mind back into the past. Herself and Rosemary as children. . . .
Rosemary had been the elder by six years.
II
Glimpses of the past came back—brief flashes—short scenes. Herself as
a small child eating bread and milk, and Rosemary, important in pigtails,
“doing lessons” at a table.
The seaside one summer—Iris envying Rosemary who was a “big girl”
and could swim!
Rosemary going to boarding school — coming home for the holidays.
Then she herself at school, and Rosemary being “finished” in Paris. School-
girl Rosemary; clumsy, all arms and legs. “Finished” Rosemary coming
back from Paris with a strange new frightening elegance, soft voiced,
graceful, with a swaying undulating figure, with red gold chestnut hair
and big black fringed dark blue eyes. A disturbing beautiful creature—
grown up—in a different world!
From then on they had seen very little of each other, the six-year gap
had been at its widest.
Iris had been still at school, Rosemary in the full swing of a “season.”
Even when Iris came home, the gap remained. Rosemary’s life was one of
late mornings in bed, fork luncheons with other débutantes, dances most
evenings of the week. Iris had been in the schoolroom with Mademoiselle,
had gone for walks in the Park, had had supper at nine o’clock and gone to
bed at ten. The intercourse between the sisters had been limited to such
brief interchanges as:
“Hullo, Iris, telephone for a taxi for me, there’s a lamb, I’m going to be
devastatingly late,” or
“I don’t like that new frock, Rosemary. It doesn’t suit you. It’s all bunch
and fuss.”
Then had come Rosemary’s engagement to George Barton. Excitement,
shopping, streams of parcels, bridesmaids’ dresses.
The wedding. Walking up the aisles behind Rosemary, hearing whis-
pers:
“What a beautiful bride she makes. . . .”
Why had Rosemary married George? Even at the time Iris had been
vaguely surprised. There had been so many exciting young men, ringing
Rosemary up, taking her out. Why choose George Barton, fifteen years
older than herself, kindly, pleasant, but definitely dull?
George was well- off, but it wasn’t money. Rosemary had her own
money, a great deal of it.
Uncle Paul’s money. . . .
Iris searched her mind carefully, seeking to differentiate between what
she knew now and what she had known then: Uncle Paul, for instance?
He wasn’t really an uncle, she had always known that. Without ever
having been definitely told them she knew certain facts. Paul Bennett had
been in love with their mother. She had preferred another and a poorer
man. Paul Bennett had taken his defeat in a romantic spirit. He had re-
mained the family friend, adopted an attitude of romantic platonic devo-
tion. He had become Uncle Paul, had stood godfather to the firstborn child,
Rosemary. When he died, it was found that he had left his entire fortune
to his little goddaughter, then a child of thirteen.
Rosemary, besides her beauty, had been an heiress. And she had mar-
ried nice dull George Barton.
Why? Iris had wondered then. She wondered now. Iris didn’t believe
that Rosemary had ever been in love with him. But she had seemed very
happy with him and she had been fond of him—yes, definitely fond of
him. Iris had good opportunities for knowing, for a year after the mar-
riage, their mother, lovely delicate Viola Marle, had died, and Iris, a girl of
seventeen, had gone to live with Rosemary Barton and her husband.
A girl of seventeen. Iris pondered over the picture of herself. What had
she been like? What had she felt, thought, seen?
She came to the conclusion that that young Iris Marle had been slow of
development—unthinking, acquiescing in things as they were. Had she re-
sented, for instance, her mother’s earlier absorption in Rosemary? On the
whole she thought not. She had accepted, unhesitatingly, the fact that
Rosemary was the important one. Rosemary was “out”— naturally her
mother was occupied as far as her health permitted with her elder daugh-
ter. That had been natural enough. Her own turn would come someday.
Viola Marle had always been a somewhat remote mother, preoccupied
mainly with her own health, relegating her children to nurses, gover-
nesses, schools, but invariably charming to them in those brief moments
when she came across them. Hector Marle had died when Iris was five
years old. The knowledge that he drank more than was good for him had
permeated so subtly that she had not the least idea how it had actually
come to her.
Seventeen- year- old Iris Marle had accepted life as it came, had duly
mourned for her mother, had worn black clothes, had gone to live with
her sister and her sister’s husband at their house in Elvaston Square.
Sometimes it had been rather dull in that house. Iris wasn’t to come out,
officially, until the following year. In the meantime she took French and
German lessons three times a week, and also attended domestic science
classes. There were times when she had nothing much to do and nobody
to talk to. George was kind, invariably affectionate and brotherly. His atti-
tude had never varied. He was the same now.
And Rosemary? Iris had seen very little of Rosemary. Rosemary had
been out a good deal. Dressmakers, cocktail parties, bridge. . . .
What did she really know about Rosemary when she came to think of it?
Of her tastes, of her hopes, of her fears? Frightening, really, how little you
might know of a person after living in the same house with them! There
had been little or no intimacy between the sisters.
But she’d got to think now. She’d got to remember. It might be import-
ant.
Certainly Rosemary had seemed happy enough. . . .
III
Until that day—a week before it happened.
She, Iris, would never forget that day. It stood out crystal clear—each
detail, each word. The shining mahogany table, the pushed back chair, the
hurried characteristic writing. . . .
Iris closed her eyes and let the scene come back. . . .
Her own entry into Rosemary’s sitting room, her sudden stop.
It had startled her so; what she saw! Rosemary, sitting at the writing
table, her head laid down on her outstretched arms. Rosemary weeping
with a deep abandoned sobbing. She’d never seen Rosemary cry before—
and this bitter, violent weeping frightened her.
True, Rosemary had had a bad go of ’flu. She’d only been up a day or
two. And everyone knew that ’flu did leave you depressed. Still—
Iris had cried out, her voice childish, startled:
“Oh, Rosemary, what is it?”
Rosemary sat up, swept the hair back from her disfigured face. She
struggled to regain command of herself. She said quickly:
“It’s nothing—nothing—don’t stare at me like that!”
She got up and passing her sister, she ran out of the room.
Puzzled, upset, Iris went farther into the room. Her eyes, drawn won-
deringly to the writing table, caught sight of her own name in her sister’s
handwriting. Had Rosemary been writing to her then?
She drew nearer, looked down on the sheet of blue notepaper with the
big characteristic sprawling writing, even more sprawling than usual ow-
ing to the haste and agitation behind the hand that held the pen.
Darling Iris,
There isn’t any point in my making a will because my
money goes to you anyway, but I’d like certain of my
things to be given to certain people.
To George, the jewellery he’s given me, and the little
enamel casket we bought together when we were en-
gaged.
To Gloria King, my platinum cigarette case.
To Maisie, my Chinese Pottery horse that she’s always
admired—
It stopped there, with a frantic scrawl of the pen as Rosemary had
dashed it down and given way to uncontrollable weeping.
Iris stood as though turned to stone.
What did it mean? Rosemary wasn’t going to die, was she? She’d been
very ill with influenza, but she was all right now. And anyway people
didn’t die of ’flu—at least sometimes they did, but Rosemary hadn’t. She
was quite well now, only weak and run-down.
Iris’s eyes went over the words again and this time a phrase stood out
with startling effect:
“. . . my money goes to you anyway. . . .”
It was the first intimation she had had of the terms of Paul Bennett’s
will. She had known since she was a child that Rosemary had inherited
Uncle Paul’s money, that Rosemary was rich whilst she herself was com-
paratively poor. But until this moment she had never questioned what
would happen to that money on Rosemary’s death.
If she had been asked, she would have replied that she supposed it
would go to George as Rosemary’s husband, but would have added that it
seemed absurd to think of Rosemary dying before George!
But here it was, set down in black and white, in Rosemary’s own hand.
At Rosemary’s death the money came to her, Iris. But surely that wasn’t
legal? A husband or wife got any money, not a sister. Unless, of course,
Paul Bennett had left it that way in his will. Yes, that must be it. Uncle Paul
had said the money was to go to her if Rosemary died. That did make it
rather less unfair—
Unfair? She was startled as the word leapt to her thoughts. Had she been
thinking that it was unfair for Rosemary to get all Uncle Paul’s money? She
supposed that, deep down, she must have been feeling just that. It was un-
fair. They were sisters, she and Rosemary. They were both her mother’s
children. Why should Uncle Paul give it all to Rosemary?
Rosemary always had everything!
Parties and frocks and young men in love with her and an adoring hus-
band.
The only unpleasant thing that ever happened to Rosemary was having
an attack of ’flu! And even that hadn’t lasted longer than a week!
Iris hesitated, standing by the desk. That sheet of paper—would Rose-
mary want it left about for the servants to see?
After a minute’s hesitation she picked it up, folded it in two and slipped
it into one of the drawers of the desk.
It was found there after the fatal birthday party, and provided an addi-
tional proof, if proof was necessary, that Rosemary had been in a de-
pressed and unhappy state of mind after her illness, and had possibly
been thinking of suicide even then.
Depression after influenza. That was the motive brought forward at the
inquest, the motive that Iris’s evidence helped to establish. An inadequate
motive, perhaps, but the only one available, and consequently accepted. It
had been a bad type of influenza that year.
Neither Iris nor George Barton could have suggested any other motive—
then.
Now, thinking back over the incident in the attic, Iris wondered that she
could have been so blind.
The whole thing must have been going on under her eyes! And she had
seen nothing, noticed nothing!
Her mind took a quick leap over the tragedy of the birthday party. No
need to think of that! That was over—done with. Put away the horror of
that and the inquest and George’s twitching face and bloodshot eyes. Go
straight on to the incident of the trunk in the attic.
IV
That had been about six months after Rosemary’s death.
Iris had continued to live at the house in Elvaston Square. After the fu-
neral the Marle family solicitor, a courtly old gentleman with a shining
bald head and unexpectedly shrewd eyes, had had an interview with Iris.
He had explained with admirable clarity that under the will of Paul Ben-
nett, Rosemary had inherited his estate in trust to pass at her death to any
children she might have. If Rosemary died childless, the estate was to go to
Iris absolutely. It was, the solicitor explained, a very large fortune which
would belong to her absolutely upon attaining the age of twenty-one or on
her marriage.
In the meantime, the first thing to settle was her place of residence. Mr.
George Barton had shown himself anxious for her to continue living with
him and had suggested that her father’s sister, Mrs. Drake, who was in im-
poverished circumstances owing to the financial claims of a son (the black
sheep of the Marle family), should make her home with them and chap-
eron Iris in society. Did Iris approve of this plan?
Iris had been quite willing, thankful not to have to make new plans.
Aunt Lucilla she remembered as an amiable friendly sheep with little will
of her own.
So the matter had been settled. George Barton had been touchingly
pleased to have his wife’s sister still with him and treated her affection-
ately as a younger sister. Mrs. Drake, if not a stimulating companion, was
completely subservient to Iris’s wishes. The household settled down amic-
ably.
It was nearly six months later that Iris made her discovery in the attic.
The attics of the Elvaston Square house were used as storage rooms for
odds and ends of furniture, and a number of trunks and suitcases.
Iris had gone up there one day after an unsuccessful hunt for an old red
pullover for which she had an affection. George had begged her not to
wear mourning for Rosemary, Rosemary had always been opposed to the
idea, he said. This, Iris knew, was true, so she acquiesced and continued to
wear ordinary clothes, somewhat to the disapproval of Lucilla Drake, who
was old- fashioned and liked what she called “the decencies” to be ob-
served. Mrs. Drake herself was still inclined to wear crêpe for a husband
deceased some twenty-odd years ago.
Various unwanted clothes, Iris knew, had been packed away in a trunk
upstairs. She started hunting through it for her pullover, coming across, as
she did so, various forgotten belongings, a grey coat and skirt, a pile of
stockings, her skiing kit and one or two old bathing dresses.
It was then that she came across an old dressing gown that had be-
longed to Rosemary and which had somehow or other escaped being
given away with the rest of Rosemary’s things. It was a mannish affair of
spotted silk with big pockets.
Iris shook it out, noting that it was in perfectly good condition. Then she
folded it carefully and returned it to the trunk. As she did so, her hand felt
something crackle in one of the pockets. She thrust in her hand and drew
out a crumpled-up piece of paper. It was in Rosemary’s handwriting and
she smoothed it out and read it.
Leopard darling, you can’t mean it . . . You can’t—you
can’t . . . We love each other! We belong together! You
must know that just as I know it! We can’t just say good-
bye and go on coolly with our own lives. You know
that’s impossible, darling—quite impossible. You and I
belong together—forever and ever. I’m not a conven-
tional woman — I don’t mind about what people say.
Love matters more to me than anything else. We’ll go
away together—and be happy—I’ll make you happy.
You said to me once that life without me was dust and
ashes to you—do you remember, Leopard darling? And
now you write calmly that all this had better end—that
it’s only fair to me. Fair to me? But I can’t live without
you! I’m sorry about George—he’s always been sweet to
me — but he’ll understand. He’ll want to give me my
freedom. It isn’t right to live together if you don’t love
each other anymore. God meant us for each other,
darling—I know He did. We’re going to be wonderfully
happy—but we must be brave. I shall tell George myself
—I want to be quite straight about the whole thing—but
not until after my birthday.
I know I’m doing what’s right, Leopard darling—and I
can’t live without you—can’t, can’t—CAN’T. How stupid
it is of me to write all this. Two lines would have done.
Just “I love you. I’m never going to let you go.” Oh
darling—
The letter broke off.
Iris stood motionless, staring down at it.
How little one knew of one’s own sister!
So Rosemary had had a lover—had written him passionate love letters—
had planned to go away with him?
What had happened? Rosemary had never sent the letter after all. What
letter had she sent? What had been finally decided between Rosemary and
this unknown man?
(“Leopard!” What extraordinary fancies people had when they were in
love. So silly. Leopard indeed!)
Who was this man? Did he love Rosemary as much as she loved him?
Surely he must have done. Rosemary was so unbelievably lovely. And yet,
according to Rosemary’s letter, he had suggested “ending it all.” That sug-
gested—what? Caution? He had evidently said that the break was for Rose-
mary’s sake. That it was only fair to her. Yes, but didn’t men say that sort
of thing to save their faces? Didn’t it really mean that the man, whoever he
was, was tired of it all? Perhaps it had been to him a mere passing distrac-
tion. Perhaps he had never really cared. Somehow Iris got the impression
that the unknown man had been very determined to break with Rosemary
finally. . . .
But Rosemary had thought differently. Rosemary wasn’t going to count
the cost. Rosemary had been determined, too. . . .
Iris shivered.
And she, Iris, hadn’t known a thing about it! Hadn’t even guessed! Had
taken it for granted that Rosemary was happy and contented and that she
and George were quite satisfied with one another. Blind! She must have
been blind not to know a thing like that about her own sister.
But who was the man?
She cast her mind back, thinking, remembering. There had been so
many men about, admiring Rosemary, taking her out, ringing her up.
There had been no one special. But there must have been—the rest of the
bunch were mere camouflage for the one, the only one, that mattered. Iris
frowned perplexedly, sorting her remembrances carefully.
Two names stood out. It must, yes, positively it must, be one or the
other. Stephen Farraday? It must be Stephen Farraday. What could Rose-
mary have seen in him? A stiff pompous young man—and not so very
young either. Of course people did say he was brilliant. A rising politician,
an undersecretaryship prophesied in the near future, and all the weight of
the influential Kidderminster connection behind him. A possible future
Prime Minister! Was that what had given him glamour in Rosemary’s
eyes? Surely she couldn’t care so desperately for the man himself—such a
cold self-contained creature? But they said that his own wife was passion-
ately in love with him, that she had gone against all the wishes of her
powerful family in marrying him—a mere nobody with political ambi-
tions! If one woman felt like that about him, another woman might also.
Yes, it must be Stephen Farraday.
Because, if it wasn’t Stephen Farraday, it must be Anthony Browne.
And Iris didn’t want it to be Anthony Browne.
True, he’d been very much Rosemary’s slave, constantly at her beck and
call, his dark good-looking face expressing a kind of humorous despera-
tion. But surely that devotion had been too open, too freely declared to go
really deep?
Odd the way he had disappeared after Rosemary’s death. They had none
of them seen him since.
Still not so odd really—he was a man who travelled a lot. He had talked
about the Argentine and Canada and Uganda and the U.S.A. She had an
idea that he was actually an American or a Canadian, though he had
hardly any accent. No, it wasn’t really strange that they shouldn’t have
seen anything of him since.
It was Rosemary who had been his friend. There was no reason why he
should go on coming to see the rest of them. He had been Rosemary’s
friend. But not Rosemary’s lover! She didn’t want him to have been Rose-
mary’s lover. That would hurt—that would hurt terribly. . . .
She looked down at the letter in her hand. She crumpled it up. She’d
throw it away, burn it. . . .
It was sheer instinct that stopped her.
Someday it might be important to produce that letter. . . .
She smoothed it out, took it down with her and locked it away in her
jewel case.
It might be important, someday, to show why Rosemary took her own
life.
V
“And the next thing, please?”
The ridiculous phrase came unbidden into Iris’s mind and twisted her
lips into a wry smile. The glib shopkeeper’s question seemed to represent
so exactly her own carefully directed mental processes.
Was not that exactly what she was trying to do in her survey of the past?
She had dealt with the surprising discovery in the attic. And now—on to
“the next thing, please!” What was the next thing?
Surely the increasingly odd behaviour of George. That dated back for a
long time. Little things that had puzzled her became clear now in the light
of the surprising interview last night. Disconnected remarks and actions
took their proper place in the course of events.
And there was the reappearance of Anthony Browne. Yes, perhaps that
ought to come next in sequence, since it had followed the finding of the
letter by just one week.
Iris couldn’t recall her sensations exactly. . . .
Rosemary had died in November. In the following May, Iris, under the
wing of Lucilla Drake, had started her social young girl’s life. She had gone
to luncheons and teas and dances without, however, enjoying them very
much. She had felt listless and unsatisfied. It was at a somewhat dull
dance towards the end of June that she heard a voice say behind her:
“It is Iris Marle, isn’t it?”
She had turned, flushing, to look into Anthony’s—Tony’s—dark quizzical
face.
He said:
“I don’t expect you to remember me, but—”
She interrupted.
“Oh, but I do remember you. Of course I do!”
“Splendid. I was afraid you’d have forgotten me. It’s such a long time
since I saw you.”
“I know. Not since Rosemary’s birthday par—”
She stopped. The words had come gaily, unthinkingly, to her lips. Now
the colour rushed away from her cheeks, leaving them white and drained
of blood. Her lips quivered. Her eyes were suddenly wide and dismayed.
Anthony Browne said quickly:
“I’m terribly sorry. I’m a brute to have reminded you.”
Iris swallowed. She said:
“It’s all right.”
(Not since the night of Rosemary’s birthday party. Not since the night of
Rosemary’s suicide. She wouldn’t think of it. She would not think of it!)
Anthony Browne said again:
“I’m terribly sorry. Please forgive me. Shall we dance?”
She nodded. Although already engaged for the dance that was just be-
ginning, she had floated on to the floor in his arms. She saw her partner, a
blushing immature young man whose collar seemed too big for him, peer-
ing about for her. The sort of partner, she thought scornfully, that debs
have to put up with. Not like this man—Rosemary’s friend.
A sharp pang went through her. Rosemary’s friend. That letter. Had it
been written to this man she was dancing with now? Something in the
easy feline grace with which he danced lent substance to the nickname
“Leopard.” Had he and Rosemary—
She said sharply:
“Where have you been all this time?”
He held her a little way from him, looking down into her face. He was
unsmiling now, his voice held coldness.
“I’ve been travelling—on business.”
“I see.” She went on uncontrollably, “Why have you come back?”
He smiled then. He said lightly:
“Perhaps—to see you, Iris Marle.”
And suddenly gathering her up a little closer, he executed a long daring
glide through the dancers, a miracle of timing and steering. Iris wondered
why, with a sensation that was almost wholly pleasure, she should feel
afraid.
Since then Anthony had definitely become part of her life. She saw him
at least once a week.
She met him in the Park, at various dances, found him put next to her at
dinner.
The only place he never came to was the house in Elvaston Square. It
was some time before she noticed this, so adroitly did he manage to evade
or refuse invitations there. When she did realize it she began to wonder
why. Was it because he and Rosemary—
Then, to her astonishment, George, easy-going, non interfering George,
spoke to her about him.
“Who’s this fellow, Anthony Browne, you’re going about with? What do
you know about him?”
She stared at him.
“Know about him? Why, he was a friend of Rosemary’s!”
George’s face twitched. He blinked. He said in a dull heavy voice:
“Yes, of course, so he was.”
Iris cried remorsefully:
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have reminded you.”
George Barton shook his head. He said gently:
“No, no, I don’t want her forgotten. Never that. After all,” he spoke awk-
wardly, his eyes averted, “that’s what her name means. Rosemary—re-
membrance.” He looked full at her. “I don’t want you to forget your sister,
Iris.”
She caught her breath.
“I never shall.”
George went on:
“But about this young fellow, Anthony Browne. Rosemary may have
liked him, but I don’t believe she knew much about him. You know, you’ve
got to be careful, Iris. You’re a very rich young woman.”
A kind of burning anger swept over her.
“Tony—Anthony—has plenty of money himself. Why, he stays at Clar-
idge’s when he’s in London.”
George Barton smiled a little. He murmured:
“Eminently respectable — as well as costly. All the same, my dear,
nobody seems to know much about this fellow.”
“He’s an American.”
“Perhaps. If so, it’s odd he isn’t sponsored more by his own Embassy. He
doesn’t come much to this house, does he?”
“No. And I can see why, if you’re so horrid about him!”
George shook his head.
“Seem to have put my foot in it. Oh well. Only wanted to give you a
timely warning. I’ll have a word with Lucilla.”
“Lucilla!” said Iris scornfully.
George said anxiously:
“Is everything all right? I mean, does Lucilla see to it that you get the
sort of time you ought to have? Parties—all that sort of thing?”
“Yes, indeed, she works like a beaver. . . .”
“Because, if not, you’ve only got to say, you know, child. We could get
hold of someone else. Someone younger and more up to date. I want you
to enjoy yourself.”
“I do, George. Oh, George, I do.”
He said rather heavily:
“Then that’s all right. I’m not much hand at these shows myself—never
was. But see to it you get everything you want. There’s no need to stint ex-
pense.”
That was George all over—kind, awkward, blundering.
True to his promise, or threat, he “had a word” with Mrs. Drake on the
subject of Anthony Browne, but as Fate would have it the moment was un-
propitious for gaining Lucilla’s full attention.
She had just had a cable from that ne’er-do-well son who was the apple
of her eye and who knew, only too well, how to wring the maternal
heartstrings to his own financial advantage.
“Can you send me two hundred pounds. Desperate. Life
or death. Victor.”
“Victor is so honourable. He knows how straitened my circumstances
are and he’d never apply to me except in the last resource. He never has.
I’m always so afraid he’ll shoot himself.”
“Not he,” said George Barton unfeelingly.
“You don’t know him. I’m his mother and naturally I know what my
own son is like. I should never forgive myself if I didn’t do what he asked.
I could manage by selling out those shares.”
George sighed.
“Look here, Lucilla. I’ll get full information by cable from one of my cor-
respondents out there. We’ll find out just exactly what sort of a jam Vic-
tor’s in. But my advice to you is to let him stew in his own juice. He’ll
never make good until you do.”
“You’re so hard, George. The poor boy has always been unlucky—”
George repressed his opinions on that point. Never any good arguing
with women.
He merely said:
“I’ll get Ruth on to it at once. We should hear by tomorrow.”
Lucilla was partially appeased. The two hundred was eventually cut
down to fifty, but that amount Lucilla firmly insisted on sending.
George, Iris knew, provided the amount himself though pretending to
Lucilla that he was selling her shares. Iris admired George very much for
his generosity and said so. His answer was simple.
“Way I look at it — always some black sheep in the family. Always
someone who’s got to be kept. Someone or other will have to fork out for
Victor until he dies.”
“But it needn’t be you. He’s not your family.”
“Rosemary’s family’s mine.”
“You’re a darling, George. But couldn’t I do it? You’re always telling me
I’m rolling.”
He grinned at her.
“Can’t do anything of that kind until you’re twenty-one, young woman.
And if you’re wise you won’t do it then. But I’ll give you one tip. When a
fellow wires that he’ll end everything unless he gets a couple of hundred
by return, you’ll usually find that twenty pounds will be ample . . . I
daresay a tenner would do! You can’t stop a mother coughing up, but you
can reduce the amount—remember that. Of course Victor Drake would
never do away with himself, not he! These people who threaten suicide
never do it.”
Never? Iris thought of Rosemary. Then she pushed the thought away.
George wasn’t thinking of Rosemary. He was thinking of an unscrupulous,
plausible young man in Rio de Janeiro.
The net gain from Iris’s point of view was that Lucilla’s maternal preoc-
cupations kept her from paying full attention to Iris’s friendship with An-
thony Browne.
So—on to the “next thing, Madam.” The change in George! Iris couldn’t
put it off any longer. When had that begun? What was the cause of it?
Even now, thinking back, Iris could not put her finger definitely on the
moment when it began. Ever since Rosemary’s death George had been ab-
stracted, had had fits of inattention and brooding. He had seemed older,
heavier. That was all natural enough. But when exactly had his abstrac-
tion become something more than natural?
It was, she thought, after their clash over Anthony Browne, that she had
first noticed him staring at her in a bemused, perplexed manner. Then he
formed a new habit of coming home early from business and shutting
himself up in his study. He didn’t seem to be doing anything there. She
had gone in once and found him sitting at his desk staring straight ahead
of him. He looked at her when she came in with dull lacklustre eyes. He
behaved like a man who has had a shock, but to her question as to what
was the matter, he replied briefly, “Nothing.”
As the days went on, he went about with the careworn look of a man
who has some definite worry upon his mind.
Nobody had paid very much attention. Iris certainly hadn’t. Worries
were always conveniently “Business.”
Then, at odd intervals, and with no seeming reason, he began to ask
questions. It was then that she began to put his manner down as definitely
“queer.”
“Look here, Iris, did Rosemary ever talk to you much?”
Iris stared at him.
“Why, of course, George. At least—well, about what?”
“Oh, herself—her friends—how things were going with her. Whether
she was happy or unhappy. That sort of thing.”
She thought she saw what was in his mind. He must have got wind of
Rosemary’s unhappy love affair.
She said slowly:
“She never said much. I mean—she was always busy—doing things.”
“And you were only a kid, of course. Yes, I know. All the same, I thought
she might have said something.”
He looked at her inquiringly—rather like a hopeful dog.
She didn’t want George to be hurt. And anyway Rosemary never had
said anything. She shook her head.
George sighed. He said heavily:
“Oh, well, it doesn’t matter.”
Another day he asked her suddenly who Rosemary’s best women
friends had been.
Iris reflected.
“Gloria King. Mrs. Atwell—Maisie Atwell. Jean Raymond.”
“How intimate was she with them?”
“Well, I don’t know exactly.”
“I mean, do you think she might have confided in any of them?”
“I don’t really know . . . I don’t think it’s awfully likely . . . What sort of
confidence do you mean?”
Immediately she wished she hadn’t asked that last question, but
George’s response to it surprised her.
“Did Rosemary ever say she was afraid of anybody?”
“Afraid?” Iris stared.
“What I’m trying to get at is, did Rosemary have any enemies?”
“Amongst other women?”
“No, no, not that kind of thing. Real enemies. There wasn’t anyone—that
you knew of—who—who might have had it in for her?”
Iris’s frank stare seemed to upset him. He reddened, muttered:
“Sounds silly, I know. Melodramatic, but I just wondered.”
It was a day or two after that that he started asking about the Farradays.
How much had Rosemary seen of the Farradays?
Iris was doubtful.
“I really don’t know, George.”
“Did she ever talk about them?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Were they intimate at all?”
“Rosemary was very interested in politics.”
“Yes. After she met the Farradays in Switzerland. Never cared a button
about politics before that.”
“No. I think Stephen Farraday interested her in them. He used to lend
her pamphlets and things.”
George said:
“What did Sandra Farraday think about it?”
“About what?”
“About her husband lending Rosemary pamphlets.”
Iris said uncomfortably:
“I don’t know.”
George said, “She’s a very reserved woman. Looks cold as ice. But they
say she’s crazy about Farraday. Sort of woman who might resent his hav-
ing a friendship with another woman.”
“Perhaps.”
“How did Rosemary and Farraday’s wife get on?”
Iris said slowly:
“I don’t think they did. Rosemary laughed at Sandra. Said she was one of
those stuffed political women like a rocking horse. (She is rather like a
horse, you know.) Rosemary used to say that ‘if you pricked her sawdust
would ooze out.’ ”
George grunted.
Then he said:
“Still seeing a good deal of Anthony Browne?”
“A fair amount.” Iris’s voice was cold, but George did not repeat his
warnings. Instead he seemed interested.
“Knocked about a good deal, hasn’t he? Must have had an interesting
life. Does he ever talk to you about it?”
“Not much. He’s travelled a lot, of course.”
“Business, I suppose.”
“I suppose so.”
“What is his business?”
“I don’t know.”
“Something to do with armament firms, isn’t it?”
“He’s never said.”
“Well, needn’t mention I asked. I just wondered. He was about a lot last
Autumn with Dewsbury, who’s chairman of the United Arms Ltd . . . Rose-
mary saw rather a lot of Anthony Browne, didn’t she?”
“Yes—yes, she did.”
“But she hadn’t known him very long—he was more or less of a casual
acquaintance? Used to take her dancing, didn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“I was rather surprised, you know, that she wanted him at her birthday
party. Didn’t realize she knew him so well.”
Iris said quietly:
“He dances very well. . . .”
“Yes—yes, of course. . . .”
Without wishing to, Iris unwillingly let a picture of that evening flit
across her mind.
The round table at the Luxembourg, the shaded lights, the flowers. The
dance band with its insistent rhythm. The seven people round the table,
herself, Anthony Browne, Rosemary, Stephen Far- raday, Ruth Lessing,
George, and on George’s right, Stephen Farraday’s wife, Lady Alexandra
Farraday with her pale straight hair and those slightly arched nostrils and
her clear arrogant voice. Such a gay party it had been, or hadn’t it?
And in the middle of it, Rosemary—No, no, better not think about that.
Better only to remember herself sitting next to Tony—that was the first
time she had really met him. Before that he had been only a name, a
shadow in the hall, a back accompanying Rosemary down the steps in
front of the house to a waiting taxi.
Tony—
She came back with a start. George was repeating a question.
“Funny he cleared off so soon after. Where did he go, do you know?”
She said vaguely, “Oh, Ceylon, I think, or India.”
“Never mentioned it that night.”
Iris said sharply:
“Why should he? And have we got to talk about—that night?”
His face crimsoned over.
“No, no, of course not. Sorry, old thing. By the way, ask Browne to din-
ner one night. I’d like to meet him again.”
Iris was delighted. George was coming round. The invitation was duly
given and accepted, but at the last minute Anthony had to go North on
business and couldn’t come.
One day at the end of July, George startled both Lucilla and Iris by an-
nouncing that he had bought a house in the country.
“Bought a house?” Iris was incredulous. “But I thought we were going to
rent that house at Goring for two months?”
“Nicer to have a place of one’s own—eh? Can go down for weekends all
through the year.”
“Where is it? On the river?”
“Not exactly. In fact, not at all. Sussex. Marlingham. Little Priors, it’s
called. Twelve acres—small Georgian house.”
“Do you mean you’ve bought it without us even seeing it?”
“Rather a chance. Just came into the market. Snapped it up.”
Mrs. Drake said:
“I suppose it will need a lot of doing up and redecorating.”
George said in an offhand way:
“Oh, that’s all right. Ruth has seen to all that.”
They received the mention of Ruth Lessing, George’s capable secretary,
in respectful silence. Ruth was an institution—practically one of the fam-
ily. Good looking in a severe black-and-white kind of way, she was the es-
sence of efficiency combined with tact. . . .
During Rosemary’s lifetime, it had been usual for Rosemary to say,
“Let’s get Ruth to see to it. She’s marvellous. Oh, leave it to Ruth.”
Every difficulty could always be smoothed out by Miss Lessing’s capable
fingers. Smiling, pleasant, aloof, she surmounted all obstacles. She ran
George’s office and, it was suspected, ran George as well. He was devoted
to her and leaned upon her judgement in every way. She seemed to have
no needs, no desires of her own.
Nevertheless on this occasion Lucilla Drake was annoyed.
“My dear George, capable as Ruth is, well, I mean—the women of a fam-
ily do like to arrange the colour scheme of their own drawing room! Iris
should have been consulted. I say nothing about myself. I do not count.
But it is annoying for Iris.”
George looked conscience-stricken.
“I wanted it to be a surprise!”
Lucilla had to smile.
“What a boy you are, George.”
Iris said:
“I don’t mind about colour schemes. I’m sure Ruth will have made it
perfect. She’s so clever. What shall we do down there? There’s a tennis
court, I suppose.”
“Yes, and golf links six miles away, and it’s only about fourteen miles to
the sea. What’s more we shall have neighbours. Always wise to go to a
part of the world where you know somebody, I think.”
“What neighbours?” asked Iris sharply.
George did not meet her eyes.
“The Farradays,” he said. “They live about a mile and a half away just
across the park.”
Iris stared at him. In a minute she leapt to the conviction that the whole
of this elaborate business, the purchasing and equipping of a country
house, had been undertaken with one object only—to bring George into
close relationship with Stephen and Sandra Farraday. Near neighbours in
the country, with adjoining estates, the two families were bound to be on
intimate terms. Either that or a deliberate coolness!
But why? Why this persistent harping on the Farradays? Why this costly
method of achieving an incomprehensible aim?
Did George suspect that Rosemary and Stephen Farraday had been
something more than friends? Was this a strange manifestation of post-
mortem jealousy? Surely that was a thought too far-fetched for words!
But what did George want from the Farradays? What was the point of all
the odd questions he was continually shooting at her, Iris? Wasn’t there
something very queer about George lately?
The odd fuddled look he had in the evenings! Lucilla attributed it to a
glass or so too much of port. Lucilla would!
No, there was something queer about George lately. He seemed to be la-
bouring under a mixture of excitement interlarded with great spaces of
complete apathy when he sunk in a coma.
Most of that August they spent in the country at Little Priors. Horrible
house! Iris shivered. She hated it. A gracious well-built house, harmoni-
ously furnished and decorated (Ruth Lessing was never at fault!). And
curiously, frighteningly vacant. They didn’t live there. They occupied it. As
soldiers, in a war, occupied some lookout post.
What made it horrible was the overlay of ordinary normal summer liv-
ing. People down for weekends, tennis parties, informal dinners with the
Farradays. Sandra Farraday had been charming to them — the perfect
manner to neighbours who were already friends. She introduced them to
the county, advised George and Iris about horses, was prettily deferential
to Lucilla as an older woman.
And behind the mask of her pale smiling face no one could know what
she was thinking. A woman like a sphinx.
Of Stephen they had seen less. He was very busy, often absent on polit-
ical business. To Iris it seemed certain that he deliberately avoided meet-
ing the Little Priors party more than he could help.
So August had passed and September, and it was decided that in October
they should go back to the London house.
Iris had drawn a deep breath of relief. Perhaps, once they were back
George would return to his normal self.
And then, last night, she had been roused by a low tapping on her door.
She switched on the light and glanced at the time. Only one o’clock. She
had gone to bed at half past ten and it had seemed to her it was much
later.
She threw on a dressing gown and went to the door. Somehow that
seemed more natural than just to shout “Come in.”
George was standing outside. He had not been to bed and was still in his
evening clothes. His breath was coming unevenly and his face was a curi-
ous blue colour.
He said:
“Come down to the study, Iris. I’ve got to talk to you. I’ve got to talk to
someone.”
Wondering, still dazed with sleep, she obeyed.
Inside the study, he shut the door and motioned her to sit opposite him
at the desk. He pushed the cigarette box across to her, at the same time
taking one and lighting it, after one or two attempts, with a shaking hand.
She said, “Is anything the matter, George?”
She was really alarmed now. He looked ghastly.
George spoke between small gasps, like a man who has been running.
“I can’t go on by myself. I can’t keep it any longer. You’ve got to tell me
what you think—whether it’s true—whether it’s possible—”
“But what is it you’re talking about, George?”
“You must have noticed something, seen something. There must have
been something she said. There must have been a reason—”
She stared at him.
He passed his hand over his forehead.
“You don’t understand what I’m talking about. I can see that. Don’t look
so scared, little girl. You’ve got to help me. You’ve got to remember every
damned thing you can. Now, now, I know I sound a bit incoherent, but
you’ll understand in a minute—when I’ve shown you the letters.”
He unlocked one of the drawers at the side of the desk and took out two
single sheets of paper.
They were of a pale innocuous blue, with words printed on them in
small prim letters.
“Read that,” said George.
Iris stared down at the paper. What it said was quite clear and devoid of
circumlocution:
“YOU THINK YOUR WIFE COMMITTED SUICIDE. SHE
DIDN’T. SHE WAS KILLED.”
The second ran:
“YOUR WIFE ROSEMARY DIDN’T KILL HERSELF. SHE
WAS MURDERED.”
As Iris stayed staring at the words, George went on:
“They came about three months ago. At first I thought it was a joke—a
cruel rotten sort of joke. Then I began to think. Why should Rosemary
have killed herself?”
Iris said in a mechanical voice:
“Depression after influenza.”
“Yes, but really when you come to think of it, that’s rather piffle, isn’t it?
I mean lots of people have influenza and feel a bit depressed afterwards—
what?”
Iris said with an effort:
“She might—have been unhappy?”
“Yes, I suppose she might.” George considered the point quite calmly.
“But all the same I don’t see Rosemary putting an end to herself because
she was unhappy. She might threaten to, but I don’t think she would really
do it when it came to the point.”
“But she must have done, George! What other explanation could there
be? Why, they even found the stuff in her handbag.”
“I know. It all hangs together. But ever since these came,” he tapped the
anonymous letters with his fingernail, “I’ve been turning things over in
my mind. And the more I’ve thought about it the more I feel sure there’s
something in it. That’s why I’ve asked you all those questions—about Rose-
mary ever making any enemies. About anything she’d ever said that soun-
ded as though she were afraid of someone. Whoever killed her must have
had a reason—”
“But, George, you’re crazy—”
“Sometimes I think I am. Other times I know that I’m on the right track.
But I’ve got to know. I’ve got to find out. You’ve got to help me, Iris. You’ve
got to think. You’ve got to remember. That’s it—remember. Go back over
that night again and again. Because you do see, don’t you, that if she was
killed, it must have been someone who was at the table that night? You do see
that, don’t you?”
Yes, she had seen that. There was no pushing aside the remembrance of
that scene any longer. She must remember it all. The music, the roll of
drums, the lowered lights, the cabaret and the lights going up again and
Rosemary sprawled forward on the table, her face blue and convulsed.
Iris shivered. She was frightened now—horribly frightened. . . .
She must think—go back—remember.
Rosemary, that’s for remembrance.
There was to be no oblivion.
BOOK 1 Two
Two
RUTH LESSING
Ruth Lessing, during a momentary lull in her busy day, was remembering
her employer’s wife, Rosemary Barton.
She had disliked Rosemary Barton a good deal. She had never known
quite how much until that November morning when she had first talked
with Victor Drake.
That interview with Victor had been the beginning of it all, had set the
whole train in motion. Before then, the things she had felt and thought
had been so far below the stream of her consciousness that she hadn’t
really known about them.
She was devoted to George Barton. She always had been. When she had
first come to him, a cool, competent young woman of twenty-three, she
had seen that he needed taking charge of. She had taken charge of him.
She had saved him time, money and worry. She had chosen his friends for
him, and directed him to suitable hobbies. She had restrained him from
ill- advised business adventures, and encouraged him to take judicious
risks on occasions. Never once in their long association had George sus-
pected her of being anything other than subservient, attentive and en-
tirely directed by himself. He took a distinct pleasure in her appearance,
the neat shining dark head, the smart tailor-mades and crisp shirts, the
small pearls in her well-shaped ears, the pale discreetly powdered face
and the faint restrained rose shade of her lipstick.
Ruth, he felt, was absolutely right.
He liked her detached impersonal manner, her complete absence of sen-
timent or familiarity. In consequence he talked to her a good deal about
his private affairs and she listened sympathetically and always put in a
useful word of advice.
She had nothing to do, however, with his marriage. She did not like it.
However, she accepted it and was invaluable in helping with the wedding
arrangements, relieving Mrs. Marle of a great deal of work.
For a time after the marriage, Ruth was on slightly less confidential
terms with her employer. She confined herself strictly to the office affairs.
George left a good deal in her hands.
Nevertheless such was her efficiency that Rosemary soon found that
George’s Miss Lessing was an invaluable aid in all sorts of ways. Miss Less-
ing was always pleasant, smiling and polite.
George, Rosemary and Iris all called her Ruth and she often came to
Elvaston Square to lunch. She was now twenty-nine and looked exactly
the same as she had looked at twenty-three.
Without an intimate word ever passing between them, she was always
perfectly aware of George’s slightest emotional reactions. She knew when
the first elation of his married life passed into an ecstatic content, she was
aware when that content gave way to something else that was not so easy
to define. A certain inattention to detail shown by him at this time was
corrected by her own forethought.
However distrait George might be, Ruth Lessing never seemed to be
aware of it. He was grateful to her for that.
It was on a November morning that he spoke to her of Victor Drake.
“I want you to do a rather unpleasant job for me, Ruth?”
She looked at him inquiringly. No need to say that certainly she would
do it. That was understood.
“Every family’s got a black sheep,” said George.
She nodded comprehendingly.
“This is a cousin of my wife’s—a thorough bad hat, I’m afraid. He’s half
ruined his mother—a fatuous sentimental soul who has sold out most of
what few shares she has on his behalf. He started by forging a cheque at
Oxford—they got that hushed up and since then he’s been shipped about
the world—never making good anywhere.”
Ruth listened without much interest. She was familiar with the type.
They grew oranges, started chicken farms, went as jackaroos to Australian
stations, got jobs with meat-freezing concerns in New Zealand. They never
made good, never stayed anywhere long, and invariably got through any
money that had been invested on their behalf. They had never interested
her much. She preferred success.
“He’s turned up now in London and I find he’s been worrying my wife.
She hadn’t set eyes on him since she was a schoolgirl, but he’s a plausible
sort of scoundrel and he’s been writing to her for money, and I’m not go-
ing to stand for that. I’ve made an appointment with him for twelve
o’clock this morning at his hotel. I want you to deal with it for me. The fact
is I don’t want to get into contact with the fellow. I’ve never met him and I
never want to and I don’t want Rosemary to meet him. I think the whole
thing can be kept absolutely businesslike if it’s fixed up through a third
party.”
“Yes, that is always a good plan. What is the arrangement to be?”
“A hundred pounds cash and a ticket to Buenos Aires. The money to be
given to him actually on board the boat.”
Ruth smiled.
“Quite so. You want to be sure he actually sails!”
“I see you understand.”
“It’s not an uncommon case,” she said indifferently.
“No, plenty of that type about.” He hesitated. “Are you sure you don’t
mind doing this?”
“Of course not.” She was a little amused. “I can assure you I am quite
capable of dealing with the matter.”
“You’re capable of anything.”
“What about booking his passage? What’s his name, by the way?”
“Victor Drake. The ticket’s here. I rang up the steamship company yes-
terday. It’s the San Cristobal, sails from Tilbury tomorrow.”
Ruth took the ticket, glanced over it to make sure of its correctness and
put it into her handbag.
“That’s settled. I’ll see to it. Twelve o’clock. What address?”
“The Rupert, off Russell Square.”
She made a note of it.
“Ruth, my dear, I don’t know what I should do without you—” He put a
hand on her shoulder affectionately; it was the first time he had ever done
such a thing. “You’re my right hand, my other self.”
She flushed, pleased.
“I’ve never been able to say much—I’ve taken all you do for granted—
but it’s not really like that. You don’t know how much I rely on you for
everything—” he repeated: “everything. You’re the kindest, dearest, most
helpful girl in the world!”
Ruth said, laughing to hide her pleasure and embarrassment, “You’ll
spoil me saying such nice things.”
“Oh, but I mean them. You’re part of the firm, Ruth. Life without you
would be unthinkable.”
She went out feeling a warm glow at his words. It was still with her
when she arrived at the Rupert Hotel on her errand.
Ruth felt no embarrassment at what lay before her. She was quite con-
fident of her powers to deal with any situation. Hard- luck stories and
people never appealed to her. She was prepared to take Victor Drake as all
in the day’s work.
He was very much as she had pictured him, though perhaps definitely
more attractive. She made no mistake in her estimate of his character.
There was not much good in Victor Drake. As coldhearted and calculating
a personality as could exist, well masked behind an agreeable devilry.
What she had not allowed for was his power of reading other people’s
souls, and the practised ease with which he could play on the emotions.
Perhaps, too, she had underestimated her own resistance to his charm.
For he had charm.
He greeted her with an air of delighted surprise.
“George’s emissary? But how wonderful. What a surprise!”
In dry even tones, she set out George’s terms. Victor agreed to them in
the most amiable manner.
“A hundred pounds? Not bad at all. Poor old George. I’d have taken sixty
—but don’t tell him so! Conditions:—‘Do not worry lovely Cousin Rose-
mary — do not contaminate innocent Cousin Iris — do not embarrass
worthy Cousin George.’ All agreed to! Who is coming to see me off on the
San Cristobal? You are, my dear Miss Lessing? Delightful.” He wrinkled up
his nose, his dark eyes twinkled sympathetically. He had a lean brown
face and there was a suggestion about him of a toreador—romantic con-
ception! He was attractive to women and knew it!
“You’ve been with Barton some time, haven’t you, Miss Lessing?”
“Six years.”
“And he wouldn’t know what to do without you. Oh yes, I know all
about it. And I know all about you, Miss Lessing.”
“How do you know?” asked Ruth sharply.
Victor grinned. “Rosemary told me.”
“Rosemary? But—”
“That’s all right. I don’t propose to worry Rosemary any further. She’s
already been very nice to me—quite sympathetic. I got a hundred out of
her, as a matter of fact.”
“You—”
Ruth stopped and Victor laughed. His laugh was infectious. She found
herself laughing too.
“That’s too bad of you, Mr. Drake.”
“I’m a very accomplished sponger. Highly finished technique. The ma-
ter, for instance, will always come across if I send a wire hinting at immin-
ent suicide.”
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
“I disapprove of myself very deeply. I’m a bad lot, Miss Lessing. I’d like
you to know just how bad.”
“Why?” She was curious.
“I don’t know. You’re different. I couldn’t play up the usual technique to
you. Those clear eyes of yours—you wouldn’t fall for it. No, ‘More sinned
against than sinning, poor fellow,’ wouldn’t cut any ice with you. You’ve
no pity in you.”
Her face hardened.
“I despise pity.”
“In spite of your name? Ruth is your name, isn’t it? Piquant that. Ruth
the ruthless.”
She said, “I’ve no sympathy with weakness!”
“Who said I was weak? No, no, you’re wrong there, my dear. Wicked,
perhaps. But there’s one thing to be said for me.”
Her lip curled a little. The inevitable excuse.
“Yes?”
“I enjoy myself. Yes,” he nodded, “I enjoy myself immensely. I’ve seen a
good deal of life, Ruth. I’ve done almost everything. I’ve been an actor and
a storekeeper and a waiter and an odd job man, and a luggage porter, and
a property man in a circus! I’ve sailed before the mast in a tramp steamer.
I’ve been in the running for President in a South American Republic. I’ve
been in prison! There are only two things I’ve never done, an honest day’s
work, or paid my own way.”
He looked at her, laughing. She ought, she felt, to have been revolted.
But the strength of Victor Drake was the strength of the devil. He could
make evil seem amusing. He was looking at her now with that uncanny
penetration.
“You needn’t look so smug, Ruth! You haven’t as many morals as you
think you have! Success is your fetish. You’re the kind of girl who ends up
by marrying the boss. That’s what you ought to have done with George.
George oughtn’t to have married that little ass Rosemary. He ought to have
married you. He’d have done a damned sight better for himself if he had.”
“I think you’re rather insulting.”
“Rosemary’s a damned fool, always has been. Lovely as paradise and
dumb as a rabbit. She’s the kind men fall for but never stick to. Now you—
you’re different. My God, if a man fell in love with you—he’d never tire.”
He had reached the vulnerable spot. She said with sudden raw sincerity:
“If! But he wouldn’t fall in love with me!”
“You mean George didn’t? Don’t fool yourself, Ruth. If anything
happened to Rosemary, George would marry you like a shot.”
(Yes, that was it. That was the beginning of it all.)
Victor said, watching her:
“But you know that as well as I do.”
(George’s hand on hers, his voice affectionate, warm—Yes, surely it was
true . . . He turned to her, depended on her . . .)
Victor said gently: “You ought to have more confidence in yourself, my
dear girl. You could twist George round your little finger. Rosemary’s only
a silly little fool.”
“It’s true,” Ruth thought. “If it weren’t for Rosemary, I could make
George ask me to marry him. I’d be good to him. I’d look after him well.”
She felt a sudden blind anger, an uprushing of passionate resentment.
Victor Drake was watching her with a good deal of amusement. He liked
putting ideas into people’s heads. Or, as in this case, showing them the
ideas that were already there. . . .
Yes, that was how it started—that chance meeting with the man who
was going to the other side of the globe on the following day. The Ruth
who came back to the office was not quite the same Ruth who had left it,
though no one could have noticed anything different in her manner or ap-
pearance.
Shortly after she had returned to the office Rosemary Barton rang up on
the telephone.
“Mr. Barton has just gone out to lunch. Can I do anything?”
“Oh, Ruth, would you? That tiresome Colonel Race has sent a telegram to
say he won’t be back in time for my party. Ask George who he’d like to ask
instead. We really ought to have another man. There are four women—
Iris is coming as a treat and Sandra Farraday and—who on earth’s the
other? I can’t remember.”
“I’m the fourth, I think. You very kindly asked me.”
“Oh, of course. I’d forgotten all about you!”
Rosemary’s laugh came light and tinkling. She could not see the sudden
flush, the hard line of Ruth Lessing’s jaw.
Asked to Rosemary’s party as a favour—a concession to George! “Oh,
yes, we’ll have your Ruth Lessing. After all she’ll be pleased to be asked,
and she is awfully useful. She looks quite presentable too.”
In that moment Ruth Lessing knew that she hated Rosemary Barton.
Hated her for being rich and beautiful and careless and brainless. No
routine hard work in an office for Rosemary—everything handed to her
on a golden platter. Love affairs, a doting husband—no need to work or
plan—
Hateful, condescending, stuck-up, frivolous beauty. . . .
“I wish you were dead,” said Ruth Lessing in a low voice to the silent
telephone.
Her own words startled her. They were so unlike her. She had never
been passionate, never vehement, never been anything but cool and con-
trolled and efficient.
She said to herself: “What’s happening to me?”
She had hated Rosemary Barton that afternoon. She still hated Rose-
mary Barton on this day a year later.
Someday, perhaps, she would be able to forget Rosemary Barton. But
not yet.
She deliberately sent her mind back to those November days.
Sitting looking at the telephone—feeling hatred surge up in her heart.
. . .
Giving Rosemary’s message to George in her pleasant controlled voice.
Suggesting that she herself should not come so as to leave the number
even. George had quickly overridden that!
Coming in to report next morning on the sailing of the San Cristobal.
George’s relief and gratitude.
“So he’s sailed on her all right?”
“Yes. I handed him the money just before the gangway was taken up.”
She hesitated and said, “He waved his hand as the boat backed away from
the quay and called out ‘Love and kisses to George and tell him I’ll drink
his health tonight.’ ”
“Impudence!” said George. He asked curiously, “What did you think of
him, Ruth?”
Her voice was deliberately colourless as she replied:
“Oh—much as I expected. A weak type.”
And George saw nothing, noticed nothing! She felt like crying out: “Why
did you send me to see him? Didn’t you know what he might do to me?
Don’t you realize that I’m a different person since yesterday? Can’t you see
that I’m dangerous? That there’s no knowing what I may do?”
Instead she said in her businesslike voice, “About that San Paulo letter
—”
She was the competent efficient secretary. . . .
Five more days.
Rosemary’s birthday.
A quiet day at the office—a visit to the hairdresser—the putting on of a
new black frock, a touch of makeup skilfully applied. A face looking at her
in the glass that was not quite her own face. A pale, determined, bitter
face.
It was true what Victor Drake had said. There was no pity in her.
Later, when she was staring across the table at Rosemary Barton’s blue
convulsed face, she still felt no pity.
Now, eleven months later, thinking of Rosemary Barton, she felt sud-
denly afraid. . . .
BOOK 1 Three
Three
ANTHONY BROWNE
Anthony Browne was frowning into the middle distance as he thought
about Rosemary Barton.
A damned fool he had been ever to get mixed up with her. Though a
man might be excused for that! Certainly she was easy upon the eyes. That
evening at the Dorchester he’d been able to look at nothing else. As beauti-
ful as a houri—and probably just about as intelligent!
Still he’d fallen for her rather badly. Used up a lot of energy trying to
find someone who would introduce him. Quite unforgivable really when
he ought to have been attending strictly to business. After all, he wasn’t id-
ling his days away at Claridge’s for pleasure.
But Rosemary Barton was lovely enough in all conscience to excuse any
momentary lapse from duty. All very well to kick himself now and wonder
why he’d been such a fool. Fortunately there was nothing to regret. Al-
most as soon as he spoke to her the charm had faded a little. Things re-
sumed their normal proportions. This wasn’t love—nor yet infatuation. A
good time was to be had by all, no more, no less.
Well, he’d enjoyed it. And Rosemary had enjoyed it too. She danced like
an angel and wherever he took her men turned round to stare at her. It
gave a fellow a pleasant feeling. So long as you didn’t expect her to talk.
He thanked his stars he wasn’t married to her. Once you got used to all
that perfection of face and form where would you be? She couldn’t even
listen intelligently. The sort of girl who would expect you to tell her every
morning at the breakfast table that you loved her passionately!
Oh, all very well to think those things now.
He’d fallen for her all right, hadn’t he?
Danced attendance on her. Rung her up, taken her out, danced with her,
kissed her in the taxi. Been in a fair way to making rather a fool of himself
over her until that startling, that incredible day.
He could remember just how she had looked, the piece of chestnut hair
that had fallen loose over one ear, the lowered lashes and the gleam of her
dark blue eyes through them. The pout of the soft red lips.
“Anthony Browne. It’s a nice name!”
He said lightly:
“Eminently well established and respectable. There was a chamberlain
to Henry the Eighth called Anthony Browne.”
“An ancestor, I suppose?”
“I wouldn’t swear to that.”
“You’d better not!”
He raised his eyebrows.
“I’m the Colonial branch.”
“Not the Italian one?”
“Oh,” he laughed. “My olive complexion? I had a Spanish mother.”
“That explains it.”
“Explains what?”
“A great deal, Mr. Anthony Browne.”
“You’re very fond of my name.”
“I said so. It’s a nice name.”
And then quickly like a bolt from the blue: “Nicer than Tony Morelli.”
For a moment he could hardly believe his ears! It was incredible! Impos-
sible!
He caught her by the arm. In the harshness of his grip she winced away.
“Oh, you’re hurting me!”
“Where did you get hold of that name?”
His voice was harsh, menacing.
She laughed, delighted with the effect she had produced. The incredible
little fool!
“Who told you?”
“Someone who recognized you.”
“Who was it? This is serious, Rosemary. I’ve got to know.”
She shot a sideways glance at him.
“A disreputable cousin of mine, Victor Drake.”
“I’ve never met anyone of that name.”
“I imagine he wasn’t using that name at the time you knew him. Saving
the family feelings.”
Anthony said slowly. “I see. It was—in prison?”
“Yes. I was reading Victor the riot act—telling him he was a disgrace to
us all. He didn’t care, of course. Then he grinned and said, ‘You aren’t al-
ways so particular yourself, sweetheart. I saw you the other night dancing
with an ex-gaolbird—one of your best boyfriends, in fact. Calls himself An-
thony Browne, I hear, but in stir he was Tony Morelli.’ ”
Anthony said in a light voice:
“I must renew my acquaintance with this friend of my youth. We old
prison ties must stick together.”
Rosemary shook her head. “Too late. He’s been shipped off to South
America. He sailed yesterday.”
“I see.” Anthony drew a deep breath. “So you’re the only person who
knows my guilty secret?”
She nodded. “I won’t tell on you.”
“You’d better not.” His voice grew stern. “Look here, Rosemary, this is
dangerous. You don’t want your lovely face carved up, do you? There are
people who don’t stick at a little thing like ruining a girl’s beauty. And
there’s such a thing as being bumped off. It doesn’t only happen in books
and films. It happens in real life, too.”
“Are you threatening me, Tony?”
“Warning you.”
Would she take the warning? Did she realize that he was in deadly earn-
est? Silly little fool. No sense in that lovely empty head. You couldn’t rely
on her to keep her mouth shut. All the same he’d have to try and ram his
meaning home.
“Forget you’ve ever heard the name of Tony Morelli, do you under-
stand?”
“But I don’t mind a bit, Tony. I’m quite broadminded. It’s quite a thrill
for me to meet a criminal. You needn’t feel ashamed of it.”
The absurd little idiot. He looked at her coldly. He wondered in that mo-
ment how he could ever have fancied he cared. He’d never been able to
suffer fools gladly—not even fools with pretty faces.
“Forget about Tony Morelli,” he said grimly. “I mean it. Never mention
that name again.”
He’d have to get out. That was the only thing to do. There was no relying
on this girl’s silence. She’d talk whenever she felt inclined.
She was smiling at him—an enchanting smile, but it left him unmoved.
“Don’t be so fierce. Take me to the Jarrows’ dance next week.”
“I shan’t be here. I’m going away.”
“Not before my birthday party. You can’t let me down. I’m counting on
you. Now don’t say no. I’ve been miserably ill with that horrid ’flu and I’m
still feeling terribly weak. I musn’t be crossed. You’ve got to come.”
He might have stood firm. He might have chucked it all—gone right
away.
Instead, through an open door, he saw Iris coming down the stairs. Iris,
very straight and slim, with her pale face and black hair and grey eyes.
Iris with much less than Rosemary’s beauty and with all the character that
Rosemary would never have.
In that moment he hated himself for having fallen a victim, in however
small a degree, to Rosemary’s facile charm. He felt as Romeo felt remem-
bering Rosaline when he had first seen Juliet.
Anthony Browne changed his mind.
In the flash of a second he committed himself to a totally different
course of action.
BOOK 1 Four
Four
STEPHEN FARRADAY
Stephen Farraday was thinking of Rosemary—thinking of her with that in-
credulous amazement that her image always aroused in him. Usually he
banished all thoughts of her from his mind as promptly as they arose—but
there were times when, persistent in death as she had been in life, she re-
fused to be thus arbitrarily dismissed.
His first reaction was always the same, a quick irresponsible shudder as
he remembered the scene in the restaurant. At least he need not think
again of that. His thoughts turned further back, to Rosemary alive, Rose-
mary smiling, breathing, gazing into his eyes. . . .
What a fool—what an incredible fool he had been!
And amazement held him, sheer bewildered amazement. How had it all
come about? He simply could not understand it. It was as though his life
were divided into two parts, one, the larger part, a sane well-balanced or-
derly progression, the other a brief uncharacteristic madness. The two
parts simply did not fit.
For with all his ability and his clever, shrewd intellect, Stephen had not
the inner perception to see that actually they fitted only too well.
Sometimes he looked back over his life, appraising it coldly and without
undue emotion, but with a certain priggish self-congratulation. From a
very early age he had been determined to succeed in life, and in spite of
difficulties and certain initial disadvantages he had succeeded.
He had always had a certain simplicity of belief and outlook. He be-
lieved in the Will. What a man willed, that he could do!
Little Stephen Farraday had steadfastly cultivated his Will. He could
look for little help in life save that which he got by his own efforts. A small
pale boy of seven, with a good forehead and a determined chin, he meant
to rise—and rise high. His parents, he already knew, would be of no use to
him. His mother had married beneath her station in life—and regretted it.
His father, a small builder, shrewd, cunning and cheeseparing, was des-
pised by his wife and also by his son. . . . For his mother, vague, aimless,
and given to extraordinary variations of mood, Stephen felt only a puzzled
incomprehension until the day he found her slumped down on the corner
of a table with an empty eau-de-Cologne bottle fallen from her hand. He
had never thought of drink as an explanation of his mother’s moods. She
never drank spirits or beer, and he had never realized that her passion for
eau de Cologne had had any other origin than her vague explanation of
headaches.
He realized in that moment that he had little affection for his parents.
He suspected shrewdly that they had not much for him. He was small for
his age, quiet, with a tendency to stammer. Namby- pamby his father
called him. A well-behaved child, little trouble in the house. His father
would have preferred a more rumbustious type. “Always getting into mis-
chief I was, at his age.” Sometimes, looking at Stephen, he felt uneasily his
own social inferiority to his wife. Stephen took after her folk.
Quietly, with growing determination, Stephen mapped out his own life.
He was going to succeed. As a first test of will, he determined to master his
stammer. He practised speaking slowly, with a slight hesitation between
every word. And in time his efforts were crowned with success. He no
longer stammered. In school he applied himself to his lessons. He inten-
ded to have education. Education got you somewhere. Soon his teachers
became interested, encouraged him. He won a scholarship. His parents
were approached by the educational authorities—the boy had promise.
Mr. Farraday, doing well out of a row of jerry-built houses, was persuaded
to invest money in his son’s education.
At twenty-two Stephen came down from Oxford with a good degree, a
reputation as a good and witty speaker, and a knack of writing articles. He
had also made some useful friends. Politics were what attracted him. He
had learnt to overcome his natural shyness and to cultivate an admirable
social manner—modest, friendly, and with that touch of brilliance that led
people to say, “That young man will go far.” Though by predilection a Lib-
eral, Stephen realized that for the moment, at least, the Liberal Party was
dead. He joined the ranks of the Labour Party. His name soon became
known as that of a “coming” young man. But the Labour Party did not sat-
isfy Stephen. He found it less open to new ideas, more hidebound by tradi-
tion than its great and powerful rival. The Conservatives, on the other
hand, were on the lookout for promising young talent.
They approved of Stephen Farraday—he was just the type they wanted.
He contested a fairly solid Labour constituency and won it by a very nar-
row majority. It was with a feeling of triumph that Stephen took his seat in
the House of Commons. His career had begun and this was the right ca-
reer he had chosen. Into this he could put all his ability, all his ambition.
He felt in him the ability to govern, and to govern well. He had a talent for
handling people, for knowing when to flatter and when to oppose. One
day, he swore it, he would be in the Cabinet.
Nevertheless, once the excitement of actually being in the House had
subsided, he experienced swift disillusionment. The hardly fought election
had put him in the limelight, now he was down in the rut, a mere insigni-
ficant unit of the rank and file, subservient to the party whips, and kept in
his place. It was not easy here to rise out of obscurity. Youth here was
looked upon with suspicion. One needed something above ability. One
needed influence.
There were certain interests. Certain families. You had to be sponsored.
He considered marriage. Up to now he had thought very little about the
subject. He had a dim picture in the back of his mind of some handsome
creature who would stand hand in hand with him sharing his life and his
ambitions; who would give him children and to whom he could unburden
his thoughts and perplexities. Some woman who felt as he did and who
would be eager for his success and proud of him when he achieved it.
Then one day he went to one of the big receptions at Kidderminster
House. The Kidderminster connection was the most powerful in England.
They were, and always had been, a great political family. Lord Kiddermin-
ster, with his little Imperial, his tall, distinguished figure, was known by
sight everywhere. Lady Kidderminster’s large rocking horse face was fa-
miliar on public platforms and on committees all over England. They had
five daughters, three of them beautiful, and one son still at Eton.
The Kidderminsters made a point of encouraging likely young members
of the Party. Hence Farraday’s invitation.
He did not know many people there and he was standing alone near a
window about twenty minutes after his arrival. The crowd by the tea table
was thinning out and passing into the other rooms when Stephen noticed
a tall girl in black standing alone by the table looking for a moment
slightly at a loss.
Stephen Farraday had a very good eye for faces. He had picked up that
very morning in the Tube a “Home Gossip” discarded by a woman travel-
ler and glanced over it with slight amusement. There had been a rather
smudgy reproduction of Lady Alexandra Hayle, third daughter of the Earl
of Kidderminster, and below a gossipy little extract about her—“. . . al-
ways been of a shy and retiring disposition—devoted to animals—Lady Al-
exandra has taken a course in Domestic Science as Lady Kidderminster
believes in her daughters being thoroughly grounded in all domestic sub-
jects.”
That was Lady Alexandra Hayle standing there, and with the unerring
perception of a shy person, Stephen knew that she, too, was shy. The
plainest of the five daughters, Alexandra had always suffered under a
sense of inferiority. Given the same education and upbringing as her sis-
ters, she had never quite attained their savoir faire, which annoyed her
mother considerably. Sandra must make an effort—it was absurd to ap-
pear so awkward, so gauche.
Stephen did not know that, but he knew that the girl was ill at ease and
unhappy. And suddenly a rush of conviction came to him. This was his
chance! “Take it, you fool, take it! It’s now or never!”
He crossed the room to the long buffet. Standing beside the girl he
picked up a sandwich. Then, turning, and speaking nervously and with an
effort (no acting, that—he was nervous!) he said:
“I say, do you mind if I speak to you? I don’t know many people here
and I can see you don’t either. Don’t snub me. As a matter of fact I’m aw-
fully s-s-shy” (his stammer of years ago came back at a most opportune
moment) “and—and I think you’re s-s-shy too, aren’t you?”
The girl flushed—her mouth opened. But as he had guessed, she could
not say it. Too difficult to find words to say “I’m the daughter of the
house.” Instead she admitted quietly:
“As a matter of fact, I—I am shy. I always have been.”
Stephen went on quickly:
“It’s a horrible feeling. I don’t know whether one ever gets over it. Some-
times I feel absolutely tongue-tied.”
“So do I.”
He went on—talking rather quickly, stammering a little—his manner
was boyish, appealing. It was a manner that had been natural to him a
few years ago and which was now consciously retained and cultivated. It
was young, na&iuml;ve, disarming.
He led the conversation soon to the subject of plays, mentioned one that
was running which had attracted a good deal of interest. Sandra had seen
it. They discussed it. It had dealt with some point of the social services and
they were soon deep in a discussion of these measures.
Stephen did not overdo things. He saw Lady Kidderminster entering the
room, her eyes in search of her daughter. It was no part of his plan to be
introduced now. He murmured a good-bye.
“I have enjoyed talking to you. I was simply hating the whole show till I
found you. Thank you.”
He left Kidderminster House with a feeling of exhilaration. He had
taken his chance. Now to consolidate what he had started.
For several days after that he haunted the neighbourhood of Kiddermin-
ster House. Once Sandra came out with one of her sisters. Once she left
the house alone, but with a hurried step. He shook his head. That would
not do, she was obviously en route to some particular appointment. Then,
about a week after the party, his patience was rewarded. She came out
one morning with a small black Scottie dog and she turned with a leis-
urely step in the direction of the Park.
Five minutes later, a young man walking rapidly in the opposite direc-
tion pulled up short and stopped in front of Sandra. He exclaimed blithely:
“I say, what luck! I wondered if I’d ever see you again.”
His tone was so delighted that she blushed just a little.
He stooped to the dog.
“What a jolly little fellow. What’s his name?”
“MacTavish.”
“Oh, very Scotch.”
They talked dog for some moments. Then Stephen said, with a trace of
embarrassment:
“I never told you my name the other day. It’s Farraday. Stephen Far-
raday. I’m an obscure M.P.”
He looked inquiringly and saw the colour come up in her cheeks again
as she said: “I’m Alexandra Hayle.”
He responded to that very well. He might have been back in the O.U.D.S.
Surprise, recognition, dismay, embarrassment!
“Oh, you’re—you’re Lady Alexandra Hayle—you—my goodness! What a
stupid fool you must have thought me the other day!”
Her answering move was inevitable. She was bound both by her breed-
ing and her natural kindliness to do all she could to put him at his ease, to
reassure him.
“I ought to have told you at the time.”
“I ought to have known. What an oaf you must think me!”
“How should you have known? What does it matter anyway? Please, Mr.
Farraday, don’t look so upset. Let’s walk to the Serpentine. Look, MacTav-
ish is simply pulling.”
After that, he met her several times in the Park. He told her his ambi-
tions. Together they discussed political topics. He found her intelligent,
well-informed and sympathetic. She had good brains and a singularly un-
biased mind. They were friends now.
The next advance came when he was asked to dinner at Kidderminster
House and to go on to a dance. A man had fallen through at the last mo-
ment. When Lady Kidderminster was racking her brains Sandra said
quietly:
“What about Stephen Farraday?”
“Stephen Farraday?”
“Yes, he was at your party the other day and I’ve met him once or twice
since.”
Lord Kidderminster was consulted and was all in favour of encouraging
the young hopefuls of the political world.
“Brilliant young fellow—quite brilliant. Never heard of his people, but
he’ll make a name for himself one of these days.”
Stephen came and acquitted himself well.
“A useful young man to know,” said Lady Kidderminster with uncon-
scious arrogance.
Two months later Stephen put his fortunes to the test. They were by the
Serpentine and MacTavish sat with his head on Sandra’s foot.
“Sandra, you know — you must know that I love you. I want you to
marry me. I wouldn’t ask you if I didn’t believe that I shall make a name
for myself one day. I do believe it. You shan’t be ashamed of your choice. I
swear it.”
She said, “I’m not ashamed.”
“Then you do care?”
“Didn’t you know?”
“I hoped—but I couldn’t be sure. Do you know that I’ve loved you since
that very first moment when I saw you across the room and took my cour-
age in both hands and came to speak to you. I was never more terrified in
my life.”
She said, “I think I loved you then, too. . . .”
It was not all plain sailing. Sandra’s quiet announcement that she was
going to marry Stephen Farraday sent her family into immediate protests.
Who was he? What did they know about him?
To Lord Kidderminster Stephen was quite frank about his family and
origin. He spared a fleeting thought that it was just as well for his pro-
spects that his parents were now both dead.
To his wife, Lord Kidderminster said, “H’m, it might be worse.”
He knew his daughter fairly well, knew that her quiet manner hid in-
flexible purpose. If she meant to have the fellow she would have him.
She’d never give in!
“The fellow’s got a career ahead of him. With a bit of backing he’ll go
far. Heaven knows we could do with some young blood. He seems a de-
cent chap, too.”
Lady Kidderminster assented grudgingly. It was not at all her idea of a
good match for her daughter. Still, Sandra was certainly the most difficult
of the family. Susan had been a beauty and Esther had brains. Diana,
clever child, had married the young Duke of Harwich—the parti of the
season. Sandra had certainly less charm—there was her shyness—and if
this young man had a future as everyone seemed to think. . . .
She capitulated, murmuring:
“But, of course, one will have to use influence. . . .”
So Alexandra Catherine Hayle took Stephen Leonard Farraday for better
and for worse, in white satin and Brussels lace, with six bridesmaids and
two minute pages and all the accessories of a fashionable wedding. They
went to Italy for the honeymoon and came back to a small charming
house in Westminster, and a short time afterwards Sandra’s godmother
died and left her a very delightful small Queen Anne Manor house in the
country. Everything went well for the young married pair. Stephen
plunged into Parliamentary life with renewed ardour, Sandra aided and
abetted him in every way, identifying herself heart and soul with his am-
bitions. Sometimes, Stephen would think with an almost incredulous real-
ization of how Fortune had favoured him! His alliance with the powerful
Kidderminster faction assured him of rapid rise in his career. His own
ability and brilliance would consolidate the position that opportunity
made for him. He believed honestly in his own powers and was prepared
to work unsparingly for the good of his country.
Often, looking across the table at his wife, he felt gladly what a perfect
helpmate she was—just what he had always imagined. He liked the lovely
clean lines of her head and neck, the direct hazel eyes under their level
brows, the rather high white forehead and the faint arrogance of her
aquiline nose. She looked, he thought, rather like a racehorse—so well
groomed, so instinct with breeding, so proud. He found her an ideal com-
panion, their minds raced alike to the same quick conclusions. Yes, he
thought, Stephen Farraday, that little disconsolate boy, had done very well
for himself. His life was shaping exactly as he had meant it to be. He was
only a year or two over thirty and already success lay in the hollow of his
hand.
And in that mood of triumphant satisfaction, he went with his wife for a
fortnight to St. Moritz, and looking across the hotel lounge saw Rosemary
Barton.
What happened to him at that moment he never understood. By a kind
of poetic revenge the words he had spoken to another woman came true.
Across a room he fell in love. Deeply, overwhelmingly, crazily in love. It
was the kind of desperate, headlong, adolescent calf love that he should
have experienced years ago and got over.
He had always assumed that he was not a passionate type of man. One
or two ephemeral affairs, a mild flirtation—that, so far as he knew, was all
that “love” meant to him. Sensual pleasures simply did not appeal to him.
He told himself that he was too fastidious for that sort of thing.
If he had been asked if he loved his wife, he would have replied “Cer-
tainly”—yet he knew, well enough, that he would not have dreamed of
marrying her if she had been, say, the daughter of a penniless country
gentleman. He liked her, admired her and felt a deep affection for her and
also a very real gratitude for what her position had brought him.
That he could fall in love with the abandon and misery of a callow boy
was a revelation. He could think of nothing but Rosemary. Her lovely
laughing face, the rich chestnut of her hair, her swaying voluptuous fig-
ure. He couldn’t eat — he couldn’t sleep. They went skiing together. He
danced with her. And as he held her to him he knew that he wanted her
more than anything on earth. So this, this misery, this aching longing
agony—this was love!
Even in his preoccupation he blessed Fate for having given him a natur-
ally imperturbable manner. No one must guess, no one must know, what
he was feeling—except Rosemary herself.
The Bartons left a week earlier than the Farradays. Stephen said to
Sandra that St. Moritz was not very amusing. Should they cut their time
short and go back to London? She agreed very amiably. Two weeks after
their return, he became Rosemary’s lover.
A strange ecstatic hectic period—feverish, unreal. It lasted—how long?
Six months at most. Six months during which Stephen went about his
work as usual, visited his constituency, asked questions in the House,
spoke at various meetings, discussed politics with Sandra and thought of
one thing only—Rosemary.
Their secret meetings in the little flat, her beauty, the passionate endear-
ments he showered on her, her clinging passionate embraces. A dream. A
sensual infatuated dream.
And after the dream—the awakening.
It seemed to happen quite suddenly.
Like coming out of a tunnel into the daylight.
One day he was a bemused lover, the next day he was Stephen Farraday
again thinking that perhaps he ought not to see Rosemary quite so often.
Dash it all, they had been taking some terrific risks. If Sandra was ever to
suspect—He stole a look at her down the breakfast table. Thank goodness,
she didn’t suspect. She hadn’t an idea. Yet some of his excuses for absence
lately had been pretty thin. Some women would have begun to smell a rat.
Thank goodness Sandra wasn’t a suspicious woman.
He took a deep breath. Really he and Rosemary had been very reckless!
It was a wonder her husband hadn’t got wise to things. One of those fool-
ish unsuspecting chaps—years older than she was.
What a lovely creature she was. . . .
He thought suddenly of golf links. Fresh air blowing over sand dunes,
tramping round with clubs—swinging a driver—a nice clean shot off the
tee—a little chip with a mashie. Men. Men in plus fours smoking pipes.
And no women allowed on the links!
He said suddenly to Sandra:
“Couldn’t we go down to Fairhaven?”
She looked up, surprised.
“Do you want to? Can you get away?”
“Might take the inside of a week. I’d like to get some golf. I feel stale.”
“We could go tomorrow if you like. It will mean putting off the Astleys,
and I must cancel that meeting on Tuesday. But what about the Lovats?”
“Oh, let’s cancel that too. We can think of some excuse. I want to get
away.”
It had been peaceful at Fairhaven with Sandra and the dogs on the ter-
race and in the old walled garden, and with golf at Sandley Heath, and
pottering down to the farm in the evening with MacTavish at his heels.
He had felt rather like someone who is recovering from an illness.
He had frowned when he saw Rosemary’s writing. He’d told her not to
write. It was too dangerous. Not that Sandra ever asked him who his let-
ters were from, but all the same it was unwise. Servants weren’t always to
be trusted.
He ripped open the envelope with some annoyance, having taken the
letter into his study. Pages. Simply pages.
As he read, the old enchantment swept over him again. She adored him,
she loved him more than ever, she couldn’t endure not seeing him for five
whole days. Was he feeling the same? Did the Leopard miss his Ethiopian?
He half-smiled, half-sighed. That ridiculous joke—born when he had
bought her a man’s spotted dressing gown that she had admired. The Leo-
pard changing his spots, and he had said, “But you mustn’t change your
skin, darling.” And after that she had called him Leopard and he had
called her his Black Beauty.
Damned silly, really. Yes, damned silly. Rather sweet of her to have writ-
ten such pages and pages. But still she shouldn’t have done it. Dash it all,
they’d got to be careful! Sandra wasn’t the sort of woman who would stand
for anything of that kind. If she once got an inkling—Writing letters was
dangerous. He’d told Rosemary so. Why couldn’t she wait until he got back
to town? Dash it all, he’d see her in another two or three days.
There was another letter on the breakfast table the following morning.
This time Stephen swore inwardly. He thought Sandra’s eyes rested on it
for a couple of seconds. But she didn’t say anything. Thank goodness she
wasn’t the sort of woman who asked questions about a man’s correspond-
ence.
After breakfast he took the car over the market town eight miles away.
Wouldn’t do to put through a call from the village. He got Rosemary on the
phone.
“Hullo—that you, Rosemary? Don’t write anymore letters.”
“Stephen, darling, how lovely to hear your voice!”
“Be careful, can anyone overhear you?”
“Of course not. Oh, angel, I have missed you. Have you missed me?”
“Yes, of course. But don’t write. It’s much too risky.”
“Did you like my letter? Did it make you feel I was with you? Darling, I
want to be with you every minute. Do you feel that too?”
“Yes—but not on the phone, old thing.”
“You’re so ridiculously cautious. What does it matter?”
“I’m thinking of you, too, Rosemary. I couldn’t bear any trouble to come
to you through me.”
“I don’t care what happens to me. You know that.”
“Well, I care, sweetheart.”
“When are you coming back?”
“Tuesday.”
“And we’ll meet at the flat, Wednesday.”
“Yes—er, yes.”
“Darling, I can hardly bear to wait. Can’t you make some excuse and
come up today? Oh, Stephen, you could! Politics or something stupid like
that?”
“I’m afraid it’s out of the question.”
“I don’t believe you miss me half as much as I miss you.”
“Nonsense, of course I do.”
When he rang off he felt tired. Why should women insist on being so
damned reckless? Rosemary and he must be more careful in future.
They’d have to meet less often.
Things after that became difficult. He was busy—very busy. It was quite
impossible to give as much time to Rosemary—and the trying thing was
she didn’t seem able to understand. He explained but she just wouldn’t
listen.
“Oh, your stupid old politics—as though they were important!”
“But they are—”
She didn’t realize. She didn’t care. She took no interest in his work, in
his ambitions, in his career. All she wanted was to hear him reiterate
again and again that he loved her. “Just as much as ever? Tell me again
that you really love me?”
Surely, he thought, she might take that for granted by this time! She was
a lovely creature, lovely—but the trouble was that you couldn’t talk to her.
The trouble was they’d been seeing too much of each other. You couldn’t
keep up an affair at fever heat. They must meet less often—slacken off a
bit.
But that made her resentful—very resentful. She was always reproach-
ing him now.
“You don’t love me as you used to do.”
And then he’d have to reassure her, to swear that of course he did. And
she would constantly resurrect everything he had ever said to her.
“Do you remember when you said it would be lovely if we died to-
gether? Fell asleep forever in each other’s arms? Do you remember when
you said we’d take a caravan and go off into the desert? Just the stars and
the camels—and how we’d forget everything in the world?”
What damned silly things one said when one was in love! They hadn’t
seemed fatuous at the time, but to have them hashed up in cold blood!
Why couldn’t women let things decently alone? A man didn’t want to be
continually reminded what an ass he’d made of himself.
She came out with sudden unreasonable demands. Couldn’t he go
abroad to the South of France and she’d meet him there? Or go to Sicily or
Corsica—one of those places where you never saw anyone you knew?
Stephen said grimly that there was no such place in the world. At the most
unlikely spots you always met some dear old school friend that you’d
never seen for years.
And then she said something that frightened him.
“Well, but it wouldn’t really matter, would it?”
He was alert, watchful, suddenly cold within.
“What do you mean?”
She was smiling up at him, that same enchanting smile that had once
made his heart turn over and his bones ache with longing. Now it made
him merely impatient.
“Leopard, darling, I’ve thought sometimes that we’re stupid to go on try-
ing to carry on this hole-and-corner business. It’s not worthy, somehow.
Let’s go away together. Let’s stop pretending. George will divorce me and
your wife will divorce you and then we can get married.”
Just like that! Disaster! Ruin! And she couldn’t see it!
“I wouldn’t let you do such a thing.”
“But, darling, I don’t care. I’m not really very conventional.”
“But I am. But I am,” thought Stephen.
“I do feel that love is the most important thing in the world. It doesn’t
matter what people think of us.”
“It would matter to me, my dear. An open scandal of that kind would be
the end of my career.”
“But would that really matter? There are hundreds of other things that
you could do.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“Why have you got to do anything anyway? I’ve got lots of money, you
know. Of my own, I mean, not George’s. We could wander about all over
the world, going to the most enchanting out-of-the-way places—places,
perhaps, where nobody else has ever been. Or to some island in the Pacific
—think of it, the hot sun and the blue sea and the coral reefs.”
He did think of it. A South Sea Island! Of all the idiotic ideas. What sort
of a man did she think he was—a beachcomber?
He looked at her with eyes from which the last traces of scales had
fallen. A lovely creature with the brains of a hen! He’d been mad—utterly
and completely mad. But he was sane again now. And he’d got to get out of
this fix. Unless he was careful she’d ruin his whole life.
He said all the things that hundreds of men had said before him. They
must end it all—so he wrote. It was only fair to her. He couldn’t risk bring-
ing unhappiness on her. She didn’t understand—and so on and so on.
It was all over—he must make her understand that.
But that was just what she refused to understand. It wasn’t to be as easy
as that. She adored him, she loved him more than ever, she couldn’t live
without him! The only honest thing was for her to tell her husband, and
for Stephen to tell his wife the truth! He remembered how cold he had felt
as he sat holding her letter. The little fool! The silly clinging fool! She’d go
and blab the whole thing to George Barton and then George would divorce
her and cite him as co-respondent. And Sandra would perforce divorce
him too. He hadn’t any doubt of that. She had spoken once of a friend, had
said with faint surprise, “But of course when she found out he was having
an affair with another woman, what else could she do but divorce him?”
That was what Sandra would feel. She was proud. She would never share
a man.
And then he would be done, finished — the influential Kidderminster
backing would be withdrawn. It would be the kind of scandal that he
would not be able to live down, even though public opinion was broader-
minded than it used to be. But not in a flagrant case like this! Good-bye to
his dreams, his ambitions. Everything wrecked, broken—all because of a
crazy infatuation for a silly woman. Calf love, that was all it had been. Calf
love contracted at the wrong time of life.
He’d lose everything he’d staked. Failure! Ignominy!
He’d lose Sandra. . . .
And suddenly, with a shock of surprise he realized that it was that that
he would mind most. He’d lose Sandra. Sandra with her square white fore-
head and her clear hazel eyes. Sandra, his dear friend and companion, his
arrogant, proud, loyal Sandra. No, he couldn’t lose Sandra—he couldn’t . . .
Anything but that.
The perspiration broke out on his forehead.
Somehow he must get out of this mess.
Somehow he must make Rosemary listen to reason . . . But would she?
Rosemary and reason didn’t go together. Supposing he were to tell her
that, after all, he loved his wife? No. She simply wouldn’t believe it. She
was such a stupid woman. Empty-headed, clinging, possessive. And she
loved him still—that was the mischief of it.
A kind of blind rage rose up in him. How on earth was he to keep her
quiet? To shut her mouth? Nothing short of a dose of poison would do
that, he thought bitterly.
A wasp was buzzing close at hand. He stared abstractedly. It had got in-
side a cut-glass jampot and was trying to get out.
Like me, he thought, entrapped by sweetness and now—he can’t get out,
poor devil.
But he, Stephen Farraday, was going to get out somehow. Time, he must
play for time.
Rosemary was down with ’flu at the moment. He’d sent conventional in-
quiries—a big sheaf of flowers. It gave him a respite. Next week Sandra
and he were dining with the Bartons—a birthday party for Rosemary.
Rosemary had said, “I shan’t do anything until after my birthday — it
would be too cruel to George. He’s making such a fuss about it. He’s such a
dear. After it’s all over we’ll come to an understanding.”
Supposing he were to tell her brutally that it was all over, that he no
longer cared? He shivered. No, he dare not do that. She might go to George
in hysterics. She might even come to Sandra. He could hear her tearful,
bewildered voice.
“He says he doesn’t care anymore, but I know it’s not true. He’s trying to
be loyal—to play the game with you—but I know you’ll agree with me that
when people love each other honesty is the only way. That’s why I’m ask-
ing you to give him his freedom.”
That was just the sort of nauseating stuff she would pour out. And
Sandra, her face proud and disdainful, would say, “He can have his free-
dom!”
She wouldn’t believe — how could she believe? If Rosemary were to
bring out those letters—the letters he’d been asinine enough to write to
her. Heaven knew what he had said in them. Enough and more than
enough to convince Sandra—letters such as he had never written to her—
He must think of something—some way of keeping Rosemary quiet. “It’s
a pity,” he thought grimly, “that we don’t live in the days of the Borgias.
. . .”
A glass of poisoned champagne was about the only thing that would
keep Rosemary quiet.
Yes, he had actually thought that.
Cyanide of potassium in her champagne glass, cyanide of potassium in her
evening bag. Depression after influenza.
And across the table, Sandra’s eyes meeting his.
Nearly a year ago—and he couldn’t forget.
BOOK 1 Five
Five
ALEXANDRA FARRADAY
Sandra Farraday had not forgotten Rosemary Barton.
She was thinking of her at this very minute—thinking of her slumped
forward across the table in the restaurant that night.
She remembered her own sharp indrawn breath and how then, looking
up, she had found Stephen watching her. . . .
Had he read the truth in her eyes? Had he seen the hate, the mingling of
horror and triumph?
Nearly a year ago now—and as fresh in her mind as if it had been yes-
terday! Rosemary, that’s for remembrance. How horribly true that was. It
was no good a person being dead if they lived on in your mind. That was
what Rosemary had done. In Sandra’s mind—and in Stephen’s, too? She
didn’t know, but she thought it probable.
The Luxembourg — that hateful place with its excellent food, its deft
swift service, its luxurious décor and setting. An impossible place to avoid,
people were always asking you there.
She would have liked to forget—but everything conspired to make her
remember. Even Fairhaven was no longer exempt now that George Barton
had come to live at Little Priors.
It was really rather extraordinary of him. George Barton was altogether
an odd man. Not at all the kind of neighbour she liked to have. His pres-
ence at Little Priors spoiled for her the charm and peace of Fairhaven. Al-
ways, up to this summer, it had been a place of healing and rest, a place
where she and Stephen had been happy—that is, if they ever had been
happy?
Her lips pressed thinly together. Yes, a thousand times, yes! They could
have been happy but for Rosemary. It was Rosemary who had shattered
the delicate edifice of mutual trust and tenderness that she and Stephen
were beginning to build. Something, some instinct, had bade her hide
from Stephen her own passion, her single-hearted devotion. She had loved
him from the moment he came across the room to her that day at Kidder-
minster House, pretending to be shy, pretending not to know who she
was.
For he had known. She could not say when she had first accepted that
fact. Sometime after their marriage, one day when he was expounding
some neat piece of political manipulation necessary to the passing of some
Bill.
The thought had flashed across her mind then: “This reminds me of
something. What?” Later she realized that it was, in essence, the same tac-
tics he had used that day at Kidderminster House. She accepted the know-
ledge without surprise, as though it were something of which she had long
been aware, but which had only just risen to the surface of her mind.
From the day of their marriage she had realized that he did not love her
in the same way as she loved him. But she thought it possible that he was
actually incapable of such a love. That power of loving was her own un-
happy heritage. To care with a desperation, an intensity that was, she
knew, unusual among women! She would have died for him willingly; she
was ready to lie for him, scheme for him, suffer for him! Instead she ac-
cepted with pride and reserve the place he wanted her to fill. He wanted
her cooperation, her sympathy, her active and intellectual help. He
wanted of her, not her heart, but her brains, and those material advant-
ages which birth had given her.
One thing she would never do, embarrass him by the expression of a de-
votion to which he could make no adequate return. And she did believe
honestly that he liked her, that he took pleasure in her company. She
foresaw a future in which her burden would be immeasurably lightened
—a future of tenderness and friendship.
In his way, she thought, he loved her.
And then Rosemary came.
She wondered sometimes, with a wry painful twist of the lips, how it
was that he could imagine that she did not know. She had known from the
first minute—up there at St. Moritz—when she had first seen the way he
looked at the woman.
She had known the very day the woman became his mistress.
She knew the scent the creature used. . . .
She could read in Stephen’s polite face, with eyes abstracted, just what
his memories were, what he was thinking about—that woman—the wo-
man he had just left!
It was difficult, she thought dispassionately, to assess the suffering she
had been through. Enduring, day after day, the tortures of the damned,
with nothing to carry her through but her belief in courage—her own nat-
ural pride. She would not show, she would never show, what she was feel-
ing. She lost weight, grew thinner and paler, the bones of her head and
shoulders showing more distinctly with the flesh stretched tightly over
them. She forced herself to eat, but could not force herself to sleep. She lay
long nights, with dry eyes, staring into darkness. She despised the taking
of drugs as weakness. She would hang on. To show herself hurt, to plead,
to protest—all these things were abhorrent to her.
She had one crumb of comfort, a meagre one—Stephen did not wish to
leave her. Granted that that was for the sake of his career, not out of fond-
ness for her, still the fact remained. He did not want to leave her.
Someday, perhaps, the infatuation would pass. . . .
What could he, after all, see in the girl? She was attractive, beautiful—
but so were other women. What did he find in Rosemary Barton that in-
fatuated him?
She was brainless—silly—and not—she clung to this point especially—
not even particularly amusing. If she had had wit, charm and provocation
of manner—those were the things that held men. Sandra clung to the be-
lief that the thing would end—that Stephen would tire of it.
She was convinced that the main interest in his life was his work. He
was marked out for great things and he knew it. He had a fine statesman-
like brain and he delighted in using it. It was his appointed task in life.
Surely once the infatuation began to wane he would realize that fact?
Never for one minute did Sandra consider leaving him. The idea never
even came to her. She was his, body and soul, to take or discard. He was
her life, her existence. Love burned in her with a medieval force.
There was a moment when she had hope. They went down to
Fairhaven. Stephen seemed more his normal self. She felt suddenly a re-
newal of the old sympathy between them. Hope rose in her heart. He
wanted her still, he enjoyed her company, he relied on her judgement. For
the moment, he had escaped from the clutches of that woman.
He looked happier, more like his own self.
Nothing was irretrievably ruined. He was getting over it. If only he
could make up his mind to break with her. . . .
Then they went back to London and Stephen relapsed. He looked hag-
gard, worried, ill. He began to be unable to fix his mind on his work.
She thought she knew the cause. Rosemary wanted him to go away with
her . . . He was making up his mind to take the step — to break with
everything he cared about most. Folly! Madness! He was the type of man
with whom his work would always come first—a very English type. He
must know that himself, deep down—Yes, but Rosemary was very lovely—
and very stupid. Stephen would not be the first man who had thrown
away his career for a woman and been sorry afterwards!
Sandra caught a few words—a phrase one day at a cocktail party.
“. . . Telling George—got to make up our minds.”
It was soon after that that Rosemary went down with ’flu.
A little hope rose in Sandra’s heart. Suppose she were to get pneumonia
—people did after ’flu—a young friend of hers had died that way only last
winter. If Rosemary were to die—
She did not try to repress the thought—she was not horrified at herself.
She was medieval enough to hate with a steady and untroubled mind.
She hated Rosemary Barton. If thoughts could kill, she would have killed
her.
But thoughts do not kill—
Thoughts are not enough. . . .
How beautiful Rosemary had looked that night at the Luxembourg with
her pale fox furs slipping off her shoulders in the ladies’ cloakroom. Thin-
ner, paler since her illness—an air of delicacy made her beauty more eth-
ereal. She had stood in front of the glass touching up her face. . . .
Sandra, behind her, looked at their joint reflection in the mirror. Her
own face like something sculptured, cold, lifeless. No feeling there, you
would have said—a cold hard woman.
And then Rosemary said: “Oh, Sandra, am I taking all the glass? I’ve fin-
ished now. This horrid ’flu has pulled me down a lot. I look a sight. And I
feel quite weak still and headachy.”
Sandra had asked with quiet polite concern:
“Have you got a headache tonight?”
“Just a bit of one. You haven’t got an aspirin, have you?”
“I’ve got a Cachet Faivre.”
She had opened her handbag, taken out the cachet. Rosemary had ac-
cepted it. “I’ll take it in my bag in case.”
That competent dark-haired girl, Barton’s secretary, had watched the
little transaction. She came in turn to the mirror, and just put on a slight
dusting of powder. A nice-looking girl, almost handsome. Sandra had the
impression that she didn’t like Rosemary.
Then they had gone out of the cloakroom, Sandra first, then Rosemary,
then Miss Lessing—oh, and of course, the girl Iris, Rosemary’s sister, she
had been there. Very excited, with big grey eyes, and a schoolgirlish white
dress.
They had gone out and joined the men in the hall.
And the headwaiter had come bustling forward and showed them to
their table. They had passed in under the great domed arch and there had
been nothing, absolutely nothing, to warn one of them that she would
never come out through that door again alive. . . .
第一部 第一章
第一部
罗斯玛丽
“我该如何驱散眼
中对往事的追忆？”
六个人想着罗斯玛丽・巴顿，
她死了快一年了……
第一章 艾丽斯•玛尔
1
艾丽斯•玛尔一直想着她姐姐，罗斯玛丽。
近一年的时间里，她刻意让思绪远离罗斯玛丽。她不想记起。
太痛苦了，太恐怖了！
那张青紫色的脸，抽搐攥紧的手指……
与前一天快乐漂亮的罗斯玛丽形成了鲜明的对比……哦，也许她并不是真的快乐。她
得了流感——情绪低落、身体虚弱……验尸的时候艾丽斯全说出来了，还特意强调了这一
点，这能解释罗斯玛丽为什么自杀吧？
验尸一结束，艾丽斯就故意将整件事置诸脑后。回忆有什么用呢？全忘掉！忘掉整件
恐怖的事。
然而现在，她意识到她不得不回想，不得不追忆往事……要仔细回想每一个似乎无关
紧要的小事……
需要回忆昨晚跟乔治非同寻常的谈话。
那么出人意料、那么令人恐惧。等一等，真的出人意料吗？难道之前没有任何迹象
吗？乔治越发凝神专注的样子，他的心不在焉，他匪夷所思的举止……他的……嗯，古
怪，只能用这个词来形容！这一切都在为昨晚的那一刻做铺垫，他把她叫进书房，从书桌
的抽屉里拿出那两封信。
没法子，她只能回想罗斯玛丽，只能回忆。
罗斯玛丽——她姐姐……
艾丽斯突然惊愕地意识到，这是她有生以来头一次思考罗斯玛丽这个人，也就是说，
客观地把她当作“一个人”来分析。
她向来是想都不想就接受了罗斯玛丽这个人。你从来不会琢磨你的母亲、父亲、姐妹
或者姑妈、姨妈、舅妈、婶婶什么的，他们只是不容置疑地在既定的关系中存在着。
你不把他们当作“人”来分析，你甚至没问过自己，他们到底是怎样一个人。
罗斯玛丽是怎样的一个人呢？
现在这一点可能非常重要。很多事可能都取决于这一点。艾丽斯回想着过去，她和罗
斯玛丽小的时候……
罗斯玛丽比她大六岁。
2
一幕幕往事在她眼前闪现，倏忽的镜头，短暂的片段。儿时的她正在吃面包、喝牛
奶，梳着辫子的罗斯玛丽郑重地坐在桌前做功课。
夏日的海滨。艾丽斯羡慕罗斯玛丽已经是个“大姑娘”了，还会游泳！
罗斯玛丽上寄宿学校，节假日才回来。后来，她也上了学，罗斯玛丽又去巴黎“深
造”了。学生妹罗斯玛丽笨手笨脚的，而从巴黎“深造”回来的她浑身散发着一种新奇且惊人
的优雅气质。她声音柔美、身材婀娜、栗红色的秀发、黑色的长睫毛、深蓝色的眼睛。一
个在异国长大、令人心旌摇荡的尤物！
此后，她们很少见面，六岁的年龄差在这一阶段表现得最明显。
艾丽斯还在求学，罗斯玛丽却在“社交季”里忙碌。即使艾丽斯回家，那道鸿沟仍在。
罗斯玛丽的生活是：早上赖床不起，中午和初入社交界的少女们一同进餐，几乎每天晚上
都出去参加舞会。艾丽斯的生活则是：在教室里听女教师讲课，去公园散步，九点吃晚
饭，十点上床睡觉。妹妹俩的交流仅限于如下简短的对话：
“喂，艾丽斯，帮我打电话叫辆出租车。一个小傻瓜在等我，我快迟到了。”
或者：
“我不喜欢那条新连衣裙，艾丽斯，不适合你，褶皱太多了，看起来很邋遢。”
接着，罗斯玛丽和乔治•巴顿订婚了。艾丽斯很兴奋，购物，大包小包地买，准备伴娘
装。
婚礼。她跟在罗斯玛丽身后，走在教堂的红毯上，听见人们耳语：
“好美的新娘啊……”
罗斯玛丽怎么会嫁给乔治呢？那时艾丽斯也挺纳闷的。那么多活力四射的小伙子给罗
斯玛丽打电话、约她出去，她怎么就选中了比她大十五岁、和蔼可亲，但乏味透顶的乔治•
巴顿呢？
乔治生活优渥，但这不是钱的问题。罗斯玛丽自己也有钱，很多钱。
保罗舅舅的钱……
艾丽斯仔细搜索记忆，尽力区分最近才知道的和以前就知道的信息：譬如，保罗舅
舅？
他不是她们的亲舅舅，她一直很清楚这一点，尽管没有人明确告诉过她们，但她知道
一些事实。保罗•班尼特一直爱着她们的母亲，而她却更喜欢一个比他穷的男人。保罗以一
种浪漫精神接受了失恋的现实，并采取了一种浪漫的、纯精神奉献的态度——依旧做她的
朋友。他成了“保罗舅舅”，成了她的第一个孩子——罗斯玛丽——的教父。保罗舅舅去世
后他们发现，他把所有财产都留给了这个小教女，当时她还只是一个十三岁的孩子。
除了美貌，罗斯玛丽还是一位女继承人，而她却嫁给了和蔼但无趣的乔治•巴顿。
为什么？艾丽斯当时想不通，现在依旧想不通。艾丽斯不相信罗斯玛丽爱过他，但跟
他在一起时她似乎很快乐，而且她喜欢他——是的，她一定喜欢他。艾丽斯有机会了解到
这一点，是因为他们结婚一年后，她们的母亲——漂亮柔弱的薇奥拉•玛尔去世了，十七岁
的艾丽斯便搬去跟罗斯玛丽•巴顿和她的丈夫同住了。
一个十七岁的女孩，艾丽斯回想自己当年的样子。她那时什么样？她感觉到了什么、
想到了些什么，又看到了什么？
她得出的结论是：年轻的艾丽斯•玛尔发育迟缓——不动脑筋，默默接受一切。举个例
子来说，她是否怨恨过母亲早年偏爱罗斯玛丽？总的来说，她认为没有。她毫不犹豫地接
受了这一事实，罗斯玛丽才是重要的那个。罗斯玛丽已经步入社交界了，如果健康状况允
许，母亲当然会把注意力放在长女身上，这是再自然不过的事了，早晚有一天会轮到她
的。薇奥拉•玛尔是个比较冷漠的母亲，把心思全放在自己的健康上，孩子则托付给保姆、
女家庭教师和学校。但偶尔与她们共处时，尽管时间短暂，她始终是可爱的。她们的父亲
赫克托•玛尔去世那年，艾丽斯才五岁，她只隐约记得他酗酒——她也不知道怎么就想起这
事了。
十七岁的艾丽斯•玛尔随遇而安。她为母亲服丧，搬到艾尔维斯顿广场和姐姐、姐夫一
起生活。
在这个家的生活有时很无趣。直到第二年，艾丽斯才正式进入社交界。在此期间，她
每星期上三次法文课和德文课，同时学习家政。有的时候她无事可做，又没个可以说话的
人。乔治一直像兄长一样善待她，他的态度从没变过，现在也一样。
罗斯玛丽呢？艾丽斯很少见到罗斯玛丽。罗斯玛丽经常出门，去裁缝店、鸡尾酒会、
桥牌会……
细想一下，她真正了解罗斯玛丽的什么呢？她的喜好、她的希望、她的恐惧？太可怕
了，真的，你对曾经生活在同一屋檐下的人竟然了解得这么少！姐妹俩几乎没有亲近过。
但是现在，她非想不可。她不得不尽力回想，这可能很重要。
当然，罗斯玛丽似乎挺快乐的……
3
直到那天——事情发生前一星期。
她，艾丽斯，永远忘不了那一天。一切仍然历历在目——每一个细节、每一个字。发
亮的红木桌、摇椅、潦草独特的笔迹……
艾丽斯闭上眼睛，让往事一幕幕回到眼前……
她走进罗斯玛丽的起居室，突然，停下了脚步。
她吓了一跳。她看见什么了？！罗斯玛丽坐在写字桌前，头趴在伸开的双臂上。罗斯
玛丽在哭泣。她从没见罗斯玛丽哭过，如此大声的痛哭把她吓坏了。
是的，罗斯玛丽刚得了一场流感，才好了一两天。所有人都知道流感会让人情绪低
落，可是——
艾丽斯用幼稚且震惊的声音大叫道：“哦，罗斯玛丽，你怎么了？”
罗斯玛丽坐了起来，把头发从哭花的脸上扒拉开。她努力恢复镇静，急切地说：“没什
么——没什么——别那样盯着我看！”
她站起身，经过妹妹身边，跑了出去。
艾丽斯困惑不安地走进房间，疑惑的目光被写字桌吸引了，她瞥见了自己的名字，是
姐姐的笔迹。罗斯玛丽是在给她写信吗？
她走过去，低下头看蓝色便条纸上写着的潦草的大字，由于握笔的人心情急迫且烦
乱，字迹比平日更潦草。
亲爱的艾丽斯：
我实在不必立遗嘱，因为，无论如何，我的钱都会留给你，我只是希望把我的某些东
西留给特定的人。
给乔治：他送给我的珠宝和我们订婚时一起买的小珐琅盒。
给格洛丽亚•金：我的白金烟盒。
给梅齐：那个她一直喜欢的中国陶马——
写到这儿，罗斯玛丽停下了，狂乱地涂写一气，然后把钢笔一丢，抑制不住地哭泣起
来。
艾丽斯仿佛变成了一块石头，呆立在那里。
什么意思？罗斯玛丽快死了？不会吧。她确实得过流感，可是现在已经好了呀。再怎
么说，得流感也不会死人的——有时候会，但罗斯玛丽没死，现在她的身体好好的，就是
有点虚弱、情绪低落而已。
艾丽斯又看了一遍字条，这次，一行字凸显出来，带来令人震惊的效果：
“……无论如何，我的钱都会留给你……”
这是她头一次得知自己也在保罗•班尼特的遗嘱里。她从小就知道罗斯玛丽继承了保罗
舅舅的遗产，罗斯玛丽富有，她贫穷。但她从没问过罗斯玛丽死后那些钱会如何处理。
要是有人问她，她会回答，那些钱应该留给罗斯玛丽的丈夫乔治。不过，她还会补充
一句：认为罗斯玛丽会死在乔治前头的想法十分荒唐！
然而眼下，白纸黑字写在这里了，罗斯玛丽亲笔写下的。罗斯玛丽死后，那些钱将归
她——艾丽斯——所有。可是，这么做不合法吧？继承遗产的应该是丈夫或妻子，而不是
姐妹。当然了，除非保罗舅舅的遗嘱上就是这么写的。是的，一定是这样的，保罗舅舅说
过，如果罗斯玛丽去世，那笔钱就留给她。这样的话就不会那么不公平了——不公平？脑
子里突然冒出这个词时，她吓了一跳。她是不是一直认为罗斯玛丽继承了保罗舅舅的全部
遗产对她来说是不公平的？她想，其实她一直都是这么认为的。她们——她和罗斯玛丽
——是姐妹，她们都是母亲的孩子，可保罗舅舅为什么把所有遗产都留给了罗斯玛丽一个
人？
罗斯玛丽总是拥有一切！
舞会、裙子、钟情于她的小伙子，以及一个深爱她的丈夫。
发生在罗斯玛丽身上的唯一不愉快的事是她得了流感！就连这也没超过一个星期！
艾丽斯站在桌前犹豫着，这张字条——罗斯玛丽想就这样丢在这里，让仆人们看见
吗？
犹豫了一分钟后，她拿起字条，对折了一下，塞进一个抽屉里。
决定命运的生日宴会后，这张字条被警方发现了，提供了另一项佐证——如果还需要
证据的话——证明罗斯玛丽病愈后一直郁郁寡欢，当时她可能想过自杀。
流感引发的精神抑郁，这是在审讯过程中提出的自杀动机，并由艾丽斯的证据帮助确
立。不够充分，也许吧，但这是唯一能找到的动机，于是就被大家接受了。那一次流感很
严重。
当时，艾丽斯和乔治•巴顿都没提出其他可能。
此刻回想起阁楼上的情景，艾丽斯怀疑自己那会儿是不是瞎了。
整件事就发生在她的眼皮子底下！可她竟然什么也没看见，什么都没发现！
她的思绪迅速跳到那场生日聚会惨剧。不必想它了！已经过去了——结束了。撇开恐
怖的场景、讯问、乔治抽搐的脸和布满血丝的双眼，直接回到阁楼上那只行李箱。
4
大约在罗斯玛丽死后半年。
艾丽斯仍然住在艾尔维斯顿广场的那幢房子里。葬礼过后，玛尔家的律师——一个脑
壳闪闪发亮，眼神格外精明的儒雅的老绅士——跟艾丽斯谈过一次话。他清楚地解释说，
依照保罗的遗嘱，罗斯玛丽所继承的他的财产将在其死后由其子女继承，若无子嗣，将由
艾丽斯继承。这位律师还说那是一笔巨额财产，会在她年满二十一岁或结婚时全部属于
她。
不过眼下首先要解决的是她的住处问题。乔治•巴顿先生急切地表示很愿意她继续与他
住在一起，同时，他建议让她姑姑——如今经济情况堪忧的德瑞克太太——也搬过来一起
生活，还能陪伴艾丽斯出入社交场合。德瑞克太太有一个儿子（玛尔家的败家子），经常
向她索要钱财，导致她穷困潦倒。艾丽斯同意这个计划吗？
艾丽斯十分乐意，不必有什么变化让她很欣慰。在她的印象中，卢西娜姑妈是个和
蔼、友善、怯懦且没有主见的人。
这样一来，问题就解决了。令人感动的是，乔治•巴顿愿意让太太的妹妹留在身边，并
把她当成自己的亲妹妹。德瑞克太太虽然不是一个让人兴奋的同伴，但她完全顺从艾丽斯
的意愿。从此，一家人过上了和睦安定的生活。
大约半年后，艾丽斯在阁楼上发现了那个东西。
艾尔维斯顿广场公寓的阁楼都用作储藏室，存放着零星的家具和很多只旅行箱。
艾丽斯一直没找到那件她曾经很喜欢的红色套头毛衣，便爬上了阁楼寻找。乔治恳求
她不要为罗斯玛丽穿丧服，他说罗斯玛丽一向反对穿丧服。艾丽斯知道他说的是实话，于
是默默接受，继续穿平日的衣服。卢西娜•德瑞克则不太赞同，她是个老派的人，喜欢遵守
她所谓的“规矩”。德瑞克太太仍然在为已经过世二十多年的丈夫佩戴黑纱。
艾丽斯知道，很多不想穿的衣服被收起来，都放在阁楼的行李箱里。她开始在这里找
那件红色的套头毛衣，这期间，她发现了很多早已被遗忘的东西：一件灰外套和裙子、一
堆袜子、她的滑雪板，还有一两件旧泳衣。
接着她无意间发现了罗斯玛丽的旧晨袍，这件旧晨袍莫名其妙地没和罗斯玛丽的其他
东西一起被送走——是一件带大口袋的波点图案男款丝质晨袍。
艾丽斯抖开晨袍，发现保存完好，然后就又仔细叠好，放回箱子里。这时，她摸到一
个口袋里好像有东西。她把手伸进去，掏出一张皱巴巴的纸，上面是罗斯玛丽的字迹。她
把纸展平，读了起来。
亲爱的豹，你不可能是这个意思……你不能——你不能……我们相爱！我们属于彼
此！你一定跟我一样清楚！我们不能就这样道别，然后无动于衷地继续各自的生活。你知
道这是不可能的，亲爱的。我们属于彼此——永远永远。我不是一个守旧的女人——我不
在乎别人怎么说。爱对我来说比任何东西都重要。我们要一起离开这里——幸福地生活
——我会给你幸福的。你曾经对我说过，如果没有我，人生对你而言就是尘渣粪土——你
还记得吗，亲爱的豹，现在你却平静地写信告诉我，说这一切最好结束——说只有这样对
我才是公平的。对我公平？可是，没有你我不能活！我对不起乔治——他一直对我很好
——但是他会体谅我的。他会给我自由。如果不再相爱了，继续生活在一起就是不对的。
亲爱的，上天注定要让我们在一起——我知道，这是上天的安排。我们在一起会很幸福，
但是，我们必须勇敢。我会亲口告诉乔治——我想坦白一切——不过，要等我过完生日。
我知道我做的是对的，亲爱的豹——没有你，我不能活——不能活，不能活，不能
活！我好蠢，写了这么多，其实两句话就够了。“我爱你，我永远不会让你走。”哦！亲爱
的——
信到这里突然结束了。
艾丽斯一动不动地站在那里，低头看着。
她对自己的亲姐姐了解得太少了！
这么说，罗斯玛丽有一个情夫——她给他写过激情洋溢的情书，还打算跟他一起私
奔？
怎么回事？罗斯玛丽没把这封信寄出去，那她寄出去的信里都写了些什么？罗斯玛丽
和这个不明身份的男子最终做出了什么决定？
（“豹！”恋爱中的人真是有超凡的想象力。好蠢。居然叫他豹！）
这个男人是谁？他像罗斯玛丽爱他一样爱她吗？肯定是的。罗斯玛丽无与伦比的可
爱。可是，从罗斯玛丽的信里看，他建议“结束这一切”。这意味着什么？谨慎？他表明分
手是为了罗斯玛丽好，只有这样对她才是公平的。是啊，但男人这么说难道不是为了保全
面子吗？这么说不就意味着那个男人——所有男人都是这样的——厌倦了一切？也许对他
来说这只是一段插曲？也许他从未真正在乎过。艾丽斯感觉那个不明身份的男人已经下定
决心要跟罗斯玛丽一刀两断……
但罗斯玛丽有不同的想法，她准备不惜一切代价。罗斯玛丽也下定了决心……
艾丽斯不寒而栗。
而她，艾丽斯，竟然对此一无所知！甚至没有起过疑心！她想当然地认为罗斯玛丽快
乐、知足，以为罗斯玛丽和乔治对彼此很满意。瞎了眼了！她一定是瞎了，才会对亲姐姐
如此一无所知。
可是，那个男人是谁？
她开始追溯往事，思索、回忆。罗斯玛丽周围有过很多追求者，他们给她打电话，约
她出去。没有那么一个特别的人。但这个人肯定存在——其他的人都是幌子，只有这一个
人至关重要。艾丽斯困惑地皱着眉头，仔细回想。
两个名字冒了出来。对，肯定是他们，没错，不是他就是他。斯蒂芬•法拉第？一定是
斯蒂芬•法拉第。罗斯玛丽到底看上他什么了？那个呆板自大的年轻人——其实也不太年轻
了。人们确实说过他才华横溢，说他是一颗冉冉升起的政界新星，有人预言，不久的将来
他会当上副部长。有基德明斯特家族在背后支持，他甚至有可能成为未来的首相！难道就
是这个让他在罗斯玛丽眼中颇具魅力？她肯定不会迷恋他本人——那样一个冰冷克制的家
伙？不过，听说他太太也很爱他，甚至违背她有权有势的家族的意愿嫁给了他，而那时他
还只是一个仅有政治野心的无名小卒！如果一个女人如此爱他，另一个女人很可能也会。
对，肯定是斯蒂芬•法拉第。
因为，如果不是斯蒂芬•法拉第，那就是安东尼•布朗。
而艾丽斯不希望是安东尼•布朗。
没错，他曾拜倒在罗斯玛丽的石榴裙下，对她唯命是从，他黝黑英俊的脸庞表露出一
种幽默的不顾一切。可是他的爱慕太坦诚、太直率了，不可能建立如此深入的关系吧？
罗斯玛丽死后，他也离奇地消失了。自那之后就再没有人见过他。
其实也没多奇怪——他本来就经常旅行。他曾经谈起过阿根廷、加拿大、乌干达和美
国。艾丽斯觉得他是个美国人或者加拿大人，尽管他说话时没有什么口音。不，打那以后
再没有他的消息也没什么好奇怪的。
罗斯玛丽才是他的朋友，他没有理由在她死后仍来拜访其他人。他是罗斯玛丽的朋
友，但不是罗斯玛丽的情人！艾丽斯不希望他是罗斯玛丽的情人，那会伤害到——那会严
重伤害到……
她低头看着手中的信，把它揉成一团。她想把它丢掉、烧掉……纯粹是直觉阻止了
她。
也许有—天，这封信会很重要……
她又把信展平，带到楼下，锁进自己的首饰盒里。
也许有一天能派上用场，证明罗斯玛丽为什么会自我了断。
5
“接下来呢？”
这个荒谬的问题兀自出现在脑子里，让艾丽斯不禁露出苦笑。这个口齿伶俐的售货员
总爱问的问题，似乎恰好描绘出她细细引导思绪的心理过程。
这不正是她审视过去时所要做的吗？她已经处理了阁楼上那个惊人的发现。现在——
接下来呢？接下来是什么？
当然是乔治越发怪异的举止。她很早就发现这一点了，只不过昨晚那通出乎意料的面
谈之后，那些曾令她困惑不解的小事如今已明朗起来。毫无关系的言语和行为都各归其
位。
还有，安东尼•布朗又出现了。对，接下来应该是这件事，发现那封信后短短一个星
期，他就又现身了。
艾丽斯无法确切地回想起当时的感受……
罗斯玛丽十一月去世。次年五月，艾丽斯在卢西娜•德瑞克的陪伴下开始了少女的社交
生活。她参加各种午餐会、茶会和舞会，但都不是很喜欢。她不满意，百无聊赖。六月
末，在一个有点乏味的舞会上，她听到身后有个声音说：“您是艾丽斯•玛尔吗？”
她转过身，红着脸注视着安东尼那张黝黑又引人发笑的脸。
他说：“您可能不记得我了——”
她打断了他的话。
“哦，我记得您，我当然记得您！”
“太好了。我担心您把我给忘了，自从上次见到您已经过去很长时间了。”
“是的。自从罗斯玛丽的生日宴——”
她没说下去。这些话就这么欢快地、不假思索地从她的嘴里蹦了出来。双颊的红晕匆
匆退去，留下一片失去了血色的苍白。她的嘴唇颤抖着，突然睁大的眼睛中流露出惊慌沮
丧之色。
安东尼•布朗急忙说：“太抱歉了，我太残忍了，让你想起那件事。”
艾丽斯咽了口唾沫，说：“没什么。”
（自从罗斯玛丽的生日聚会那晚，他们就没再见过面。自从罗斯玛丽自杀那晚，他们
就没再见过面。她不要想，她不要想起那件事！）
安东尼•布朗又说：“非常抱歉，请原谅我。我们跳支舞好吗？”
她点点头。虽然已经答应别人一起跳这支舞了，她还是随着响起的音乐声，挽着他的
手臂飘进了舞池。她看到她的舞伴，一个腼腆、不成熟，衣服领子不太合适的年轻人正在
四处找她。她不屑地想，初入社交界的女孩不得不忍受这种舞伴。不像这个男人——罗斯
玛丽的朋友。
突然，她心里一阵剧痛。罗斯玛丽的朋友。那封信。那封信是不是写给与她共舞的这
个男人的？他从容优雅轻盈的舞姿让“豹”这个绰号具体化了。他和罗斯玛丽是不是——
她突然问道：“这些日子你都在哪儿？”
他微微推开她一点，低头看着她的脸。他表情严肃，声音冰冷。
“我一直各处跑——出差。”
“哦。”她忍不住继续问，“那为什么回来？”
这次他露出微笑，轻声说：“也许——是为了见你，艾丽斯•玛尔。”
接着他突然将她搂紧了一些，来了一个大胆的长滑步，绕过其他跳舞的人，节奏和引
导都完成得堪称奇迹。艾丽斯心里纳闷，她应该害怕才对，怎么会有一种近乎享受其中的
感觉呢？
此后，安东尼成了她生活的一部分。她每个星期至少见他一次。
她在公园、舞会上碰到他，并发现晚宴上他被安排在她旁边的位子。
只有一个地方他没去过，那就是艾尔维斯顿广场的那栋房子。过了一段时间，她才注
意到他一直巧妙地回避或者拒绝去那里的邀请。意识到这个问题后，她开始琢磨为什么会
这样。难道是因为他和罗斯玛丽——
而令她震惊的是，乔治，性格随和且从不多管闲事的乔治，主动跟她谈起了他。
“安东尼•布朗，那个跟你交往的家伙是谁？你对他了解多少？”
她盯着他。
“了解多少？怎么这么问，他是罗斯玛丽的朋友啊！”
乔治的脸抽搐了一下，他眨了眨眼睛，再开口时声音有些低沉。
“哦对，当然，是他。”
艾丽斯懊悔地大声说：“对不起，我不该让你想起她。”
乔治•巴顿摇了摇头，温和地说：“不，不，我不想忘记她，从来就没想过要忘记她。
毕竟……”他将目光移开，尴尬地说，“她的名字就是这个意思。罗斯玛丽——回忆。 [1] ”他
凝视着她，“我也不希望你忘掉你姐姐，艾丽斯。”
艾丽斯屏住了呼吸。
“我永远不会忘。”
乔治继续说：“至于那个年轻人，安东尼•布朗，罗斯玛丽可能喜欢过他，但我不认为
她很了解他。知道吗，你应该小心一点，艾丽斯。你是一个非常富有的年轻姑娘。”
她感觉怒火燃遍了全身。
“托尼 [2] ——安东尼——他也有很多钱。看看，他在伦敦时都住在克拉里奇酒店。”
乔治微微一笑，低声说：“无比气派——也很贵。但无论如何，亲爱的，似乎没有人清
楚此人的底细。”
“他是美国人。”
“也许吧。如果是的话，他自己国家的大使馆却没怎么帮助他，这就很奇怪了。他很少
来我们家，是不是？”
“是。我知道为什么你这么讨厌他！”
乔治摇摇头。
“我好像多嘴了。好吧，我只是想适时地提醒你一下。我会和卢西娜谈一谈的。”
“卢西娜！”艾丽斯嘲讽地说。
乔治焦急地说：“一切都还好吧？我的意思是，卢西娜给了你足够的时间吧？去参加聚
会——之类的？”
“是的，确实，她做得兢兢业业……”
“如果她没做到，知道吗，孩子，你必须说出来。我们可以再找其他人，找一个更年
轻、更能跟上潮流的人。我希望你快乐。”
“我很快乐，乔治。啊，乔治，我真的很快乐。”
他语重心长地说：“那就好。我不太擅长出席这些活动——从来没擅长过。但我希望你
得到一切你想要的东西，没必要节省开支。”
这就是乔治——仁慈、笨拙、莽撞。
他兑现了他的诺言，或者说“威胁”，他找德瑞克夫人谈了谈安东尼•布朗的事，只不过
时机不对，没有获得卢西娜的重视。
卢西娜刚接到一封电报，是她那个一无是处的宝贝儿子发来的。他太懂得如何触动慈
母的心弦，以获得金钱上的支持。
可否寄来两百镑。绝望。生死关头。维克多。
“维克多自尊心太重了。他知道我手头拮据，不到迫不得已绝不会向我求助，他向来如
此。我经常担心他会开枪自杀。”
“他不会的。”乔治•巴顿无情地说。
“你不了解他。我是他的母亲，我当然知道我儿子什么样。如果我无法回应他的求救，
我永远都不会原谅自己。我可以把股票全卖出去，或许能帮上忙。”
乔治叹了口气。
“听我说，卢西娜。我会让我在那边的联络员拍封电报回来，把详细情况告诉我们，我
们就能弄清维克多到底处在怎样的困境中了。但我的建议是，让他尝尝自己酿的苦果，你
要是不这么做，他永远也成不了材。”
“你的心肠太硬了，乔治。这个可怜的孩子只是一直不走运。”
乔治不再发表意见了。跟女人争辩从来没有好处。
他只是说：“我立刻叫露丝去处理一下，明天我们就能听到消息了。”
卢西娜的情绪缓和了一些。两百镑最终减到五十镑——卢西娜坚决要寄这么多。
艾丽斯知道，乔治骗卢西娜说这笔钱是卖出了她的股票赚的，其实是自掏腰包。艾丽
斯非常赞赏乔治的慷慨，并当面对他说了。他的回答很简单。
“我的看法是——每家都会出败家子，都有个要靠人照顾的人。总要有人为维克多付
出，直到他死的那一天。”
“但不必是你，他又不是你的家人。”
“罗斯玛丽的家人就是我的家人。”
“你真是个好人，乔治。可是：“由我来负担吗？你不是总说我有钱。”
他咧开嘴冲她笑。
“年满二十一岁之前你还：“做这种事，姑娘。而如果你聪明的话，到了那个年龄也不
会这么做。不过我可以教你一招：当一个人发电报说除非他得到几百镑，否则他就了断一
切时，你会发现通常给他二十镑就够了……我敢说十镑都行！你无法阻止一位母亲掏钱，
但你可以降低数额——记住这一点。维克多•德瑞克当然不会自杀，他绝对不会！扬言要自
杀的人绝对不会自杀。”
绝对不会吗？艾丽斯想起了罗斯玛丽，接着又把这个念头抛开。乔治说的不是罗斯玛
丽，而是里约热内卢那个寡廉鲜耻、花言巧语的年轻人。
对艾丽斯来说，此事带来的好处是，作为母亲的急迫心理使得卢西娜无法将全部注意
力放在她和安东尼•布朗的友谊上。
那么——“说下一件事吧，夫人。”乔治的变化！艾丽斯不愿再推迟了。从什么时候开
始的？是什么原因造成的？
即使现在去回想，艾丽斯依旧无法确切指出具体是从什么时候开始的。自从罗斯玛丽
去世后，乔治就常常心不在焉，动不动就走神，陷入沉思。他好像一下子变老了，人也更
沉闷了。这再正常不过了。但究竟是从何时起，他的心不在焉变得不正常了呢？
她想，应该是在她和他因为安东尼•布朗起冲突之后，她头一次注意到他看着她时眼神
困惑且茫然。后来他养成了一个新习惯，早早下班回家，把自己关在书房里。他似乎在里
面什么都不做。她进去过一次，发现他正坐在书桌前，直愣愣地看着前方。她进去时，他
双眼无神地看着她。他的样子像是受到了打击，但面对她的询问时，他只是简短地回答“没
什么”。
日子一天天过去，他却总是一副忧心忡忡的样子，似乎在担心着什么。
没人太留意。当然，艾丽斯也没在意。烦恼总是轻松地与“生意”挂钩。
后来他开始时不时地问些没头没脑的问题。从那时起，她才认为他举止“怪异”。
“听我说，艾丽斯，罗斯玛丽过去经常跟你聊天吗？”
艾丽斯盯着他。
“当然，怎么啦，乔治。至少——呃，你指聊什么？”
“哦，聊她自己——她的朋友们——她过得怎么样，快不快乐，诸如此类的。”
她觉得能猜到他的心思了。他肯定是听说了罗斯玛丽那不顺利的风流韵事了。
她慢悠悠地说：“她不太说起。我的意思是——她一直很忙……忙着……做事。”
“而你还是个孩子，当然了。是的，我知道。没什么，我只是以为她说过什么。”
他用探询的眼神看着她，好似一条满怀希望的狗。
艾丽斯不希望乔治受到伤害，再说了，罗斯玛丽确实没说过什么。她摇了摇头。
乔治叹了口气，语气沉重地说：“哦，好吧，没关系。”
又有一天，他突然问她，罗斯玛丽最要好的女性朋友是谁。
艾丽斯下意识地回答：“格洛丽亚•金。艾特维尔太太——梅齐•艾特维尔。珍•雷蒙
德。”
“她跟她们的关系有多亲密？”
“哦，这我不太清楚。”
“我的意思是，你认为她会跟她们中的某一个说心里话吗？”
“我真的不知道……我觉得不太可能……你指的是什么样的心里话？”
话一出口她就后悔了，不该问最后那个问题的，但乔治的回答让她吃了一惊。
“罗斯玛丽有没有说过她怕什么人？”
“怕？”艾丽斯瞪大眼睛。
“我想知道的是，罗斯玛丽有没有仇人？”
“在那群女人中间？”
“不，不，不是那种事。是真正的仇人。有没有人……据你所知，有没有什么人跟她过
不去？”
被艾丽斯直直地盯着，似乎搞得他很不安。乔治脸红了，嘀咕道：“听起来很蠢，我知
道。太夸张了，但我就是想了解一下。”
一两天后，他开始打听法拉第夫妇。
“过去罗斯玛丽和法拉第夫妇经常见面吗？”
艾丽斯心生疑惑。
“我真的不知道，乔治。”
“她谈起过他们吗？”
“没有，我想没有。”
“他们关系好吗？”
“罗斯玛丽对政治很感兴趣。”
“是，那是在瑞士碰到法拉第夫妇之后，此前她对政治毫无兴趣。”
“不，我想是斯蒂芬•法拉第让她对政治感兴趣的。他经常借给她宣传册之类的东西。”
乔治说：“桑德拉 [3] •法拉第怎么想？”
“关于什么？”
“关于她丈夫借给罗斯玛丽宣传册？”
艾丽斯不自在地说：“我不知道。”
乔治说：“她是个很内向的女人。看上去冷冰冰的，但据说她很迷恋法拉第。这类女人
都会憎恶他跟别的女人交朋友。”
“也许吧。”
“罗斯玛丽和法拉第太太相处得如何？”
艾丽斯慢条斯理地说：“我不认为她们合得来。罗斯玛丽嘲笑桑德拉，说她就是那种满
腹经纶的政治妇女，就像一只摇摆木马——你知道，她确实长得像马。罗斯玛丽常说：‘你
扎她一下，就会有锯末漏出来。’”
乔治哼了一声，然后说：“你还经常跟安东尼•布朗见面吗？”
“还好。”艾丽斯的声音冷冷的，但这次乔治没再警告她，反而一副很感兴趣的样子。
“他去过不少地方，是不是？他的生活一定丰富多彩。他跟你聊过这些吗？”
“说得不多。当然，他确实经常旅行。”
“因为生意吧，我想。”
“我也这么想的。”
“他是做什么生意的？”
“不知道。”
“跟军火有关，是吗？”
“他没说过。”
“哦，你没必要跟他提起我跟你打听过他，我只是随便问问。去年秋天，他经常跟迪尤
斯伯里，联合武器有限公司的董事长在一起……罗斯玛丽经常跟安东尼•布朗见面，是不
是？”
“是——是的，经常见面。”
“但他们认识的时间并不长，只是泛泛之交，对不对？他经常带她去跳舞，是不是？”
“是。”
“你知道，我很惊讶她竟然邀请他参加她的生日聚会，我没意识到她跟他那么熟。”
艾丽斯平静地说：“他的舞跳得很好……”
“是啊——是啊，当然……”
并非出于自愿，那天晚上的一幕还是掠过艾丽斯的脑际。
卢森堡餐厅的圆桌、幽暗的灯光和鲜花。乐队不停歇地演奏舞曲。七个人围桌而坐，
她、安东尼•布朗、罗斯玛丽、斯蒂芬•法拉第、露丝•莱辛、乔治，还有坐在乔治右边的斯
蒂芬•法拉第的妻子——亚历山德拉•法拉第夫人，她有一头浅色的直发，鼻孔微微翘起，声
音清晰且傲慢。多么快乐的聚会啊，还是并非如此呢？
聚会期间，罗斯玛丽——不，不，最好别想这个。最好只回想她自己坐在托尼身边
——那是她第一次正式见他。这之前他只是一个名字、一个大厅里的影子、一个陪在罗斯
玛丽身边在门前的台阶下等出租车的背影。
托尼——
她又猛然回到当下，乔治正在重复一个问题。
“很奇怪啊，他那么快就消失了。他去哪儿了，你知道吗？”
她含糊地说：“哦，锡兰吧，我想要不就是印度。”
“他从没提过那天晚上吗？”
艾丽斯突然尖声说道：“为什么他要提？我们非得谈——那天晚上的事不可吗？”
乔治的脸一下子红了。
“不，不，当然不用。抱歉，都是过去的事了。对了，你邀请布朗哪天晚上到家里来吃
饭吧。我想再见见他。”
艾丽斯很高兴，乔治改变想法了。她发出了邀请，安东尼也接受了。但到了最后一
刻，安东尼突然要去北方出差，来不了了。
七月末的一天，乔治宣布说他在乡下买了幢房子，让卢西娜和艾丽斯都大吃一惊。
“买了幢房子？”艾丽斯不敢相信自己的耳朵，“我们不是要租戈林的那个房子住两个月
吗？”
“有自己的房子不是更好吗，嗯？随时可以去那里度周末。”
“房子在哪儿？河边？”
“不，事实上，离得很远。在苏塞克斯郡的马林汉姆，叫小官府，占地十二英亩，一栋
乔治王时代风格的小房子。”
“你的意思是，我们都还没看一眼，你就把那里买下了？”
“机缘巧合嘛。刚刚上市，我就买下了。”
德瑞克太太说：“我猜那里需要彻底打扫并重新修缮一番吧。”
乔治态度随便地说道：“哦，这没什么。露丝已经在负责这事了。”
露丝•莱辛是乔治的秘书，很能干。听他提到露丝，她们都放心地默默地接受了。大家
都把露丝当成家里的一员，她长得很好看，是那种只穿黑白灰的严肃女人，她办事效率
高，且圆滑老练……
罗斯玛丽在世时常说：“让露丝去处理好了。她棒极了。哦，交给露丝去办吧。”
莱辛小姐的巧手能解决一切难题。她总是笑容满面、轻松愉快、冷淡超然地克服一切
困难。她打理乔治的办公室，似乎也在打理乔治。乔治很喜欢她，凡事都依赖她的判断。
她似乎没有个人的需求和欲望。
尽管如此，这次卢西娜•德瑞克还是生气了。
“我亲爱的乔治，露丝那么能干，哦，我是说——女人们还是希望亲自挑选自己的起居
室的颜色！你应该先征求一下艾丽斯的意见。我没说我自己，我不算什么，但这会让艾丽
斯反感。”
乔治面带愧疚之色。
“我想给你们一个惊喜！”
卢西娜强作欢颜。
“你真好啊，乔治。”
艾丽斯说：“我不太介意颜色。我相信露丝会做得很完美，她那么聪明。即使我们去了
那儿，又能做什么呢？我想那里有网球场吧。”
“有，六英里外还有一个高尔夫球场，离海边只有十四英里。更棒的是我们还有邻居。
我想，搬到一个有认识的人的地方总是明智的。”
“什么邻居？”艾丽斯突然问。
乔治没看她的眼睛。
“法拉第夫妇。”他说，“他们就住在大约一英里半外，和我们隔着一个公园。”
艾丽斯盯着他。她几乎立刻确信，乔治煞费苦心购买并装修这栋乡下别墅只有一个目
的，那就是拉近他与斯蒂芬和桑德拉•法拉第的关系。住在乡下的近邻、土地毗连，两家必
定关系亲密。要么是这样，要么就是老死不相往来！
可是为什么？为什么他总是提到法拉第夫妇？为什么要用这种昂贵的方式做一件意义
不明的事？
是不是乔治怀疑罗斯玛丽和斯蒂芬•法拉第的关系超越了友谊？这是不是一种奇特的心
理——“死后嫉妒”？当然，这种心理无法用语言表达，听起来太奇怪了！
乔治想从法拉第夫妇那里得到什么呢？他不停地用古怪的问题逼问她，目的何在？近
来乔治的言行是不是很怪诞？
想想每天晚上他那种怪异的、醉醺醺的表情！卢西娜将这归因于他喝了杯波特酒——
或许不止一杯。卢西娜当然会这么想！
不，最近乔治确实有点怪。他有时很兴奋，有时又像陷入昏迷了一般冷漠。
八月的大部分时间他们是在乡下的小官府度过的。好恐怖的房子！艾丽斯打了个冷
战。她讨厌那栋房子。一幢堂皇又雅致的房子，家具和装饰都布置得典雅、和谐！（露丝•
莱辛从来不会出错！）但是透着奇怪且可怕的空洞。感觉他们并不是生活在那里，只是占
领了那里。就像在一场战役中，士兵占领了某个瞭望哨。
更可怕的是日复一日平淡的夏日生活。迎接朋友们来这里度周末，打网球，和法拉第
夫妇一起吃便饭。桑德拉•法拉第对他们很友善——那是对待已成朋友的邻居的完美态度。
她带他们在郡里到处转悠，就马匹给乔治和艾丽斯提建议，而且对卢西娜这个老女人也表
现出恰如其分的尊敬。
但是没有人知道，在苍白的笑容面具背后，她到底在想什么。她是个斯芬克斯 [4] 一般
的女人。
他们很少见到斯蒂芬。他很忙，经常因政务缠身而缺席。在艾丽斯看来，他明显是故
意极力避免与小官府的这家人碰面。
八月就这样过去了，九月时他们决定十月返回伦敦。
艾丽斯长长地松了一口气。也许他们一回去，乔治就会恢复正常了，她想。
还有，昨天晚上，她被一阵轻轻的敲门声弄醒。她打开灯，看了一下时间，才一点
钟。她十点半上的床，感觉自己睡了很久。
她匆匆披上晨袍去开门，这么做似乎比喊一声“进来”更自然。
乔治站在门外。他还没休息，还穿着晚礼服。他呼吸紊乱，脸庞呈现出一种奇怪的蓝
色。
他说：“艾丽斯，到我的书房来一下，我必须跟你谈谈，我必须找个人谈谈。”
睡眼蒙眬、不知道出了什么事的她照办了。
他关上书房的门，示意她在桌子对面坐下。他把烟盒推给她，同时用颤抖的手拿出一
根烟，点了两次才点着。
她说：“出什么事了吗，乔治？”
她真的开始担心了。他的样子很恐怖。
乔治气喘吁吁的，像是刚跑完步。
“我一个人承受不下去了。我撑不下去了。你必须告诉我你的想法——这是不是真的
——有没有可能——”
“可是你在说什么呀，乔治？”
“你肯定注意到了什么、看到了什么。她肯定说了些什么。一定有原因——”
她睁大眼睛看着他。
他用手撑着额头。
“你不明白我在说什么，我看得出来。别这么害怕，小姑娘。你必须帮帮我。你必须尽
量回忆起每一个该死的细节。就在现在，现在，我知道我有点语无伦次，但你马上就能明
白了——等我把信拿给你看。”
他打开一个锁着的抽屉，拿出两张纸。
淡蓝色的普通纸，上面有一些打印上去的端正的小字。
“你看看吧。”乔治说。
艾丽斯低头盯着那张纸。内容简单明了、不兜圈子：
你以为你太太是自杀，不，她是被人杀死的。
第二张纸上写着：
你太太罗斯玛丽没有自杀，她是被人谋杀的。
艾丽斯仍盯着那些字，乔治接着说道：“大约三个月前收到的。一开始我以为是有人开
玩笑——一个残忍的烂玩笑。后来我开始思考，罗斯玛丽为什么要自杀？”
艾丽斯机械地应道：“流感引发的精神抑郁。”
“是，但一旦你开始仔细思考，就会发现这简直是胡扯，不是吗？我是说，很多人得过
流感，之后情绪有点低落什么的——那又怎样呢？”
艾丽斯艰难地再次开口。
“她可能——一直不快乐？”
“是啊，她很有可能不快乐。”乔治非常平静地考虑了一下这个观点，“但我还是不理解
她会因为不快乐就结束自己的生命。她可能扬言过要自杀，但我不认为到了关键时刻她真
的会这么做。”
“但她就是这么做了，乔治！还有其他可能的解释吗？他们甚至在她的包里发现了毒
药。”
“我知道。一切都吻合。但自从我收到这两封信，”他用指甲轻敲两封匿名信，“我就把
整件事翻来覆去地想，越想越觉得蹊跷。这就是我问你那些问题的原因，比如罗斯玛丽是
否跟什么人结怨，她有没有说过她害怕某个人。无论是谁杀了她，一定有原因——”
“乔治，你简直是疯了——”
“有的时候我也认为我疯了。但更多的时候，我认为我的想法是正确的。不管怎么样，
我必须知道，必须弄个明白。你要帮我，艾丽斯。你好好想想，好好回忆一下，对，回
忆，一遍一遍地回想那个晚上。因为你看，如果她是被人谋杀的，就肯定是那天晚上一起
进餐的某个人干的，不是吗？这一点你一定也很清楚吧？”
是的，她明白。再也不能将记忆中的那一幕推至一旁了，她必须全部回想起来。音
乐、隆隆的鼓声，调暗的灯光随着卡巴莱歌舞表演而再次亮起，罗斯玛丽趴在桌子上，脸
是蓝色的，抽搐变形。
艾丽斯打了个寒战，现在她真的感到恐惧了——异常恐惧……
她必须想——回忆——记起来。
迷迭香，是为了帮助回忆。 [5]
不能遗忘任何一点。
注释：
[1]罗斯玛丽（Rosemary）除了可作为名字以外，还有迷迭香的意思，而迷迭香的花语是回忆、想
念。
[2]托尼是安东尼的昵称。
[3]桑德拉是后文出现的亚历山德拉的昵称。
[4]广为人知的斯芬克斯（Sphinx）即埃及的狮身人面像，但希腊神话中同样有这一角色，不同的是
希腊的斯芬克斯是一名女性，她出现在俄狄浦斯的故事中，也是一个出谜题，若答不对就杀死
或吃掉对方的怪兽。
[5]此句出自莎士比亚的《哈姆雷特》。原文为：Rosemary is to help people recall.
第一部 第二章
第二章 露丝•莱辛
露丝•莱辛忙里偷闲地回想起她雇主的太太，罗斯玛丽•巴顿。
她很不喜欢罗斯玛丽•巴顿。但直到那个十一月的上午，跟维克多•德瑞克初次谈话后，
她才知道自己不喜欢她到了何等程度。
那次谈话是一切的开端，引发了一连串事件。那之前，她的感觉和想法都深藏于潜意
识中，连她自己都不真正了解。
她爱慕着乔治•巴顿。一直如此。第一次来到他面前时，她二十三岁，冷静、能干，一
眼就看出他需要人照顾。于是她开始照顾他。她替他节省时间和金钱，并省却不少烦恼。
她为他挑选朋友，引导他养成得体的爱好。她阻止他冒轻率的商业风险，同时鼓励他在必
要时冒明智的风险。在他们长期的相处过程中，乔治从未怀疑过她，一直把她看作一位恭
顺得力的助手，完全听从她的指挥。他特别喜欢她的外表——整洁闪亮的黑发、时髦利落
的定制服装、漂亮的耳朵上戴着小巧的珍珠耳钉、化了淡妆的白皙面庞，以及淡粉色的唇
膏。
他觉得露丝永远是对的。
他喜欢她客观超然的态度，不会感情用事，也不考虑人情世故。因此，他跟她讲了很
多私事，她总是带着几分同情倾听，并适时提出中肯的意见。
但是，她对他的婚姻生活束手无策。尽管不喜欢新娘，但她也接受了，并尽力帮他准
备婚事，为巴顿太太减轻了很多负担。
婚礼过后有一段时间，露丝和老板的关系变得稍稍没那么亲密了。她严格地限制自己
只处理公务。乔治则把很多工作交到她手上。
正是因为她的高效，使得罗斯玛丽很快就发现，乔治的莱辛小姐，可以处理各个方面
的事情。莱辛小姐总是那么笑容可掬、彬彬有礼、讨人喜欢。
乔治、罗斯玛丽和艾丽斯都叫她露丝，她经常来艾尔维斯顿广场吃午饭。如今她已经
二十九岁了，但看上去还和二十三岁时一个样。
尽管他们之间没有亲密的交流，她却总能对乔治细微的情绪反应了如指掌。她知道他
的婚姻生活是何时从狂喜转变为满足，她也知道满足是从何时转变为一种不好定义的情感
的。这个时期他表现出的种种大意、粗心，都由她一一订正了。
无论精神多么恍惚，露丝•莱辛都好像没有意识到。对此，乔治十分感激。
那是十一月的一个早上，他跟她谈起了维克多•德瑞克。
“我想让你替我做一件不太愉快的事，可以吗，露丝？”
她看着他，面带问询之色。不用明白地回答“好的”，他们已足够默契。
“每家都会出败家子。”乔治说。
她点头表示理解。
“这个人是我太太的表哥，一个彻头彻尾的无赖，我不得不这么说。他快把他母亲弄破
产了——一个昏庸愚笨、感情用事的老人，本来股票就不多，还为了他把大部分都卖了。
维克多•德瑞克一开始在牛津伪造支票，这事好不容易被掩盖过去了，那以后，他就坐着船
满世界跑，到哪儿都一事无成。”
露丝只是听着，兴趣不大。她熟悉这类人。他们种柑橘、搞养鸡场、去澳大利亚的大
牧场当徒工、去新西兰的肉类冷冻厂当工人。他们什么也干不成，在哪儿都待不久，投给
他们的钱一律花光。她对他们向来没兴趣。她更喜欢成功。
“他最近在伦敦现身了，而且我发现他一直在骚扰我太太。她从上学那会儿就没正眼瞧
过他，但他是那种花言巧语的无赖，一直写信管她要钱，我不能容忍这种事。我跟他约好
了，今天中午十二点在他住的旅社见面。我想让你替我去办这件事。事实上，我不想接触
这个家伙。我从来没见过他，也不想见他，我也不想让罗斯玛丽见他。我想，如果由第三
方出面解决，就完全可以公事公办。”
“确实，是个好主意。你想怎么安排？”
“一百镑现金，加一张去布宜诺斯艾利斯的船票。钱要等他上船了再给。”
露丝笑了。
“很不错。你要确保他真的上船走了！”
“看来你明白了。”
“这事没什么稀奇的。”她面不改色地说。
“是啊，这种人到处都是。”他犹豫了一下，“你真的不介意帮我这个忙吗？”
“当然不介意。”她有点得意地说，“我可以向你保证，我能处理这件事。”
“什么事你都能处理。”
“船票订了吗？对了，他叫什么名字？”
“维克多•德瑞克。船票在这儿。我昨天给轮船公司打了电话。圣克里斯托瓦尔号，明
天从蒂尔伯里起航。”
露丝接过船票，看了一眼，确认信息无误后塞进了手提包。
“就这么定了。我来办。十二点。地址呢？”
“拉塞尔广场，鲁伯特旅社。”
她记了下来。
“露丝，亲爱的，没有你我可真不知道该怎么办——”他温情脉脉地将一只手搭在她的
肩上，这是他第一次做出这种举动，“你是我的左右手，我的另一半。”
她红了脸，很愉悦。
“我向来不善言辞……我一直把你所做的一切都当做理所当然，但事实并非如此。你不
知道我在各方面有多么依赖你……”他重复道，“各个方面。你是这个世界上最友善、最可
爱、对我帮助最大的姑娘！”
露丝用笑声来掩饰她的喜悦和尴尬，她说：“你说这些好听的话会宠坏我的。”
“哦，但我说的是实话。你是公司的一部分，露丝，没有你的生活简直难以想象。”
她带着他话语中的温情出了门，到鲁伯特旅社去完成任务时，这份感觉还在。
眼下这个问题并没有让露丝感到棘手，她对自己处理各种情况的能力相当自信。倒霉
的故事和不幸的人都打动不了她，她准备把维克多•德瑞克当成日常工作来处理。
他和她想象中的差不多，尽管更有魅力。她没估计错他的性格，维克多•德瑞克没有什
么优点。讨喜调皮的样子背后隐藏着最最冷酷无情、工于心计的心。她没有料到的是他洞
悉他人心意的能力，以及操控他人情感的纯熟技艺。或许，她还低估了自己对他的魅力的
抗拒心理，因为他确实很迷人。
他迎接她时显得异常惊喜。
“乔治的密使？太好了，真是惊喜呀！”
她以平淡冷静的语调陈述乔治的条件，维克多很友善地接受了。
“一百镑？真不赖，可怜的老乔治。六十镑我都接受——你可别跟他这么说！条
件：‘不要来烦扰可爱的罗斯玛丽表妹——不要玷污天真的艾丽斯表妹——不要让可敬的乔
治表妹夫难堪。’完全同意！谁送我上圣克里斯托瓦尔号？是不是你，我亲爱的莱辛小姐？
我很高兴。”他皱了皱鼻子，同情地眨了一下眼。他有一张瘦削的、棕色的脸，给人斗牛士
的感觉——浪漫的风采。他对女人很有吸引力，而且他知道这一点。
“你和巴顿在一起有一段时间了吧，莱辛小姐？”
“六年。”
“要是没有你，他肯定不知道该怎么办了。哦，是的，我都知道。而且我了解你的一
切，莱辛小姐。”
“你是怎么知道的？”露丝厉声问道。
维克多咧开嘴，笑道：“罗斯玛丽告诉我的。”
“罗斯玛丽？可是——”
“没什么。我不打算再打扰罗斯玛丽了。她已经对我很好了——很有同情心。事实上，
我从她那儿拿到了一百英镑。”
“你——”
露丝没有说完，维克多大笑起来。他的笑声很有感染力。她发现自己也笑了。
“你太坏了，德瑞克先生。”
“我是一个颇为成功的寄生虫，掌握纯熟的技巧。举个例子来说，只要我拍一封电报，
暗示我要自杀，我母亲就会掏钱。”
“你应该为自己感到羞耻。”
“我深深地自责。我是个坏蛋，莱辛小姐，我想让你知道我到底有多坏。”
“为什么？”她很好奇。
“不知道。你不一样。我不能跟你玩平常的把戏。你那双清澈的眼睛——你不会上当
的。不，‘可怜的家伙，受到了过于严厉的惩罚’ [1] ，这一套对你不起作用，因为你没有同
情心。”
她的表情变得冰冷起来。
“我鄙视同情。”
“不顾你的名字吗？你叫露丝，不是吗？调皮。没有同情心的露丝。 [2] ”
她说：“我不同情弱者！”
“谁说我弱了？不，不，你错了，亲爱的。也许可以说我邪恶。不过我得为自己说句
话。”
她撇了一下嘴。老套的借口。
“什么？”
“我过得很快活。”他点点头，“我过得非常非常快活。我看尽了人生百态，露丝。我几
乎什么都干过，做过演员、仓库管理员、服务员、勤杂工、行李搬运工，还在马戏团里做
过道具管理员！我在一艘不定期货轮上当过普通水手，在南美的一个共和国竞选过总统。
我进过监狱！只有两件事我没有做过——老老实实地工作一天和自己养活自己。”
他看着她，哈哈大笑。她认为自己应该感到反感，但维克多•德瑞克的力量像是魔鬼的
力量，他能让罪恶显得有趣。他正用犀利的眼神注视着她。
“你不必摆出一副自鸣得意的样子，露丝！你没你以为的那么有道德！你崇拜成功，你
是那种最终会嫁给老板的女孩。这才是你应该跟乔治做的事。乔治就不该娶罗斯玛丽那个
小傻瓜，他应该娶你才对。要是他娶了你，日子肯定过得比现在好多了。”
“我认为你很无礼。”
“罗斯玛丽是个该死的笨蛋，向来如此。天使一般可爱，却笨得像只兔子。她是那种男
人会迷恋，却不会忠心的女人。你呢，你就不一样了。天哪，如果一个男人爱上你，他永
远也不会厌倦。”
他一下子击中了她的要害。她突然极其真诚地说：“如果！但他是不会爱上我的！”
“你是说乔治没有爱上你？不要欺骗自己了，露丝。万一罗斯玛丽有个三长两短，乔治
会立刻娶你的。”
（是的，就是这样。这就是一切的开端。）
维克多看着她说：“这一点你跟我一样清楚。”
（乔治握着她的手，声音里饱含温情——是啊，确实如此……他总是向她求助，依赖
她……）
维克多温和地说：“你应该对自己更有信心，我亲爱的姑娘。你只用一个小手指头就能
玩转乔治。罗斯玛丽就是个小笨蛋。”
是这样的，露丝暗想，要不是有罗斯玛丽，我肯定能让乔治向我求婚。我会好好待
他，好好照顾他。
她的心头突然腾起一团无名的怒火，以及强烈的憎恨之情。维克多•德瑞克在一旁乐呵
呵地看着她。他喜欢往别人的脑袋里灌输想法，或者像现在这样，说出那些本就在那里的
念头……
是的，事情就是这样开始的——偶遇这个第二天就要去地球另一端的男人。回到办公
室的露丝已不再是那个走出办公室的露丝了，尽管没有人发现她的举止或样子有何不同。
她刚回到办公室一会儿，罗斯玛丽•巴顿就打来了电话。
“巴顿先生刚出去吃午饭了，我能做什么吗？”
“哦，露丝，可以麻烦你吗？那个讨厌的瑞斯上校发来电报，说他赶不回来参加我的聚
会了。你问问乔治，他想邀请谁顶替。我们必须再找一位男士。现在有四位女士——艾丽
斯，当然了，还有桑德拉•法拉第，还有——另外一个是谁来着？我想不起来了。”
“我想，我就是第四个。您非常友善地邀请了我。”
“哦，当然了。我把你给忘了！”
罗斯玛丽发出一串银铃般的笑声。她看不到露丝•莱辛的脸一下子红了，双唇紧闭。
被邀请参加罗斯玛丽的聚会是一种恩赐——是看在乔治的份上！“哦，是啊，我们会邀
请露丝•莱辛的。她会很高兴接到邀请，而且她很有用，模样也不错。”
那一刻，露丝•莱辛知道她恨罗斯玛丽•巴顿。
恨她富有、漂亮、粗心、无脑。罗斯玛丽不需要每天在办公室里辛苦工作——所有东
西都是放在金托盘上递给她的。风流韵事，一个宠爱她的丈夫——不需要工作，也不用做
计划——
可恨、高高在上、自大、美得轻佻……
“我希望你死掉。”露丝•莱辛低声对着已挂掉的电话说。
她被自己的话吓到了，这太不像她说的了。她从没激动过，从没这么轻易地被激怒，
她向来冷静、克制、高效。
她自言自语道：“我这是怎么了？”
那个下午，她恨罗斯玛丽•巴顿！一年后的今天，她依然恨着罗斯玛丽•巴顿。
也许有一天，她会忘掉罗斯玛丽•巴顿，但至少现在还没有。
她刻意再次将思绪带回到十一月的那些天。
坐在那里看着电话机——感觉怒气在心中升腾……
她以令人愉快的克制的声音把罗斯玛丽的话转告给乔治。她提议自己不去了，这样男
女人数就均等了。乔治立刻拒绝了她的提议！
第二天上午，她来到办公室告诉乔治圣克里斯托瓦尔号已经起航的消息。乔治欣慰且
感激。
“这么说他已经坐船走了？”
“是的。我刚把钱交给他，舷梯就收起来了。”她迟疑了一下，然后说，“船离开码头
时，他在船上挥手大喊：‘代我向乔治问好，告诉他今晚我要为他的健康干一杯。’”
“厚颜无耻！”乔治说。接着，他又好奇地问：“你觉得他这个人怎么样，露丝？”
她故意用平淡的语气回答：“哦，跟我想象的差不多。典型的弱者。”
乔治什么也没看出来，什么都没注意到！她好想大声喊：“你为什么要派我去见他？难
道你不知道他会对我做什么吗？难道你没有意识到从昨天起我就变了一个人吗？难道你看
不出我是个危险人物吗？难道你不知道我会干出什么事来吗？”
但是，她没有喊出来，而是以事务性的口吻说：“关于圣保罗的那封信——”
她是个高效能干的秘书……
又过了五天。
罗斯玛丽的生日。
在办公室度过了平静的一天——去美容院——穿上一条黑色的新裙子，化上精致的妆
容。镜子里面有一张脸看着她，不太像她自己的脸。一张苍白、坚决、充满仇恨的脸。
维克多•德瑞克说得对。她没有同情心。
后来，当她注视着桌对面罗斯玛丽•巴顿那张发蓝抽搐的脸时，她依旧没有同情心。
如今，十一个月过去了，想到罗斯玛丽•巴顿，她突然感到了恐惧……
注释：
[1]此句出自莎士比亚笔下的《李尔王》。原文为“more sinned against than sinning”。
[2]露丝（Ruth）除了做名字以外，还有同情心的意思。
BOOK 1 Six
Six
GEORGE BARTON
Rosemary. . . .
George Barton lowered his glass and stared rather owlishly into the fire.
He had drunk just enough to feel maudlin with self-pity.
What a lovely girl she had been. He’d always been crazy about her. She
knew it, but he’d always supposed she’d only laugh at him.
Even when he first asked her to marry him, he hadn’t done it with any
conviction.
Mowed and mumbled. Acted like a blithering fool.
“You know, old girl, anytime — you’ve only got to say. I know it’s no
good. You wouldn’t look at me. I’ve always been the most awful fool. Got a
bit of a corporation, too. But you do know what I feel, don’t you, eh? I
mean — I’m always there. Know I haven’t got an earthly chance, but
thought I’d just mention it.”
And Rosemary had laughed and kissed the top of his head.
“You’re sweet, George, and I’ll remember the kind offer, but I’m not
marrying anyone just at present.”
And he had said seriously: “Quite right. Take plenty of time to look
around. You can take your pick.”
He’d never had any hope—not any real hope.
That’s why he had been so incredulous, so dazed when Rosemary had
said she was going to marry him.
She wasn’t in love with him, of course. He knew that quite well. In fact,
she admitted as much.
“You do understand, don’t you? I want to feel settled down and happy
and safe. I shall with you. I’m so sick of being in love. It always goes wrong
somehow and ends in a mess. I like you, George. You’re nice and funny
and sweet and you think I’m wonderful. That’s what I want.”
He had answered rather incoherently:
“Steady does it. We’ll be as happy as kings.”
Well, that hadn’t been far wrong. They had been happy. He’d always felt
humble in his own mind. He’d always told himself that there were bound
to be snags. Rosemary wasn’t going to be satisfied with a dull kind of chap
like himself. There would be incidents! He’d schooled himself to accept—
incidents! He would hold firm to the belief that they wouldn’t be lasting!
Rosemary would always come back to him. Once let him accept that view
and all would be well.
For she was fond of him. Her affection for him was constant and un-
varying. It existed quite apart from her flirtations and her love affairs.
He had schooled himself to accept those. He had told himself that they
were inevitable with someone of Rosemary’s susceptible temperament
and unusual beauty. What he had not bargained for were his own reac-
tions.
Flirtations with this young man and that were nothing, but when he first
got an inkling of a serious affair—
He’d known quick enough, sensed the difference in her. The rising ex-
citement, the added beauty, the whole glowing radiance. And then what
his instinct told him was confirmed by ugly concrete facts.
There was that day when he’d come into her sitting room and she had
instinctively covered with her hand the page of the letter she was writing.
He’d known then. She was writing to her lover.
Presently, when she went out of the room, he went across to the blotter.
She had taken the letter with her, but the blotting sheet was nearly fresh.
He’d taken it across the room and held it up to the glass—seen the words
in Rosemary’s dashing script, “My own beloved darling. . . .”
His blood had sung in his ears. He understood in that moment just what
Othello had felt. Wise resolutions? Pah! Only the natural man counted.
He’d like to choke the life out of her! He’d like to murder the fellow in cold
blood. Who was it? That fellow Browne? Or that stick Stephen Farraday?
They’d both of them been making sheep’s eyes at her.
He caught sight of his face in the glass. His eyes were suffused with
blood. He looked as though he were going to have a fit.
As he remembered that moment, George Barton let his glass fall from
his hand. Once again he felt the choking sensation, the beating blood in his
ears. Even now—
With an effort he pushed remembrance away. Mustn’t go over that
again. It was past—done with. He wouldn’t ever suffer like that again.
Rosemary was dead. Dead and at peace. And he was at peace too. No more
suffering. . . .
Funny to think that that was what her death had meant to him. Peace.
. . .
He’d never told even Ruth that. Good girl, Ruth. A good headpiece on
her. Really, he didn’t know what he would do without her. The way she
helped. The way she sympathized. And never a hint of sex. Not man-mad
like Rosemary. . . .
Rosemary . . . Rosemary sitting at the round table in the restaurant. A
little thin in the face after ’flu—a little pulled down—but lovely, so lovely.
And only an hour later—
No, he wouldn’t think of that. Not just now. His plan. He would think of
The Plan.
He’d speak to Race first. He’d show Race the letters. What would Race
make of these letters? Iris had been dumbfounded. She evidently hadn’t
had the slightest idea.
Well, he was in charge of the situation now. He’d got it all taped.
The Plan. All worked out. The date. The place.
Nov. 2nd. All Souls’ Day. That was a good touch. The Luxembourg, of
course. He’d try to get the same table.
And the same guests. Anthony Browne, Stephen Farraday, Sandra Far-
raday. Then, of course, Ruth and Iris and himself. And as the odd, the sev-
enth guest he’d get Race. Race who was originally to have been at the din-
ner.
And there would be one empty place.
It would be splendid!
Dramatic!
A repetition of the crime.
Well, not quite a repetition. . . .
His mind went back. . . .
Rosemary’s birthday. . . .
Rosemary, sprawled forward on that table—dead . . . ?
第一部 第三章
第三章 安东尼•布朗
安东尼•布朗皱眉望着不远处，心里想着罗斯玛丽•巴顿。
他真是个笨蛋，竟然跟她纠缠在一起。不过，男人做这种事也是可以原谅的，她确实
挺好看的。那晚，在多切斯特，他的眼睛就没看别处，一直盯着她。她像天堂女神一样
美，大概也一样聪明吧！
他不可救药地爱上了她，费了好大的劲儿托人介绍他们认识。这实在不可原谅，他本
该专心干正事的。毕竟，他不是来克拉里奇酒店逍遥的。
但凭良心讲，罗斯玛丽•巴顿太漂亮了，短时间内耽误点正事也是可以容许的。不过如
今他确实应该自责，他纳闷自己怎么会那么蠢。幸好没做什么后悔的事。几乎刚一跟她聊
天，她的魅力就褪去了一点。一切又回复到正常状态。那不是爱——也没到迷恋的程度。
只是一段好时光，不多，也不少。
他享受了那段好时光，罗斯玛丽也享受了。她像天使一样跳舞，无论他带她去哪儿，
男人们都会转过身盯着她看，这会带给男人一种愉悦感，只要你不期望她跟你交谈。感谢
老天，他没跟她结婚。一旦你习惯了她完美的面孔和身材，你该怎么办？她甚至不能聪明
地听人说话。她是那种希望你每天吃早饭的时候都对她说你疯狂地爱着她的女人！
哦，现在回想起这些事挺好。
他爱上过她，不是吗？
他对她大献殷勤，给她打电话，约她出来，与她共舞，在出租车里亲吻她。他很有可
能做出傻事，直到那个令人震惊、难以置信的日子。
他还记得她那天的样子，一绺栗色的头发松垂在耳侧，低垂的眼帘，深蓝色的眼睛熠
熠发光。柔软的红嘴唇微微噘起。
“安东尼•布朗。好名字！”
他愉快地说：“尊贵显赫。亨利八世有个大臣就叫安东尼•布朗。”
“我猜他是你的祖先？”
“这我不敢保证。”
“你最好不！”
他挑起眉毛。
“我是殖民后裔。”
“不是意大利人吧？”
“哦，”他笑着说，“因为我橄榄色的皮肤？我母亲是西班牙人。”
“怪不得。”
“怪不得什么？”
“很多方面，安东尼•布朗先生。”
“你很喜欢我的名字。”
“我说过了。这是个好名字。”
紧接着他听到了一个晴天霹雳：“比托尼•莫雷利好。”
他一时不敢相信自己的耳朵！太不可思议了！不可能！
他抓住她的胳膊，抓得太狠，她向后缩了一下。
“哎呀，你弄疼我了！”
“你在哪儿听到这个名字的？”
他的声音很刺耳，带着威胁的意味。
她大笑起来，为自己制造的效果感到高兴。这个令人难以置信的笨蛋！
“谁告诉你的？”
“一个认得你的人。”
“谁？这个问题很严肃，罗斯玛丽。我必须知道。”
她瞟了他一眼。
“我那个声名狼藉的表哥，维克多•德瑞克。”
“我从没见过叫这个名字的人。”
“我猜，你认识他的时候他用的不是这个名字，为了保全家族的面子。”
安东尼慢慢地说：“我明白了。那是——在监狱里？”
“对。当时我正在数落维克多，说他让我们所有人蒙羞。当然，他不在乎。然后，他咧
开嘴笑了，说：‘你不也是很挑剔嘛，亲爱的。那天晚上，我看见你和一个犯人跳舞——事
实上，就是你最好的男朋友之一。我听说他自称安东尼•布朗，但是在牢里，他叫托尼•莫雷
利。’”
安东尼用轻松的语气说：“我想我得找这个年轻时候的朋友叙叙旧了。老狱友必须团结
在一起。”
罗斯玛丽摇摇头。“太晚了。他已经坐船去南美了，昨天走的。”
“哦。”安东尼深吸了一口气，“这么说，只有你知道我这不光彩的秘密？”
她点点头：“我不会说出去的。”
“最好别。”他的声音变得严肃起来，“听着，罗斯玛丽，这很危险。你不希望你漂亮的
脸蛋被割破吧？有些人能毫不犹豫地毁掉一个女孩的美貌。还有一个词叫‘被做掉’，这个
词不只书本或电影里才有，也会发生在现实生活中。”
“你是在恐吓我吗，托尼？”
“是警告你。”
她会接受警告吗？她意识到他说的都是大实话了吗？那个愚蠢的小傻瓜。漂亮的脑壳
里空空荡荡，没有一点常识。你不能指望她把嘴巴闭得紧紧的，还是得把话说透。
“忘掉你听说过托尼•莫雷利这个名字，明白吗？”
“可是我一点也不介意呀，托尼。我的心胸很开阔。认识一个罪犯对我来说挺刺激的。
你不必觉得羞耻。”
这个荒唐的小白痴。他冷冷地注视着她，纳闷这一刻自己为何还会被她的美貌吸引。
他从来无法开心地忍受傻瓜，哪怕是有漂亮脸蛋的傻瓜。
“忘掉托尼•莫雷利。”他冷冷地说，“我是认真的。再也不要提起这个名字。”
他必须脱身，只能如此。不能指望这个女人保持沉默。她想说的时候随时会说。
她在对他微笑——迷人的微笑，但他不为所动。
“别这么凶嘛。下礼拜带我去贾罗的舞会吧。”
“我去不了。我要走了。”
“你不能在我生日聚会之前走。你不能让我失望。我还指望你呢。不要说不。我刚得过
讨厌的流感，病得很厉害，现在身体还很虚弱。我不能生气。你必须来。”
他本可以坚持立场。他本可以抛下一切——马上离开。
相反，他透过一扇开着的门看见艾丽斯从楼上走下来。艾丽斯，身材挺拔苗条，有着
白皙的面孔、黑色的头发和灰色的眼睛。艾丽斯的容貌比罗斯玛丽逊色很多，却有罗斯玛
丽永远学不会的特质。
那一刻，他恨自己竟然成了罗斯玛丽那浅薄的魅力的牺牲品，无论程度有多小。他感
觉自己就像罗密欧初次见到朱丽叶时想起了罗瑟琳。
安东尼•布朗改了主意。
瞬间，他决定采取完全不同的行动。
BOOK 2 One
BOOK 2
All Soul's Day
“There’s Rosemary, that’s for remembrance.”
One
Lucilla Drake was twittering. That was the term always used in the family
and it was really a very apt description of the sounds that issued from Lu-
cilla’s kindly lips.
She was concerned on this particular morning with many things—so
many that she found it hard to pin her attention down to one at a time.
There was the imminence of the move back to town and the household
problems involved in that move. Servants, housekeeping, winter storage, a
thousand minor details—all these contended with a concern over Iris’s
looks.
“Really, dear, I feel quite anxious about you—you look so white and
washed out—as though you hadn’t slept—did you sleep? If not, there’s that
nice sleeping preparation of Dr. Wylie’s or was it Dr. Gaskell’s?—which re-
minds me—I shall have to go and speak to the grocer myself—either the
maids have been ordering things in on their own, or else it’s deliberate
swindling on his part. Packets and packets of soap flakes—and I never al-
low more than three a week. But perhaps a tonic would be better? Eaton’s
syrup, they used to give when I was a girl. And spinach, of course. I’ll tell
cook to have spinach for lunch today.”
Iris was too languid and too used to Mrs. Drake’s discursive style to in-
quire why the mention of Dr. Gaskell should have reminded her aunt of
the local grocer, though had she done so, she would have received the im-
mediate response: “Because the grocer’s name is Cranford, my dear.” Aunt
Lucilla’s reasoning was always crystal clear to herself.
Iris merely said with what energy she could command, “I’m perfectly
well, Aunt Lucilla.”
“Black under the eyes,” said Mrs. Drake. “You’ve been doing too much.”
“I’ve done nothing at all—for weeks.”
“So you think, dear. But too much tennis is overtiring for young girls.
And I think the air down here is inclined to be enervating. This place is in
a hollow. If George had consulted me instead of that girl.”
“Girl?”
“That Miss Lessing he thinks so much of. All very well in the office, I
daresay—but a great mistake to take her out of her place. Encourage her
to think herself one of the family. Not that she needs any encouragement,
I should say.”
“Oh, well, Aunt Lucilla, Ruth is practically one of the family.”
Mrs. Drake sniffed. “She means to be—that’s quite clear. Poor George—
really an infant in arms where women are concerned. But it won’t do, Iris.
George must be protected from himself and if I were you I should make it
very clear that nice as Miss Lessing is, any idea of marriage is out of the
question.”
Iris was startled for a moment out of her apathy.
“I never thought of George marrying Ruth.”
“You don’t see what goes on under your nose, child. Of course you
haven’t had my experience of life.” Iris smiled in spite of herself. Aunt Lu-
cilla was really very funny sometimes. “That young woman is out for mat-
rimony.”
“Would it matter?” asked Iris.
“Matter? Of course it would matter.”
“Wouldn’t it really be rather nice?” Her aunt stared at her. “Nice for
George, I mean. I think you’re right about her, you know. I think she is
fond of him. And she’d be an awfully good wife to him and look after
him.”
Mrs. Drake snorted and an almost indignant expression appeared on
her rather sheep-like amiable face.
“George is very well looked after at present. What more can he want, I
should like to know? Excellent meals and his mending seen to. Very pleas-
ant for him to have an attractive young girl like you about the house and
when you marry some day I should hope I was still capable of seeing to his
comfort and looking after his health. Just as well or better than a young
woman out of an office could do—what does she know about housekeep-
ing? Figures and ledgers and shorthand and typing—what good is that in a
man’s home?”
Iris smiled and shook her head, but she did not argue the point. She was
thinking of the smooth dark satin of Ruth’s head, of the clear complexion
and the figure so well set off by the severe tailor-made clothes that Ruth
affected. Poor Aunt Lucilla, all her mind on comfort and housekeeping,
with romance so very far behind her that she had probably forgotten
what it meant—if indeed, thought Iris, remembering her uncle by mar-
riage, it had ever meant much.
Lucilla Drake had been Hector Marle’s half-sister, the child of an earlier
marriage. She had played the little mother to a very much younger
brother when his own mother died. Housekeeping for her father, she had
stiffened into a pronounced spinsterhood. She was close on forty when
she met the Rev. Caleb Drake, he himself a man of over fifty. Her married
life had been short, a mere two years, then she had been left a widow with
an infant son. Motherhood, coming late and unexpectedly, had been the
supreme experience of Lucilla Drake’s life. Her son had turned out an
anxiety, a source of grief and a constant financial drain—but never a dis-
appointment. Mrs. Drake refused to recognize anything in her son Victor
except an amiable weakness of character. Victor was too trusting—too
easily led astray by bad companions because of his own belief in them.
Victor was unlucky. Victor was deceived. Victor was swindled. He was the
cat’s- paw of wicked men who exploited his innocence. The pleasant,
rather silly sheep’s face hardened into obstinacy when criticism of Victor
was to the fore. She knew her own son. He was a dear boy, full of high
spirits, and his so-called friends took advantage of him. She knew, none
better, how Victor hated having to ask her for money. But when the poor
boy was really in such a terrible situation, what else could he do? It wasn’t
as though he had anyone but her to go to.
All the same, as she admitted, George’s invitation to come and live in the
house and look after Iris, had come as a godsend, at a moment when she
really had been in desperate straits of genteel poverty. She had been very
happy and comfortable this last year and it was not in human nature to
look kindly on the possibility of being superseded by an upstart young wo-
man, all modern efficiency and capability, who in any case, so she per-
suaded herself, would only be marrying George for his money. Of course
that was what she was after! A good home and a rich indulgent husband.
You couldn’t tell Aunt Lucilla, at her age, that any young woman really
liked working for her living! Girls were the same as they always had been
—if they could get a man to keep them in comfort, they much preferred it.
This Ruth Lessing was clever, worming her way into a position of confid-
ence, advising George about house furnishing, making herself indispens-
able—but, thank goodness, there was one person at least who saw what
she was up to!
Lucilla Drake nodded her head several times, causing her soft double
chins to quiver, raised her eyebrows with an air of superb human sapi-
ence, and abandoned the subject for one equally interesting and possibly
even more pressing.
“It’s the blankets I can’t make up my mind about, dear. You see, I can’t
get it clearly laid down whether we shan’t be coming down again until
next spring or whether George means to run down for weekends. He
won’t say.”
“I suppose he doesn’t really know.” Iris tried to give her attention to a
point that seemed completely unimportant. “If it was nice weather it
might be fun to come down occasionally. Though I don’t think I want to
particularly. Still the house will be here if we do want to come.”
“Yes, dear, but one wants to know. Because, you see, if we aren’t coming
down until next year, then the blankets ought to be put away with moth-
balls. But if we are coming down, that wouldn’t be necessary, because the
blankets would be used—and the smell of mothballs is so unpleasant.”
“Well, don’t use them.”
“Yes, but it’s been such a hot summer there are a lot of moths about.
Everyone says it’s a bad year for moths. And for wasps, of course.
Hawkins told me yesterday he’s taken thirty wasps’ nests this summer—
thirty—just fancy—”
Iris thought of Hawkins—stalking out at dusk—cyanide in hand—Cyan-
ide—Rosemary—Why did everything lead back to that—?
The thin trickle of sound that was Aunt Lucilla’s voice was going on—it
had reached by now a different point—
“—and whether one ought to send the silver to the bank or not? Lady Al-
exandra was saying so many burglaries—though of course we do have
good shutters—I don’t like the way she does her hair myself—it makes her
face look so hard—but I should think she was a hard woman. And nervy,
too. Everyone is nervy nowadays. When I was a girl people didn’t know
what nerves were. Which reminds me that I didn’t like the look of George
lately—I wonder if he could be going to have ’flu? I’ve wondered once or
twice whether he was feverish. But perhaps it is some business worry. He
looks to me, you know, as though he has got something on his mind.”
Iris shivered, and Lucilla Drake exclaimed triumphantly: “There, I said
you had a chill.”
第一部 第四章
第四章 斯蒂芬•法拉第
斯蒂芬•法拉第想着罗斯玛丽——她的形象时常出现在他的脑海中，每次都让他无比惊
诧。通常，这些思绪一浮现，他就立刻将它们驱散，但有的时候，死后的她和生前一样固
执，拒绝被他如此专横地打发走。
每当回想起饭店里的那一幕，他的第一反应都是迅速地打个激灵。至少他不需要再想
这个了。他的思绪回到更早以前，罗斯玛丽生前，罗斯玛丽的微笑、呼吸、凝视他的眼
睛……
好傻——他当时真是傻到家了！
惊愕之情笼罩着他，纯粹的迷惑和惊愕。那一切是怎么发生的？他实在搞不懂。他的
生命似乎被分割成两部分：一部分，较大的部分，理智平衡地前进着；另一部分则持续着
非典型的疯狂。这两部分完全无法协调。
无论斯蒂芬有多么聪明、能干、精明，都没有感知到它们实则十分相称。
有时，回首往事，冷静地评价，不感情用事，他也会感到一种欣喜和自得。很小的时
候他就立志出人头地，尽管遇到过困难，早期有些不利条件，他还是成功了。
他一向怀着纯粹的信念和观点。他相信意志力。有志者事竟成！
小斯蒂芬•法拉第坚定地培养自己的意志力。除了自身的努力，生活中他几乎得不到任
何帮助。一个面色苍白的七岁小男孩，有着好看的额头和坚定的下巴，决定有朝一日飞黄
腾达。他已经知道父母对他毫无用处。母亲嫁给了身份低微的男人，也后悔了。父亲是个
小个子包工头，精明、狡猾、爱财如命，被他的太太和儿子瞧不起……至于他的母亲，则
稀里糊涂、漫无目的、情绪变化无常，斯蒂芬一直为此困惑不解，直到有一天，他发现她
瘫倒在桌脚，一个空古龙香水瓶从她手中掉落。他从来没想到过母亲的喜怒无常是酒精造
成的。她从没喝过烈酒，也没喝过啤酒，她含糊地解释过她对古龙香水的喜爱是因为头
疼，他从来没有怀疑过其实另有原因。
那一刻，他意识到自己对父母没什么感情。他还强烈怀疑他们也不怎么爱他。他比同
龄人个子矮，不爱说话，有点口吃。父亲说他是个“娘娘腔”。他是个乖孩子，很少在家里
惹事，可父亲宁可要一个更吵闹的孩子。“我在他这个年龄时特别调皮。”有时候，看着斯
蒂芬，父亲会不安地感觉到自己的社会地位比妻子低——斯蒂芬更像她家的人。
斯蒂芬的决心越来越大，他默默地制订人生计划。他想成功。作为对意志力的第一次
考验，他决定克服口吃的毛病。他练习慢慢地讲话，字与字之间略微停顿一下。最后，他
成功了，不再口吃了。在学校，他专心听讲。他想接受良好的教育，只有受过良好的教育
才能有所成就。很快，老师们对他产生了兴趣，不断鼓励他。他拿到了一笔奖学金。教育
官员找到他的父母——这个孩子有前途。法拉第先生从一排豆腐渣房子中捞了一大笔钱，
被说服用在投资儿子的教育上。
二十二岁那年，斯蒂芬以优异的成绩从牛津大学毕业，被人们誉为机智优秀的演说
家，且深谙著文之道。他还结交了一些有用的朋友。他对政治感兴趣。他克服了天生的羞
怯，培养出极好的社交礼仪——谦虚、友好。见他这么出色，人们会说：“这个小伙子前途
无量。”虽然他本人偏好自由党，但他知道，自由党已经没落了，至少暂时是这样。于是，
他加入了工党。很快，他便以“有作为”的青年而闻名。然而，工党并不能满足斯蒂芬。他
发现工党不太接受新观念，甚至比强大的对手更加墨守成规。另一方面，保守党在寻觅有
前途的青年才俊。
他们认可斯蒂芬•法拉第——他正是他们想要的那种人。他在属于工党势力范围的选区
参加竞选，并以微弱优势胜出。斯蒂芬得意扬扬地坐上了下议院议员的位子。他的职业生
涯开始了，他选择了正确的职业。他可以在这个工作中发挥出全部的能力，投入所有的野
心。他感觉自己有能力统治，而且能统治得很好。他有操纵人的天赋，知道何时应该奉
承，何时应该反对。他发誓，有一天，他要进入内阁。
然而，进入下议院的兴奋劲退去后，他立刻体会到了幻灭的滋味。艰苦的选举将他置
于聚光灯下，而如今，他的生活落入俗套，他不过是一个无足轻重的普通议员，守在自己
的位置上，对党鞭俯首帖耳。无名小辈要脱颖而出并非易事。年轻人在这里会被人怀疑、
看不上。需要个人能力之外的东西。需要权势。
有几家特定的家族，与利益息息相关，他必须获得资助。
他想到了婚姻。以前他几乎从没考虑过这个问题。他的脑海中有一个模糊的画面：一
个端庄的女人和他手牵手站在一起，分享他的生活和野心；她会给他生孩子，卸掉他的思
想包袱，为他消除困惑；这个女人与他感同身受，渴望他成功，同时在他获得成功后，为
他骄傲。
一天，他参加在基德明斯特公馆举行的盛大宴会。基德明斯特是英格兰最有势力的家
族，并且一直参与政治。基德明斯特爵士威严、高大且优雅，无论走到哪里都会被人认出
来。基德明斯特夫人那张如摇摆木马般的大长脸则经常出现在全英格兰各个委员会的公共
讲台上。他们有五个女儿，其中有三个挺漂亮，还有一个在伊顿读书的儿子。
基德明斯特夫妇重视且鼓励有前途的年轻党员，因此法拉第收到了邀请。
来宾中他认识的人不多，到了之后他就在一扇窗前独自站了大约二十分钟。茶桌旁的
人群渐渐散去，进入其他房间时，斯蒂芬注意到一个穿黑衣服的高个女孩独自站在桌旁，
表情有些茫然无措。
斯蒂芬•法拉第认脸的能力很强。早上乘地铁时，他捡起了一个女乘客丢掉的一份《家
庭闲话》杂志，不无愉快地瞄了一眼，上面有一张模糊的亚历山德拉•海尔小姐的照片，她
是基德明斯特伯爵的三女儿。照片下面有一小段关于她的八卦文字——“……一向害羞、孤
僻——喜爱动物——亚历山德拉小姐修习过家政课程，基德明斯特夫人相信她的女儿们能
胜任家政的各个方面。”
站在那里的就是亚历山德拉•海尔小姐，身为一个天性害羞的人，斯蒂芬一眼便知她也
害羞。亚历山德拉是五个姊妹中最平凡的一个，一直为自卑所苦。她和姊妹们接受了同样
的教育和培养，却从未学到她们的手腕 [1] ，这令她的母亲很气恼。桑德拉必须努力——如
此笨拙、不善交际，这太荒唐了。
斯蒂芬并不知道这些，但他知道这个女孩不自在、不快乐。突然，他有了一个强烈的
念头。他的机会来了！“抓住这个机会，你这个傻瓜，抓住它！机不可失，时不再来！”
他穿过房间，走到长餐桌旁。站在女孩身边，拿起了一个三明治，然后，转过身，紧
张且费力地（不是装的，他真的很紧张！）说：“我说，你介意我跟你聊天吗？我在这儿认
识的人不多，我看得出来你也一样。不要冷落我。其实，我特别害——害——害羞”（很多
年前口吃的毛病犯了，而且在这个恰当的时刻），“而且——而且我认为你也很害——害
——害羞，对不对？”
女孩的脸红了——她张开了嘴巴，不过正如他所料，她说不出话来。要说出“我是这家
的女儿”太难了。相反，她平静地承认：“事实上，我——我确实很害羞。一直都是。”
斯蒂芬急忙接下去：“害羞真是一种很可怕的感觉，我不知道能否克服。有的时候我感
觉舌头像打了结。”
“我也是。”
他继续说，语速相当快，稍微有点结巴，他的样子很男孩子气，也很迷人。这是他几
年前的自然状态，现在他在有意识地保留并加以培养。这种年轻、天真的态度可以消除他
人的敌意。
他很快将话题引入戏剧，提到一部正在上演且引起很多人兴趣的戏。桑德拉看过了。
他们讨论起来。这部戏涉及社会服务的问题，他们很快就这些问题深入讨论起来。
斯蒂芬没有做得太过分。他看到基德明斯特夫人走进房间，四处寻找她的女儿。他没
打算现在就被引见。他轻声向桑德拉道别。
“很高兴跟你聊天。发现你之前，我真的很讨厌这场聚会。谢谢你。”
他兴奋地离开了基德明斯特公馆。他把握住了这次机会，接下来要进一步巩固他的成
果。
此后的几天，他经常在基德明斯特公馆附近出没。有一次他看到桑德拉跟她的一个妹
妹出门。还有一次她虽单独出门，但脚步匆忙。他摇摇头。不行，显然，她是去赶赴某个
特定的约会。宴会后大约一个礼拜，他的耐心得到了回报。一天早晨，她牵着一只黑色的
苏格兰小狗出门，迈着悠闲的步子向公园走去。
五分钟后，一个年轻男子快步从对面走过来，突然在桑德拉面前站住。
他开心地喊道：“哎呀，我的运气真好！我还怀疑再也见不到你了呢。”
他的语调那么愉快，她的脸微微泛红。
他弯下身去摸小狗。
“多可爱的小家伙呀。它叫什么名字？”
“马克达维西。”
“啊，很苏格兰。”
他们聊了一会儿狗。然后斯蒂芬带着一丝尴尬说：“那天我没告诉你我的名字。我叫法
拉第，斯蒂芬•法拉第。我是一个籍籍无名的下议院议员。”
他用询问的目光看着她，看到两团红晕爬上了她的脸，她说：“我是亚历山德拉•海
尔。”
他的反应恰到好处，仿佛又回到了牛津大学戏剧协会。惊讶、确认、慌张、尴尬！
“啊，你是——你是亚历山德拉•海尔小姐——你……天哪！那天你一定认为我是个大
傻瓜！”
她的回答完全可以预料到。在教养和善良天性的束缚下，她会尽力让他放松、安心。
“我当时应该告诉你的。”
“我本该知道的。你一定认为我是个呆子！”
“你怎么会知道呢？再说这又有什么关系？法拉第先生，拜托，不要心烦了。我们去蛇
形湖吧。你看，马克达维西在拽我呢。”
这天之后，他又在公园里碰见过她几次。他给她讲他的抱负，一起讨论政治话题。他
发现她很聪明，见多识广且富有同情心。她很有头脑，毫无偏见，他们已经是朋友了。
接着进一步发展的机会来了，他再次受邀参加在基德明斯特公馆举行的宴会和舞会，
因为最后一刻，一位男士来不了了。基德明斯特夫人正绞尽脑汁想邀请谁好时，桑德拉轻
声说：“斯蒂芬•法拉第怎么样？”
“斯蒂芬•法拉第？”
“是的，他参加过你的宴会，后来我又碰见过他一两次。”
基德明斯特夫人跟她的丈夫商量了一下，后者很乐意鼓励政界的可造之材。
“他是个出色的年轻人——非常出色。虽然从来没听说过他的家人，但用不了多久，他
就会出人头地。”
斯蒂芬来了，而且表现得很好。
“我想我需要认识一下这个有用的年轻人。”基德明斯特夫人带着惯有的傲慢说。
两个月后，斯蒂芬让他的运气经受了一下考验。他们坐在蛇形湖旁，马克达维西的头
搭在桑德拉的脚上。
“桑德拉，你知道——你肯定知道我爱你。我希望你嫁给我。我相信有一天我能出人头
地，不然我是不会向你求婚的。我确信会有那么一天。你不会为你的选择感到羞耻的，我
发誓。”
她说：“我不感到羞耻。”
“这么说，你真的在乎我？”
“你不知道吗？”
“我希望是这样，但是我不确定。你知道吗，那天看见你在房间的另一头，我就隔着一
个房间爱上了你，于是我鼓足勇气走过去跟你说话。我这辈子从来没有那么紧张害怕过。”
她说：“我想那时我也爱上了你……”
一切并非一帆风顺。桑德拉平静地宣布她要跟斯蒂芬•法拉第结婚，但立即遭到了家人
的反对。他是谁？他们对他了解多少？
斯蒂芬对基德明斯特爵士坦白交代了自己的身世。有个念头一闪而过，父母双亡对他
的前途有利。
基德明斯特爵士对他太太说：“嗯，可能更糟糕。”
他很了解他的女儿，知道她平静的态度背后隐藏着不屈的决心。只要她下定决心拥有
这个小子，就能拥有他。她绝不会让步！
“这个小子有前途，稍微支持一下就会大有作为。也许我们能接受这个年轻人，他看起
来是个体面的家伙。”
基德明斯特夫人勉强同意了。这个女婿完全不合她的心意。不过，桑德拉是家里的老
大难。苏珊是个美人，艾斯特有头脑。黛安娜，聪明的孩子，嫁给了年轻的哈维奇公爵
——这个时代最理想的配偶。桑德拉当然没她们有魅力——她还有羞怯的毛病——如果这
个年轻人像大家认为的那么有前途……
她让步了，喃喃道：“当然啦，还是可以利用一下家里的影响力嘛……”
于是，无论是好是坏，亚历山德拉•凯瑟琳•海尔披上了用缎子和布鲁塞尔蕾丝制成的婚
纱，在六个伴娘和两个小花童的陪伴下，与斯蒂芬•里欧纳•法拉第举行了一场应有尽有的新
潮婚礼。他们去意大利度蜜月，回来后住进一幢位于威斯敏斯特的可爱的小房子。不久
后，桑德拉的教母去世，留给她一幢非常漂亮的、安妮女王风格的郊外宅邸。对这对新婚
夫妇来说，一切都很顺利。斯蒂芬重又充满热情地投入到议会生活中，桑德拉在各方面帮
助他、支持他，全心全意地认同他的雄心壮志。有时候，斯蒂芬几乎不敢相信上天竟然如
此眷顾他！他与基德明斯特派的联姻保证了他的青云直上，他自身的聪明才智又巩固了机
会为他促成的地位。他真心相信自己的能力，并准备不遗余力地为国家利益服务。
每每注视着桌对面的太太，他都会高兴地想，真是个贤内助啊——和他想象中的一
样。他喜欢她脖颈处可爱洁净的线条，以及两道直眉下淡褐色的、真诚的眼睛。白皙高耸
的前额，略带傲气的鹰钩鼻。他想，她看起来很像一匹赛马——如此干净整洁、如此有教
养，又如此骄傲。他发现她是个理想的伴侣，他们的思考方式相似，并能很快得出相同的
结论。他想，是的，斯蒂芬•法拉第，那个郁郁寡欢的小男孩，成功了。他的人生轨迹完全
如他所愿。他才三十一二岁，成功已尽在掌握。
怀着胜利与满足的心情，他和太太去圣莫里茨度了两个星期假。就在那里，在饭店的
酒吧间，他看见了远处的罗斯玛丽•巴顿。
他一直没想明白那一刻他到底是怎么了。他对另一个女人说过的话通过一种诗意的复
仇的方式成真了。他隔着一个房间坠入了爱河。他深深地、不可阻挡地、疯狂地爱上了
她。是那种一头栽进去、不顾一切的少男少女之间的爱情，很多年前他就应该经历过并已
经忘却的牛犊恋。
他一直认为自己不是一个有激情的男人。一两次短暂的风流韵事，温和的调情，对他
来说就是“爱”的全部意义。肉体的欢愉对他没有吸引力。他告诉自己，那种事太难取悦
他。
要是被问到他是否爱他的太太，他一定会回答“当然”。然而，他知道，他很清楚地知
道，如果她是一个一文不名的乡绅的女儿，他绝不会娶她。他喜欢她、钦佩她，对她怀有
很深的感情，同时也很感激她的地位带给他的一切。
他竟然像个乳臭未干的毛头小子一样纵情且痛苦地坠入了爱河，这完全出乎他的意
料。他满脑子想的都是罗斯玛丽。她漂亮的笑脸、栗色的秀发、摇曳撩人的身姿。他吃不
下饭，睡不着觉。他们一起滑雪，一起跳舞。把她揽在怀中时他知道，这个世界上，他最
想拥有的就是她。这么说，这种痛苦，这种渴望憧憬的痛苦——就是爱了！
即使在他全情投入时，他也庆幸命运之神赐予了他天生的泰然态度。没有人猜得到，
也没有人知道他的感受——除了罗斯玛丽。
巴顿夫妇比法拉第夫妇早一个星期离开。斯蒂芬对桑德拉说，圣莫里茨不太好玩，我
们缩短假期，提早回伦敦怎么样？她欣然同意了。回来两个礼拜后，他成了罗斯玛丽的情
人。
那是一段狂喜、兴奋的诡异时期——狂热、虚幻。持续了多久？最多六个月。在那六
个月里，他像平常一样工作，拜访选民，在议院里提问，在各种会议上发言，跟桑德拉讨
论政治，心里却只想着罗斯玛丽。
他们在那间小公寓里幽会，她的美貌，他表现出的热恋和激情以及她黏人激情的拥
抱。一个梦，一个充满肉欲、令人神魂颠倒的梦。
做完梦，他清醒了。
很突然。
如同出了隧道，来到阳光下。
今天，他还是一个迷茫的情夫，第二天，他就又变回了斯蒂芬•法拉第，决定不该过分
频繁地跟罗斯玛丽见面。真见鬼，他们一直在冒极大的风险。万一桑德拉起了疑心——早
餐时他偷偷瞄了桌旁的她一眼，谢天谢地，她没有怀疑。她毫不知情。但他近来外出的借
口太容易被识破了，换成有些女人，肯定会感觉情况不妙。感谢上帝，桑德拉不是一个疑
神疑鬼的女人。
他深吸了一口气。他和罗斯玛丽真是不计后果！她丈夫不知道这事也是个奇迹。一个
毫不知情的愚蠢的家伙——比她大很多岁。
她真是个尤物……
他突然想起了高尔夫球场。新鲜的空气吹过沙丘，拿着球杆走来走去——挥动一号木
——干净利落的一记开球——五号杆近距离击球。男人们。穿着灯笼裤的男人们。女人不
准出现在高尔夫球场上！
他突然对桑德拉说：“我们去费尔黑文，好不好？”
她惊讶地抬起头。
“你想去？走得开吗？”
“可以抽一个星期中间的那几天去。我想打打高尔夫。实在是闷坏了。”
“你愿意的话，我们明天就去。不过就得推迟和阿斯特利夫妇见面的日子，我还得取消
礼拜二的那个会。和拉瓦特夫妇的约会怎么办？”
“哦，也取消吧。我们可以找个借口。我想出去散散心。”
和桑德拉在费尔黑文的日子很平静。露台上的狗狗们，去带围墙的古老花园游览，到
山德里奚斯的高尔夫球场，傍晚带着马克达维西溜溜达达去农场。
他感觉自己像个大病初愈的人。
看到罗斯玛丽的来信，他皱起了眉头。他告诉过她不要写信。太危险了。桑德拉从不
过问谁给他写信，即便如此，这也不是明智之举。仆人们不可靠。
他把信拿进书房，有点生气地撕开信封。几页纸，好几页全是字。
读着读着，旧日销魂的感觉再次向他袭来。她很爱他，比以往更爱他，她无法忍受整
整五天见不到他。他有同样的感受吗？“豹”想不想他的“古实人”？
他半微笑，半叹气。他给她买了一件她很想要的带波点的男式晨袍，荒谬的笑话就此
诞生。豹子改变身上的斑点，他说：“而你不能改变自己的皮肤，亲爱的。”此后，她便叫
他“豹”，他则叫她“黑美人”。 [2]
蠢透了，真的。是的，蠢透了。她真贴心，写了这么多页。但即便如此也不该写信。
该死，他们应该谨慎一点！桑德拉不是那种受得了这种事的女人。一旦她发现苗头——写
信很危险。他这么告诉过罗斯玛丽。为什么就不能等他回城了再说？该死，过两三天他要
见她。
第二天早上，又有一封信摆在早餐桌上。这次，斯蒂芬小声骂了一句。他认为桑德拉
的目光在信上停留了一两秒，但她什么都没说。谢天谢地，她不是那种过问男人信件的女
人。
早餐后，他开车去八英里外的集镇。不能在村子里打电话。罗斯玛丽接了电话。
“喂——是你吗，罗斯玛丽？不要再写信了。”
“斯蒂芬，亲爱的，听到你的声音真是太好了！”
“小心点，有没有人会听到？”
“当然没有。哦，我的天使，我想你了。你想我吗？”
“想，当然想。不过，别写信。太危险了。”
“你喜欢我的信吗？有没有让你感觉和我在一起？亲爱的，我每时每刻都想跟你在一
起。你也有这种感觉吧？”
“是——但别在电话里说，老兄。”
“你简直谨慎到了荒唐的地步。这又有什么关系呢？”
“我也一直想你，罗斯玛丽。我无法忍受你因为我惹上麻烦。”
“我不在乎我会怎样，你知道的。”
“呃，我在乎，甜心。”
“你什么时候回来？”
“礼拜二。”
“那我们公寓见，礼拜三。”
“好——呃，好的。”
“亲爱的，我快等不及了。你能找个借口今天就来吗？哦，斯蒂芬，你可以的！政治之
类的无聊的借口？”
“恐怕不能。”
“我觉得你想我还不到我想你的一半。”
“胡说，我当然想你。”
挂断电话后他觉得很累。为什么女人总是坚持这样不顾后果？以后他和罗斯玛丽要加
倍小心，必须少见面。
后来事情变得很棘手。他很忙——非常忙，不可能再给罗斯玛丽那么多时间了——讨
厌的是，她似乎理解不了。他跟她解释，但她就是不听。
“啊，你那愚蠢的政治——好像有多么重要似的！”
“的确是很重要——”
她不明白。她不在乎。她对他的工作、他的雄心、他的事业丝毫不感兴趣。她只想听
他一遍又一遍地说他爱她。“你跟以前一样爱我吗？再说一遍你真的爱我？”
当然，他想，她可能想当然地认为他爱她！她是个漂亮女人，漂亮——但问题是，你
没法跟她说话。
他们见面的次数太频繁了，婚外情不该如此狂热地进行。他们必须减少见面次数——
稍微松点劲儿。
但这令她不满——非常不满。她开始频繁责备他。
“你不像从前那么爱我了。”
然后他不得不向她保证，向她发誓，他当然还是一样地爱她。她不断提起他曾经对她
说过的话。
“记不记得你曾经说过，如果我们俩一起死该有多好？在彼此的怀抱里长眠？记不记得
你曾经说过，我们应该乘上一辆拖车，一起去沙漠？只有星星和骆驼——忘掉世间的一
切？”
人在恋爱时说的话真傻！当时不觉得有多蠢，但冷静之后再提起就显得很愚蠢了！女
人为什么就不能体面地顺其自然呢？男人不想听人不断地提醒他曾经有多蠢。
她突然提出不合理的要求。他能不能出国，去法国南部，然后她再去那里找他？或者
去西西里、科西嘉什么的——这种永远不会碰到熟人的地方？斯蒂芬冷冷地说，世界上没
有这种地方。你总是会在最不可能的地方碰到某个多年不见的老同学。
后来她说的一句话吓到了他。
“哦，这也没什么，不是吗？”
他变得警觉起来，心一下子冷了。
“你什么意思？”
她面带微笑，抬头看着他，这迷人的微笑曾经搞得他神魂颠倒、全身的骨头都在渴望
——现在却只让他不耐烦。
“豹子，亲爱的，有时候我想，再这样偷偷摸摸下去太蠢了。有点不值得。我们私奔
吧，别再装了。乔治会跟我离婚，你太太也会跟你离婚，我们就可以结婚了。”
就是这样！灾难！毁灭！她竟然看不出来！
“我不会允许你做这种事的。”
“可是，亲爱的，我不在乎。我真的不是一个传统的人。”
但我是，我是，斯蒂芬心里想。
“我真的认为爱情是世上最重要的东西。别人怎么看我们不重要。”
“对我来说很重要，亲爱的。这种丑事一旦公开，我的事业就完了。”
“但那真的很重要吗？你还有很多事可以做。”
“别傻了。”
“你干吗不什么事都不做呢？我有很多钱，你知道。我自己的钱，我是说，不是乔治的
钱。我们可以周游世界，去最偏僻、最迷人的地方——可能任何人都没去过的地方。或者
到太平洋的某个岛上——你想想看，艳阳、蓝色的大海，还有珊瑚礁。”
他确实想了一下。南海的一个岛！这白痴的念头，她把他当什么人了——海滨拾荒者
吗？
他看着她，最后一丝留恋也消失了。好好一个美人长了个母鸡脑子！他之前一定是疯
了——彻彻底底地疯了。但现在他又恢复了理智。他必须摆脱这个困境。一个不小心，她
就会毁掉他的整个生活。
他说了在他之前很多男人说过的话。他们必须一刀两断——于是，他提笔给她写信。
只有这样对她才是公平的。他不能冒险给她带去不幸。她不明白——诸如此类的。
一切都结束了，他必须让她明白这一点。
然而这正是她拒绝明白的。没那么容易。她爱慕他，比以往更爱他，没有他，她活不
了！她认为唯一该做的是，她把实情告诉她丈夫，斯蒂芬把实情告诉他太太！他想起他坐
在那里，手里拿着她的信时所感受到的寒冷。小傻瓜！这个愚蠢黏人的傻瓜！她会把一切
都告诉乔治•巴顿，然后乔治会跟她离婚，把他列为共同被告。桑德拉也一定会跟她离婚，
对此他毫不怀疑。她曾谈起过一个朋友，有点惊讶地说：“不过，当然了，当她发现他和另
一个女人有染时，除了跟他离婚还能怎样？”这就是桑德拉的想法。她很骄傲，绝不会跟另
一个女人分享一个男人。
然后，他就完了，毁了——基德明斯特这个有权有势的靠山倒了。这种丑闻会让他翻
不了身，即使舆论比过去更开放了。但这种不能容忍的事不行！再见了，他的梦想、他的
抱负。一切都破碎了、毁灭了——一切都是因为他疯狂地迷恋上一个傻女人。这一切不过
源自一场虚假的初恋，在错误的人生阶段发生的初恋。
他会失去他押上的一切。失败！耻辱！
他会失去桑德拉……
突然，他惊愕地意识到，这才是他最在乎的。他会失去桑德拉。有着方正、白皙的额
头和清澈的淡褐色眼睛的桑德拉。桑德拉，他亲爱的朋友和伴侣，自大、骄傲、忠诚的桑
德拉。不，他不能失去桑德拉——不能……什么都可以失去，就是不能失去她。
他的额头冒出了冷汗。
他必须想办法摆脱这个狼狈的处境。
他必须设法说服罗斯玛丽……可是，她会听吗？罗斯玛丽和理智合不来。假设他告诉
她，他终究还是爱他太太呢？不，她肯定不相信。她是那么笨的一个女人。没头脑、黏
人、占有欲强，而且她还爱着他——伤脑筋的地方就在这里。
他的心头腾起一股怒火。怎样才能让她保持沉默呢？封住她的嘴。除了一剂毒药，没
别的法子了，他恶狠狠地想。
一只黄蜂在附近嗡嗡叫，他心不在焉地盯着它看。它飞进一个雕花玻璃的果酱瓶里，
正想办法飞出来。
和我一样，他想，因为甜蜜的东西而陷入困境，现在，它出不去了，可怜的东西。
而他，斯蒂芬•法拉第必须设法脱身。时间，他必须拖延时间，等待有利时机。
恰在此时，罗斯玛丽患了流感，卧病在床。他送去传统的慰问——一大束鲜花。这给
了他一个喘息的机会。下个星期，他和桑德拉要跟巴顿夫妇一起进餐——罗斯玛丽的生日
聚会。罗斯玛丽说过：“生日之前，我什么都不会做——这对乔治太残忍了。他为了我的生
日忙得不亦乐乎。他真是个可爱的人。等这一切都结束了，他会理解我的。”
假设他残忍地告诉她一切都结束了，他不喜欢她了呢？他打了个哆嗦。不，他可不敢
这么做。她可能会歇斯底里地跑去找乔治，甚至可能来找桑德拉。他都能听到她流着眼
泪、困惑地哭诉。
“他说他不喜欢我了，但我知道这不是真的。他只是尽力忠诚——跟你玩游戏——但我
知道你会同意我的说法，人们相爱时，诚实是唯一之道。这就是为什么我要你给他自由。”
她肯定会吐出这些令人作呕的话。桑德拉则会面露骄傲和轻蔑之色，说：“他可以拥有
他的自由！”
她不会相信——她怎么会相信呢？如果罗斯玛丽拿出那些信——那些他蠢到极点才写
给她的信，天知道他在信里都说了些什么。这绝对足以让桑德拉相信，他可从来没给她写
过这样的信——
他必须想出一个办法——让罗斯玛丽保持沉默的办法。可惜，他冷酷地想，我们没生
活在波吉亚家族那个年代…… [3]
一杯下了毒的香槟几乎是唯一能让罗斯玛丽保持沉默的东西。
是的，他真的这么想了。
把氰化钾放进她的香槟酒杯里，把氰化钾放进她的晚宴包里。流感引起的精神抑郁。
桌子那头，桑德拉的目光与他的相遇。
大约一年前——他忘不了。
注释：
[1]此处原文为法语。本书中有多处法语，全部用仿宋表示。
[2]典故出自《圣经•耶利米书》中的一句：“古实人岂能改变皮肤呢？豹岂能改变斑点呢？若能，你们
这习惯行恶的便能行善了。”古实人就是埃塞俄比亚人。
[3]波吉亚家族（Borgias）是一个意大利- 西班牙皇室家族，在十五到十六世纪十分强大。家族中诞生
了两位教皇，卡利特斯特三世（Pope Callixtus III）和亚历山大六世（Pope Alexander VI）。亚历
山大六世在位期间此家族涉嫌多起犯罪，包括通奸、盗窃、买卖圣职、贿赂和谋杀，用砷化物
毒杀尤为著名。
BOOK 2 Two
Two
“How I wish they had never come here.”
Sandra Farraday uttered the words with such unusual bitterness that
her husband turned to look at her in surprise. It was as though his own
thoughts had been put into words—the thoughts that he had been trying
so hard to conceal. So Sandra, too, felt as he did? She, too, had felt that
Fairhaven was spoiled, its peace impaired, by these new neighbours a
mile away across the Park. He said, voicing his surprise impulsively:
“I didn’t know you felt like that about them, too.”
Immediately, or so it seemed to him, she withdrew into herself.
“Neighbours are so important in the country. One has either to be rude
or friendly; one can’t, as in London, just keep people as amiable acquaint-
ances.”
“No,” said Stephen, “one can’t do that.”
“And now we’re committed to this extraordinary party.”
They were both silent, running over in their minds the scene at lunch.
George Barton had been friendly, even exuberant in manner, with a kind
of undercurrent of excitement of which they had both been conscious.
George Barton was really very odd these days. Stephen had never noticed
him much in the time preceding Rosemary’s death. George had just been
there in the background, the kindly dull husband of a young and beautiful
wife. Stephen had never even felt a pang of disquiet over the betrayal of
George. George had been the kind of husband who was born to be be-
trayed. So much older—so devoid of the attractions necessary to hold an
attractive and capricious woman. Had George himself been deceived?
Stephen did not think so. George, he thought, knew Rosemary very well.
He loved her, and he was the kind of man who was humble about his own
powers of holding a wife’s interest.
All the same, George must have suffered. . . .
Stephen began to wonder just what George had felt when Rosemary
died.
He and Sandra had seen little of him in the months following the
tragedy. It was not until he had suddenly appeared as a near neighbour at
Little Priors that he had reentered their lives and at once, so Stephen
thought, he had seemed different.
More alive, more positive. And—yes, decidedly odd.
He had been odd today. That suddenly blurted-out invitation. A party
for Iris’s eighteenth birthday. He did so hope Stephen and Sandra would
both come. Stephen and Sandra had been so kind to them down here.
Sandra had said quickly; of course, it would be delightful. Naturally
Stephen would be rather tied when they got back to London and she her-
self had a great many tiresome engagements, but she did hope they would
be able to manage it.
“Then let’s settle a day now, shall we?”
George’s face—florid, smiling, insistent.
“I thought perhaps one day the week after next — Wednesday or
Thursday? Thursday is November 2nd. Would that be all right? But we’ll
arrange any day that suits you both.”
It had been the kind of invitation that pinned you down—there was a
certain lack of social savoir faire. Stephen noticed that Iris Marle had gone
red and looked embarrassed. Sandra had been perfect. She had smilingly
surrendered to the inevitable and said that Thursday, November 2nd,
would suit them very well.
Suddenly voicing his thoughts, Stephen said sharply, “We needn’t go.”
Sandra turned her face slightly towards him. It wore a thoughtful con-
sidering air.
“You think not?”
“It’s easy to make some excuse.”
“He’ll only insist on us coming some other time—or change the day. He
—he seems very set on our coming.”
“I can’t think why. It’s Iris’s party—and I can’t believe she is so particu-
larly anxious for our company.”
“No—no—” Sandra sounded thoughtful.
Then she said:
“You know where this party is to be?”
“No.”
“The Luxembourg.”
The shock nearly deprived him of speech. He felt the colour ebbing out
of his cheeks. He pulled himself together and met her eyes. Was it his
fancy or was there meaning in the level gaze?
“But it’s preposterous,” he exclaimed, blustering a little in his attempt to
conceal his own personal emotion. “The Luxembourg where—to revive all
that. The man must be mad.”
“I thought of that,” said Sandra.
“But then we shall certainly refuse to go. The—the whole thing was ter-
ribly unpleasant. You remember all the publicity—the pictures in the pa-
pers.”
“I remember the unpleasantness,” said Sandra.
“Doesn’t he realize how disagreeable it would be for us?”
“He has a reason, you know, Stephen. A reason that he gave me.”
“What was it?”
He felt thankful that she was looking away from him when she spoke.
“He took me aside after lunch. He said he wanted to explain. He told me
that the girl—Iris—had never recovered properly from the shock of her
sister’s death.”
She paused and Stephen said unwillingly:
Well, I daresay that may be true enough—she looks far from well. I
thought at lunch how ill she was looking.”
“Yes, I noticed it too—although she has seemed in good health and spir-
its on the whole lately. But I am telling you what George Barton said. He
told me that Iris has consistently avoided the Luxembourg ever since as
far as she was able.”
“I don’t wonder.”
“But according to him that is all wrong. It seems he consulted a nerve
specialist on the subject—one of these modern men—and his advice is that
after a shock of any kind, the trouble must be faced, not avoided. The prin-
ciple, I gather, is like that of sending up an airman again immediately
after a crash.”
“Does the specialist suggest another suicide?”
Sandra replied quietly, “He suggests that the associations of the restaur-
ant must be overcome. It is, after all, just a restaurant. He proposed an or-
dinary pleasant party with, as far as possible, the same people present.”
“Delightful for the people!”
“Do you mind so much, Stephen?”
A swift pang of alarm shot through him. He said quickly: “Of course I
don’t mind. I just thought it rather a gruesome idea. Personally I shouldn’t
mind in the least . . . I was really thinking of you. If you don’t mind—”
She interrupted him.
“I do mind. Very much. But the way George Barton put it made it very
difficult to refuse. After all, I have frequently been to the Luxembourg
since—so have you. One is constantly being asked there.”
“But not under these circumstances.”
“No.”
Stephen said:
“As you say, it is difficult to refuse—and if we put it off the invitation
will be renewed. But there’s no reason, Sandra, why you should have to
endure it. I’ll go and you can cry off at the last minute—a headache, chill—
something of that kind.”
He saw her chin go up.
“That would be cowardly. No, Stephen, if you go, I go. After all,” she laid
her hand on his arm, “however little our marriage means, it should at
least mean sharing our difficulties.”
But he was staring at her — rendered dumb by one poignant phrase
which had escaped her so easily, as though it voiced a long familiar and
not very important fact.
Recovering himself he said, “Why do you say that? However little our
marriage means?”
She looked at him steadily, her eyes wide and honest.
“Isn’t it true?”
“No, a thousand times no. Our marriage means everything to me.”
She smiled.
“I suppose it does—in a way. We’re a good team, Stephen. We pull to-
gether with a satisfactory result.”
“I didn’t mean that.” He found his breath was coming unevenly. He took
her hand in both of his, holding it very closely—“Sandra, don’t you know
that you mean all the world to me?”
And suddenly she did know it. It was incredible—unforeseen, but it was
so.
She was in his arms and he was holding her close, kissing her, stammer-
ing out incoherent words.
“Sandra—Sandra—darling. I love you . . . I’ve been so afraid—so afraid
I’d lose you.”
She heard herself saying:
“Because of Rosemary?”
“Yes.” He let go of her, stepped back, his face was ludicrous in its dis-
may.
“You knew—about Rosemary?”
“Of course—all the time.”
“And you understand?”
She shook her head.
“No, I don’t understand. I don’t think I ever should. You loved her?”
“Not really. It was you I loved.”
A surge of bitterness swept over her. She quoted: “From the first mo-
ment you saw me across the room? Don’t repeat that lie—for it was a lie!”
He was not taken aback by that sudden attack. He seemed to consider
her words thoughtfully.
“Yes, it was a lie—and yet in a queer way it wasn’t. I’m beginning to be-
lieve that it was true. Oh, try and understand, Sandra. You know the
people who always have a noble and good reason to mask their meaner
actions? The people who ‘have to be honest’ when they want to be unkind,
who ‘thought it their duty to repeat so and so,’ who are such hypocrites to
themselves that they go through to their life’s end convinced that every
mean and beastly action was done in a spirit of unselfishness! Try and
realize that the opposite of those people can exist too. People who are so
cynical, so distrustful of themselves and of life that they only believe in
their bad motives. You were the woman I needed. That, at least, is true.
And I do honestly believe, now, looking back on it, that if it hadn’t been
true, I should never have gone through with it.”
She said bitterly:
“You were not in love with me.”
“No. I’d never been in love. I was a starved, sexless creature who prided
himself—yes, I did—on the fastidious coldness of his nature! And then I
did fall in love ‘across a room’—a silly violent puppy love. A thing like a
midsummer thunderstorm, brief, unreal, quickly over.” He added bitterly:
“Indeed a ‘tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying noth-
ing.’ ”
He paused, and then went on:
“It was here, at Fairhaven, that I woke up and realized the truth.”
“The truth?”
“The only thing in life that mattered to me was you—and keeping your
love.”
“If I had only known. . . .”
“What did you think?”
“I thought you were planning to go away with her.”
“With Rosemary?” He gave a short laugh. “That would indeed have been
penal servitude for life!”
“Didn’t she want you to go away with her?”
“Yes, she did.”
“What happened?”
Stephen drew a deep breath. They were back again. Facing once more
that intangible menace. He said:
“The Luxembourg happened.”
They were both silent, seeing, they both knew, the same thing. The blue
cyanosed face of a once lovely woman.
Staring at a dead woman, and then—looking up to meet each other’s
eyes. . . .
Stephen said:
“Forget it, Sandra, for God’s sake, let us forget it!”
“It’s no use forgetting. We’re not going to be allowed to forget.”
There was a pause. Then Sandra said:
“What are we going to do?”
“What you said just now. Face things — together. Go to this horrible
party whatever the reason for it may be.”
“You don’t believe what George Barton said about Iris?”
“No. Do you?”
“It could be true. But even if it is, it’s not the real reason.”
“What do you think the real reason is?”
“I don’t know, Stephen. But I’m afraid.”
“Of George Barton?”
“Yes, I think he—knows.”
Stephen said sharply:
“Knows what?”
She turned her head slowly until her eyes met his.
She said in a whisper:
“We mustn’t be afraid. We must have courage—all the courage in the
world. You’re going to be a great man, Stephen—a man the world needs—
and nothing shall interfere with that. I’m your wife and I love you.”
“What do you think this party is, Sandra?”
“I think it’s a trap.”
He said slowly, “And we walk into it?”
“We can’t afford to show we know it’s a trap.”
“No, that’s true.”
Suddenly Sandra threw back her head and laughed. She said: “Do your
worst, Rosemary. You won’t win.”
He gripped her shoulder.
“Be quiet, Sandra. Rosemary’s dead.”
“Is she? Sometimes—she feels very much alive. . . .”
第一部 第五章
第五章 亚历山德拉•法拉第
桑德拉•法拉第没有忘记罗斯玛丽•巴顿。
此刻她正想着她——想着那天晚上，餐厅里，她倒在桌子上。
她记得当时她倒吸了一口凉气，抬起头时，发现斯蒂芬正看着她……
他看出了她眼中的真相吗？看出了憎恨和夹杂着恐惧的胜利吗？
过去快一年了，但她脑海中的记忆还新鲜如昨！迷迭香，是为了帮助回忆。太恐怖
了，真是这样。一个死了的人还活在你的记忆里可不是什么好事。罗斯玛丽就是这样。活
在桑德拉的记忆里——也活在斯蒂芬的记忆里吗？她不知道，但她认为可能性很大。
卢森堡餐厅——那个可恨的地方有顶好的食物、迅捷的服务和豪华的装修。一个避不
开的地方，总有人邀请你去那里。
她很想忘记，但一切合谋让她铭记。就连费尔黑文也无法幸免，乔治•巴顿住进了小官
府。
他真的超乎寻常。总的来说，乔治•巴顿是个怪人，完全不是她喜欢的那种邻居。在她
看来，他的到来破坏了费尔黑文的魅力与宁静。这个夏天之前，费尔黑文一直是个休养
地，她和斯蒂芬幸福生活的地方。但他们幸福过吗？
她紧抿双唇。是的，一千个“是的”！要是没有罗斯玛丽，他们会很幸福。罗斯玛丽摧
毁了她和斯蒂芬基于互信与柔情携手共建起来的脆弱的精神大厦。某种东西，某种直觉，
命令她不要让斯蒂芬看到她的激情，她的全情投入。自从那天在基德明斯特公馆，他假装
害羞，假装不知道她是谁，穿过房间找她聊天的那一刻起，她就爱上了他。
但他知道她是谁，她说不好到底是什么时候接受这一事实的。他们结婚后不久吧。有
一天，他跟她解释，为了通过某项法案，必须采取干净利落的政治手段。
当时有个念头在她的脑子里一闪而过：这让我想起了一件事。什么事呢？后来她想起
来了，其实，这和那天他在基德明斯特公馆所采用的策略如出一辙。她没有惊讶，而是平
静地接受了这个事实，好像早就知道了似的，其实，她才刚刚意识到这一点。
从结婚那天起，她就意识到，他爱她和她爱他的方式不同。不过，她想，可能他真的
没有能力这样爱。那种爱的力量是她命中注定的不幸。不顾一切地喜欢，她知道，这样的
强度在女人中很少见！她情愿为他去死；她乐意为他撒谎，为他搞阴谋，为他受苦！另一
方面，她骄傲且沉默地接受了他希望她填补的位置。他需要她的合作、她的同情心，她积
极且智慧的帮助。他想要的不是她的心，而是她的头脑，以及她与生俱来的显著优势。
有一件事她绝不会做，那就是对他表现出爱慕，这会让他难堪，因为他无法给予等量
的回报。她真心相信他喜欢她，很高兴有她为伴。她能预见到，会有一天，她的负担将无
限减轻——一个充满柔情和友谊的未来。
她想，他在以他自己的方式爱着她。
后来，罗斯玛丽出现了。
有的时候，她痛苦地撇着嘴想，他怎么会以为她不知道。从第一分钟起她就知道——
在圣莫里茨，她第一次看到他看那个女人的眼神。
当天她就知道，那个女人会成为他的情妇。
她知道那个女人用的香水的味道……
她能从斯蒂芬礼貌的表情、出神的目光中看出他在回忆什么，他在想什么——是那个
女人，那个他刚刚离开的女人！
她平心静气地想，她所经历的痛苦难以估计。一天天忍受折磨，除了信念——她天生
的骄傲——没有什么能支撑她走下去。她不会表露情绪，永远不会表露情绪。她的体重减
轻了，更瘦了，脸色更苍白了，皮肉紧绷在突出的头骨和肩胛骨上。她强迫自己吃东西，
但无法强迫自己睡觉。漫漫长夜，她躺在床上，干涩的双眼凝视着黑夜。她鄙视吃药，认
为那是脆弱的表现。她要坚持下去。哀求、抗议，表现出一副很受伤的样子——这些都令
她厌恶。
她只有一份安慰，少得可怜——斯蒂芬不会想离开她的。即使是为了他的事业，不是
因为喜欢她，那也是坚固的事实。他不想离开她。
也许，有一天，他对她的迷恋会过去……
毕竟，他看上那个女人的什么了呢？她漂亮、迷人——但其他的女人也一样。他在罗
斯玛丽•巴顿身上发现了什么令他着迷的东西？
她没有头脑，愚蠢，而且不——她尤其喜欢抓住这一点——不太有趣。要是她机智、
有魅力、善于挑逗——这些才是能钩住男人的东西。桑德拉坚信这件事会过去——斯蒂芬
会厌倦的。
她相信他这辈子的主要兴趣在事业上。他注定是个干大事的人，他自己也知道。他有
政治家的好脑子，而且很乐于使用它。这是他一生既定的事业。一旦迷恋的感觉开始减
弱，他就肯定会意识到这个事实吧？
桑德拉一分钟都没考虑过离开他，她从来就没有过这个念头。她是他的，灵与肉都是
他的，无论他想要，还是想丢。他是她的生命、她存在的意义。爱火以一股中世纪的力量
在她心头燃烧。
也有过让她满怀希望的时刻。他们去费尔黑文时，斯蒂芬似乎更像平日的他了。她突
然感觉昔日他们之间的关怀又回来了，她的心中升起了希望。他还想要她，喜欢她的陪
伴，依赖她的判断。他暂时逃离了那个女人的魔爪。
他看起来更快乐了，更像他自己了。
事情并没有糟糕到无法挽回的地步。他正在恢复，要是他能下定决心跟她断绝来
往……
回到伦敦后，斯蒂芬故态复萌。他憔悴、担忧、满脸病容，并且开始无法专心工作。
她想她知道原因何在。罗斯玛丽想让他跟她一起私奔……他正在下决心迈出那一步，
放弃他最在乎的一切。愚蠢！疯狂！他是那种永远把事业放在第一位的男人，典型的英国
男人。他肯定知道这一点，在他的内心深处——是的，但罗斯玛丽很漂亮——也很愚蠢。
斯蒂芬不会是第一个为了女人抛弃事业，又后悔的男人！
桑德拉偷听到了只言片语——在一个鸡尾酒会上。
“……告诉乔治——我们必须下定决心。”
那之后不久，罗斯玛丽就染上了流感。
桑德拉心里又有了一线希望。如果她得了肺炎——流感很容易引发肺炎——去年冬
天，她有一个年轻的朋友就是这么死的。如果罗斯玛丽死了——
她没有极力遏制这种想法，也没有因此反感自己。她足够老派，可以不间断、无忧虑
地憎恨。
她恨罗斯玛丽•巴顿。如果念头可以杀人，她早就杀死她了。
然而，念头不能杀人——光有念头还不够……
那天晚上，在卢森堡餐厅的化妆间，罗斯玛丽斜披着一件银狐皮大衣，那么美丽。生
过病之后她更瘦了，脸色更苍白——娇弱的气质让她的美显得越发超凡脱俗。她正站在镜
子前补妆……
桑德拉在她身后，看着镜子里面交叠的脸孔。她自己的脸如雕像一般冰冷，没有生
气。可以说无情——一个冷酷的女人。
然后，罗斯玛丽说：“哦，桑德拉，我是不是占了整面镜子？我已经弄好了。可怕的流
感害得我气色很差，我的样子简直不堪入目。身子虚得很，还头疼。”
桑德拉相当礼貌地关心道：“今晚头还疼吗？”
“有一点。你带着阿司匹林吗？”
“我有一颗胶囊装的。”
她打开手袋，拿出胶囊。罗斯玛丽接了过去。“我先放包里，以防万一。”
那个能干的黑发女郎——巴顿的秘书——目睹了这场小小的交易。然后轮到她用镜子
了，她只是稍微在脸上扑了点粉。她是一个好看的女孩，几乎可以说五官端正、体态健
美。桑德拉觉得她不喜欢罗斯玛丽。
她们离开化妆间，桑德拉走在最前面，接着是罗斯玛丽，然后是莱辛小姐——哦，对
了，还有那个叫艾丽斯的女孩，罗斯玛丽的妹妹，她当时也在。她显得特别兴奋，大大的
灰眼睛，穿着女学生风格的白裙子。
她们走进大厅，加入到男士们中间。
领班急匆匆走过来，引导他们就座。一行人穿过一道巨大的圆形拱门，没有任何东西
提醒他们——一丝一毫提醒都没有——罗斯玛丽再也无法活着走出这道门了……
BOOK 3 Four
Four
The two men parted. Race halted a taxi and was driven to George Barton’s
office in the city. Chief Inspector Kemp, mindful of his expense account,
took a bus to within a stone’s throw of Kidderminster House.
The inspector’s face was rather grim as he mounted the steps and
pushed the bell. He was, he knew, on difficult ground. The Kidderminster
faction had immense political influence and its ramifications spread out
like a network throughout the country. Chief Inspector Kemp had full be-
lief in the impartiality of British justice. If Stephen or Alexandra Farraday
had been concerned in the death of Rosemary Barton or in that of George
Barton no “pull” or “influence” would enable them to escape the conse-
quences. But if they were guiltless, or the evidence against them was too
vague to ensure conviction, then the responsible officer must be careful
how he trod or he would be liable to get a rap over the knuckles from his
superiors. In these circumstances it can be understood that the chief in-
spector did not much relish what lay before him. It seemed to him highly
probable that the Kidderminsters would, as he phrased it to himself, “cut
up rough.”
Kemp soon found, however, that he had been somewhat na&iuml;ve in his as-
sumption. Lord Kidderminster was far too experienced a diplomat to re-
sort to crudities.
On stating his business, Chief Inspector Kemp was taken at once by a
pontifical butler to a dim book-lined room at the back of the house where
he found Lord Kidderminster and his daughter and son-in-law awaiting
him.
Coming forward, Lord Kidderminster shook hands and said courteously:
“You are exactly on time, chief inspector. May I say that I much appreci-
ate your courtesy in coming here instead of demanding that my daughter
and her husband should come to Scotland Yard which, of course, they
would have been quite prepared to do if necessary—that goes without say-
ing—but they appreciate your kindness.”
Sandra said in a quiet voice:
“Yes, indeed, inspector.”
She was wearing a dress of some soft dark red material, and sitting as
she was with the light from the long narrow window behind her, she re-
minded Kemp of a stained glass figure he had once seen in a cathedral
abroad. The long oval of her face and the slight angularity of her
shoulders helped the illusion. Saint Somebody or other, they had told him
—but Lady Alexandra Farraday was no saint—not by a long way. And yet
some of these old saints had been funny people from his point of view, not
kindly ordinary decent Christian folk, but intolerant, fanatical, cruel to
themselves and others.
Stephen Farraday stood close by his wife. His face expressed no emotion
whatever. He looked correct and formal, an appointed legislator of the
people. The natural man was well buried. But the natural man was there,
as the chief inspector knew.
Lord Kidderminster was speaking, directing with a good deal of ability
the trend of the interview.
“I won’t disguise from you, chief inspector, that this is a very painful
and disagreeable business for us all. This is the second time that my
daughter and son-in-law have been connected with a violent death in a
public place—the same restaurant and two members of the same family.
Publicity of such a kind is always harmful to a man in the public eye. Pub-
licity, of course, cannot be avoided. We all realize that, and both my
daughter and Mr. Farraday are anxious to give you all the help they can in
the hope that the matter may be cleared up speedily and public interest in
it die down.”
“Thank you, Lord Kidderminster. I much appreciate the attitude you
have taken up. It certainly makes things easier for us.”
Sandra Farraday said:
“Please ask us any questions you like, chief inspector.”
“Thank you, Lady Alexandra.”
“Just one point, chief inspector,” said Lord Kidderminster. “You have, of
course, your own sources of information and I gather from my friend the
Commissioner that this man Barton’s death is regarded as murder rather
than suicide, though on the face of it, to the outside public, suicide would
seem a more likely explanation. You thought it was suicide, didn’t you,
Sandra, my dear?”
The Gothic figure bowed its head slightly. Sandra said in a thoughtful
voice:
“It seemed to me so obvious last night. We were there in the same res-
taurant and actually at the same table where poor Rosemary Barton
poisoned herself last year. We have seen something of Mr. Barton during
the summer in the country and he has really been very odd—quite unlike
himself — and we all thought that his wife’s death was preying on his
mind. He was very fond of her, you know, and I don’t think he ever got
over her death. So that the idea of suicide seemed, it not natural, at least
possible—whereas I can’t imagine why anyone should want to murder
George Barton.”
Stephen Farraday said quickly:
“No more can I. Barton was an excellent fellow. I’m sure he hadn’t got
an enemy in the world.”
Chief Inspector Kemp looked at the three inquiring faces turned to-
wards him and reflected a moment before speaking. “Better let ’em have
it,” he thought to himself.
“What you say is quite correct, I am sure, Lady Alexandra. But you see
there are a few things that you probably don’t know yet.”
Lord Kidderminster interposed quickly:
“We mustn’t force the chief inspector’s hand. It is entirely in his discre-
tion what facts he makes public.”
“Thanks, m’lord, but there’s no reason I shouldn’t explain things a little
more clearly. I’ll boil it down to this. George Barton, before his death, ex-
pressed to two people his belief that his wife had not, as was believed,
committed suicide, but had instead been poisoned by some third party. He
also thought that he was on the track of that third party, and the dinner
and celebration last night, ostensibly in honour of Miss Marle’s birthday,
was really some part of a plan he had made for finding out the identity of
his wife’s murderer.”
There was a moment’s silence — and in that silence Chief Inspector
Kemp, who was a sensitive man in spite of his wooden appearance, felt
the presence of something that he classified as dismay. It was not appar-
ent on any face, but he could have sworn that it was there.
Lord Kidderminster was the first to recover himself. He said:
“But surely—that belief in itself might point to the fact that poor Barton
was not quite—er—himself? Brooding over his wife’s death might have
slightly unhinged him mentally.”
“Quite so, Lord Kidderminster, but it at least shows that his frame of
mind was definitely not suicidal.”
“Yes—yes, I take your point.”
And again there was silence. Then Stephen Farraday said sharply:
“But how did Barton get such an idea into his head? After all, Mrs. Bar-
ton did commit suicide.”
Chief Inspector Kemp transferred a placid gaze to him.
“Mr. Barton didn’t think so.”
Lord Kidderminster interposed.
“But the police were satisfied? There was no suggestion of anything but
suicide at the time?”
Chief Inspector Kemp said quietly:
“The facts were compatible with suicide. There was no evidence that her
death was due to any other agency.”
He knew that a man of Lord Kidderminster’s calibre would seize on the
exact meaning of that.
Becoming slightly more official, Kemp said, “I would like to ask you
some questions now, if I may, Lady Alexandra?”
“Certainly.” She turned her head slightly towards him.
“You had no suspicions at the time of Mr. Barton’s death that it might be
murder, not suicide?”
“Certainly not. I was quite sure it was suicide.” She added, “I still am.”
Kemp let that pass. He said:
“Have you received any anonymous letters in the past year, Lady Alex-
andra?”
The calm of her manner seemed broken by pure astonishment.
“Anonymous letters? Oh, no.”
“You’re quite sure? Such letters are very unpleasant things and people
usually prefer to ignore them, but they may be particularly important in
this case, and that is why I want to stress that if you did receive any such
letters it is most essential that I should know about them.”
“I see. But I can only assure you, chief inspector, that I have received
nothing of the kind.”
“Very well. Now you say Mr. Barton’s manner has been odd this sum-
mer. In what way?”
She considered a minute.
“Well, he was jumpy, nervous. It seemed difficult for him to focus his at-
tention on what was said to him.” She turned her head towards her hus-
band. “Was that how it struck you, Stephen?”
“Yes, I should say that was a very fair description. The man looked phys-
ically ill, too. He had lost weight.”
“Did you notice any difference in his attitude towards you and your hus-
band? Any less cordiality, for instance?”
“No. On the contrary. He had bought a house, you know, quite close to
us, and he seemed very grateful for what we were able to do for him—in
the way of local introductions, I mean, and all that. Of course we were
only too pleased to do everything we could in that line, both for him and
for Iris Marle who is a charming girl.”
“Was the late Mrs. Barton a great friend of yours, Lady Alexandra?”
“No, we were not very intimate.” She gave a light laugh. “She was really
mostly Stephen’s friend. She became interested in politics and he helped
to—well, educate her politically—which I’m sure he enjoyed. She was a
very charming and attractive woman, you know.”
“And you’re a very clever one,” thought Chief Inspector Kemp to himself
appreciatively. “I wonder how much you know about those two—a good
deal, I shouldn’t wonder.”
He went on:
“Mr. Barton never expressed to you the view that his wife did not com-
mit suicide?”
“No, indeed. That was why I was so startled just now.”
“And Miss Marle? She never talked about her sister’s death, either?”
“No.”
“Any idea what made George Barton buy a house in the country? Did
you or your husband suggest the idea to him?”
“No. It was quite a surprise.”
“And his manner to you was always friendly?”
“Very friendly indeed.”
“And what do you know about Mr. Anthony Browne, Lady Alexandra?”
“I really know nothing at all. I have met him occasionally and that is
all.”
“What about you, Mr. Farraday?”
“I think I know probably less about Browne than my wife does. She at
any rate has danced with him. He seems a likeable chap—American, I be-
lieve.”
“Would you say from observation at the time that he was on special
terms of intimacy with Mrs. Barton?”
“I have absolutely no knowledge on that point, chief inspector.”
“I am simply asking you for your impression, Mr. Farraday.”
Stephen frowned.
“They were friendly—that is all I can say.”
“And you, Lady Alexandra?”
“Simply my impression, chief inspector?”
“Simply your impression.”
“Then, for what it is worth, I did form the impression that they knew
each other well and were on intimate terms. Simply, you understand,
from the way they looked at each other—I have no concrete evidence.”
“Ladies have often very good judgement on these matters,” said Kemp.
That somewhat fatuous smile with which he delivered this remark would
have amused Colonel Race if he had been present. “Now, what about Miss
Lessing, Lady Alexandra?”
“Miss Lessing, I understand, was Mr. Barton’s secretary. I met her for
the first time on the evening that Mrs. Barton died. After that I met her
once when she was staying down in the country, and last night.”
“If I may ask you another informal question, did you form the impres-
sion that she was in love with George Barton?”
“I really haven’t the least idea.”
“Then we’ll come to the events of last night.”
He questioned both Stephen and his wife minutely on the course of the
tragic evening. He had not hoped for much from this, and all he got was
confirmation of what he had already been told. All accounts agreed on the
important points—Barton had proposed a toast to Iris, had drunk it and
immediately afterwards had got up to dance. They had all left the table to-
gether and George and Iris had been the first to return to it. Neither of
them had any explanation to offer as to the empty chair except that
George Barton had distinctly said that he was expecting a friend of his, a
Colonel Race, to occupy it later in the evening—a statement which, as the
inspector knew, could not possibly be the truth. Sandra Farraday said, and
her husband agreed, that when the lights went up after the cabaret,
George had stared at the empty chair in a peculiar manner and had for
some moments seemed so absentminded as not to hear what was said to
him—then he had rallied himself and proposed Iris’s health.
The only item that the chief inspector could count as an addition to his
knowledge, was Sandra’s account of her conversation with George at
Fairhaven—and his plea that she and her husband would collaborate with
him over this party for Iris’s sake.
It was a reasonably plausible pretext, the chief inspector thought,
though not the true one. Closing his notebook in which he had jotted down
one or two hieroglyphics, he rose to his feet.
“I’m very grateful to you, my lord, and to Mr. Farraday and Lady Alex-
andra for your help and collaboration.”
“Will my daughter’s presence be required at the inquest?”
“The proceedings will be purely formal on this occasion. Evidence of
identification and the medical evidence will be taken and the inquest will
then be adjourned for a week. By then,” said the chief inspector, his tone
changing slightly, “we shall, I hope, be further on.”
He turned to Stephen Farraday:
“By the way, Mr. Farraday, there are one or two small points where I
think you could help me. No need to trouble Lady Alexandra. If you will
give me a ring at the Yard, we can settle a time that will suit you. You are, I
know, a busy man.”
It was pleasantly said, with an air of casualness, but on three pairs of
ears the words fell with deliberate meaning.
With an air of friendly cooperation Stephen managed to say:
“Certainly, chief inspector.” Then he looked at his watch and mur-
mured: “I must go along to the House.”
When Stephen had hurried off, and the chief inspector had likewise de-
parted, Lord Kidderminster turned to his daughter and asked a question
with no beating about the bush.
“Had Stephen been having an affair with that woman?”
There was a split second of a pause before his daughter answered.
“Of course not. I should have known it if he had. And anyway, Stephen’s
not that kind.”
“Now, look here, my dear, no good laying your ears back and digging
your hoofs in. These things are bound to come out. We want to know
where we are in this business.”
“Rosemary Barton was a friend of that man, Anthony Browne. They
went about everywhere together.”
“Well,” said Lord Kidderminster slowly. “You should know.”
He did not believe his daughter. His face, as he went slowly out of the
room, was grey and perplexed. He went upstairs to his wife’s sitting room.
He had vetoed her presence in the library, knowing too well that her ar-
rogant methods were apt to arouse antagonism and at this juncture he felt
it vital that relations with the official police should be harmonious.
“Well?” said Lady Kidderminster. “How did it go off?”
“Quite well on the face of it,” said Lord Kidderminster slowly. “Kemp is
a courteous fellow—very pleasant in his manner—he handled the whole
thing with tact—just a little too much tact for my fancy.”
“It’s serious, then?”
“Yes, it’s serious. We should never have let Sandra marry that fellow,
Vicky.”
“That’s what I said.”
“Yes—yes . . .” He acknowledged her claim. “You were right—and I was
wrong. But, mind you, she would have had him anyway. You can’t turn
Sandra when her mind is fixed on a thing. Her meeting Farraday was a
disaster—a man of whose antecedents and ancestors we know nothing.
When a crisis comes how does one know how a man like that will react?”
“I see,” said Lady Kidderminster. “You think we’ve taken a murderer
into the family?”
“I don’t know. I don’t want to condemn the fellow offhand—but it’s what
the police think—and they’re pretty shrewd. He had an affair with this
Barton woman—that’s plain enough. Either she committed suicide on his
account, or else he—Well, whatever happened, Barton got wise to it and
was heading for an exposé and scandal. I suppose Stephen simply couldn’t
take it—and—”
“Poisoned him?”
“Yes.”
Lady Kidderminster shook her head.
“I don’t agree with you.”
“I hope you’re right. But somebody poisoned him.”
“If you ask me,” said Lady Kidderminster, “Stephen simply wouldn’t
have the nerve to do a thing like that.”
“He’s in deadly earnest about his career—he’s got great gifts, you know,
and the makings of a true statesman. You can’t say what anyone will do
when they’re forced into a corner.”
His wife still shook her head.
“I still say he hasn’t got the nerve. You want someone who’s a gambler
and capable of being reckless. I’m afraid, William, I’m horribly afraid.”
He stared at her. “Are you suggesting that Sandra—Sandra—?”
“I hate even to suggest such a thing—but it’s no use being cowardly and
refusing to face possibilities. She’s besotted about that man—she always
has been—and there’s a queer streak in Sandra. I’ve never really under-
stood her—but I’ve always been afraid for her. She’d risk anything—any-
thing — for Stephen. Without counting the cost. And if she’s been mad
enough and wicked enough to do this thing, she’s got to be protected.”
“Protected? What do you mean—protected?”
“By you. We’ve got to do something about our own daughter, haven’t
we? Mercifully you can pull any amount of strings.”
Lord Kidderminster was staring at her. Though he had thought he knew
his wife’s character well, he was nevertheless appalled at the force and
courage of her realism—at her refusal to blink at unpalatable facts—and
also at her unscrupulousness.
“If my daughter’s a murderess, do you suggest that I should use my offi-
cial position to rescue her from the consequences of her act?”
“Of course,” said Lady Kidderminster.
“My dear Vicky! You don’t understand! One can’t do things like that. It
would be a breach of—of honour.”
“Rubbish!” said Lady Kidderminster.
They looked at each other—so far divided that neither could see the
other’s point of view. So might Agamemnon and Clytemnestra have stared
at each other with the word Iphigenia on their lips.
“You could bring government pressure to bear on the police so that the
whole thing is dropped and a verdict of suicide brought in. It has been
done before—don’t pretend.”
“That has been when it was a matter of public policy—in the interests of
the State. This is a personal and private matter. I doubt very much
whether I could do such a thing.”
“You can if you have sufficient determination.”
Lord Kidderminster flushed angrily.
“If I could, I wouldn’t! It would be abusing my public position.”
“If Sandra were arrested and tried, wouldn’t you employ the best coun-
sel and do everything possible to get her off however guilty she was?”
“Of course, of course. That’s entirely different. You women never grasp
these things.”
Lady Kidderminster was silent, unperturbed by the thrust. Sandra was
the least dear to her of her children—nevertheless she was at this moment
a mother, and a mother only—willing to defend her young by any means,
honourable or dishonourable. She would fight with tooth and claw for
Sandra.
“In any case,” said Lord Kidderminster, “Sandra will not be charged un-
less there is an absolutely convincing case against her. And I, for one, re-
fuse to believe that a daughter of mine is a murderess. I’m astonished at
you, Vicky, for entertaining such an idea for a moment.”
His wife said nothing, and Lord Kidderminster went uneasily out of the
room. To think that Vicky—Vicky—whom he had known intimately for so
many years—should prove to have such unsuspected and really very dis-
turbing depths in her!
第一部 第六章
第六章 乔治•巴顿
罗斯玛丽……
乔治•巴顿放下酒杯，表情严峻地凝视着炉火。
他喝的量恰好让他伤感自怜。
她曾经是多么可爱的一个女孩。他一直爱她爱得发狂。她知道，但他老觉得她只会嘲
笑他。
他第一次开口向她求婚时，根本没什么信心。
皱着眉头嘟囔，像个十足的傻瓜。
“你知道，姑娘，任何时候，只要你开口就行。我知道这样没用，你连看都懒得看我一
眼。我一直是个大傻蛋，还有点肚子。但是，你一定知道我的心意，对不对？我的意思
是，我一直在这里。我知道我一点机会都没有，但是我想，还是提一提吧。”
罗斯玛丽大笑起来，亲了一下他的脑门。
“你真可爱，乔治，我会记住你的好意，不过，我暂时不打算嫁给任何人。”
他严肃地说：“说得很对。多花些时间看看。任你挑选。”
他从来没抱任何希望——真正的希望。
这就是为什么当罗斯玛丽说要嫁给他时，他那么不敢相信、那么困惑。
当然，她没有爱上他。这一点他很清楚。事实上，她也承认了。
“你明白我是怎么想的吧？我想让生活安定下来，想有快乐和安全的感觉。我应该和你
在一起。我对恋爱厌倦透顶。不知道怎么回事，老出岔子，结果一团糟。我喜欢你，乔
治。你人好，挺有趣，温柔，而且你觉得我很棒。这就是我想要的。”
他语无伦次地回答：“那就慢慢来。我们会像国王和王后一样快乐。”
怎么说呢，错得并不离谱。他们曾经很快乐。他一直很自卑。他总是对自己说，他们
肯定会有潜在的麻烦，罗斯玛丽不会满足于他这种乏味的男人，一定会有“意外”发生！他
让自己学会接受——“意外”！他坚信意外不会长久！罗斯玛丽一定会回到他身边，一旦他
做好心理准备，就万事大吉了。
因为她喜欢他，她对他的感情持久不变。这种感情是脱离她的调情和风流韵事独立存
在的。
他已经学会了接受这些事。他告诉自己，罗斯玛丽生性多情，再加上非凡的美貌，那
种事不可避免。但他没预料到自己的反应。
跟这个那个小伙子调调情算不了什么，但是当他第一次知道她在正儿八经地搞婚外情
的时候——
他发现得很快，因为感觉到她变样了。她极其兴奋，更爱打扮了，整个人容光焕发。
接着，直觉告诉他的一切被丑陋具体的事实证实了。
那天，他走进她的起居室，正在写信的她本能地用手盖住了信纸。他立刻明白了，她
是在给她的情夫写信。
过了一会儿，她出去了，他走到吸墨纸旁。她把信拿走了，但吸墨纸上的字还在。他
拿着吸墨纸走到房间的另一头，放在玻璃上——他看见了罗斯玛丽那潇洒的字迹写着：“我
心爱的宝贝……”
他感觉血往上撞。那一刻他明白了奥赛罗的感受。 [1] 明智的决断？哼！现在只有本性
做主。他真想活活掐死她！再残忍地杀死那个小子。他是谁？那个叫布朗的家伙？还是斯
蒂芬•法拉第？他们俩都朝她抛过媚眼。
玻璃上映出他的脸。他的双眼布满血丝，看样子要大发雷霆。
回想起那一刻的情景，杯子从乔治•巴顿的手中滑落。他又有了那种透不过气来的感
觉。怒发冲冠。即使是现在——
他努力摆脱回忆。绝不能再回想了。已经过去了——结束了。他不会再受那种苦了。
罗斯玛丽死了。死了，安息了。他也平静了。没有痛苦了……
想想她的死对他的意义真可笑。平静……
他从没对露丝说过这个。露丝是个好姑娘。她很有头脑。真的，没有她，他真的不知
道该怎么办才好。她帮助他的方式、同情他的方式，从来没有一点性暗示。不像罗斯玛丽
那样令男人疯狂……
罗斯玛丽……罗斯玛丽坐在餐厅的圆桌旁。得过流感后，她的两颊略显消瘦，气色也
有点差——但还是漂亮的，很漂亮。而仅仅一个小时后——
不，他不会再去想那件事。至少现在不行。他的计划。他要考虑他的计划。
他先要找瑞斯谈谈，把信拿给他看。瑞斯会对那些信有什么看法？艾丽斯吓得目瞪口
呆，她显然毫不知情。
好了，他已经掌控局面了。他已经对一切作出了判断。
那个计划。全安排好了。日期。地点。
十一月二日。万灵节 [2] 。不错。当然要在卢森堡餐厅，他还会尽量订同一张桌子。
还邀请那些客人——安东尼•布朗、斯蒂芬•法拉第、桑德拉•法拉第。还有，当然了，
还有露丝、艾丽斯和他自己。单出来的第七个客人，他会邀请瑞斯，本来瑞斯就该出席那
次晚宴。
还空出一个位子。
太妙了！
太戏剧化了！
罪案重现。
哦，算不上重现……
他的思绪回到了过去……
罗斯玛丽的生日……
罗斯玛丽，趴在桌子上——死了……
注释：
[1]莎士比亚的四大悲剧之一《奥赛罗》（Othello）中的主人公。将军奥赛罗凭借自身的丰富阅历赢
得了苔丝狄蒙娜的心，但他怀疑苔丝狄蒙娜和自己的副将有奸情，这段爱情最终以悲剧收场。
[2]万灵节（All Sowl's Day）是一个天主教节日，是纪念死者的节日，在墨西哥尤其特别，他们会举
动各种庆祝活动，祝福已故的亲人。
BOOK 2 Four
Four
Puffing at his pipe, Colonel Race looked speculatively at George Barton.
He had known George Barton ever since the latter’s boyhood. Barton’s
uncle had been a country neighbour of the Races. There was a difference
of over twenty years between the two men. Race was over sixty, a tall,
erect, military figure, with sunburnt face, closely cropped iron-grey hair,
and shrewd dark eyes.
There had never been any particular intimacy between the two men—
but Barton remained to Race “young George”—one of the many vague fig-
ures associated with earlier days.
He was thinking at this moment that he had really no idea what “young
George” was like. On the brief occasions when they had met in later years,
they had found little in common. Race was an out-of-door man, essentially
of the Empire- builder type — most of his life had been spent abroad.
George was emphatically the city gentleman. Their interests were dissim-
ilar and when they met it was to exchange rather lukewarm reminis-
cences of “the old days,” after which an embarrassed silence was apt to oc-
cur. Colonel Race was not good at small talk and might indeed have posed
as the model of a strong silent man so beloved by an earlier generation of
novelists.
Silent at this moment, he was wondering just why “young George” had
been so insistent on this meeting. Thinking, too, that there was some
subtle change in the man since he had last seen him a year ago. George
Barton had always struck him as the essence of stodginess — cautious,
practical, unimaginative.
There was, he thought, something very wrong with the fellow. Jumpy as
a cat. He’d already re-lit his cigar three times—and that wasn’t like Barton
at all.
He took his pipe out of his mouth.
“Well, young George, what’s the trouble?”
“You’re right, Race, it is trouble. I want your advice badly—and your
help.”
The colonel nodded and waited.
“Nearly a year ago you were coming to dine with us in London—at the
Luxembourg. You had to go abroad at the last minute.”
Again Race nodded.
“South Africa.”
“At that dinner party my wife died.”
Race stirred uncomfortably in his chair.
“I know. Read about it. Didn’t mention it now or offer you sympathy be-
cause I didn’t want to stir up things again. But I’m sorry, old man, you
know that.”
“Oh, yes, yes. That’s not the point. My wife was supposed to have com-
mitted suicide.”
Race fastened on the key word. His eyebrows rose.
“Supposed?”
“Read these.”
He thrust the two letters into the other’s hand. Race’s eyebrows rose still
higher.
“Anonymous letters?”
“Yes. And I believe them.”
Race shook his head slowly.
“That’s a dangerous thing to do. You’d be surprised how many lying
spiteful letters get written after any event that’s been given any sort of
publicity in the Press.”
“I know that. But these weren’t written at the time—they weren’t writ-
ten until six months afterwards.”
Race nodded.
“That’s a point. Who do you think wrote them?”
“I don’t know. I don’t care. The point is that I believe what they say is
true. My wife was murdered.”
Race laid down his pipe. He sat up a little straighter in his chair.
“Now just why do you think that? Had you any suspicion at the time.
Had the police?”
“I was dazed when it happened—completely bowled over. I just accep-
ted the verdict at the inquest. My wife had had ’flu, was run-down. No sus-
picion of anything but suicide arose. The stuff was in her handbag, you
see.”
“What was the stuff?”
“Cyanide.”
“I remember. She took it in champagne.”
“Yes. It seemed, at the time, all quite straightforward.”
“Had she ever threatened to commit suicide?”
“No, never. Rosemary,” said George Barton, “loved life.”
Race nodded. He had only met George’s wife once. He had thought her a
singularly lovely nitwit—but certainly not a melancholic type.
“What about the medical evidence as to state of mind, etcetera?”
“Rosemary’s own doctor—an elderly man who has attended the Marle
family since they were young children—was away on a sea voyage. His
partner, a young man, attended Rosemary when she had ’flu. All he said, I
remember, was that the type of ’flu about was inclined to leave serious de-
pression.”
George paused and went on.
“It wasn’t until after I got these letters that I talked with Rosemary’s own
doctor. I said nothing of the letters, of course—just discussed what had
happened. He told me then that he was very surprised at what had
happened. He would never have believed it, he said. Rosemary was not at
all a suicidal type. It showed, he said, how even a patient one knew well
might act in a thoroughly uncharacteristic manner.”
Again George paused and then went on:
“It was after talking to him that I realized how absolutely unconvincing
to me Rosemary’s suicide was. After all, I knew her very well. She was a
person who was capable of violent fits of unhappiness. She could get very
worked up over things, and she would on occasions take very rash and un-
considered action, but I have never known her in the frame of mind that
‘wanted to get out of it all.’ ”
Race murmured in a slightly embarrassed manner:
“Could she have had a motive for suicide apart from mere depression?
Was she, I mean, definitely unhappy about anything?”
“I—no—she was perhaps rather nervy.”
Avoiding looking at his friend, Race said:
“Was she at all a melodramatic person? I only saw her once, you know.
But there is a type that—well—might get a kick out of attempted suicide—
usually if they’ve quarrelled with someone. The rather childish motive of
—‘I’ll make them sorry!’ ”
“Rosemary and I hadn’t quarrelled.”
“No. And I must say that the fact of cyanide having been used rather
rules that possibility out. It’s not the kind of thing you can monkey about
with safely—and everybody knows it.”
“That’s another point. If by any chance Rosemary had contemplated do-
ing away with herself, surely she’d never do it that way? Painful and—and
ugly. An overdose of some sleeping stuff would be far more likely.”
“I agree. Was there any evidence as to her purchasing or getting hold of
the cyanide?”
“No. But she had been staying with friends in the country and they had
taken a wasps’ nest one day. It was suggested that she might have taken a
handful of potassium cyanide crystals then.”
“Yes—it’s not a difficult thing to get hold of. Most gardeners keep a stock
of it.”
He paused and then said:
“Let me summarize the position. There was no positive evidence as to a
disposition to suicide, or to any preparation for it. The whole thing was
negative. But there can also have been no positive evidence pointing to
murder, or the police would have got hold of it. They’re quite wide awake,
you know.”
“The mere idea of murder would have seemed fantastic.”
“But it didn’t seem fantastic to you six months later?”
George said slowly:
“I think I must have been unsatisfied all along. I think I must have been
subconsciously preparing myself so that when I saw the thing written
down in black and white I accepted it without doubt.”
“Yes.” Race nodded. “Well, then, let’s have it. Who do you suspect?”
George leaned forward—his face twitching.
“That’s what is so terrible. If Rosemary was killed, one of those people
round the table, one of our friends, must have done it. No one else came
near the table.”
“Waiters? Who poured out the wine?”
“Charles, the headwaiter at the Luxembourg. You know Charles?”
Race assented. Everybody knew Charles. It seemed quite impossible to
imagine that Charles could have deliberately poisoned a client.
“And the waiter who looked after us was Giuseppe. We know Giuseppe
well. I’ve known him for years. He always looks after me there. He’s a de-
lightful cheery little fellow.”
“So we come to the dinner party. Who was there?”
“Stephen Farraday, the M.P. His wife, Lady Alexandra Farraday. My sec-
retary, Ruth Lessing. A fellow called Anthony Browne. Rosemary’s sister,
Iris, and myself. Seven in all. We should have been eight if you had come.
When you dropped out we couldn’t think of anybody suitable to ask at the
last minute.”
“I see. Well, Barton, who do you think did it?”
George cried out: “I don’t know—I tell you I don’t know. If I had any
idea—”
“All right—all right. I just thought you might have a definite suspicion.
Well, it oughtn’t to be difficult. How did you sit—starting with yourself?”
“I had Sandra Farraday on my right, of course. Next to her, Anthony
Browne. Then Rosemary. Then Stephen Farraday, then Iris, then Ruth
Lessing who sat on my left.”
“I see. And your wife had drunk champagne earlier in the evening?”
“Yes. The glasses had been filled up several times. It—it happened while
the cabaret show was on. There was a lot of noise—it was one of those
negro shows and we were all watching it. She slumped forward on the
table just before the lights went up. She may have cried out—or gasped—
but nobody heard anything. The doctor said that death must have been
practically instantaneous. Thank God for that.”
“Yes, indeed. Well, Barton—on the face of it, it seems fairly obvious.”
“You mean?”
“Stephen Farraday of course. He was on her right hand. Her champagne
glass would be close to his left hand. Easiest thing in the world to put the
stuff in as soon as the lights were lowered and general attention went to
the raised stage. I can’t see that anybody else had anything like as good an
opportunity. I know those Luxembourg tables. There’s plenty of room
round them—I doubt very much if anybody could have leaned across the
table, for instance, without being noticed even if the lights were down.
The same thing applies to the fellow on Rosemary’s left. He would have
had to lean across her to put anything in her glass. There is one other pos-
sibility, but we’ll take the obvious person first. Any reason why Stephen
Farraday, M.P., should want to do away with your wife?”
George said in a stifled voice:
“They—they had been rather close friends. If—if Rosemary had turned
him down, for instance, he might have wanted revenge.”
“Sounds highly melodramatic. That is the only motive you can suggest?”
“Yes,” said George. His face was very red. Race gave him the most fleet-
ing of glances. Then he went on:
“We’ll examine possibility No. 2. One of the women.”
“Why the women?”
“My dear George, has it escaped your notice that in a party of seven,
four women and three men, there will probably be one or two periods
during the evening when three couples are dancing and one woman is sit-
ting alone at the table? You did all dance?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Good. Now before the cabaret, can you remember who was sitting
alone at any moment?”
George thought a minute.
“I think—yes, Iris was odd man out last, and Ruth the time before.”
“You don’t remember when your wife drank champagne last?”
“Let me see, she had been dancing with Browne. I remember her com-
ing back and saying that had been pretty strenuous—he’s rather a fancy
dancer. She drank up the wine in her glass then. A few minutes later they
played a waltz and she—she danced with me. She knew a waltz is the only
dance I’m really any good at. Farraday danced with Ruth and Lady Alex-
andra with Browne. Iris sat out. Immediately after that, they had the cab-
aret.”
“Then let’s consider your wife’s sister. Did she come into any money on
your wife’s death?”
George began to splutter.
“My dear Race—don’t be absurd. Iris was a mere child, a schoolgirl.”
“I’ve known two schoolgirls who committed murder.”
“But Iris! She was devoted to Rosemary.”
“Never mind, Barton. She had opportunity. I want to know if she had
motive. Your wife, I believe, was a rich woman. Where did her money go
—to you?”
“No, it went to Iris—a trust fund.”
He explained the position, to which Race listened attentively.
“Rather a curious position. The rich sister and the poor sister. Some girls
might have resented that.”
“I’m sure Iris never did.”
“Maybe not—but she had a motive all right. We’ll try that tack now.
Who else had a motive?”
“Nobody—nobody at all. Rosemary hadn’t an enemy in the world, I’m
sure. I’ve been looking into all that—asking questions—trying to find out.
I’ve even taken this house near the Farradays’ so as to—”
He stopped. Race took up his pipe and began to scratch at its interior.
“Hadn’t you better tell me everything, young George?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re keeping something back—it sticks out a mile. You can sit there
defending your wife’s reputation—or you can try and find out if she was
murdered or not—but if the latter matters most to you, you’ll have to
come clean.”
There was a silence.
“All right then,” said George in a stifled voice. “You win.”
“You’d reason to believe your wife had a lover, is that it?”
“Yes.”
“Stephen Farraday?”
“I don’t know! I swear to you I don’t know! It might have been him or it
might have been the other fellow, Browne. I couldn’t make up my mind. It
was hell.”
“Tell me what you know about this Anthony Browne? Funny, I seem to
have heard the name.”
“I don’t know anything about him. Nobody does. He’s a good-looking,
amusing sort of chap—but nobody knows the first thing about him. He’s
supposed to be an American but he’s got no accent to speak of.”
“Oh, well, perhaps the Embassy will know something about him. You’ve
no idea—which?”
“No—no, I haven’t. I’ll tell you, Race. She was writing a letter—I—I ex-
amined the blotting paper afterwards. It—it was a love letter all right—but
there was no name.”
Race turned his eyes away carefully.
“Well, that gives us a bit more to go on. Lady Alexandra, for instance—
she comes into it, if her husband was having an affair with your wife.
She’s the kind of woman, you know, who feels things rather intensely. The
quiet, deep type. It’s a type that will do murder at a pinch. We’re getting
on. There’s Mystery Browne and Farraday and his wife, and young Iris
Marle. What about this other woman, Ruth Lessing?”
“Ruth couldn’t have had anything to do with it. She at least had no
earthly motive.”
“Your secretary, you say? What sort of a girl is she?”
“The dearest girl in the world.” George spoke with enthusiasm. “She’s
practically one of the family. She’s my right hand—I don’t know anyone I
think more highly of, or have more absolute faith in.”
“You’re fond of her,” said Race, watching him thoughtfully.
“I’m devoted to her. That girl, Race, is an absolute trump. I depend upon
her in every way. She’s the truest, dearest creature in the world.”
Race murmured something that sounded liked “Umhum” and left the
subject. There was nothing in his manner to indicate to George that he had
mentally chalked down a very definite motive to the unknown Ruth Less-
ing. He could imagine that this “dearest girl in the world” might have a
very decided reason for wanting the removal of Mrs. George Barton to an-
other world. It might be a mercenary motive—she might have envisaged
herself as the second Mrs. Barton. It might be that she was genuinely in
love with her employer. But the motive for Rosemary’s death was there.
Instead he said gently: “I suppose it’s occurred to you, George, that you
had a pretty good motive yourself.”
“I?” George looked flabbergasted.
“Well, remember Othello and Desdemona.”
“I see what you mean. But—but it wasn’t like that between me and Rose-
mary. I adored her, of course, but I always knew that there would be
things that—that I’d have to endure. Not that she wasn’t fond of me—she
was. She was very fond of me and sweet to me always. But of course I’m a
dull stick, no getting away from it. Not romantic, you know. Anyway, I’d
made up my mind when I married her that it wasn’t going to be all beer
and skittles. She as good as warned me. It hurt, of course, when it
happened—but to suggest that I’d have touched a hair of her head—”
He stopped, and then went on in a different tone:
“Anyway, if I’d done it, why on earth should I go raking it all up? I mean,
after a verdict of suicide, and everything all settled and over. It would be
madness.”
“Absolutely. That’s why I don’t seriously suspect you, my dear fellow. If
you were a successful murderer and got a couple of letters like these,
you’d put them quietly in the fire and say nothing at all about it. And that
brings me to what I think is the one really interesting feature of the whole
thing. Who wrote those letters?”
“Eh?” George looked rather startled. “I haven’t the least idea.”
“The point doesn’t seem to have interested you. It interests me. It’s the
first question I asked you. We can assume, I take it, that they weren’t writ-
ten by the murderer. Why should he queer his own pitch when, as you
say, everything had settled down and suicide was universally accepted?
Then who wrote them? Who is it who is interested in stirring the whole
thing up again?”
“Servants?” hazarded George vaguely.
“Possibly. If so, what servants, and what do they know? Did Rosemary
have a confidential maid?”
George shook his head.
“No. At the time we had a cook—Mrs. Pound—we’ve still got her, and a
couple of maids. I think they’ve both left. They weren’t with us very long.”
“Well, Barton, if you want my advice, which I gather you do, I should
think the matter over very carefully. On one side there’s the fact that Rose-
mary is dead. You can’t bring her back to life whatever you do. If the evid-
ence for suicide isn’t particularly good, neither is the evidence for murder.
Let us say, for the sake of argument, that Rosemary was murdered. Do you
really wish to rake up the whole thing? It may mean a lot of unpleasant
publicity, a lot of washing of dirty linen in public, your wife’s love affairs
becoming public property—”
George Barton winced. He said violently:
“Do you really advise me to let some swine get away with it? That stick
Farraday, with his pompous speeches, and his precious career—and all
the time, perhaps, a cowardly murderer.”
“I only want you to be clear what it involves.”
“I want to get at the truth.”
“Very well. In that case, I should go to the police with these letters.
They’ll probably be able to find out fairly easily who wrote them and if the
writer knows anything. Only remember that once you’ve started them on
the trail, you won’t be able to call them off.”
“I’m not going to the police. That’s why I wanted to see you. I’m going to
set a trap for the murderer.”
“What on earth do you mean?”
“Listen, Race. I’m going to have a party at the Luxembourg. I want you
to come. The same people, the Farradays, Anthony Browne, Ruth, Iris, my-
self. I’ve got it all worked out.”
“What are you going to do?”
George gave a faint laugh.
“That’s my secret. It would spoil it if I told anyone beforehand—even
you. I want you to come with an unbiased mind and—see what happens.”
Race leant forward. His voice was suddenly sharp.
“I don’t like it, George. These melodramatic ideas out of books don’t
work. Go to the police—there’s no better body of men. They know how to
deal with these problems. They’re professionals. Amateur shows in crime
aren’t advisable.”
“That’s why I want you there. You’re not an amateur.”
“My dear fellow. Because I once did work for M.I.5? And anyway you
propose to keep me in the dark.”
“That’s necessary.”
Race shook his head.
“I’m sorry. I refuse. I don’t like your plan and I won’t be a party to it.
Give it up, George, there’s a good fellow.”
“I’m not going to give it up. I’ve got it all worked out.”
“Don’t be so damned obstinate. I know a bit more about these shows
than you do. I don’t like the idea. It won’t work. It may even be dangerous.
Have you thought of that?”
“It will be dangerous for somebody all right.”
Race sighed.
“You don’t know what you’re doing. Oh, well, don’t say I haven’t warned
you. For the last time I beg you to give up this crackbrained idea of yours.”
George Barton only shook his head.
第二部 第一章
第二部
万灵节
“迷迭香，
是为了帮助回忆。”
第一章
卢西娜•德瑞克正在叽叽喳喳。家里人常用这个词，确实恰如其分地形容了从卢西娜亲
切的嘴里发出的声音。
这个上午让她操心的事太多了，多得让她觉得很难一次专心做一件事。搬回城里的日
子正在迫近，还有随之而来的各种家务事。仆人、管理家务、冬储，等等，千头万绪——
这一切都在与艾丽斯的忧虑之色作斗争。
“真的，亲爱的，我很为你担心……你的样子特别苍白憔悴……好像没睡觉一样——你
睡觉了吗？要是睡不着，有怀利医生——还是加斯克尔医生？——开的安眠药，很好用。
这倒是提醒我了，我得亲自去找那个杂货店老板谈一谈，要么是那些女仆自作主张订了东
西，要么就是他故意骗我们。好几盒肥皂片，我一个礼拜最多要三盒。喝点药也许能好
点？伊顿糖浆，我小时候常喝。对了，还有菠菜。我告诉厨子中午得做菠菜。”
艾丽斯实在提不起精神，也习惯了德瑞克太太东拉西扯的谈话风格。她想让艾丽斯问
她，为什么提到加斯克尔医生就会让她想起杂货店老板，如果艾丽斯这么问了，她会立刻
回答：“因为杂货店老板叫克兰福德，亲爱的。”卢西娜姑妈总觉得自己的逻辑清清楚楚。
艾丽斯只是用仅存的力气说：“我很好，卢西娜姑妈。”
“眼圈都发黑了，”德瑞克太太说，“你做的事太多了。”
“我什么事都没做，好几个礼拜了。”
“那是你自己这么认为，亲爱的。网球打得太多会让年轻的姑娘过分劳累。而且，我觉
得这里的空气也让人浑身没劲。在山谷里。乔治要是跟我，而不是跟那个女孩商量就好
了。”
“哪个女孩？”
“那个他特别器重的莱辛小姐。在办公室里一切都好，大概那里才是她该待的地方，把
她带出来就大错特错了。他还鼓励她把自己当作这个家庭的一员。我想，她不需要任何鼓
励。”
“哦，好了，卢西娜姑妈，露丝就是这个家庭的一员。”
德瑞克太太嗤之以鼻道：“她倒是想呢——太明显了。可怜的乔治，一涉及女人，他就
像襁褓里的婴儿。但这样是行不通的，艾丽斯。乔治要学会自我保护，如果我是你，就明
确地跟他表示，莱辛小姐再怎么好，也不该想着跟她结婚。”
艾丽斯从漠然中惊醒。
“我从来没想过乔治会跟露丝结婚。”
“鼻子底下发生的事你都看不见，孩子。当然了，你没有我这样的人生阅历。”艾丽斯
忍不住笑了。有的时候，卢西娜姑妈真的很可笑。“那个年轻女人很期盼婚姻。”
“这有什么关系吗？”艾丽斯问。
“有关系？当然有关系。”
“这样不是很好吗？”姑妈瞪着她，“我的意思是，对乔治来说很好。我想，你对她的看
法是对的，你知道。我认为她确实喜欢他。而她对他来说是个特别好的太太，可以悉心照
料他。”
德瑞克太太哼了一声，那张绵羊般和蔼可亲的脸上露出近乎愤慨的表情。
“目前乔治被照顾得很好，他还想要什么？我想知道。精美的食物，有人为他缝缝补
补。有一个你这么迷人的姑娘在身边让他很高兴，等有一天你嫁人了，我希望我还能继续
照顾他的起居和健康。我会做得跟一个办公室女郎一样好——或者更好。她懂什么家政？
数字、账簿、速记、打字——这些在一个男人的家里能派上什么用场？”
艾丽斯笑着摇了摇头，但并没有为此和姑妈继续争论下去。她在想露丝黑缎子般光滑
柔软的头发、洁白的皮肤，以及她爱穿的量身定制的衣服勾勒出的曼妙的身材。可怜的卢
西娜姑妈，她只想着生活舒适和料理家务，把浪漫远远抛在脑后，她可能已经忘了浪漫的
意义——真是这样，艾丽斯想起她的姑父，浪漫对他们来说确实向来都不重要。
卢西娜•德瑞克是赫克托•玛尔同父异母的姐姐。母亲去世后，她开始扮演小妈妈的角
色，照顾比她小很多的弟弟，帮助父亲料理家务。于是，她逐渐变成了一个十足的老处
女。她认识凯莱布•德瑞克牧师时已年近不惑，牧师也五十多岁了。她的婚姻生活很短暂，
只有两年，这之后她就成了寡妇，带着一个男孩生活。母亲这个角色来得很迟，且在意料
之外，但这是卢西娜•德瑞克最重要的人生经验。尽管日后儿子成了她焦虑的原因、忧伤和
经济问题的源头，但她从未失望过。德瑞克太太拒绝承认儿子维克多的一切恶行，只认为
他性格有些软弱。维克多太容易相信别人了——太容易被他轻信的坏同伴引入歧途。维克
多运气不好。维克多被人背叛了。维克多被人欺骗了。维克多被人操纵了，那些邪恶的家
伙利用了他的天真。每当有人批评维克多，她那张和蔼可亲、相当愚蠢的绵羊脸就会变得
固执。她了解她的儿子。他是个可爱的孩子，奋发向上，他的那些所谓的朋友利用了他。
没有人比她更清楚她的儿子有多么不愿意伸手向她要钱。可是当那个可怜的孩子真的陷入
了可怕的困境，他又能怎么样呢？除了她，他又不能求助别人。
正像她所承认的那样，在她就要被贫困逼得失去尊严时，乔治邀请她来同住，并照顾
艾丽斯，实在是上帝的恩赐。过去这一年，她的日子过得非常快乐舒适。此时一个自命不
凡的年轻女人可能要取代她的位置，面对这种情形，宽容对待是违背人性的。这个女人具
备现代的高效和能力，她说服自己，无论如何，她只是为了乔治的钱才想嫁给他的。当
然，她追求的就是这个！一个好家庭和一个富有、宽容的丈夫。你不能告诉卢西娜姑妈
——她都这么大岁数了——所有年轻女人都喜欢自力更生！女人还是一如既往的女人，能
找到一个让她们舒舒服服过日子的男人再好不过了。这个露丝•莱辛很聪明，善于钻营，并
逐步取得了乔治的信任。装修房子时她为乔治出谋划策，让自己变得不可或缺。不过谢天
谢地，至少有一个人看出了她的不良企图！
卢西娜•德瑞克点了几下头，柔软的双下巴随之晃动了几下。她挑起眉毛，一副智者的
模样。她抛开这个话题，换了一个同样有趣，而且可能更急迫的话题。
“我不知道该怎么处理那些毯子，亲爱的。不能就那么搁着，我不知道我们要明年春天
才回来，还是乔治还打算来度周末。他没说。”
“我猜他自己也不太清楚。”艾丽斯试着把注意力转移到一个似乎无关紧要的问题
上，“天气好的话，偶尔来一下也挺好，尽管我不是很想来。不过不管怎么说，如果我们真
想来，房子就在这儿。”
“是的，亲爱的，但是我想知道。因为你知道，如果明年才回来，毯子里必须放樟脑
丸，然后收起来。但如果还来这儿度周末就不必了，我们还会用到毯子，而且樟脑丸的味
道太难闻了。”
“哦，那就别放樟脑丸。”
“嗯，可是今年夏天太热了，有好多虫子。大家都说今年虫子多。当然，还有黄蜂。昨
天霍金斯告诉我，今年夏天他端了三十个黄蜂窝。三十个！你想想看。”
艾丽斯想着霍金斯，黄昏时分，昂首阔步地走出门，手里拿着氰化钾——氰化钾——
罗斯玛丽——为什么一切都会回到这上面来？
卢西娜姑妈那犹如涓涓细流一般的声音又响起了，现在她说到了不同的话题。
“该不该把银器送去银行保管？亚历山德拉夫人说这里有很多小偷，当然了，我们的百
叶窗很牢固。我不喜欢她的发型，让她的脸显得特别冷酷，不过我认为她就是个冷酷的女
人，而且神经过敏。现在每个人都神经过敏。我小的时候，人们都不知道神经是什么。我
想起来了，我不喜欢乔治最近的样子，他是不是要得流感了？有那么一两次，我怀疑他是
不是发烧了。也可能是生意上的事。你知道吗，他好像有心事。”
艾丽斯打了个冷战。卢西娜•德瑞克得意地叫了起来：“你看，我就说你着凉了吧。”
BOOK 2 Five
Five
The morning of November 2nd dawned wet and gloomy. It was so dark in
the dining room of the house in Elvaston Square that they had to have the
lights on for breakfast.
Iris, contrary to her habit, had come down instead of having her coffee
and toast sent up to her and sat there white and ghostlike pushing un-
eaten food about her plate. George rustled his Times with a nervy hand
and at the other end of the table Lucilla Drake wept copiously into a
handkerchief.
“I know the dear boy will do something dreadful. He’s so sensitive—and
he wouldn’t say it was a matter of life and death if it wasn’t.”
Rustling his paper, George said sharply:
“Please don’t worry, Lucilla. I’ve said I’ll see to it.”
“I know, dear George, you are always so kind. But I do feel any delay
might be fatal. All these inquiries you speak of making—they will all take
time.”
“No, no, we’ll hurry them through.”
“He says: ‘without fail by the 3rd’ and tomorrow is the 3rd. I should
never forgive myself if anything happened to the darling boy.”
“It won’t.” George took a long drink of coffee.
“And there is still that Conversion Loan of mine—”
“Look here, Lucilla, you leave it all to me.”
“Don’t worry, Aunt Lucilla,” put in Iris. “George will be able to arrange it
all. After all, this has happened before.”
“Not for a long time” (“Three months,” said George), “not since the poor
boy was deceived by those dreadful swindling friends of his on that horrid
ranch.”
George wiped his moustache on his napkin, got up, patted Mrs. Drake
kindly on the back as he made his way out of the room.
“Now do cheer up, my dear. I’ll get Ruth to cable right away.”
As he went out in the hall, Iris followed him.
“George, don’t you think we ought to put off the party tonight? Aunt Lu-
cilla is so upset. Hadn’t we better stay at home with her?”
“Certainly not!” George’s pink face went purple. “Why should that
damned swindling young crook upset our whole lives? It’s blackmail—
sheer blackmail, that’s what it is. If I had my way, he shouldn’t get a
penny.”
“Aunt Lucilla would never agree to that.”
“Lucilla’s a fool—always has been. These women who have children
when they’re over forty never seem to learn any sense. Spoil the brats
from the cradle by giving them every damned thing they want. If young
Victor had once been told to get out of this mess by himself it might have
been the making of him. Now don’t argue, Iris. I’ll get something fixed up
before tonight so that Lucilla can go to bed happy. If necessary we’ll take
her along with us.”
“Oh, no, she hates restaurants—and gets so sleepy, poor darling. And
she dislikes the heat and the smoky air gives her asthma.”
“I know. I wasn’t serious. Go and cheer her up, Iris. Tell her everything
will be all right.”
He turned away and out of the front door. Iris turned slowly back to-
wards the dining room. The telephone rang and she went to answer it.
“Hallo—who?” Her face changed, its white hopelessness dissolved into
pleasure. “Anthony!”
“Anthony himself. I rang you up yesterday but couldn’t get you. Have
you been putting in a spot of work with George?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, George was so pressing over his invitation to your party tonight.
Quite unlike his usual style of ‘hands off my lovely ward!’ Absolutely in-
sistent that I should come. I thought perhaps it was the result of some tact-
ful work on your part.”
“No—no—it’s nothing to do with me.”
“A change of heart all on his own?”
“Not exactly. It’s—”
“Hallo—have you gone away?”
“No, I’m here.”
“You were saying something. What’s the matter, darling? I can hear you
sighing through the telephone. Is anything the matter?”
“No—nothing. I shall be all right tomorrow. Everything will be all right
tomorrow.”
“What touching faith. Don’t they say ‘tomorrow never comes?’ ”
“Don’t.”
“Iris—something is the matter?”
“No, nothing. I can’t tell you. I promised, you see.”
“Tell me, my sweet.”
“No—I can’t really. Anthony, will you tell me something?”
“If I can.”
“Were you—ever in love with Rosemary?”
A momentary pause and then a laugh.
“So that’s it. Yes, Iris, I was a bit in love with Rosemary. She was very
lovely, you know. And then one day I was talking to her and I saw you
coming down the staircase—and in a minute it was all over, blown away.
There was nobody but you in the world. That’s the cold sober truth. Don’t
brood over a thing like that. Even Romeo, you know, had his Rosaline be-
fore he was bowled over for good and all by Juliet.”
“Thank you, Anthony. I’m glad.”
“See you tonight. It’s your birthday, isn’t it?”
“Actually not for a week—it’s my birthday party though.”
“You don’t sound very enthusiastic about it.”
“I’m not.”
“I suppose George knows what he’s doing, but it seems to me a crazy
idea to have it at the same place where—”
“Oh, I’ve been to the Luxembourg several times since—since Rosemary
—I mean, one can’t avoid it.”
“No, and it’s just as well. I’ve got a birthday present for you, Iris. I hope
you’ll like it. Au revoir.”
He rang off.
Iris went back to Lucilla Drake, to argue, persuade and reassure.
George, on his arrival at his office, sent at once for Ruth Lessing.
His worried frown relaxed a little as she entered, calm and smiling, in
her neat black coat and skirt.
“Good morning.”
“Good morning, Ruth. Trouble again. Look at this.”
She took the cable he held out.
“Victor Drake again!”
“Yes, curse him.”
She was silent a minute, holding the cable. A lean, brown face wrinkling
up round the nose when he laughed. A mocking voice saying, “the sort of
girl who ought to marry the Boss . . .” How vividly it all came back.
She thought:
“It might have been yesterday. . . .”
George’s voice recalled her.
“Wasn’t it about a year ago that we shipped him out there?”
She reflected.
“I think so, yes. Actually I believe it was October 27th.”
“What an amazing girl you are. What a memory!”
She thought to herself that she had a better reason for remembering
than he knew. It was fresh from Victor Drake’s influence that she had
listened to Rosemary’s careless voice over the phone and decided that she
hated her employer’s wife.
“I suppose we’re lucky,” said George, “that he’s lasted as long as he has
out there. Even if it did cost us fifty pounds three months ago.”
“Three hundred pounds now seems a lot.”
“Oh, yes. He won’t get as much as that. We’ll have to make the usual in-
vestigations.”
“I’d better communicate with Mr. Ogilvie.”
Alexander Ogilvie was their agent in Buenos Aires — a sober, hard
headed Scotsman.
“Yes. Cable at once. His mother is in a state, as usual. Practically hyster-
ical. Makes it very difficult with the party tonight.”
“Would you like me to stay with her?”
“No.” He negatived the idea emphatically. “No, indeed. You’re the one
person who’s got to be there. I need you, Ruth.” He took her hand. “You’re
too unselfish.”
“I’m not unselfish at all.”
She smiled and suggested:
“Would it be worth trying telephonic communication with Mr. Ogilvie?
We might get the whole thing cleared up by tonight.”
“A good idea. Well worth the expense.”
“I’ll get busy at once.”
Very gently she disengaged her hand from his and went out.
George dealt with various matters awaiting his attention.
At half past twelve he went out and took a taxi to the Luxembourg.
Charles, the notorious and popular headwaiter, came towards him,
bending his stately head and smiling in welcome.
“Good morning, Mr. Barton.”
“Good morning, Charles. Everything all right for tonight?”
“I think you will be satisfied, sir.”
“The same table?”
“The middle one in the alcove, that is right, is it not?”
“Yes—and you understand about the extra place?”
“It is all arranged.”
“And you’ve got the—the rosemary?”
“Yes, Mr. Barton. I’m afraid it won’t be very decorative. You wouldn’t
like some red berries incorporated—or say a few chrysanthemums?”
“No, no, only the rosemary.”
“Very good, sir. You would like to see the menu. Giuseppe.”
With a flick of the thumb Charles produced a smiling little middle-aged
Italian.
“The menu for Mr. Barton.”
It was produced.
Oysters, Clear Soup, Sole Luxembourg, Grouse, Poires Hélène, Chicken
Livers in Bacon.
George cast an indifferent eye over it.
“Yes, yes, quite all right.”
He handed it back. Charles accompanied him to the door.
Sinking his voice a little, he murmured:
“May I just mention how appreciative we are, Mr. Barton, that you are—
er—coming back to us?”
A smile, rather a ghastly smile, showed on George’s face. He said:
“We’ve got to forget the past—can’t dwell on the past. All that is over
and done with.”
“Very true, Mr. Barton. You know how shocked and grieved we were at
the time. I’m sure I hope that Mademoiselle will have a very happy birth-
day party and that everything will be as you like it.”
Gracefully bowing, Charles withdrew and darted like an angry dragon-
fly on some very inferior grade of waiter who was doing the wrong thing
at a table near the window.
George went out with a wry smile on his lips. He was not an imaginative
enough man to feel a pang of sympathy for the Luxembourg. It was not,
after all, the fault of the Luxembourg that Rosemary had decided to com-
mit suicide there or that someone had decided to murder her there. It had
been decidedly hard on the Luxembourg. But like most people with an
idea, George thought only of that idea.
He lunched at his club and went afterwards to a directors’ meeting.
On his way back to the office, he put through a phone call to a Maida
Vale number from a public call box. He came out with a sigh of relief.
Everything was set according to schedule.
He went back to the office.
Ruth came to him at once.
“About Victor Drake.”
“Yes?”
“I’m afraid it’s rather a bad business. A possibility of criminal prosecu-
tion. He’s been helping himself to the firm’s money over a considerable
period.”
“Did Ogilvie say so?”
“Yes. I got through to him this morning and he got a call through to us
this afternoon ten minutes ago. He says Victor was quite brazen about the
whole thing.”
“He would be!”
“But he insists that they won’t prosecute if the money is refunded. Mr.
Ogilvie saw the senior partner and that seems to be correct. The actual
sum in question is one hundred and sixty-five pounds.”
“So that Master Victor was hoping to pocket a clear hundred and thirty-
five on the transaction?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Well, we’ve scotched that, at any rate,” said George with grim satisfac-
tion.
“I told Mr. Ogilvie to go ahead and settle the business. Was that right?”
“Personally I should be delighted to see that young crook go to prison—
but one has to think of his mother. A fool—but a dear soul. So Master Vic-
tor scores as usual.”
“How good you are,” said Ruth.
“Me?”
“I think you’re the best man in the world.”
He was touched. He felt pleased and embarrassed at the same time. On
an impulse he picked up her hand and kissed it.
“Dearest Ruth. My dearest and best of friends. What would I have done
without you?”
They stood very close together.
She thought: “I could have been happy with him. I could have made him
happy. If only—”
He thought: “Shall I take Race’s advice? Shall I give it all up? Wouldn’t
that really be the best thing?”
Indecision hovered over him and passed. He said:
“9:30 at the Luxembourg.”
第二部 第二章
第二章
“我多么希望他们从没来过这里。”
桑德拉•法拉第以不同以往的尖刻口吻说，她的丈夫惊讶得禁不住扭过头来看她。他的
想法——他一直极力隐藏的想法——似乎被她诉诸了语言。这么说，桑德拉也有同感？她
也觉得住在公园另一侧，一英里外的新邻居毁了费尔黑文，破坏了这里的宁静吗？他一时
冲动，表达了自己的惊讶之情。
“没想到你也有这种感觉。”
她立刻——至少在他看来是立刻——恢复了平时的样子。
“在乡下生活，邻居非常重要。要么粗鲁，要么友善，不可能像在伦敦那样只当熟人，
保持距离。”
“是啊，”斯蒂芬说，“做不到。”
“现在我们遇到了一群不同寻常的邻居。”
他们沉默了，脑子里回想着午餐时的情景。乔治•巴顿很友善，甚至可以说是兴高采
烈，他们都意识到，他内心里涌动着一股兴奋的暗流。这些天，乔治•巴顿真的很古怪。罗
斯玛丽去世前，斯蒂芬没怎么注意过乔治。乔治•巴顿就像个布景，一个和善乏味的丈夫和
他年轻漂亮的太太。斯蒂芬从来没有因为背叛乔治而感到不安痛苦过。乔治是那种注定要
戴绿帽子的丈夫。他比罗斯玛丽大很多岁，缺少抓住一个迷人任性的女人所必需的魅力。
乔治一直蒙在鼓里吗？斯蒂芬不这么认为。他想，乔治很了解罗斯玛丽。他爱她，并且知
道自己有能力抓住太太的心。
但无论如何，乔治一定痛苦过……
斯蒂芬开始琢磨，对罗斯玛丽之死，乔治作何感想。
悲剧发生后，他和桑德拉有几个月没怎么见到他，直到他突然出现在小官府，成了他
们的近邻，再次闯进了他们的生活。这时，斯蒂芬才发现，他似乎不太一样了。
更活泼，也更积极了。还有——对了，太古怪了。
今天他就很古怪，邀请脱口而出。艾丽斯的十八岁生日派对，他特别希望斯蒂芬和桑
德拉都能参加。斯蒂芬和桑德拉在这里对他们太好了。
桑德拉立刻说，当然了，他们很愿意。不过回伦敦后斯蒂芬会忙得不可开交，她自己
也有很多讨厌的应酬，但她真心希望能参加。
“那我们现在就定个日子吧。”
乔治脸色红润、嘴角含笑、态度坚决。
“下下个星期的某一天吧——星期三，或者星期四？星期四是十一月二号。可以吗？不
行的话我们可以改到一个你们俩都方便的日子。”
这是那种逼着你非接受不可的邀请——缺少社交手腕的邀请。斯蒂芬发现艾丽斯•玛尔
的脸红了，露出尴尬的表情。桑德拉的表现好极了。既然推托不了，她便微笑接受，说那
个星期的星期四，十一月二号，他们俩都有空。
斯蒂芬突然用刺耳的声音说出他的想法：“我们不必去。”
桑德拉把脸微微转向他，面带关切思虑的表情。
“你认为没有必要去？”
“找个借口很容易。”
“他只会坚持换个时间，改日再去，他——他好像要我们非去不可。”
“我不明白为什么要这样。那是艾丽斯的生日宴，我不认为她那么渴望我们的陪伴。”
“是啊……是啊……”桑德拉似乎在想什么。
然后她说：“你知道这次宴会在哪儿举行吗？”
“不知道。”
“卢森堡餐厅。”
斯蒂芬惊得几乎说不出话来，血色从他的两颊退去。恢复镇静后他与妻子的目光相
接。是他的幻觉，还是她的直视真的意味着什么？
“这也太荒唐了。”他大叫起来，靠怒吼来掩饰真实的情绪，“在卢森堡餐厅，让一切重
演。那家伙一定是疯了。”
“我也是这么想的。”桑德拉说。
“这么一来我们当然要拒绝参加。那——那件事太令人不快了。你还记得那些报道吧
——报纸上的照片。”
“我记得那种不愉快的感觉。”桑德拉说。
“他不知道这么做很不礼貌吗？”
“他有理由这么做，你知道，斯蒂芬。他告诉我理由了。”
“什么理由？”
他暗自感激她说话时把视线从他身上移开了。
“午餐后他把我拉到一边，说想跟我解释一下。他告诉我，那个女孩——艾丽斯——还
没有从姐姐的死带来的震惊中完全恢复过来。”
她顿了一下，斯蒂芬不情愿地说：“哦，这应该是实话，她的气色糟透了。吃午饭的时
候我就想，她怎么看上去病怏怏的。”
“是啊，我也发现了。不过最近她的健康状况不错，情绪也很饱满。但我还没说完乔治
•巴顿都说了什么。他告诉我，自那天起，艾丽斯就尽量避免去卢森堡餐厅。”
“我并不觉得惊讶。”
“但他说这是不对的。他好像就这个问题咨询了一个神经科专家，那种现代的专家。专
家给他的建议是，无论遭受过怎样的打击，都必须面对，而不是回避。我想，这个原理就
像要立刻把经历过飞机坠毁的飞行员再送上天。”
“那个专家是不是建议再来一次自杀？”
桑德拉平静地回答：“他建议必须重建那家餐厅带给她的联想。毕竟，那只是一家餐厅
而已。他建议再举行一次平常且愉快的宴会，尽可能还让那些客人参加。”
“客人们还要很开心！”
“你很介意吗，斯蒂芬？”
他顿时警觉起来，急忙说：“当然不介意，我只是觉得这个主意很恐怖。我一点也不介
意……我真的是为你着想。如果你不介意——”
她打断他的话。
“我介意。非常介意。但乔治•巴顿邀请人的方式实在令人难以拒绝。毕竟那件事之
后，我还经常去卢森堡餐厅——你也是，总有人邀请我们去那里。”
“但不是在这种情况下。”
“对。”
斯蒂芬说：“就像你说的，难以拒绝。而且就算我们推迟这次约会，他也还会再邀请。
可是，桑德拉，你没有必要忍受这个。我去，你在最后一刻缺席——头疼、着凉了什么
的。”
他看见她的下巴抬了起来。
“那也太懦弱了吧。不，斯蒂芬，你去，我就去。毕竟……”她把手搭在他的胳膊
上，“无论我们的婚姻多么没有意义，至少也意味着我们要共渡难关。”
他瞪大眼睛看着她。她把这么一句尖酸刻薄的话说得如此轻松，像是在陈述一个早就
知道且不太重要的事实，搞得他哑口无言。
恢复镇静后，他说：“你为什么这么说，无论我们的婚姻多么没有意义？”
她稳稳地注视着他，双眼圆睁，目光坦诚。
“不是吗？”
“不是，一千个不是。我们的婚姻对我来说意味着一切。”
她露出微笑。
“我想是的——从某种意义上来说。我们是好搭档，斯蒂芬。我们齐心协力，得到了满
意的结果。”
“我指的不是这个。”他发现自己的呼吸越来越不顺畅了。他用双手握住她的手，紧紧
地握着。“桑德拉，你难道不知道你对我来说意味着整个世界吗？”
这一刻她突然知道了。不可思议，无法预知，但确实如此。
她在他的怀里，他紧紧地拥抱她、亲吻她，结结巴巴、语无伦次。
“桑德拉——桑德拉——亲爱的。我爱你……我一直很担心，担心会失去你。”
她听见自己说：“因为罗斯玛丽？”
“是的。”他放开她，后退了一步，表情沮丧，显得很可笑。
“你知道……罗斯玛丽的事？”
“当然。一直都知道。”
“你也理解？”
她摇头。
“不，我不理解。我不认为我应该理解。你爱过她？”
“没有。我爱的是你。”
痛苦的浪潮再次席卷她。她引述他说过的话：“从看见我的第一眼开始？别再重复谎言
了——因为这是谎言！”
斯蒂芬并没有被她突然发起的攻击吓到。他似乎在认真思考她的话。
“是，是谎言。但奇怪的是，它又不是谎言。我开始相信这是真的了。哦，桑德拉，请
试着理解吧。你知道，人们总是用高贵美好的理由掩饰他们卑鄙的行径吧？人总是在残忍
的时候说‘我必须说实话’，认为如此这般重复是他们的责任，实际是天大的伪君子，以至
于一辈子都深信每一个卑鄙可恶的行为都源于无私精神！试着理解一下，桑德拉，你会发
现与之相反的人也可能存在。愤世嫉俗，不相信自己，不相信生活，只相信自己的不良动
机。你是我需要的女人，至少这一点是真实的。而且现在回想起来，我真心相信：如果那
不是真的，我们绝不可能到现在。”
她恨恨地说：“你以前没爱上我。”
“没有。我以前谁都没爱过。我曾经是一个饥渴、无情、自傲的家伙。是的，这就是
我，基于我挑剔冷酷的天性！后来，我‘隔着一个房间’坠入了爱河——一种愚蠢的、猛烈
的、不成熟的爱。仿佛仲夏的雷雨，短暂、虚幻，很快就过去了。”他恨恨地补充了一
句，“真的是‘人生如痴人说梦，充满喧哗与骚动，却没有任何意义。’ [1] ”
他停顿了一下，继续说道：“就是在这里，在费尔黑文，我醒过来了，明白了真相。”
“真相？”
“我生命中唯一重要的是你，以及保有你的爱。”
“要是我知道……”
“你是怎么想的？”
“我以为你打算跟她私奔。”
“跟罗斯玛丽？”他大笑了一声，“那可真像被判了终身监禁！”
“她不想和你一起私奔吗？”
“是，她是这么想的。”
“后来发生了什么？”
斯蒂芬深吸了一口气。又绕回来了，再次面对无形的威胁。他说：“发生了卢森堡餐厅
的那件事。”
他们都沉默了，眼前浮现出同样的画面。一个漂亮的女人因氰化钾中毒而泛蓝的脸。
二人盯着死去的女人，然后——抬起头，四目相对……
斯蒂芬说：“忘了吧，桑德拉，看在上帝的分上，让我们忘了吧！”
“忘了没用。我们不被允许遗忘。”
迟疑了一下后，桑德拉又说：“我们该怎么办？”
“就像你刚才说的，面对现实——我们俩一起。参加这个可怕的聚会，不管他要干什
么。”
“你不相信乔治•巴顿关于艾丽斯的话？”
“不相信。你呢？”
“可能是实话。但即便是实话，也不是真正的原因。”
“你认为真正的原因是什么？”
“我不知道，斯蒂芬。但是我很害怕。”
“怕乔治•巴顿？”
“是的，我想他——知道。”
斯蒂芬尖厉地说：“他知道什么？”
她慢慢扭过头，直到与他对视。
她低声说：“我们不能害怕，我们必须有勇气——全部的勇气。你会成为一个大人物，
斯蒂芬——这个世界需要的人——任何东西都阻挡不了你。我是你太太，我爱你。”
“你认为这个宴会是怎么回事，桑德拉？”
“我认为是个圈套。”
他慢慢地说：“那我们还要往里钻？”
“我们不能表现出我们知道这是个圈套。”
“是，确实是这样。”
桑德拉突然仰天大笑，说：“使出你最卑劣的手段吧，罗斯玛丽，你不会赢的。”
他抓住她的肩膀。
“冷静，桑德拉。罗斯玛丽死了。”
“是吗？有时候——我感觉她就在眼前，活生生的……”
注释：
[1]出自《麦克白》第五场，原文为：Life is tale told by an idiot,full of sound andfury,signifying nothing.
BOOK 2 Six
Six
They had all come.
George breathed a sigh of relief. Up to the last moment he had feared
some last minute defection—but they were all here. Stephen Farraday, tall
and stiff, a little pompous in manner. Sandra Farraday in a severe black
velvet gown wearing emeralds around her neck. The woman had breed-
ing, not a doubt of it. Her manner was completely natural, possibly a little
more gracious than usual. Ruth also in black with no ornament save one
jewelled clip. Her raven black hair smooth and lying close to her head, her
neck and arms very white—whiter than those of the other women. Ruth
was a working girl, she had no long leisured ease in which to acquire sun
tan. His eyes met hers and, as though she saw the anxiety in his, she
smiled reassurance. His heart lifted. Loyal Ruth. Beside him Iris was un-
usually silent. She alone showed consciousness of this being an unusual
party. She was pale but in some way it suited her, gave her a grave stead-
fast beauty. She wore a straight simple frock of leaf green. Anthony
Browne came last, and to George’s mind, he came with the quick stealthy
step of a wild creature — a panther, perhaps, or a leopard. The fellow
wasn’t really quite civilized.
They were all there—all safe in George’s trap. Now, the play could be-
gin. . . .
Cocktails were drained. They got up and passed through the open arch
into the restaurant proper.
Dancing couples, soft negro music, deft hurrying waiters.
Charles came forward and smilingly piloted them to their table. It was
at the far end of the room, a shallow arched alcove which held three
tables—a big one in the middle and two small ones for two people either
side of it. A middle-aged sallow foreigner and a blonde lovely were at one,
a slip of a boy and a girl at the other. The middle table was reserved for
the Barton party.
George genially assigned them to their places.
“Sandra, will you sit here, on my right. Browne next to her. Iris, my
dear, it’s your party. I must have you here next to me, and you beyond
her, Farraday. Then you, Ruth—”
He paused—between Ruth and Anthony was a vacant chair—the table
had been laid for seven.
“My friend Race may be a bit late. He said we weren’t to wait for him.
He’ll be along some time. I’d like you all to know him—he’s a splendid fel-
low, knocked about all over the world and can tell you some good yarns.”
Iris was conscious of a feeling of anger as she seated herself. George had
done it on purpose — separated her from Anthony. Ruth ought to have
been sitting where she was, next to her host. So George still disliked and
mistrusted Anthony.
She stole a glance across the table. Anthony was frowning. He did not
look across at her. Once he directed a sharp sideways glance at the empty
chair beside him. He said:
“Glad you’ve got another man, Barton. There’s just a chance I may have
to go off early. Quite unavoidable. But I ran into a man here I know.”
George said smilingly:
“Running business into pleasure hours? You’re too young for that,
Browne. Not that I’ve ever known exactly what your business is?”
By chance there was a lull in the conversation. Anthony’s reply came de-
liberately and coolly.
“Organized crime, Barton, that’s what I always say when I’m asked. Rob-
beries arranged. Larcenies a feature. Families waited upon at their private
addresses.”
Sandra Farraday laughed as she said:
“You’re something to do with armaments, aren’t you, Mr. Browne? An
armament king is always the villain of the piece nowadays.”
Iris saw Anthony’s eyes momentarily widen in a stare of quick surprise.
He said lightly:
“You mustn’t give me away, Lady Alexandra, it’s all very hush-hush. The
spies of a foreign power are everywhere. Careless talk.”
He shook his head with mock solemnity.
The waiter took away the oyster plates. Stephen asked Iris if she would
like to dance.
Soon they were all dancing. The atmosphere lightened.
Presently Iris’s turn came to dance with Anthony.
She said: “Mean of George not to let us sit together.”
“Kind of him. This way I can look at you all the time across the table.”
“You won’t really have to go early?”
“I might.”
Presently he said:
“Did you know that Colonel Race was coming?”
“No, I hadn’t the least idea.”
“Rather odd, that.”
“Do you know him? Oh, yes, you said so, the other day.”
She added:
“What sort of a man is he?”
“Nobody quite knows.”
They went back to the table. The evening wore on. Slowly the tension,
which had relaxed, seemed to close again. There was an atmosphere of
taut nerves about the table. Only the host seemed genial and uncon-
cerned.
Iris saw him glance at his watch.
Suddenly there was a roll of drums—the lights went down. A stage rose
in the room. Chairs were pushed a little back, turned sideways. Three men
and three girls took the floor, dancing. They were followed by a man who
could make noises. Trains, steam rollers, aeroplanes, sewing machines,
cows coughing. He was a success. Lenny and Flo followed in an exhibition
dance which was more of a trapeze act than a dance. More applause. Then
another ensemble by the Luxembourg Six. The lights went up.
Everyone blinked.
At the same time a wave of sudden freedom from restraint seemed to
pass over the party at the table. It was as though they had been subcon-
sciously expecting something that had failed to happen. For on an earlier
occasion the going up of the lights had coincided with the discovery of a
dead body lying across the table. It was as though now the past was defin-
itely past—vanished into oblivion. The shadow of a bygone tragedy had
lifted.
Sandra turned to Anthony in an animated way. Stephen made an obser-
vation to Iris and Ruth leaned forward to join in. Only George sat in his
chair staring—staring, his eyes fixed on the empty chair opposite him. The
place in front of it was laid. There was champagne in the glass. At any mo-
ment, someone might come, might sit down there—
A nudge from Iris recalled him:
“Wake up, George. Come and dance. You haven’t danced with me yet.”
He roused himself. Smiling at her he lifted his glass.
“We’ll drink a toast first—to the young lady whose birthday we’re celeb-
rating. Iris Marle, may her shadow never grow less!”
They drank it laughing, then they all got up to dance, George and Iris,
Stephen and Ruth, Anthony and Sandra.
It was a gay jazz melody.
They all came back together, laughing and talking. They sat down.
Then suddenly George leaned forward.
“I’ve something I want to ask you all. A year ago, more or less, we were
here before on an evening that ended tragically. I don’t want to recall past
sadness, but it’s just that I don’t want to feel that Rosemary is completely
forgotten. I’ll ask you to drink to her memory—for Remembrance sake.”
He raised his glass. Everyone else obediently raised theirs. Their faces
were polite masks.
George said:
“To Rosemary for remembrance.”
The glasses were raised to their lips. They drank.
There was a pause—then George swayed forward and slumped down in
his chair, his hands rising frenziedly to his neck, his face turning purple as
he fought for breath.
It took him a minute and a half to die.
BOOK 2 Three
Three
Halfway across the Park Iris said:
“Do you mind if I don’t come back with you, George? I feel like a walk. I
thought I’d go up over Friar’s Hill and come down through the wood. I’ve
had an awful headache all day.”
“My poor child. Do go. I won’t come with you—I’m expecting a fellow
along sometime this afternoon and I’m not quite sure when he’ll turn up.”
“Right. Good-bye till teatime.”
She turned abruptly and made off at right angles to where a belt of
larches showed on the hillside.
When she came out on the brow of the hill she drew a deep breath. It
was one of those close humid days common in October. A dank moisture
coated the leaves of the trees and the grey cloud hung low overhead prom-
ising yet more rain shortly. There was not really much more air up here
on the hill than there had been in the valley, but Iris felt nevertheless as
though she could breathe more freely.
She sat down on the trunk of a fallen tree and stared down into the val-
ley to where Little Priors nestled demurely in its wooded hollow. Farther
to the left, Fairhaven Manor showed a glimpse of rose red on brick.
Iris stared out sombrely over the landscape, her chin cupped in her
hand.
The slight rustle behind her was hardly louder than the drip of the
leaves, but she turned her head sharply as the branches parted and An-
thony Browne came through them.
She cried half angrily: “Tony! Why do you always have to arrive like—
like a demon in a pantomime?”
Anthony dropped to the ground beside her. He took out his cigarette
case, offered her one and when she shook her head took one himself and
lighted it. Then inhaling the first puff he replied:
“It’s because I’m what the papers call a Mystery Man. I like appearing
from nowhere.”
“How did you know where I was?”
“An excellent pair of bird glasses. I heard you were lunching with the
Farradays and spied on you from the hillside when you left.”
“Why don’t you come to the house like an ordinary person?”
“I’m not an ordinary person,” said Anthony in a shocked tone. “I’m very
extraordinary.”
“I think you are.”
He looked at her quickly. Then he said:
“Is anything the matter?”
“No, of course not. At least—”
She paused. Anthony said interrogatively:
“At least?”
She drew a deep breath.
“I’m tired of being down here. I hate it. I want to go back to London.”
“You’re going soon, aren’t you?”
“Next week.”
“So this was a farewell party at the Farradays?”
“It wasn’t a party. Just them and one old cousin.”
“Do you like the Farradays, Iris?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think I do very much—although I shouldn’t say
that because they’ve really been very nice to us.”
“Do you think they like you?”
“No, I don’t. I think they hate us.”
“Interesting.”
“Is it?”
“Oh, not the hatred—if true. I meant the use of the word ‘us.’ My ques-
tion referred to you personally.”
“Oh, I see . . . I think they like me quite well in a negative sort of way. I
think it’s us as a family living next door that they mind about. We weren’t
particular friends of theirs—they were Rosemary’s friends.”
“Yes,” said Anthony, “as you say they were Rosemary’s friends—not that
I should imagine Sandra Farraday and Rosemary were ever bosom
friends, eh?”
“No,” said Iris. She looked faintly apprehensive but Anthony smoked
peacefully. Presently he said:
“Do you know what strikes me most about the Farradays?”
“What?”
“Just that—that they are the Farradays. I always think of them like that
—not as Stephen and Sandra, two individuals linked by the State and the
Established Church—but as a definite dual entity—the Farradays. That is
rarer than you would think. They are two people with a common aim, a
common way of life, identical hopes and fears and beliefs. And the odd
part of it is that they are actually very dissimilar in character. Stephen
Farraday, I should say, is a man of very wide intellectual scope, extremely
sensitive to outside opinion, horribly diffident about himself and some-
what lacking in moral courage. Sandra, on the other hand, has a narrow
medieval mind, is capable of fanatical devotion, and is courageous to the
point of recklessness.”
“He always seems to me,” said Iris, “rather pompous and stupid.”
“He’s not at all stupid. He’s just one of the usual unhappy successes.”
“Unhappy?”
“Most successes are unhappy. That’s why they are successes—they have
to reassure themselves about themselves by achieving something that the
world will notice.”
“What extraordinary ideas you have, Anthony.”
“You’ll find they’re quite true if you only examine them. The happy
people are failures because they are on such good terms with themselves
that they don’t give a damn. Like me. They are also usually agreeable to
get on with—again like me.”
“You have a very good opinion of yourself.”
“I am just drawing attention to my good points in case you mayn’t have
noticed them.”
Iris laughed. Her spirits had risen. The dull depression and fear had lif-
ted from her mind. She glanced down at her watch.
“Come home and have tea, and give a few more people the benefit of
your unusually agreeable society.”
Anthony shook his head.
“Not today. I must be getting back.”
Iris turned sharply on him.
“Why will you never come to the house? There must be a reason.”
Anthony shrugged his shoulders.
“Put it that I’m rather peculiar in my ideas of accepting hospitality. Your
brother-in-law doesn’t like me—he’s made that quite clear.”
“Oh, don’t bother about George. If Aunt Lucilla and I ask you—she’s an
old dear—you’d like her.”
“I’m sure I should—but my objection holds.”
“You used to come in Rosemary’s time.”
“That,” said Anthony, “was rather different.”
A faint cold hand touched Iris’s heart. She said, “What made you come
down here today? Had you business in this part of the world?”
“Very important business—with you. I came here to ask you a question,
Iris.”
The cold hand vanished. Instead there came a faint flutter, that throb of
excitement that women have known from time immemorial. And with it
Iris’s face adopted that same look of blank inquiry that her great-grand-
mother might have worn prior to saying a few minutes later, “Oh, Mr. X,
this is so sudden!”
“Yes?” She turned that impossibly innocent face towards Anthony.
He was looking at her, his eyes were grave, almost stern.
“Answer me truthfully, Iris. This is my question. Do you trust me?”
It took her aback. It was not what she had expected. He saw that.
“You didn’t think that that was what I was going to say? But it is a very
important question, Iris. The most important question in the world to me.
I ask it again. Do you trust me?”
She hesitated, a bare second, then she answered, her eyes falling: “Yes.”
“Then I’ll go on and ask you something else. Will you come up to London
and marry me without telling anybody about it?”
She stared.
“But I couldn’t! I simply couldn’t.”
“You couldn’t marry me?”
“Not in that way.”
“And yet you love me. You do love me, don’t you?”
She heard herself saying:
“Yes, I love you, Anthony.”
“But you won’t come and marry me at the Church of Saint Elfrida,
Bloomsbury, in the parish of which I have resided for some weeks and
where I can consequently get married by licence at any time?”
“How can I do a thing like that? George would be terribly hurt and Aunt
Lucilla would never forgive me. And anyway I’m not of age. I’m only
eighteen.”
“You’d have to lie about your age. I don’t know what penalties I should
incur for marrying a minor without her guardian’s consent. Who is your
guardian, by the way?”
“George. He’s my trustee as well.”
“As I was saying, whatever penalties I incurred, they couldn’t unmarry
us and that is really all I care about.”
Iris shook her head. “I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t be so unkind. And in any
case, why? What’s the point of it?”
Anthony said: “That’s why I asked you first if you could trust me. You’d
have to take my reasons on trust. Let’s say that it is the simplest way. But
never mind.”
Iris said timidly:
“If George only got to know you a little better. Come back now with me.
It will be only he and Aunt Lucilla.”
“Are you sure? I thought—” he paused. “As I struck up the hill I saw a
man going up your drive—and the funny thing is that I believe I recog-
nized him as a man I”—he hesitated—“had met.”
“Of course—I forgot—George said he was expecting someone.”
“The man I thought I saw was a man called Race—Colonel Race.”
“Very likely,” Iris agreed. “George does know a Colonel Race. He was
coming to dinner on that night when Rosemary—”
She stopped, her voice quivering. Anthony gripped her hand.
“Don’t go on remembering it, darling. It was beastly, I know.”
She shook her head.
“I can’t help it. Anthony—”
“Yes?”
“Did it ever occur to you—did you ever think—” she found a difficulty in
putting her meaning into words.
“Did it ever strike you that—that Rosemary might not have committed
suicide? That she might have been—killed?”
“Good God, Iris, what put that idea into your head?”
She did not reply—merely persisted: “That idea never occured to you?”
“Certainly not. Of course Rosemary committed suicide.”
Iris said nothing.
“Who’s been suggesting these things to you?”
For a moment she was tempted to tell him George’s incredible story, but
she refrained. She said slowly:
“It was just an idea.”
“Forget it, darling idiot.” He pulled her to her feet and kissed her cheek
lightly. “Darling morbid idiot. Forget Rosemary. Only think of me.”
第二部 第三章
第三章
他们走在公园里，艾丽斯说：“如果我不跟你一起回去，你会介意吗，乔治？我想散散
步。爬上修士山，再穿过林子下山。我这一整天头疼得很。”
“我可怜的孩子，去吧。我就不跟你去了——我下午要见一个人，我也不清楚他几点
到。”
“好的。下午茶时见。”
她猛地转了九十度，匆匆朝山腰上的一片落叶松林走去。
来到山顶后，她深吸了一口气。十月里常见的潮湿天气，树叶上蒙着一层阴湿的水
汽，头顶低垂着灰色的云层，这意味着不久后又要下雨了。山顶的空气并不比山谷里充
沛，即便如此，艾丽斯还是感觉可以更自由自在地呼吸了。
她坐在一根倒下的树干上，凝视着娴静地栖息在树木繁茂的小山谷里的小官府。小官
府左侧，费尔黑文庄园的砖墙呈现出一抹玫瑰红。
艾丽斯一手托腮，表情阴郁地看着风景。
身后轻微的沙沙声并不比树叶轻柔飘落的声音大，但她还是察觉到了，她猛地扭过
头，正好看见安东尼•布朗拨开树枝走出来。
她半生气地叫起来：“托尼！你每次出现的时候干吗老是像哑剧里的魔鬼？”
安东尼一屁股坐在她旁边，掏出烟盒递给她。她摇摇头，于是，他自己抽出一根烟点
上了。吸了一口后，他回答：“因为我就是报纸上说的那种‘神秘人’，我喜欢突然冒出来。”
“你怎么知道我在这儿？”
“凭借鸟一样的眼力。我听说你要和法拉第夫妇一起吃午饭，就在山腰上偷偷监视
你。”
“为什么你不能像一个正常人一样去家里？”
“因为我不是个正常人，”安东尼用震惊的口气说，“我很不寻常。”
“我想确实如此。”
他迅速地看了她一眼，然后问道：“怎么了？”
“没什么，真的没什么。至少——”
她停下了。
安东尼追问：“至少什么？”
她深吸了一口气。
“我在这儿待腻了。我讨厌这里。我想回伦敦去。”
“你们不是很快就要回去了吗？”
“下个星期。”
“这么说在法拉第家举办的是欢送会？”
“不是什么聚会。只有他们夫妇和一个老表哥。”
“你喜欢法拉第夫妇吗，艾丽斯？”
“不知道。我不认为我很喜欢他们，尽管不该这么说，因为他们真的对我们很好。”
“你觉得他们喜欢你吗？”
“不，我不觉得。我认为他们恨我们。”
“有趣。”
“是吗？”
“哦，我指的不是恨——如果真是这样的话。我指的是你用的字眼，‘我们’。我的问题
只针对你一个人。”
“哦，我懂了……我想，他们挺喜欢我的，以一种消极的方式。我认为让他们不自在的
是我们一家人住在他们隔壁。我们并不是他们的朋友——他们是罗斯玛丽的朋友。”
“是啊。”安东尼说，“就像你说的，他们是罗斯玛丽的朋友。不过我觉得桑德拉•法拉第
和罗斯玛丽并不是什么知心姐妹吧，她们是吗？”
“不是。”艾丽斯说。她略显忧惧，安东尼却平静地抽着烟。
过了一会儿，他说：“你知道法拉第夫妇最让我在意的是什么吗？”
“什么？”
“就是这个——他们是法拉第夫妇。我总是以法拉第夫妇想到他们，而不是斯蒂芬和桑
德拉。不是两个被国家法律和宗教誓约联系在一起的个体，而是一个不容置疑的、合二为
一的整体——法拉第夫妇。这样的夫妇可不比你认为的常见。他们俩有共同的目标、共同
的生活方式，一致的希望、恐惧和信念。奇怪的是，他们的性格又截然不同。我认为斯蒂
芬•法拉第是一个学识渊博，对外界的看法极为敏感，严重缺乏自信，又有点缺乏勇气的
人。相反，桑德拉的思维古板，能做出狂热的奉献，在不计后果这一点上勇气十足。”
“我一直觉得他，”艾丽斯说，“特别自大，而且愚蠢。”
“他一点也不蠢。他只是一个随处可见的、不快乐的成功者。”
“不快乐？”
“大部分成功者都是不快乐的。这就是为什么他们会成功——他们必须确保自己获得了
某种引人注目的东西，才能安心。”
“你的看法真不寻常，安东尼。”
“你仔细观察一下他们就会发现我说得对。快乐的人都是失败者，因为他们跟自己的关
系很好，什么都不在乎，就像我。通常，他们也很好相处——也像我。”
“你对自己的评价很高。”
“我只是在吸引你注意我的优点，以免你没注意到。”
艾丽斯大笑起来。她的情绪高涨起来，抑郁和恐惧一扫而光。她低头看了一眼表。
“去家里喝杯茶吧，让那几个人也享受一下你这讨人喜欢的交际方式。”
安东尼摇摇头。
“今天不行，我得回去了。”
艾丽斯猛地转过身面向他。
“为什么你从不去家里坐坐？一定有原因。”
安东尼耸了耸肩。
“这么说吧，我对接受款待的看法很特别。你姐夫不喜欢我——他已经把话说得很清楚
了。”
“哦，不要管乔治。如果我和卢西娜姑妈邀请你去——她是个老好人，你会喜欢她
的。”
“我相信我会喜欢，但我还是要拒绝。”
“罗斯玛丽在的时候，你常来。”
“那……”安东尼说，“很不一样。”
一只虚弱、冰冷的手触碰到了艾丽斯的心。她说：“你今天怎么会来这儿？来这边办事
吗？”
“非常重要的事——跟你有关。我想问你一个问题，艾丽斯。”
那只冰冷的手消失了。取而代之的是小心脏怦怦直跳，那种女人自古以来就知道的兴
奋的悸动。随着这种心跳，艾丽斯做出一副茫然探寻的神情，跟她曾祖母几分钟后说
出“哦，X先生，这也太突然了！”之前的表情一模一样。
“什么问题？”她将那张极为天真的脸转向安东尼。
他看着她，目光严肃，近乎严厉。
“如实回答我，艾丽斯。我的问题是，你信任我吗？”
她吃了一惊，没想到是这样的问题。他看出来了。
“你没想到我会问这个？但这是一个非常重要的问题，艾丽斯。对我来说，这是最重要
的问题。我再问你一遍，你信任我吗？”
她迟疑了一下，也就一秒钟，然后垂下眼帘，回答：“是的。”
“那我想再问你点别的。你愿不愿意去伦敦跟我结婚，不告诉任何人？”
她瞪大了眼睛。
“可是我不能！我就是不能。”
“你不能嫁给我？”
“不能像你说的那样。”
“但是你爱我。你爱我，对不对？”
她听见自己说：“是的，我爱你，安东尼。”
“但你不愿意和我在布鲁姆斯伯里的圣艾尔弗瑞达教堂结婚？我在这个教区住了几个星
期，随时可以合法结婚。”
“我怎么能做这种事呢？乔治会很受伤，卢西娜姑妈永远也不会原谅我。再说，我还没
到结婚年龄。我才十八岁。”
“你可以谎报年龄。我不知道未经监护人同意娶一个未成年人会受到怎样的惩罚。对
了，谁是你的监护人？”
“乔治。他也是我的受托人。”
“就像我刚才说的，无论我会受到怎样的惩罚，他们都不能解除我们的婚姻，这才是我
唯一真正在乎的。”
艾丽斯摇头。“我不能这么做。我不能这么无情。况且，为什么？这有什么意义？”
安东尼说：“这就是我为什么先问你信不信任我。无论我给出什么理由，你都必须相
信。这么说吧，这是最简单的方式。不过，没关系。”
艾丽斯怯怯地说：“如果乔治能多了解你一点就好了。现在就跟我回去吧，家里只有他
和卢西娜姑妈。”
“你确定？我以为……”他迟疑了一下，“上山的时候，我看见一个男人上了你家的车
道。滑稽的是，我确信这个人……”他停顿了一下，“我在哪儿见过他。”
“哦对，我忘了——乔治说他在等一个人。”
“我看见的那个人叫瑞斯——瑞斯上校。”
“很有可能，”艾丽斯表示同意，“乔治确实认识一个瑞斯上校。那天晚上他本来也要来
参加宴会的，后来罗斯玛丽——”
她停下来，声音颤抖。安东尼抓住她的手。
“别再想了，亲爱的。很难受，我知道。”
她摇摇头。
“我忍不住。安东尼——”
“嗯？”
“你有没有过这么一个念头——你想没想过……”她发现很难把心里的意思用语言表达
出来，“你有没有想过……罗斯玛丽可能不是自杀？她可能是……被人谋杀的？”
“我的老天，艾丽斯，你怎么会有这种想法？”
她没有回答，而是固执地问下去：“你从来没这么想过吗？”
“当然没有。罗斯玛丽当然是自杀的。”
艾丽斯什么也没说。
“谁给了你这样的暗示？”
有那么一刻，她很想把乔治说的那个不可思议的故事告诉他，但她忍住了。她慢悠悠
地说：“只是一个想法而已。”
“忘了吧，亲爱的小傻瓜。”他把她拉起来，轻吻她的脸颊，“亲爱的、病态的傻瓜。忘
掉罗斯玛丽吧。想着我就行了。”
第二部 第四章
第四章
瑞斯上校一边抽着烟斗一边若有所思地端详着乔治•巴顿。
乔治•巴顿还是个小孩子的时候瑞斯就认识他。巴顿的叔叔曾是瑞斯一家在乡下的邻
居。这两个男人相差二十多岁。瑞斯六十多岁，高大、挺拔，一副军人形象，面庞黝黑，
铁灰色的头发剪得很短，有一双精明的黑眼睛。
他们从没特别亲近过，但对瑞斯来说，巴顿依旧是“小乔治”，是早年间众多模糊的形
象中的一个。
此刻，他在想，他实在不知道“小乔治”是怎样的一个人。后来，他们短暂地碰过几次
面，彼此都没有发现太多共同点。瑞斯喜欢户外活动，骨子里是个扩张主义者——人生的
大部分时间在海外度过。乔治则显然是个城市绅士。他们的兴趣爱好迥然不同，见了面也
只是不冷不热地回忆往事，然后便陷入尴尬的沉默。瑞斯上校不善闲谈，可能就是上一代
小说家们偏爱的那种坚强而沉默的男子。
此时二人又陷入沉默，瑞斯上校在琢磨“小乔治”为什么坚持安排这次会面。他还在
想，这个人好像比一年前见面时有了某种微妙的变化。乔治•巴顿给他的印象一直是墨守成
规的——小心谨慎、讲求实际、缺乏想象力。
他想，这个家伙不太对劲，像猫一样神经质。他重新点了三次雪茄，这不像是原来的
巴顿。
瑞斯上校把烟斗从嘴里拿出来。
“好了，小乔治，遇到什么麻烦事了吗？”
“你说得对，瑞斯，是有麻烦事。我非常需要你的建议，还有你的帮助。”
上校点点头，等着他继续说下去。
“大约一年前，你本来要来伦敦和我们共进一次晚餐——在卢森堡餐厅。只是到了最后
一刻，你必须出国。”
上校又点了点头。
“南非。”
“在那次宴会上，我太太死了。”
瑞斯不自在地在椅子上动了动身子。
“我知道。在报纸上看到过。我没有提起此事，也没有安慰你，是不想再次唤起你的回
忆。但是，我很难过，老伙计，这你是知道的。”
“哦，是啊，是啊，这不是问题的关键。他们说我太太应该是自杀的。”
瑞斯抓住了关键词，他挑起双眉。
“应该？”
“你看看这个。”
乔治把两封信塞进他手里。瑞斯的眉毛挑得更高了。
“匿名信？”
“对。我相信上面说的话。”
瑞斯缓缓地摇头。
“这么做很危险。你会惊讶地发现，任何一件事，只要被报纸报道过，之后就总会有很
多充满恶意和谎言的信。”
“我知道，但这些信不是当时写的，而是在半年后。”
瑞斯点点头。
“这有点意思。你认为写信的人是谁？”
“不知道，我也不在乎。关键是我相信上面说的话。我太太是被人谋杀的。”
瑞斯放下烟斗，在椅子上坐直了一点。
“你为什么会这么认为？当时你就怀疑了吗？警方怀疑过吗？”
“事情发生的时候，我头昏脑涨，整个人都是蒙的。我接受了验尸的结论。我太太得了
流感，情绪抑郁。我没怀疑别的，只想到了自杀。那东西就在她包里，你知道。”
“什么东西？”
“氰化钾。”
“我想起来了。她就着香槟喝下去的。”
“是的。当时，一切似乎简单明了。”
“她说过要自杀吗？”
“没有，从来没有。罗斯玛丽，她热爱生命。”乔治•巴顿说。
瑞斯点点头。他只见过乔治的太太一次，他认为她是一个特别漂亮的笨女人，但绝不
是忧郁伤感的那类人。
“有没有关于心理状态的医疗证据什么的？”
“罗斯玛丽得流感的时候，她的私人医生——一个罗斯玛丽小的时候就给玛尔家看病的
老人——乘船旅行去了。是他的搭档，一个小伙子，在照顾她。我记得他说那种类型的流
感会导致严重的抑郁。”
乔治停顿了一下，继续说：“直到我收到这些信，我才去找罗斯玛丽的私人医生。当
然，我没跟他提这些信，只是谈了谈已经发生的事。他告诉我他非常惊讶，他说他永远也
无法相信。罗斯玛丽绝对不是一个会自杀的人。他说，这表明，无论你有多么了解一个病
人，他都有可能做出一反常态的事。”
乔治又停顿了一下，然后继续说：“跟他谈过之后，我才意识到我有多么不相信罗斯玛
丽是自杀的。毕竟，我很了解她。她时不时会特别不高兴，她会为某些事大发脾气，有的
时候她会做出非常鲁莽、欠考虑的事，但我从没听说她有过‘想摆脱一切’的念头。”
瑞斯有点尴尬地低声说：“除了精神抑郁，她还有别的自杀动机吗？我的意思是，她是
不是因为某件事不快乐？”
“我……不——她可能神经紧张。”
瑞斯避开朋友的目光，说：“她是不是一个很情绪化的人？你知道，我只见过她一次。
不过，有一种人……呃……可能会从自杀未遂中获得快感——通常是在跟人吵过架之后。
相当孩子气的举动——‘我要让他们后悔！’”
“罗斯玛丽没跟我吵过架。”
“好的。而且，我必须说，使用氰化钾这个事实排除了这种可能。所有人都知道，那玩
意儿可不能随意摆弄——不安全。”
“这一点也在理。就算罗斯玛丽考虑过自杀，也绝不会用这种方式吧？痛苦，而且丑
陋。她更有可能服用过量安眠药。”
“我同意。有没有她购买或者如何得到氰化钾的证据？”
“没有。不过，她曾经和几个朋友待在乡下，有一天，他们捅了个黄蜂窝。他们说她可
能就是在那个时候弄到氰化钾的。”
“是啊，弄到那个不是什么难事。很多园丁都有。”
上校顿了一下，然后说：“我来概括一下。没有确凿证据表明她有自杀倾向，她也没有
为自杀做过准备。整件事都极为不可能。现场可能没有指向谋杀的直接证据，否则警方一
定会掌握。你知道，他们很机警。”
“谋杀这个想法似乎都让人难相信。”
“但六个月之后，你又觉得不难相信了？”
乔治慢慢地说：“我想，我可能一直都不满意。我肯定下意识里一直有所准备，所以，
看到白纸黑字那么写着，就毫不怀疑地接受了。”
“好吧。”瑞斯点了点头，“好了，那就说说吧。你怀疑谁？”
乔治探身向前，他的脸很扭曲。
“这正是最可怕的地方。如果罗斯玛丽是被人杀死的，肯定是那天参加聚会的某个人，
我们的某个朋友干的。没有别的人靠近过那张桌子。”
“服务员呢？谁倒的酒？”
“查尔斯，卢森堡餐厅的领班。你认识查尔斯吗？”
瑞斯点点头。所有人都认识查尔斯。查尔斯故意毒死了一个客人，这太难以想象了。
“招呼我们那桌的服务员叫朱塞佩，我们跟他很熟，认识好几年了，每次我们去那儿都
是他服务的。是个令人愉快、性格活泼的小个子。”
“既然说到了宴会。参加的人都有谁？”
“斯蒂芬•法拉第议员、他的太太亚历山德拉•法拉第夫人。我的秘书露丝•莱辛。一个叫
安东尼•布朗的家伙。罗斯玛丽的妹妹艾丽斯，还有我。总共七个人。本来是八个人的，如
果你来的话。你在最后关头说来不了了，我们一时又想不出合适的人。”
“我明白了。好了，巴顿，你认为是谁干的？”
乔治大叫起来：“我不知道——我告诉你我不知道。要是我知道——”
“好了，好了。我还以为你有一个明确的怀疑对象。好了，应该不难。当时大家怎么坐
的？从你开始说。”
“桑德拉•法拉第坐在我右边，这是当然的。她旁边是安东尼•布朗。然后是罗斯玛丽。
然后是斯蒂芬•法拉第，然后是艾丽斯。然后是坐在我左边的露丝•莱辛。”
“我明白了。那天晚上出事之前你太太喝过香槟吗？”
“喝过。酒杯被共同斟满过几次。事情……事情发生在开始卡巴莱歌舞表演的时候。那
时周围很嘈杂——你知道那种黑人节目——我们都在看演出。灯光亮起之前，她扑倒在了
桌子上。她可能叫喊过，或者喘过粗气，但没有人听见。医生说是瞬间死亡的，这一点要
感谢上帝。”
“是啊，确实。好了，巴顿——表面上看，似乎很明显。”
“你的意思是？”
“当然是斯蒂芬•法拉第。他在她右边，她的香槟杯靠近他的左手。趁灯光转暗，所有
人的注意力都转向高台时，要把东西放进她的杯子里再容易不过了。我看不出谁还有更好
的机会。我知道卢森堡餐厅的桌子什么样，客人周围的空间很大。我很怀疑有人能探出身
子越过桌面而不被人发现，即使灯光被调暗了。同样的道理也适用于罗斯玛丽左边的人，
想在她的杯子里放点什么必须越过她。还有一种可能，但我们应该先从最明显的人着手。
斯蒂芬•法拉第议员必须除掉你太太的原因是什么？”
乔治像要窒息了，他说：“他们……他们曾经是相当亲密的朋友。如果……如果罗斯玛
丽，比如说，惹怒了他，他可能会想报复。”
“听起来也太情绪化了。这是你能想到的唯一的动机了？”
“是。”乔治说，他满面通红。
瑞斯瞄了他好几眼，然后继续说：“我们来研究一下二号可能性。一个女人。”
“为什么会是女人？”
“我亲爱的乔治，难道你没注意到？七个人参加的宴会，四女三男，就有可能有一两个
时间段，三对在跳舞，一个女人独自坐在桌旁。你们都跳舞了？”
“哦，是的。”
“好。那么，在卡巴莱歌舞表演开始之前，你记不记得有谁单独留在桌旁？”
乔治想了一会儿。
“我想——对了，艾丽斯是最后落单的那个，她之前是露丝。”
“你记不记得你太太最后一次喝香槟是什么时候？”
“我想想，她在跟布朗跳舞……我记得她回来后说累死了——他是个舞池高手。然后，
她喝光了杯子里的酒。几分钟后，乐队奏起了华尔兹，她……她和我跳舞，她知道我只会
跳华尔兹。法拉第和露丝，亚历山德拉夫人和布朗，艾丽斯坐在一边。接下来就是卡巴莱
歌舞表演。”
“那我们就来考虑一下你太太的妹妹。你太太的死有没有让她赚到钱？”
乔治有些不开心了。
“亲爱的瑞斯，这也太荒唐了，艾丽斯只是个孩子，还在上学呢。”
“我知道有两个女学生犯了谋杀罪。”
“艾丽斯绝对不会！她很爱罗斯玛丽。”
“没关系，巴顿，她只是有机会下手，我想知道她有没有作案动机。你太太，我相信，
是一个富有的女人。她的钱去哪儿了？留给你了？”
“没有，给艾丽斯了——信托基金。”
他解释了一番，瑞斯专心听着。
“很奇特。富有的姐姐和贫穷的妹妹。有些女孩会为此愤愤不平。”
“我相信艾丽斯从来没有怨恨过。”
“或许没有……但她确实有作案动机。我们尝试一下这个思路。谁还有作案动机？”
“没有——一个人都没有。罗斯玛丽一个仇人都没有。我确定。我调查过了，四处询
问，想把她的仇人找出来。我甚至买下了法拉第夫妇家附近的这栋房子，以便……”
他停了下来。瑞斯拿起烟斗，开始刮斗钵。
“你干吗不一五一十地告诉我呢，小乔治？”
“你什么意思？”
“显然，你有所隐瞒。你可以坐在这里维护你太太的名誉，也可以试着弄清楚她是否被
人谋杀，但如果后者对你来说比较重要的话，你必须和盘托出。”
一阵沉默。
“好吧，”乔治又像要窒息了，“你赢了。”
“你有理由相信你太太有情夫，对不对？”
“对。”
“斯蒂芬•法拉第？”
“我不知道！我向你发誓，我真的不知道！可能是他，也可能是另一个家伙，布朗。我
说不准，见鬼！”
“跟我说说这个安东尼•布朗。奇怪，我好像听过这个名字。”
“我对他一无所知。没有人了解他。这个家伙挺英俊的，也很风趣，但没有人知道他的
来历。他应该是个美国人，但说话的时候没有口音。”
“哦，也许大使馆那边有他的信息。你不知道哪个是她的情夫？”
“是啊、是啊，我不知道。我告诉你，瑞斯，她写过一封信——我……我后来检查了一
下吸墨纸。那是一封情书，没错，但是上面没写名字。”
瑞斯小心地把目光移开。
“哦，这给了我们一点继续查下去的线索。譬如亚历山德拉夫人，如果她丈夫跟你太太
有私情，那她也有份。你知道，她是那种直觉特别强烈的女人。寡言、深沉。必要时，这
种人会杀人。我们继续吧。那天有神秘的布朗、法拉第和他太太、小艾丽斯•玛尔。另一个
女人怎么样，露丝•莱辛？”
“露丝不可能跟这事有任何瓜葛。至少我想象不出来她会有什么动机。”
“你说她是你的秘书？她是怎样的一个女孩？”
“世界上最最可爱的女孩。”乔治满怀热情地说，“实际上，她是我们家的一员。她是我
的得力助手，我认识的人里面，没有一个人能让我给予更高的评价，或者完全的信任。”
“你很喜欢她。”瑞斯若有所思地注视着他。
“我很喜欢她。瑞斯，这个女孩绝对是个好人。我在各个方面都很依赖她。她是这个世
界上最忠诚、最可爱的人。”
瑞斯喃喃地说了句什么，听起来像是“嗯哼”，然后抛开了这个话题。他貌似不露声
色，其实脑子里已经为这个陌生的露丝•莱辛记下了一个十分明确的动机。他能想象这
个“世界上最最可爱的女孩”可能有一个非常确定的理由除掉乔治•巴顿太太。可能是贪图利
益——她可能已经把自己想象成第二任巴顿太太了，也可能她只是爱上了她的雇主，置罗
斯玛丽于死地的动机就在这里。
不过他温和地说：“我猜，乔治，你自己也有充分的动机。”
“我？”乔治目瞪口呆。
“是啊，你想想奥赛罗和苔丝狄蒙娜。”
“我懂你的意思。但是……但是，我跟罗斯玛丽之间不是那样的。当然，我爱慕她，但
我一直很清楚，有些事……我不得不忍受。她不是不喜欢我——她是喜欢我的。她很喜欢
我，而且一直对我很好。不过，当然啦，我是个无趣的人，这点我不否认。我不浪漫，你
知道。不管怎么说，我娶她的时候就认定人生不只是乐事。她也提醒过我。当然，真的发
生了，我还是会难受——但如果因此就说明我碰过她一根头发……”
他停了下来，然后用不同的声调说：“再说，如果是我干的，我何苦要翻旧账？我的意
思是，警方给出自杀的结论后，一切就尘埃落定了。我疯了才会旧事重提。”
“完全正确。这就是我为什么没有认真怀疑你，亲爱的伙计。如果你是一个成功的凶
手，收到这么两封信，你会默默地把它们丢进火堆里，并对此事只字不提。接下来，是我
认为整个事件中真正有趣的一点。信是谁写的？”
“嗯？”乔治吃了一惊，“我一点概念都没有。”
“你好像对这一点不感兴趣，但是我有兴趣。这是我问你的第一个问题。我想，我们可
以假定信不是凶手写的。就像你说的，一切都已尘埃落定，大家已经接受了自杀的说法，
他干吗还要破坏自己的计划呢？那么，是谁写的这些信？是谁有意再次搬弄是非？”
“仆人？”乔治大胆猜测。
“有可能。如果是这样，是什么仆人？他们知道什么？罗斯玛丽有心腹吗？”
乔治摇摇头。
“没有。当时我们有个厨娘，庞德太太，现在她也在。还有两个女仆，她们已经离开
了。她们在这儿待的时间不长。”
“好了，乔治，如果你想听我的建议——我猜你想听，那我必须仔细考虑一下。一方
面，罗斯玛丽的死已成事实，无论你怎么做都不可能让她复活了。如果说自杀的证据不够
充分，那么谋杀也一样。为了论证，我们先假定罗斯玛丽是被人谋杀的。你真的希望把整
件事都翻出来吗？这可能意味着公开很多令人不快的事，把家丑外扬，你太太的桃色故事
将成为众人的谈资——”
乔治•巴顿的面部肌肉抽搐了一下，他粗暴地说：“你建议我让那个下流坯逍遥法外
吗？那个法拉第，言辞浮夸，一心想着宝贵的事业，也许，他就是那个懦弱的凶手。”
“我只是想让你清楚会有怎样的后果。”
“我想了解真相。”
“好吧，既然如此，我应该带这些信去警察局。他们更能容易地查出写信者是谁，以及
那个人是否知情。不过，你要记住，一旦你开始追查这件事，就不能叫停了。”
“我不会去警察局的，所以才想见你。我要为凶手设个圈套。”
“你什么意思？”
“听我说，瑞斯，我要在卢森堡餐厅举办一次宴会，我想让你参加。还是那些人——法
拉第夫妇、安东尼•布朗、露丝、艾丽斯和我。我都安排好了。”
“你想干什么？”
乔治微微一笑。
“这是我的秘密。要是我事先告诉某个人，即使这个人是你，也会把我的计划搞砸。我
希望你带着不偏不倚的态度，来看看究竟会发生什么。”
瑞斯探身向前，声音突然变得尖厉起来。
“我不喜欢这个做法，乔治。这种书里的戏剧手段行不通。去找警察，没有谁比他们更
能干。他们知道怎么处理这些问题，他们是专业人士。破案时，业余表演不可取。”
“这就是我要你参加的原因。你不是业余的。”
“我亲爱的伙计，因为我为军情五处工作过？那你为什么还让我蒙在鼓里？”
“这一点是必需的。”
瑞斯摇摇头。
“抱歉，我拒绝。我不喜欢你的计划，也不想参与。放弃吧，乔治。”
“我不会放弃的，我都安排好了。”
“不要这么顽固不化。这种表演我比你知道得多一点。我不喜欢这个主意。行不通，甚
至很危险，你想过吗？”
“对某个人来说确实会有危险。”
瑞斯叹了口气。
“你不知道你在干什么。好吧，别说我没警告过你。我最后一次请求你，放弃这个疯狂
的念头。”
乔治•巴顿只是摇了摇头。
BOOK 3 Two
Two
Giuseppe Bolsano was a middle-aged man, slight with a rather monkey-
like intelligent face. He was nervous, but not unduly so. His English was
fluent since he had, he explained, been in the country since he was sixteen
and had married an English wife.
Kemp treated him sympathetically.
“Now then, Giuseppe, let’s hear whether anything more has occurred to
you about this.”
“It is for me very unpleasant. It is I who serve that table. I who pour out
the wine. People will say that I am off my head, that I put poison into the
wine glasses. It is not so, but that is what people will say. Already, Mr.
Goldstein says it is better that I take a week away from work—so that
people do not ask me questions there and point me out. He is a fair man,
and just, and he knows it is not my fault, and that I have been there for
many years, so he does not dismiss me as some restaurant owners would
do. M. Charles, too, he has been kind, but all the same it is a great misfor-
tune for me—and it makes me afraid. Have I an enemy, I ask myself?”
“Well,” said Kemp at his most wooden, “have you?”
The sad monkeyface twitched into laughter. Giuseppe stretched out his
arms.
“I? I have not an enemy in the world. Many good friends but no en-
emies.”
Kemp grunted.
“Now about last night. Tell me about the champagne.”
“It was Clicquot, 1928—very good and expensive wine. Mr. Barton was
like that—he liked good food and drink—the best.”
“Had he ordered the wine beforehand?”
“Yes. He had arranged everything with Charles.”
“What about the vacant place at the table?”
“That, too, he had arranged for. He told Charles and he told me. A young
lady would occupy it later in the evening.”
“A young lady?” Race and Kemp looked at each other. “Do you know
who the young lady was?”
Giuseppe shook his head.
“No, I know nothing about that. She was to come later, that is all I
heard.”
“Go on about the wine. How many bottles?”
“Two bottles and a third to be ready if needed. The first bottle was fin-
ished quite quickly. The second I open not long before the cabaret. I fill up
the glasses and put the bottle in the ice bucket.”
“When did you last notice Mr. Barton drinking from his glass?”
“Let me see, when the cabaret was over, they drink the young lady’s
health. It is her birthday so I understand. Then they go and dance. It is
after that, when they come back, that Mr. Barton drinks and in a minute,
like that! he is dead.”
“Had you filled up the glasses during the time they were dancing?”
“No, monsieur. They were full when they drank to mademoiselle and
they did not drink much, only a few mouthfuls. There was plenty left in
the glasses.”
“Did anyone—anyone at all—come near the table whilst they were dan-
cing?”
“No one at all, sir. I am sure of that.”
“Did they all go to dance at the same time?”
“Yes.”
“And came back at the same time?”
Giuseppe screwed up his eyes in an effort of memory.
“Mr. Barton he came back first—with the young lady. He was stouter
than the rest — he did not dance quite so long, you comprehend. Then
came the fair gentleman, Mr. Farraday, and the young lady in black. Lady
Alexandra Farraday and the dark gentleman came last.”
“You know Mr. Farraday and Lady Alexandra?”
“Yes, sir. I have seen them in the Luxembourg often. They are very dis-
tinguished.”
“Now, Giuseppe, would you have seen if one of those people had put
something in Mr. Barton’s glass?”
“That I cannot say, sir. I have my service, the other two tables in the al-
cove, and two more in the main restaurant. There are dishes to serve. I do
not watch at Mr. Barton’s table. After the cabaret everyone nearly gets up
and dances, so at that time I am standing still—and that is why I can be
sure that no one approached the table then. But as soon as people sit
down, I am at once very busy.”
Kemp nodded.
“But I think,” Giuseppe continued, “that it would be very difficult to do
without being observed. It seems to me that only Mr. Barton himself could
do it. But you do not think so, no?”
He looked inquiringly at the police officer.
“So that’s your idea, is it?”
“Naturally I know nothing—but I wonder. Just a year ago that beautiful
lady, Mrs. Barton, she kills herself. Could it not be that Mr. Barton he
grieves so much that he too decides to kill himself the same way? It would
be poetic. Of course it is not good for the restaurant—but a gentleman who
is going to kill himself would not think of that.”
He looked eagerly from one to the other of the two men.
Kemp shook his head.
“I doubt if it’s as easy as that,” he said.
He asked a few more questions, then Giuseppe was dismissed.
As the door closed behind Giuseppe, Race said:
“I wonder if that’s what we are meant to think?”
“Grieving husband kills himself on anniversary of wife’s death? Not that
it was the anniversary—but near enough.”
“It was All Soul’s Day,” said Race.
“True. Yes, it’s possible that was the idea—but if so, whoever it was can’t
have known about those letters being kept and that Mr. Barton had con-
sulted you and shown them to Iris Marle.”
He glanced at his watch.
“I’m due at Kidderminster House at 12:30. We’ve time before that to go
and see those people at the other two tables—some of them at any rate.
Come with me, won’t you, colonel?”
第二部 第五章
第五章
十一月二日早晨，潮湿又阴暗。艾尔维斯顿广场那栋房子的饭厅暗得要命，他们不得
不点着灯吃早餐。
艾丽斯一反常态地没让人把咖啡和吐司送到楼上去，而是面色苍白，如鬼魂一般坐在
餐桌旁，搅动着盘子里的食物，却一口没吃。乔治紧张地哗啦哗啦乱翻《泰晤士报》，桌
子那头的卢西娜•德瑞克用手帕捂着脸，泪如雨下。
“我知道我亲爱的孩子会做出可怕的事。他是那么敏感，要不是生死攸关，他是不会那
么说的。”
哗啦哗啦翻报纸的乔治突然说：“请不要担心，卢西娜。我说过我会处理的。”
“我知道，亲爱的乔治，你向来好心。可是，我真觉得稍一耽搁就是致命的。你说到的
那些查询都会耗费时间。”
“不，不会的，我们会尽快完成。”
“他说‘务必在三号以前’，明天就是三号了。万一我的宝贝儿子有个三长两短，我永远
不会原谅自己的。”
“不会的。”乔治喝了一大口咖啡。
“我还有一些债券——”
“听我说，卢西娜，把一切都交给我办好了。”
“不要担心，卢西娜姑妈，”艾丽斯插话道，“乔治会安排好一切，毕竟以前也发生过这
种事。”
“很久没有了。”“三个月。”乔治说。“自从这个可怜的孩子被他那群骗子朋友在那个可
怕的农场骗过以后就没再发生过。”
乔治用餐巾擦了擦胡子，站了起来。“高兴点儿，亲爱的，我这就让露丝拍电报
去。”他亲切地拍了拍德瑞克太太的后背，然后走出了房间。
他走到大厅时，艾丽斯跟了上来。
“乔治，你不认为我们应该推迟今晚的宴会吗？卢西娜姑妈这么心烦，我们最好留在家
里陪她。”
“当然不行！”乔治粉红色的脸涨得发紫，“为什么要让那个小骗子把我们的生活完全打
乱？这是敲诈勒索——纯粹的敲诈勒索。要是按照我的想法来，他一分钱也拿不到。”
“卢西娜姑妈永远不会同意这么做的。”
“卢西娜是个傻瓜，一直都是。这些有孩子的女人，过了四十岁还学不会理智。从小就
溺爱孩子，孩子要什么就给什么。如果让小维克多自己走出困境，没准儿他能成功。不要
跟我争辩，艾丽斯。今晚之前，我会处理好的，让卢西娜高高兴兴地上床休息。必要的
话，我们可以带她一起去。”
“哦，不，她讨厌餐馆，她一到那儿就困得不行，可怜的姑妈。她不喜欢餐馆的热气和
烟味，她会犯哮喘病的。”
“我知道，我就是说说。你去安慰安慰她，艾丽斯，告诉她一切都会好的。”
他转身出了前门。艾丽斯也慢慢转过身，向饭厅走去。这时，电话铃响了，她走过去
接电话。
“喂——谁？”她的脸色变了，无望的苍白转变成欣喜，“安东尼！”
“我是安东尼。昨天我给你打过电话，但没找着你。你是不是给乔治做了点工作？”
“什么意思？”
“哦，乔治非要邀请我参加今晚的宴会，完全不是他一贯的‘别碰我可爱的受监护人’的
态度！非让我去不可。我想也许是你耍了点手腕。”
“不……不——跟我一点关系都没有。”
“他自己改主意了？”
“也不是。是——”
“喂——你走了？”
“没有，我在呢。”
“你刚才说什么，怎么啦，亲爱的？我听到你在叹气。出了什么事？”
“没……没事。明天就好了。明天一切都会好的。”
“多么感人的信念。不是说‘明天永远不会来’吗？”
“别这样。”
“艾丽斯……出了什么事吧？”
“没有，没什么。我不能告诉你。我答应过人家，你懂的。”
“告诉我，亲爱的。”
“不……我真的不能说。安东尼，你愿意告诉我一件事吗？”
“如果我能。”
“你……你有没有爱过罗斯玛丽？”
迟疑片刻后是一阵笑声。
“原来是这么回事。有，艾丽斯，我曾经有那么一点爱上罗斯玛丽。她非常漂亮，你知
道。但后来有一天，我正在跟她聊天，看见你从楼上走下来，我对她的爱就立刻烟消云散
了。这个世界上除了你没有别人。这是冰冷清醒的事实。不要把这事放在心上，你知道，
罗密欧在被朱丽叶完全征服之前也爱过罗萨琳。”
“谢谢你，安东尼。我很高兴。”
“晚上见。今天是你的生日，对吗？”
“其实还差一个星期，不过，今天是我的生日宴会。”
“你好像不太热心。”
“是啊。”
“我想，乔治知道自己在做什么，但在我看来，这是个疯狂的想法，把宴会安排在同一
个地方……”
“哦，那之后我又去过几次卢森堡餐厅，自从……自从罗斯玛丽——我的意思是，避免
不了。”
“确实避免不了，而且其实也没什么。艾丽斯，我给你准备了一份生日礼物，希望你会
喜欢。再会。”
他挂断了电话。
艾丽斯回到卢西娜•德瑞克身边，争论、说服、让她放心。
乔治一到办公室就派人去叫露丝•莱辛。
当身穿雅致的黑外套和裙子、面带微笑的她平静地走进来时，他那因忧虑而紧蹙的眉
头舒展了一些。
“早上好。”
“早上好，露丝，又有麻烦了。你看看这个。”
她接过老板递来的电报。
“又是维克多•德瑞克！”
“是啊，这个该死的家伙。”
她拿着电报，沉默了一会儿。那个人大笑时，棕色瘦削的脸上——特别是鼻子周围
——会起皱纹。他嘲讽的声音和那句“那种应该嫁给老板的女孩……”——一切又逼真地回
到眼前。
她想：仿佛就在昨天……
乔治的声音把她拉回到现实中。
“我们把他送上船是大概一年前吧？”
她想了想。
“我想是的，对，我记得是十月二十七号。”
“多么令人惊异的女孩，记忆力真好！”
她在心里盘算了一下，她还有一个更好的理由记住这个日子。她是受了维克多•德瑞克
的影响，才在接起电话、听到罗斯玛丽漫不经心的声音后猛然发觉，她恨透了乔治的太
太。
“我想，我们是幸运的。”乔治说，“他在那里待了这么久，尽管三个月前费了我们五十
镑。”
“这次他要三百镑，这可是个大数目。”
“是啊。不过他拿不到那么多。我们得做一番例行调查。”
“我最好跟奥西尔维先生沟通一下。”
亚历山大•奥西尔维是他们在布宜诺斯艾利斯的代理商——一个冷静精明的苏格兰人。
“对，立刻发封电报。他母亲很激动，像往常一样，简直歇斯底里，搞得今晚的宴会都
成了难题。”
“要不要我陪她？”
“不用。”他坚决拒绝，“不用，真的。你必须在场。我需要你，露丝。”他握住她的
手，“你太无私了。”
“我一点也不无私。”她笑着提议，“值不值得跟奥西尔维先生用电话交流一下？也许今
晚之前问题就解决了。”
“好主意。值得花这个钱。”
“我这就去。”
她温柔地抽出手，走了出去。
乔治继续处理各种需要他关注的事情。
中午十二点半，他走出办公室，乘上出租车去卢森堡餐厅。
查尔斯，众人皆知且备受欢迎的领班走上前，笑容可掬且郑重地鞠躬欢迎。
“中午好，巴顿先生。”
“中午好，查尔斯。晚宴都准备好了吧？”
“我想您会满意的，先生。”
“同一张桌子？”
“凹室中间那张，对吧？”
“对。你记得多加一把椅子了吧？”
“都安排好了。”
“准备……迷迭香了吧？”
“是的，巴顿先生。但恐怕不太好看，您不想配上些红莓或者几枝菊花吗？”
“不、不，只要迷迭香。”
“好的，先生。菜单您过目一下。朱塞佩。”
查尔斯的拇指轻轻一弹，招来一个笑眯眯的小个子中年意大利人。
“巴顿先生的菜单。”
菜单呈上。
牡蛎、清汤、卢森堡招牌菜、红松鸡、糖渍蜜梨佐冰淇淋、培根鸡肝。
乔治漠不关心地扫了一眼。
“好、好，很不错。”
他递还菜单。
查尔斯把他送到门口，稍微压低声音说：“我可否多说一句……我们心存感激，巴顿先
生，您……又光临我们的餐厅了。”
乔治的脸上浮现出一丝微笑，更确切地说是一丝惨笑。他说：“我们必须忘掉过去……
不能沉湎于往事。一切都结束了。”
“您说得很对，巴顿先生。您知道我们当时有多么震惊、多么伤心吗。我衷心希望小姐
的生日派对快快乐乐的，事事都顺您的意。”
查尔斯优雅地鞠了一躬，退下去了，然后像只愤怒的蜻蜓，奔向在一张靠窗的桌旁做
错事的低级侍者。
乔治唇边挂着一丝冷笑走了出去。他不是那种想象力丰富到同情卢森堡餐厅的人。毕
竟，罗斯玛丽决定在这里自杀，或者某个人决定在这里杀死她，并不是卢森堡餐厅的错。
这对卢森堡餐厅来说太残忍了。但和大多数有想法的人一样，乔治只想到了这个。
他在他的俱乐部里吃了午饭，然后去开董事会。
回办公室的路上，他在公共电话亭打了个电话。走出电话亭时他松了一口气，一切都
已按计划安排好了。
他回到办公室。
露丝立刻走过来。
“维克多•德瑞克。”
“怎么样？”
“恐怕有大麻烦了。有刑事诉讼的可能。他盗用了公款，而且时间相当长。”
“奥西尔维这么说的？”
“对。早上我给他打了个电话，下午，就在十分钟前，他回了电话。他说维克多相当厚
颜无耻。”
“他就是无耻！”
“但他坚持说，如果钱还回去，那边就不会起诉了。奥西尔维先生见过高级合伙人，他
说的好像没错。实际金额是一百六十五镑。”
“这么说，维克多大师想从这笔交易中净赚一百三十五镑？”
“恐怕是这样。”
“好吧，反正我们看穿了他的把戏。”乔治用冷酷得意的口气说。
“我让奥西尔维先生着手办理，这样可以吧？”
“我很愿意看到这个骗子坐牢，不过，还得替他母亲着想。她是个傻瓜，但也是个可爱
的人。所以，维克多大师照旧能得逞。”
“你真是个好人。”露丝说。
“我？”
“我认为你是世界上最好的男人。”
他听了很感动，既高兴，又难为情。一时冲动，他抓起她的手吻了起来。
“最亲爱的露丝。我最亲爱的、最最好的朋友，没有你我可怎么办啊？”
他们靠得很近。
她心想：我本可以跟他一起快乐地生活。我本可以让他幸福，要不是……
他心想：我该采纳瑞斯的建议吗？该放弃整个计划吗？那样会比较好吗？
犹豫在他的心头盘旋了一会儿，然后飞走了，他说：“九点半，卢森堡餐厅见。”
BOOK 3 Three
Three
Mr. Morales was staying at the Ritz. He was hardly a pretty sight at this
hour in the morning, still unshaven, the whites of his eyes bloodshot and
with every sign of a severe hangover.
Mr. Morales was an American subject and spoke a variant of the Amer-
ican language. Though professing himself willing to remember anything
he could, his recollections of the previous evening were of the vaguest de-
scription.
“Went with Chrissie—that baby is sure hard-boiled! She said it was a
good joint. Honey pie, I said, we’ll go just where you say. It was a classy
joint, that I’ll admit—and do they know how to charge you! Set me back
the best part of thirty dollars. But the band was punk—they just couldn’t
seem to swing it.”
Diverted from his recollections of his own evening, Mr. Morales was
pressed to remember the table in the middle of the alcove. Here he was
not very helpful.
“Sure there was a table and some people at it. I don’t remember what
they looked like, though. Didn’t take much account of them till the guy
there croaked. Thought at first he couldn’t hold his liquor. Say now, I re-
member one of the dames. Dark hair and she had what it takes, I should
say.”
“You mean the girl in the green velvet dress?”
“No, not that one. She was skinny. This baby was in black with some
good curves.”
It was Ruth Lessing who had taken Mr. Morales’ roving eye.
He wrinkled up his nose appreciatively.
“I watched her dancing—and say, could that baby dance! I gave her the
high sign once or twice, but she had a frozen eye—just looked through me
in your British way.”
Nothing more of value could be extracted from Mr. Morales and he ad-
mitted frankly that his alcoholic condition was already well advanced by
the time the cabaret was on.
Kemp thanked him and prepared to take his leave.
“I’m sailing for New York tomorrow,” said Morales. “You wouldn’t,” he
asked wistfully, “care for me to stay on?”
“Thank you, but I don’t think your evidence will be needed at the in-
quest.”
“You see I’m enjoying it right here—and if it was police business the
firm couldn’t kick. When the police tell you to stay put, you’ve got to stay
put. Maybe I could remember something if I thought hard enough?”
But Kemp declined to rise to this wistful bait, and he and Race drove to
Brook Street where they were greeted by a choleric gentleman, the father
of the Hon. Patricia Brice-Woodworth.
General Lord Woodworth received them with a good deal of outspoken
comment.
What on earth was the idea of suggesting that his daughter—his daugh-
ter!—was mixed up in this sort of thing? If a girl couldn’t go out with her
fiancé to dine in a restaurant without being subjected to annoyance by de-
tectives and Scotland Yard, what was England coming to? She didn’t even
know these people what was their name—Hubbard—Barton? Some City
fellow or other! Showed you couldn’t be too careful where you went—Lux-
embourg was always supposed to be all right—but apparently this was the
second time a thing of this sort had happened there. Gerald must be a fool
to have taken Pat there—these young men thought they knew everything.
But in any case he wasn’t going to have his daughter badgered and bullied
and cross-questioned—not without a solicitor’s say so. He’d ring up old
Anderson in Lincoln’s Inn and ask him—
Here the general paused abruptly and staring at Race said, “Seen you
somewhere. Now where—?”
Race’s answer was immediate and came with a smile.
“Badderpore. 1923.”
“By Jove,” said the general. “If it isn’t Johnny Race! What are you doing
mixed up in this show?”
Race smiled.
“I was with Chief Inspector Kemp when the question of interviewing
your daughter came up. I suggested it would be much pleasanter for her if
Inspector Kemp came round here than if she had to come down to Scot-
land Yard, and I thought I’d come along too.”
“Oh—er—well, very decent, of you, Race.”
“We naturally wanted to upset the young lady as little as possible,” put
in Chief Inspector Kemp.
But at this moment the door opened and Miss Patricia Brice-Woodworth
walked in and took charge of the situation with the coolness and detach-
ment of the very young.
“Hallo,” she said. “You’re from Scotland Yard, aren’t you? About last
night? I’ve been longing for you to come. Is father being tiresome? Now
don’t, daddy—you know what the doctor said about your blood pressure.
Why you want to get into such states about everything, I can’t think. I’ll
just take the inspectors or superintendents or whatever they are into my
room and I’ll send Walters to you with a whisky and soda.”
The general had a choleric desire to express himself in several blistering
ways at once, but only succeeded in saying, “Old friend of mine, Major
Race,” at which introduction, Patricia lost interest in Race and bent a be-
atific smile on Chief Inspector Kemp.
With cool generalship, she shepherded them out of the room and into
her own sitting room, firmly shutting her father in his study.
“Poor daddy,” she observed. “He will fuss. But he’s quite easy to manage
really.”
The conversation then proceeded on most amicable lines but with very
little result.
“It’s maddening really,” said Patricia. “Probably the only chance in my
life that I shall ever have of being right on the spot when a murder was
done—it is a murder, isn’t it? The papers were very cautious and vague,
but I said to Gerry on the telephone that it must be murder. Think of it, a
murder done right close by me and I wasn’t even looking!”
The regret in her voice was unmistakable.
It was evident enough that, as the chief inspector had gloomily pro-
gnosticated, the two young people who had got engaged only a week pre-
viously had had eyes only for each other.
With the best will in the world, a few personalities were all that Patricia
Brice-Woodworth could muster.
“Sandra Farraday was looking very smart, but then she always does.
That was a Schiaparelli model she had on.”
“You know her?” Race asked.
Patricia shook her head.
“Only by sight. He looks rather a bore, I always think. So pompous, like
most politicians.”
“Did you know any of the others by sight?”
She shook her head.
“No, I’d never seen any of them before—at least I don’t think so. In fact, I
don’t suppose I would have noticed Sandra Farraday if it hadn’t been for
the Schiaparelli.”
“And you’ll find,” said Chief Inspector Kemp grimly as they left the
house, “that Master Tollington will be exactly the same—only there won’t
even have been a Skipper—skipper what—sounds like a sardine—to at-
tract his attention.”
“I don’t suppose,” agreed Race, “that the cut of Stephen Farraday’s dress
suit will have caused him any heart pangs.”
“Oh, well,” said the inspector. “Let’s try Christine Shannon. Then we’ll
have finished with the outside chances.”
Miss Shannon was, as Chief Inspector Kemp had stated, a blonde lovely.
The bleached hair, carefully arranged, swept back from a soft vacant
baby-like countenance. Miss Shannon might be as Inspector Kemp had af-
firmed, dumb — but she was eminently easy to look at, and a certain
shrewdness in the large baby-blue eyes indicated that her dumbness only
extended in intellectual directions and that where horse sense and a
knowledge of finance were indicated, Christine Shannon was right on the
spot.
She received the two men with the utmost sweetness, pressing drinks
upon them and when these were refused, urging cigarettes. Her flat was
small and cheaply modernistic.
“I’d just love to be able to help you, chief inspector. Do ask me any ques-
tions you like.”
Kemp led off with a few conventional questions about the bearing and
demeanour of the party at the centre table.
At once Christine showed herself to be an unusually keen and shrewd
observer.
“The party wasn’t going well—you could see that. Stiff as stiff could be. I
felt quite sorry for the old boy—the one who was giving it. Going all out he
was to try and make things go—and just as nervous as a cat on wires—but
all he could do didn’t seem to cut any ice. The tall woman he’d got on his
right was as stiff as though she’d swallowed the poker and the kid on his
left was just mad, you could see, because she wasn’t sitting next to the
nice-looking dark boy opposite. As for the tall fair fellow next to her he
looked as though his tummy was out of order, ate his food as though he
thought it would choke him. The woman next to him was doing her best,
she pegged away at him, but she looked rather as though she had the
jumps herself.”
“You seem to have been able to notice a great deal, Miss Shannon,” said
Colonel Race.
“I’ll let you into a secret. I wasn’t being so much amused myself. I’d been
out with that boyfriend of mine three nights running, and was I getting
tired of him! He was all out for seeing London—especially what he called
the classy spots—and I will say for him he wasn’t mean. Champagne every
time. We went to the Compradour and the Mille Fleurs and finally the
Luxembourg, and I’ll say he enjoyed himself. In a way it was kind of
pathetic. But his conversation wasn’t what you’d call interesting. Just long
histories of business deals he’d put through in Mexico and most of those I
heard three times—and going on to all the dames he’d known and how
mad they were about him. A girl gets kind of tired listening after a while
and you’ll admit that Pedro is nothing much to look at—so I just concen-
trated on the eats and let my eyes roam round.”
“Well, that’s excellent from our point of view, Miss Shannon,” said the
chief inspector. “And I can only hope that you will have seen something
that may help us solve our problem.”
Christine shook her blonde head.
“I’ve no idea who bumped the old boy off—no idea at all. He just took a
drink of champagne, went purple in the face and sort of collapsed.”
“Do you remember when he had last drunk from his glass before that?”
The girl reflected.
“Why—yes—it was just after the cabaret. The lights went up and he
picked up his glass and said something and the others did it too. Seemed to
me it was a toast of some kind.”
The chief inspector nodded.
“And then?”
“Then the music began and they all got up and went off to dance, push-
ing their chairs back and laughing. Seemed to get warmed up for the first
time. Wonderful what champagne will do for the stickiest parties.”
“They all went together—leaving the table empty?”
“Yes.”
“And no one touched Mr. Barton’s glass.”
“No one at all.” Her reply came promptly. “I’m perfectly certain of that.”
“And no one—no one at all came near the table while they were away.”
“No one—except the waiter, of course.”
“A waiter? Which waiter?”
“One of the half-fledged ones with an apron, round about sixteen. Not
the real waiter. He was an obliging little fellow rather like a monkey—
Italian I guess he was.”
Chief Inspector Kemp acknowledged this description of Giuseppe Bols-
ano with a nod of the head.
“And what did he do, this young waiter? He filled up the glasses?”
Christine shook her head.
“Oh, no. He didn’t touch anything on the table. He just picked up an
evening bag that one of the girls had dropped when they all got up.”
“Whose bag was it?”
Christine took a minute or two to think. Then she said:
“That’s right. It was the kid’s bag—a green and gold thing. The other two
women had black bags.”
“What did the waiter do with the bag?”
Christine looked surprised.
“He just put it back on the table, that’s all.”
“You’re quite sure he didn’t touch any of the glasses?”
“Oh, no. He just dropped the bag down very quick and ran off because
one of the real waiters was hissing at him to go somewhere or get some-
thing and everything was going to be his fault!”
“And that’s the only time anyone went near the table?”
“That’s right.”
“But of course someone might have gone to the table without your noti-
cing?”
But Christine shook her head very determinedly.
“No, I’m quite sure they didn’t. You see Pedro had been called to the tele-
phone and hadn’t got back yet, so I had nothing to do but look around and
feel bored. I’m pretty good at noticing things and from where I was sitting
there wasn’t much else to see but the empty table next to us.”
Race asked:
“Who came back first to the table?”
“The girl in green and the old boy. They sat down and then the fair man
and the girl in black came back and after them the haughty piece of goods
and the good-looking dark boy. Some dancer, he was. When they were all
back and the waiter was warming up a dish like mad on the spirit lamp,
the old boy leaned forward and made a kind of speech and then they all
picked up their glasses again. And then it happened.” Christine paused
and added brightly, “Awful, wasn’t it? Of course I thought it was a stroke.
My aunt had a stroke and she went down just like that. Pedro came back
just then and I said, ‘Look, Pedro, that man’s had a stroke.’ And all Pedro
would say was, ‘Just passing out—just passing out—that’s all’ which was
about what he was doing. I had to keep my eye on him. They don’t like you
passing out at a place like the Luxembourg. That’s why I don’t like Dagoes.
When they’ve drunk too much they’re not a bit refined anymore—a girl
never knows what unpleasantness she may be let in for.” She brooded for
a moment and then glancing at a showy looking bracelet on her right
wrist, she added, “Still, I must say they’re generous enough.”
Gently distracting her from the trials and compensations of a girl’s exist-
ence Kemp took her through her story once more.
“That’s our last chance of outside help gone,” he said to Race when they
had left Miss Shannon’s flat. “And it would have been a good chance if it
had come off. That girl’s the right kind of witness. Sees things and remem-
bers them accurately. If there had been anything to see, she’d have seen it.
So the answer is that there wasn’t anything to see. It’s incredible. It’s a
conjuring trick! George Barton drinks champagne and goes and dances.
He comes back, drinks from the same glass that no one has touched and
Hey Presto it’s full of cyanide. It’s crazy — I tell you — it couldn’t have
happened except that it did.”
He stopped a minute.
“That waiter. The little boy. Giuseppe never mentioned him. I might
look into that. After all, he’s the one person who was near the table whilst
they were all away dancing. There might be something in it.”
Race shook his head.
“If he’d put anything in Barton’s glass, that girl would have seen him.
She’s a born observer of detail. Nothing to think about inside her head and
so she uses her eyes. No, Kemp, there must be some quite simple explana-
tion if only we could get it.”
“Yes, there’s one. He dropped it in himself.”
“I’m beginning to believe that that is what happened—that it’s the only
thing that can have happened. But if so, Kemp, I’m convinced he didn’t
know it was cyanide.”
“You mean someone gave it to him? Told him it was for indigestion or
blood pressure—something like that?”
“It could be.”
“Then who was the someone? Not either of the Farradays.”
“That would certainly seem unlikely.”
“And I’d say Mr. Anthony Browne is equally unlikely. That leaves us two
people—an affectionate sister-in-law—”
“And a devoted secretary.”
Kemp looked at him.
“Yes—she could have planted something of the kind on him—I’m due
now to go to Kidderminster House—What about you? Going round to see
Miss Marle?”
“I think I’ll go and see the other one—at the office. Condolences of an old
friend. I might take her out to lunch.”
“So that is what you think.”
“I don’t think anything yet. I’m casting about for spoor.”
“You ought to see Iris Marle, all the same.”
“I’m going to see her—but I’d rather go to the house first when she isn’t
there. Do you know why, Kemp?”
“I’m sure I couldn’t say.”
“Because there’s someone there who twitters—twitters like a little bird
. . . A little bird told me—was a saying of my youth. It’s very true, Kemp—
these twitterers can tell one a lot if one just lets them—twitter!”
第二部 第六章
第六章
大家都来了。
乔治松了一口气。直到最后一刻，他还在担心有人会食言，还好，他们都来了。斯蒂
芬•法拉第，壮实呆板，做派有点浮夸。桑德拉•法拉第穿一件丝绒长袍，戴着一串绿宝石项
链。这个女人有教养，这一点毫无疑问。她的态度自然、不做作，或许比往常更亲切一
些。露丝依旧穿着黑色的衣服，除了一只镶了珠宝的发夹，没有其他饰物。她乌黑的头发
光泽顺帖，脖子和手臂雪白——比其他女人都白。露丝是职业女性，没有大把闲暇时间悠
闲地把自己晒黑。他的目光与她的相遇，她好像看出了他眼中的焦虑，于是对他微微一
笑，让他放心。他的心情振奋起来了。忠诚的露丝。他身旁的艾丽斯不太正常，沉默不
语。她知道这是一次非同寻常的聚会，而且只有她一个人表露出来了。她面色苍白，但从
某种意义上来说，这恰好适合她，给人一种稳重的美感。她穿了一条样式简单的叶绿色直
筒连衣裙。安东尼•布朗是最后一个到的，在乔治眼中，他的步子迅捷无声，好似某种野生
动物——黑豹，或者美洲豹，这家伙实在不太文明。
人都到齐了——都安全落入了乔治设下的圈套。现在，好戏就要开演了……
喝完鸡尾酒，他们起身穿过拱门，走进餐厅。
跳舞的男女，轻柔的黑人音乐，敏捷熟练地穿梭其间的侍者。
查尔斯走向前，笑容满面地引导他们入座。房间的另一端，一个带拱门的凹室里摆着
三张桌子——正中间一张大桌，两边各有一张两人坐的小桌。一个面色病黄的外国人和一
个金发美女占用了一张，另一张桌旁则坐着一对身材瘦弱的年轻男女。正中间那桌是乔治•
巴顿为此次聚会预定的。
乔治亲切地请大家入座。
“桑德拉，你坐这儿，我右边，好吗？布朗挨着她。艾丽斯，亲爱的，这是为你举行的
宴会，我必须请你坐在我身边。你坐她旁边，法拉第。然后是你，露丝——”
他迟疑了一下——露丝和安东尼之间有一把椅子空着，桌旁摆了七把椅子。
“我的朋友瑞斯可能要晚点到。他说不必等他，他不一定什么时候来。我想让大家认识
一下他，他是个挺棒的家伙，周游世界，可以给你们讲一大堆奇闻逸事。”
艾丽斯坐下来时心里一阵愤怒，乔治是故意这么干的——把她和安东尼分开。露丝应
该坐在她这个位置上——她老板身边。看来乔治还是不喜欢、不信任安东尼。
她偷偷隔着桌子瞄了一眼安东尼，后者皱着眉头，没看她。安东尼用锐利的眼神斜了
一眼身旁的空座，说：“很高兴您又邀请了一位男士，巴顿先生。我可能要早点走，刚才碰
上了一个熟人，推托不掉。”
乔治微笑道：“空闲时间还忙正事吗？布朗先生，您还年轻，不必如此。我还不知道您
到底是做哪一行的呢。”
谈话意外中断。安东尼的回答审慎且冷静。
“有组织的犯罪，巴顿。只要有人问起，我都会这么说。有预谋的抢劫、有特色的盗
窃，以及上门伺候各个家庭。”
桑德拉•法拉第笑着说：“您是做军火生意的吧，布朗先生？时下的军火商可是反派人
物。”
艾丽斯看到安东尼惊讶地睁大了眼睛，然后满不在乎地说：“你可不要出卖我，亚历山
德拉夫人，这可是秘不可宣的事。到处都是外国间谍，不能口无遮拦。”
说完他假装严肃地摇了摇头。
服务员拿走了牡蛎盘。斯蒂芬问艾丽斯想不想跳舞。
过了一会儿，他们都跳起舞来。气氛轻松了一些。
很快就轮到艾丽斯与安东尼共舞了。
她说：“乔治太恶劣了，不让我们俩坐在一起。”
“不，他太仁慈了。我正好可以隔着桌子随时看你。”
“你不会真要早走吧？”
“也许。”他又立刻说，“你知道瑞斯上校要来吗？”
“不知道，一点都不知道。”
“太奇怪了。”
“你认识他？哦，对了，那天你说过。”她又说，“他是个怎样的人？”
“没人了解。”
他们回到桌上。夜越来越深了，原本已消散的不安感又聚拢起来。席上弥漫着紧张的
气氛，只有主人看起来和蔼可亲、无忧无虑。
艾丽斯注意到他看了一下表。
忽然，一阵鼓声响起，灯光暗了下去，餐厅里又升起一座舞台。大家把椅子稍微向后
推了推，侧身坐。三对男女占据了舞池，他们后面跟着一个会发出各种声响的男人。火车
声、蒸汽压路机声、飞机声、缝纫机声、牛的咳嗽声。他表演得很成功。接下来，兰尼和
弗洛表演舞蹈，与其说是舞蹈，不如说是空中飞人。掌声更热烈了。然后是卢森堡六重
奏。灯光再次亮了起来。
所有人都眨了眨眼睛。
与此同时，大家似乎都突然从束缚中解放出来了，似乎都下意识地期待着什么，结果
什么也没发生。因为上次灯光亮起时，他们发现一具死尸趴在桌子上。此刻，过去似乎真
的过去了——湮没无踪了。一场过去的悲剧的阴影消失了。
桑德拉愉快地转向安东尼。斯蒂芬观察着艾丽斯，露丝探身向前加入他。只有乔治坐
在那儿，瞪着眼睛盯着对面那把空椅子，椅子前面的那个地方，杯子里有香槟酒。随时会
有人来，坐在那里——
艾丽斯用胳膊肘碰了他一下，唤醒他。
“醒醒，乔治，跳舞去吧。你还没跟我跳过呢。”
他站起身，对她微笑，举起杯。
“我们先来干一杯——敬这位过生日的姑娘。艾丽斯•玛尔，祝你永远健康！”
大家笑着喝了这杯酒，然后全部起身跳舞，乔治和艾丽斯，斯蒂芬和露丝，安东尼和
桑德拉。
这是一支轻快的爵士舞曲。
他们又一起说说笑笑地回来坐下。突然，乔治身体前倾。
“我对诸位有个请求。大概一年前，我们来过这里，那个夜晚以悲剧收场。我不想唤起
悲伤的回忆，但我不愿意罗斯玛丽被完全遗忘了。我想请各位为她干一杯——以示怀念。”
他举起了杯。所有人也顺从地举起了杯，他们的脸上戴着礼貌的面具。
乔治说：“为怀念罗斯玛丽干杯！”
所有杯子都被举到唇边。他们喝了。
一阵寂静，接着，乔治的身体向前摇晃，跌在椅子上。他双手狂乱地抓向脖子，呼吸
困难，脸变成了紫色。挣扎一分半钟后，他死了。
BOOK 3 One
BOOK 3
Iris
“For I thought that the dead had peace
But it is not so . . .”
One
Colonel Race turned into the doorway of New Scotland Yard. He filled in
the form that was brought forward and a very few minutes later he was
shaking hands with Chief Inspector Kemp in the latter’s room.
The two men were well acquainted. Kemp was slightly reminiscent of
that grand old veteran, Battle, in type. Indeed, since he had worked under
Battle for many years, he had perhaps unconsciously copied a good many
of the older man’s mannerisms. He bore about him the same suggestion of
being carved all in one piece—but whereas Battle had suggested some
wood such as teak or oak, Chief Inspector Kemp suggested a somewhat
more showy wood—mahogany, say, or good old-fashioned rosewood.
“It was good of you to ring us, colonel,” said Kemp. “We shall want all
the help we can get on this case.”
“It seems to have got us into exalted hands,” said Race.
Kemp did not make modest disclaimers. He accepted quite simply the
indubitable fact that only cases of extreme delicacy, wide publicity or su-
preme importance came his way. He said seriously:
“It’s the Kidderminster connection. You can imagine that means careful
going.”
Race nodded. He had met Lady Alexandra Farraday several times. One
of those quiet women of unassailable position whom it seems fantastic to
associate with sensational publicity. He had heard her speak on public
platforms—without eloquence, but clearly and competently, with a good
grasp of her subject, and with an excellent delivery.
The kind of woman whose public life was in all the papers, and whose
private life was practically nonexistent except as a bland domestic back-
ground.
Nevertheless, he thought, such women have a private life. They know
despair, and love, and the agonies of jealousy. They can lose control and
risk life itself on a passionate gamble.
He said curiously:
“Suppose she ‘done it,’ Kemp?”
“Lady Alexandra? Do you think she did, sir?”
“I’ve no idea. But suppose she did. Or her husband—who comes under
the Kidderminster mantle.”
The steady sea- green eyes of Chief Inspector Kemp looked in an un-
troubled way into Race’s dark ones.
“If either of them did murder, we’ll do our level best to hang him or her.
You know that. There’s no fear and no favour for murderers in this coun-
try. But we’ll have to be absolutely sure of our evidence—the public pro-
secutor will insist on that.”
Race nodded.
Then he said, “Let’s have the doings.”
“George Barton died of cyanide poisoning—same thing as his wife a year
ago. You said you were actually in the restaurant?”
“Yes. Barton had asked me to join his party. I refused. I didn’t like what
he was doing. I protested against it and urged him, if he had doubts about
his wife’s death, to go to the proper people—to you.”
Kemp nodded.
“That’s what he ought to have done.”
“Instead he persisted in an idea of his own—setting a trap for the mur-
derer. He wouldn’t tell me what that trap was. I was uneasy about the
whole business—so much so that I went to the Luxembourg last night so
as to keep an eye on things. My table, necessarily, was some distance away
—I didn’t want to be spotted too obviously. Unfortunately I can tell you
nothing. I saw nothing in the least suspicious. The waiters and his own
party were the only people who approached the table.”
“Yes,” said Kemp, “it narrows it down, doesn’t it? It was one of them, or
it was the waiter, Giuseppe Bolsano. I’ve got him on the mat again this
morning—thought you might like to see him—but I can’t believe he had
anything to do with it. Been at the Luxembourg for twelve years—good
reputation, married, three children, good record behind him. Gets on well
with all the clients.”
“Which leaves us with the guests.”
“Yes. The same party as was present when Mrs. Barton—died.”
“What about that business, Kemp?”
“I’ve been going into it since it seems pretty obvious that the two hang
together. Adams handled it. It wasn’t what we call a clear case of suicide,
but suicide was the most probable solution and in the absence of any dir-
ect evidence suggesting murder, one had to let it go as suicide. Couldn’t do
anything else. We’ve a good many cases like that in our records, as you
know. Suicide with a query mark. The public doesn’t know about the
query mark—but we keep it in mind. Sometimes we go on quite a bit hunt-
ing about quietly.
“Sometimes something crops up—sometimes it doesn’t. In this case it
didn’t.”
“Until now.”
“Until now. Somebody tipped Mr. Barton off to the fact that his wife had
been murdered. He got busy on his own—he as good as announced that he
was on the right track—whether he was or not I don’t know—but the mur-
derer must have thought so—so the murderer gets rattled and bumps off
Mr. Barton. That seems the way of it as far as I can see — I hope you
agree?”
“Oh, yes—that part of it seems straightforward enough. God knows what
the ‘trap’ was—I noticed that there was an empty chair at the table. Per-
haps it was waiting for some unexpected witness. Anyhow it accomplished
rather more than it was meant to do. It alarmed the guilty person so much
that he or she didn’t wait for the trap to be sprung.”
“Well,” said Kemp, “we’ve got five suspects. And we’ve got the first case
to go on—Mrs. Barton.”
“You’re definitely of the opinion now that it was not suicide?”
“This murder seems to prove that it wasn’t. Though I don’t think you can
blame us at the time for accepting the suicide theory as the most probable.
There was some evidence for it.”
“Depression after influenza?”
Kemp’s wooden face showed a ripple of a smile.
“That was for the coroner’s court. Agreed with the medical evidence and
saved everybody’s feelings. That’s done every day. And there was a half-
finished letter to the sister directing how her personal belongings were to
be given away—showed she’d had the idea of doing away with herself in
her mind. She was depressed all right, I don’t doubt, poor lady—but nine
times out of ten, with women, it’s a love affair. With men it’s mostly
money worries.”
“So you knew Mrs. Barton had a love affair.”
“Yes, we soon found that out. It had been discreet—but it didn’t take
much finding.”
“Stephen Farraday?”
“Yes. They used to meet in a little flat out Earl’s Court way. It had been
going on for over six months. Say they’d had a quarrel—or possibly he
was getting tired of her—well, she wouldn’t be the first woman to take her
life in a fit of desperation.”
“By potassium cyanide in a public restaurant?”
“Yes—if she wanted to be dramatic about it—with him looking on and
all. Some people have a feeling for the spectacular. From what I could find
out she hadn’t much feeling for the conventions—all the precautions were
on his side.”
“Any evidence as to whether his wife knew what was going on?”
“As far as we could learn she knew nothing about it.”
“She may have, for all that, Kemp. Not the kind of woman to wear her
heart on her sleeve.”
“Oh, quite so. Count them both in as possibles. She for jealousy. He for
his career. Divorce would have dished that. Not that divorce means as
much as it used to, but in his case it would have meant the antagonism of
the Kidderminster clan.”
“What about the secretary girl?”
“She’s a possible. Might have been sweet on George Barton. They were
pretty thick at the office and there’s an idea there that she was keen on
him. Actually yesterday afternoon one of the telephone girls was giving an
imitation of Barton holding Ruth Lessing’s hand and saying he couldn’t do
without her, and Miss Lessing came out and caught them and sacked the
girl there and then—gave her a month’s money and told her to go. Looks
as though she was sensitive about it all. Then the sister came into a peck of
money—one’s got to remember that. Looked a nice kid, but you can never
tell. And there was Mrs. Barton’s other boyfriend.”
“I’m rather anxious to hear what you know about him?”
Kemp said slowly:
“Remarkably little—but what there is isn’t too good. His passport’s in or-
der. He’s an American citizen about whom we can’t find anything, detri-
mental or otherwise. He came over here, stayed at Claridge’s and man-
aged to strike up an acquaintance with Lord Dewsbury.”
“Confidence man?”
“Might be. Dewsbury seems to have fallen for him—asked him to stay.
Rather a critical time just then.”
“Armaments,” said Race. “There was that trouble about the new tank tri-
als in Dewsbury’s works.”
“Yes. This fellow Browne represented himself as interested in arma-
ments. It was soon after he’d been up there that they discovered that sab-
otage business—just in the nick of time. Browne met a good many cronies
of Dewsbury—he seemed to have cultivated all the ones who were connec-
ted with the armament firms. As a result he’s been shown a lot of stuff
that in my opinion he ought never to have seen—and in one or two cases
there’s been serious trouble in the works not long after he’s been in the
neighbourhood.”
“An interesting person, Mr. Anthony Browne?”
“Yes. He’s got a lot of charm, apparently, and plays it for all he’s worth.”
“And where did Mrs. Barton come in? George Barton hasn’t anything to
do with the armament world?”
“No. But they seem to have been fairly intimate. He may have let out
something to her. You know, colonel, none better, what a pretty woman
can get out of a man.”
Race nodded, taking the chief inspector’s words, as meant, to refer to the
Counterespionage Department which he had once controlled and not—as
some ignorant person might have thought — to some personal indiscre-
tions of his own.
He said after a minute or two:
“Have you had a go at those letters that George Barton received?”
“Yes. Found them in his desk at his house last night. Miss Marle found
them for me.”
“You know I’m interested in those letters, Kemp. What’s the expert opin-
ion on them?”
“Cheap paper, ordinary ink—fingerprints show George Barton and Iris
Marle handled them—and a horde of unidentified dabs on the envelope,
postal employees, etc. They were printed and the experts say by someone
of good education in normal health.”
“Good education. Not a servant?”
“Presumably not.”
“That makes it more interesting still.”
“It means that somebody else had suspicions, at least.”
“Someone who didn’t go to the police. Someone who was prepared to
arouse George’s suspicions but who didn’t follow the business up. There’s
something odd there, Kemp. He couldn’t have written them himself, could
he?”
“He could have. But why?”
“As a preliminary to suicide—a suicide which he intended to look like
murder.”
“With Stephen Farraday booked for the hangman’s rope? It’s an idea—
but he’d have made quite sure that everything pointed to Farraday as the
murderer. As it is we’ve nothing against Farraday at all.”
“What about cyanide? Was there any container found?”
“Yes. A small white paper packet under the table. Traces of cyanide crys-
tals inside. No fingerprints on it. In a detective story, of course, it would be
some special kind of paper or folded in some special way. I’d like to give
these detective story writers a course of routine work. They’d soon learn
how most things are untraceable and nobody ever notices anything any-
where!”
Race smiled.
“Almost too sweeping a statement. Did anybody notice anything last
night?”
“Actually that’s what I’m starting on today. I took a brief statement from
everyone last night and I went back to Elvaston Square with Miss Marle
and had a look through Barton’s desk and papers. I shall get fuller state-
ments from them all today—also statements from the people sitting at the
other two tables in the alcove—” He rustled through some papers—“Yes,
here they are. Gerald Tollington, Grenadier Guards, and the Hon. Patricia
Brice-Woodworth. Young engaged couple. I’ll bet they didn’t see anything
but each other. And Mr. Pedro Morales—nasty bit of goods from Mexico—
even the whites of his eyes are yellow—and Miss Christine Shannon—a
gold-digging blonde lovely—I’ll bet she didn’t see anything—dumber than
you’d believe possible except where money is concerned. It’s a hundred to
one chance that any of them saw anything, but I took their names and ad-
dresses on the off chance. We’ll start off with the waiter chap, Giuseppe.
He’s here now. I’ll have him sent in.”
第三部 第一章
第三部
艾丽斯
“我以为死者会安息，
但并非如此……”
第一章
瑞斯上校走进苏格兰场，填好递过来的表格，几分钟后，他就在肯普探长的办公室里
跟他握上手了。
他们俩很熟。肯普会让人联想到他的前辈巴特尔。的确，他在巴特尔手下干了很多
年，可能不自觉地模仿了他的很多习性。他们俩像是一个模子刻出来的，只是巴特尔会让
人联想到柚木或橡木，肯普则是更华丽一点的木材，比如桃花心木，或者老式的上好红
木。
“谢谢你给我们打了电话，上校，”肯普说，“办这个案子我们需要所有可能的帮助。”
“看来我们找对人了。”瑞斯说。
肯普没有谦虚地否认，接受了这个毋庸置疑的事实。只有极其微妙、影响力极广或者
最重要的案子才会落到他手上。他一本正经地说：“这事关系到基德明斯特家族。你能想象
吧，这意味着谨慎从事。”
瑞斯点点头。他见过亚历山德拉•法拉第夫人几次。一个地位无懈可击的沉默的女人，
竟然跟这种耸人听闻的社会新闻扯在了一起，简直荒诞离奇。他听过她的演讲——算不上
雄辩，但清晰干练、紧扣主题，完成得很出色。
这种女人所做的公益事业天天上报，但私生活方面，除了枯燥无味的家庭背景，你就
什么都看不到了。
然而，他想，这种女人也是有私生活的。她们懂得失望、爱，以及嫉妒的痛苦。孤注
一掷时她们也会失控，甚至冒生命的危险。
他好奇地问：“这是她‘干的吗’，肯普？”
“亚历山德拉夫人？你认为是她干的，先生？”
“我不知道。假设而已。或者是她丈夫，那个在基德明斯特家庭庇护下的男人。”
肯普探长海绿色的眼睛坚定且平静地凝视着瑞斯的黑眼睛。
“如果是他们中的一个犯了谋杀罪，我们也会尽全力绞死他或她，这你是知道的。在这
个国家，凶手会被公正地对待。但我们必须掌握确凿的罪证——检察官会坚持这—点。”
瑞斯点了点头，然后说：“我们言归正传吧。”
“乔治•巴顿死于氰化钾中毒——一年前，他太太也是这么死的。你说你当时也在那家
餐厅？”
“对。巴顿邀请我参加那个聚会，我拒绝了。我不喜欢这个主意。我反对他这么做，还
劝他如果他对太太的死因存疑，应该去找合适的人——比如你。”
肯普点点头。
“这确实是他应该做的。”
“但他固执己见，非要为凶手设圈套，还不肯告诉我是怎样的圈套。这个事搞得我心神
不宁，所以，昨天晚上我去了卢森堡餐厅。当然，我坐在离他们有一段距离的地方——我
不想太扎眼。可惜，我什么都无法提供，我没看出任何可疑之处。只有他们那群人和服务
员靠近过那张桌子。”
“哦，”肯普说，“这样范围就缩小了，不是吗？他们中间的一个，要么就是那个服务
员，朱塞佩•波尔萨诺。我今天上午又找他来问话了。我想你可能想见见他，但我不认为他
和这起命案有什么关系。他已经在卢森堡餐厅工作十二年了——名声好，已婚，三个孩
子，无不良记录，和所有客人都相处得很好。”
“那就剩下客人了。”
“是的。这次和巴顿太太死那次……是同一批人。”
“那个案子怎么样了，肯普？”
“鉴于这两起案子呈现出明显的关联性，我便着手调查。那个案子由亚当斯负责，不是
我们所谓的明确的自杀案件，但自杀的可能性最大。在没有直接证据表明是他杀的情况
下，就姑且看作自杀了，没有别的办法。你知道，我们的档案里有很多类似的案子，打着
问号的自杀案件。公众不知道有问号，但我们记在心里，有时候会默默地继续追查。”
“有的时候会有东西突然冒出来，有的时候没有。这个案子就毫无进展。”
“到目前为止。”
“是到目前为止。有人暗示巴顿先生他太太是被人谋杀的，于是他就忙活起来了。他等
于证明了自己的想法是对的——到底对不对，我不知道——但凶手肯定认为是对的。所
以，凶手就慌了神，做掉了巴顿先生。依我看情况就是这样，希望你同意我的看法。”
“哦，是的，这部分似乎足够清楚了。天知道那个‘圈套’是什么。我注意到那桌有一把
空着的椅子，也许他是在等某个意想不到的见证人。总之，结果比预想的严重，凶手慌
了，因此，他或她，没等陷阱张开就动手了。”
“嗯，”肯普说，“现在有五个嫌疑人。而且，第一个案子——巴顿太太的事，还得继续
查下去。”
“你确定那不是自杀？”
“这起谋杀案似乎证明了她不是自杀身亡的。不过你不能因为我们那时候接受了自杀的
结论而怪罪我们。当时是有些证据的。”
“流感引起的精神抑郁？”
肯普木雕般的脸上漾起笑纹。
“那是提交给死因裁判法庭的。与医疗证据吻合，也免得伤害大家的感情。这种事每天
都发生。此外还有一封她写给妹妹的信，只写了一半，表明要如何分配她的私人财产，这
说明她有过自杀的念头。她确实精神抑郁，这一点我并不怀疑。可怜的女人。女人这么
做，十有八九是因为感情纠纷，男人则大部分是因为钱的问题。”
“这么说，你知道巴顿太太有婚外情？”
“是的，我们很快就查出来了。他们很谨慎，但我们没费多大力气。”
“斯蒂芬•法拉第？”
“对。他们经常在伯爵阁路那边的一个小公寓里幽会，持续了六个多月。也许他们吵了
一架，要么就是他厌倦了她，反正，她不是第一个因为一时绝望而结束了自己生命的女
人。”
“以在餐厅里服用氰化钾的方式？”
“对，或许她想搞得戏剧一点，让他亲眼看着她死。有些人非常热衷于制造惊人之举。
根据我们的调查，她不怎么在意传统习俗——男方则比较谨慎。”
“他太太知道他金屋藏娇吗？”
“据我们所知，她毫不知情。”
“但她依旧有可能知道，肯普。她不是那种情感外露的女人。”
“哦，确实如此。那他们俩都有嫌疑。她出于嫉妒，他为了自己的事业，万一离婚，他
的前途就没了。如今离婚没从前那么要紧了，但离婚对他来说意味着与基德明斯特家族为
敌。”
“那个女秘书呢？”
“她也有可能。她可能一直爱着乔治•巴顿。他们的工作关系很亲密。有一种说法是她
很喜欢他。事实上，昨天下午，一个总机小姐还学着巴顿的样子，握着露丝•莱辛的手，说
没有她他不知道该怎么办。露丝小姐走出办公室时当场抓住了演得正欢的她们，她立刻辞
退了那个女孩，多给了她一个月的薪水，叫她滚蛋。她好像对这种事很敏感。再有，那个
得到了一大笔钱的妹妹……这个也不能忽略。看起来是个好孩子，但谁也说不准。还有巴
顿太太的另一个男朋友。”
“我很想听你说说他。”
肯普慢悠悠地说：“情况很少——很少，却都不太好。他的护照没问题。他是美国公
民，但关于这个人，我们查不出任何情况。无论对他有害的还是有利的。他住在克拉里奇
酒店，并偶然结识了迪尤斯伯里爵士。”
“会不会是个骗子？”
“有可能。迪尤斯伯里好像相信了他——要他留下来。正值关键时刻。”
“军火。”瑞斯说，“迪尤斯伯里工厂的新坦克试验出了问题。”
“对。这个叫布朗的家伙自称对军火感兴趣。他刚来不久，他们就发现了蓄意破坏的活
动——正是时候。布朗结识了很多迪尤斯伯里的密友，他似乎认识了所有跟这个军火公司
有关系的人。结果，他们给了他很多在我看来绝对不该给他看的东西。他来到这附近不
久，工厂就出了一两次严重的问题。”
“安东尼•布朗先生是个有趣的人，不是吗？”
“是的。显然，他很有魅力，并懂得充分利用。”
“巴顿太太是怎么卷进来的？乔治•巴顿和军火圈没关系吧？”
“没有，但他们的关系似乎相当亲近。他可能给她透露了一些情况。上校，没有谁比你
更清楚一个漂亮女人能从男人身上得到什么。”
瑞斯点点头。他知道探长指的是他负责过反间谍部门，而不是像某些无知的人所以为
的——他的私生活不检点。
沉默了一两分钟，他说：“你找到乔治•巴顿收到的那些信了吗？”
“找到了，昨天晚上在他家的书桌里找到的。玛尔小姐帮我找到的。”
“你知道，我对那些信很感兴趣，肯普。专家的意见是什么？”
“便宜的纸，普通的墨。指纹显示，乔治•巴顿和艾丽斯•玛尔都碰过信，信封上还有很
多无法辨认的指纹——邮局员工什么的。信是打印出来的，专家说出自某个健康状况良好
且受过良好教育的人之手。”
“受过良好的教育，所以不是仆人？”
“大概不是。”
“那就更有趣了。”
“这意味着也可能是其他人，至少有嫌疑。”
“某个不找警察的人。他打算引起乔治的疑心，但没有采取进一步的行动。有一点很奇
怪，肯普。不可能是他自己写的吧？”
“有可能。可是他为什么要这么做？”
“作为自杀的序幕——他的意图是让自杀看起来像他杀。”
“为斯蒂芬•法拉第预定一条绞索？这是一种想法，但他必须确保一切证据都指向法拉
第是杀人凶手。事实上，我们没有任何对法拉第不利的证据。”
“氰化钾呢？找到包装了吗？”
“找到了。桌子下面有一个小白纸包，里面还有一些氰化钾粉末。纸包上没有指纹。当
然，在侦探小说里，一定是某种特殊的纸，或者是以某种特殊的方式折起来的。我想给这
些侦探小说家上一堂日常工作课，他们很快就会明白，大部分东西是无迹可寻的，没有任
何值得注意的地方！”
瑞斯露出微笑。
“这个说法太绝对了。昨天晚上，有人注意到什么了吗？”
“其实，我今天才着手调查此事。昨天晚上我给所有人做了简短的笔录，然后和玛尔小
组回到艾尔维斯顿广场，检查了巴顿的书桌和各种文件。今天我会做一个更详细的笔录，
包括凹室里旁边那桌的人——”他哗啦哗啦翻文件，“这儿呢。服役于掷弹兵近卫团的杰拉
德•多灵顿和受人尊敬的帕特丽夏布赖斯•伍德沃思，一对已经订了婚的小情侣。我敢打赌，
当时他们眼中只有彼此，除此之外什么也没看见。还有佩德罗•莫拉莱斯，一个讨厌的墨西
哥佬，连眼白都是黄色的。还有克莉丝汀•香农小姐，一个以色相骗取男人钱财的金发美
女。我敢打赌她也什么都没看见，她比你能想象的还要蠢，见钱眼开。这几个人能发现线
索的可能性微乎其微，但我还是记下了他们的姓名和地址，以防万一。我们从服务员朱塞
佩问起。我让人把他叫进来。”
第三部 第二章
第二章
朱塞佩•波尔萨诺是个中年人，身材细长，长了一张猴脸。他有点紧张，但并不过分。
他的英语讲得很流利，据他解释，他十六岁就到英国了，还娶了个英国老婆。
肯普对他很客气。
“好了，朱塞佩，让我们听听你又想起了什么。”
“这事搞得我很不高兴。我服务那桌，我倒的酒。人们会说我精神错乱，说我在酒里下
了毒。事实不是这样的，但人们会这么说。戈德斯坦先生说我最好休息一个星期，免得人
们问东问西、指指点点。他办事公道，为人也正直，他知道这不是我的错，我在那里工作
很多年了，所以，他不会像其他餐厅老板那样解雇我。查尔斯先生也是，他对我很好，但
我还是挺倒霉的，而且我很害怕。我问我自己，我有仇人吗？”
“哦，”肯普面无表情地说，“你有吗？”
那张悲伤的猴子脸抽搐了几下，大笑起来。朱塞佩摊开双手说：“我？我在这个世界上
一个仇人都没有。好朋友倒是有很多，就是没有仇人。”
肯普哼了一声。
“现在说说昨天晚上香槟的事。”
“凯歌香槟，一九二八年的，很好、很贵的酒。巴顿先生就是这样，喜欢好酒好菜，最
好的东西。”
“他事先定好的酒？”
“是的。他和查尔斯安排好了一切。”
“桌旁的那个空位子呢？”
“那个也是他事先安排的。他告诉了查尔斯，查尔斯告诉了我，说有个姑娘晚一点要坐
到那个位子上。”
“姑娘？”瑞斯和肯普面面相觑，“你知道那个姑娘是谁吗？”
朱塞佩摇摇头。
“不知道。我什么都不知道。我只听说她会晚点到。”
“继续说酒，一共几瓶？”
“两瓶，还有一瓶备用的。第一瓶很快就喝光了，第二瓶是在卡巴莱歌舞表演开始前不
久打开的。我斟满所有的杯子，把酒瓶放在冰桶里。”
“你最后一次注意到巴顿先生举杯是什么时候？”
“我想想啊，卡巴莱歌舞表演结束后。他们为那位小姐的健康干杯，那天她过生日，理
所应当。然后他们去跳舞。跳完舞，他们回到座位上，巴顿先生喝下酒，一分钟后，他就
死了！”
“他们跳舞的时候你倒酒了吗？”
“没有，先生。他们为那位小姐干杯的时候，酒杯是满的，他们没怎么喝，就喝了几
口，杯子里还有很多酒。”
“他们跳舞的时候，有没有人——任何一个人——靠近过那张桌子？”
“一个人都没有，先生，我确定。”
“他们同时都去跳舞了？”
“对。”
“也是同时回来的？”
朱塞佩眯起眼睛努力回想。
“巴顿先生第一个回来的，和那位小姐一起。他比其他人富态一点，跳的时间不长，您
懂的。然后是那位绅士，法拉第先生，还有穿黑衣服的小姐。亚历山德拉•法拉第夫人和那
位肤色比较黑的绅士是最后回来的。”
“你认识法拉第先生和亚历山德拉夫人？”
“是的，先生。我经常在卢森堡餐厅见到他们，他们很引人注目。”
“朱塞佩，如果有人往巴顿先生的杯子里放东西，你会注意到吧？”
“这我可不敢保证，先生。我还得招呼其他桌的客人，凹室里的另外两桌和大厅的两
桌。我还得端菜。我没一直盯着巴顿先生那桌。卡巴莱歌舞表演结束后，几乎所有人都起
来跳舞了，那个时候我就站在一边，所以，我确定当时没有人靠近过那张桌子。但是客人
们一坐下，我就又忙活起来了。”
肯普点点头。
“不过，我想，”朱塞佩继续说，“这么做很难不被人发现。在我看来，只有巴顿先生可
以。但是您不这么认为吧？”
他以询问的目光看着警官。
“这就是你的看法，是吗？”
“当然，我什么都不知道，我只是怀疑。就在一年前，那位美丽的夫人，巴顿太太，自
杀了。巴顿先生会不会太伤心，决定以同样的方式自杀？很有诗意。这对餐厅不好，但是
想自杀的人是不会想到这一点的。”
说完，他急切地看向两个人，目光来回穿梭。
肯普摇头。
“我不相信事情会这么简单。”他说。
他又问了几个问题，然后打发朱塞佩走了。
朱塞佩关上门后，瑞斯说：“我在想，也许我们应该接受这个想法？”
“伤心过度的丈夫在太太的忌日自杀？可那天不是她的忌日，虽然日子很近。”
“那天是万灵节。”瑞斯说。
“没错。是啊，可能他就是这么想的。但如果是这样，那两封被保存起来的信又是谁写
的呢，巴顿先生跟你商量过，还把那两封信拿给艾丽斯•玛尔看了。”
探长看了一下表。
“十二点半我要赶到基德明斯特公馆。这之前，我们还有时间去见见那两桌人——能见
几个算几个。跟我一起去吧，上校？”
BOOK 3 Five
Five
Race found Ruth Lessing busy with papers at a large desk. She was
dressed in a black coat and skirt and a white blouse and he was impressed
by her quiet unhurried efficiency. He noticed the dark circles under her
eyes and the unhappy set line of her mouth, but her grief, if it was grief,
was as well controlled as all her other emotions.
Race explained his visit and she responded at once.
“It is very good of you to come. Of course I know who you are. Mr. Bar-
ton was expecting you to join us last night, was he not? I remember his
saying so.”
“Did he mention that before the evening itself?”
She thought for a moment.
“No. It was when we were actually taking our seats round the table. I re-
member that I was a little surprised—” She paused and flushed slightly.
“Not, of course, at his inviting you. You are an old friend, I know. And you
were to have been at the other party a year ago. All I meant was that I was
surprised, if you were coming, that Mr. Barton hadn’t invited another wo-
man to balance the numbers—but of course if you were going to be late
and might perhaps not come at all—” She broke off. “How stupid I am.
Why go over all these petty things that don’t matter? I am stupid this
morning.”
“But you have come to work as usual?”
“Of course.” She looked surprised—almost shocked. “It is my job. There
is so much to clear up and arrange.”
“George always told me how much he relied upon you,” said Race
gently.
She turned away. He saw her swallow quickly and blink her eyes. Her
absence of any display of emotion almost convinced him of her entire in-
nocence. Almost, but not quite. He had met women who were good act-
resses before now, women whose reddened eyelids and the black circles
underneath whose eyes had been due to art and not to natural causes.
Reserving judgement, he said to himself:
“At any rate she’s a cool customer.”
Ruth turned back to the desk and in answer to his last remark she said
quietly:
“I was with him for many years—it will be eight years next April—and I
knew his ways, and I think he—trusted me.”
“I’m sure of that.”
He went on: “It is nearly lunchtime. I hoped you would come out and
lunch quietly with me somewhere? There is a good deal I would like to say
to you.”
“Thank you. I should like to very much.”
He took her to a small restaurant that he knew of, where the tables were
set far apart and where a quiet conversation was possible.
He ordered, and when the waiter had gone, looked across the table at
his companion.
She was a good-looking girl, he decided, with her sleek dark head and
her firm mouth and chin.
He talked a little on desultory topics until the food was brought, and she
followed his lead, showing herself intelligent and sensible.
Presently, after a pause, she said:
“You want to talk to me about last night? Please don’t hesitate to do so.
The whole thing is so incredible that I would like to talk about it. Except
that it happened and I saw it happen, I would not have believed it.”
“You’ve seen Chief Inspector Kemp, of course?”
“Yes, last night. He seems intelligent and experienced.” She paused.
“Was it really murder, Colonel Race?”
“Did Kemp tell you so?”
“He didn’t volunteer any information, but his questions made it plain
enough what he had in mind.”
“Your opinion as to whether or not it was suicide should be as good as
anyone’s, Miss Lessing. You knew Barton well and you were with him
most of yesterday, I imagine. How did he seem? Much as usual? Or was he
disturbed—upset—excited?”
She hesitated.
“It’s difficult. He was upset and disturbed—but then there was a reason
for that.”
She explained the situation that had arisen in regard to Victor Drake
and gave a brief sketch of that young man’s career.
“H’m,” said Race. “The inevitable black sheep. And Barton was upset
about him?”
Ruth said slowly:
“It’s difficult to explain. I knew Mr. Barton so well, you see. He was an-
noyed and bothered about the business — and I gather Mrs. Drake had
been very tearful and upset, as she always was on these occasions—so of
course he wanted to straighten it all out. But I had the impression—”
“Yes, Miss Lessing? I’m sure your impressions will be accurate.”
“Well, then, I fancied that his annoyance was not quite the usual annoy-
ance, if I may put it like that. Because we had had this same business be-
fore, in one form or another. Last year Victor Drake was in this country
and in trouble, and we had to ship him off to South America, and only last
June he cabled home for money. So you see I was familiar with Mr. Bar-
ton’s reactions. And it seemed to me this time that his annoyance was
principally at the cable having arrived just at this moment when he was
entirely preoccupied with the arrangements for the party he was giving.
He seemed so taken up by the preparations for it that he grudged any
other preoccupation arising.”
“Did it strike you that there was anything odd about this party of his,
Miss Lessing?”
“Yes, it did. Mr. Barton was really most peculiar about it. He was excited
—like a child might have been.”
“Did it occur to you that there might have been a special purpose for
such a party?”
“You mean that it was a replica of the party a year ago when Mrs. Bar-
ton committed suicide?”
“Yes.”
“Frankly, I thought it a most extraordinary idea.”
“But George didn’t volunteer any explanation—or confide in you in any
way?”
She shook her head.
“Tell me, Miss Lessing, has there ever been any doubt in your mind as to
Mrs. Barton’s having committed suicide?”
She looked astonished. “Oh, no.”
“George Barton didn’t tell you that he believed his wife had been
murdered?”
She stared at him.
“George believed that?”
“I see that is news to you. Yes, Miss Lessing. George had received an-
onymous letters stating that his wife had not committed suicide but had
been killed.”
“So that is why he became so odd this summer? I couldn’t think what
was the matter with him.”
“You knew nothing about these anonymous letters?”
“Nothing. Were there many of them?”
“He showed me two.”
“And I knew nothing about them!”
There was a note of bitter hurt in her voice.
He watched her for a moment or two, then he said:
“Well, Miss Lessing, what do you say? Is it possible, in your opinion, for
George to have committed suicide?”
She shook her head.
“No—oh, no.”
“But you said he was excited—upset?”
“Yes, but he had been like that for some time. I see why now. And I see
why he was so excited about last night’s party. He must have had some
special idea in his head—he must have hoped that by reproducing the con-
ditions, he would gain some additional knowledge—poor George, he must
have been so muddled about it all.”
“And what about Rosemary Barton, Miss Lessing? Do you still think her
death was suicide?”
She frowned.
“I’ve never dreamt of it being anything else. It seemed so natural.”
“Depression after influenza?”
“Well, rather more than that, perhaps. She was definitely very unhappy.
One could see that.”
“And guess the cause?”
“Well—yes. At least I did. Of course I may have been wrong. But women
like Mrs. Barton are very transparent—they don’t trouble to hide their
feelings. Mercifully I don’t think Mr. Barton knew anything . . . Oh, yes,
she was very unhappy. And I know she had a bad headache that night be-
sides being run-down with flu.”
“How did you know she had a headache?”
“I heard her telling Lady Alexandra so—in the cloakroom when we were
taking off our wraps. She was wishing she had a Cachet Faivre and luckily
Lady Alexandra had one with her and gave it to her.”
Colonel Race’s hand stopped with a glass in mid air.
“And she took it?”
“Yes.”
He put his glass down untasted and looked across the table. The girl
looked placid and unaware of any significance in what she had said. But it
was significant. It meant that Sandra who, from her position at table,
would have had the most difficulty in putting anything unseen in Rose-
mary’s glass, had had another opportunity of administering the poison.
She could have given it to Rosemary in a cachet. Ordinarily a cachet would
take only a few minutes to dissolve, but possibly this had been a special
kind of cachet, it might have had a lining of gelatine or some other sub-
stance. Or Rosemary might possibly not have swallowed it then but later.
He said abruptly:
“Did you see her take it?”
“I beg your pardon?”
He saw by her puzzled face that her mind had gone on elsewhere.
“Did you see Rosemary Barton swallow that cachet?”
Ruth looked a little startled.
“I—well, no, I didn’t actually see her. She just thanked Lady Alexandra.”
So Rosemary might have slipped the cachet in her bag and then, during
the cabaret, with a headache increasing, she might have dropped it into
her champagne glass and let it dissolve. Assumption—pure assumption—
but a possibility.
Ruth said:
“Why do you ask me that?”
Her eyes were suddenly alert, full of questions. He watched, so it
seemed to him, her intelligence working.
Then she said:
“Oh, I see. I see why George took that house down there near the Far-
radays. And I see why he didn’t tell me about those letters. It seemed to
me so extraordinary that he hadn’t. But of course if he believed them, it
meant that one of us, one of those five people round the table must have
killed her. It might—it might even have been me!”
Race said in a very gentle voice:
“Had you any reason for killing Rosemary Barton?”
He thought at first that she hadn’t heard the question. She sat so very
still with her eyes cast down.
But suddenly with a sigh, she raised them and looked straight at him.
“It is not the sort of thing one cares to talk about,” she said. “But I think
you had better know. I was in love with George Barton. I was in love with
him before he even met Rosemary. I don’t think he ever knew—certainly
he didn’t care. He was fond of me—very fond of me—but I suppose never
in that way. And yet I used to think that I would have made him a good
wife — that I could have made him happy. He loved Rosemary, but he
wasn’t happy with her.”
Race said gently:
“And you disliked Rosemary?”
“Yes, I did. Oh! She was very lovely and very attractive and could be
very charming in her way. She never bothered to be charming to me! I dis-
liked her a good deal. I was shocked when she died—and at the way she
died, but I wasn’t really sorry. I’m afraid I was rather glad.”
She paused.
“Please, shall we talk about something else?”
Race responded quickly:
“I’d like you to tell me exactly, in detail, everything you can remember
about yesterday—from the morning onwards—especially anything George
did or said.”
Ruth replied promptly, going over the events of the morning—George’s
annoyance over Victor’s importunity, her own telephone calls to South
America and the arrangements made and George’s pleasure when the
matter was settled. She then described her arrival at the Luxembourg and
George’s flurried excited bearing as host. She carried her narrative up to
the final moment of the tragedy. Her account tallied in every respect with
those he had already heard.
With a worried frown, Ruth voiced his own perplexity.
“It wasn’t suicide—I’m sure it wasn’t suicide—but how can it have been
murder? I mean, how can it have been done? The answer is, it couldn’t,
not by one of us! Then was it someone who slipped the poison into
George’s glass while we were away dancing? But if so, who could it have
been? It doesn’t seem to make sense.”
“The evidence is that no one went near the table while you were dan-
cing.”
“Then it really doesn’t make sense! Cyanide doesn’t get into a glass by it-
self!”
“Have you absolutely no idea—no suspicion, even, who might have put
the cyanide in the glass? Think back over last night. Is there nothing, no
small incident, that awakens your suspicions in any degree, however
small?”
He saw her face change, saw for a moment uncertainty come into her
eyes. There was a tiny, almost infinitesimal pause before she answered
“Nothing.”
But there had been something. He was sure of that. Something she had
seen or heard or noticed that, for some reason or other, she had decided
not to tell.
He did not press her. He knew that with a girl of Ruth’s type that would
be no good. If, for some reason, she had made up her mind to keep silence,
she would not, he felt sure, change her mind.
But there had been something. That knowledge cheered him and gave
him fresh assurance. It was the first sign of a crevice in the blank wall that
confronted him.
He took leave of Ruth after lunch and drove to Elvaston Square thinking
of the woman he had just left.
Was it possible that Ruth Lessing was guilty? On the whole, he was pre-
possessed in her favour. She had seemed entirely frank and straightfor-
ward.
Was she capable of murder? Most people were, if you came to it. Cap-
able not of murder in general, but of one particular individual murder.
That was what made it so difficult to weed anyone out. There was a cer-
tain quality of ruthlessness about that young woman. And she had a
motive—or rather a choice of motives. By removing Rosemary she had a
very good chance of becoming Mrs. George Barton. Whether it was a ques-
tion of marrying a rich man, or of marrying the man she had loved, the re-
moval of Rosemary was the first essential.
Race was inclined to think that marrying a rich man was not enough.
Ruth Lessing was too coolheaded and cautious to risk her neck for mere
comfortable living as a rich man’s wife. Love? Perhaps. For all her cool
and detached manner, he suspected her of being one of those women who
can be kindled to unlikely passion by one particular man. Given love of
George and hate of Rosemary, she might have coolly planned and ex-
ecuted Rosemary’s death. The fact that it had gone off without a hitch, and
that suicide had been universally accepted without demur, proved her in-
herent capability.
And then George had received anonymous letters (From whom? Why?
That was the teasing vexing problem that never ceased to nag at him) and
had grown suspicious. He had planned a trap. And Ruth had silenced him.
No, that wasn’t right. That didn’t ring true. That spelt panic—and Ruth
Lessing was not the kind of woman who panicked. She had better brains
than George and could have avoided any trap that he was likely to set with
the greatest of ease.
It looked as though Ruth didn’t add up after all.
第三部 第三章
第三章
莫拉莱斯先生住在丽兹饭店。上午的这个时候他简直惨不忍睹，胡子没刮、眼白充
血，一副宿醉未醒的样子。
莫拉莱斯先生是美国人，但一口美国话说得不太地道。尽管他声称乐意尽力回想，但
他对昨晚的记忆明显十分模糊。
“跟克里希去的——那个宝贝太现实！她说那是个好去处。甜心，我说，你说上那儿就
上那儿。那是个高级的地方，我承认——但他们可真敢要钱！坑了我三十块。乐队是垃
圾，一首劲曲都不会演奏。”
话题从他自己的故事上移开，莫拉莱斯先生被迫回想凹室中间那桌的情况。这方面他
帮不上什么忙。
“确实有张桌子，几个人坐在那儿。但是我不记得他们都长怎么样了。我没怎么注意他
们，直到那个家伙嗝儿屁。不过一开始他就喝多了。对了，我记得有个女的。黑头发，挺
骚的。”
“你是说那个穿绿色天鹅绒裙子的女孩？”
“不，不是那个。那个丫头皮包骨，这宝贝一身黑，曲线毕露。”
吸引莫拉莱斯先生眼珠骨碌转的是露丝•莱辛。
他赞赏地皱起鼻子。
“我看着她跳舞——哎呀，那宝贝挺会跳啊！我给她发了一两次暗号，但她的眼神冷冰
冰的，典型的英国人，根本没理我。”
从莫拉莱斯先生口中套不出什么有价值的东西了。他自己也承认，卡巴莱歌舞表演前
他就喝高了。
肯普对他表示感谢，准备告辞。
“我明天坐船回纽约，”莫拉莱斯说，“你不……”他满怀渴望地问，“希望我留下来
吗？”
“谢谢您，不过我认为庭审的时候不再需要您的证词了。”
“要知道，我在这儿玩得很爽。要是警方的事，公司就不会发牢骚。警察让你留在原地
不动，你就得留在原地不动。要是我好好想，没准能想起来什么呢！”
肯普拒绝上钩。他和瑞斯驱车前往布鲁克街，在那里迎接他们的是一位脾气暴躁的先
生，尊敬的帕特丽夏布赖斯•伍德沃思的父亲。伍德沃思将军直言不讳地说了很多话。
怀疑他的女儿——他的女儿！跟这种事有牵连是什么意思？如果一个女孩跟她的未婚
夫去餐厅吃饭都要被侦探和苏格兰场骚扰，英国会变成什么样？她根本不认识那些人。他
们叫什么来着——哈巴德——巴顿？普通市民！这说明无论去哪儿，越小心越好。卢森堡
餐厅一直是个不错的地方，但是很显然，这是那里第二次发生这种事了。杰拉德一定是傻
子才会把帕特带到那儿去。这些年轻人啊，自以为什么都懂。无论如何，他不允许他的女
儿被打扰、欺负、盘问，除非律师同意。他说他要给林肯律师学院的老安德森打电话，问
他——
说到这儿，将军突然停下来，盯着瑞斯说：“我在哪儿见过你。是在……”
瑞斯回答得很及时，且面带微笑。
“贝德波，一九二八年。”
“天哪，”将军说，“这不是约翰尼•瑞斯吗？！你怎么会掺和进这件事？”
瑞斯露出微笑。
“肯普探长要见令爱时我正好在他那儿。我认为让肯普探长亲自来这儿会比叫她去苏格
兰场更合她的意，而且，我想我要跟他一起来。”
“哦——呃——好，你心肠真好，瑞斯。”
“当然，我们想尽量不打扰小姐。”肯普探长插话道。
就在这时，门开了，帕特丽夏布赖斯•伍德沃思小姐走了进来，并以年轻人的冷静超然
掌控了局面。
“嗨，”她说，“你们是从苏格兰场来的吧？想了解一下昨天晚上的情况？我一直盼着你
们来呢。父亲是不是很烦人？不要这样，爸爸，你知道医生是怎么说你的血压的。你怎么
遇到什么事都这样，我真是想不通。我带这两位警长或者警官去我的房间，再叫沃尔特斯
给你送一杯威士忌苏打。”
将军急于立刻用几种猛烈的方式批评她，结果只迸出这么一句。“这位是我的老朋友，
瑞斯上校。”听他这么一介绍，帕特丽夏顿时对瑞斯失去了兴趣，转而对肯普探长嫣然一
笑。
颇有冷静的将门虎女风范的她带着他们离开，来到自己的起居室，坚定地把父亲关在
他的书房里。
“可怜的爸爸，”她评论道，“大惊小怪的。其实他很好对付。”
谈话在十分友好的氛围中进行，但收获很少。
“真是气人，”帕特丽夏说，“这可能是我这辈子唯一出现在凶杀现场——是凶杀案吧？
报纸上说得很谨慎、很含糊，但是我在电话上对盖瑞说，这肯定是凶杀案。想想，一起凶
杀案就发生在我身边，我却没看！”
语气中遗憾的意味显而易见。
很显然，正如肯普探长郁闷地预测的那样，这对一个星期前才订婚的年轻人眼中只有
彼此。
尽管想好好表现一下，但是帕特丽夏布赖斯•伍德沃思也只能想起几个人。
“桑德拉•法拉第的样子很时髦，不过她一向如此。她穿了件夏帕瑞丽牌的衣服。”
“你认识她？”瑞斯问。
帕特丽夏摇摇头。
“见过而已。法拉第先生看上去相当无趣，我一直这么认为。那么浮夸，和大部分政客
一样。”
“你见过其他人吗？”
她摇头。
“没见过。一个都没见过，至少我这么觉得。其实，要不是那件夏帕瑞丽牌的衣服，我
也注意不到桑德拉•法拉第。”
离开那栋房子后，肯普探长严肃地说：“看着吧，多灵顿肯定说的一模一样，只是不会
有一个什么服装品牌吸引他的注意力。”
“我不认为，”瑞斯说，“斯蒂芬•法拉第那件礼服的剪裁可能会让他动心。”
“哦，好了，”探长说，“我们去克莉丝汀•香农那儿试试。然后这些极微小的可能性就可
以排除了。”
正如肯普探长所说，香农小姐是个金发美人。一头漂染的秀发被精心梳拢在脑后，衬
托着一张柔和茫然的娃娃脸。或许她就像肯普探长断言的那么蠢，但模样确实养眼。一双
淡蓝色的大眼睛闪烁着一丝狡黠的光，这说明她的愚蠢只是智识方面的，而粗浅常识和财
物知识方面她必定在行。
她十分热情地接待了他们，使劲儿劝他们喝酒，被拒绝后她又给他们递烟。她的公寓
很小，装修成廉价的现代风格。
“我很乐意帮忙，探长。您尽管问吧。”
肯普先问了几个常规问题，关于中间那桌人的行为举止。
克莉丝汀立刻显示出她是一个极其敏锐且精明的观察者。
“聚会不算太成功——您也看出来了。呆板到了极点。我真替那个家伙难过——举办宴
会的那个。他用尽全力想让气氛活跃起来，但他还是紧张得像一只走在钢索上的猫，使出
浑身解数也没多大用。我还看出来，坐在他右边的那个高个子女人很拘谨，他左边的那个
小女孩气坏了，因为没能跟对面那个好看的皮肤黝黑的男孩坐在一起。至于她旁边那个皮
肤白皙的家伙，好像肚子不舒服，吃起东西来随时会被噎着似的。他旁边那个女人尽了最
大的努力，但似乎依然心神不定。”
“你好像注意到了很多东西，香农小姐。”瑞斯上校说。
“我给你们透露一个秘密。那天晚上我并不是很开心，我跟我那个男朋友连着出去了三
个晚上，我开始厌烦他了！他想看遍伦敦——尤其是他所谓的上流场所。我得替他说句
话，他并不吝啬，每回都有香槟酒。我们去了孔普拉多和千花，最后去了卢森堡，他很开
心。从某种意义上来说，又有点可悲。他的言谈算不上有趣，老讲他在墨西哥做生意的漫
长的经历，大部分故事我都听过三遍了。再就是谈他认识的女人们，说她们多么为他疯
狂，那种事听一会儿就腻了。你得承认，佩德罗没什么看头，所以我就专心吃东西，四处
看看。”
“哦，从我们的角度来说，这太好了，香农小姐。”探长说，“我只希望你看到了可以帮
助我们解决问题的东西。”
克莉丝汀摇了摇她金色的脑袋。
“我不知道是谁做掉了那个老家伙——完全不知道。他只是喝了杯香槟，然后就脸变
紫，倒下去了。”
“你还记得那次之前他最后一次举杯是什么时候吗？”
她想了想。
“哦，记得，卡巴莱歌舞表演刚结束。灯光又亮起来了，他举起杯子，说了几句话，其
他的人也照着他的样子做。好像是祝酒什么的。”
探长点点头。
“然后呢？”
“然后音乐声又响起来了，他们全都起身去跳舞，笑着把椅子向后推。第一次跳舞像是
热身。香槟酒对这么拘束的聚会也起到了如此美妙的作用。”
“他们都去跳舞了——桌子空了？”
“对。”
“而且没有一个人碰过巴顿先生的杯子。”
“一个人都没有。”她立刻回答，“我非常确定。”
“而且，他们离开时，没有人——没有一个人，靠近过那张桌子。”
“没有一个人，当然，除了服务员。”
“服务员？哪个服务员？”
“一个小毛孩，腰上系着条围裙，大约十六岁。不是真正的服务员吧。那是个很有礼貌
的小家伙，长得很像猴子，我猜他是意大利人。”
探长点了一下头，他明白了，她描述的是朱塞佩•波尔萨诺（？）。
“他做了什么，这个年轻的服务员？把酒杯斟满了？”
克莉丝汀摇了摇头。
“哦，不是。他没碰桌上的任何东西，只是捡起了大家起身时一个女孩掉在地上的晚宴
包。”
“谁的包？”
克莉丝汀想了一两分钟，然后说：“对了，是那个小女孩的包——绿色和金色相间的。
另外两个女人拿的是黑色的包。”
“那个服务员把那个包怎么样了？”
克莉丝汀露出惊讶的表情。
“他把包放回桌上了啊。”
“你确定他没有碰过任何杯子？”
“哦，没有。他放下包就走了，因为一个真正的服务员催他去什么地方，或者拿什么东
西，不然，一切都是他的错！”
“这是唯一有人靠近那张桌子？”
“对。”
“但是，你也有可能没注意到还有人靠近过那张桌子，对吧？”
克莉丝汀非常坚决地摇头。
“不会，我很确定没有人靠近过。要知道，那会儿佩德罗去接了个电话，一直没回来，
我没事可做，就到处看，很无聊。我很擅长观察，而且在我坐的位置没什么可看的东西，
除了旁边那张空桌子。”
瑞斯问道：“谁第一个回来的？”
“穿绿衣服的女孩和那个老头子。他们坐下来后，那个金发白肤的男人和穿黑衣服的女
孩回来了，这之后是那个傲慢的女人和肤色黝黑的英俊男孩——他的舞跳得不错。他们都
回来以后，服务员用酒精灯热了一盘菜，然后那个老头子倾身向前，说了一番话，所有人
又举起杯。接着就发生了那件事。”克莉丝汀停了一下，用欢快的语气说，“很可怕，是不
是？当然了，当时我还以为他中风了。我姨妈中过风，她就是那样倒下去的。就在这个时
候，佩德罗回来了，我说：‘你看，佩德罗，那个人中风了。’佩德罗说的是：‘只是昏过
去，只是昏过去了而已。’他看起来的确像是昏过去了。我必须盯着点佩德罗。卢森堡这种
地方可不喜欢客人昏过去，这就是我不喜欢拉丁人的原因，他们喝多了一点也不高雅——
女孩子永远不知道会遇到什么煞风景的事。”她沉思了一会儿，瞥了一眼右手腕上那只俗艳
的手镯，又说，“不过，我必须说，他们还是挺大方的。”
肯普温和地把她的注意力从女孩的努力与报偿中引开，又让她讲了一遍这个故事。
“这是我们寻求外围线索的最后一次机会，现在这个机会也没了。”离开香农小姐的公
寓后，肯普对瑞斯说，“有线索的话，倒是个好机会。这个女孩是个合适的见证人，能发现
东西，而且记得很准。如果有什么可看的东西，她肯定能看见。所以，答案是，没什么可
看的。不可思议。简直像变魔术！乔治•巴顿喝了香槟，去跳舞，回来后拿起同一个没人碰
过的杯子，嘿，变！里面充满了氰化钾。太奇怪了，我告诉你，不可能的事竟然发生了。”
他停顿了一会儿。
“那个服务员，那个小男孩，朱塞佩从来没提过他。我要查一查。毕竟，他们都去跳舞
的时候，只有他靠近过那张桌子，这里面可能有问题。”
瑞斯摇了摇头。
“如果他往巴顿的杯子里放了东西，那个女孩肯定能看见。她观察事物细致入微，脑子
里没什么可想的，就用眼睛看。不，肯普，一定有某种特别简单的解释，不过我们得找到
才行。”
“是啊，有一个，他自己下的毒。”
“我开始相信事情就是这样的了，只能是这样。但如果是这样的话，肯普，我认为他不
知道那是氰化钾。”
“你的意思是，某个人给他的？告诉他这是治疗消化不良或者高血压之类的药？”
“有可能。”
“那个人会是谁呢？不会是法拉第夫妇。”
“当然不太可能是他们。”
“我觉得安东尼•布朗的可能性也不大。这样就只剩下两个人了，亲爱的小姨子……”
“和忠实的秘书。”
肯普看着他。
“对，她可能会往他身上栽这种赃。我得去基德明斯特公馆了。你呢？想去看望一下玛
尔小姐吗？”
“我想我还是去见另外那位吧——办公室里的那位。再悼念一下老朋友。我可能会带她
出去吃午饭。”
“原来你是这么想的。”
“我还什么都没想呢，只是在寻找蛛丝马迹。”
“那你也应该见一下艾丽斯•玛尔。”
“我会去见她，但我更想在她不在的时候去一趟她家。你知道为什么吗，肯普？”
“我肯定不知道。”
“因为那里有个人说起话来叽叽喳喳的，像小鸟一样叽叽喳喳……我年轻那会儿有句俗
话——那是一只小鸟告诉我的。真的，肯普，这些叽叽喳喳的人，只要你任凭他们叽叽喳
喳，他们就会告诉你很多东西！”
BOOK 3 Seven
Seven
Mary Rees-Talbot greeted Colonel Race with a positive shriek of unbelief.
“My dear, I haven’t seen you since you disappeared so mysteriously
from Allahabad that time. And why are you here now? It isn’t to see me,
I’m quite sure. You never pay social calls. Come on now, own up, you
needn’t be diplomatic about it.”
“Diplomatic methods would be a waste of time with you, Mary. I always
have appreciated your X-ray mind.”
“Cut the cackle and come to the horses, my pet.”
Race smiled.
“Is the maid who let me in Betty Archdale?” he inquired.
“So that’s it! Now don’t tell me that the girl, a pure Cockney if ever there
was one, is a well-known European spy because I simply don’t believe it.”
“No, no, nothing of the kind.”
“And don’t tell me she’s one of our counterespionage either, because I
don’t believe that.”
“Quite right. The girl is simply a parlourmaid.”
“And since when have you been interested in simple parlourmaids—not
that Betty is simple—an artful dodger is more like it.”
“I think,” said Colonel Race, “that she might be able to tell me some-
thing.”
“If you asked her nicely? I shouldn’t be surprised if you’re right. She has
the close-to-the-door-when-there’s-anything-interesting-going-on tech-
nique very highly developed. What does M. do?”
“M. very kindly offers me a drink and rings for Betty and orders it.”
“And when Betty brings it?”
“By then M. has very kindly gone away.”
“To do some listening outside the door herself?”
“If she likes.”
“And after that I shall be bursting with Inside Information about the
latest European crisis?”
“I’m afraid not. There is no political situation involved in this.”
“What a disappointment! All right. I’ll play!”
Mrs. Rees-Talbot, who was a lively near-brunette of forty-nine, rang the
bell and directed her good-looking parlourmaid to bring Colonel Race a
whisky and soda.
When Betty Archdale returned, with a salver and the drink upon it, Mrs.
Rees-Talbot, was standing by the far door into her own sitting room.
“Colonel Race has some questions to ask you,” she said and went out.
Betty turned her impudent eyes on the tall grey- haired soldier with
some alarm in their depths. He took the glass from the tray and smiled.
“Seen the papers today?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.” Betty eyed him warily.
“Did you see that Mr. George Barton died last night at the Luxembourg
Restaurant?”
“Oh, yes, sir.” Betty’s eyes sparkled with the pleasure of public disaster.
“Wasn’t it dreadful?”
“You were in service there, weren’t you?”
“Yes, sir. I left last winter, soon after Mrs. Barton died.”
“She died at the Luxembourg, too.”
Betty nodded. “Sort of funny, that, isn’t it, sir?”
Race did not think it funny, but he knew what the words were intended
to convey. He said gravely:
“I see you’ve got brains. You can put two and two together.”
Betty clasped her hands and cast discretion to the winds.
“Was he done in, too? The papers didn’t say exactly.”
“Why do you say ‘too?’ Mrs. Barton’s death was brought in by the cor-
oner’s jury as suicide.”
She gave him a quick look out of the corner of her eye. Ever so old, she
thought, but he’s nice looking. That quiet kind. A real gentleman. Sort of
gentleman who’d have given you a gold sovereign when he was young.
Funny, I don’t even know what a sovereign looks like! What’s he after, ex-
actly?
She said demurely: “Yes, sir.”
“But perhaps you never thought it was suicide?”
“Well, no, sir. I didn’t—not really.”
“That’s very interesting—very interesting indeed. Why didn’t you think
so?”
She hesitated, her fingers began pleating her apron.
So nicely he said that, so gravely. Made you feel important and as
though you wanted to help him. And anyway she had been smart over
Rosemary Barton’s death. Never been taken in, she hadn’t!
“She was done in, sir, wasn’t she?”
“It seems possible that it may be so. But how did you come to think so?”
“Well,” Betty hesitated. “It was something I heard one day.”
“Yes?”
His tone was quietly encouraging.
“The door wasn’t shut or anything. I mean I’d never go and listen at a
door. I don’t like that sort of thing,” said Betty virtuously. “But I was going
through the hall to the dining room and carrying the silver on a tray and
they were speaking quite loud. Saying something she was—Mrs. Barton I
mean—about Anthony Browne not being his name. And then he got really
nasty, Mr. Browne did. I wouldn’t have thought he had it in him—so nice
looking and so pleasant spoken as he was as a rule. Said something about
carving up her face—ooh! and then he said if she didn’t do what he told
her he’d bump her off. Just like that! I didn’t hear any more because Miss
Iris was coming down the stairs, and of course I didn’t think very much of
it at the time, but after there was all the fuss about her committing suicide
at that party and I heard he’d been there at the time—well, it gave me
shivers all down my back—it did indeed!”
“But you didn’t say anything?”
The girl shook her head.
“I didn’t want to get mixed up with the police—and anyway I didn’t
know anything—not really. And perhaps if I had said anything I’d have
been bumped off too. Or taken for a ride as they call it.”
“I see.” Race paused a moment and then said in his gentlest voice: “So
you just wrote an anonymous letter to Mr. George Barton?”
She stared at him. He detected no uneasy guilt—nothing but pure aston-
ishment.
“Me? Write to Mr. Barton? Never.”
“Now don’t be afraid to tell about it. It was really a very good idea. It
warned him without your having to give yourself away. It was very clever
of you.”
“But I didn’t, sir. I never thought of such a thing. You mean write to Mr.
Barton and say that his wife had been done in? Why, the idea never came
into my head!”
She was so earnest in her denial that, in spite of himself, Race was
shaken. But it all fitted in so well—it could all be explained so naturally if
only the girl had written the letters. But she persisted in her denials, not
vehemently or uneasily, but soberly and without undue protestation. He
found himself reluctantly believing her.
He shifted his ground.
“Whom did you tell about this?”
She shook her head.
“I didn’t tell anyone. I’ll tell you honest, sir, I was scared. I thought I’d
better keep my mouth shut. I tried to forget it. I only brought it up once—
that was when I gave Mrs. Drake my notice—fussing terribly she’d been,
more than a girl could stand, and now wanting me to go and bury myself
in the dead of the country and not even a bus route! And then she turned
nasty about my reference, saying I broke things, and I said sarcastic-like
that at any rate I’d find a place where people didn’t get bumped off—and I
felt scared when I’d said it, but she didn’t pay any real attention. Perhaps I
ought to have spoken out at the time, but I couldn’t really tell. I mean the
whole thing might have been a joke. People do say all sorts of things, and
Mr. Browne was ever so nice really, and quite a one for joking, so I
couldn’t tell, sir, could I?”
Race agreed that she couldn’t. Then he said:
“Mrs. Barton spoke of Browne not being his real name. Did she mention
what his real name was?”
“Yes, she did. Because he said, ‘Forget about Tony’—now what was it?
Tony something . . . Reminded me of the cherry jam cook had been mak-
ing.”
“Tony Cheriton? Cherable.”
She shook her head.
“More of a fancy name than that. Began with an M. And sounded for-
eign.”
“Don’t worry. It will come back to you, perhaps. If so, let me know. Here
is my card with my address. If you remember the name write to me at that
address.”
He handed her the card and a treasury note.
“I will, sir, thank you, sir.”
A gentleman, she thought, as she ran downstairs. A pound note, not ten
shillings. It must have been nice when there were gold sovereigns. . . .
Mary Rees-Talbot came back into the room.
“Well, successful?”
“Yes, but there’s still one snag to surmount. Can your ingenuity help me?
Can you think of a name that would remind you of cherry jam?”
“What an extraordinary proposition.”
“Think Mary. I’m not a domestic man. Concentrate on jam making,
cherry jam in particular.”
“One doesn’t often make cherry jam.”
“Why not?”
“Well, it’s inclined to go sugary—unless you use cooking cherries, Mo-
rello cherries.”
Race gave an exclamation.
“That’s it—I bet that’s it. Good-bye, Mary, I’m endlessly grateful. Do you
mind if I ring that bell so that the girl comes and shows me out?”
Mrs. Rees-Talbot called after him as he hurried out of the room:
“Of all the ungrateful wretches! Aren’t you going to tell me what it’s all
about?”
He called back:
“I’ll come and tell you the whole story later.”
“Sez you,” murmured Mrs. Rees-Talbot.
Downstairs, Betty waited with Race’s hat and stick.
He thanked her and passed out. On the doorstep he paused.
“By the way,” he said, “was the name Morelli?”
Betty’s face lighted up.
“Quite right, sir. That was it. Tony Morelli that’s the name he told her to
forget. And he said he’d been in prison, too.”
Race walked down the steps smiling.
From the nearest call box he put through a call to Kemp.
Their interchange was brief but satisfactory. Kemp said:
“I’ll send off a cable at once. We ought to hear by return. I must say it
will be a great relief if you’re right.”
“I think I’m right. The sequence is pretty clear.”
第三部 第四章
第四章
二人分道而行。瑞斯拦下一辆出租车送他去城里乔治的办公室。肯普探长在乎花费，
搭了趟公交车去了不远处的基德明斯特公馆。
探长迈上台阶，摁下门铃时面色十分严峻。他知道，他将要面对困境。基德明斯特是
强大的政治家族，势力覆盖全国。肯普探长完全相信英国的法律是公正的。如果罗斯玛丽•
巴顿或乔治•巴顿的死牵涉到斯蒂芬或亚历山德拉•法拉第，任何门路或势力都不能让他们逃
脱责罚。但是，如果他们是清白的，或者对他们不利的证据过于模糊，不足以证明他们有
罪，那么，负责这个案子的警官就必须谨慎行事，否则很容易遭到上司的斥责。在这种情
况下，我们可以理解，探长并不喜欢摆在他面前的东西。他认为，基德明斯特一家很有可
能——用他自己的话说，“让他碰钉子”。
然而，肯普很快发现，他的推断有点天真。基德明斯特爵士是个老道的外交家，不会
采用粗鲁的手段。
表明来意后，肯普探长立即被一个傲慢的男管家带进了房子后部一个四壁是书、光线
昏暗的房间，他发现基德明斯特爵士和他的女儿、女婿正在那里等他。
见他来了，基德明斯特爵士迎上前，跟他握手，亲切地说：“您很准时，探长。非常感
谢您能亲自来一趟，而不是让小女和女婿去苏格兰场。当然，有必要的话，他们很乐意
去，这自不必说。他们非常感谢您的好意。”
桑德拉平静地说：“是的，确实如此，探长。”
她穿了一条深红色的、材质轻柔的裙子，背光坐在狭长的窗前，这让肯普不禁联想起
他在国外的一座大教堂的彩色玻璃上见过的一幅画像——她的长鹅蛋脸和略显骨感的肩膀
有助于产生幻觉。圣什么来着？他们告诉过他那幅画的名字，但亚历山德拉•法拉第夫人不
是圣徒，差得远呢。不过在探长看来，一些古代的圣徒不是和蔼亲切的普通基督徒，他们
褊狭、狂热，对自己和他人都很残忍。
斯蒂芬•法拉第站在他太太身旁，面无表情。他看起来庄重拘谨，俨然一个由人民委任
的议员。他把真我藏得很深。但探长知道，真正的他就在那里。
基德明斯特爵士在讲话，娴熟地引导着谈话的走向。
“我不会对您有所隐瞒的，探长，这件事令我们大家都很痛苦不悦。这是我的女儿和女
婿被第二次牵扯进一件发生在公共场所的暴力死亡事件——同一家餐厅，同一个家庭的两
名成员。这种事传出去对一个公众人物总是有害的。当然，传出去是不可避免的，我们都
明白这一点。我女儿和法拉第先生都急于为您提供一切帮助，并希望此事尽快澄清，以便
公众的兴趣减弱，直至消失。”
“谢谢您，基德明斯特爵士。非常感谢您有这样的态度，这样我们做起事来就容易多
了。”
桑德拉•法拉第说：“尽管问吧，探长。”
“谢谢您，亚历山德拉夫人。”
“只是有一点，探长，”基德明斯特爵士说，“当然，您有您自己的信息来源，不过，我
从我的朋友——警察局长——那里得知，这个叫巴顿的人，被认为是他杀，而不是自杀。
尽管对外界来说，看起来像是自杀，自杀似乎是一种更有可能的解释。你认为是自杀，对
不对，桑德拉，亲爱的？”
那幅哥特风格的画像微微点了一下头。桑德拉以一种思索的语气说：“在我看来，昨晚
的事显而易见。我们去了同一家餐厅，事实上，还是同一张桌子。去年，可怜的罗斯玛丽•
巴顿就是在那儿服毒自杀的。夏天在乡下的时候，我们就发现巴顿先生不太对头，他真的
很古怪，有点反常，我们都认为他太太的死令他耿耿于怀。您知道，他很喜欢她，我认为
他还没有从痛苦中走出来。所以，虽然自杀的看法并非必然，但至少有这种可能，而且，
我想象不出怎么会有人想谋害乔治•巴顿。”
斯蒂芬•法拉第很快说：“我也想不明白，巴顿是个大好人。我相信在这个世界上，他
一个仇人都没有。”
肯普探长看着三张看向他探询的脸，开口前先想了一会儿。最好让他们这么认为，他
心想。
“您说得非常正确，我相信是这样的，亚历山德拉夫人。不过，有几件事，您或许还不
知道。”
基德明斯特爵士急忙插话道：“我们不是要强迫探长摊牌。公开什么事实完全由他自己
决定。”
“谢谢，大人，不过，我没有理由不把事情解释得更清楚一些。归结一下，大概是这
样：乔治•巴顿死前曾向两个人表示，他相信，我们也这样认为，他太太并非自杀身亡，而
是被第三方毒死的。他当时在追查那个第三方。昨晚的宴会，表面上看是为玛尔小姐庆祝
生日，其实是他制订的计划的一部分，目的在于查出杀害他太太的凶手。”
一阵沉默。沉默中，肯普探长虽然面无表情，内心却很敏感，他感觉到了某种被他归
类为惊慌的气息。没有人的脸上流露出惊慌之色，但他确信存在惊慌。
基德明斯特爵士第一个恢复镇静。他说：“哦，当然了，这个想法本身就指出一个事
实，那就是，可怜的巴顿有点……呃……反常？丧妻之痛可能让他的神志有点错乱。”
“您说得很对，爵士，但这至少表明他绝对没有自杀倾向。”
“是啊——是啊，我赞同您的说法。”
又是一阵沉默。接着，斯蒂芬•法拉第突然说：“可是，巴顿怎么会有这种想法呢？毕
竟，巴顿太太就是自杀的啊。”
肯普探长平静地看了他一眼。
“巴顿先生并不这么认为。”
基德明斯特爵士插话道：“警方满意自杀的结论吗？当时除了自杀，没有其他可能了
吧？”
肯普探长平静地说：“事实与自杀的说法吻合。没有证据表明她的死是由其他手段造成
的。”
他知道基德明斯特这么有能力的人一定能明白这句话的确切含义。
肯普变得更官气了一点，他说：“如果可以的话，现在我想问您几个问题。亚历山德拉
夫人，可以吗？”
“当然。”她把头微微转向他。
“巴顿先生死时，您没有怀疑可能是他杀，而不是自杀吗？”
“当然没有，当时我确信是自杀。”她又说，“现在也一样。”
肯普没有就此追问下去，而是转而问：“这一年来，您收到过匿名信吗，亚历山德拉夫
人？”
她沉着的态度似乎被震惊打破了。
“匿名信？哦，没有。”
“您确定？这种信非常令人不快，人们往往宁可不去理会，但在这个案子里可能特别重
要，这就是为什么我要强调，如果您收到过这种信，一定要让我知道。”
“我明白了。不过，探长，我只能向您保证，我没有收到过这类东西。”
“很好。您说今年夏天，巴顿先生的举止很古怪。怎么个古怪法？”
她想了一下。
“呃，他很神经质、紧张，似乎很难专心听别人说话。”她扭过头看向她的丈夫，“你是
不是也有这种感觉，斯蒂芬？”
“是，我认为这个描述很公正。那个人好像病了。他瘦了。”
“您注意到他对您和您先生的态度有什么变化吗？比如说，不那么热情了？”
“没有。正相反。他买了栋房子，您知道，离我们家很近，而且，他好像很感谢我们为
他做的事——我的意思是，介绍当地情况什么的。当然，这方面我们很乐意帮忙。为了
他，也为了艾丽斯•玛尔，那是个迷人的姑娘。”
“已故的巴顿太太是您的好朋友吗，亚历山德拉夫人？”
“不是，我们的关系不是很近。”她轻笑了一声，“其实，她主要是斯蒂芬的朋友。她对
政治产生了兴趣，他就帮着——呃，在政治方面指导她……我相信，他很喜欢这么做。她
是一个很有魅力、非常迷人的女人，您知道。”
“而您是一个聪明的女人。”肯普暗暗欣赏，“不知道您对那两个人了解多少——很多，
我不该怀疑的。”他转而问道，“巴顿先生从来没对您表示过他太太并非自杀的看法吗？”
“没有，真的没有。这就是为什么我刚才那么吃惊。”
“玛尔小姐呢？她也没提过她姐姐的死？”
“没有。”
“知道是什么原因促使乔治•巴顿在乡下买房吗？是您或者您先生建议他买的吗？”
“不是。我们也很惊讶。”
“他对您一直很友善？”
“真的很友善。”
“您对安东尼•布朗了解多少，亚历山德拉夫人？”
“我对他真的一无所知，偶尔碰见过几次而已。”
“您呢，法拉第先生？”
“我可能比我太太知道的更少，她至少还跟他跳过舞。他似乎是个讨人喜欢的家伙——
美国人，我想。”
“据您观察，他和巴顿太太有没有特殊的亲密关系？”
“我对此毫不知情，探长。”
“我只是问您的印象，法拉第先生。”
斯蒂芬皱起眉头。
“他们对彼此很友善……我只能这么说。”
“您呢，亚历山德拉夫人？”
“仅仅是我的印象吗，探长？”
“仅仅是您的印象。”
“那么，姑且不论是真是假，我的印象是，他们很熟，而且关系亲密。单从他们看彼此
的眼神就能知道，但我没有具体的证据。”
“女人通常对这类事有良好的判断力。”肯普说。如果瑞斯上校在场，肯定会被探长说
这句话时脸上露出的傻笑逗乐，“那个莱辛小姐呢，亚历山德拉夫人？”
“莱辛小姐，我知道她是巴顿的秘书。巴顿太太死那晚我是第一次见到她。后来，他们
住在乡下的时候我又见过她一次，再有就是昨天晚上。”
“请让我再问您一个非正式的问题，我想问的是，您觉得她是不是爱上了巴顿先生？”
“这个我真的一点都不知道。”
“那我们聊聊昨晚的事吧。”
他详细询问了斯蒂芬夫妇那个悲惨的夜晚，他没抱太大希望，得到的信息只是证实了
已经听到的情况。所有描述在重要的几点上都吻合——巴顿提议向艾丽斯敬酒，喝过酒后
马上起身跳舞。他们一起离开了桌子，乔治和艾丽斯最先回来。至于那把空椅子，他们都
给不出任何解释。除了乔治•巴顿说他在等一个朋友，瑞斯上校，那个人会晚点到——探长
知道，他可能说的不是实话。桑德拉•法拉第说——她丈夫也同意——卡巴莱歌舞表演结
束，灯光亮起来时，乔治曾盯着那把空椅子，样子很奇怪，似乎出了会儿神，别人跟他说
话他也充耳不闻。后来他恢复了正常，提议为艾丽斯的健康干杯。
探长在这里得到的唯一算是新的信息是，桑德拉提到她和乔治在费尔黑文的一次对
话，以及他恳求她和她先生务必在艾丽斯的生日宴上配合他。
这个托词貌似有理，探长想，但肯定不是真实意图。合上胡乱涂写了几个字的记事
本，他站起身。
“非常感谢您，大人，还有法拉第先生和亚历山德拉夫人，谢谢你们的帮助和合作。”
“我女儿需要出席庭审吗？”
“这次的诉讼将非常正式，证词和医疗证据需要鉴定，因此庭审将推迟一个星期。到那
时，”探长的语气稍微有了点变化，“希望我们会有些进展。”
他转向斯蒂芬•法拉第。
“哦，对了，法拉第先生，还有一两个小问题，我想您能帮到我。不必麻烦亚历山德拉
夫人了。如果您给苏格兰场打电话，我们可以安排一个适合您的时间见面。我知道，您是
个大忙人。”
话说得很动听，口气也随意，但在那三双耳朵听来却有特定的含义。
斯蒂芬做出一副友善合作的样子，尽力说出：“当然，探长。”然后，他看了一下表，
喃喃道，“我必须去议院了。”
斯蒂芬匆匆离去，探长也走了，基德明斯特爵士转向他的女儿，开门见山地问了一个
问题。
“斯蒂芬和那个女人有私情？”
回答前，他女儿犹豫了片刻。
“当然没有。如果有的话，我应该知道。不管怎么说，斯蒂芬不是那种人。”
“听我说，亲爱的，拼命向前跑没有好处，这种事注定会公之于众。我们必须了解我们
现在的处境。”
“罗斯玛丽•巴顿是那个安东尼•布朗的朋友，他们俩形影不离。”
“好吧，”基德明斯特爵士慢悠悠地说，“你应该知道。”
他不相信女儿的话。慢慢走出房间时他面如土灰，神情茫然。他上楼去了太太的起居
室。探长拜访时他禁止太太来书房，他很清楚她傲慢的态度容易引起敌对情绪，而在这个
节骨眼上，他觉得和探长保持和谐的关系至关重要。
“怎么样？”基德明斯特夫人问，“处理得怎么样？”
“表面上看很好，”基德明斯特爵士慢慢地说，“肯普是个有礼貌的家伙，态度很和善，
处理得很老练……有点太老练了。”
“这么说，事态很严重？”
“对，很严重。我们就不该让桑德拉嫁给那小子，维琪。”
“我当时就是这么说的。”
“是……是……”他承认，“你对了，我错了。但是，你听我说，无论如何，她都会嫁给
他。一旦桑德拉下定决心，你就根本改变不了她的想法。她认识法拉第是个灾难——我们
对他的家世背景一无所知。出现危机的时候，我们怎么知道他这种人会作出什么反应？”
“我明白了，”基德明斯特夫人说，“你认为我们把一个杀人凶手引到家里来了？”
“我不知道。我不想随便给他定罪，但警方是这么认为的，而且他们很精明。他和巴顿
的女人私通过——这一点显而易见。要么她是因为他自杀，要么……呃，不管发生了什
么，巴顿知道了，打算曝光这个丑闻。我想，斯蒂芬受不了了……就……”
“毒死了他？”
“对。”
基德明斯特夫人摇了摇头。
“我不同意你的看法。”
“我希望你是对的。但是，有人毒死了他。”
“要我说，”基德明斯特夫人说，“斯蒂芬绝对没胆量做那种事。”
“他对待事业的态度非常认真，他有很高的天赋，你知道，他具备成为一名真正的政治
家的素质。很难说一个人被逼入绝境时会做出什么事。”
他太太还是摇头。
“我还是认为他没那个胆量。你说的是赌徒，不顾后果的那种人。我害怕，威廉，怕极
了。”
他瞪着她。“你是在暗示桑德拉……桑德拉……？”
“我讨厌这个想法，哪怕只是暗示一下。但是怯懦，不敢面对这种可能性，这些都没
用。她痴迷那个男人，向来如此，而且桑德拉的性格有点古怪。我从来没真正了解过她，
但是我一直为她担惊受怕。为了斯蒂芬，她甘愿冒险，一切风险。她可以不计任何代价。
如果她疯狂邪恶到做出那种事，我们必须保护她。”
“保护？你什么意思——保护？”
“你要保护她。我们得为他们做点什么，不是吗？幸好你可以托各种关系。”
基德明斯特爵士目不转睛地看着妻子。他以为自己很了解妻子的性格，她务实的力量
和勇气，但拒绝回避令人不快的事实和她的肆无忌惮还是令他震惊。
“如果我女儿是杀人凶手，你认为我应该利用我的公权为她脱罪？”
“当然了。”基德明斯特夫人说。
“我的好维琪！你不明白！我不能这么做。这会损害我的……名誉。”
“胡说！”基德明斯特夫人说。
他们注视着彼此，分歧如此之大，以至于看不到彼此的观点。就像阿伽门农和克吕泰
涅斯特拉瞪视彼此，嘴上挂着伊菲革涅亚的名字。 [1] “你可以迫使政府向警方施压，这样，
案子就会撤销，做出自杀的裁决。以前你这么干过，别装了。”
“那次事关国家政策，是为了国家的利益。而这次是私事。我很怀疑我能不能做出这种
事。”
“有足够的决心就能。”
基德明斯特爵士气得满脸通红。
“能这么做我也不愿意！那是滥用职权。”
“如果桑德拉被捕受审，你不愿意聘请最好的律师，尽一切可能让她免受惩罚吗，无论
她的罪责有多大？”
“当然、当然。但这完全不同。你们女人永远理解不了这种事。”
基德明斯特夫人沉默了，她对丈夫的反唇相讥毫不在意。所有子女中，桑德拉跟她最
不亲近。即便如此，此刻，她是一个母亲，只是一个母亲，她愿意保护自己的孩子，并不
惜采用任何手段——无论是名誉的，还是不名誉的。她会尽最大努力为桑德拉抗争。
“无论如何，”基德明斯特爵士说，“桑德拉不会被起诉的，除非有绝对令人信服的罪
证。而且，我不相信我女儿是杀人凶手。你很令我震惊，维琪，竟然会有这种想法。”
他的妻子什么也没说。基德明斯特爵士心神不宁地走出了房间。他想，维琪，这个他
最亲近的人，跟他一起生活了这么多年的维琪，内心深处居然有如此出人意料、令人不安
的想法！
注释：
[1]阿伽门农，希腊迈锡尼国王，特洛伊战争就因他而死。战争胜利后，他顺利回到家乡，却被他的
妻子克吕泰涅斯特拉与情人埃癸斯托斯一起谋害。伊菲革涅亚是他们的女儿，阿伽门农因得罪
狩猎女神而用女儿献祭。
BOOK 3 Eight
Eight
Chief Inspector Kemp was not in a very good humour.
For the last half hour he had been interviewing a frightened white rab-
bit of sixteen who, by virtue of his uncle Charles’s great position, was as-
piring to be a waiter of the class required by the Luxembourg. In the
meantime, he was one of six harried underlings who ran about with ap-
rons round their waists to distinguish them from the superior article, and
whose duty it was to bear the blame for everything, fetch and carry,
provide rolls and pats of butter and be occasionally and unceasingly
hissed at in French, Italian and occasionally English. Charles, as befitted a
great man, so far from showing favour to a blood relation, hissed, cursed
and swore at him even more than he did at the others. Nevertheless Pierre
aspired in his heart to be no less than the headwaiter of a chic restaurant
himself one day in the far future.
At the moment, however, his career had received a check, and he
gathered that he was suspected of no less than murder.
Kemp turned the lad inside out and disgustedly convinced himself that
the boy had done no less and no more than what he had said—namely,
picked up a lady’s bag from the floor and replaced it by her plate.
“It is as I am hurrying with sauce to M. Robert and already he is impa-
tient, and the young lady sweeps her bag off the table as she goes to dance,
so I pick it up and put it on the table, and then I hurry on, for already M.
Robert he is making the signs frantically to me. That is all, monsieur.”
And that was all. Kemp disgustedly let him go, feeling strongly tempted
to add, “But don’t let me catch you doing that sort of thing again.”
Sergeant Pollock made a distraction by announcing that they had tele-
phoned up to say that a young lady was asking for him or rather for the of-
ficer in charge of the Luxembourg case.
“Who is she?”
“Her name is Miss Chloe West.”
“Let’s have her up,” said Kemp resignedly. “I can give her ten minutes.
Mr. Farraday’s due after that. Oh, well, won’t do any harm to keep him
waiting a few minutes. Makes them jittery, that does.”
When Miss Chloe West walked into the room, Kemp was at once assailed
by the impression that he recognized her. But a minute later he aban-
doned that impression. No, he had never seen this girl before, he was sure
of that. Nevertheless the vague haunting sense of familiarity remained to
plague him.
Miss West was about twenty-five, tall, brown-haired and very pretty.
Her voice was rather conscious of its diction and she seemed decidedly
nervous.
“Well, Miss West, what can I do for you?”
Kemp spoke briskly.
“I read in the paper about the Luxembourg—the man who died there.”
“Mr. George Barton? Yes? Did you know him?”
“Well, no, not exactly. I mean I didn’t really know him.”
Kemp looked at her carefully and discarded his first deduction.
Chloe West was looking extremely refined and virtuous—severely so. He
said pleasantly:
“Can I have your exact name and address first, please, so that we know
where we are?”
“Chloe Elizabeth West. 15 Merryvale Court, Maida Vale. I’m an actress.”
Kemp looked at her again out of the corner of his eye, and decided that
that was what she really was. Repertory, he fancied—in spite of her looks
she was the earnest kind.
“Yes, Miss West?”
“When I read about Mr. Barton’s death and that the—the police were in-
quiring into it, I thought perhaps I ought to come and tell you something. I
spoke to my friend about it and she seemed to think so. I don’t suppose it’s
really anything to do with it, but—” Miss West paused.
“We’ll be the judge of that,” said Kemp pleasantly. “Just tell me about it.”
“I’m not acting just at the moment,” explained Miss West.
Inspector Kemp nearly said “Resting” to show that he knew the proper
terms, but restrained himself.
“But my name is down at the agencies and my picture in Spotlight . . .
That, I understand, is where Mr. Barton saw it. He got into touch with me
and explained what he wanted me to do.”
“Yes?”
“He told me he was having a dinner party at the Luxembourg and that
he wanted to spring a surprise on his guests. He showed me a photograph
and told me that he wanted me to make up as the original. I was very
much the same colouring, he said.”
Illumination flashed across Kemp’s mind. The photograph of Rosemary
he had seen on the desk in George’s room in Elvaston Square. That was
who the girl reminded him of. She was like Rosemary Barton—not perhaps
startlingly so—but the general type and cast of features was the same.
“He also brought me a dress to wear—I’ve brought it with me. A greyish
green silk. I was to do my hair like the photograph (it was a coloured one)
and accentuate the resemblance with makeup. Then I was to come to the
Luxembourg and go into the restaurant during the first cabaret show and
sit down at Mr. Barton’s table where there would be a vacant place. He
took me to lunch there and showed me where the table would be.”
“And why didn’t you keep the appointment, Miss West?”
“Because about eight o’clock that night—someone—Mr. Barton—rang
up and said the whole thing had been put off. He said he’d let me know
next day when it was coming off. Then, the next morning, I saw his death
in the papers.”
“And very sensibly you came along to us,” said Kemp pleasantly. “Well,
thank you very much, Miss West. You’ve cleared up one mystery—the
mystery of the vacant place. By the way, you said just now—‘someone’—
and then, ‘Mr. Barton.’ Why is that?”
“Because at first I didn’t think it was Mr. Barton. His voice sounded dif-
ferent.”
“It was a man’s voice?”
“Oh, yes, I think so—at least—it was rather husky as though he had a
cold.”
“And that’s all he said?”
“That’s all.”
Kemp questioned her a little longer, but got no further.
When she had gone, he said to the sergeant:
“So that was George Barton’s famous ‘plan.’ I see now why they all said
he stared at the empty chair after the cabaret and looked queer and ab-
sentminded. His precious plan had gone wrong.”
“You don’t think it was he who put her off?”
“Not on your life. And I’m not so sure it was a man’s voice, either. Huski-
ness is a good disguise through the telephone. Oh, well, we’re getting on.
Send in Mr. Farraday if he’s here.”
第三部 第五章
第五章
瑞斯发现露丝•莱辛正在一张大办公桌前忙着整理文件。她穿着黑外套、黑裙子、白衬
衫。她的平静、从容和高效给他留下了深刻的印象。他注意到了她的黑眼圈和因为不高兴
而耷拉着的嘴角。然而，她的悲伤——如果是悲伤的话——和她的其他情绪一样，都被控
制得很好。
瑞斯表明来意后，她立即回答：“您能来真是太好了。我当然知道您是谁。巴顿先生昨
晚等您来着，不是吗？我记得他这么说过。”
“前天晚上他提过这件事没有？”
她想了一下。
“没有。我们在餐厅落座后他才说起。我记得当时我有点惊讶……”她停顿了一下，双
颊微微泛红，“当然，不是因为他邀请了您。您是他的老朋友，我知道。而且，一年前的那
次宴会您本来也要参加的。我的意思是，我惊讶的是，如果您要来，巴顿先生怎么不再邀
请一位女士来平衡一下人数。当然了，如果您晚来，或者压根就不来……”她突然住了
口，“我真笨。干吗重复这些无关紧要的小事？我今天早上好笨。”
“但您还是照常来上班了？”
“当然。”她面露惊讶之色，几乎是震惊，“这是我的工作。有很多东西需要整理和安
排。”
“乔治总是对我说他有多么依赖您。”瑞斯温和地说。
她转过脸去。他看见她快速地咽了口唾沫，眨了眨眼睛。她的情绪含而不露，几乎让
他相信她是无辜的。几乎，不是完全。他见过一些女人是好演员，她们的红眼圈和黑眼圈
源于人工，而不是自然形成的。
他保留意见，心想：不管怎么说，她是个冷静的人。
露丝重又面向办公桌，平静地回应上校的最后一句话。
“我跟了他很多年了，到四月份就整整八年了，我知道他的做事方式，而且，我认为他
——信任我。”
“我相信。”他又说，“快到吃午饭的时间了。我希望您愿意跟我出去，找个地方，安安
静静吃顿饭。我有很多话要对您说。”
“谢谢，我很愿意。”
他带她去了一个他常去的小餐馆，餐桌之间相隔很远，可以安静地交谈。
他点了菜。服务员走开后，他看着桌对面的同伴。
他认为她是个好看的姑娘，有一头光滑亮泽的黑发、坚定的嘴唇和下巴。菜上来之
前，他随便聊了一些话题，她附和着，表现出智慧。
短暂停顿后，她说：“您是要跟我谈昨天晚上的事吧？请不要客气，尽管问吧。太不可
思议了，我也想谈一谈。要不是真的发生了，而且是我亲眼所见，我是不会相信的。”
“您一定见过肯普探长了吧？”
“见了，昨天晚上。他似乎很聪明，也很有经验。”她停顿了一下，“真的是谋杀吗，瑞
斯上校？”
“肯普这么对您说的？”
“他没有主动提供任何信息，但他问的问题暴露了他的想法。”
“关于是不是自杀，您的看法应该和其他人一样，莱辛小姐。我想，您很了解巴顿，而
且昨天的大部分时间您都和他在一起。他看起来怎么样？跟平时差不多？还是很焦虑——
不安——兴奋？”
她迟疑了一下。
“很难说。他确实焦虑不安，但这是有原因的。”
她解释了一下维克多•德瑞克带来的麻烦，并概述了一下那个年轻人的履历。
“哼，”瑞斯说，“又是个败家子。巴顿因为他心烦意乱？”
露丝慢慢地说：“很难解释。我很了解巴顿先生，您知道，这件事确实搞得他很心烦，
而且我想，德瑞克太太很难过，哭哭啼啼的，每次她都这样，所以，他肯定想摆平这件
事。不过，我感觉……”
“什么感觉，莱辛小姐？我相信您的感觉一定很准确。”
“哦，我想，他的心烦和平时的心烦不太一样，如果可以这么说。因为我们遇到过这种
事，形式不尽相同。去年维克多•德瑞克在国内，有了麻烦，我们不得不安排他乘船去南
美，去年六月他还发电报来要钱。所以，您该明白，我对巴顿先生的反应很熟悉。在我看
来，这次他心烦主要是因为，这封电报恰好是在他专心准备宴会的时候发来的。他的精力
似乎全用在筹备宴会上了，任何让他分心的事都令他心烦。”
“这次宴会有没有什么让您觉得古怪的地方，莱辛小姐？”
“有。巴顿真的很古怪。他很兴奋——像个孩子。”
“您有没有想过这次宴会可能有什么特别的用意？”
“您是说，这次宴会复制了一年前巴顿太太自杀的那次？”
“对。”
“坦白地讲，我觉得这是个特别不寻常的主意。”
“乔治没有主动作出解释，或者以某种方式向您吐露秘密？”
她摇摇头。
“告诉我，莱辛小姐，巴顿太太自杀这事，您怀疑过吗？”
她很震惊。“哦，没有。”
“乔治•巴顿没跟您说过他认为他太太是被人谋杀的？”
她瞪大眼睛看着他。
“乔治这么认为？”
“看来您刚知道。是的，他的确这么认为，莱辛小姐。乔治收到了匿名信，说他太太不
是自杀，而是被人杀死的。”
“这就是他今年夏天那么古怪的原因？我一直想不通他是怎么了。”
“您完全不知道有匿名信？”
“完全不知道。有很多封吗？”
“他给我看了两封。”
“我竟然对此一无所知！”
她的声音中带着很受伤的意味。
他看了她一会儿，然后说：“哦，莱辛小姐，您有什么想法。在您看来，乔治有可能自
杀吗？”
她摇摇头。
“不，哦……不可能。”
“但是您说他很兴奋——不安？”
“对，但他那个状态已经持续一段时间了。现在我明白了，我明白为什么昨天晚上的宴
会让他那么兴奋了。他肯定有一个特别的想法，希望通过重现当时的情景了解到一些额外
的情况。可怜的乔治，他的脑子里肯定乱糟糟的。”
“罗斯玛丽•巴顿的死呢，莱辛小姐？您还认为她是自杀吗？”
她皱起眉头。
“我做梦也没想过会有别的原因。看起来自然而然。”
“流感引发的精神抑郁？”
“呃，远远不止于此。她很不快乐，谁都看得出来。”
“也能猜出原因？”
“哦……是的。至少我猜出来了。当然，我可能猜错了。但是，巴顿太太这种女人是透
明的，她们毫不费心去隐藏自己的感受。还好，我觉得巴顿先生不知道……哦，是的，她
很不快乐。而且我知道，那天她除了感冒、心情低落，还头痛得厉害。”
“您怎么知道她头疼？”
“我听她这么跟亚历山德拉夫人说的——在化妆间，她后悔没把药带来，正好亚历山德
拉夫人有一颗，就给她了。”
瑞斯上校端着杯子的手停在了半空。
“她吃了？”
“对。”
他没喝，而是放下杯子，看着桌子那头。这个姑娘看起很平静，没有觉察到她刚说的
话有什么意义。这意味着，桑德拉，从她所坐的位置看，偷偷往罗斯玛丽的杯子里放东西
的难度最大，却有另一个下毒的机会。她可能给了罗斯玛丽一颗胶囊。通常，胶囊被吞下
后，几分钟就会融化，不过，那可能是一种特殊的胶囊，里面可能有明胶或其他物质。也
可能罗斯玛丽没有当场吃下，而是稍后才吃的。
他突然说：“您看着她吃下去的？”
“您说什么？”
他从她困惑的表情看出她在想别的事。
“您看见罗斯玛丽•巴顿吞下那颗胶囊了吗？”
露丝吓了一跳。
“我——哦，没有，我没看见。她只是感谢了亚历山德拉夫人。”
罗斯玛丽可能把那颗胶囊放进包里，卡巴莱歌舞表演开始后，她头痛加重，于是她把
胶囊丢进香槟酒里，让它融化。假设，纯粹是假设，不过，这是一种可能。
露丝说：“您为什么问我这个？”
她的目光突然变得警觉起来，充满了疑问。瑞斯注视着她，她似乎在动脑筋。
然后，她又说：“哦，我明白了，我明白为什么乔治在法拉第家附近买房子了，我也明
白为什么他不告诉我那些信的事了。我很奇怪他竟然没告诉我。当然了，如果他相信信上
的话，那就意味着，我们中间的一个，肯定是同席的五个人当中的一个，杀了她。可能
——甚至可能是我！”
瑞斯用十分轻柔的声音说：“您有理由杀死罗斯玛丽•巴顿吗？”
一开始他以为她没听见他的问话。她目光低垂，一动不动地坐在那里。
但是突然，她叹了口气，抬起眼，直视着他。
“这种事，我不愿意讲，”她说，“但是，我认为您最好知道。我爱乔治•巴顿，在他认识
罗斯玛丽之前我就爱上了他。我不认为他知道，当然，他也不关心。他喜欢我，很喜欢
我，但我想，不是那种方式的喜欢。不过，我过去常想，我嫁给他会是一个好太太，我可
以让他快乐。他爱罗斯玛丽，但跟她在一起，他并不快乐。”
瑞斯温和地说：“而您不喜欢罗斯玛丽？”
“是的，我不喜欢她。哦！她很漂亮、很迷人，有她独特的魅力。她从来没有费心对我
好过！我很不喜欢她。她死的时候，我很震惊，还有她死的那个方式，但我没有真正伤心
过。恐怕我还挺开心的。”
她停顿了一下。
“拜托，我们能聊点别的吗？”
瑞斯立刻回答：“我希望您能详细确切地把您能想起来的所有事都告诉我。从昨天早上
开始，特别是乔治说过的话，还有他做过的任何事。”
露丝立刻回答，讲述了昨天上午发生的事——乔治对胡搅蛮缠的维克多的厌烦，她给
南美洲打电话，做好安排，问题解决后乔治的欢欣。接着，她又描述了她到卢森堡餐厅的
经过，以及乔治身为主人慌张激动的举止，一直讲到悲剧发生的那一刻。她的叙述和上校
之前听到的内容在各个方面都吻合。
露丝烦恼地皱着眉头，说出心中的困惑。
“不是自杀，我确信不是自杀，但怎么可能是谋杀呢？我的意思是，怎么做到的？答案
是，不可能，不可能是我们中间的一个人干的！是不是有人在我们离开座位跳舞的时候偷
偷在乔治的杯子里下了毒？但如果是这样，那个人会是谁呢？似乎讲不通。”
“有人证明，你们跳舞的时候，没有人靠近过那张桌子。”
“这太没道理了！氰化钾总不能自己跑到杯子里去吧？！”
“您完全不知道是谁把氰化钾放进杯子里的，也没有怀疑过任何人吗？回想一下昨天晚
上的情景。有没有任何东西、任何细节，曾经引起过您的怀疑，哪怕是小小的怀疑？”
他看到她的脸色变了，眼中露出片刻不确定的神色。她在回答“没有”之前稍微迟疑了
一下，短暂到几乎察觉不到。
然而，一定有，他确信。她看到、听到，或者注意到了某样东西，只是出于某种原
因，她决定不说出来。
他没有强迫她，他知道强迫露丝这种女孩没有任何好处。如果，出于某种原因，她决
定三缄其口，他确信她绝不会改主意。
但肯定有某种东西，这让他很高兴，也让他又有了信心。他看到面前那堵没有门窗的
墙上出现了第一道裂缝。
午餐后，瑞斯向露丝告辞，驱车去艾尔维斯顿广场，一路上还在想着那个刚刚离开的
女人。
会是露丝•莱辛吗？总的来说，他对她有好感。她似乎非常坦率、毫无保留。
杀人这种事她干得出来吗？大部分人干得出来，只要被逼到那个份儿上。一般情况下
没人敢杀人，除非杀死某个特定的人。因此，很难排除任何一个人的犯罪嫌疑。这个年轻
女人身上有一种残酷的特质。而且，她有一个动机，更确切地说，是有一个特定的动机。
除掉罗斯玛丽，她就很有可能成为乔治•巴顿太太。无论是嫁给一个有钱人，还是嫁给一个
她爱的男人，除掉罗斯玛丽都是至关重要的。
不过露丝•莱辛太冷静、太谨慎了，不会单单为了成为一个有钱人的太太，过上舒服的
生活，就去冒生命危险。为了爱？也许吧。尽管她看上去冷静超然，他猜测她这种女人的
激情会被某一个特别的男人点燃。鉴于她对乔治的爱和对罗斯玛丽的恨，她可能会冷静地
实施杀害罗斯玛丽的计划。事情进行得很顺利，自杀的结论也几乎被无异议地接受了，这
个事实证明了她与生俱来的能力。
乔治在收到匿名信（谁写的？为什么？这是最令他烦恼、时刻困扰他的问题）后起了
疑心。他设计了一个圈套，露丝让他闭上了嘴。
不，不对，听起来不真实。这意味着恐慌，露丝•莱辛不是那种会恐慌的女人。她比乔
治有头脑，不费吹灰之力就能避开他可能设下的任何圈套。
看来不太可能是露丝。
BOOK 3 Six
Six
Lucilla Drake was delighted to see Colonel Race.
The blinds were all down and Lucilla came into the room draped in
black and with a handkerchief to her eyes and explained, as she advanced
a tremulous hand to meet his, how of course she couldn’t have seen any-
one—anyone at all—except such an old friend of dear, dear George’s—and
it was so dreadful to have no man in the house! Really without a man in
the house one didn’t know how to tackle anything. Just herself, a poor
lonely widow, and Iris, just a helpless young girl, and George had always
looked after everything. So kind of dear Colonel Race and really she was
so grateful—no idea what they ought to do. Of course Miss Lessing would
attend to all business matters—and the funeral to arrange for—but how
about the inquest? and so dreadful having the police — actually in the
house—plain clothes, of course, and really very considerate. But she was
so bewildered and the whole thing was such an absolute tragedy and
didn’t Colonel Race think it must be all due to suggestion—that was what
the psychoanalyst said, wasn’t it, that everything is suggestion? And poor
George at that horrid place, the Luxembourg, and practically the same
party and remembering how poor Rosemary had died there—and it must
have come over him quite suddenly, only if he’d listened to what she, Lu-
cilla, had said, and taken that excellent tonic of dear Dr. Gaskell’s—run-
down, all the summer—yes, thoroughly run-down.
Whereupon Lucilla herself ran down temporarily, and Race had a
chance to speak.
He said how deeply he sympathized and how Mrs. Drake must count
upon him in every way.
Whereupon Lucilla started off again and said it was indeed kind of him,
and it was the shock that had been so terrible—here today, and gone to-
morrow, as it said in the Bible, cometh up like grass and cut down in the
evening—only that wasn’t quite right, but Colonel Race would know what
she meant, and it was so nice to feel there was someone on whom they
could rely. Miss Lessing meant well, of course, and was very efficient, but
rather an unsympathetic manner and sometimes took things upon herself
a little too much, and in her, Lucilla’s, opinion, George had always relied
upon her far too much, and at one time she had been really afraid that he
might do something foolish which would have been a great pity and prob-
ably she would have bullied him unmercifully once they were married. Of
course she, Lucilla, had seen what was in the wind. Dear Iris was so un-
worldly, and it was nice, didn’t Colonel Race think, for young girls to be
unspoilt and simple? Iris had really always been very young for her age
and very quiet—one didn’t know half the time what she was thinking
about. Rosemary being so pretty and so gay had been out a great deal, and
Iris had mooned about the house which wasn’t really right for a young girl
—they should go to classes—cooking and perhaps dressmaking. It occu-
pied their minds and one never knew when it might come in useful. It had
really been a mercy that she, Lucilla, had been free to come and live here
after poor Rosemary’s death—that horrid ’flu, quite an unusual kind of flu,
Dr. Gaskell had said. Such a clever man and such a nice, breezy manner.
She had wanted Iris to see him this summer. The girl had looked so
white and pulled down. “But really, Colonel Race, I think it was the situ-
ation of the house. Low, you know, and damp, with quite a miasma in the
evenings.” Poor George had gone off and bought it all by himself without
asking anyone’s advice—such a pity. He had said he wanted it to be a sur-
prise, but really it would have been better if he had taken some older wo-
man’s advice. Men knew nothing about houses. George might have real-
ized that she, Lucilla, would have been willing to take any amount of
trouble. For, after all, what was her life now? Her dear husband dead
many years ago, and Victor, her dear boy, far away in the Argentine—she
meant Brazil, or was it the Argentine? Such an affectionate, handsome
boy.
Colonel Race said he had heard she had a son abroad.
For the next quarter of an hour, he was regaled with a full account of
Victor’s multitudinous activities. Such a spirited boy, willing to turn his
hand to anything — here followed a list of Victor’s varied occupations.
Never unkind, or bearing malice to anyone. “He’s always been unlucky,
Colonel Race. He was misjudged by his housemaster and I consider the au-
thorities at Oxford behaved quite disgracefully. People don’t seem to un-
derstand that a clever boy with a taste for drawing would think it an ex-
cellent joke to imitate someone’s handwriting. He did it for the fun of the
thing, not for money.” But he’d always been a good son to his mother, and
he never failed to let her know when he was in trouble which showed,
didn’t it, that he trusted her? Only it did seem curious, didn’t it, that the
jobs people found for him so often seemed to take him out of England. She
couldn’t help feeling that if only he could be given a nice job, in the Bank
of England say, he would settle down much better. He might perhaps live
a little out of London and have a little car.
It was quite twenty minutes before Colonel Race, having heard all Vic-
tor’s perfections and misfortunes, was able to switch Lucilla from the sub-
ject of sons to that of servants.
Yes, it was very true what he said, the old-fashioned type of servant
didn’t exist any longer. Really the trouble people had nowadays! Not that
she ought to complain, for really they had been very lucky. Mrs. Pound,
though she had the misfortune to be slightly deaf, was an excellent wo-
man. Her pastry sometimes a little heavy and a tendency to overpepper
the soup, but really on the whole most reliable—and economical too. She
had been there ever since George married and she had made no fuss
about going to the country this year, though there had been trouble with
the others over that and the parlour maid had left—but that really was all
for the best—an impertinent girl who answered back—besides breaking
six of the best wineglasses, not one by one at odd times which might hap-
pen to anybody, but all at once which really meant gross carelessness,
didn’t Colonel Race think so?
“Very careless indeed.”
“That is what I told her. And I said to her that I should be obliged to say
so in her reference—for I really feel one has a duty, Colonel Race. I mean,
one should not mislead. Faults should be mentioned as well as good qual-
ities. But the girl was—really—well, quite insolent and said that at any rate
she hoped that in her next place she wouldn’t be in the kind of house
where people got bumped off—a dreadful common expression, acquired
at the cinema, I believe, and ludicrously inappropriate since poor dear
Rosemary took her own life—though not at the time responsible for her
actions as the coroner very rightly pointed out—and that dreadful expres-
sion refers, I believe, to gangsters executing each other with tommy guns.
I am so thankful that we have nothing of that kind in England. And so, as I
say, I put in her reference that Betty Archdale thoroughly understood her
duties as parlourmaid and was sober and honest, but that she was in-
clined to have too many breakages and was not always respectful in her
manner. And personally, if I had been Mrs. Rees- Talbot, I should have
read between the lines and not engaged her. But people nowadays just
jump at anything they can get, and will sometimes take a girl who has only
stayed her month in three places running.”
Whilst Mrs. Drake paused to take breath, Colonel Race asked quickly
whether that was Mrs. Richard Rees-Talbot? If so, he had known her, he
said, in India.
“I really couldn’t say. Cadogan Square was the address.”
“Then it is my friends.”
Lucilla said that the world was such a small place, wasn’t it? And that
there were no friends like old friends. Friendship was a wonderful thing.
She had always thought it had been so romantic about Viola and Paul.
Dear Viola, she had been a lovely girl, and so many men in love with her,
but, oh dear, Colonel Race wouldn’t even know who she was talking about.
One did so tend to re-live the past.
Colonel Race begged her to go on and in return for this politeness re-
ceived the life history of Hector Marle, of his upbringing by his sister, of
his peculiarities and his weaknesses and finally, when Colonel Race had
almost forgotten her, of his marriage to the beautiful Viola. “She was an
orphan, you know, and a ward in Chancery.” He heard how Paul Bennett,
conquering his disappointment at Viola’s refusal, had transformed himself
from lover to family friend, and of his fondness for his godchild, Rose-
mary, and of his death and the terms of his will. “Which I have always felt
most romantic—such an enormous fortune! Not of course that money is
everything—no, indeed. One has only to think of poor Rosemary’s tragic
death. And even dear Iris I am not quite happy about!”
Race gave her an inquiring look.
“I find the responsibility most worrying. The fact that she is a great heir-
ess is of course well known. I keep a very sharp eye on the undesirable
type of young man, but what can one do, Colonel Race? One can’t look
after girls nowadays as one used to do. Iris has friends I know next to
nothing about. ‘Ask them to the house, dear,’ is what I always say—but I
gather that some of these young men simply will not be brought. Poor
George was worried, too. About a young man called Browne. I myself have
never seen him, but it seems that he and Iris have been seeing a good deal
of each other. And one does feel that she could do better. George didn’t
like him—I’m quite sure of that. And I always think, Colonel Race, that
men are so much better judges of other men. I remember thinking Colonel
Pusey, one of our churchwardens, such a charming man, but my husband
always preserved a very distant attitude towards him and enjoined on me
to do the same — and sure enough one Sunday when he was handing
round the offertory plate, he fell right down—completely intoxicated, it
seems. And of course afterwards—one always hears these things after-
wards, so much better if one heard them before—we found out that dozens
of empty brandy bottles were taken out of the house every week! It was
very sad really, because he was truly religious, though inclined to be Evan-
gelical in his views. He and my husband had a terrific battle over the de-
tails of the service on All Saints’ Day. Oh, dear, All Saints’ Day. To think
that yesterday was All Souls’ Day.”
A faint sound made Race look over Lucilla’s head at the open doorway.
He had seen Iris before—at Little Priors. Nevertheless he felt that he was
seeing her now for the first time. He was struck by the extraordinary ten-
sion behind her stillness and her wide eyes met his with something in
their expression that he felt he ought to recognize, yet failed to do so.
In her turn, Lucilla Drake turned her head.
“Iris, dear, I didn’t hear you come in. You know Colonel Race? He is be-
ing so very kind.”
Iris came and shook hands with him gravely, the black dress she wore
made her look thinner and paler than he remembered her.
“I came to see if I could be of any help to you,” said Race.
“Thank you. That was kind of you.”
She had had a bad shock, that was evident, and was still suffering from
the effects of it. But had she been so fond of George that his death could af-
fect her so powerfully?
She turned her eyes to her aunt and Race realized that they were watch-
ful eyes. She said:
“What were you talking about—just now, as I came in?”
Lucilla became pink and flustered. Race guessed that she was anxious to
avoid any mention of the young man, Anthony Browne. She exclaimed:
“Now let me see — oh, yes, All Saints’ Day — and yesterday being All
Souls.’ All Souls’—that seems to me such an odd thing—one of those coin-
cidences one never believes in in real life.”
“Do you mean,” said Iris, “that Rosemary came back yesterday to fetch
George?”
Lucilla gave a little scream.
“Iris, dear, don’t. What a terrible thought—so un-Christian.”
“Why un-Christian? It’s the Day of the Dead. In Paris people used to go
and put flowers on the graves.”
“Oh, I know, dear, but then they are Catholics, aren’t they?”
A faint smile twisted Iris’s lips. Then she said directly:
“I thought, perhaps, you were talking of Anthony—Anthony Browne.”
“Well,” Lucilla’s twitter became very high and birdlike, “as a matter of
fact we did just mention him. I happened to say, you know, that we know
nothing about him—”
Iris interrupted, her voice hard:
“Why should you know anything about him?”
“No, dear, of course not. At least, I mean, well, it would be rather nice,
wouldn’t it, if we did?”
“You’ll have every chance of doing so in future,” said Iris, “because I’m
going to marry him.”
“Oh, Iris!” It was halfway between a wail and a bleat. “You mustn’t do
anything rash—I mean nothing can be settled at present.”
“It is settled, Aunt Lucilla.”
“No, dear, one can’t talk about things like marriage when the funeral
hasn’t even taken place yet. It wouldn’t be decent. And this dreadful in-
quest and everything. And really, Iris, I don’t think dear George would
have approved. He didn’t like this Mr. Browne.”
“No,” said Iris, “George wouldn’t have liked it and he didn’t like An-
thony, but that doesn’t make any difference. It’s my life, not George’s—and
anyway George is dead. . . .”
Mrs. Drake gave another wail.
“Iris, Iris. What has come over you? Really that was a most unfeeling
thing to say.”
“I’m sorry, Aunt Lucilla.” The girl spoke wearily. “I know it must have
sounded like that but I didn’t mean it that way. I only meant that George is
at peace somewhere and hasn’t got to worry about me and my future any-
more. I must decide things for myself.”
“Nonsense, dear, nothing can be decided at a time like this—it would be
most unfitting. The question simply doesn’t arise.”
Iris gave a sudden short laugh.
“But it has arisen. Anthony asked me to marry him before we left Little
Priors. He wanted me to come up to London and marry him the next day
without telling anyone. I wish now that I had.”
“Surely that was a very curious request,” said Colonel Race gently.
She turned defiant eyes to him.
“No, it wasn’t. It would have saved a lot of fuss. Why couldn’t I trust
him? He asked me to trust him and I didn’t. Anyway, I’ll marry him now
as soon as he likes.”
Lucilla burst out in a stream of incoherent protest. Her plump cheeks
quivered and her eyes filled.
Colonel Race took rapid charge of the situation.
“Miss Marle, might I have a word with you before I go? On a strictly
business matter?”
Rather startled, the girl murmured “Yes,” and found herself moving to
the door. As she passed through, Race took a couple of strides back to Mrs.
Drake.
“Don’t upset yourself, Mrs. Drake. Least said, you know, soonest men-
ded. We’ll see what we can do.”
Leaving her slightly comforted he followed Iris who led him across the
hall and into a small room giving out on the back of the house where a
melancholy plane tree was shedding its last leaves.
Race spoke in a businesslike tone.
“All I had to say, Miss Marle, was that Chief Inspector Kemp is a per-
sonal friend of mine, and that I am sure you will find him most helpful
and kindly. His duty is an unpleasant one, but I’m sure he will do it with
the utmost consideration possible.”
She looked at him for a moment or two without speaking, then she said
abruptly:
“Why didn’t you come and join us last night as George expected you to
do?”
He shook his head.
“George didn’t expect me.”
“But he said he did.”
“He may have said so, but it wasn’t true. George knew perfectly well
that I wasn’t coming.”
She said: “But that empty chair . . . Who was it for?”
“Not for me.”
Her eyes half closed and her face went very white.
She whispered:
“It was for Rosemary . . . I see . . . It was for Rosemary. . . .”
He thought she was going to fall. He came quickly to her and steadied
her, then forced her to sit down.
“Take it easy. . . .”
She said in a low breathless voice:
“I’m all right . . . But I don’t know what to do . . . I don’t know what to
do.”
“Can I help you?”
She raised her eyes to his face. They were wistful and sombre.
Then she said: “I must get things clear. I must get them”—she made a
groping gesture with her hands —“in sequence. First of all, George be-
lieved Rosemary didn’t kill herself—but was killed. He believed that be-
cause of those letters. Colonel Race, who wrote those letters?”
“I don’t know. Nobody knows. Have you yourself any idea?”
“I simply can’t imagine. Anyway, George believed what they said, and
he arranged this party last night, and he had an empty chair and it was All
Souls’ Day . . . that’s the Day of the Dead—and it was a day when Rose-
mary’s spirit could have come back and—and told him the truth.”
“You mustn’t be too imaginative.”
“But I’ve felt her myself—felt her quite near sometimes—I’m her sister—
and I think she’s trying to tell me something.”
“Take it easy, Iris.”
“I must talk about it. George drank Rosemary’s health and he—died. Per-
haps—she came and took him.”
“The spirits of the dead don’t put potassium cyanide in a champagne
glass, my dear.”
The words seemed to restore her balance. She said in a more normal
tone:
“But it’s so incredible. George was killed—yes, killed. That’s what the po-
lice think and it must be true. Because there isn’t any other alternative.
But it doesn’t make sense.”
“Don’t you think it does? If Rosemary was killed, and George was begin-
ning to suspect by whom—”
She interrupted him.
“Yes, but Rosemary wasn’t killed. That’s why it doesn’t make sense.
George believed those stupid letters partly because depression after influ-
enza isn’t a very convincing reason for killing yourself. But Rosemary had
a reason. Look, I’ll show you.”
She ran out of the room and returned a few moments later with a folded
letter in her hand. She thrust it on him.
“Read it. See for yourself.”
He unfolded the slightly crumpled sheet.
“Leopard darling. . . .”
He read it twice before handing it back.
The girl said eagerly:
“You see? She was unhappy—brokenhearted. She didn’t want to go on
living.”
“Do you know to whom that letter was written?”
Iris nodded.
“Stephen Farraday. It wasn’t Anthony. She was in love with Stephen and
he was cruel to her. So she took the stuff with her to the restaurant and
drank it there where he could see her die. Perhaps she hoped he’d be
sorry then.”
Race nodded thoughtfully, but said nothing. After a moment or two he
said:
“When did you find this?”
“About six months ago. It was in the pocket of an old dressing gown.”
“You didn’t show it to George?”
Iris cried passionately:
“How could I? How could I? Rosemary was my sister. How could I give
her away to George? He was so sure that she loved him. How could I show
him this after she was dead? He’d got it all wrong, but I couldn’t tell him
so. But what I want to know is, what am I to do now? I’ve shown it to you
because you were George’s friend. Has Inspector Kemp got to see it?”
“Yes. Kemp must have it. It’s evidence, you see.”
“But then they’ll—they might read it out in court?”
“Not necessarily. That doesn’t follow. It’s George’s death that is being in-
vestigated. Nothing will be made public that is not strictly relevant. You
had better let me take this now.”
“Very well.”
She went with him to the front door. As he opened it she said abruptly:
“It does show, doesn’t it, that Rosemary’s death was suicide?”
Race said:
“It certainly shows that she had a motive for taking her own life.”
She gave a deep sigh. He went down the steps. Glancing back once, he
saw her standing framed in the open doorway, watching him walk away
across the square.
第三部 第六章
第六章
卢西娜•德瑞克很高兴见到瑞斯上校。
所有的百叶窗都关上了，卢西娜走进挂满黑布幔的房间，伸出一只颤抖的手跟上校握
手。然后一面用手帕擦眼睛，一面解释说她不能见人，谁也不能见，除了关系如此亲密的
亲爱的乔治的老朋友，还有，家里一个男人都没有多么可怕！确实，家里没有男人，她们
不知道事情该如何处理。只有她一个人，一个可怜的、孤单的寡妇，还有艾丽斯，一个无
助的小姑娘，过去一切都由乔治料理。亲爱的瑞斯上校实在是太好了，她真的很感激，她
们不知道该做什么。当然，生意方面由莱辛小姐打理，还有葬礼的安排。可是讯问呢？警
察来了，到家里来了，好可怕。当然他们穿的是便装，考虑得真周到。但是，她是那么的
困惑，整件事纯粹是一场悲剧，难道瑞斯上校不认为这都归咎于暗示吗——精神分析学家
不就是这么说的吗，一切都是暗示。可怜的乔治在那个可怕的地方——卢森堡餐厅，还是
同样的一群人，想到可怜的罗斯玛丽是怎么死在那儿的——一定是突然发生的，如果他听
她卢西娜的话，吃亲爱的加斯克尔医生开的补药就好了。虚弱，整个夏天，是的，他的身
体很虚弱。
卢西娜一口气说到这儿才暂停了一下，瑞斯抓住机会开口说话。
瑞斯上校向她表示了深切的慰问，德瑞克太太一定在各个方面都很依赖乔治。
卢西娜又说了起来，说他真是太好了，这对她来说是个沉重的打击——今天人还在，
明天就没了，就像《圣经》上说的，“出来如草，傍晚又被割下”。只是这个说法不太对，
但瑞斯上校明白她的意思，有个人可以依靠的感觉真好。当然，莱辛小姐也是好意，而且
办事很有效率，只是相当缺乏同情心，做事大包大揽，在她卢西娜看来，乔治过去太依赖
她了。她一度担心他会做出傻事，那就太可惜了，一旦他们俩结了婚，她很可能会毫不客
气地欺负他。当然，她，卢西娜，看出了苗头。亲爱的艾丽斯是那么的天真，但小姑娘单
纯、不世故挺好的，瑞斯上校不这么认为吗？艾丽斯比她的同龄人稚嫩，而且话很少——
你经常不知道她在想些什么。罗斯玛丽那么漂亮、那么活泼，经常出门，艾丽斯则总在家
门口转悠，这对一个小姑娘来说是不对的。她们应该去上课——烹饪课，或者裁缝课，这
样她才会有精神寄托，学到的东西没准什么时候就能派上用场。她，卢西娜，在可怜的罗
斯玛丽死后可以来这里住，太幸运了。那个可怕的流感——加斯克尔医生说是一种很罕见
的流感。多聪明的一个好人啊，和他在一起简直如沐春风。
今年夏天她曾想让艾丽斯去见他。那个姑娘面色苍白、身子虚弱。“不过，真的，瑞斯
上校，我认为是房子的问题。地势低洼、潮湿，你知道，夜里还有瘴气。”可怜的乔治没征
求任何人的意见就自作主张买下来了，真可惜。他说他想给大家一个惊喜，但说实在的，
听老人言也许更好。男人对房子一窍不通。乔治也许意识到了，卢西娜很乐意不辞辛劳。
因为，别忘了，她现在的生活如何呢？她亲爱的丈夫去世多年。维克多，她的宝贝儿子，
远在阿根廷——是巴西，还是阿根廷？多么英俊有爱的孩子啊。
瑞斯上校说，他听说她有个儿子在国外。
在接下来的一刻钟里，他饱听了维克多的众多活动。多么意气风发的青年，什么事都
乐于掺和一把，接着，她列出一长串维克多从事过的职业的名称。“他从不刻薄，对任何人
都没有恶意。他总是不走运，瑞斯上校。舍监对他不公，我认为牛津大学校方做得很不光
彩。人们似乎不理解，这么喜欢绘画、这么聪明的男孩只是觉得模仿他人的笔迹是一个很
棒的玩笑。”他是闹着玩的，不是为了钱。但他一直对他母亲很好，一有麻烦就告诉她，这
不正说明他信任她吗？奇怪的是，别人给他找的工作，似乎总是要他离开英格兰。她禁不
住想，如果他能有一份好工作，比如在英格兰银行上班，他一定会安定下来。他也许可以
住在伦敦郊区，有一辆小车。
足足听她讲了二十分钟维克多的优点和不幸，瑞斯上校才把话题从她的儿子切换到仆
人身上。
是的，他说得很对，老式仆人已不复存在。这真是当下人的烦恼！她没理由抱怨，因
为他们过去真的很幸运。庞德太太，虽然可怜的她耳朵有点背，却是个极好的女人。她做
的面点有时候有点硬，汤里经常放太多胡椒粉，但总体来说，她最可靠，也很节俭。自打
乔治成家她就在这儿了，今年要她去乡下住，她也毫无怨言。但其他人就麻烦了，客厅女
仆都走了——不过这也挺好，那个粗鲁的女孩爱顶嘴，还打碎了六只最好的酒杯。“不是偶
尔打碎一只，这种事谁都能碰上，是一次打碎了所有杯子，简直是粗心到家了，难道瑞斯
上校不这么觉得吗？”
“确实很粗心。”
“我就是这么跟说她的。我还告诉她，我必须这么说她，因为我真觉得人应该有责任
心，瑞斯上校。我的意思是，不能误导别人。好的品质要夸，错误的也得提。可是，那个
女孩……实在是——呃，相当无礼，她说她希望下家不会有人被‘做掉’——可怕的黑话，
她从电影上学来的吧。荒唐，而且不恰当。可怜的亲爱的罗斯玛丽是自寻短见，当时她不
能对自己的行为负责，验尸官正确地指出那个可怕的说法，我认为也是——歹徒手持冲锋
枪火并。谢天谢地，英国没有这种歹徒。所以，就像我说的，我要让她知道。贝蒂•阿克达
尔是个清楚自身职责的客厅女仆，她冷静、诚实，却打碎了太多东西，态度还很不恭敬。
就我个人而言，如果我是雷斯达伯特太太，我就会明白这言外之意，不雇佣她。但时下的
人啊，来者不拒，有时候连这种一个月换仨地方的女孩都要。”
趁着德瑞克太太停下来喘口气，瑞斯上校立刻问，她说的是不是理查德•雷斯达伯特的
太太？如果是的话，他认识她，在印度的时候。
“说不好，住在卡达根广场那边。”
“那就是我的朋友。”
卢西娜马上感叹世界太小了，不是吗？什么朋友也比不上老朋友。友谊是个美好的东
西。她一直认为薇奥拉和保罗的故事很浪漫。亲爱的薇奥拉，她曾是一个漂亮的姑娘，那
么多男人爱恋她，可是，哎呀，瑞斯上校都不知道她说的是谁。人确实喜欢重温旧梦。
瑞斯上校恳请她说下去，他的礼貌换来的是赫克托•玛尔的生活史，他的怪癖和弱点。
他是姐姐带大的，最后，瑞斯都快忘了他的时候，她又提到他娶了美丽的薇奥拉。“她是个
孤儿，以前待在法院街的一个临时收容所。”上校听着保罗•班尼特被薇奥拉拒绝后如何克
服失望的情绪，从情人变成了玛尔一家的朋友，以及他对他的教女罗斯玛丽的喜爱，他的
去世和他的遗嘱。“那个遗嘱，我一直觉得很浪漫——好大一笔财富啊！当然，我不是说金
钱就是一切——不是，真的不是。想想罗斯玛丽死得多惨。我对亲爱的艾丽斯也不太满
意！”
瑞斯向她投以询问的目光。
“我觉得责任令人烦恼。大家都知道，她现在是个富有的女继承人。我一直密切关注着
她身边不合要求的男孩子，可是我又能怎么样呢，瑞所上校？你不能像从前那样照顾如今
的女孩子了。我对艾丽斯的朋友几乎一个都不了解。‘请他们到家里来，亲爱的。’我经常
这么说，但是我猜，有些年轻人，她是不会带到家里来的。可怜的乔治也替她担心。有一
个叫布朗的年轻人，我从来没见过他，但好像他和艾丽斯经常见面。我觉得她可以找一个
更好的。乔治不喜欢他——我很确信。而且，我一直认为，瑞斯上校，男人看男人，眼光
更准。我想起了普西上校，我们的一个俗人执事，我觉得他很迷人，但我丈夫对他的态度
很冷淡，他也嘱咐我要这么做。果然，一个礼拜天，他在传递奉献盘的时候突然倒下了，
整个人烂醉如泥。当然，后来——总是后来听说，比事先听说好多了——我们听说，每个
星期都有好几打空白兰地酒瓶从他家里搬出来！真叫人伤心，我还以为他是一个虔诚的信
徒，尽管他认为自己更倾向于福音派。他和我先生曾就万圣节的仪式细节大吵过一架。
哦，天哪，万圣节。想想昨天正好是万灵节。”
一阵轻微的响动，瑞斯的目光越过卢西娜的头部，看向敞开的门。他见过艾丽斯，在
小官府，但他感觉这是头一次见到她。他发现她沉默静止的背后隐藏着异常的紧张，他与
她对视，看到她的大眼睛里流露出某种他应该知道，但一时想不出是什么的神情。
卢西娜•德瑞克也扭过头。
“艾丽斯，亲爱的，我没听见你进来。你认识瑞斯上校吧？他真是太好了。”
艾丽斯走过来跟上校握手，黑裙子让她显得比他印象中更瘦、更苍白。
“我来看看能不能帮上什么忙。”瑞斯说。
“谢谢您。您真好。”
显然，她受到了很大的惊吓，而且还没恢复过来。是不是她太喜欢乔治了，他的死才
给她造成了如此沉重的打击？
她的目光转向她姑妈，瑞斯发现那是一双警惕的眼睛。她说：“你们在谈什么——刚
才，我进来的时候？”
卢西娜脸发红，慌乱起来。瑞斯猜想她急于回避提到那个年轻人——安东尼•布朗。她
大声说：“我想想看啊，哦，对了，万圣节，昨天是万灵节。万灵——真是怪事，现实中竟
会有这种巧合。”
“你的意思是，”艾丽斯说，“罗斯玛丽昨天回来把乔治带走了？”
卢西娜轻轻尖叫了一声。
“艾丽斯，亲爱的，不要这样。多么可怕的想法，这也太不像基督徒说的话了。”
“为什么不像基督徒说的话？那是死人节，在巴黎，人们会去墓地献花。”
“哦，我知道，亲爱的，但他们是天主教徒，不是吗？”
艾丽斯撇着嘴笑了一下，然后直截了当地说：“我想，也许，你刚才是在谈安东尼——
安东尼•布朗。”
“哦！”卢西娜叽叽喳喳地说了起来，嗓音更尖、更像小鸟了，“我们确实提到他了。你
知道，我偶然说到，我们对他一无所知——”
艾丽斯生硬地打断她的话：“为什么你应该了解他？”
“不，亲爱的，当然不。至少，我的意思是，哦，如果我们对他多一点了解，不是很好
吗？”
“你们将来有的是机会了解他，”艾丽斯说，“因为我要嫁给他了。”
“哦，艾丽斯！”她的声音介于哀号和抱怨之间，“你绝不能这么鲁莽——我是说，暂时
什么都不要定下来。”
“已经定下来了，卢西娜姑妈。”
“不，亲爱的，葬礼还没举行呢，不能谈婚论嫁，这样做不得体。而且，还有可怕的讯
问之类的事。真的，艾丽斯，我不认为亲爱的乔治会同意。他不喜欢那个布朗先生。”
“没错，”艾丽斯说，“乔治不会同意的，他也不喜欢安东尼，但他怎么想已经无所谓
了。这是我的生活，不是乔治的，反正，乔治已经死了……”
德瑞克太太又哀号了一声。
“艾丽斯，艾丽斯，你这是中了什么邪了？话说得也太绝情了。”
“对不起，卢西娜姑妈。”她疲倦地说，“我知道这话不好听，但这不是我的本意，我的
意思是，乔治已经在某个地方安息了，不用再为我和我的将来操心了。我必须自己做决
定。”
“乱说，亲爱的，这种时候什么决定都不能做，肯定特别不恰当。这种问题根本就不该
出现。”
艾丽斯大笑了一声。
“可是已经出现了。在我们离开小官府前，安东尼就向我求婚了。他让我第二天去伦
敦，不告诉任何人。我多么希望当时我去了。”
“这个要求实在奇怪。”瑞斯上校温和地说。
她向他投以挑衅的目光。
“不，不奇怪，会省掉不少麻烦。我为什么不能信任他？他要我信任他，我没有。不管
怎么样，现在只要他愿意，我随时可以嫁给他。”
卢西娜语无伦次地说了一堆反对的话。胖嘟嘟的腮帮子不停地颤抖，满眼泪花。
瑞斯上校立刻控制了局面。
“玛尔小姐，在我走之前，可不可以跟您聊两句？完全是公事。”
她吃惊地喃喃道“可以”，然后发现自己朝门口走去。瑞斯上校目送她出了门，然后迈
了两大步，回到德瑞克太太身边。
“别心烦，德瑞克太太。您知道，言多必失。我们看看能做点什么。”
稍微安慰了一下她后，他跟着艾丽斯走过客厅，走进一个面朝房子后部的小房间，屋
里有一棵忧郁的法国梧桐，挂着几片残叶。
瑞斯以公事公办的口吻说：“玛尔小姐，我要说的是，肯普探长是我的私人朋友，我相
信您会发现他既仁慈又乐于助人。他的职务令人不悦，但我相信他会尽量体谅别人。”
她默默地看了他一会儿，然后突然说：“昨天晚上乔治在等您来，您怎么没来？”
他摇摇头。
“乔治没在等我。”
“但他说他在等您。”
“他可能是这么说的，但他说的不是实话。乔治很清楚我不会来。”
她说：“可是，那把空椅子……是给谁留的？”
“不是给我留的。”
她半闭着眼睛，脸色惨白。
她小声说：“是给罗斯玛丽留的……我明白了……是给罗斯玛丽……”
他以为她要昏过去了，立刻上前扶住，强迫她坐下来。
“放松……”
她气喘吁吁地低声说：“我没事……可是，我不知道该怎么办……我不知道该怎么
办。”
“我能帮上忙吗？”
她抬眼看他，阴沉的双眼流露出渴望的神情。
然后，她说：“我必须把事情搞清楚。我必须把它们……”她用手做了个摸索的动
作，“按顺序排列好。一开始，乔治认为罗斯玛丽不是自杀，是被人害死的。他这么认为是
因为那两封信。瑞斯上校，那两封信是谁写的？”
“我不知道。没有人知道。您有什么想法吗？”
“我想不出来。反正，乔治相信信上说的话，还安排了昨晚的宴会，还有一把空椅子，
昨天是万灵节……死人节，是罗斯玛丽的灵魂可能回来……告诉他真相的日子。”
“您的想象力太丰富了。”
“可是，我感觉到她了——有时候，我感觉她就在身边。我是她妹妹，我想，她是想告
诉我什么。”
“放松，艾丽斯。”
“我必须说出来。乔治为罗斯玛丽干杯——然后他死了。也许……她回来把他带走
了。”
“鬼魂是不会把氰化钾放进酒杯里的，亲爱的。”
这句话似乎让她恢复了平静。她用更正常的声音说：“但是太不可思议了。乔治被人害
死了——是的，害死了。警方是这么认为的，一定是真的。因为没有其他可能。可这也说
不通啊。”
“您不这么认为吗？如果罗斯玛丽是被人害死的，乔治怀疑是谁——”
她打断了他的话。
“是的，可是罗斯玛丽不是被人害死的。说不通的原因就在这里。乔治相信那些荒唐的
信，部分原因是，流感导致的精神抑郁不是一个令人信服的自杀的理由。但罗斯玛丽有理
由自杀。等等，我拿给你看。”
她跑出房间，过了一会儿，她手里拿着一封折好的信回来了。她把信塞进他手里。
“看吧。您亲眼看一看。”
瑞斯上校打开那张有点皱巴的信纸。
亲爱的豹……
他读了两遍，才把信还给她。
女孩急切地说：“您明白了吧？她不快乐——她的心碎了。她不想活了。”
“您知道这封信是写给谁的吗？”
艾丽斯点点头。
“斯蒂芬•法拉第。不是安东尼。她爱上了斯蒂芬，而他对她很残忍。所以，她带着那
个东西去了餐厅，在那儿喝下去，让他亲眼看着她死。也许她希望他伤心。”
瑞斯若有所思地点点头，但没说什么。过了一会儿，他说：“您什么时候发现的？”
“差不多半年前，在一件旧晨袍的口袋里。”
“您没给乔治看吧？”
艾丽斯激动地大叫起来。
“我怎么能这么做？怎么可能呢？罗斯玛丽是我姐姐。我怎么能出卖她呢？乔治那么确
信她爱他。我怎么能在她死后把这个拿给他看？他完全理解错了，但是，我不能告诉他真
相。我想知道的是，我现在该怎么办？我给您看是因为您是乔治的朋友。肯普探长也得看
吗？”
“对。肯普必须看。这是证据，您知道。”
“可是，以后他们会……在法庭上念出来吗？”
“不一定。现在调查的是乔治的死，不太相干的东西不会公开。现在您最好让我把它带
走。”
“好吧。”
她把他送到大门口。他开门时，她突然说：“这能说明罗斯玛丽是自杀的吧？”
瑞斯说：“这说明她有自杀的动机。”
她深深地叹了一口气。上校走下台阶，回头看了一眼，见她还站在门口，目送他穿过
广场。
BOOK 3 Nine
Nine
I
Outwardly cool and unperturbed, Stephen Farraday had turned into Great
Scotland Yard full of inner shrinking. An intolerable weight burdened his
spirits. It had seemed that morning as though things were going so well.
Why had Inspector Kemp asked for his presence here with such signific-
ance? What did he know or suspect? It could be only vague suspicion. The
thing to do was to keep one’s head and admit nothing.
He felt strangely bereft and lonely without Sandra. It was as though
when the two faced a peril together it lost half its terrors. Together they
had strength, courage, power. Alone, he was nothing, less than nothing.
And Sandra, did she feel the same? Was she sitting now in Kidderminster
House, silent, reserved, proud and inwardly feeling horribly vulnerable?
Inspector Kemp received him pleasantly but gravely. There was a uni-
formed man sitting at a table with a pencil and a pad of paper. Having
asked Stephen to sit down, Kemp spoke in a strongly formal manner.
“I propose, Mr. Farraday, to take a statement from you. That statement
will be written down and you will be asked to read it over and sign it be-
fore you leave. At the same time it is my duty to tell you that you are at
liberty to refuse to make such a statement and that you are entitled to
have your solicitor present if you so desire.”
Stephen was taken aback but did not show it. He forced a wintry smile.
“That sounds very formidable, chief inspector.”
“We like everything to be clearly understood, Mr. Farraday.”
“Anything I say may be used against me, is that it?”
“We don’t use the word against. Anything you say will be liable to be
used in evidence.”
Stephen said quietly:
“I understand, but I cannot imagine, inspector, why you should need
any further statement from me? You heard all I had to say this morning.”
“That was a rather informal session—useful as a preliminary starting-
off point. And also, Mr. Farraday, there are certain facts which I imagined
you would prefer to discuss with me here. Anything irrelevant to the case
we try to be as discreet about as is compatible with the attainment of
justice. I daresay you understand what I am driving at.”
“I’m afraid I don’t.”
Chief Inspector Kemp sighed.
“Just this. You were on very intimate terms with the late Mrs. Rosemary
Barton—”
Stephen interrupted him.
“Who says so?”
Kemp leaned forward and took a typewritten document from his desk.
“This is a copy of a letter found amongst the late Mrs. Barton’s belong-
ings. The original is filed here and was handed to us by Miss Iris Marle,
who recognizes the writing as that of her sister.”
Stephen read:
“Leopard darling—”
A wave of sickness passed over him. Rosemary’s voice . . . speaking—
pleading . . . Would the past never die—never consent to be buried?
He pulled himself together and looked at Kemp.
“You may be correct in thinking Mrs. Barton wrote this letter—but there
is nothing to indicate that it was written to me.”
“Do you deny that you paid the rent of 21 Malland Mansions, Earl’s
Court?”
So they knew! He wondered if they had known all the time.
He shrugged his shoulders.
“You seem very well informed. May I ask why my private affairs should
be dragged into the limelight?”
“They will not unless they prove to be relevant to the death of George
Barton.”
“I see. You are suggesting that I first made love to his wife, and then
murdered him.”
“Come, Mr. Farraday, I’ll be frank with you. You and Mrs. Barton were
very close friends—you parted by your wish, not the lady’s. She was pro-
posing, as this letter shows, to make trouble. Very conveniently, she died.”
“She committed suicide. I daresay I may have been partly to blame. I
may reproach myself, but it is no concern of the law’s.”
“It may have been suicide—it may not. George Barton thought not. He
started to investigate—and he died. The sequence is rather suggestive.”
“I do not see why you should—well, pitch on me.”
“You admit that Mrs. Barton’s death came at a very convenient moment
for you? A scandal, Mr. Farraday, would have been highly prejudicial to
your career.”
“There would have been no scandal. Mrs. Barton would have seen
reason.”
“I wonder! Did your wife know about this affair, Mr. Farraday?”
“Certainly not.”
“You are quite sure of that statement?”
“Yes, I am. My wife has no idea that there was anything but friendship
between myself and Mrs. Barton. I hope she will never learn otherwise.”
“Is your wife a jealous woman, Mr. Farraday?”
“Not at all. She has never displayed the least jealousy where I am con-
cerned. She is far too sensible.”
The inspector did not comment on that. Instead he said:
“Have you at any time in the past year had cyanide in your possession,
Mr. Farraday?”
“No.”
“But you keep a supply of cyanide at your country property?”
“The gardener may. I know nothing about it.”
“You have never purchased any yourself at a chemist’s or for photo-
graphy?”
“I know nothing of photography, and I repeat that I have never pur-
chased cyanide.”
Kemp pressed him a little further before he finally let him go.
To his subordinate he said thoughtfully, “He was very quick denying
that his wife knew about his affair with the Barton woman. Why was that,
I wonder?”
“Daresay he’s in a funk in case she should get to hear of it, sir.”
“That may be, but I should have thought he’d got the brains to see that if
his wife was in ignorance, and would cut up rough, that gives him an addi-
tional motive for wanting to silence Rosemary Barton. To save his skin his
line ought to have been that his wife more or less knew about the affair
but was content to ignore it.”
“I daresay he hadn’t thought of that, sir.”
Kemp shook his head. Stephen Farraday was not a fool. He had a clear
and astute brain. And he had been passionately keen to impress on the in-
spector that Sandra knew nothing.
“Well,” said Kemp, “Colonel Race seems pleased with the line he’s dug
up and if he’s right, the Farradays are out—both of them. I shall be glad if
they are. I like this chap. And personally I don’t think he’s a murderer.”
II
Opening the door of their sitting room, Stephen said, “Sandra?”
She came to him out of the darkness, suddenly holding him, her hands
on his shoulders.
“Stephen?”
“Why are you all in the dark?”
“I couldn’t bear the light. Tell me.”
He said:
“They know.”
“About Rosemary?”
“Yes.”
“And what do they think?”
“They see, of course, that I had a motive. . . . Oh, my darling, see what
I’ve dragged you into. It’s all my fault. If only I’d cut loose after Rosemary’s
death—gone away—left you free—so that at any rate you shouldn’t be
mixed up in all this horrible business.”
“No, not that . . . Never leave me . . . never leave me.”
She clung to him—she was crying, the tears coursing down her cheeks.
He felt her shudder.
“You’re my life, Stephen, all my life—never leave me. . . .”
“Do you care so much, Sandra? I never knew. . . .”
“I didn’t want you to know. But now—”
“Yes, now . . . We’re in this together, Sandra . . . we’ll face it together . . .
whatever comes, together!”
Strength came to them as they stood there, clasped together in the dark-
ness.
Sandra said with determination:
“This shall not wreck our lives! It shall not. It shall not!”
第三部 第七章
第七章
看到瑞斯上校，玛丽•雷斯达伯特先是不敢相信自己的眼睛，随后用尖叫声迎接他。
“亲爱的，自从那次你在阿拉哈巴德神秘失踪后，我就再也没见过你。你怎么来这儿
了？肯定不是来看我的，你从来不作社交性拜访。快坦白吧，不用跟我玩外交辞令。”
“跟你使用外交手段就是浪费时间，玛丽。我向来欣赏你X光一般的头脑。”
“少废话，说正事，宝贝。”
瑞斯露出微笑。
“请我进门的那个女仆是不是贝蒂•阿克达尔？”他问。
“原来如此！别告诉我那个女孩，一个纯粹的伦敦佬，是个大名鼎鼎的欧洲间谍——如
果现在还有的话——我可不信。”
“不，不，绝对不是这种事。”
“也别告诉我她是反间谍人员，我也不信。”
“没错，她只是一个客厅女仆。”
“你从什么时候开始对一个单纯的女仆感兴趣了——我不是说贝蒂单纯，说她是小滑头
还差不多。”
“我想，”瑞斯上校说，“她或许能告诉我一些情况。”
“如果你好好问她？你说得对，我也不觉得奇怪。她‘有乐子就扒门缝偷听’的能力很
强。那我能做点什么呢？”
“体贴地请我喝一杯，然后按铃叫贝蒂送过来。”
“贝蒂送过来之后呢？”
“你就体贴地走开。”
“去门外偷听？”
“如果你愿意的话。”
“然后我就能听到一大堆关于欧洲最新危机的内幕消息？”
“恐怕没有，这事不涉及政治局势。”
“好失望！好吧，我照办就是了！”
雷斯达伯特太太四十九岁，性格活泼，肤色浅黑，她按铃叫来漂亮的女仆，让她给瑞
斯上校端一杯威士忌苏打来。
贝蒂•阿克达尔回来了，托盘上放着那杯酒，雷斯达伯特太太则站在起居室远端门口。
“瑞斯上校有问题要问你。”说完，她就出去了。
贝蒂冒失地看着这位高大的白发军人，目光中流露出几分惊慌之色。上校从托盘上拿
起杯子，对她微笑。
“看今天的报纸了吗？”他问。
“看了，先生。”贝蒂警惕地注视着他。
“看到乔治•巴顿先生昨晚死在卢森堡餐厅的消息了吗？”
“哦，看到了，先生。”贝蒂的眼睛闪烁着幸灾乐祸的神色。“很可怕，不是吗？”
“你在他家做过活，对吗？”
“是的，先生。去年冬天我离开的，巴顿太太死后不久。”
“她也死在卢森堡餐厅。”
贝蒂点点头。“有点滑稽，不是吗，先生？”
瑞斯并不觉得滑稽。但他知道这句话要表达的意思。他严肃地说：“看来你很有头脑，
会根据事实进行推断。”
贝蒂双手紧握，把谨慎抛到一边。
“他也是被做掉的？报纸上没说清楚。”
“为什么说‘也’？验尸陪审团对巴顿太太的死亡裁定是自杀。”
她瞄了他一眼。心想，这个人尽管老了，但还是挺好看的。很安静的那种人。一个真
正的绅士，那种年轻的时候会送给你一枚金币的绅士。可笑，我连金币长什么样都不知
道！他到底想要探究什么？
她故作端庄地说：“是，先生。”
“也许你从不认为那是自杀？”
“哦，是的，先生。我不……不这么认为。”
“很有趣，真的很有趣。为什么你不这么认为？”
她迟疑着，手指揉搓着围裙。
他说得这么好听、这么庄重，让人感觉自己很重要，想帮他。不管怎么说，她在罗斯
玛丽•巴顿死亡这件事上很聪明，没上过当，从没！
“她是被做掉的，不是吗？”
“似乎有这种可能。但你为什么会这么想呢？”
“呃，”贝蒂犹豫着，“有一天我听到了一些话。”
“什么话？”
他的语气很平静，鼓励她说下去。
“那天，门没关。我的意思是，我从不站在门边偷听，我不喜欢做那种事。”贝蒂很有
道德感地说，“当时我正端着银器穿过客厅去饭厅，他们讲话的声音很大。她——我是指巴
顿太太——正在说什么安东尼•布朗不是他的真名。他突然变得恶毒起来，我是说布朗先
生，我没想到他会有这一面——他那么英俊，平时的谈吐那么令人愉快。他说要拿刀子划
破她的脸——哦！然后他说，如果她不照着他说的去做，他就做掉她。就是这样！就在这
个时候，我看见玛尔小姐下楼来了，我就没再听下去，当然，我也没太当回事。但后来事
情闹得很大，她在宴会上自杀了，当时他也在场——呃，吓得我脊背发凉，真的！”
“可是你什么也没说？”
女孩摇摇头。
“我不想跟警察扯到一起，反正我什么也不知道——不真的知道。我要是说了什么，没
准也被做掉了，或者，用他们的话说，‘黄泉路上送一程’。”
“我明白了。”瑞斯停顿了一下，然后用非常温和的声音说，“所以，你就给乔治•巴顿先
生写了封匿名信？”
她睁大眼睛看着他。他没在她的表情中看出心虚，纯粹是震惊。
“我？给巴顿先生写信？从来没有过。”
“现在讲出来也没事了。这真是个好主意，既提醒了他，又不会暴露自己。你很聪
明。”
“可是我没写过，先生。我压根儿就没想到这么做。您是说写信给巴顿先生，说他太太
是被人做掉的？哎呀，我从来就没动过这个念头！”
她否认的态度是那么诚恳，瑞斯不由自主地动摇了。然而，一切都很吻合——如果信
是她写的，一切就顺理成章了。但她矢口否认，态度既不激烈，也不紧张，而是很清醒，
没有过分抗议。他发现自己不情愿地相信了她。
他改变了立场。
“这件事，你告诉过谁？”
她摇摇头。
“我没告诉过任何人。老实跟您说，先生，我吓坏了。我想我最好闭上嘴，试着忘掉。
我只提过一次——德瑞克太太通知要解雇我的时候。她大吵大闹，简直让人受不了，她想
让我死在乡下，一个连公交车都不通的地方！她还恶毒地指责我，说我打碎东西，我就说
了几句风凉话，比如，反正我不会找一个有人会被做掉的地方。说完我很害怕，但她没太
在意。也许我当时应该大胆说出来，但我也不清楚是怎么回事。我的意思是，也许他们只
是在开玩笑。人什么话都会说，而且，布朗先生一向很友善，也爱开玩笑，所以，我不好
判断，先生，您说呢？”
瑞斯同意她无从判断，然后说：“巴顿太太说过布朗不是他的真名，那她提过他的真名
是什么吗？”
“提过。因为他说‘忘掉托尼’……什么来着？托尼……他的姓让我想到了厨娘做的樱桃
果酱。”
“托尼•切立顿？切拉博尔？”
她摇摇头。
“比这花哨。M打头的，像外国姓。”
“没关系。你会想起来的，也许。想起来就告诉我。这是我的名片，上面有我的地址，
想起来你就给这个地址写信。”
他把他的名片递给她，还有一张一英镑纸钞。
“我会的，先生，谢谢您，先生。”
真是个绅士，她边想边跑下楼去。一镑钞票，不是十先令。要是有金币就好了……
玛丽•雷斯达伯特回到房间。
“怎么样，成功了？”
“是的，但还有一个障碍有待清除。能用你的聪明才智帮帮我吗？你能想出一个会让你
联想到樱桃果酱的名字吗？”
“好奇怪的问题。”
“替我想想吧，玛丽。我不是一个擅长做家务的男人。现在，你就专心思考制作果酱，
特别是樱桃果酱。”
“我很少做樱桃果酱。”
“为什么？”
“哦，容易很甜，除非是用烹饪用的樱桃，莫雷洛黑樱桃。”
瑞斯惊叫了一声。
“就是这个，我敢打赌就是这个。再见，玛丽，感激不尽。你介意我按铃叫那个女孩送
我出去吗？”
他匆匆走出房间时，雷斯达伯特太太在他身后大喊：“忘恩负义的家伙！你不告诉我到
底是怎么回事吗？”
他也喊道：“我会回来把故事从头到尾讲给你听的。”
“去你的大头鬼。”雷斯达伯特太太嘟囔道。
楼下，贝蒂拿着瑞斯的帽子和手杖等着。
他道了谢，向外走。走到台阶处，他停下脚步。
“对了，”他说，“那个名字是不是莫雷利？”
贝蒂面露喜色。
“对极了，先生。就是这个，托尼•莫雷利，他就是让她忘掉这个名字。他还说他坐过
牢。”
瑞斯笑嘻嘻地走下台阶。
他去最近的电话亭给肯普打电话。
他们的交流简短且令人满意。肯普说：“我马上去发封电报，应该立刻就能得到答复。
我必须说，如果你是对的，我们就可以松一大口气了。”
“我想我是对的。前因后果很清楚。”
BOOK 3 Ten
Ten
Anthony Browne looked at the card the little page was holding out to him.
He frowned, then shrugged his shoulders. He said to the boy:
“All right, show him up.”
When Colonel Race came in, Anthony was standing by the window with
the bright sun striking obliquely over his shoulder.
He saw a tall soldierly man with a lined bronze face and iron-grey hair
—a man whom he had seen before, but not for some years, and a man
whom he knew a great deal about.
Race saw a dark graceful figure and the outline of a well-shaped head. A
pleasant indolent voice said:
“Colonel Race? You were a friend of George Barton’s, I know. He talked
about you on that last evening. Have a cigarette.”
“Thank you, I will.”
Anthony said as he held a match:
“You were the unexpected guest that night who did not turn up—just as
well for you.”
“You are wrong there. That empty place was not for me.”
Anthony’s eyebrows went up.
“Really? Barton said—”
Race cut in.
“George Barton may have said so. His plans were quite different. That
chair, Mr. Browne, was intended to be occupied when the lights went
down by an actress called Chloe West.”
Anthony stared.
“Chloe West? Never heard of her. Who is she?”
“A young actress not very well known but who possesses a certain su-
perficial resemblance to Rosemary Barton.”
Anthony whistled.
“I begin to see.”
“She had been given a photograph of Rosemary so that she could copy
the style of hairdressing and she also had the dress which Rosemary wore
the night she died.”
“So that was George’s plan? Up go the lights—Hey Presto, gasps of super-
natural dread! Rosemary has come back. The guilty party gasps out: ‘It’s
true—it’s true—I dunnit.’ ” He paused and added: “Rotten—even for an ass
like poor old George.”
“I’m not sure I understand you.”
Anthony grinned.
“Oh, come now, sir—a hardened criminal isn’t going to behave like a
hysterical schoolgirl. If somebody poisoned Rosemary Barton in cold
blood, and was preparing to administer the same fatal dose of cyanide to
George Barton, that person had a certain amount of nerve. It would take
more than an actress dressed up as Rosemary to make him or her spill the
beans.”
“Macbeth, remember, a decidedly hardened criminal, went to pieces
when he saw the ghost of Banquo at the feast.”
“Ah, but what Macbeth saw really was a ghost! It wasn’t a ham actor
wearing Banquo’s duds! I’m prepared to admit that a real ghost might
bring its own atmosphere from another world. In fact I am willing to ad-
mit that I believe in ghosts—have believed in them for the last six months
—one ghost in particular.”
“Really—and whose ghost is that?”
“Rosemary Barton’s. You can laugh if you like. I’ve not seen her—but
I’ve felt her presence. For some reason or other Rosemary, poor soul, can’t
stay dead.”
“I could suggest a reason.”
“Because she was murdered?”
“To put it in another idiom, because she was bumped off. How about
that, Mr. Tony Morelli?”
There was a silence. Anthony sat down, chucked his cigarette into the
grate and lighted another one.
Then he said:
“How did you find out?”
“You admit that you are Tony Morelli?”
“I shouldn’t dream of wasting time by denying it. You’ve obviously
cabled to America and got all the dope.”
“And you admit that when Rosemary Barton discovered your identity
you threatened to bump her off unless she held her tongue.”
“I did everything I could think of to scare her into holding her tongue,”
agreed Tony pleasantly.
A strange feeling stole over Colonel Race. This interview was not going
as it should. He stared at the figure in front of him lounging back in its
chair—and an odd sense of familiarity came to him.
“Shall I recapitulate what I know about you, Morelli?”
“It might be amusing.”
“You were convicted in the States of attempted sabotage in the Ericsen
aeroplane works and were sentenced to a term of imprisonment. After
serving your sentence, you came out and the authorities lost sight of you.
You were next heard of in London staying at Claridge’s and calling your-
self Anthony Browne. There you scraped acquaintance with Lord Dews-
bury and through him you met certain other prominent armaments man-
ufacturers. You stayed in Lord Dewsbury’s house and by means of your
position as his guest you were shown things which you ought never to
have seen! It is curious coincidence, Morelli, that a trail of unaccountable
accidents and some very near escapes from disaster on a large scale fol-
lowed very closely after your visits to various important works and factor-
ies.”
“Coincidences,” said Anthony, “are certainly extraordinary things.”
“Finally, after another lapse of time, you reappeared in London and re-
newed your acquaintance with Iris Marle, making excuses not to visit her
home, so that her family should not realize how intimate you were becom-
ing. Finally you tried to induce her to marry you secretly.”
“You know,” said Anthony, “it’s really extraordinary the way you have
found out all these things—I don’t mean the armaments business—I mean
my threats to Rosemary, and the tender nothings I whispered to Iris.
Surely those don’t come within the province of M.I.5?”
Race looked sharply at him.
“You’ve got a good deal to explain, Morelli.”
“Not at all. Granted your facts are all correct, what of them? I’ve served
my prison sentence. I’ve made some interesting friends. I’ve fallen in love
with a very charming girl and am naturally impatient to marry her.”
“So impatient that you would prefer the wedding to take place before
her family have the chance of finding out anything about your ante-
cedents. Iris Marle is a very rich young woman.”
Anthony nodded his head agreeably.
“I know. When there’s money, families are inclined to be abominably
nosy. And Iris, you see, doesn’t know anything about my murky past.
Frankly, I’d rather she didn’t.”
“I’m afraid she is going to know all about it.”
“A pity,” said Anthony.
“Possibly you don’t realize—”
Anthony cut in with a laugh.
“Oh! I can dot the i’s and cross the t’s. Rosemary Barton knew my crim-
inal past, so I killed her. George Barton was growing suspicious of me, so I
killed him! Now I’m after Iris’s money! It’s all very agreeable and it hangs
together nicely, but you haven’t got a mite of proof.”
Race looked at him attentively for some minutes. Then he got up.
“Everything I have said is true,” he said. “And it’s all wrong.”
Anthony watched him narrowly.
“What’s wrong?”
“You’re wrong.” Race walked slowly up and down the room. “It hung to-
gether all right until I saw you—but now I’ve seen you, it won’t do. You’re
not a crook. And if you’re not a crook, you’re one of our kind. I’m right,
aren’t I?”
Anthony looked at him in silence while a smile slowly broadened on his
face. Then he hummed softly under his breath.
“ ‘For the Colonel’s lady and Judy O’Grady are sisters under the skin.’ Yes,
funny how one knows one’s own kind. That’s why I’ve tried to avoid meet-
ing you. I was afraid you’d spot me for what I am. It was important then
that nobody should know—important up to yesterday. Now, thank good-
ness, the balloon’s gone up! We’ve swept our gang of international
saboteurs into the net. I’ve been working on this assignment for three
years. Frequenting certain meetings, agitating among workmen, getting
myself the right reputation. Finally it was fixed that I pulled an important
job and got sentenced. The business had to be genuine if I was to establish
my bona fides.
“When I came out, things began to move. Little by little I got further into
the centre of things—a great international net run from Central Europe. It
was as their agent I came to London and went to Claridge’s. I had orders to
get on friendly terms with Lord Dewsbury—that was my lay, the social
butterfly! I got to know Rosemary Barton in my character of attractive
young man about town. Suddenly, to my horror, I found that she knew I
had been in prison in America as Tony Morelli. I was terrified for her! The
people I was working with would have had her killed without a moment’s
hesitation if they had thought she knew that. I did my best to scare her
into keeping her mouth shut, but I wasn’t very hopeful. Rosemary was
born to be indiscreet. I thought the best thing I could do was to sheer off—
and then I saw Iris coming down a staircase, and I swore that after my job
was done I would come back and marry her.
“When the active part of my work was over, I turned up again and got
into touch with Iris, but I kept aloof from the house and her people for I
knew they’d want to make inquiries about me and I had to keep under
cover for a bit longer. But I got worried about her. She looked ill and
afraid—and George Barton seemed to be behaving in a very odd fashion. I
urged her to come away and marry me. Well, she refused. Perhaps she
was right. And then I was roped in for this party. It was as we sat down to
dinner that George mentioned you were to be there. I said rather quickly
that I’d met a man I knew and might have to leave early. Actually I had
seen a fellow I knew in America—Monkey Coleman—though he didn’t re-
member me—but I really wanted to avoid meeting you. I was still on my
job.
“You know what happened next—George died. I had nothing to do with
his death or with Rosemary’s. I don’t know now who did kill them.”
“Not even an idea?”
“It must have been either the waiter or one of the five people round the
table. I don’t think it was the waiter. It wasn’t me and it wasn’t Iris. It
could have been Sandra Farraday or it could have been Stephen Farraday,
or it could have been both of them together. But the best bet, in my opin-
ion, is Ruth Lessing.”
“Have you anything to support that belief?”
“No. She seems to me the most likely person—but I don’t see in the least
how she did it! In both tragedies she was so placed at the table that it
would be practically impossible for her to tamper with the champagne
glass—and the more I think over what happened the other night, the more
it seems to me impossible that George could have been poisoned at all—
and yet he was!” Anthony paused. “And there’s another thing that gets me
—have you found out who wrote those anonymous letters that started him
on the track?”
Race shook his head.
“No. I thought I had—but I was wrong.”
“Because the interesting thing is that it means that there is someone,
somewhere, who knows that Rosemary was murdered, so that, unless
you’re careful—that person will be murdered next!”
第三部 第八章
第八章
肯普探长心情不太好。
这之前的半个钟头，肯普探长约谈了一个十六岁的胆小鬼，他倚仗叔叔的高职位，渴
望成为卢森堡餐厅需要的高级服务员。而目前，他还只是六个饱受折磨的杂役之一，腰上
系着围裙，以便跟高级服务员区别开。他的职责是承担一切过错，拿这个，搬那个，准备
面包卷和黄油块，还不停地被人用法语、意大利语，还有英语斥责。查尔斯不愧是个“大人
物”，非但不偏袒自己的亲戚，训斥谩骂起来反而更凶。尽管如此，皮埃尔依旧渴望有朝一
日至少能当上一家时髦餐厅的领班。
但就在这时，他的事业戛然而止，警方怀疑是他杀了人。
肯普把这个小子问了个底朝天，最后气愤地说服自己，事情可能就像他说的那样——
他只是从地上捡起一个女士包，又放回她的餐盘旁。
“当时我正急着给罗伯特先生送调味汁，他已经等得不耐烦了。那位小姐起身去跳舞时
碰掉了包，我就顺手给捡起来，放回桌上，接着又急匆匆地向前走。罗伯特先生发疯似的
朝我打手势呢。就是这样，先生。”
仅此而已。肯普恨恨地放他走了，其实，肯普很想再补充一句：“别让我再逮着你干这
种事。”
波洛克警官分散了他的注意力，说有人打电话来，一位年轻的女士想见他，或者负责
卢森堡案的警官。
“她是谁？”
“克洛伊•韦斯特小姐。”
“让她上来吧，”肯普说，“我可以给她十分钟，之后法拉第先生就该到了。哦，好吧，
让他多等几分钟也没什么害处，他肯定会忐忑不安。”
克洛伊•韦斯特小姐一进门肯普就觉得似曾相识。但一分钟后，他放弃了这个想法。
不，他从来没见过这个女孩，他确信这一点。然而，那种似曾相识的感觉依然困扰着他。
韦斯特小姐大约二十五岁，高个子、棕发，非常漂亮。她措辞刻意，似乎很紧张。
“说吧，韦斯特小姐，我能为您做什么？”肯普爽快地说。
“我在报纸上看到卢森堡餐厅的消息，一个男人死在那里。”
“乔治•巴顿先生？怎么了？您认识他？”
“呃，不，说不上认识。我是说，我并不真的认识他。”
肯普仔细端详她，放弃了第一个推论。
克洛伊•韦斯特小姐看上去极其文雅贞洁，简直文雅贞洁至极。他亲切地说：“您能先
说一下您的名字和住址吗，我们好继续谈下去？”
“克洛伊•伊莉莎白•韦斯特。丽达街梅瑞维尔巷十五号。我是个演员。”
肯普又用眼角的余光看了她一下，断定她说的没错。
保留节目，他想象，抛开她的外表，她是那种诚恳的人。
“继续说吧，韦斯特小姐。”
“当我看到巴顿先生死亡，还有——还有警方正在调查此事的消息时，我想，或许我应
该来告诉你们一件事。我和我的朋友谈过此事，她似乎也这么认为。我不认为这件事一定
和这个案子有关，不过……”韦斯特小姐停了下来。
“我们自己会判断的，”肯普和蔼地说，“告诉我就行了。”
“我现在没在演戏。”韦斯特小姐解释道。
肯普探长差点说出“休戏”这个表示暂时无戏可演的词，以表示自己懂他们的行话，但
他忍住了。
“不过，我的名字还在经纪公司那里，我的照片登在《聚光灯》上……我知道，巴顿先
生就是从那儿看到的。他和我取得了联系，跟我解释了他要我做的事。”
“什么事？”
“他告诉我他要在卢森堡餐厅举办一次宴会，他想给客人们一个惊喜。他给我看了一张
照片，告诉我他想让我装扮成那个人的样子，他说，我长得跟她很像。”
肯普一下子明白了。他在艾尔维斯顿广场乔治房间的书桌上看见过一张罗斯玛丽的照
片，这位小姐让他想起了那张照片。她确实有点像罗斯玛丽•巴顿，没像到惊人的程度，但
面容什么的大致是同一类。
“他还拿了一条裙子让我穿，今天我也带来了。一条灰绿色的丝质裙子。我还得照着相
片——那是一张彩色照片——上的样子做头发，用化妆品凸显我和她的相似之处。然后，
我要去卢森堡餐厅，在第一场卡巴莱歌舞表演的时候，坐在巴顿先生那桌，会有一个空位
子留给我。他带我去那里吃过午饭，告诉了我那张桌子的位置。”
“你为什么没有赴约，韦斯特小姐？”
“因为那天晚上大概八点钟的时候……有个人……是巴顿先生……打来电话说聚会延期
了。他说第二天再告诉我什么时候举行。后来，第二天早上，我就在报纸上看到了他的死
讯。”
“你来找我们很明智。”肯普亲切地说，“好了，非常感谢，韦斯特小姐。你破解了一个
谜——空椅子之谜。对了，刚才你说‘有个人’，然后又说‘巴顿先生’，这是为什么？”
“因为一开始我没听出是巴顿先生，声音不一样。”
“男人的声音？”
“哦，是的，我想是……至少……听起来很沙哑，他好像感冒了。”
“他就说了这些？”
“就这些。”
肯普又问了一些问题，但都不太深入。
她走后，肯普对警官说：“原来这就是乔治•巴顿那个著名的‘计划’。现在我明白为什么
他们都说他在卡巴莱歌舞表演后盯着那把空椅子，一副古怪且心不在焉的样子了。他宝贵
的计划失败了。”
“你认为那个打电话取消计划的人不是他？”
“绝对不是。我甚至不太确定那就是男人的声音。声音沙哑在电话里是很好的伪装。”
“啊，好了，有进展了。请法拉第先生进来吧，如果他已经来了的话。”
BOOK 3 Eleven
Eleven
From information received over the telephone Anthony knew that Lucilla
Drake was going out at five o’clock to drink a cup of tea with a dear old
friend. Allowing for possible contingencies (returning for a purse, determ-
ination after all to take an umbrella just in case, and last-minute chats on
the doorstep) Anthony timed his own arrival at Elvaston Square at pre-
cisely twenty-five minutes past five. It was Iris he wanted to see, not her
aunt. And by all accounts once shown into Lucilla’s presence, he would
have had very little chance of uninterrupted conversation with his lady.
He was told by the parlourmaid (a girl lacking the impudent polish of
Betty Archdale) that Miss Iris had just come in and was in the study.
Anthony said with a smile, “Don’t bother. I’ll find my way,” and went
past her and along to the study door.
Iris spun round at his entrance with a nervous start.
“Oh, it’s you.”
He came over to her swiftly.
“What’s the matter, darling?”
“Nothing.” She paused, then said quickly, “Nothing. Only I was nearly
run over. Oh, my own fault, I expect I was thinking so hard and mooning
across the road without looking, and the car came tearing round a corner
and just missed me.”
He gave her a gentle little shake.
“You mustn’t do that sort of thing, Iris. I’m worried about you—oh! not
about your miraculous escape from under the wheels of a car, but about
the reason that lets you moon about in the midst of traffic. What is it,
darling? There’s something special, isn’t there?”
She nodded. Her eyes, raised mournfully to his, were large and dark
with fear. He recognized their message even before she said very low and
quick:
“I’m afraid.”
Anthony recovered his calm smiling poise. He sat down beside Iris on a
wide settee.
“Come on,” he said, “let’s have it.”
“I don’t think I want to tell you, Anthony.”
“Now then, funny, don’t be like the heroines of third-rate thrillers who
start in the very first chapter by having something they can’t possibly tell
for no real reason except to gum up the hero and make the book spin itself
out for another fifty thousand words.”
She gave a faint pale smile.
“I want to tell you, Anthony, but I don’t know what you’d think—I don’t
know if you’d believe—”
Anthony raised a hand and began to check off the fingers.
“One, an illegitimate baby. Two, a blackmailing lover. Three—”
She interrupted him indignantly:
“Of course not. Nothing of that kind.”
“You relieve my mind,” said Anthony. “Come on, little idiot.”
Iris’s face clouded over again.
“It’s nothing to laugh at. It’s—it’s about the other night.”
“Yes?” His voice sharpened.
Iris said:
“You were at the inquest this morning—you heard—”
She paused.
“Very little,” said Anthony. “The police surgeon being technical about cy-
anides generally and the effect of potassium cyanide on George, and the
police evidence as given by that first inspector, not Kemp, the one with the
smart moustache who arrived first at the Luxembourg and took charge.
Identification of the body by George’s chief clerk. The inquest was then ad-
journed for a week by a properly docile coroner.”
“It’s the inspector I mean,” said Iris. “He described finding a small paper
packet under the table containing traces of potassium cyanide.”
Anthony looked interested.
“Yes. Obviously whoever slipped that stuff into George’s glass just
dropped the paper that had contained it under the table. Simplest thing to
do. Couldn’t risk having it found on him—or her.”
To his surprise Iris began to tremble violently.
“Oh, no, Anthony. Oh, no, it wasn’t like that.”
“What do you mean, darling? What do you know about it?”
Iris said, “I dropped that packet under the table.”
He turned astonished eyes upon her.
“Listen, Anthony. You remember how George drank off that champagne
and then it happened?”
He nodded.
“It was awful — like a bad dream. Coming just when everything had
seemed to be all right. I mean that, after the cabaret, when the lights went
up—I felt so relieved. Because it was then, you know, that we found Rose-
mary dead—and somehow, I don’t know why, I felt I’d see it all happen
again . . . I felt she was there, dead, at the table. . . .”
“Darling. . . .”
“Oh, I know. It was just nerves. But anyway, there we were, and there
was nothing awful and suddenly it seemed the whole thing was really
done with at last and one could—I don’t know how to explain it—begin
again. And so I danced with George and really felt I was enjoying myself
at last, and we came back to the table. And then George suddenly talked
about Rosemary and asked us to drink to her memory and then he died
and all the nightmare had come back.
“I just felt paralysed I think. I stood there, shaking. You came round to
look at him, and I moved back a little, and the waiters came and someone
asked for a doctor. And all the time I was standing there frozen. Then sud-
denly a big lump came in my throat and tears began to run down my
cheeks and I jerked open my bag to get my handkerchief. I just fumbled in
it, not seeing properly, and got out my handkerchief, but there was some-
thing caught up inside the handkerchief—a folded stiff bit of white paper,
like the kind you get powders in from the chemist. Only, you see, Anthony,
it hadn’t been in my bag when I started from home. I hadn’t had anything
like that! I’d put the things in myself when the bag was quite empty—a
powder compact, a lipstick, my handkerchief, my evening comb in its case
and a shilling and a couple of sixpences. Somebody had put that packet in
my bag—they must have done. And I remembered how they’d found a
packet like that in Rosemary’s bag after she died and how it had had cyan-
ide in it. I was frightened, Anthony, I was horribly frightened. My fingers
went limp and the packet fluttered down from my handkerchief under the
table. I let it go. And I didn’t say anything. I was too frightened. Somebody
meant it to look as though I had killed George, and I didn’t.”
Anthony gave vent to a long and prolonged whistle.
“And nobody saw you?” he said.
Iris hesitated.
“I’m not sure,” she said slowly. “I believe Ruth noticed. But she was look-
ing so dazed that I don’t know whether she really noticed—or if she was
just staring at me blankly.”
Anthony gave another whistle.
“This,” he remarked, “is a pretty kettle of fish.”
Iris said:
“It’s got worse and worse. I’ve been so afraid they’d find out.”
“Why weren’t your fingerprints on it, I wonder? The first thing they’d do
would be to fingerprint it.”
“I suppose it was because I was holding it through the handkerchief.”
Anthony nodded.
“Yes, you had luck there.”
“But who could have put it in my bag? I had my bag with me all the
evening.”
“That’s not so impossible as you think. When you went to dance after
the cabaret, you left your bag on the table. Somebody may have tampered
with it then. And there are the women. Could you get up and give me an
imitation of just how a woman behaves in the ladies’ cloakroom? It’s the
sort of thing I wouldn’t know. Do you congregate and chat or do you drift
off to different mirrors?”
Iris considered.
“We all went to the same table—a great long glass-topped one. And we
put our bags down and looked at our faces, you know.”
“Actually I don’t. Go on.”
“Ruth powdered her nose and Sandra patted her hair and pushed a hair-
pin in and I took off my fox cape and gave it to the woman and then I saw
I’d got some dirt on my hand—a smear of mud and I went over to the
washbasins.”
“Leaving your bag on the glass table?”
“Yes. And I washed my hands. Ruth was still fixing her face I think and
Sandra went and gave up her cloak and then she went back to the glass
and Ruth came and washed her hands and I went back to the table and
just fixed my hair a little.”
“So either of those two could have put something in your bag without
your seeing?”
“Yes, but I can’t believe either Ruth or Sandra would do such a thing.”
“You think too highly of people. Sandra is the kind of Gothic creature
who would have burned her enemies at the stake in the Middle Ages—and
Ruth would make the most devastatingly practical poisoner that ever
stepped this earth.”
“If it was Ruth why didn’t she say she saw me drop it?”
“You have me there. If Ruth deliberately planted cyanide on you, she’d
take jolly good care you didn’t get rid of it. So it looks as though it wasn’t
Ruth. In fact the waiter is far and away the best bet. The waiter, the
waiter! If only we had a strange waiter, a peculiar waiter, a waiter hired
for that evening only. But instead we have Giuseppe and Pierre and they
just don’t fit. . . .”
Iris sighed.
“I’m glad I’ve told you. No one will ever know now, will they? Only you
and I?”
Anthony looked at her with a rather embarrassed expression.
“It’s not going to be just like that, Iris. In fact you’re coming with me
now in a taxi to old man Kemp. We can’t keep this under our hats.”
“Oh, no, Anthony. They’ll think I killed George.”
They’ll certainly think so if they find out later that you sat tight and said
nothing about all this! Your explanation will then sound extremely thin. If
you volunteer it now there’s a likelihood of its being believed.”
“Please, Anthony.”
“Look here, Iris, you’re in a tight place. But apart from anything else,
there’s such a thing as truth. You can’t play safe and take care of your own
skin when it’s a question of justice.”
“Oh, Anthony, must you be so grand?”
“That,” said Anthony, “was a very shrewd blow! But all the same we’re
going to Kemp! Now!”
Unwillingly she came with him out into the hall. Her coat was lying
tossed on a chair and he took it and held it out for her to put on.
There was both mutiny and fear in her eyes, but Anthony showed no
sign of relenting. He said:
“We’ll pick up a taxi at the end of the Square.”
As they went towards the hall door the bell was pressed and they heard
it ringing in the basement below.
Iris gave an exclamation.
“I forgot. It’s Ruth. She was coming here when she left the office to settle
about the funeral arrangements. It’s to be the day after tomorrow. I
thought we could settle things better while Aunt Lucilla was out. She does
confuse things so.”
Anthony stepped forward and opened the door, forestalling the parlour-
maid who came running up the stairs from below.
“It’s all right, Evans,” said Iris, and the girl went down again.
Ruth was looking tired and rather dishevelled. She was carrying a large-
sized attaché case.
“I’m sorry I’m late, but the tube was so terribly crowded tonight and
then I had to wait for three buses and not a taxi in sight.”
It was, thought Anthony, unlike the efficient Ruth to apologize. Another
sign that George’s death had succeeded in shattering that almost inhuman
efficiency.
Iris said:
“I can’t come with you now, Anthony. Ruth and I must settle things.”
Anthony said firmly:
“I’m afraid this is more important . . . I’m awfully sorry, Miss Lessing, to
drag Iris off like this, but it really is important.”
Ruth said quickly:
“That’s quite all right, Mr. Browne. I can arrange everything with Mrs.
Drake when she comes in.” She smiled faintly. “I can really manage her
quite well, you know.”
“I’m sure you could manage anyone, Miss Lessing,” said Anthony admir-
ingly.
“Perhaps, Iris, if you can tell me any special points?”
“There aren’t any. I suggested our arranging this together simply be-
cause Aunt Lucilla changes her mind about everything every two minutes,
and I thought it would be rather hard on you. You’ve had so much to do.
But I really don’t care what sort of funeral it is! Aunt Lucilla likes funerals,
but I hate them. You’ve got to bury people, but I hate making a fuss about
it. It can’t matter to the people themselves. They’ve got away from it all.
The dead don’t come back.”
Ruth did not answer, and Iris repeated with a strange defiant insistence:
“The dead don’t come back!”
“Come on,” said Anthony, and pulled her out through the open door.
A cruising taxi was coming slowly along the Square. Anthony hailed it
and helped Iris in.
“Tell me, beautiful,” he said, after he had directed the driver to go to
Scotland Yard. “Who exactly did you feel was there in the hall when you
found it so necessary to affirm that the dead are dead? Was it George or
Rosemary?”
“Nobody! Nobody at all! I just hate funerals, I tell you.”
Anthony sighed.
“Definitely,” he said. “I must be psychic!”
第三部 第九章
第九章
1
斯蒂芬•法拉第走进苏格兰场，貌似镇定，实则畏缩。精神压力大到令他难以承受，这
天上午一切似乎进行得很顺利，但是肯普探长为什么还煞有介事地让他来一趟呢？他知道
了什么，他怀疑什么？只能是隐约的怀疑。他要做的是，保持冷静，一概否认。
没有桑德拉在身边，他有一种奇怪的感觉——孤苦伶仃。似乎两个人共同面对危险，
恐惧就会消除一半。在一起时，他们有力量、勇气和权势。一个人时，他什么都不是，甚
至更糟。桑德拉呢，她也有同感吗？此刻她是否坐在基德明斯特公馆里，沉默、克制、高
傲，内心却无比脆弱？
肯普探长亲切但严肃地接待了他。一个穿制服的男人坐在一张桌子旁，手里拿着一根
铅笔，面前是一沓纸。请斯蒂芬坐下后，肯普探长以一种极其正式的口吻说：“法拉第先
生，我打算给您做一份笔录。您离开前需要仔细阅读这份笔录，并在上面签字。同时，我
有责任告诉您，您可以拒绝做这份笔录，并有权让您的律师在场，如果您非常需要律师的
话。”
斯蒂芬心里一惊，但没有表现出来。他强挤出一个冷淡的笑容，说：“听起来很吓人，
探长。”
“我们希望把一切讲清楚，法拉第先生。”
“我说的任何话都可能对我不利，是不是？”
“我们不用‘不利’这个词。您说的任何话都可能成为呈堂证供。”
斯蒂芬平静地说：“我明白，但是我想不通，探长，为什么你们需要我做进一步的陈述
呢？我该说的今天上午您都听见了。”
“那次面谈很不正式——只能用作初步谈话材料。再有，法拉第先生，我想，有些事您
更愿意在这里跟我讨论。任何与本案无关的事实，我们都会尽量慎重对待，以求公正。我
想，您明白我的用意吧。”
“恐怕不明白。”
肯普探长叹了口气。
“是这样。您和已故的罗斯玛丽•巴顿太太关系十分亲密——”
斯蒂芬打断他的话。“谁说的？”
肯普探出身子，从办公桌上拿起一份打印的文件。
“这是在已故的巴顿太太的物品中找到的一封信的复制品。原件已经在我们这里存档
了，艾丽斯•玛尔小姐交给我们的，她认出是她姐姐的笔迹。”
斯蒂芬读道：“亲爱的豹——”
他心里一阵恶心。罗斯玛丽的声音……她在说话……恳求……难道过去永远不会过去
吗，永远不同意被埋藏吗？
他恢复镇静，看着肯普。
“您认为这封信是巴顿太太写的，或许没错，但没有任何证据显示这封信是写给我
的。”
“您是在否认伯爵阁路玛兰德大厦二十一室的房租是您付的吗？”
原来他们知道了！他不知道他们是否早就知道了。
他耸了耸肩。
“您的消息似乎很灵通。我可否问一下，为什么要把注意力集中在我的私生活上？”
“除非能确认您的私生活与乔治•巴顿的死无关，否则我们什么都会关注。”
“我懂了。您是在暗示，我先跟他太太上床，然后害死了他。”
“好了，法拉第先生，我坦白跟您说吧。您和巴顿太太是非常亲密的朋友，你们分手是
出于您的意愿，而不是那位女士。她打算——正如这封信上所写的——惹麻烦。然后她死
了，非常便利。”
“她是自杀的。我想，有一部分责任可能在我。我会自责，但这与法律无关。”
“可能是自杀，也可能不是。乔治•巴顿认为不是。于是，他着手调查，然后他死了。
这个结果引人联想。”
“我不明白您为什么会……呃，怪在我头上。”
“您承认巴顿太太的死对您有利吗？法拉第先生，一桩丑闻对您的前途十分有害。”
“不会有丑闻的，巴顿太太明白其中的道理。”
“我很怀疑！您太太知道这事吗，法拉第先生？”
“当然不知道。”
“您确定？”
“是，我确定。我太太只知道我和巴顿太太是朋友，此外一无所知。我希望她永远都不
知道。”
“您太太是个善妒的女人吗，法拉第先生？”
“一点也不。只要是跟我有关的，她从未表现出任何妒意。她很通情达理。”
探长没作任何评论，而是说：“去年的任何时间，您是否持有过氰化钾，法拉第先
生？”
“没有。”
“您在乡下的房子里总会储存氰化钾吧？”
“园丁可能有。我不知道。”
“您从来没去药店买过吗，或者冲洗照片用？”
“我对摄影一窍不通。再说一遍，我从来没买过氰化钾。”
肯普又逼问了一会儿，最后放他走了。
肯普若有所思地对他的部下说：“他迅速否认他太太知道他和巴顿太太的事。为什么会
这样，我想知道。”
“大概担心她听到风声，先生。”
“有可能，不过，他应该有足够的头脑意识到，他太太知道了会大发脾气，而如果他太
太不知情，这就给了他一个额外的想让罗斯玛丽•巴顿闭嘴的动机。为了自保，他的说词应
该是，他太太对他们的私情多多少少知道一点，但选择视而不见。”
“可能他没有想到这一点，先生。”
肯普摇摇头。斯蒂芬•法拉第不是傻子。他很清醒、很精明。他是渴望给探长留下桑德
拉毫不知情的印象。
“好了，”肯普说，“瑞斯上校似乎对他挖掘出来的线索很满意，如果他是对的，那么法
拉第夫妇的嫌疑就都排除了。我很高兴是这样，我喜欢这小子。而且依我看，他不是凶
手。”
2
斯蒂芬推开起居室的门，喊道：“桑德拉！”
她从暗处走过来，突然抓住他，双手搭在他的肩上。“斯蒂芬？”
“屋里怎么这么黑？”
“我受不了光。告诉我。”
他说：“他们知道了。”
“罗斯玛丽的事？”
“是。”
“他们怎么想的？”
“他们看出来了，当然，我有动机……哦，亲爱的，他们看出是我把你卷进来的。都是
我的错。如果我在罗斯玛丽死后逃走……离开这里……给你自由——你绝不可能被牵扯进
来，这事太可怕了。”
“不，不要……永远不要离开我……永远不要离开我。”
她伏在他胸前哭了起来，泪水顺着两腮流下。他感觉她的身体在颤抖。
“你是我的生命，斯蒂芬，我全部的生命，永远不要离开我……”
“你这么在乎我吗，桑德拉？我从来不知道……”
“我不想让你知道。可是现在……”
“是啊，现在……我们都卷进来了，桑德拉……我们要一起面对……无论发生什么都要
在一起！”
他们站在那里，在黑暗中紧紧相拥，他们重又获得了力量。
桑德拉下定决心，说：“这不会毁掉我们的生活的！不会，不会！”
BOOK 3 Twelve
Twelve
Three men sat at a small round marble-topped table.
Colonel Race and Chief Inspector Kemp were drinking cups of dark
brown tea, rich in tannin. Anthony was drinking an English café’s idea of
a nice cup of coffee. It was not Anthony’s idea, but he endured it for the
sake of being admitted on equal terms to the other two men’s conference.
Chief Inspector Kemp, having painstakingly verified Anthony’s creden-
tials, had consented to recognize him as a colleague.
“If you ask me,” said the chief inspector, dropping several lumps of
sugar into his black brew and stirring it, “this case will never be brought
to trial. We’ll never get the evidence.”
“You think not?” asked Race.
Kemp shook his head and took an approving sip of his tea.
“The only hope was to get evidence concerning the actual purchasing or
handling of cyanide by one of those five. I’ve drawn a blank everywhere.
It’ll be one of those cases where you know who did it, and can’t ever prove
it.”
“So you know who did it?” Anthony regarded him with interest.
“Well, I’m pretty certain in my own mind. Lady Alexandra Farraday.”
“So that’s your bet,” said Race. “Reasons?”
“You shall have ’em. I’d say she’s the type that’s madly jealous. And
autocratic, too. Like that queen in history—Eleanor of Something, that fol-
lowed the clue to Fair Rosamund’s Bower and offered her the choice of a
dagger or a cup of poison.”
“Only in this case,” said Anthony, “she didn’t offer Fair Rosemary any
choice.”
Chief Inspector Kemp went on:
“Someone tips Mr. Barton off. He becomes suspicious—and I should say
his suspicions were pretty definite. He wouldn’t have gone so far as actu-
ally buying a house in the country unless he wanted to keep an eye on the
Farradays. He must have made it pretty plain to her—harping on this
party and urging them to come to it. She’s not the kind to Wait and See.
Autocratic again, she finished him off! That, you say so far, is all theory
and based on character. But I’ll say that the only person who could have
had any chance whatever of dropping something into Mr. Barton’s glass
just before he drank would be the lady on his right.”
“And nobody saw her do it?” said Anthony.
“Quite. They might have—but they didn’t. Say, if you like, she was pretty
adroit.”
“A positive conjurer.”
Race coughed. He took out his pipe and began stuffing the bowl.
“Just one minor point. Granted Lady Alexandra is autocratic, jealous
and passionately devoted to her husband, granted that she’d not stick at
murder, do you think she is the type to slip incriminating evidence into a
girl’s handbag? A perfectly innocent girl, mind, who has never harmed
her in any way? Is that in the Kidderminster tradition?”
Inspector Kemp squirmed uneasily in his seat and peered into his tea-
cup.
“Women don’t play cricket,” he said. “If that’s what you mean.”
“Actually, a lot of them do,” said Race, smiling. “But I’m glad to see you
look uncomfortable.”
Kemp escaped from his dilemma by turning to Anthony with an air of
gracious patronage.
“By the way, Mr. Browne (I’ll still call you that, if you don’t mind), I want
to say that I’m very much obliged to you for the prompt way you brought
Miss Marle along this evening to tell that story of hers.”
“I had to do it promptly,” said Anthony. “If I’d waited I should probably
not have brought her along at all.”
“She didn’t want to come, of course,” said Colonel Race.
“She’s got the wind up badly, poor kid,” said Anthony. “Quite natural, I
think.”
“Very natural,” said the inspector and poured himself out another cup of
tea. Anthony took a gingerly sip of coffee.
“Well,” said Kemp. “I think we relieved her mind—she went off home
quite happily.”
“After the funeral,” said Anthony, “I hope she’ll get away to the country
for a bit. Twenty-four hours’ peace and quiet away from Auntie Lucilla’s
nonstop tongue will do her good, I think.”
“Aunt Lucilla’s tongue has its uses,” said Race.
“You’re welcome to it,” said Kemp. “Lucky I didn’t think it necessary to
have a shorthand report made when I took her statement. If I had, the
poor fellow would have been in hospital with writer’s cramp.”
“Well,” said Anthony. “I daresay you’re right, chief inspector, in saying
that the case will never come to trial—but that’s a very unsatisfactory fin-
ish—and there’s one thing we still don’t know—who wrote those letters to
George Barton telling him his wife was murdered? We haven’t the least
idea who that person is.”
Race said: “Your suspicions still the same, Browne?”
“Ruth Lessing? Yes, I stick to her as my candidate. You told me that she
admitted to you she was in love with George. Rosemary by all accounts
was pretty poisonous to her. Say she saw suddenly a good chance of get-
ting rid of Rosemary, and was fairly convinced that with Rosemary out of
the way, she could marry George out of hand.”
“I grant you all that,” said Race. “I’ll admit that Ruth Lessing has the
calm practical efficiency that can contemplate and carry out murder, and
that she perhaps lacks that quality of pity which is essentially a product of
imagination. Yes, I give you the first murder. But I simply can’t see her
committing the second one. I simply cannot see her panicking and poison-
ing the man she loved and wanted to marry! Another point that rules her
out—why did she hold her tongue when she saw Iris throw the cyanide
packet under the table?”
“Perhaps she didn’t see her do it,” suggested Anthony, rather doubtfully.
“I’m fairly sure she did,” said Race. “When I was questioning her, I had
the impression that she was keeping something back. And Iris Marle her-
self thought Ruth Lessing saw her.”
“Come now, colonel,” said Kemp. “Let’s have your ‘spot.’ You’ve got one,
I suppose?”
Race nodded.
“Out with it. Fair’s fair. You’ve listened to ours—and raised objections.”
Race’s eyes went thoughtfully from Kemp’s face to Anthony and rested
there.
Anthony’s eyebrows rose.
“Don’t say you still think I am the villain of the piece?”
Slowly Race shook his head.
“I can imagine no possible reason why you should kill George Barton. I
think I know who did kill him—and Rosemary Barton too.”
“Who is it?”
Race said musingly:
“Curious how we have all selected women as suspects. I suspect a wo-
man, too.” He paused and said quietly: “I think the guilty person is Iris
Marle.”
With a crash Anthony pushed his chair back. For a moment his face
went dark crimson—then with an effort, he regained command of himself.
His voice, when he spoke, had a slight tremor but was deliberately as light
and mocking as ever.
“By all means let us discuss the possibility,” he said. “Why Iris Marle?
And if so, why should she, of her own accord, tell me about dropping the
cyanide paper under the table?”
“Because,” said Race, “she knew that Ruth Lessing had seen her do it.”
Anthony considered the reply, his head on one side. Finally he nodded.
“Passed,” he said. “Go on. Why did you suspect her in the first place?”
“Motive,” said Race. “An enormous fortune had been left to Rosemary in
which Iris was not to participate. For all we know she may have struggled
for years with a sense of unfairness. She was aware that if Rosemary died
childless, all that money came to her. And Rosemary was depressed, un-
happy, run-down after flu, just the mood when a verdict of suicide would
be accepted without question.”
“That’s right, make the girl out a monster!” said Anthony.
“Not a monster,” said Race. “There is another reason why I suspected
her—a far-fetched one, it may seem to you—Victor Drake.”
“Victor Drake?” Anthony stared.
“Bad blood. You see, I didn’t listen to Lucilla Drake for nothing. I know
all about the Marle family. Victor Drake—not so much weak as positively
evil. His mother, feeble in intellect and incapable of concentration. Hector
Marle, weak, vicious and a drunkard. Rosemary, emotionally unstable. A
family history of weakness, vice and instability. Predisposing causes.”
Anthony lit a cigarette. His hands trembled.
“Don’t you believe that there may be a sound blossom on a weak or even
a bad stock?”
“Of course there may. But I am not sure that Iris Marle is a sound blos-
som.”
“And my word doesn’t count,” said Anthony slowly, “because I’m in love
with her. George showed her those letters, and she got in a funk and killed
him? That’s how it goes on, is it?”
“Yes. Panic would obtain in her case.”
“And how did she get the stuff into George’s champagne glass?”
“That, I confess, I do not know.”
“I’m thankful there’s something you don’t know.” Anthony tilted his
chair back and then forward. His eyes were angry and dangerous. “You’ve
got a nerve saying all this to me.”
Race replied quietly:
“I know. But I consider it had to be said.”
Kemp watched them both with interest, but he did not speak. He stirred
his tea round and round absentmindedly.
“Very well.” Anthony sat upright. “Things have changed. It’s no longer a
question of sitting round a table, drinking disgusting fluids, and airing
academic theories. This case has got to be solved. We’ve got to resolve all
the difficulties and get at the truth. That’s got to be my job—and I’ll do it
somehow. I’ve got to hammer at the things we don’t know—because when
we do know them, the whole thing will be clear.
“I’ll re- state the problem. Who knew that Rosemary had been
murdered? Who wrote to George telling him so? Why did they write to
him?
“And now the murders themselves. Wash out the first one. It’s too long
ago, and we don’t know exactly what happened. But the second murder
took place in front of my eyes. I saw it happen. Therefore I ought to know
how it happened. The ideal time to put the cyanide in George’s glass was
during the cabaret — but it couldn’t have been put in then because he
drank from his glass immediately afterwards. I saw him drink. After he
drank, nobody put anything in his glass. Nobody touched his glass, never-
theless next time he drank, it was full of cyanide. He couldn’t have been
poisoned—but he was! There was cyanide in his glass—but nobody could
have put it there! Are we getting on?”
“No,” said Chief Inspector Kemp.
“Yes,” said Anthony. “The thing has now entered into the realm of a con-
juring trick. Or a spirit manifestation. I will now outline my psychic the-
ory. Whilst we were dancing, the ghost of Rosemary hovers near George’s
glass and drops in some cleverly materialized cyanide — any spirit can
make cyanide out of ectoplasm. George comes back and drinks her health
and—oh, Lord!”
The other two stared curiously at him. His hands were holding his head.
He rocked to and fro in apparent mental agony. He said:
“That’s it . . . that’s it . . . the bag . . . the waiter. . . .”
“The waiter?” Kemp was alert.
Anthony shook his head.
“No, no. I don’t mean what you mean. I did think once that what we
needed was a waiter who was not a waiter but a conjurer—a waiter who
had been engaged the day before. Instead we had a waiter who had al-
ways been a waiter — and a little waiter who was of the royal line of
waiters—a cherubic waiter—a waiter above suspicion. And he’s still above
suspicion—but he played his part! Oh, Lord, yes, he played a star part.”
He stared at them.
“Don’t you see it? A waiter could have poisoned the champagne but the
waiter didn’t. Nobody touched George’s glass but George was poisoned. A,
indefinite article. The, definite article. George’s glass! George! Two separ-
ate things. And the money—lots and lots of money! And who knows—per-
haps love as well? Don’t look at me as though I’m mad. Come on, I’ll show
you.”
Thrusting his chair back he sprang to his feet and caught Kemp by the
arm.
“Come with me.”
Kemp cast a regretful glance at his half-full cup.
“Got to pay,” he muttered.
“No, no, we’ll be back in a moment. Come on. I must show you outside.
Come on, Race.”
Pushing the table aside, he swept them away with him to the vestibule.
“You see that telephone box there?”
“Yes?”
Anthony felt in his pockets.
“Damn, I haven’t got two pence. Never mind. On second thoughts I’d
rather not do it that way. Come back.”
They went back into the café, Kemp first, Race following with Anthony’s
hand on his arm.
Kemp had a frown on his face as he sat down and picked up his pipe. He
blew down it carefully and began to operate on it with a hairpin which he
brought out of his waistcoat pocket.
Race was frowning at Anthony with a puzzled face. He leaned back and
picked up his cup, draining the remaining fluid in it.
“Damn,” he said violently. “It’s got sugar in it!”
He looked across the table to meet Anthony’s slowly widening smile.
“Hallo,” said Kemp, as he took a sip from his cup. “What the hell’s this?”
“Coffee,” said Anthony. “And I don’t think you’ll like it. I didn’t.”
第三部 第十章
第十章
安东尼•布朗看着小听差递给他的名片。
他皱皱眉头，耸了耸肩，对小男孩说：“好吧，请他上来。”
瑞斯上校进来时，安东尼正站在窗前，明亮的阳光斜照在他的肩上。
他看到一个身材高大、军人模样的男人，古铜色的脸上布满皱纹，铁灰色的头发。这
个人他见过，不过有几年没见了，他很了解这个人。
瑞斯看到一个优雅黝黑的身形，漂亮的头部轮廓。听到一个令人愉悦且懒洋洋的声音
说：“瑞斯上校吗？你是乔治•巴顿的朋友，我知道。那天晚上他谈起过你。抽支烟吧。”
“谢谢，来一支。”
安东尼边点烟边说：“你是那天晚上没有出现的神秘客人。幸亏没来。”
“你错了，那个空位子不是留给我的。”
安东尼的眉毛挑了起来。
“真的吗？巴顿说——”
瑞斯插嘴道：“乔治•巴顿可能是这么说的，但他的计划完全不同。布朗先生，巴顿计
划在灯光暗下去时让一个叫克洛伊•韦斯特的女演员坐在那把椅子上。”
安东尼瞪大了眼睛。
“克洛伊•韦斯特？我怎么从来没听说过。她是谁？”
“一个不太出名的年轻女演员，但是她和罗斯玛丽•巴顿在外貌上有几分相似。”
安东尼吹了声口哨。
“我明白了。”
“她拿到了一张罗斯玛丽的照片，以便模仿她的发型。她还有罗斯玛丽死那天晚上穿的
裙子。”
“这就是乔治的计划？灯光一亮——变，大家倒吸一口凉气，闹鬼了！罗斯玛丽回来
了。心虚的那个人气喘吁吁地说：‘是真的——是真的——是我干的。’”他停顿了一下，补
充道，“糟糕透了。即便是对可怜的老乔治这种蠢货来说。”
“我不太明白你的意思。”
安东尼咧开嘴笑了。
“哦，好啦，先生，冷酷的罪犯是不会表现得像个歇斯底里的小女生的。如果某个人残
忍地毒死了罗斯玛丽•巴顿，并准备同样用氰化钾做掉乔治•巴顿，这个人肯定具备一定的勇
气。一个打扮成罗斯玛丽的女演员不足以让他或她说漏嘴。”
“麦克白，记得吧，绝对是个冷酷的凶手，他在宴会上看见班柯的鬼魂还崩溃了呢。”
“啊，但麦克白真的看到了鬼魂！而不是一个穿着班柯的衣服的蹩脚演员！我愿意承认
一个真正的鬼魂可能会把属于它的气氛从另一个世界带到人间。其实，我愿意承认我相信
鬼魂，过去这半年来我一直相信，尤其是某个人的鬼魂。”
“是吗……哪个人的鬼魂？”
“罗斯玛丽•巴顿的。你想笑就笑吧。我没看见她，但是我感觉到了她的存在。由于某
种原因，罗斯玛丽，可怜的女人，无法安息。”
“我能说出一个原因。”
“因为她是被人害死的？”
“换一种说法，因为她是被做掉的。你觉得怎么样，托尼•莫雷利先生？”
一阵沉默。安东尼坐下来，把手里的烟头扔进壁炉，又点上一支。
然后他说：“你怎么知道的？”
“你承认你是托尼•莫雷利了？”
“我不想白费时间否认。显然，你给美国发电报了，得到了所有的资料。”
“你也承认罗斯玛丽•巴顿发现你的真实身份时你曾威胁做掉她，除非她管住自己的舌
头吗？”
“我想尽一切办法吓唬她。”托尼欣然承认。瑞斯上校心底泛起一种异样的感觉，这次
面谈不该如此啊。他盯着眼前懒洋洋地躺在椅子上的人，一种奇怪的熟悉感向他袭来。
“我可以概述一下我了解到的关于你的情况吗，莫雷利？”
“那会很有趣。”
“你在美国时曾被指控蓄意破坏埃里克森飞机制造厂，并被判刑入狱。刑满出狱后，当
局就失去了与你的联系。接着，有人听说你在伦敦，住在克拉里奇酒店，自称安东尼•布
朗。你在那里设法结识了迪尤斯伯里爵士，并通过他认识了几个著名的军火商。你住在迪
尤斯伯里爵士家里，借着客人的身份看到了很多你永远都不该看到的东西！真是奇怪的巧
合，莫雷利，就在你参观了几家重要的工厂后不久，发生了一连串无法解释的意外事件，
还有一些工厂险遭厄运。”
“巧合，”安东尼说，“当然非比寻常。”
“又过了一段时间，你再次出现在伦敦，并与艾丽斯•玛尔熟络起来，却又找借口不去
她家，以免她的家人意识到你们之间的关系有多么亲密。最后，你试图引诱她偷偷嫁给
你。”
“你知道，”安东尼说，“你查出的这些情况实在令人惊奇，我不是指军火生意，我指的
是我对罗斯玛丽的威胁，以及我对艾丽斯悄悄说的那些微不足道的甜言蜜语。这肯定不在
军情五处的职权范围内吧？”
瑞斯用锐利的眼神看着他。
“你要解释的东西很多，莫雷利。”
“我没什么好解释的。假设你说的都对，那又怎么样？我服了刑，交了一些有趣的朋
友，爱上了一个非常迷人的姑娘，而且迫不及待地想要娶她为妻。”
“迫不及待到希望在她的家人有可能了解你的身世之前就举行婚礼。艾丽斯•玛尔是个
非常富有的姑娘。”
安东尼点头同意。
“我知道。一有钱，家人就爱管闲事，可恶。而艾丽斯，你知道，对我不可告人的过去
一无所知。说老实话，我宁愿她什么都不知道。”
“恐怕她很快就会知道了。”
“遗憾。”安东尼说。
“可能你还没有意识到——”
安东尼笑着插话道：“哦！我可以做到滴水不漏。罗斯玛丽知道我的犯罪史，所以，我
杀了她。乔治•巴顿开始怀疑我，所以，我也把他杀了！现在我在追逐艾丽斯的金钱！环环
相扣，全部吻合，但是你一点证据都没有。”
瑞斯目不转睛地看了他几分钟，然后站起身。“我说的都是真的，”他说，“也都错
了。”
安东尼紧盯着他。“什么错了？”
“你错了。”瑞斯在房间里慢慢来回踱步，“一切都吻合，直到我看见你。见了你以后，
我发现不对。你不是恶棍。如果你不是恶棍，那就是我们的同类。我说得对吗？”
安东尼默默地看着他，脸上慢慢绽放出笑容，然后轻声说：“是啊，人真是了解自己的
同类，真有意思。这就是我为什么一直避着不想见你，我担心你发觉我是怎样的一个人。
没有人知道我的身份很重要，到昨天为止。现在，谢天谢地，麻烦来了！我们已经掌握了
国际破坏者团伙的资料。三年来，我一直在执行这项任务。经常参加会议，煽动工人，获
得正确的声誉。结果，他们让我干了一票大的，我就被判刑了。为了取得他们的信任，必
须装得跟真的一样。
“我出狱以后，情况开始有进展。我渐渐地打入到他们的核心圈——一个由中欧操纵的
大型国际网络。我是以他们的代理人的身份来伦敦的，住在克拉里奇酒店。我奉命和迪尤
斯伯里爵士搞好关系。我扮演的角色就是交际高手！以我迷人青年的身份，必须认识罗斯
玛丽•巴顿。突然，令我恐惧的是，我发现她知道我在美国坐过牢，真名是托尼•莫雷利。我
真替她担心！我的同事如果认为她知道了我的真实身份，会毫不犹豫地杀死她。我使出浑
身解数吓唬她，让她闭嘴，但我对此并不抱太大希望。罗斯玛丽就不是一个谨慎的人。我
想，我最好躲开。就在这时，我看见艾丽斯从楼上下来，我发誓，等我完成这项任务就回
来娶她。
“能动的那部分工作完成后，我再次现身，联系上艾丽斯，但还是不去接近那栋房子和
她的家人，因为我知道，他们想打听我的情况，而我必须再保密一段时间。但是，我为她
担忧。她看起来病怏怏的，一副惊恐的模样，乔治•巴顿的举止也很怪异。我催促她离开
家，嫁给我。呃，她拒绝了。也许她是对的。后来，我被说服参加这次宴会。大家落座
后，乔治提到你会来。我立刻说我碰到了一个认识的人，可能会早点走。其实，我确实看
见了一个我在美国认识的家伙——猴子科尔曼，尽管他不记得我了，但是我真正想避开的
是你。我还在执行任务。
“你知道接下来发生了什么吗——乔治死了。他和罗斯玛丽的死都与我无关，我不知道
是谁杀了他们。”
“一点想法都没有？”
“肯定是服务员或者席上的五个人中的一个。我不认为是服务员。不是我，也不是艾丽
斯。可能是桑德拉•法拉第，也可能是斯蒂芬•法拉第，也可能是他们俩联手干的。但在我看
来，最有可能的是露丝•莱辛。”
“你有什么线索可以证明这个观点吗？”
“没有。我认为她最有可能，但我想不出她到底是怎么干的！这两次惨剧发生时，她被
安排的位置最不可能让她在香槟酒杯上做手脚。我越是回想那晚发生的事就越觉得乔治根
本不可能被毒死，但他就是被毒死的！”安东尼停顿了一下，“还有一个问题难住我了——
你查出写匿名信把他引上这条路的人是谁了吗？”
瑞斯摇了摇头。“没有。我以为我查出来了，但是我错了。”
“因为有趣的是，这意味着，在某个地方有某个人知道罗斯玛丽是被谋杀的，所以，除
非你很小心——否则，下一个受害者就是那个人！”
BOOK 3 Thirteen
Thirteen
Anthony had the pleasure of seeing instant comprehension flash into the
eyes of both his companions.
His satisfaction was short-lived, for another thought struck him with the
force of a physical blow.
He ejaculated out loud:
“My God—that car!”
He sprang up.
“Fool that I was—idiot! She told me that a car had nearly run her down
—and I hardly listened. Come on, quick!”
Kemp said:
“She said she was going straight home when she left the Yard.”
“Yes. Why didn’t I go with her?”
“Who’s at the house?” asked Race.
“Ruth Lessing was there, waiting for Mrs. Drake. It’s possible that
they’re both discussing the funeral still!”
“Discussing everything else as well if I know Mrs. Drake,” said Race. He
added abruptly, “Has Iris Marle any other relations?”
“Not that I know of.”
“I think I see the direction in which your thoughts, ideas, are leading
you. But—is it physically possible?”
“I think so. Consider for yourself how much has been taken for granted
on one person’s word.”
Kemp was paying the check. The three men hurried out as Kemp said:
“You think the danger is acute? To Miss Marle?”
“Yes, I do.”
Anthony swore under his breath and hailed a taxi. The three men got in
and the driver was told to go to Elvaston Square as quickly as possible.
Kemp said slowly:
“I’ve only got the general idea as yet. It washes the Farradays right out.”
“Yes.”
“Thank goodness for that. But surely there wouldn’t be another attempt
—so soon?”
“The sooner the better,” said Race. “Before there’s any chance of our
minds running on the right track. Third time lucky—that will be the idea.”
He added: “Iris Marle told me, in front of Mrs. Drake, that she would
marry you as soon as you wanted her to.”
They spoke in spasmodic jerks, for the taxi driver was taking their direc-
tions literally and was hurtling round corners and cutting through traffic
with immense enthusiasm.
Turning with a final spurt into Elvaston Square, he drew up with a ter-
rific jerk in front of the house.
Elvaston Square had never looked more peaceful.
Anthony, with an effort regained his usual cool manner, murmured:
“Quite like the movies. Makes one feel rather a fool, somehow.”
But he was on the top step ringing the bell while Race paid off the taxi
and Kemp followed up the steps.
The parlourmaid opened the door.
Anthony said sharply:
“Has Miss Iris got back?”
Evans looked a little surprised.
“Oh, yes, sir. She came in half an hour ago.”
Anthony breathed a sigh of relief. Everything in the house was so calm
and normal that he felt ashamed of his recent melodramatic fears.
“Where is she?”
“I expect she’s in the drawing room with Mrs. Drake.”
Anthony nodded and took the stairs in easy strides, Race and Kemp
close behind him.
In the drawing room, placid under its shaded electric lights, Lucilla
Drake was hunting through the pigeon holes of the desk with the hopeful
absorption of a terrier and murmuring audibly:
“Dear, dear, now where did I put Mrs. Marsham’s letter? Now, let me
see. . . .”
“Where’s Iris?” demanded Anthony abruptly.
Lucilla turned and stared.
“Iris? She—I beg your pardon!” She drew herself up. “May I ask who
you are?”
Race came forward from behind him and Lucilla’s face cleared. She did
not yet see Chief Inspector Kemp who was the third to enter the room.
“Oh, dear, Colonel Race! How kind of you to come! But I do wish you
could have been here a little earlier—I should have liked to consult you
about the funeral arrangements—a man’s advice, so valuable—and really
I was feeling so upset, as I said to Miss Lessing, that really I couldn’t even
think—and I must say that Miss Lessing was really very sympathetic for
once and offered to do everything she could to take the burden off my
shoulders—only, as she put it very reasonably, naturally I should be the
person most likely to know what were George’s favourite hymns—not that
I actually did, because I’m afraid George didn’t very often go to church—
but naturally, as a clergyman’s wife—I mean widow—I do know what is
suitable—”
Race took advantage of a momentary pause to slip in his question:
“Where is Miss Marle?”
“Iris? She came in some time ago. She said she had a headache and was
going straight up to her room. Young girls, you know, do not seem to me to
have very much stamina nowadays—they don’t eat enough spinach—and
she seems positively to dislike talking about the funeral arrangements, but
after all, someone has to do these things—and one does want to feel that
everything has been done for the best, and proper respect shown to the
dead—not that I have ever thought motor hearses really reverent—if you
know what I mean—not like horses with their long black tails—but, of
course, I said at once that it was quite all right, and Ruth—I called her
Ruth and not Miss Lessing — and I were managing splendidly, and she
could leave everything to us.”
Kemp asked:
“Miss Lessing has gone?”
“Yes, we settled everything, and Miss Lessing left about ten minutes ago.
She took the announcements for the papers with her. No flowers, under
the circumstances—and Canon Westbury to take the service—”
As the flow went on, Anthony edged gently out of the door. He had left
the room before Lucilla, suddenly interrupting her narrative, paused to
say: “Who was that young man who came with you? I didn’t realize at first
that you had brought him. I thought possibly he might have been one of
those dreadful reporters. We have had such trouble with them.”
Anthony was running lightly up the stairs. Hearing footsteps behind
him, he turned his head, and grinned at Chief Inspector Kemp.
“You deserted too? Poor old Race!”
Kemp muttered.
“He does these things so nicely. I’m not popular in that quarter.”
They were on the second floor and just preparing to start up the third
when Anthony heard a light footstep descending. He pulled Kemp inside
an adjacent bathroom door.
The footsteps went on down the stairs.
Anthony emerged and ran up the next flight of stairs. Iris’s room, he
knew, was the small one at the back. He rapped lightly on the door.
“Hi—Iris.” There was no reply—and he knocked and called again. Then
he tried the handle but found the door locked.
With real urgency now he beat upon it.
“Iris—Iris—”
After a second or two, he stopped and glanced down. He was standing
on one of those woolly old-fashioned rugs made to fit outside doors to ob-
viate draughts. This one was close up against the door. Anthony kicked it
away. The space under the door at the bottom was quite wide—sometime,
he deduced, it had been cut to clear a fitted carpet instead of stained
boards.
He stooped to the keyhole but could see nothing, but suddenly he raised
his head and sniffed. Then he lay down flat and pressed his nose against
the crack under the door.
Springing up, he shouted: “Kemp!”
There was no sign of the chief inspector. Anthony shouted again.
It was Colonel Race, however, who came running up the stairs. Anthony
gave him no chance to speak. He said:
“Gas—pouring out! We’ll have to break the door down.”
Race had a powerful physique. He and Anthony made short shrift of the
obstacle. With a splintering, cracking noise, the lock gave.
They fell back for a moment, then Race said:
“She’s there by the fireplace. I’ll dash in and break the window. You get
her.”
Iris Marle was lying by the gas fire—her mouth and nose lying on the
wide open gas jet.
A minute or two later, choking and spluttering, Anthony and Race laid
the unconscious girl on the landing floor in the draught of the passage
window.
Race said:
“I’ll work on her. You get a doctor quickly.”
Anthony swung down the stairs. Race called after him:
“Don’t worry. I think she’ll be all right. We got here in time.”
In the hall Anthony dialled and spoke into the mouthpiece, hampered by
a background of exclamations from Lucilla Drake.
He turned at last from the telephone to say with a sigh of relief:
“Caught him. He lives just across the Square. He’ll be here in a couple of
minutes.”
“—but I must know what has happened! Is Iris ill?”
It was a final wail from Lucilla.
Anthony said:
“She was in her room. Door locked. Her head in the gas fire and the gas
full on.”
“Iris?” Mrs. Drake gave a piercing shriek. “Iris has committed suicide? I
can’t believe it. I don’t believe it!”
A faint ghost of Anthony’s grin returned to him.
“You don’t need to believe it,” he said. “It isn’t true.”
第三部 第十一章
第十一章
安东尼从电话中得知卢西娜•德瑞克将于五点钟出门，去和一个老朋友喝茶。于是，他
打出余量（万一她又回去取钱包，或是决定带上雨伞，又或者在门口多聊了两句），把到
达时间定在五点二十五分。他想见的是艾丽斯，不是她姑妈。据说，一旦被引见给她姑
妈，就不太可能跟艾丽斯顺畅地聊天了。
客厅女仆（一个不像贝蒂•阿克达尔那么放肆的姑娘）告诉他，艾丽斯小姐刚进门，在
书房里。
安东尼微笑道：“不用麻烦你了，我自己去吧。”说完，他经过她身边，向书房走去。
他进门时艾丽斯转过身，很紧张。显然，她被吓了一跳。
“啊，是你呀。”
他快步走向她。
“怎么啦，亲爱的？”
“没什么。”她迟疑了一下，然后赶忙说，“没什么。我刚才差点儿被车撞到。哦，都赖
我，我在专心想事情，溜溜达达过马路，没看车，突然，一辆车从角落里猛冲过来，差点
儿就撞上我了。”
他轻轻摇晃她。
“绝不能做这种事，艾丽斯。我真为你担心。哦！我不想说你奇迹般地从车轮下生还，
我更想问让你在车流中出神的原因。是什么原因，亲爱的？有什么特别的原因，是不是？”
她点了点头，然后悲伤地抬起眼看着他，那双又大又黑的眼睛里充满了恐惧。她还没
开口，他就读懂了那个眼神传递的信息，她低声迅速地说：“我害怕。”
安东尼恢复了平静，以惬意的姿态坐在又长又宽的靠椅上，坐在艾丽斯身旁。
“来吧，”他说，“说来听听。”
“我不认为我想告诉你，安东尼。”
“好啦，别像三流恐怖小说里的女主人公那样，上来第一章就有不可告人的秘密，其实
没什么真正的理由，除了搞得男主人公晕头转向。接下来的五万字还全围绕着这个说。”
她淡淡一笑。
“我想告诉你，安东尼，但是我不知道你会怎么想，我不知道你会不会相信——”
安东尼抬起一只手，扳着指头数了起来。
“一、私生子；二、敲竹杠的情人；三、——”
她气呼呼地打断他的话：“当然不是。根本不是这种事。”
“那我就放心了，”安东尼说，“好啦，快说吧，小傻瓜。”
艾丽斯的脸上又布满了愁云。
“不是什么可笑的事。是……是关于那天晚上。”
“怎么回事？”他的声音变得尖厉起来。
艾丽斯说：“今天上午你参加了死因调查会，你听到……”
她停了下来。
“没听到什么，”安东尼说，“警察局的外科医生讲了一些技术上的问题，氰化钾在乔治
身上发生的作用。还有第一个调查员——不是肯普，第一个到卢森堡餐厅控制现场，留着
两撇时髦的小胡子的那个——提供了证词。乔治的办公室主任辨认了尸体。一个性格温顺
的法医宣布庭审会推迟一个星期举行。”
“我说的是那个探长，”艾丽斯说，“他说在桌子底下找到了一个小纸包，里面还装着少
量氰化钾粉末。”
显然，安东尼对这个话题很感兴趣。
“是啊，显然，往乔治的杯子里下毒的人顺手把装毒药的纸包丢在桌子下面了。再简单
不过了。不能冒险把纸包放在身上。”
令他不解的是，艾丽斯开始发抖。
“哦，不，安东尼。哦，不是，不是这样的。”
“你什么意思，亲爱的？你知道了什么？”
艾丽斯说：“是我把那个纸包扔在桌子下面的。”
他惊愕地看着她。
“你听我说，安东尼。你还记得乔治是怎么干下那杯香槟酒，然后死了的吧？”
他点点头。
“可怕，像是一场噩梦，就在一切似乎都过去了的时候发生的。我是说，卡巴莱歌舞表
演后，灯光亮了起来，我松了一大口气。因为，你知道，就是在那个时候我们发现罗斯玛
丽死了的。不知怎么的，我感觉我会看到那一幕再次发生……我感觉她就在那里，死了的
她，在桌旁……”
“亲爱的……”
“哦，我知道，我神经过敏。反正，当时我们就在那儿，没发生任何可怕的事，突然，
一切似乎终于结束了，又可以——我也不知道怎么解释才好，就像可以从头再来了。所
以，我跟乔治跳了舞，我感觉我终于可以快乐地生活了，然后我们回到席上。接着乔治突
然谈起了罗斯玛丽，让我们为了怀念她干一杯，然后……他就死了，所有的噩梦又都回来
了。
“我整个人都吓呆了，站在那儿发抖。你过来看他，我退后一点，服务员来了，有人去
叫医生。那段时间，我一直愣在那儿。突然，我的喉咙哽住了，泪水开始顺着脸颊向下
淌，我急忙打开包拿手帕。我用手乱摸，也没看清楚，就拿出了手帕。但是，手帕里有样
东西——一个叠好的硬硬的白色的小纸包，就像药剂师包药粉的那种。可是，你知道，安
东尼，我从家里出来的时候它不在我包里。我从来没有过那种东西！包里的东西都是我亲
手放进去的——一个粉盒、一支唇膏、一块手帕、一把装在盒子里的梳子，还有一先令和
两枚六便士硬币。有人把那个纸包放进了我的包里，一定是这样。我想起罗斯玛丽死后，
他们在她的包里发现了一个同样的纸包，里面也有氰化钾。我吓坏了，安东尼，吓得要
死。我的手突然变得无力，那个纸包便从我的手帕里滑落到桌子下面。我没去管它，我什
么也没说。我太害怕了。有人故意这么做的，看起来是我杀了乔治，但我没有。”
安东尼长长地吹了一声口哨。
“有人看见吗？”他问。
艾丽斯犹豫了一下。
“不太清楚……”她慢慢地说，“我认为露丝注意到了。但她的样子那么惶惑，我不知道
她是真的看见了，还是只是茫然地盯着我。”
安东尼又吹了一声口哨。
“这……”他说，“可真是一团糟。”
艾丽斯说：“越来越糟了。我很担心他们查出来。”
“可为什么上面没有你的指纹？我很纳闷。他们做的第一件事就是采集指纹。”
“可能是因为我隔着一层手帕拿的。”
安东尼点点头。
“是啊，你运气不错。”
“可是，到底是谁把它放进我包里的呢？整个晚上我都包不离身。”
“不像你想的那么不可能。卡巴莱歌舞表演之后，你去跳舞的时候，把包留在桌子上
了。有人可能在那个时候做了手脚。还有女人。你能站起来给我演示一下女人在化妆间里
都做什么吗？这种事我不知道。你们聚在一起聊天，还是走到不同的镜子前补妆？”
艾丽斯考虑了一下。
“我们全都走到一张化妆台前，一张很大的长桌，上面有镜子的那种。然后，放下包照
镜子，你知道。”
“我不知道。继续。”
“露丝在鼻子上扑了些粉，桑德拉整理头发，别上一只发夹。我脱下狐皮披肩，递给服
务员，然后，我发现我的手有点脏，上面沾了灰，就走到洗手台前。”
“把你的包留在化妆台上了？”
“对，我洗了手。我想，露丝还在补妆，桑德拉把披风交给服务员，回到镜子前，露丝
过来洗了手，我回到化妆台前，稍微整理了一下头发。”
“看来，这两个人中的一个有可能趁你不注意时把东西放进了你包里。”
“对，但我不敢相信露丝或者桑德拉会做出这种事。”
“你太把人都当好人了。桑德拉是那种在中世纪能把仇人绑在木桩上活活烧死的野蛮女
人。露丝可能是踏足这个地球的最实干的投毒者。”
“如果是露丝，为什么她不说她看见我丢了纸包？”
“这你问倒我了。如果露丝故意栽赃，她肯定会确保你无法脱身。所以，看样子不是露
丝。毫无疑问，服务员的可能性最大。服务员，服务员！如果有个陌生的服务员，一个古
怪的服务员，特意为那晚雇来的服务员就好了……但服务员是朱塞佩和皮埃尔，他们又不
符合条件……”
艾丽斯叹了口气。
“告诉你了我很高兴。没有人会知道吧？这是我们俩之间的秘密。”
安东尼看着她，表情很尴尬。
“不会就这样的，艾丽斯。现在你跟我一起坐出租车去找肯普，这种事不能瞒着不
说。”
“哦，不，安东尼，他们会认为是我杀了乔治。”
“如果他们以后发现你一直静观其变，什么也不说，一定会这么认为的！到了那个时
候，你的解释就站不住脚了。如果现在你主动交代，他们还可能会相信你。”
“求求你了，安东尼。”
“听着，艾丽斯，现在你的处境很危险。别的不说，有一种东西存在，那就是真相。涉
及司法公正的时候，你不能靠求稳来保全自己。”
“哦，安东尼，你非得这么高尚不可吗？”
安东尼说：“这个说法很狡猾！但我们还是得去找肯普！现在就去！”
她不情愿地跟着他走进客厅。她的外套随手丢在一把椅子上，他拿起来，帮她穿上。
她的眼神里充满了抗拒和恐惧，但安东尼丝毫没有心软，他说：“我们去广场那头叫辆
出租车。”
向大厅门口走去时恰好有人按门铃，他们听出声音是从地下室传来的。
艾丽斯大叫了一声。
“我忘了。是露丝。她下班后要来这里商量葬礼的事。葬礼后天举行。我认为卢西娜姑
妈不在的时候，问题能更好地解决，她老是把事情搞乱。”
安东尼迈步向前，客厅女仆正从楼下跑上来，安东尼抢先一步开了门。
“没事的，埃文斯。”艾丽斯说，那个女孩又下去了。
露丝的样子很疲惫，头发乱蓬蓬的，手里拿着一个大号公文包。
“抱歉，我迟到了，今天晚上的地铁太挤了，我不得不改搭公交车。等了三班才搭上，
一辆出租车都没看见。”
安东尼心想，能干的露丝不可能道歉，这也表明乔治的死成功地破坏了她近乎非人的
高效率。
艾丽斯说：“我不能跟你去了，安东尼。露丝和我必须把事情定下来。”
安东尼用坚定的语气说：“恐怕这事更重要……很抱歉，莱辛小姐，我必须把艾丽斯强
行拉走，这事真的很重要。”
露丝立刻说：“没关系，布朗先生。我可以等德瑞克夫人回来跟她好好安排一切。”她
微微一笑，“我应付得了她，你知道。”
“我相信你应付得了任何人，莱辛小姐。”安东尼钦佩地说。
“也许吧，艾丽斯，你还有什么特别的事要交代吗？”
“没什么。我建议我们俩一起商量是因为卢西娜姑妈的想法总是变来变去的，会让你很
为难。你有那么多事要办。但我真的不在乎举行什么样的葬礼！卢西娜姑妈喜欢葬礼，我
讨厌葬礼。人死了就得埋，我讨厌小题大做，葬礼什么样对死者并不重要。他们已经摆脱
了一切。死人是不会回来的。”露丝没有回答，艾丽斯又用轻蔑的口吻强调了一遍，“死人
是不会回来的！”
“走吧。”安东尼说着，把她拖出门去。
一辆缓慢行驶招揽生意的出租车沿着广场开过来，安东尼拦下车，开门让艾丽斯先进
去。
“告诉我，美人，”告诉司机去苏格兰场后，他说，“你刚才断言人死了就是死了的时
候，你感觉谁在客厅里？乔治，还是罗斯玛丽？”
“没有人！一个人都没有！我就是讨厌葬礼。”
安东尼叹了口气。
“我一定是个通灵人！”
BOOK 3 Fourteen
Fourteen
“And now, please, Tony, will you tell me all about it?”
Iris was lying on a sofa, and the valiant November sunshine was making
a brave show outside the windows of Little Priors.
Anthony looked across at Colonel Race who was sitting on the win-
dowsill, and grinned engagingly:
“I don’t mind admitting, Iris, that I’ve been waiting for this moment. If I
don’t explain to someone soon how clever I’ve been, I shall burst. There
will be no modesty in this recital. It will be shameless blowing of my own
trumpet with suitable pauses to enable you to say ‘Anthony, how clever of
you’ or ‘Tony, how wonderful’ or some phrase of a like nature. Ahem! The
performance will now begin. Here we go.
“The thing as a whole looked simple enough. What I mean is, that it
looked like a clear case of cause and effect. Rosemary’s death, accepted at
the time as suicide, was not suicide. George became suspicious, started in-
vestigating, was presumably getting near the truth, and before he could
unmask the murderer was, in his turn, murdered. The sequence, if I may
put it that way, seems perfectly clear.
“But almost at once we came across some apparent contradictions. Such
as: A. George could not be poisoned. B. George was poisoned. And: A.
Nobody touched George’s glass. B. George’s glass was tampered with.
“Actually I was overlooking a very significant fact—the varied use of the
possessive case. George’s ear is George’s ear indisputably because it is at-
tached to his head and cannot be removed without a surgical operation!
But by George’s watch, I only mean the watch that George is wearing—the
question might arise whether it is his or maybe one lent him by someone
else. And when I come to George’s glass, or George’s teacup, I begin to real-
ize that I mean something very vague indeed. All I actually mean is the
glass or cup out of which George has lately been drinking—and which has
nothing to distinguish it from several other cups and glasses of the same
pattern.
“To illustrate this, I tried an experiment. Race was drinking tea without
sugar, Kemp was drinking tea with sugar, and I was drinking coffee. In ap-
pearance the three fluids were of much the same colour. We were sitting
round a small marble-topped table among several other round marble-
topped tables. On the pretext of an urgent brainwave I urged the other
two out of their seats and out into the vestibule, pushing the chairs aside
as we went, and also managing to move Kemp’s pipe which was lying by
his plate to a similar position by my plate but without letting him see me
do it. As soon as we were outside I made an excuse and we returned,
Kemp slightly ahead. He pulled the chair to the table and sat down oppos-
ite the plate that was marked by the pipe he had left behind him. Race sat
on his right as before and I on his left—but mark what had happened—a
new A. and B. contradiction! A. Kemp’s cup has sugared tea in it. B.
Kemp’s cup has coffee in it. Two conflicting statements that cannot both be
true—But they are both true. The misleading term is Kemp’s cup. Kemp’s
cup when he left the table and Kemp’s cup when he returned to the table
are not the same.
“And that, Iris, is what happened at the Luxembourg that night. After the
cabaret, when you all went to dance, you dropped your bag. A waiter
picked it up—not the waiter, the waiter attending on that table who knew
just where you had been sitting—but a waiter, an anxious hurried little
waiter with everybody bullying him, running along with a sauce, and who
quickly stooped, picked up the bag and placed it by a plate—actually by
the plate one place to the left of where you had been sitting. You and
George came back first and you went without a thought straight to the
place marked by your bag—just as Kemp did to the place marked by his
pipe. George sat down in what he thought to be his place, on your right.
And when he proposed his toast in memory of Rosemary, he drank from
what he thought was his glass but was in reality your glass—the glass that
can quite easily have been poisoned without needing a conjuring trick to
explain it, because the only person who did not drink after the cabaret,
was necessarily the person whose health was being drunk!
“Now go over the whole business again and the setup is entirely differ-
ent! You are the intended victim, not George! So it looks, doesn’t it, as
though George is being used. What, if things had not gone wrong, would
have been the story as the world would see it? A repetition of the party a
year ago—and a repetition of—suicide! Clearly, people would say, a sui-
cidal streak in that family! Bit of paper which has contained cyanide
found in your bag. Clear case! Poor girl has been brooding over her sis-
ter’s death. Very sad—but these rich girls are sometimes very neurotic!”
Iris interrupted him. She cried out:
“But why should anyone want to kill me? Why? Why?”
“All that lovely money, angel. Money, money, money! Rosemary’s
money went to you on her death. Now suppose you were to die—unmar-
ried. What would happen to that money? The answer was it would go to
your next of kin—to your aunt, Lucilla Drake. Now from all accounts of
the dear lady, I could hardly see Lucilla Drake as First Murderess. But is
there anyone else who would benefit? Yes, indeed. Victor Drake. If Lucilla
has money, it will be exactly the same as Victor having it—Victor will see
to that! He has always been able to do what he likes with his mother. And
there is nothing difficult about seeing Victor as First Murderer. All along,
from the very start of the case, there have been references to Victor, men-
tions of Victor. He has been in the offing, a shadowy, unsubstantial, evil
figure.”
“But Victor’s in the Argentine! He’s been in South America for over a
year.”
“Has he? We’re coming now to what has been said to be the fundamen-
tal plot of every story. ‘Girl meets Boy!’ When Victor met Ruth Lessing, this
particular story started. He got hold of her. I think she must have fallen
for him pretty badly. Those quiet, levelheaded, law-abiding women are
the kind that often fall for a real bad lot.
“Think a minute and you’ll realize that all the evidence for Victor’s be-
ing in South America depends on Ruth’s word. None of it was verified be-
cause it was never a main issue! Ruth said that she had seen Victor off on
the S.S. Cristobal before Rosemary’s death! It was Ruth who suggested put-
ting a call through to Buenos Aires on the day of George’s death—and later
sacked the telephone girl who might have inadvertantly let out that she
did no such thing.
“Of course it’s been easy to check up now! Victor Drake arrived in
Buenos Aires by a boat leaving England the day after Rosemary’s death a
year ago. Ogilvie, in Buenos Aires, had no telephone conversation with
Ruth on the subject of Victor Drake on the day of George’s death. And Vic-
tor Drake left Buenos Aires for New York some weeks ago. Easy enough for
him to arrange for a cable to be sent off in his name on a certain day—one
of those well-known cables asking for money that seemed proof positive
that he was many thousands of miles away. Instead of which—”
“Yes, Anthony?”
“Instead of which,” said Anthony, leading up to his climax with intense
pleasure, “he was sitting at the next table to ours at the Luxembourg with
a not-so-dumb blonde!”
“Not that awful-looking man?”
“A yellow blotchy complexion and bloodshot eyes are easy things to as-
sume, and they make a lot of difference to a man. Actually, of our party, I
was the only person (apart from Ruth Lessing) who had ever seen Victor
Drake—and I had never known him under that name! In any case I was
sitting with my back to him. I did think I recognized, in the cocktail lounge
outside, as we came in, a man I had known in my prison days—Monkey
Coleman. But as I was now leading a highly respectable life I was not too
anxious that he should recognize me. I never for one moment suspected
that Monkey Coleman had had anything to do with the crime—much less
that he and Victor Drake were one and the same.”
“But I don’t see now how he did it?”
Colonel Race took up the tale.
“In the easiest way in the world. During the cabaret he went out to tele-
phone, passing our table. Drake had been an actor and he had been some-
thing more important—a waiter. To assume the makeup and play the part
of Pedro Morales was child’s play to an actor, but to move deftly round a
table, with the step and gait of a waiter, filling up the champagne glasses,
needed the definite knowledge and technique of a man who had actually
been a waiter. A clumsy action or movement would have drawn your at-
tention to him, but as a bona fide waiter none of you noticed or saw him.
You were looking at the Cabaret, not noticing that portion of the restaur-
ant’s furnishings—the waiter!”
Iris said in a hesitating voice:
“And Ruth?”
Anthony said:
“It was Ruth, of course, who put the cyanide paper in your bag—prob-
ably in the cloakroom at the beginning of the evening. The same technique
she had adopted a year ago—with Rosemary.”
“I always thought it odd,” said Iris, “that George hadn’t told Ruth about
those letters. He consulted her about everything.”
Anthony gave a short laugh.
“Of course he told her—first thing. She knew he would. That’s why she
wrote them. Then she arranged all his ‘plan’ for him—having first got him
well worked up. And so she had the stage set—all nicely arranged for sui-
cide No. 2—and if George chose to believe that you had killed Rosemary
and were committing suicide out of remorse or panic—well, that wouldn’t
make any difference to Ruth!”
“And to think I liked her—liked her very much! And actually wanted her
to marry George.”
“She’d probably have made him a very good wife, if she hadn’t come
across Victor,” said Anthony. “Moral: every murderess was a nice girl
once.”
Iris shivered. “All that for money!”
“You innocent, money is what these things are done for! Victor certainly
did it for money. Ruth partly for money, partly for Victor, and partly, I
think, because she hated Rosemary. Yes, she’d travelled a long way by the
time she deliberately tried to run you down in a car, and still further
when she left Lucilla in the drawing room, banged the front door and then
ran up to your bedroom. What did she seem like? Excited at all?”
Iris considered.
“I don’t think so. She just tapped on the door, came in and said
everything was fixed up and she hoped I was feeling all right. I said yes, I
was just a bit tired. And then she picked up my big rubber-covered torch
and said what a nice torch that was and after that I don’t seem to remem-
ber anything.”
“No, dear,” said Anthony. “Because she hit you a nice little crack, not too
hard, on the back of the neck with your nice torch. Then she arranged you
artistically by the gas fire, shut the windows tight, turned on the gas, went
out, locking the door and passing the key underneath it, pushed the woolly
mat close up against the crack so as to shut out any draught and tripped
gently down the stairs. Kemp and I just got into the bathroom in time. I
raced on up to you and Kemp followed Miss Ruth Lessing unbeknownst to
where she had left that car parked—you know, I felt at the time there was
something fishy and uncharacteristic about the way Ruth tried to force it
on our minds that she had come by bus and tube!”
Iris gave a shudder.
“It’s horrible—to think anyone was as determined to kill me as all that.
Did she hate me too by then?”
“Oh, I shouldn’t think so. But Miss Ruth Lessing is a very efficient young
woman. She’d already been an accessory in two murders and she didn’t
fancy having risked her neck for nothing. I’ve no doubt Lucilla Drake
bleated out your decision to marry me at a moment’s notice, and in that
case there was no time to lose. Once married, I should be your next of kin
and not Lucilla.”
“Poor Lucilla. I’m so terribly sorry for her.”
“I think we all are. She’s a harmless, kindly soul.”
“Is he really arrested?”
Anthony looked at Race, who nodded and said:
“This morning, when he landed in New York.”
“Was he going to marry Ruth—afterwards?”
“That was Ruth’s idea. I think she would have brought it off too.”
“Anthony—I don’t think I like my money very much.”
“All right, sweet—we’ll do something noble with it if you like. I’ve got
enough money to live on—and to keep a wife in reasonable comfort. We’ll
give it all away if you like—endow homes for children, or provide free to-
bacco for old men, or—how about a campaign for serving better coffee all
over England?”
“I shall keep a little,” said Iris. “So that if I ever wanted to, I could be
grand and walk out and leave you.”
“I don’t think, Iris, that is the right spirit in which to enter upon married
life. And, by the way, you didn’t once say ‘Tony, how wonderful’ or ‘An-
thony, how clever of you!’ ”
Colonel Race smiled and got up.
“Going over to the Farradays for tea,” he exclaimed. There was a faint
twinkle in his eye as he said to Anthony: “Don’t suppose you’re coming?”
Anthony shook his head and Race went out of the room. He paused in
the doorway to say, over his shoulder:
“Good show.”
“That,” said Anthony as the door closed behind him, “denotes supreme
British approval.”
Iris asked in a calm voice:
“He thought I’d done it, didn’t he?”
“You mustn’t hold that against him,” said Anthony. “You see, he’s known
so many beautiful spies, all stealing secret formulas and wheedling secrets
out of major-generals, that it’s soured his nature and warped his judge-
ment. He thinks it’s just got to be the beautiful girl in the case!”
“Why did you know I hadn’t, Tony?”
“Just love, I suppose,” said Anthony lightly.
Then his face changed, grew suddenly serious. He touched a little vase
by Iris’s side in which was a single sprig of grey- green with a mauve
flower.
“What’s that doing in flower at this time of year?”
“It does sometimes—just an odd sprig—if it’s a mild autumn.”
Anthony took it out of the glass and held it for a moment against his
cheek. He half-closed his eyes and saw rich chestnut hair, laughing blue
eyes and a red passionate mouth. . . .
He said in a quiet conversational tone:
“She’s not around now any longer, is she?”
“Who do you mean?”
“You know who I mean. Rosemary . . . I think she knew, Iris, that you
were in danger.”
He touched the sprig of fragrant green with his lips and threw it lightly
out of the window.
“Good-bye, Rosemary, thank you. . . .”
Iris said softly:
“That’s for remembrance. . . .”
And more softly still:
“Pray love remember. . . .”
第三部 第十二章
第十二章
三个男人坐在一张大理石桌面的小圆桌旁。
瑞斯上校和肯普探长喝的是茶，深棕色，富含鞣酸；安东尼喝的是咖啡，英国咖啡馆
认为这个咖啡好，但他不这么认为，不过鉴于获准参加另两个人的会议，且享有同等待
遇，他先忍了。肯普探长在仔细核实过安东尼的证件后，承认他是同事。
“依我看，”探长往红茶里加了几块糖，边搅拌边说，“这个案子永远审判不了，我们永
远也找不到证据。”
“你这么认为？”瑞斯说。
肯普点点头，满意地喝了一口茶。
“除非找出那五个人中的一个买过或碰过氰化钾的证据。我去过的地方都一无所获。这
是那种知道是谁干的却证实不了的案子。”
“这么说，你知道是谁干的？”安东尼饶有兴趣地注视着他。
“哦，我相当确信。是亚历山德拉•法拉第夫人。”
“原来你认为是她，”瑞斯说，“理由呢？”
“我这就说。我认为她是一个醋意十足的女人，而且很霸道。就像古代的那个王后——
什么埃莉诺，跟踪到美人罗莎蒙德的闺房，让她在匕首和一杯毒药之间选择一种死法。” [1]
“只是在这种情况下，”安东尼说，“她没给美人罗斯玛丽任何选择的余地。”
肯普探长继续说：“有人给巴顿先生透露了消息。他起了疑心，而且我认为，他的怀疑
对象很明确。除非他想监视法拉第夫妇，否则他不至于跑到乡下买那幢房子。他一定跟她
表现得明明白白——跟这群人唠唠叨叨，非要他们参加这次宴会。她不是那种静观其变的
女人，她又变得专横起来，做掉了他！你会说这只是个想法，只是基于性格的推测。但我
认为，唯一有机会在巴顿喝下那杯酒之前往他的杯子里下毒的，就是坐在他右手边的那位
女士。”
“可是没有一个人看见她那么做？”安东尼说。
“没错。有可能会被人看见，但是他们没看见。可以这么说，她的手法很熟练。”
“简直像个魔术师。”
瑞斯咳嗽了两声，拿出烟斗，把烟草揉进斗钵。
“只有一个小问题。假设亚历山德拉夫人专横霸道、爱吃醋、对她的丈夫一往情深，假
设她杀人不眨眼，你认为她是那种会把暗示有罪的证据偷偷塞进一个无辜的女孩的包里的
人吗？一个全然无辜，从来没有伤害过她的女孩？难道这是基德明斯特家的传统？”
肯普探长不自在地在椅子上扭来扭去，眼睛盯着茶杯。
“女人做起事来从不光明正大，”他说，“你是这个意思吧。”
“事实上，很多女人做起事来光明正大。”瑞斯微笑道，“不过，我很高兴看到你不自在
的样子。”
肯普转向安东尼，态度亲切，以便逃脱这个窘境。
“对了，布朗先生——我还是这样称呼你，如果你不介意的话，我想说的是，非常感谢
你今晚立刻把玛尔小姐带来了，把她了解到的情况告诉了我。”
“我必须立刻把她带来，”安东尼说，“再等下去，没准就带不走了。”
“当然，她并不想来。”瑞斯上校说。
“她吓坏了，可怜的孩子。”安东尼说，“这很正常，我想。”
“非常正常。”探长说着又给自己倒了杯茶。安东尼小心翼翼地呷了一口咖啡。
“哦，”肯普说，“我想，我们减轻了她的精神压力——她高高兴兴地回家去了。”
“葬礼过后，”安东尼说，“我希望她能去乡下住一段日子。我想，二十四小时的平静与
安宁，远离卢西娜姑妈那根喋喋不休的舌头对她有好处。”
“卢西娜姑妈的舌头也有它的用处。”瑞斯说。
“那你尽管去听她说好了，”肯普说，“幸亏我给她录口供的时候认为没有必要带上速记
员，不然，那个可怜的家伙肯定手抽筋进医院了。”
“哦，”安东尼说，“我想你是对的，探长，你说这个案子永远审判不了，但这个结果很
不令人满意。何况我们还有一件事没弄清楚——到底是谁给乔治•巴顿写的那些匿名信，告
诉他他太太是被人谋杀的？那个人是谁，我们一点头绪都没有。”
瑞斯说：“你还在怀疑那个人吗，布朗？”
“露丝•莱辛？是的，我坚持认为她有嫌疑。你告诉我，她承认她爱过乔治，然后大家
都说罗斯玛丽对她很刻薄。也许她突然找到了一个除掉罗斯玛丽的好机会，而且她确信只
要除掉罗斯玛丽，她就可以立刻嫁给乔治。”
“你说的我都同意，”瑞斯说，“我承认露丝•莱辛冷静、务实、办事效率高，足以计划并
实施谋杀，或许还缺少同情心，而从本质上讲，同情心是想象力的产物。好吧，就算第一
起谋杀案是她做的，可是，第二起谋杀案怎么会是她做的呢，我实在想象不出她会因为恐
慌就毒死她爱着的并想与之结婚的男人！还有一点排除了她的嫌疑——她明明看见艾丽斯
把装有氰化钾的纸包丢在桌子底下，为什么不吭声？”
“也许她没看见她那么做。”安东尼嘴上这么说，其实心里拿不准。
“我相信她看见了。”瑞斯说，“我问她话时，感觉她有所隐瞒。艾丽斯•玛尔也认为露丝
•莱辛看见了。”
“好了，上校，”肯普说，“让我们听听你的想法。你肯定有自己的想法吧？”
瑞斯点点头。
“说吧。这样才公平。你已经听了我们的想法，还提出了异议。”
瑞斯若有所思的目光从肯普的脸上移到安东尼的脸上，并停在那里。
安东尼挑起双眉。
“别告诉我你依旧认为我是罪魁祸首！”
瑞斯慢慢摇头。
“我想不出你有什么理由杀死乔治•巴顿。我想我知道是谁害死了他——还有罗斯玛丽•
巴顿。”
“谁？”
瑞斯若有所思地说：“奇怪，我们都把嫌疑人锁定在女人身上。我怀疑的人也是个女
的。”
他停了一下，然后平静地说：“我认为凶手是艾丽斯•玛尔。”
安东尼“砰”的一声推开椅子站了起来。他的脸变成了暗红色，经过一番努力后，他才
重又恢复了平静。开口说话时，他的声音微微颤抖，但依然是一副轻松戏谑的口吻。
“我们务必要讨论一下这种可能性，”他说，“为什么是艾丽斯•玛尔？如果是她，为什么
她主动告诉我那个纸包是她丢在桌子底下的？”
“因为，”瑞斯说，“她知道露丝•莱辛看见她这么做了。”
安东尼歪着头考虑了一下这个回答。最后，他点了点头。
“通过。”他说，“继续。你为什么怀疑她？”
“动机。”瑞斯说，“一大笔财产留给了罗斯玛丽，却没有艾丽斯的份儿，这我们都知
道。她可能在不公平的感觉中挣扎了好几年。她知道，如果罗斯玛丽死后无嗣，所有的钱
就全归她了。而且，流感过后，罗斯玛丽沮丧、忧愁、身体虚弱，处在这种情绪中，自杀
的裁定也会被毫无异议地接受。”
“没错，把这个女孩说成魔鬼！”安东尼说。
“不是魔鬼，”瑞斯说，“我怀疑她还有一个理由，对你来说可能很牵强——维克多•德瑞
克。”
“维克多•德瑞克？”安东尼瞠目结舌。
“敌意。你看，我没白听卢西娜•德瑞克说话，我对玛尔家的事了如指掌。维克多•德瑞
克——与其说他软弱，不如说他邪恶。他母亲智力低下，精神无法集中；玛尔家的父亲赫
克托•玛尔，软弱、恶毒，还是个酒鬼；罗斯玛丽，情绪不稳定。一部关于软弱、邪恶和不
稳定的家庭史。遗传原因。”
安东尼点燃一支烟，他的手在抖。
“你不相信一根弱枝，甚至坏枝上能开出一朵健康的花？”
“当然有可能。但我不确定艾丽斯•玛尔是一朵健康的花。”
“我说什么都没用，”安东尼慢悠悠地说，“因为我爱上了她。乔治给她看了那些信，她
一慌就把他杀了？是这样吗？”
“是。她会感到恐慌。”
“她是怎么把那个东西放进乔治的香槟酒杯里的？”
“这个，我承认，我不知道。”
“谢天谢地，还有你不知道的东西。”安东尼前后晃动椅子，目露愤怒的凶光，“竟然跟
我说这个，你真有种。”
瑞斯平静地说：“我知道，但是我考虑后的结果是非说不可。”
肯普饶有兴趣地看着他们俩，但没吱声。他心不在焉地不停地搅拌茶水。
“好吧。”安东尼把身子坐直，“现在情况变了，这不再是围坐桌旁，喝着恶心的液体，
公开发表学术理论了。这个案子必须破，克服一切困难，弄它个水落石出。这是我的工
作，我会想尽一切办法做到。必须专注于我们不知道的东西，一旦知道了，整件事就明了
了。
“我重申一下问题是什么。谁知道罗斯玛丽是被人谋杀的？谁写信告诉乔治的？为什么
要给他写信？还有谋杀案本身。不去管第一件，过去太久了，我们也不清楚到底发生了什
么。但第二起谋杀案就发生在我眼前。我亲眼看着它发生的。所以，我应该知道到底是怎
么回事。在乔治的杯子里下毒的最理想的时间是卡巴莱歌舞表演期间，但不可能是那个时
候下的毒，因为表演一结束他就喝了酒。我看着他喝下去的。这之后，没人往他的杯子里
放过任何东西。没有人碰过他的杯子，但是，他再喝的时候，杯子里却充满了氰化钾。他
不可能是被毒死的，但他就是被毒死的！他的杯子里有氰化钾，但是没有人可能投毒！事
情有进展吗？”
“没有。”肯普探长说。
“有。”安东尼说，“现在事情进入了魔术或者说显灵的领域。我来概括一下我的通灵理
论。我们跳舞的时候，罗斯玛丽的鬼魂在乔治的杯子周围盘旋，变出一些氰化钾丢到里面
——任何一个鬼魂都会用灵气制造氰化钾。乔治回来了，敬她酒，结果——哦，天哪！”
另两个人好奇地盯着他。安东尼双手抱头，身体前后摇晃，显然极度痛苦。
他说：“就是那个……就是那个……包……服务员……”
“服务员？”
肯普变得警觉起来。
安东尼摇头。“不，不，不是你以为的那个意思。我确实想过我们需要的是一个服务
员，不是真的服务员，而是一个通灵者——前一天安排好的服务员。相反，有一个服务
员，他一直是服务员，一个小服务员，一流的服务员，一个天真无邪的服务员，一个没有
嫌疑的服务员。他依然没有嫌疑，但他扮演了他的角色！啊，天哪，是的，他扮演了主要
角色。”
他瞪着他们。
“你们还不明白吗？一个服务员可能会在香槟酒里下毒，但那个服务员没有。没人碰过
乔治的杯子，但乔治被毒死了。一个，不定冠词。那个，定冠词。乔治的杯子！乔治！两
个不同的东西。还有钱——很多很多钱！谁知道，也许还有爱？不要用看疯子的眼神看
我。来，我给你们演示一下。”
他把椅子向后一推，“腾”地一下站起来，伸手抓住肯普的胳膊。
“跟我来。”
肯普向那个半满的杯子投去惋惜的目光。
“还得付钱。”他喃喃地说。
“不，不用，我们一会儿就回来。来，必须去外面给你们展示一下。快来，瑞斯。”
他推开桌子，一阵风似的把他们带到门廊上。
“看见那边那个电话亭了吗？”
“然后呢？”
安东尼把手伸进口袋里摸了摸。
“该死，我没有两便士硬币。算了。我想了一下，还是别这么做了。我们回去吧。”
他们回到咖啡厅，肯普走在前面，安东尼抓着瑞斯的胳膊跟在后头。
肯普皱着眉头坐下来，拿起烟斗，小心地吹了几下，从马甲口袋里掏出一根发夹挑着
烟丝。
瑞斯一脸困惑，皱着眉看着安东尼。接着他往椅背上一靠，端起杯子，一口喝光了里
面剩下的液体。
“该死，”他粗暴地说，“有糖！”
他向桌子对面看去，安东尼的脸上慢慢绽放出笑容。
“喂，”肯普喝了一小口，说，“这是什么鬼东西？”
“咖啡，”安东尼说，“我不认为你会喜欢。我就不喜欢。”
注释：
[1]指英国国王亨利二世的妻子埃莉诺与国王的情妇，骑士之女罗莎蒙德。
第三部 第十三章
第十三章
看到两个同伴的眼神，安东尼很高兴他们明白了。
然而，这种满足感持续的时间很短，他忽地又想起一件事，身上仿佛挨了一拳。
他大叫起来：“我的上帝啊——那辆车！”
他一下子跳了起来。
“我真是个笨蛋——白痴！她告诉过我，有一辆车差点儿把她撞倒，我几乎没听她说
话。走，快！”
肯普说：“她说离开苏格兰场后直接回家。”
“对。我怎么就没跟她一起走呢？”
“谁在家？”瑞斯问。
“露丝•莱辛在家里等德瑞克太太。可能她们还在讨论葬礼的事！”
“还讨论其余的一切，如果我了解德瑞克太太的话。”瑞斯说。突然，他又加上一
句：“艾丽斯•玛尔还有其他亲戚吗？”
“据我所知没有。”
“我想，我知道你在朝哪个方向想了。但是，技术上可能吗？”
“我认为可能。你想想我们是不是总把一个人的话认作理所当然。”
肯普在付账。三个人匆匆离开，肯普说：“你认为玛尔小姐的情况很危急？”
“对，很危险。”
安东尼小声骂了一句，拦下一辆出租车。三个人钻进车，告诉司机去艾尔维斯顿广
场，越快越好。
肯普慢悠悠地说：“我只有一个大致的想法。法拉第夫妇的嫌疑被排除了。”
“是。”
“谢天谢地。不会又要杀人了吧——这么快？”
“越快越好，”瑞斯说，“在我们有可能找对方向之前。第三次更幸运——凶手肯定是这
么想的。”他又说，“艾丽斯•玛尔跟我说，而且是当着德瑞克太太的面，她说只要你愿意，
她随时会嫁给你。”
他们在时断时续的颠簸中交谈，出租车司机完全遵照他们的吩咐，以极大的热情绕小
圈、抄近路，转了最后一个弯后冲刺进入艾尔维斯顿广场，并在那栋房子前来了个急刹
车。
艾尔维斯顿广场从未如此宁静。安东尼努力恢复了平日的冷静，喃喃自语：“真像电影
一样，我感觉自己是个十足的蠢货。”
瑞斯付了车费，肯普跟着上了台阶，安东尼则站在最高的一级台阶上按门铃。
客厅女仆开了门。
安东尼厉声问：“艾丽斯小姐回来了吗？”
埃文斯有点诧异。
“哦，回来了，先生。半个小时前回来的。”
安东尼松了一口气。这里的一切是那么的平静、正常，他不禁为自己夸张的恐惧感到
难为情。
“她在哪儿？”
“我想她和德瑞克太太在会客厅。”
安东尼点点头，迈着轻松的步子上楼，瑞斯和肯普紧随其后。
会客厅里，罩子遮住的电灯下，德瑞克太太正平静地在书桌的分格里翻找，如梗犬一
般专注，心里充满希望，口中念念有词。
“哎呀，哎呀，我把马斯汉姆太太的信放哪儿了？我想想啊……”
“艾丽斯在哪儿？”安东尼突然问。
卢西娜转过身，瞪大眼睛。
“艾丽斯？她——对不起，”她挺直身子，“请问你是谁？”
瑞斯从他身后走出来，卢西娜面露喜色。她还没看见第三个进门的肯普探长。
“啊，亲爱的，瑞斯上校！你能来真是太好了！不过，我真希望你能早点儿来，我想向
你咨询一下葬礼的事，男人的意见非常宝贵，而且我现在心烦意乱，就像我跟莱辛小姐说
的那样，我都没法思考了。我必须说，莱辛小姐终于有同情心了，主动提出尽力帮我减轻
负担。只是，她说的很有道理，我当然应该最清楚乔治最喜欢哪首圣歌。但其实我并不知
道，恐怕乔治很少去教堂。当然啦，作为一名神职人员的妻子，我的意思是遗孀，我确实
知道哪首圣歌更合适……”
瑞斯趁她暂停的间隙插进一个问题：“玛尔小姐在哪儿？”
“艾丽斯？她回来一会儿了，说头疼，直接上楼回房间去了。现在的女孩啊，你知道，
我觉得她们精力不够用，菠菜吃得太少，她好像也不怎么喜欢讨论葬礼的事。但事情总得
有人去做呀，而且我希望把一切做到最好，向死者表示应有的尊重。我从来不认为灵车有
多么恭敬——如果你明白我的意思——不像马，有长长的黑尾巴。当然啦，我立刻说没关
系，还有露丝——我叫她露丝，不叫莱辛小姐，我应付得很好，她可以把一切都交给我们
来处理。”
肯普问：“莱辛小姐走了？”
“对，我们安排好了一切，莱辛小姐大约十分钟前走的。她拿着要登在报纸上的讣告走
的。没有鲜花，在这种情况下，韦斯特伯里牧师主持仪式——”
她滔滔不绝时，安东尼悄悄溜出门去。他走后，卢西娜才突然中断讲述，停下来
说：“跟你一起来的那个小伙子是谁？我一开始没意识到你带他来了。他大概是个可怕的记
者吧，他们可给我们添了不少麻烦。”
安东尼脚步轻快地跑上楼梯，听到背后有脚步声，他扭过头，咧开嘴对肯普探长笑。
“你也逃出来了？可怜的老瑞斯！”
肯普喃喃地说：“这种事，他能做得很好，我可应付不来。”
他们到了二楼，正准备上三楼时，安东尼听到轻微的脚步声，有人下楼来了。他把肯
普拉进旁边的一间浴室里。
那个人继续下楼。
安东尼走出来，跑完最后几级台阶。他知道，艾丽斯的房间是后面的那个小房间。他
轻轻叩门。
“嗨——艾丽斯。”没有人回应。他又敲，又喊，然后转了几下门把手，发现门锁着。
情况紧急，他用力拍门。
“艾丽斯——艾丽斯——”一两秒钟后，他停下来低头看。他正站在一块挡风的旧式羊
毛地毯上，这块地毯紧贴着门，安东尼一脚把它踢开。门底下的缝隙很宽——他推断是在
过去的某个时候切开的，用来移出定制的地毯，而不是彩色木地板。
他弯下腰，把眼睛凑在锁眼上，但什么也没看见。突然，他抬起头闻了闻。然后趴在
地上，鼻子凑近门缝。
他一下子跳了起来，大叫道：“肯普！”
肯普探长不见了踪影。安东尼又大叫起来。
结果，跑上来的是瑞斯上校。安东尼没给他说话的机会，他说：“瓦斯——溢出来了！
我们得把门撞开。”
瑞斯身强力壮，他和安东尼很快就清除了障碍。
随着一阵碎裂声，门锁开了。
他们向后退了一步，然后瑞斯说：“她在壁炉旁边。我冲进去把窗子打破，你把她抱出
来。”
艾丽斯•玛尔躺在瓦斯炉旁，口鼻靠在打开的瓦斯喷嘴上。
冲进呛鼻子的房间一两分钟后，安东尼和瑞斯把昏迷不醒的艾丽斯放在走廊窗前的通
风处。
瑞斯说：“我来给她急救。你快去叫个医生来。”
安东尼飞快地向楼下奔去。瑞斯在他身后喊：“别担心，我认为她不会有事，我们来的
正是时候。”
安东尼在大厅里拨通电话，对着话筒讲话，身后卢西娜•德瑞克的惊叫声妨碍了他。
他终于放下电话转过身，松了一口气，说：“找到了。他就住在广场对面，过几分钟就
到。”
“——可是我必须知道发生了什么事！艾丽斯生病了？”
卢西娜哀号了一声。
安东尼说：“刚才她在她的房间里，门锁着，头靠在瓦斯炉上，瓦斯大开。”
“艾丽斯？”德瑞克太太发出一声刺耳的尖叫，“艾丽斯自杀了？我不敢相信。我不相
信！”
安东尼又咧开嘴淡淡一笑。
“你不需要相信，”他说，“事情不是这样的。”
第三部 第十四章
第十四章
“求求你，托尼，告诉我到底是怎么回事，好吗？”
艾丽斯躺在一张沙发上，十一月勇敢的阳光在小官府窗外逞英豪。
安东尼看着坐在窗台上的瑞斯上校，对他露出动人的笑。
“我不介意承认，艾丽斯，我一直在等待这个时刻来临。如果我不快点找个人解释一下
我有多聪明，我会爆炸的。我的讲述中没有谦虚，自吹自擂我也不会觉得难为情，中间还
会适当停顿一下，以便你说‘安东尼，你真聪明’，或者‘托尼，太棒了’之类的话。哼！演出
即将开始，仔细听我道来。
“这件事，总的来说，简单至极。我的意思是，看起来是个因果关系明了的案子。罗斯
玛丽的死当时被认定为自杀，其实不是。乔治起了疑心，着手调查，就在他接近真相，即
将撕下凶手的面具时，他也遇害了。前后次序，如果我可以这么说，似乎十分清楚。
“但是，我们几乎立刻就碰到了貌似自相矛盾的问题。诸如：A.乔治不可能被毒死。B.
乔治被毒死了。以及：A.没有人碰过乔治的杯子。B.乔治的杯子被人做了手脚。
“事实上，我们忽略了一个很有意义的事实——所有格的不同用法。乔治的耳朵是乔治
的耳朵，这一点毋庸置疑，因为耳朵就长在他的脑袋上，不动手术摘不掉！但至于乔治的
手表，我指的是乔治戴在手腕上的表，问题就出现了，手表是他自己的吗，还是别人借给
他的？说到乔治的酒杯，或者乔治的茶杯，我开始意识到，我的所指变得非常含糊。我其
实指的是乔治喝过酒或茶的杯子，而这个杯子与其他同款的杯子并没有什么区别。
“为了说明这一点，我做了个实验。当时，瑞斯喝的是没放糖的茶，肯普喝的是放了糖
的茶，我喝的是咖啡。表面上看，三种液体的颜色几乎一样。我们围坐在一张大理石桌面
的小桌旁，周围还有几张同样的桌子。我借口忽然来了灵感，催他们俩离座，到外面的门
廊上去。这期间，我把椅子推到一边，同时偷偷把放在肯普盘子旁边的烟斗移到我杯子旁
边类似的位置上。刚一到外面，我就又找了个借口回来了。肯普稍稍在前，他把椅子拉到
桌前，在有烟斗标记的盘子对面坐了下来。瑞斯还像刚才那样坐在他右边，我坐在他左
边。结果发生了什么呢？新的A和B的矛盾！A.肯普的杯子里是放了糖的茶。B.肯普的杯子
里是咖啡。两个互相矛盾的说法不可能都对，但又都是对的。导致错误结论的说法是‘肯普
的杯子’。他离开桌子时的‘肯普的杯子’和回来后‘肯普的杯子’不是同一只杯子。
“而这，艾丽斯，正是那天晚上在卢森堡餐厅发生的事。卡巴莱歌舞表演后，你们都去
跳舞的时候，你的包掉了，‘一个’服务员把它捡了起来，不是‘那个’服务员，负责你们那桌
的服务员知道你坐在什么位置。而一个挨所有人欺负的小服务员急匆匆地给客人送调味汁
时正好经过那里，便蹲下身，捡起包，放在一个盘子旁边。事实上，他把包放到你左边那
个位子的盘子旁边了。你和乔治是最先回来的，你想也没想就径直回到你的包标记的位
置，就像肯普回到了烟斗标记的位置。乔治坐在他以为是他的座位上，你的右边。当他提
议为怀念罗斯玛丽干一杯时，他以为他喝的是他杯子里的酒，其实，那是你的杯子——那
个杯子很容易被下毒，不需要用魔术手法，因为卡巴莱歌舞表演结束后唯一没喝酒的人必
定是那个被祝酒的人。
“现在回想整件事，就会发现凶手的计划完全不同！谋杀的对象是你，不是乔治！这么
看来，乔治是被人利用了，不是吗？如果没出差错，大家看到的又是怎样一个故事呢？一
年前那场宴会的重现，那次自杀的重现！显然，人们会说，那家人有自杀倾向！接着在你
的包里发现了一个装有氰化钾的小纸包。再清楚不过了！可怜的姑娘，姐姐的死令她伤心
欲绝。非常令人痛心，可是，有钱的姑娘有时候太神经质了！”
艾丽斯打断他的话，大叫道：“可是，为什么有人想要我死？为什么！为什么？”
“都是为了那笔可爱的钱，我的小天使。钱，钱，钱！罗斯玛丽死后，那些钱就归你
了，假设你又死了，再没结婚，那笔钱会怎么样呢？答案是留给你最近的亲属——你的姑
妈，卢西娜•德瑞克。但是从这位亲爱的太太的讲述来看，我并不认为卢西娜是头号凶手。
还有其他人能从中获利吗？有，确实有，维克多•德瑞克。卢西娜有了钱，就等于维克多有
了钱，维克多会确保这一点！他在他母亲跟前向来为所欲为。而且把维克多看作头号凶手
并不难。这个案子从一开始就涉及维克多，时时有人提起他。他一直在我们的视线范围
内，一个朦胧的、虚幻的、邪恶的形象。”
“可是，维克多人在阿根廷啊！他去南美一年多了。”
“是吗？我们现在就来谈谈每个故事的主要情节，‘女孩遇到男孩’！当维克多遇到露丝•
莱辛，这个特别的故事就开始了，他控制住了她。我想，她一定是疯狂地爱上了他。那些
不爱说话、头脑冷静、遵纪守法的女人往往会爱上大坏蛋。
“稍微想一下，你就会意识到，所有维克多在南美的证据完全取决于露丝怎么说。没有
一次被证实过，因为主要问题不在这里！露丝说罗斯玛丽去世前，她亲自把维克多送上了
圣克里斯托瓦尔号！乔治死那天是露丝建议给布宜诺斯艾利斯打电话，后来，她又辞掉了
那个可能不小心说漏嘴，说她没打过电话的总机小姐。
“当然，现在很容易核实！一年前，罗斯玛丽死后第二天，维克多•德瑞克乘船离开英
格兰，到达布宜诺斯艾利斯。乔治死那天，布宜诺斯艾利斯的奥西尔维在电话里跟露丝聊
过维克多•德瑞克。几个星期前，维克多•德瑞克离开布宜诺斯艾利斯去了纽约。要安排在某
一天以他的名义发出一封电报很容易——一封要钱的电报似乎是他远在千里之外的铁证。
然而……”
“怎么样，安东尼？”
“然而，”说到高潮处，安东尼心中充满强烈的快感，“他当时就在卢森堡餐厅，我们旁
边那桌，和一个不太蠢的金发女郎坐在一起！”
“不会是那个样子很可怕的男人吧？”
“一张布满黄斑的脸，充满血丝的眼睛，这些都是很好的伪装，会让一个人的外貌大变
样。实际上，我们这群人里，除了露丝•莱辛，只有我见过维克多•德瑞克，只是那时候他不
叫这个名字！不管怎么样，我背对着他坐着。我确实认出他来了，我们刚进来的时候，在
外面的酒吧间，我看见我坐牢的时候认识的一个人——猴子科尔曼。不过，我现在过着非
常体面的生活，没太担心他会认出我来。我丝毫没有怀疑过猴子科尔曼会跟这起命案有
关，更没想到他和维克多•德瑞克是同一个人。”
“我还是想不明白他是怎么干的？”
瑞斯上校接着讲这个故事。
“用世界上最最简单的方法。卡巴莱歌舞表演进行中，他出去接了个电话，经过我们那
桌。德瑞克做过演员，更重要的是，他还做过服务员。假扮成佩德罗•莫拉莱斯对一个演员
来说简直轻而易举，不过是熟练地在桌旁转来转去，摆出服务员的步态，斟满香槟酒杯，
这需要一个真正做过服务员的人所具备的知识和技能。动作稍微笨拙一点就会引起客人的
注意，而他做过真正的服务员，你们都没有注意到他，或者说没有看见他。你们看的是卡
巴莱歌舞表演，不会注意餐馆的那个陈设——服务员！”
艾丽斯犹犹豫豫地说：“那露丝呢？”
安东尼说：“当然，那个装氰化钾的纸包是露丝塞进你包里的，很可能就在化妆间，宴
会刚开始的时候。一年前在罗斯玛丽身上，她也用了同样的手法。”
“我一直觉得很奇怪，”艾丽斯说，“乔治怎么没把匿名信的事告诉露丝。他凡事都征求
她的意见。”
安东尼大笑了一声。
“当然告诉她了——马上。她知道他会告诉她，这就是她写那两封信的原因。然后，她
替他安排了所有的‘计划’——先把他鼓动起来。她设计了舞台布景，把二号自杀现场布置
得井井有条，如果乔治选择相信你杀死了罗斯玛丽，又因懊悔或恐慌自杀——呃，这对露
丝来说都无关紧要！”
“想想我还挺喜欢她的，特别喜欢！我还真希望她能嫁给乔治呢。”
“如果没碰到维克多，她可能会成为他的贤内助，”安东尼说，“寓意：每一个女凶手都
曾经是个好女孩。”
艾丽斯打了个激灵。“都是为了钱！”
“你这个小天真，做这种事都是为了钱！维克多当然是为了钱。露丝一部分为了钱，一
部分为了维克多，还有一部分，我想是因为她恨罗斯玛丽。对了，她开了很远的路，故意
想用车子撞死你，后来，她在会客厅跟卢西娜道别后，把前门重重地关上，然后跑进你的
卧室。当时她什么样？很兴奋？”
艾丽斯想了想。
“我不这么认为。她只是敲了敲门，走进来，说一切都安排好了，她希望我没什么不舒
服的地方。我说没事，就是有点累。然后她拿起我那支包着胶皮套的大手电筒，说真是一
支漂亮的手电筒，然后我就什么都不记得了。”
“不，亲爱的，”安东尼说，“那是因为她用你那支漂亮的手电筒在你的后脖颈敲出了一
个小小的裂缝，下手不算太狠。然后，她很艺术地把你摆在瓦斯炉旁，关紧窗户，打开瓦
斯，走出去，反锁上门，把钥匙从门缝下面塞进去，再用羊毛地毯堵住出风口，然后踮起
脚下楼。我和肯普及时躲进浴室里。我冲上楼去找你，肯普偷偷跟着她来到停车的地方
——你知道，当时露丝强调她是坐公交车和地铁来的，我就觉得这事有蹊跷！”
艾丽斯又哆嗦了一下。
“太可怕了，想想竟然有人决心要将我置于死地。她也恨我吗？”
“哦，我不这么认为。但露丝•莱辛小姐是个很能干的年轻女人。她已经做了两起谋杀
案的从犯了，她不想白白地冒生命危险。我毫不怀疑卢西娜•德瑞克抱怨过你决定随时结
婚，那样的话，她就没有时间可以浪费了。一旦你结了婚，我就是你最近的亲属，而不是
卢西娜。”
“可怜的卢西娜，我真替她难过。”
“我想我们都替她难过。她是个无害且和蔼的人。”
“他真的被捕了吗？”
安东尼看着瑞斯，瑞斯点点头说：“今天上午，他在纽约上岸的时候。”
“他会跟露丝结婚吗——事成之后？”
“那是露丝的想法。我想她还是会和他断绝关系。”
“安东尼，我不认为我很喜欢我的钱。”
“没关系，甜心，如果你愿意的话，我们可以用它做些高尚的事。我有足够的钱活下
去，并让我的太太过上比较舒适的生活。如果你愿意的话，我们可以把钱全捐出去，捐给
育幼院，或者为老年人免费提供烟草，发起一项为全英格兰提供更好的咖啡的运动怎么
样？”
“我得留点钱。”艾丽斯说，“这样，我愿意的时候就可以大摇大摆地离开你。”
“艾丽斯，我不认为抱着这种心态步入婚姻生活是正确的。哦，对了，你一次也没
说‘托尼，太棒了’、‘安东尼，你真聪明’！”
瑞斯上校微笑着站起身。
“我要去法拉第家喝茶了。”他大声说。然后微微眨了一下眼睛，对安东尼说：“你不去
吧？”
安东尼摇摇头，瑞斯走出房间，走到门口后站住，回过头说：“演出很精彩。”
他随手关上门后，安东尼说：“这才是最高的英式赞许。”
艾丽斯用冷静的语气问：“他认为是我干的，对不对？”
“你不能因为这个责怪他，”安东尼说，“你要知道，他见过太多漂亮的女间谍，那些女
人个个窃取秘方，用花言巧语从少将们嘴里套取机密，所以，他的性情变坏了，判断力也
被扭曲了。他认为一定是漂亮的女孩作的案！”
“你怎么知道不是我，托尼？”
“因为爱吧，我想。”安东尼愉快地说。
接着，他的脸色变了，表情突然变得严肃起来。他摸着艾丽斯身旁的一只小花瓶，里
面插着一根灰绿色的花枝，上面开着一朵淡紫色的花。
“这个时候怎么还开花？”
“有时候是这样……一株奇怪的植物……暖和的秋天就会开花。”
安东尼把它从瓶子里拿出来，在脸上贴了一会儿。他半闭着眼睛，眼前浮现出栗色的
秀发、含笑的蓝眼睛和热情奔放的红嘴唇……
他以交谈的口吻轻声说：“她不在这附近游荡了吧？”
“你指的是谁？”
“你知道我指的是谁。罗斯玛丽……我想，她知道你有危险，艾丽斯。”
他用嘴唇碰了一下带香味的绿枝，随后抬手将它丢出窗外。
“再见，罗斯玛丽，谢谢你……”
艾丽斯轻柔地说：“为了帮助回忆……”她的声音更轻柔了，“亲爱的，请牢记……”