A tall girl was standing1 on the mat outside. Just for a moment Mrs. Oliver was startled looking ather. So this was Celia. The impression of vitality2 and of life was really very strong. Mrs. Oliverhad the feeling which one does not often get.
Here, she thought, was someone who meant something. Aggressive, perhaps, could be difficult,could be almost dangerous perhaps. One of those girls who had a mission in life, who wasdedicated to violence, perhaps, who went in for causes. But interesting. Definitely interesting.
“Come in, Celia,” she said. “It’s such a long time since I saw you. The last time, as far as Iremember, was at a wedding. You were a bridesmaid. You wore apricot chiffon, I remember, andlarge bunches of—I can’t remember what it was, something that looked like Golden Rod.”
“Probably was Golden Rod,” said Celia Ravenscroft. “We sneezed a lot—with hay fever. It wasa terrible wedding. I know. Martha Leghorn, wasn’t it? Ugliest bridesmaids’ dresses I’ve everseen. Certainly the ugliest I’ve ever worn!”
“Yes. They weren’t very becoming to anybody. You looked better than most, if I may say so.”
“Well, it’s nice of you to say that,” said Celia. “I didn’t feel my best.”
Mrs. Oliver indicated a chair and manipulated a couple of decanters.
“Like sherry or something else?”
“No. I’d like sherry.”
“There you are, then. I suppose it seems rather odd to you,” said Mrs. Oliver. “My ringing youup suddenly like this.”
“Oh no, I don’t know that it does particularly.”
“I’m not a very conscientious3 godmother, I’m afraid.”
“Why should you be, at my age?”
“You’re right there,” said Mrs. Oliver. “One’s duties, one feels, end at a certain time. Not that Iever really fulfilled mine. I don’t remember coming to your Confirmation4.”
“I believe the duty of a godmother is to make you learn your catechism and a few things likethat, isn’t it? Renounce5 the devil and all his works in my name,” said Celia. A faint, humoroussmile came to her lips.
She was being very amiable6 but all the same, thought Mrs. Oliver, she’s rather a dangerous girlin some ways.
“Well, I’ll tell you why I’ve been trying to get hold of you,” said Mrs. Oliver. “The whole thingis rather peculiar7. I don’t often go out to literary parties, but as it happened I did go out to one theday before yesterday.”
“Yes, I know,” said Celia. “I saw mention of it in the paper, and you had your name in it, too,Mrs. Ariadne Oliver, and I rather wondered because I know you don’t usually go to that sort ofthing.”
“No,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I rather wish I hadn’t gone to that one.”
“Didn’t you enjoy it?”
“Yes, I did in a way because I hadn’t been to one before. And so—well, the first time there’salways something that amuses you. But,” she added, “there’s usually something that annoys youas well.”
“And something happened to annoy you?”
“Yes. And it’s connected in an odd sort of way with you. And I thought—well, I thought Iought to tell you about it because I didn’t like what happened. I didn’t like it at all.”
“Sounds intriguing8,” said Celia, and sipped9 her sherry.
“There was a woman there who came and spoke10 to me. I didn’t know her and she didn’t knowme.”
“Still, I suppose that often happens to you,” said Celia.
“Yes, invariably,” said Mrs. Oliver. “It’s one of the—hazards of literary life. People come up toyou and say ‘I do love your books so much and I’m so pleased to be able to meet you.’ That sortof thing.”
“I was secretary to a writer once. I do know about that sort of thing and how difficult it is.”
“Yes, well, there was some of that too, but that I was prepared for. And then this woman cameup to me and she said ‘I believe you have a goddaughter called Celia Ravenscroft.’”
“Well, that was a bit odd,” said Celia. “Just coming up to you and saying that. It seems to meshe ought to have led into it more gradually. You know, talking about your books first and howmuch she’d enjoyed the last one, or something like that. And then sliding into me. What had shegot against me?”
“As far as I know she hadn’t got anything against you,” said Mrs. Oliver.
“Was she a friend of mine?”
“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Oliver.
There was a silence. Celia sipped some more sherry and looked very searchingly at Mrs. Oliver.
“You know,” she said, “you’re rather intriguing me. I can’t see quite what you’re leading into.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Oliver, “I hope you won’t be angry with me.”
“Why should I be angry with you?”
“Well, because I’m going to tell you something, or repeat something, and you might say it’s nobusiness of mine or I ought to keep quiet about it and not mention it.”
“You’ve aroused my curiosity,” said Celia.
“Her name she mentioned to me. She was a Mrs. Burton-Cox.”
“Oh!” Celia’s “Oh” was rather distinctive11. “Oh.”
“You know her?”
“Yes, I know her,” said Celia.
“Well, I thought you must because—”
“Because of what?”
“Because of something she said.”
“What—about me? That she knew me?”
“She said that she thought her son might be going to marry you.”
Celia’s expression changed. Her eyebrows12 went up, came down again. She looked very hard atMrs. Oliver.
“You want to know if that’s so or not?”
“No,” said Mrs. Oliver, “I don’t particularly want to know. I merely mention that because it’sone of the first things she said to me. She said because you were my goddaughter, I might be ableto ask you to give me some information. I presume that she meant that if the information wasgiven to me I was to pass it on to her.”
“What information?”
“Well, I don’t suppose you’ll like what I’m going to say now,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I didn’t like itmyself. In fact, it gives me a very nasty feeling all down my spine13 because I think it was—well,such awful cheek. Awful bad manners. Absolutely unpardonable. She said, ‘Can you find out ifher father murdered her mother or if her mother murdered her father.’”
“She said that to you? Asked you to do that?”
“Yes.”
“And she didn’t know you? I mean, apart from being an authoress and being at the party?”
“She didn’t know me at all. She’d never met me, I’d never met her.”
“Didn’t you find that extraordinary?”
“I don’t know that I’d find anything extraordinary that that woman said. She struck me,” saidMrs. Oliver, “if I may say so, as a particularly odious14 woman.”
“Oh yes. She is a particularly odious woman.”
“And are you going to marry her son?”
“Well, we’ve considered the question. I don’t know. You knew what she was talking about?”
“Well, I know what I suppose anyone would know who was acquainted with your family.”
“That my father and mother, after he had retired15 from the Army, bought a house in the country,that they went out one day for a walk together, a walk along the cliff path. That they were foundthere, both of them shot. There was a revolver lying there. It belonged to my father. He had tworevolvers in the house, it seems. There was nothing to say whether it was a suicide pact16 or whethermy father killed my mother and then shot himself, or my mother shot my father and then killedherself. But perhaps you know all this already.”
“I know it after a fashion,” said Mrs. Oliver. “It happened I think about twelve years ago.”
“About that, yes.”
“And you were about twelve or fourteen at the time.”
“Yes. . . .”
“I don’t know much about it,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I wasn’t even in England myself. At the time—I was on a lecture tour in America. I simply read it in the paper. It was given a lot of space inthe press because it was difficult to know the real facts—there did not seem to be any motive17.
Your father and mother had always been happy together and lived on good terms. I remember thatbeing mentioned. I was interested because I had known your father and mother when we were allmuch younger, especially your mother. I was at school with her. After that our ways led apart. Imarried and went somewhere and she married and went out, as far as I remember, to Malaya orsome place like that, with her soldier husband. But she did ask me to be godmother to one of herchildren. You. Since your mother and father were living abroad, I saw very little of them for manyyears. I saw you occasion-ally.”
“Yes. You used to take me out from school. I remember that. Gave me some specially18 goodfeeds, too. Lovely food you gave me.”
“You were an unusual child. You liked caviar.”
“I still do,” said Celia, “though I don’t get it offered to me very often.”
“I was shocked to read this mention of things in the paper. Very little was said. I gathered it wasa kind of open verdict. No particular motive. Nothing to show. No accounts of a quarrel, there wasno suggestion of there having been an attack from outside. I was shocked by it,” said Mrs. Oliver,“and then I forgot it. I wondered once or twice what could have led to it, but as I was not in thecountry—I was doing a tour at the time, in America as I’ve said—the whole thing passed out ofmy mind. It was some years later when I next saw you and naturally I did not speak of it to you.”
“No,” said Celia, “I appreciate that.”
“All through life,” Mrs. Oliver said, “one comes across very curious things that happen tofriends or to acquaintances. With friends, of course, very often you have some idea of what led to—whatever the incident might be. But if it’s a long time since you’ve heard them discussed ortalked to them, you are quite in the dark and there is nobody that you can show too much curiosityto about the occasion.”
“You were always very nice to me,” said Celia. “You sent me nice presents, a particularly nicepresent when I was twenty-one, I remember.”
“That’s the time when girls need some extra cash in hand,” said Mrs. Oliver, “because there areso many things they want to do and have just then.”
“Yes, I always thought you were an understanding person and not—well, you know what somepeople are like. Always questioning, and asking things and wanting to know all about you. Younever asked questions. You used to take me out to shows, or give me nice meals, and talk to me asthough, well, as though everything was all right and you were just a distant relation of the family.
I’ve appreciated that. I’ve known so many nosey parkers in my life.”
“Yes. Everyone comes up against that sooner or later,” said Mrs. Oliver. “But you see now whatupset me at this particular party. It seems an extraordinary thing to be asked to do by a completestranger like Mrs. Burton- Cox. I couldn’t imagine why she should want to know. It was nobusiness of hers, surely. Unless—”
“You thought it was, unless it was something to do with my marrying Desmond. Desmond isher son.”
“Yes, I suppose it could have been, but I couldn’t see how, or what business it was of hers.”
“Everything’s her business. She’s nosey — in fact she’s what you said she was, an odiouswoman.”
“But I gather Desmond isn’t odious.”
“No. No, I’m very fond of Desmond and Desmond is fond of me. I don’t like his mother.”
“Does he like his mother?”
“I don’t really know,” said Celia. “I suppose he might like her—anything’s possible, isn’t it?
Anyway, I don’t want to get married at present, I don’t feel like it. And there are a lot of—oh,well, difficulties, you know, there are a lot of fors and againsts. It must have made you feel rathercurious,” said Celia. “I mean, why Mrs. Nosey Cox should have asked you to try and worm thingsout of me and then run along and spill it all to her—Are you asking me that particular question bythe way?”
“You mean, am I asking you whether you think or know that your mother killed your father oryour father killed your mother, or whether it was a double suicide. Is that what you mean?”
“Well, I suppose it is, in a way. But I think I have to ask you also, if you were wanting to askme that, whether you were doing so with the idea of giving Mrs. Burton-Cox the information youobtained, in case you did receive any information from me.”
“No,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Quite decidedly no. I shouldn’t dream of telling the odious womananything of the sort. I shall tell her quite firmly that it is not any business of hers or of mine, andthat I have no intention of obtaining information from you and retailing19 it to her.”
“Well, that’s what I thought,” said Celia. “I thought I could trust you to that extent. I don’t mindtelling you what I do know. Such as it is.”
“You needn’t. I’m not asking you for it.”
“No. I can quite see that. But I’ll give you the answer all the same. The answer is—nothing.”
“Nothing,” said Mrs. Oliver thoughtfully.
“No. I wasn’t there at the time. I mean, I wasn’t in the house at the time. I can’t remember nowquite where I was. I think I was at school in Switzerland, or else I was staying with a school friendduring the school holidays. You see, it’s all rather mixed up in my mind by now.”
“I suppose,” said Mrs. Oliver doubtfully, “it wouldn’t be likely that you would know.
Considering your age at the time.”
“I’d be interested,” said Celia, “to know just what you feel about that. Do you think it would belikely for me to know all about it? Or not to know?”
“Well, you said you weren’t in the house. If you’d been in the house at the time, then yes, Ithink it would be quite likely that you might know something. Children do. Teenagers do. Peopleof that age know a lot, they see a lot, they don’t talk about it very often. But they do know thingsthat the outside world wouldn’t know, and they do know things that they wouldn’t be willing,shall we say, to tell to police enquirers.”
“No. You’re being quite sensible. I wouldn’t’ve known. I don’t think I did know. I don’t think Ihad any idea. What did the police think? You don’t mind my asking you that, I hope, because Ishould be interested. You see, I never read any account of the inquest or anything like that or theenquiry into it.”
“I think they thought it was a double suicide, but I don’t think they ever had any inkling as tothe reason for it.”
“Do you want to know what I think?”
“Not if you don’t want me to know,” said Mrs. Oliver.
“But I expect you are interested. After all, you write crime stories about people who killthemselves or kill each other, or who have reasons for things. I should think you would beinterested.”
“Yes, I’ll admit that,” said Mrs. Oliver. “But the last thing I want to do is to offend you byseeking for information which is no business of mine to know.”
“Well, I wondered,” said Celia. “I’ve often wondered from time to time why, and how, but Iknew very little about things. I mean, about how things were going on at home. The holidaysbefore that I had been away on exchange on the Continent, so I hadn’t seen my mother and fatherreally very recently. I mean, they’d come out to Switzerland and taken me out from school once ortwice, but that was all. They seemed much as usual, but they seemed older. My father, I think, wasailing. I mean, getting feebler. I don’t know if it was heart or what it was. One doesn’t really thinkabout that. My mother, too, she was going rather nervy. Not hypochondriac but a little inclined tofuss over her health. They were on good terms, quite friendly. There wasn’t anything that Inoticed. Only sometimes one would, well, sometimes one gets ideas. One doesn’t think they’retrue or necessarily right at all, but one just wonders if—”
“I don’t think we’d better talk about it anymore,” said Mrs. Oliver. “We don’t need to know orfind out. The whole thing’s over and done with. The verdict was quite satisfactory. No means toshow, or motive, or anything like that. But there was no question of your father havingdeliberately killed your mother, or of your mother having deliberately20 killed your father.”
“If I thought which was most likely,” said Celia, “I would think my father killed my mother.
Because, you see, it’s more natural for a man to shoot anyone, I think. To shoot a woman forwhatever reason it was. I don’t think a woman, or a woman like my mother, would be so likely toshoot my father. If she wanted him dead, I should think she might have chosen some othermethod. But I don’t think either of them wanted the other one dead.”
“So it could have been an outsider.”
“Yes, but what does one mean by an outsider?” said Celia.
“Who else was there living in the house?”
“A housekeeper21, elderly, rather blind and rather deaf, a foreign girl, an au pair girl, she’d beenmy governess once—she was awfully22 nice—she came back to look after my mother who had beenin hospital—And there was an aunt whom I never loved much. I don’t think any of them couldhave been likely to have any grudge23 against my parents. There was nobody who profited by theirdeaths, except, I suppose, myself and my brother Edward, who was four years younger than I was.
We inherited what money there was but it wasn’t very much. My father had his pension, of course.
My mother had a small income of her own. No. There was nothing there of any importance.”
“I’m sorry,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I’m sorry if I’ve distressed24 you by asking all this.”
“You haven’t distressed me. You’ve brought it up in my mind a little and it has interested me.
Because, you see, I am of an age now that I wish I did know. I knew and was fond of them, as oneis fond of parents. Not passionately25, just normally, but I realize I don’t know what they were reallylike. What their life was like. What mattered to them. I don’t know anything about it at all. I wish Idid know. It’s like a burr, something sticking into you, and you can’t leave it alone. Yes. I wouldlike to know. Because then, you see, I shouldn’t have to think about it anymore.”
“So you do? Think about it?”
Celia looked at her for a moment. She seemed to be trying to come to a decision.
“Yes,” she said, “I think about it nearly all the time. I’m getting to have a thing about it, if youknow what I mean. And Desmond feels the same.”
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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intriguing
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| adj.有趣的；迷人的v.搞阴谋诡计(intrigue的现在分词)；激起…的好奇心 | |
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sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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distinctive
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| adj.特别的，有特色的，与众不同的 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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spine
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| n.脊柱，脊椎；(动植物的)刺；书脊 | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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pact
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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specially
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retailing
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| n.零售业v.零售(retail的现在分词) | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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awfully
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grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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