“Mademoiselle Rouselle?” said Hercule Poirot. He bowed.
Mademoiselle Rouselle extended her hand. About fifty, Poirot thought. A fairly imperiouswoman. Would have her way. Intelligent, intellectual, satisfied, he thought, with life as she hadlived it, enjoying the pleasures and suffering the sorrows life brings.
“I have heard your name,” she said. “You have friends, you know, both in this country and inFrance. I do not know exactly what I can do for you. Oh, I know that you explained, in the letterthat you sent me. It is an affair of the past, is it not? Things that happened. Not exactly things thathappened, but the clue to things that happened many, many years ago. But sit down. Yes. Yes, thatchair is quite comfortable, I hope. There are some petit-fours and the decanter is on the table.”
She was quietly hospitable1 without any urgency. She was unworried but amiable2.
“You were at one time a governess in a certain family,” said Poirot. “The Preston- Greys.
Perhaps now you hardly remember them.”
“Oh yes, one does not forget, you know, things that happen when you were young. There was agirl, and a boy about four or five years younger in the family I went to. They were nice children.
Their father became a General in the Army.”
“There was also another sister.”
“Ah yes, I remember. She was not there when I first came. I think she was delicate. Her healthwas not good. She was having treatment somewhere.”
“You remember their Christian3 names?”
“Margaret, I think was one. The other one I am not sure of by now.”
“Dorothea.”
“Ah yes. A name I have not often come across. But they called each other by shorter names.
Molly and Dolly. They were identical twins, you know, remarkably4 alike. They were both veryhandsome young women.”
“And they were fond of each other?”
“Yes, they were devoted5. But we are, are we not, becoming slightly confused? Preston-Grey isnot the name of the children I went to teach. Dorothea Preston-Grey married a Major—ah, Icannot remember the name now. Arrow? No, Jarrow. Margaret’s married name was—”
“Ravenscroft,” said Poirot.
“Ah, that. Yes. Curious how one cannot remember names. The Preston-Greys are a generationolder. Margaret Preston-Grey had been in a pensionnat in this part of the world, and when shewrote after her marriage asking Madame Ben?it, who ran that pensionnat, if she knew of someonewho would come to her as nursery-governess to her children, I was recommended. That is how Icame to go there. I spoke6 only of the other sister because she happened to be staying there duringpart of my time of service with the children. The children were a girl, I think then of six or seven.
She had a name out of Shakespeare. I remember, Rosalind or Celia.”
“Celia,” said Poirot.
“And the boy was only about three or four. His name was Edward. A mischievous7 but lovablechild. I was happy with them.”
“And they were happy, I hear, with you. They enjoyed playing with you and you were very kindin your playing with them.”
“Moi, j’aime les enfants,” said Mademoiselle Rouselle.
“They called you ‘Maddy,’ I believe.”
She laughed.
“Ah, I like hearing that word. It brings back past memories.”
“Did you know a boy called Desmond? Desmond Burton-Cox?”
“Ah yes. He lived I think in a house next door or nearly next door. We had several neighboursand the children very often came to play together. His name was Desmond. Yes, I remember.”
“You were there long, mademoiselle?”
“No. I was only there for three or four years at most. Then I was recalled to this country. Mymother was very ill. It was a question of coming back and nursing her, although I knew it wouldnot be perhaps for very long. That was true. She died a year and a half or two years at the mostafter I returned here. After that I started a small pensionnat out here, taking in rather older girlswho wanted to study languages and other things. I did not visit England again, although for a yearor two I kept up communication with the country. The two children used to send me a card atChristmas time.”
“Did General Ravenscroft and his wife strike you as a happy couple?”
“Very happy. They were fond of their children.”
“They were very well suited to each other?”
“Yes, they seemed to me to have all the necessary qualities to make their marriage a success.”
“You said Lady Ravenscroft was devoted to her twin sister. Was the twin sister also devoted toher?”
“Well, I had not very much occasion of judging. Frankly8, I thought that the sister—Dolly, asthey called her—was very definitely a mental case. Once or twice she acted in a very peculiarmanner. She was a jealous woman, I think, and I understood that she had at one time thought shewas engaged, or was going to be engaged, to General Ravenscroft. As far as I could see he’d fallenin love with her first, then later, however, his affections turned towards her sister, which wasfortunate, I thought, because Molly Ravenscroft was a well-balanced and very sweet woman. Asfor Dolly—sometimes I thought she adored her sister, sometimes that she hated her. She was avery jealous woman and she decided9 too much affection was being shown to the children. There isone who could tell you about all this better than I. Mademoiselle Meauhourat. She lives inLausanne and she went to the Ravenscrofts about a year and a half or two years after I had toleave. She was with them for some years. Later I believe she went back as companion to LadyRavenscroft when Celia was abroad at school.”
“I am going to see her. I have her address,” said Poirot.
“She knows a great deal that I do not, and she is a charming and reliable person. It was a terribletragedy that happened later. She knows if anyone does what led to it. She is very discreet10. She hasnever told me anything. Whether she will tell you I do not know. She may do, she may not.”
Poirot stood for a moment or two looking at Mademoiselle Meauhourat. He had been impressedby Mademoiselle Rouselle, he was impressed also by the woman who stood waiting to receivehim. She was not so formidable, she was much younger, at least ten years younger, he thought,and she had a different kind of impressiveness. She was alive, still attractive, eyes that watchedyou and made their own judgment11 on you, willing to welcome you, looking with kindliness12 onthose who came her way but without undue13 softness. Here is someone, thought Hercule Poirot,very remarkable14.
“I am Hercule Poirot, mademoiselle.”
“I know. I was expecting you either today or tomorrow.”
“Ah. You received a letter from me?”
“No. It is no doubt still in the post. Our posts are a little uncertain. No. I had a letter fromsomeone else.”
“From Celia Ravenscroft?”
“No. It was a letter written by someone in close touch with Celia. A boy or a young man,whichever we like to regard him as, called Desmond Burton- Cox. He prepared me for yourarrival.”
“Ah. I see. He is intelligent and he wastes no time, I think. He was very urgent that I shouldcome and see you.”
“So I gathered. There’s trouble, I understand. Trouble that he wants to resolve, and so doesCelia. They think you can help them?”
“Yes, and they think that you can help me.”
“They are in love with each other and wish to marry.”
“Yes, but there are difficulties being put in their way.”
“Ah, by Desmond’s mother, I presume. So he lets me understand.”
“There are circumstances, or have been circumstances, in Celia’s life that have prejudiced hismother against his early marriage to this particular girl.”
“Ah. Because of the tragedy, for it was a tragedy.”
“Yes, because of the tragedy. Celia has a godmother who was asked by Desmond’s mother totry and find out from Celia the exact circumstances under which that suicide occurred.”
“There’s no sense in that,” said Mademoiselle Meauhourat. She motioned with her hand. “Sitdown. Please sit down. I expect we shall have to talk for some little time. Yes, Celia could not tellher godmother—Mrs. Ariadne Oliver, the novelist is it not? Yes, I remember. Celia could not giveher the information because she has not got the information herself.”
“She was not there when the tragedy occurred, and no one told her anything about it. Is thatright?”
“Yes, that is right. It was thought inadvisable.”
“Ah. And do you approve of that decision or disapprove15 of it?”
“It is difficult to be sure. Very difficult. I’ve not been sure of it in the years that have passedsince then, and there are quite a lot. Celia, as far as I know, has never been worried. Worried, Imean, as to the why and wherefore. She’s accepted it as she would have accepted an aeroplaneaccident or a car accident. Something that resulted in the death of her parents. She spent manyyears in a pensionnat abroad.”
“Actually I think the pensionnat was run by you, Mademoiselle Meauhourat.”
“That is quite true. I have retired16 recently. A colleague of mine is now taking it on. But Celiawas sent out to me and I was asked to find for her a good place for her to continue her education,as many girls do come to Switzerland for that purpose. I could have recommended several places.
At the moment I took her into my own.”
“And Celia asked you nothing, did not demand information?”
“No. It was, you see, before the tragedy happened.”
“Oh. I did not quite understand that.”
“Celia came out here some weeks before the tragic17 occurrence. I was at that time not heremyself. I was still with General and Lady Ravenscroft. I looked after Lady Ravenscroft, acting18 asa companion to her rather than as a governess to Celia, who was still at that moment in boardingschool. But it was suddenly arranged that Celia should come to Switzerland and finish hereducation there.”
“Lady Ravenscroft had been in poor health, had she not?”
“Yes. Nothing very serious. Nothing as serious as she had herself feared at one time. But shehad suffered a lot of nervous strain and shock and general worry.”
“You remained with her?”
“A sister whom I had living in Lausanne received Celia on her arrival and settled her into theinstitution which was only for about fifteen or sixteen girls, but there she would start her studiesand await my return. I returned some three or four weeks later.”
“But you were at Overcliffe at the time it happened.”
“I was at Overcliffe. General and Lady Ravenscroft went for a walk, as was their habit. Theywent out and did not return. They were found dead, shot. The weapon was found lying by them. Itwas one that belonged to General Ravenscroft and had been always kept in a drawer in his study.
The fingermarks of both of them were found on that weapon. There was no definite indication ofwho had held it last. Impressions of both people, slightly smeared19, were on it. The obvioussolution was a double suicide.”
“You found no reason to doubt that?”
“The police found no reason, so I believe.”
“Ah,” said Poirot.
“I beg your pardon?” said Mademoiselle Meauhourat.
“Nothing. Nothing. Just something upon which I reflect.”
Poirot looked at her. Brown hair as yet hardly touched with grey, lips closed firmly together,grey eyes, a face which showed no emotion. She was in control of herself completely.
“So you cannot tell me anything more?”
“I fear not. It was a long time ago.”
“You remember that time well enough.”
“Yes. One cannot entirely20 forget such a sad thing.”
“And you agreed that Celia should not be told anything more of what had led up to this?”
“Have I not just told you that I had no extra information?”
“You were there, living at Overcliffe, for a period of time before the tragedy, were you not?
Four or five weeks—six weeks perhaps.”
“Longer than that, really. Although I had been governess to Celia earlier, I came back this time,after she went to school, in order to help Lady Ravenscroft.”
“Lady Ravenscroft’s sister was living with her also about that time, was she not?”
“Yes. She had been in hospital having special treatment for some time. She had shown muchimprovement and the authorities had felt—the medical authorities I speak of—that she would dobetter to lead a normal life with her own relations and the atmosphere of a home. As Celia hadgone to school, it seemed a good time for Lady Ravenscroft to invite her sister to be with her.”
“Were they fond of each other, those two sisters?”
“It was difficult to know,” said Mademoiselle Meauhourat. Her brows drew together. It was asthough what Poirot had just said aroused her interest. “I have wondered, you know. I havewondered so much since, and at the time really. They were identical twins, you know. They had abond between them, a bond of mutual21 dependence22 and love and in many ways they were veryalike. But there were ways also in which they were not alike.”
“You mean? I should be glad to know just what you mean by that.”
“Oh, this has nothing to do with the tragedy. Nothing of that kind. But there was a definite, as Ishall put it, a definite physical or mental flaw—whichever way you like to put it—some peoplenowadays hold the theory that there is some physical cause for any kind of mental disorder23. Ibelieve that it is fairly well recognized by the medical profession that identical twins are borneither with a great bond between them, a great likeness24 in their characters which means thatalthough they may be divided in their environment, where they are brought up, the same thingswill happen to them at the same time of life. They will take the same trend. Some of the casesquoted as medical example seem quite extraordinary. Two sisters, one living in Europe, one say inFrance, the other in England, they have a dog of the same kind which they choose at about thesame date. They marry men singularly alike. They give birth perhaps to a child almost within amonth of each other. It as though they have to follow the pattern wherever they are and withoutknowing what the other one is doing. Then there is the opposite to that. A kind of revulsion, ahatred almost, that makes one sister draw apart, or one brother reject the other as though they seekto get away from the sameness, the likeness, the knowledge, the things they have in common. Andthat can lead to very strange results.”
“I know,” said Poirot. “I have heard of it. I have seen it once or twice. Love can turn to hatevery easily. It is easier to hate where you have loved than it is to be indifferent where you haveloved.”
“Ah, you know that,” said Mademoiselle Meauhourat.
“Yes, I have seen it not once but several times. Lady Ravenscroft’s sister was very like her?”
“I think she was still very like her in appearance, though, if I may say so, the expression on herface was very different. She was in a condition of strain as Lady Ravenscroft was not. She had agreat aversion to children. I don’t know why. Perhaps she had had a miscarriage26 in early life.
Perhaps she had longed for a child and never had one, but she had a kind of resentment27 againstchildren. A dislike of them.”
“That had led to one or two rather serious happenings, had it not?” said Poirot.
“Someone has told you that?”
“I have heard things from people who knew both sisters when they were in Malaya. LadyRavenscroft was there with her husband and her sister, Dolly, came out to stay with them there.
There was an accident to a child there, and it was thought that Dolly might have been partiallyresponsible for it. Nothing was proved definitely, but I gather that Molly’s husband took his sister-in-law home to England and she had once more to go into a mental home.”
“Yes, I believe that is a very good account of what happened. I do not of course know it of myown knowledge.”
“No, but there are things you do know, I think, from your own knowledge.”
“If so, I see no reason for bringing them back to mind now. Is it not better to leave things whenat least they have been accepted?”
“There are other things that could have happened that day at Overcliffe. It may have been adouble suicide, it could have been a murder, it could have been several other things. You were toldwhat had happened, but I think from one little sentence you just said, that you know whathappened that day and I think you know what happened perhaps—or began to happen, shall wesay?—some time before that. The time when Celia had gone to Switzerland and you were still atOvercliffe. I will ask you one question. I would like to know what your answer would be to it. It isnot a thing of direct information, it is a question of what you believe. What were the feelings ofGeneral Ravenscroft towards those two sisters, the twin sisters?”
“I know what you mean.”
For the first time her manner changed slightly. She was no longer on her guard, she leanedforward now and spoke to Poirot almost as though she definitely found a relief in doing so.
“They were both beautiful,” she said, “as girls. I heard that from many people. GeneralRavenscroft fell in love with Dolly, the mentally afflicted28 sister. Although she had a disturbedpersonality she was exceedingly attractive—sexually attractive. He loved her very dearly, and thenI don’t know whether he discovered in her some characteristic, something perhaps that alarmedhim or in which he found a repulsion of some kind. He saw perhaps the beginnings of insanity29 inher, the dangers connected with her. His affections went to her sister. He fell in love with the sisterand married her.”
“He loved them both, you mean. Not at the same time but in each case there was a genuine factof love.”
“Oh, yes, he was devoted to Molly, relied on her and she on him. He was a very lovable man.”
“Forgive me,” said Poirot, “you too were in love with him, I think.”
“You—you dare say that to me?”
“Yes. I dare say it to you. I am not suggesting that you and he had a love affair, nothing of thatkind. I’m only saying that you loved him.”
“Yes,” said Zélie Meauhourat. “I loved him. In a sense, I still love him. There’s nothing to beashamed of. He trusted me and relied on me, but he was never in love with me. You can love andserve and still be happy. I wanted no more than I had. Trust, sympathy, belief in me—”
“And you did,” said Poirot, “what you could to help him in a terrible crisis in his life. There arethings you do not wish to tell me. There are things that I will say to you, things that I havegathered from various information that has come to me, that I know something about. Before Ihave come to see you I have heard from others, from people who have known not only LadyRavenscroft, not only Molly, but who have known Dolly. And I know something of Dolly, thetragedy of her life, the sorrow, the unhappiness and also the hatred25, the streak30 perhaps of evil, thelove of destruction that can be handed down in families. If she loved the man she was engaged toshe must have, when he married her sister, felt hatred perhaps towards that sister. Perhaps shenever quite forgave her. But what of Molly Ravenscroft? Did she dislike her sister? Did she hateher?”
“Oh no,” said Zélie Meauhourat, “she loved her sister. She loved her with a very deep andprotective love. That I do know. It was she who always asked that her sister should come andmake her home with her. She wanted to save her sister from unhappiness, from danger too,because her sister would often relapse into fits of rather dangerous rages. She was frightenedsometimes. Well, you know enough. You have already said that there was a strange dislike ofchildren from which Dolly suffered.”
“You mean that she disliked Celia?”
“No, no, not Celia. The other one, Edward. The younger one. Twice Edward had dangers of anaccident. Once, some kind of tinkering with a car and once some outburst of violent annoyance31. Iknow Molly was glad when Edward went back to school. He was very young, remember, muchyounger than Celia. He was only eight or nine, at preparatory school. He was vulnerable. Mollywas frightened about him.”
“Yes,” said Poirot, “I can understand that. Now, if I may I will talk of wigs32. Wigs. The wearingof wigs. Four wigs. That is a lot for one woman to possess at one time. I know what they werelike, what they looked like. I know that when more were needed, a French lady went to the shop inLondon and spoke about them and ordered them. There was a dog, too. A dog who went for awalk on the day of the tragedy with General Ravenscroft and his wife. Earlier that dog, some littletime earlier, had bitten his mistress, Molly Ravenscroft.”
“Dogs are like that,” said Zélie Meauhourat. “They are never quite to be trusted. Yes, I knowthat.”
“And I will tell you what I think happened on that day, and what happened before that. Somelittle time before that.”
“And if I will not listen to you?”
“You will listen to me. You may say that what I have imagined is false. Yes, you might even dothat, but I do not think you will. I am telling you, and I believe it with all my heart, that what isneeded here is the truth. It is not just imagining, it is not just wondering. There is a girl and a boywho care for each other and who are frightened of the future because of what may have happenedand what there might be handed down from the father or the mother to the child. I am thinking ofthe girl, Celia. A rebellious33 girl, spirited, difficult perhaps to manage but with brains, a good mind,capable of happiness, capable of courage but needing—there are people who need—truth. Becausethey can face truth without dismay. They can face it with that brave acceptance you have to havein life if life is to be any good to you. And the boy that she loves, he wants that for her too. Willyou listen to me?”
“Yes,” said Zélie Meauhourat, “I am listening. You understand a great deal, I think, and I thinkyou know more than I could have imagined you would know. Speak and I will listen.”
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hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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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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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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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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mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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decided
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discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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kindliness
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undue
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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disapprove
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retired
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tragic
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acting
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smeared
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| 弄脏； 玷污； 涂抹； 擦上 | |
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entirely
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mutual
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dependence
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disorder
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likeness
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hatred
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miscarriage
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resentment
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afflicted
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insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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streak
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annoyance
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wigs
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| n.假发，法官帽( wig的名词复数 ) | |
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rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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