I cannot say that I have at any time had a great admiration1 for Mr. Raymond West. He is, I know, supposed to be abrilliant novelist and has made quite a name as a poet. His poems have no capital letters in them, which is, I believe,the essence of modernity. His books are about unpleasant people leading lives of surpassing dullness.
He has a tolerant affection for “Aunt Jane,” whom he alludes2 to in her presence as a “survival.”
She listens to his talk with a flattering interest, and if there is sometimes an amused twinkle in her eye I am sure henever notices it.
He fastened on Griselda at once with flattering abruptness3. They discussed modern plays and from there went on tomodern schemes of decoration. Griselda affects to laugh at Raymond West, but she is, I think, susceptible4 to hisconversation.
During my (dull) conversation with Miss Marple, I heard at intervals5 the reiteration6 “buried as you are down here.”
It began at last to irritate me. I said suddenly:
“I suppose you consider us very much out of the things down here?”
Raymond West waved his cigarette.
“I regard St. Mary Mead,” he said authoritatively7, “as a stagnant8 pool.”
He looked at us, prepared for resentment9 at his statement, but somewhat, I think, to his chagrin10, no one displayedannoyance.
“That is really not a very good simile11, dear Raymond,” said Miss Marple briskly. “Nothing, I believe, is so full oflife under the microscope as a drop of water from a stagnant pool.”
“Life—of a kind,” admitted the novelist.
“It’s all much the same kind, really, isn’t it?” said Miss Marple.
“You compare yourself to a denizen12 of a stagnant pond, Aunt Jane?”
“My dear, you said something of the sort in your last book, I remember.”
No clever young man likes having his works quoted against himself. Raymond West was no exception.
“That was entirely13 different,” he snapped.
“Life is, after all, very much the same everywhere,” said Miss Marple in her placid14 voice. “Getting born, youknow, and growing up—and coming into contact with other people—getting jostled—and then marriage and morebabies—”
“And finally death,” said Raymond West. “And not death with a death certificate always. Death in life.”
“Talking of death,” said Griselda. “You know we’ve had a murder here?”
Raymond West waved murder away with his cigarette.
“Murder is so crude,” he said. “I take no interest in it.”
That statement did not take me in for a moment. They say all the world loves a lover—apply that saying to murderand you have an even more infallible truth. No one can fail to be interested in a murder. Simple people like Griseldaand myself can admit the fact, but anyone like Raymond West has to pretend to be bored—at any rate for the first fiveminutes.
Miss Marple, however, gave her nephew away by remarking:
“Raymond and I have been discussing nothing else all through dinner.”
“I take a great interest in all the local news,” said Raymond hastily. He smiled benignly15 and tolerantly at MissMarple.
“Have you a theory, Mr. West?” asked Griselda.
“Logically,” said Raymond West, again flourishing his cigarette, “only one person could have killed Protheroe.”
“Yes?” said Griselda.
We hung upon his words with flattering attention.
“The Vicar,” said Raymond, and pointed16 an accusing finger at me.
I gasped17.
“Of course,” he reassured18 me, “I know you didn’t do it. Life is never what it should be. But think of the drama—the fitness—churchwarden murdered in the Vicar’s study by the Vicar. Delicious!”
“And the motive19?” I inquired.
“Oh! That’s interesting.” He sat up—allowed his cigarette to go out. “Inferiority complex, I think. Possibly toomany inhibitions. I should like to write the story of the affair. Amazingly complex. Week after week, year after year,he’s seen the man—at vestry meetings—at choirboys’ outings—handing round the bag in church—bringing it to thealtar. Always he dislikes the man—always he chokes down his dislike. It’s unChristian, he won’t encourage it. And soit festers underneath20, and one day—”
He made a graphic21 gesture.
Griselda turned to me.
“Have you ever felt like that, Len?”
“Never,” I said truthfully.
“Yet I hear you were wishing him out of the world not so long ago,” remarked Miss Marple.
(That miserable22 Dennis! But my fault, of course, for ever making the remark.)“I’m afraid I was,” I said. “It was a stupid remark to make, but really I’d had a very trying morning with him.”
“That’s disappointing,” said Raymond West. “Because, of course, if your subconscious23 were really planning to dohim in, it would never have allowed you to make that remark.”
He sighed.
“My theory falls to the ground. This is probably a very ordinary murder—a revengeful poacher or something ofthat sort.”
“Miss Cram24 came to see me this afternoon,” said Miss Marple. “I met her in the village and I asked her if shewould like to see my garden.”
“Is she fond of gardens?” asked Griselda.
“I don’t think so,” said Miss Marple, with a faint twinkle. “But it makes a very useful excuse for talk, don’t youthink?”
“What did you make of her?” asked Griselda. “I don’t believe she’s really so bad.”
“She volunteered a lot of information—really a lot of information,” said Miss Marple. “About herself, you know,and her people. They all seem to be dead or in India. Very sad. By the way, she has gone to Old Hall for theweekend.”
“What?”
“Yes, it seems Mrs. Protheroe asked her—or she suggested it to Mrs. Protheroe—I don’t quite know which wayabout it was. To do some secretarial work for her—there are so many letters to cope with. It turned out ratherfortunately. Dr. Stone being away, she has nothing to do. What an excitement this barrow has been.”
“Stone?” said Raymond. “Is that the archaeologist fellow?”
“Yes, he is excavating25 a barrow. On the Protheroe property.”
“He’s a good man,” said Raymond. “Wonderfully keen on his job. I met him at a dinner not long ago and we had amost interesting talk. I must look him up.”
“Unfortunately,” I said, “he’s just gone to London for the weekend. Why, you actually ran into him at the stationthis afternoon.”
“I ran into you. You had a little fat man with you—with glasses on.”
“Yes—Dr. Stone.”
“But, my dear fellow—that wasn’t Stone.”
“Not Stone?”
“Not the archaeologist. I know him quite well. The man wasn’t Stone—not the faintest resemblance.”
We stared at each other. In particular I stared at Miss Marple.
“Extraordinary,” I said.
“The suitcase,” said Miss Marple.
“But why?” said Griselda.
“It reminds me of the time the man went round pretending to be the Gas Inspector26,” murmured Miss Marple.
“Quite a little haul, he got.”
“An impostor,” said Raymond West. “Now this is really interesting.”
“The question is, has it anything to do with the murder?” said Griselda.
“Not necessarily,” I said. “But—” I looked at Miss Marple.
“It is,” she said, “a Peculiar27 Thing. Another Peculiar Thing.”
“Yes,” I said, rising. “I rather feel the Inspector ought to be told about this at once.”
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1
admiration
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n.钦佩,赞美,羡慕 | |
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2
alludes
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提及,暗指( allude的第三人称单数 ) | |
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3
abruptness
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n. 突然,唐突 | |
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4
susceptible
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adj.过敏的,敏感的;易动感情的,易受感动的 | |
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5
intervals
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n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 );间隔时间;[数学]区间;(戏剧、电影或音乐会的)幕间休息 | |
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6
reiteration
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n. 重覆, 反覆, 重说 | |
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7
authoritatively
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命令式地,有权威地,可信地 | |
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8
stagnant
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adj.不流动的,停滞的,不景气的 | |
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9
resentment
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n.怨愤,忿恨 | |
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10
chagrin
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n.懊恼;气愤;委屈 | |
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11
simile
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n.直喻,明喻 | |
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12
denizen
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n.居民,外籍居民 | |
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13
entirely
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ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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14
placid
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adj.安静的,平和的 | |
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15
benignly
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adv.仁慈地,亲切地 | |
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16
pointed
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adj.尖的,直截了当的 | |
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17
gasped
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v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 );喘息;倒抽气;很想要 | |
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18
reassured
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adj.使消除疑虑的;使放心的v.再保证,恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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19
motive
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n.动机,目的;adv.发动的,运动的 | |
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20
underneath
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adj.在...下面,在...底下;adv.在下面 | |
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21
graphic
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adj.生动的,形象的,绘画的,文字的,图表的 | |
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22
miserable
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adj.悲惨的,痛苦的;可怜的,糟糕的 | |
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23
subconscious
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n./adj.潜意识(的),下意识(的) | |
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24
cram
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v.填塞,塞满,临时抱佛脚,为考试而学习 | |
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25
excavating
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v.挖掘( excavate的现在分词 );开凿;挖出;发掘 | |
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26
inspector
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n.检查员,监察员,视察员 | |
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27
peculiar
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adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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