O n my way home, I ran into Miss Hartnell and she detained me at least ten minutes, declaiming in her deep bassvoice against the improvidence1 and ungratefulness of the lower classes. The crux2 of the matter seemed to be that ThePoor did not want Miss Hartnell in their houses. My sympathies were entirely3 on their side. I am debarred by mysocial standing4 from expressing my prejudices in the forceful manner they do.
I soothed5 her as best I could and made my escape.
Haydock overtook me in his car at the corner of the Vicarage road. “I’ve just taken Mrs. Protheroe home,” hecalled.
He waited for me at the gate of his house.
“Come in a minute,” he said. I complied.
“This is an extraordinary business,” he said, as he threw his hat on a chair and opened the door into his surgery.
He sank down on a shabby leather chair and stared across the room. He looked harried6 and perplexed7.
I told him that we had succeeded in fixing the time of the shot. He listened with an almost abstracted air.
“That lets Anne Protheroe out,” he said. “Well, well, I’m glad it’s neither of those two. I like ’em both.”
I believed him, and yet it occurred to me to wonder why, since, as he said, he liked them both, their freedom fromcomplicity seemed to have had the result of plunging8 him in gloom. This morning he had looked like a man with aweight lifted from his mind, now he looked thoroughly9 rattled10 and upset.
And yet I was convinced that he meant what he said. He was fond of both Anne Protheroe and Lawrence Redding.
Why, then, this gloomy absorption? He roused himself with an effort.
“I meant to tell you about Hawes. All this business has driven him out of my mind.”
“Is he really ill?”
“There’s nothing radically11 wrong with him. You know, of course, that he’s had Encephalitis Lethargica, sleepysickness, as it’s commonly called?”
“No,” I said, very much surprised, “I didn’t know anything of the kind. He never told me anything about it. Whendid he have it?”
“About a year ago. He recovered all right—as far as one ever recovers. It’s a strange disease—has a queer moraleffect. The whole character may change after it.”
He was silent for a moment or two, and then said:
“We think with horror now of the days when we burnt witches. I believe the day will come when we will shudderto think that we ever hanged criminals.”
“You don’t believe in capital punishment?”
“It’s not so much that.” He paused. “You know,” he said slowly, “I’d rather have my job than yours.”
“Why?”
“Because your job deals very largely with what we call right and wrong—and I’m not at all sure that there’s anysuch thing. Suppose it’s all a question of glandular13 secretion14. Too much of one gland12, too little of another—and youget your murderer, your thief, your habitual15 criminal. Clement16, I believe the time will come when we’ll be horrified17 tothink of the long centuries in which we’ve punished people for disease—which they can’t help, poor devils. You don’thang a man for having tuberculosis18.”
“He isn’t dangerous to the community.”
“In a sense he is. He infects other people. Or take a man who fancies he’s the Emperor of China. You don’t sayhow wicked of him. I take your point about the community. The community must be protected. Shut up these peoplewhere they can’t do any harm—even put them peacefully out of the way—yes, I’d go as far as that. But don’t call itpunishment. Don’t bring shame on them and their innocent families.”
I looked at him curiously19.
“I’ve never heard you speak like this before.”
“I don’t usually air my theories abroad. Today I’m riding my hobby. You’re an intelligent man, Clement, which ismore than some parsons are. You won’t admit, I dare say, that there’s no such thing as what is technically20 termed,‘Sin,’ but you’re broadminded enough to consider the possibility of such a thing.”
“It strikes at the root of all accepted ideas,” he said.
“Yes, we’re a narrow-minded, self-righteous lot, only too keen to judge matters we know nothing about. I honestlybelieve crime is a case for the doctor, not the policeman and not the parson. In the future, perhaps, there won’t be anysuch thing.”
“You’ll have cured it?”
“We’ll have cured it. Rather a wonderful thought. Have you ever studied the statistics of crime? No—very fewpeople have. I have, though. You’d be amazed at the amount there is of adolescent crime, glands21 again, you see.
Young Neil, the Oxfordshire murderer—killed five little girls before he was suspected. Nice lad—never given anytrouble of any kind. Lily Rose, the little Cornish girl—killed her uncle because he docked her of sweets. Hit him whenhe was asleep with a coal hammer. Went home and a fortnight later killed her elder sister who had annoyed her aboutsome trifling22 matter. Neither of them hanged, of course. Sent to a home. May be all right later—may not. Doubt if thegirl will. The only thing she cares about is seeing the pigs killed. Do you know when suicide is commonest? Fifteen tosixteen years of age. From self-murder to murder of someone else isn’t a very long step. But it’s not a moral lack—it’sa physical one.”
“What you say is terrible!”
“No—it’s only new to you. New truths have to be faced. One’s ideas adjusted. But sometimes—it makes lifedifficult.”
He sat there, frowning, yet with a strange look of weariness.
“Haydock,” I said, “if you suspected—if you knew—that a certain person was a murderer, would you give thatperson up to the law, or would you be tempted23 to shield them?”
I was quite unprepared for the effect of my question. He turned on me angrily and suspiciously.
“What makes you say that, Clement? What’s in your mind? Out with it, man.”
“Why, nothing particular,” I said, rather taken aback. “Only—well, murder is in our minds just now. If by anychance you happened to discover the truth—I wondered how you would feel about it, that was all.”
His anger died down. He stared once more straight ahead of him like a man trying to read the answer to a riddlethat perplexes him, yet which exists only in his own brain.
“If I suspected—if I knew—I should do my duty, Clement. At least, I hope so.”
“The question is—which way would you consider your duty lay?”
He looked at me with inscrutable eyes.
“That question comes to every man some time in his life, I suppose, Clement. And every man has to decide in hisown way.”
“You don’t know?”
“No, I don’t know….”
I felt the best thing was to change the subject.
“That nephew of mine is enjoying this case thoroughly,” I said. “Spends his entire time looking for footprints andcigarette ash.”
Haydock smiled. “What age is he?”
“Just sixteen. You don’t take tragedies seriously at that age. It’s all Sherlock Holmes and Arsene Lupin to you.”
Haydock said thoughtfully:
“He’s a fine-looking boy. What are you going to do with him?”
“I can’t afford a University education, I’m afraid. The boy himself wants to go into the Merchant Service. He failedfor the Navy.”
“Well—it’s a hard life—but he might do worse. Yes, he might do worse.”
“I must be going,” I exclaimed, catching24 sight of the clock. “I’m nearly half an hour late for lunch.”
My family were just sitting down when I arrived. They demanded a full account of the morning’s activities, whichI gave them, feeling, as I did so, that most of it was in the nature of an anticlimax25.
Dennis, however, was highly entertained by the history of Mrs. Price Ridley’s telephone call, and went into fits oflaughter as I enlarged upon the nervous shock her system had sustained and the necessity for reviving her with damsongin.
“Serve the old cat right,” he exclaimed. “She’s got the worst tongue in the place. I wish I’d thought of ringing herup and giving her a fright. I say, Uncle Len, what about giving her a second dose?”
I hastily begged him to do nothing of the sort. Nothing is more dangerous than the well-meant efforts of theyounger generation to assist you and show their sympathy.
Dennis’s mood changed suddenly. He frowned and put on his man of the world air.
“I’ve been with Lettice most of the morning,” he said. “You know, Griselda, she’s really very worried. She doesn’twant to show it, but she is. Very worried indeed.”
“I should hope so,” said Griselda, with a toss of her head.
Griselda is not too fond of Lettice Protheroe.
“I don’t think you’re ever quite fair to Lettice.”
“Don’t you?” said Griselda.
“Lots of people don’t wear mourning.”
Griselda was silent and so was I. Dennis continued:
“She doesn’t talk to most people, but she does talk to me. She’s awfully26 worried about the whole thing, and shethinks something ought to be done about it.”
“She will find,” I said, “that Inspector27 Slack shares her opinion. He is going up to Old Hall this afternoon, and willprobably make the life of everybody there quite unbearable28 to them in his efforts to get at the truth.”
“What do you think is the truth, Len?” asked my wife suddenly.
“It’s hard to say, my dear. I can’t say that at the moment I’ve any idea at all.”
“Did you say that Inspector Slack was going to trace that telephone call—the one that took you to the Abbotts?’”
“Yes.”
“But can he do it? Isn’t it a very difficult thing to do?”
“I should not imagine so. The Exchange will have a record of the calls.”
“Oh!” My wife relapsed into thought.
“Uncle Len,” said my nephew, “why were you so ratty with me this morning for joking about your wishingColonel Protheroe to be murdered?”
“Because,” I said, “there is a time for everything. Inspector Slack has no sense of humour. He took your wordsquite seriously, will probably cross-examine Mary, and will get out a warrant for my arrest.”
“Doesn’t he know when a fellow’s ragging?”
“No,” I said, “he does not. He has attained29 his present position through hard work and zealous30 attention to duty.
That has left him no time for the minor31 recreations of life.”
“Do you like him, Uncle Len?”
“No,” I said, “I do not. From the first moment I saw him I disliked him intensely. But I have no doubt that he is ahighly successful man in his profession.”
“You think he’ll find out who shot old Protheroe?”
“If he doesn’t,” I said, “it will not be for the want of trying.”
Mary appeared and said:
“Mr. Hawes wants to see you. I’ve put him in the drawing room, and here’s a note. Waiting for an answer. Verbalwill do.” I tore open the note and read it.
“Dear Mr. Clement,—I should be so very grateful if you could come and see me this afternoon as early aspossible. I am in great trouble and would like your advice.
Sincerely yours,
Estelle Lestrange.”
“Say I will come round in about half an hour,” I said to Mary. Then I went into the drawing room to see Hawes.
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1
improvidence
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| n.目光短浅 | |
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crux
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| adj.十字形；难事，关键，最重要点 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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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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soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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harried
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| v.使苦恼( harry的过去式和过去分词 )；不断烦扰；一再袭击；侵扰 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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radically
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| ad.根本地，本质地 | |
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gland
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| n.腺体，(机)密封压盖，填料盖 | |
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glandular
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| adj.腺体的 | |
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secretion
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| n.分泌 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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clement
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| adj.仁慈的；温和的 | |
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horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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tuberculosis
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| n.结核病，肺结核 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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technically
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| adv.专门地，技术上地 | |
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glands
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| n.腺( gland的名词复数 ) | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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anticlimax
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| n.令人扫兴的结局；突降法 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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inspector
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| n.检查员，监察员，视察员 | |
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unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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