IT he inquest was held three days later. It was all done as decorously as possible, but there was a large attendance and,as Joanna observed, the beady bonnets1 were wagging.
The time of Mrs. Symmington’s death was put at between three and four o’clock. She was alone in the house,Symmington was at his office, the maids were having their day out, Elsie Holland and the children were out walkingand Megan had gone for a bicycle ride.
The letter must have come by the afternoon post. Mrs. Symmington must have taken it out of the box, read it—andthen in a state of agitation2 she had gone to the potting shed, fetched some of the cyanide kept there for taking wasps’
nests, dissolved it in water and drunk it after writing those last agitated3 words, “I can’t go on….”
Owen Griffith gave medical evidence and stressed the view he had outlined to us of Mrs. Symmington’s nervouscondition and poor stamina4. The coroner was suave5 and discreet6. He spoke7 with bitter condemnation8 of people whowrite those despicable things, anonymous9 letters. Whoever had written that wicked and lying letter was morally guiltyof murder, he said. He hoped the police would soon discover the culprit and take action against him or her. Such adastardly and malicious10 piece of spite deserved to be punished with the utmost rigour of the law. Directed by him, thejury brought in the inevitable11 verdict. Suicide whilst temporarily insane.
The coroner had done his best—Owen Griffith also, but afterwards, jammed in the crowd of eager village women, Iheard the same hateful sibilant whisper I had begun to know so well, “No smoke without fire, that’s what I say!”
“Must ’a been something in it for certain sure. She wouldn’t never have done it otherwise….”
Just for a moment I hated Lymstock and its narrow boundaries, and its gossiping whispering women.
II
It is difficult to remember things in their exact chronological12 order. The next landmark13 of importance, of course, wasSuperintendent Nash’s visit. But it was before that, I think, that we received calls from various members of thecommunity, each of which was interesting in its way and shed some light on the characters and personalities15 of thepeople involved.
Aimée Griffith came on the morning after the inquest. She was looking, as always, radiant with health and vigourand succeeded, also as usual, in putting my back up almost immediately. Joanna and Megan were out, so I did thehonours.
“Good morning,” said Miss Griffith. “I hear you’ve got Megan Hunter here?”
“We have.”
“Very good of you, I’m sure. It must be rather a nuisance to you. I came up to say she can come to us if you like. Idare say I can find ways of making her useful about the house.”
I looked at Aimée Griffith with a good deal of distaste.
“How kind of you,” I said. “But we like having her. She potters about quite happily.”
“I dare say. Much too fond of pottering, that child. Still, I suppose she can’t help it, being practically half-witted.”
“I think she’s rather an intelligent girl,” I said.
Aimée Griffith gave me a hard stare.
“First time I’ve ever heard anyone say that of her,” she remarked. “Why, when you talk to her, she looks throughyou as though she doesn’t understand what you are saying!”
“She probably just isn’t interested,” I said.
“If so, she’s extremely rude,” said Aimée Griffith.
“That may be. But not half-witted.”
Miss Griffith declared sharply:
“At best, it’s woolgathering. What Megan needs is good hard work—something to give her an interest in life.
You’ve no idea what a difference that makes to a girl. I know a lot about girls. You’d be surprised at the differenceeven becoming a Guide makes to a girl. Megan’s much too old to spend her time lounging about and doing nothing.”
“It’s been rather difficult for her to do anything else so far,” I said. “Mrs. Symmington always seemed under theimpression that Megan was about twelve years old.”
Miss Griffith snorted.
“I know. I had no patience with that attitude of hers. Of course she’s dead now, poor woman, so one doesn’t wantto say much, but she was a perfect example of what I call the unintelligent domestic type. Bridge and gossip and herchildren—and even there that Holland girl did all the looking after them. I’m afraid I never thought very much of Mrs.
Symmington, although of course I never suspected the truth.”
“The truth?” I said sharply.
Miss Griffith flushed.
“I was terribly sorry for Dick Symmington, its all having to come out as it did at the inquest,” she said. “It wasawful for him.”
“But surely you heard him say that there was not a word of truth in that letter—that he was quite sure of that?”
“Of course he said so. Quite right. A man’s got to stick up for his wife. Dick would.” She paused and thenexplained: “You see, I’ve known Dick Symmington a long time.”
I was a little surprised.
“Really?” I said. “I understood from your brother that he only bought this practice a few years ago.”
“Oh yes, but Dick Symmington used to come and stay in our part of the world up north. I’ve known him for years.”
Women jump to conclusions that men do not. Nevertheless, the suddenly softened16 tone of Aimée Griffith’s voiceput, as our old nurse would have expressed it, ideas into my head.
I looked at Aimée curiously17. She went on—still in that softened tone:
“I know Dick very well… He’s a proud man, and very reserved. But he’s the sort of man who could be veryjealous.”
“That would explain,” I said deliberately18, “why Mrs. Symmington was afraid to show him or tell him about theletter. She was afraid that, being a jealous man, he might not believe her denials.”
Miss Griffith looked at me angrily and scornfully.
“Good Lord,” she said, “do you think any woman would go and swallow a lot of cyanide of potassium for anaccusation that wasn’t true?”
“The coroner seemed to think it was possible. Your brother, too—”
Aimée interrupted me.
“Men are all alike. All for preserving the decencies. But you don’t catch me believing that stuff. If an innocentwoman gets some foul19 anonymous letter, she laughs and chucks it away. That’s what I—” she paused suddenly, andthen finished, “would do.”
But I had noticed the pause. I was almost sure that what she had been about to say was “That’s what I did.”
I decided20 to take the war into the enemy’s country.
“I see,” I said pleasantly, “so you’ve had one, too?”
Aimée Griffith was the type of woman who scorns to lie. She paused a minute—flushed, then said:
“Well, yes. But I didn’t let it worry me!”
“Nasty?” I inquired sympathetically, as a fellow sufferer.
“Naturally. These things always are. The ravings of a lunatic. I read a few words of it, realized what it was andchucked it straight into the wastepaper basket.”
“You didn’t think of taking it to the police?”
“Not then. Least said soonest mended—that’s what I felt.”
An urge came over me to say solemnly: “No smoke without fire!” but I restrained myself. To avoid temptation Ireverted to Megan.
“Have you any idea of Megan’s financial position?” I asked. “It’s not idle curiosity on my part. I wondered if itwould actually be necessary for her to earn her living.”
“I don’t think it’s strictly21 necessary. Her grandmother, her father’s mother, left her a small income, I believe. Andin any case Dick Symmington would always give her a home and provide for her, even if her mother hasn’t left heranything outright22. No, it’s the principle of the thing.”
“What principle?”
“Work, Mr. Burton. There’s nothing like work, for men and women. The one unforgivable sin is idleness.”
“Sir Edward Grey,” I said, “afterwards our foreign minister, was sent down from Oxford23 for incorrigible24 idleness.
The Duke of Wellington, I have heard, was both dull and inattentive at his books. And has it ever occurred to you,Miss Griffith, that you would probably not be able to take a good express train to London if little Georgie Stephensonhad been out with his youth movement instead of lolling about, bored, in his mother’s kitchen until the curiousbehaviour of the kettle lid attracted the attention of his idle mind?”
Aimée merely snorted.
“It is a theory of mine,” I said, warming to my theme, “that we owe most of our great inventions and most of theachievements of genius to idleness—either enforced or voluntary. The human mind prefers to be spoon-fed with thethoughts of others, but deprived of such nourishment26 it will, reluctantly, begin to think for itself—and such thinking,remember, is original thinking and may have valuable results.
“Besides,” I went on, before Aimée could get in another sniff27, “there is the artistic28 side.”
I got up and took from my desk where it always accompanied me a photograph of my favourite Chinese picture. Itrepresents an old man sitting beneath a tree playing cat’s cradle with a piece of string on his fingers and toes.
“It was in the Chinese exhibition,” I said. “It fascinated me. Allow me to introduce you. It is called ‘Old Manenjoying the Pleasure of Idleness.’”
Aimée Griffith was unimpressed by my lovely picture. She said: “Oh well, we all know what the Chinese are like!”
“It doesn’t appeal to you?” I asked.
“Frankly, no. I’m not very interested in art, I’m afraid. Your attitude, Mr. Burton, is typical of that of most men.
You dislike the idea of women working—of their competing—”
I was taken aback, I had come up against the Feminist29. Aimée was well away, her cheeks flushed.
“It is incredible to you that women should want a career. It was incredible to my parents. I was anxious to study fora doctor. They would not hear of paying the fees. But they paid them readily for Owen. Yet I should have made abetter30 doctor than my brother.”
“I’m sorry about that,” I said. “It was tough on you. If one wants to do a thing—”
She went on quickly:
“Oh, I’ve got over it now. I’ve plenty of willpower. My life is busy and active. I’m one of the happiest people inLymstock. Plenty to do. But I do go up in arms against the silly old-fashioned prejudice that women’s place is alwaysthe home.”
“I’m sorry if I offended you,” I said. “And that wasn’t really my point. I don’t see Megan in a domestic role at all.”
“No, poor child. She’ll be a misfit anywhere, I’m afraid.” Aimée had calmed down. She was speaking quitenormally again. “Her father, you know—”
She paused and I said bluntly: “I don’t know. Everyone says ‘her father’ and drops their voice, and that is that.
What did the man do? Is he alive still?”
“I really don’t know. And I’m rather vague myself, I’m afraid. But he was definitely a bad lot. Prison, I believe.
And a streak31 of very strong abnormality. That’s why it wouldn’t surprise me if Megan was a bit ‘wanting.’”
“Megan,” I said, “is in full possession of her senses, and as I said before, I consider her an intelligent girl. My sisterthinks so too. Joanna is very fond of her.”
Aimée said:
“I’m afraid your sister must find it very dull down here.”
And as she said it, I learnt something else. Aimée Griffith disliked my sister. It was there in the smoothconventional tones of her voice.
“We’ve all wondered how you could both bear to bury yourselves in such an out-of-the-way spot.”
It was a question and I answered it.
“Doctor’s orders. I was to come somewhere very quiet where nothing ever happened.” I paused and added, “Notquite true of Lymstock now.”
“No, no, indeed.”
She sounded worried and got up to go. She said then:
“You know—it’s got to be put a stop to—all this beastliness! We can’t have it going on.”
“Aren’t the police doing anything?”
“I suppose so. But I think we ought to take it in hand ourselves.”
“We’re not as well equipped as they are.”
“Nonsense! We probably have far more sense and intelligence! A little determination is all that is needed.”
She said goodbye abruptly32 and went away.
When Joanna and Megan came back from their walk I showed Megan my Chinese picture. Her face lighted up. Shesaid, “It’s heavenly, isn’t it?”
“That is rather my opinion.”
Her forehead was crinkling in the way I knew so well.
“But it would be difficult, wouldn’t it?”
“To be idle?”
“No, not to be idle—but to enjoy the pleasures of it. You’d have to be very old—”
She paused. I said: “He is an old man.”
“I don’t mean old that way. Not age. I mean old in—in….”
“You mean,” I said, “that one would have to attain33 a very high state of civilization for the thing to present itself toyou in that way—a fine point of sophistication? I think I shall complete your education, Megan, by reading to you onehundred poems translated from the Chinese.”
III
I met Symmington in the town later in the day.
“Is it quite all right for Megan to stay on with us for a bit?” I asked. “It’s company for Joanna—she’s rather lonelysometimes with none of her own friends.”
“Oh—er— Megan? Oh yes, very good of you.”
I took a dislike to Symmington then which I never quite overcame. He had so obviously forgotten all about Megan.
I wouldn’t have minded if he had actively34 disliked the girl—a man may sometimes be jealous of a first husband’s child—but he didn’t dislike her, he just hardly noticed her. He felt towards her much as a man who doesn’t care much fordogs would feel about a dog in the house. You notice it when you fall over it and swear at it, and you give it a vaguepat sometimes when it presents itself to be patted. Symmington’s complete indifference35 to his stepdaughter annoyedme very much.
I said, “What are you planning to do with her?”
“With Megan?” He seemed rather startled. “Well, she’ll go on living at home. I mean, naturally, it is her home.”
My grandmother, of whom I had been very fond, used to sing old-fashioned songs to her guitar. One of them, Iremembered, ended thus:
“Oh maid, most dear, I am not here
I have no place, no part,
No dwelling36 more, by sea nor shore,
But only in your heart.”
I went home humming it.
IV
Emily Barton came just after tea had been cleared away.
She wanted to talk about the garden. We talked garden for about half an hour. Then we turned back towards thehouse.
It was then that lowering her voice, she murmured:
“I do hope that that child—that she hasn’t been too much upset by all this dreadful business?”
“Her mother’s death, you mean?”
“That, of course. But I really meant, the—the unpleasantness behind it.”
I was curious. I wanted Miss Barton’s reaction.
“What do you think about that? Was it true?”
“Oh, no, no, surely not. I’m quite sure that Mrs. Symmington never—that he wasn’t”—little Emily Barton waspink and confused—“I mean it’s quite untrue—although of course it may have been a judgment37.”
“A judgment?” I said, staring.
Emily Barton was very pink, very Dresden china shepherdess-like.
“I cannot help feeling that all these dreadful letters, all the sorrow and pain they have caused, may have been sentfor a purpose.”
“They were sent for a purpose, certainly,” I said grimly.
“No, no, Mr. Burton, you misunderstood me. I’m not talking of the misguided creature who wrote them—someonequite abandoned that must be. I mean that they have been permitted—by Providence38! To awaken39 us to a sense of ourshortcomings.”
“Surely,” I said, “the Almighty40 could choose a less unsavoury weapon.”
Miss Emily murmured that God moved in a mysterious way.
“No,” I said. “There’s too much tendency to attribute to God the evils that man does of his own free will. I mightconcede you the Devil. God doesn’t really need to punish us, Miss Barton. We’re so very busy punishing ourselves.”
“What I can’t make out is why should anyone want to do such a thing?”
I shrugged41 my shoulders.
“A warped42 mentality43.”
“It seems very sad.”
“It doesn’t seem to me sad. It seems to me just damnable. And I don’t apologize for the word. I mean just that.”
The pink had gone out of Miss Barton’s cheeks. They were very white.
“But why, Mr. Burton, why? What pleasure can anyone get out of it?”
“Nothing you and I can understand, thank goodness.”
Emily Barton lowered her voice.
“They say that Mrs. Cleat—but I really cannot believe it.”
I shook my head. She went on in an agitated manner:
“Nothing of this kind has ever happened before—never in my memory. It has been such a happy little community.
What would my dear mother have said? Well, one must be thankful that she has been spared.”
I thought from all I had heard that old Mrs. Barton had been sufficiently44 tough to have taken anything, and wouldprobably have enjoyed this sensation.
Emily went on:
“It distresses45 me deeply.”
“You’ve not—er—had anything yourself?”
She flushed crimson46.
“Oh, no—oh, no, indeed. Oh! that would be dreadful.”
I apologized hastily, but she went away looking rather upset.
I went into the house. Joanna was standing47 by the drawing room fire which she had just lit, for the evenings werestill chilly48.
She had an open letter in her hand.
She turned her head quickly as I entered.
“Jerry! I found this in the letter box—dropped in by hand. It begins, “You painted trollop….”
“What else does it say?”
Joanna gave a wide grimace49.
“Same old muck.”
She dropped it on to the fire. With a quick gesture that hurt my back I jerked it off again just before it caught.
“Don’t,” I said. “We may need it.”
“Need it?”
“For the police.”
VSuperintendent Nash came to see me the following morning. From the first moment I saw him I took a great liking50 tohim. He was the best type of C.I.D. county superintendent14. Tall, soldierly, with quiet reflective eyes and astraightforward unassuming manner.
He said: “Good morning, Mr. Burton, I expect you can guess what I’ve come to see you about.”
“Yes, I think so. This letter business.”
He nodded.
“I understand you had one of them?”
“Yes, soon after we got here.”
“What did it say exactly?”
I thought a minute, then conscientiously51 repeated the wording of the letter as closely as possible.
The superintendent listened with an immovable face, showing no signs of any kind of emotion. When I hadfinished, he said:
“I see. You didn’t keep the letter, Mr. Burton?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t. You see, I thought it was just an isolated52 instance of spite against newcomers to the place.”
The superintendent inclined his head comprehendingly.
He said briefly53: “A pity.”
“However,” I said, “my sister got one yesterday. I just stopped her putting it in the fire.”
“Thank you, Mr. Burton, that was thoughtful of you.”
I went across to my desk and unlocked the drawer in which I had put it. It was not, I thought, very suitable forPartridge’s eyes. I gave it to Nash.
He read it through. Then he looked up and asked me:
“Is this the same in appearance as the last one?”
“I think so—as far as I can remember.”
“The same difference between the envelope and the text?”
“Yes,” I said. “The envelope was typed. The letter itself had printed words pasted on to a sheet of paper.”
Nash nodded and put it in his pocket. Then he said:
“I wonder, Mr. Burton, if you would mind coming down to the station with me? We could have a conference thereand it would save a good deal of time and overlapping54.”
“Certainly,” I said. “You would like me to come now?”
“If you don’t mind.”
There was a police car at the door. We drove down in it.
I said:
“Do you think you’ll be able to get to the bottom of this?”
Nash nodded with easy confidence.
“Oh yes, we’ll get to the bottom of it all right. It’s a question of time and routine. They’re slow, these cases, butthey’re pretty sure. It’s a matter of narrowing things down.”
“Elimination?” I said.
“Yes. And general routine.”
“Watching post boxes, examining typewriters, fingerprints55, all that?”
He smiled. “As you say.”
At the police station I found Symmington and Griffith were already there. I was introduced to a tall lantern-jawedman in plain clothes, Inspector56 Graves.
“Inspector Graves,” explained Nash, “has come down from London to help us. He’s an expert on anonymous lettercases.”
Inspector Graves smiled mournfully. I reflected that a life spent in the pursuit of anonymous letter writers must besingularly depressing. Inspector Graves, however, showed a kind of melancholy57 enthusiasm.
“They’re all the same, these cases,” he said in a deep lugubrious58 voice like a depressed59 bloodhound. “You’d besurprised. The wording of the letters and the things they say.”
“We had a case just on two years ago,” said Nash. “Inspector Graves helped us then.”
Some of the letters, I saw, were spread out on the table in front of Graves. He had evidently been examining them.
“Difficulty is,” said Nash, “to get hold of the letters. Either people put them in the fire, or they won’t admit tohaving received anything of the kind. Stupid, you see, and afraid of being mixed up with the police. They’re abackward lot here.”
“Still we’ve got a fair amount to get on with,” said Graves. Nash took the letter I had given him from his pocketand tossed it over to Graves.
The latter glanced through it, laid it with the others and observed approvingly:
“Very nice—very nice indeed.”
It was not the way I should have chosen to describe the epistle in question, but experts, I suppose, have their ownpoint of view. I was glad that that screed60 of vituperative61 and obscene abuse gave somebody pleasure.
“We’ve got enough, I think, to go on with,” said Inspector Graves, “and I’ll ask you gentlemen, if you should getanymore, to bring them along at once. Also, if you hear of someone else getting one—(you, in particular, doctor,among your patients) do your best to get them to come along here with them. I’ve got—” he sorted with deft62 fingersamong his exhibits, “one to Mr. Symmington, received as far back as two months ago, one to Dr. Griffith, one to MissGinch, one written to Mrs. Mudge, the butcher’s wife, one to Jennifer Clark, barmaid at the Three Crowns, the onereceived by Mrs. Symmington, this one now to Miss Burton—oh yes, and one from the bank manager.”
“Quite a representative collection,” I remarked.
“And not one I couldn’t match from other cases! This one here is as near as nothing to one written by that millinerwoman. This one is the dead spit of an outbreak we had up in Northumberland—written by a schoolgirl, they were. Ican tell you, gentlemen, I’d like to see something new sometimes, instead of the same old treadmill63.”
“There is nothing new under the sun,” I murmured.
“Quite so, sir. You’d know that if you were in our profession.”
Nash sighed and said, “Yes, indeed.”
Symmington asked:
“Have you come to any definite opinion as to the writer?”
Graves cleared his throat and delivered a small lecture.
“There are certain similarities shared by all these letters. I shall enumerate64 them, gentlemen, in case they suggestanything to your minds. The text of the letters is composed of words made-up from individual letters cut out of aprinted book. It’s an old book, printed, I should say, about the year 1830. This has obviously been done to avoid therisk of recognition through handwriting which is, as most people know nowadays, a fairly easy matter…the so-calleddisguising of a hand not amounting to much when faced with expert tests. There are no fingerprints on the letters andenvelopes of a distinctive65 character. That is to say, they have been handled by the postal66 authorities, the recipient67, andthere are other stray fingerprints, but no set common to all, showing therefore that the person who put them togetherwas careful to wear gloves. The envelopes are typewritten by a Windsor 7 machine, well worn, with the a and the t outof alignment68. Most of them have been posted locally, or put in the box of a house by hand. It is therefore evident thatthey are of local provenance69. They were written by a woman, and in my opinion a woman of middle age or over, andprobably, though not certainly, unmarried.”
We maintained a respectful silence for a minute or two. Then I said:
“The typewriter’s your best bet, isn’t it? That oughtn’t to be difficult in a little place like this.”
Inspector Graves shook his head sadly and said:
“That’s where you’re wrong, sir.”
“The typewriter,” said Superintendent Nash, “is unfortunately too easy. It is an old one from Mr. Symmington’soffice, given by him to the Women’s Institute where, I may say, it’s fairly easy of access. The ladies here all often gointo the Institute.”
“Can’t you tell something definite from the—er—the touch, don’t you call it?”
Again Graves nodded.
“Yes, that can be done—but these envelopes have all been typed by someone using one finger.”
“Someone, then, unused to the typewriter?”
“No, I wouldn’t say that. Someone, say, who can type but doesn’t want us to know the fact.”
“Whoever writes these things has been very cunning,” I said slowly.
“She is, sir, she is,” said Graves. “Up to every trick of the trade.”
“I shouldn’t have thought one of these bucolic70 women down here would have had the brains,” I said.
Graves coughed.
“I haven’t made myself plain, I’m afraid. Those letters were written by an educated woman.”
“What, by a lady?”
The word slipped out involuntarily. I hadn’t used the term “lady” for years. But now it came automatically to mylips, reechoed from days long ago, and my grandmother’s faint unconsciously arrogant71 voice saying, “Of course, sheisn’t a lady, dear.”
Nash understood at once. The word lady still meant something to him.
“Not necessarily a lady,” he said. “But certainly not a village woman. They’re mostly pretty illiterate72 down here,can’t spell, and certainly can’t express themselves with fluency73.”
I was silent, for I had had a shock. The community was so small. Unconsciously I had visualized74 the writer of theletters as a Mrs. Cleat or her like, some spiteful, cunning half-wit.
Symmington put my thoughts into words. He said sharply:
“But that narrows it down to about half a dozen to a dozen people in the whole place!”
“That’s right.”
“I can’t believe it.”
Then, with a slight effort, and looking straight in front of him as though the mere25 sound of his own words weredistasteful he said:
“You have heard what I stated at the inquest. In case you may have thought that that statement was actuated by adesire to protect my wife’s memory, I should like to repeat now that I am firmly convinced that the subject matter ofthe letter my wife received was absolutely false. I know it was false. My wife was a very sensitive woman, and—er—well, you might call it prudish75 in some respects. Such a letter would have been a great shock to her, and she was inpoor health.”
Graves responded instantly.
“That’s quite likely to be right, sir. None of these letters show any signs of intimate knowledge. They’re just blindaccusations. There’s been no attempt to blackmail76. And there doesn’t seem to be any religious bias—such as wesometimes get. It’s just sex and spite! And that’s going to give us quite a good pointer towards the writer.”
Symmington got up. Dry and unemotional as the man was, his lips were trembling.
“I hope you find the devil who writes these soon. She murdered my wife as surely as if she’d put a knife into her.”
He paused. “How does she feel now, I wonder?”
He went out, leaving that question unanswered.
“How does she feel, Griffith?” I asked. It seemed to me the answer was in his province.
“God knows. Remorseful77, perhaps. On the other hand, it may be that she’s enjoying her power. Mrs. Symmington’sdeath may have fed her mania78.”
“I hope not,” I said, with a slight shiver. “Because if so, she’ll—”
I hesitated and Nash finished the sentence for me.
“She’ll try it again? That, Mr. Burton, would be the best thing that could happen, for us. The pitcher79 goes to thewell once too often, remember.”
“She’d be mad to go on with it,” I exclaimed.
“She’ll go on,” said Graves. “They always do. It’s a vice80, you know, they can’t let it alone.”
I shook my head with a shudder81. I asked if they needed me any longer, I wanted to get out into the air. Theatmosphere seemed tinged82 with evil.
“There’s nothing more, Mr. Burton,” said Nash. “Only keep your eyes open, and do as much propaganda as youcan—that is to say, urge on everyone that they’ve got to report any letter they receive.” I nodded.
“I should think everyone in the place has had one of the foul things by now,” I said.
“I wonder,” said Graves. He put his sad head a little on one side and asked, “You don’t know, definitely, of anyonewho hasn’t had a letter?”
“What an extraordinary question! The population at large isn’t likely to take me into their confidence.”
“No, no, Mr. Burton, I didn’t mean that. I just wondered if you knew of anyone person who quite definitely, to yourcertain knowledge, has not received an anonymous letter.”
“Well, as a matter of fact,” I hesitated, “I do, in a way.”
And I repeated my conversation with Emily Barton and what she had said.
Graves received the information with a wooden face and said: “Well, that may come in useful. I’ll note it down.”
I went out into the afternoon sunshine with Owen Griffith. Once in the street, I swore aloud.
“What kind of place is this for a man to come to lie in the sun and heal his wounds? It’s full of festering poison,this place, and it looks as peaceful and as innocent as the Garden of Eden.”
“Even there,” said Owen dryly, “there was one serpent.”
“Look here, Griffith, do they know anything? Have they got any idea?”
“I don’t know. They’ve got a wonderful technique, the police. They’re seemingly so frank, and they tell younothing.”
“Yes. Nash is a nice fellow.”
“And a very capable one.”
“If anyone’s batty in this place, you ought to know it.” I said accusingly.
Griffith shook his head. He looked discouraged. But he looked more than that—he looked worried. I wondered ifhe had an inkling of some kind.
We had been walking along the High Street. I stopped at the door of the house agents.
“I believe my second instalment of rent is due—in advance. I’ve got a good mind to pay it and clear out withJoanna right away. Forfeit83 the rest of the tenancy.”
“Don’t go,” said Owen.
“Why not?”
He didn’t answer. He said slowly after a minute or two,“After all—I dare say you’re right. Lymstock isn’t healthy just now. It might—it might harm you or—or yoursister.”
“Nothing harms Joanna,” I said. “She’s tough. I’m the weakly one. Somehow this business makes me sick.”
“It makes me sick,” said Owen.
I pushed the door of the house agents half open.
“But I shan’t go,” I said. “Vulgar curiosity is stronger than pusillanimity84. I want to know the solution.”
I went in.
A woman who was typing got up and came towards me. She had frizzy hair and simpered, but I found her moreintelligent than the spectacled youth who had previously85 held sway in the outer office.
A minute or two later something familiar about her penetrated86 through to my consciousness. It was Miss Ginch,lately Symmington’s lady clerk. I commented on the fact.
“You were with Galbraith and Symmington, weren’t you?” I said.
“Yes. Yes, indeed. But I thought it was better to leave. This is quite a good post, though not quite so well paid. Butthere are things that are more valuable than money, don’t you think so?”
“Undoubtedly,” I said.
“Those awful letters,” breathed Miss Ginch in a sibilant whisper. “I got a dreadful one. About me and Mr.
Symmington—oh, terrible it was, saying the most awful things! I knew my duty and I took it to the police, though ofcourse it wasn’t exactly pleasant for me, was it?”
“No, no, most unpleasant.”
“But they thanked me and said I had done quite right. But I felt that, after that, if people were talking—andevidently they must have been, or where did the writer get the idea from?—then I must avoid even the appearance ofevil, though there has never been anything at all wrong between me and Mr. Symmington.”
I felt rather embarrassed.
“No, no, of course not.”
“But people have such evil minds. Yes, alas87, such evil minds!”
Nervously88 trying to avoid it, I nevertheless met her eye, and I made a most unpleasant discovery.
Miss Ginch was thoroughly89 enjoying herself.
Already once today I had come across someone who reacted pleasurably to anonymous letters. Inspector Graves’senthusiasm was professional. Miss Ginch’s enjoyment90 I found merely suggestive and disgusting.
An idea flashed across my startled mind.
Had Miss Ginch written these letters herself?
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收听单词发音
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1
bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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stamina
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| n.体力；精力；耐力 | |
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suave
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| adj.温和的；柔和的；文雅的 | |
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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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7
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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condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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chronological
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| adj.按年月顺序排列的，年代学的 | |
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landmark
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| n.陆标，划时代的事，地界标 | |
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superintendent
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| n.监督人，主管，总监；(英国)警务长 | |
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personalities
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| n. 诽谤，（对某人容貌、性格等所进行的）人身攻击； 人身攻击；人格, 个性, 名人( personality的名词复数 ) | |
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16
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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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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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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20
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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incorrigible
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| adj.难以纠正的，屡教不改的 | |
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25
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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nourishment
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| n.食物，营养品；营养情况 | |
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sniff
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| vi.嗅…味道；抽鼻涕；对嗤之以鼻，蔑视 | |
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28
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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feminist
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| adj.主张男女平等的，女权主义的 | |
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30
abetter
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| n.教唆者，怂恿者 | |
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31
streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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32
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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actively
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| adv.积极地，勤奋地 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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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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38
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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39
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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40
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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41
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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42
warped
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| adj.反常的；乖戾的；（变）弯曲的；变形的v.弄弯，变歪( warp的过去式和过去分词 )；使（行为等）不合情理，使乖戾， | |
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43
mentality
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| n.心理，思想，脑力 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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distresses
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| n.悲痛( distress的名词复数 )；痛苦；贫困；危险 | |
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46
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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47
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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48
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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49
grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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50
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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51
conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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52
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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53
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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54
overlapping
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| adj./n.交迭（的） | |
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55
fingerprints
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| n.指纹( fingerprint的名词复数 )v.指纹( fingerprint的第三人称单数 ) | |
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56
inspector
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| n.检查员，监察员，视察员 | |
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57
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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58
lugubrious
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| adj.悲哀的，忧郁的 | |
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59
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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60
screed
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| n.长篇大论 | |
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61
vituperative
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| adj.谩骂的；斥责的 | |
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62
deft
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| adj.灵巧的，熟练的（a deft hand 能手） | |
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63
treadmill
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| n.踏车；单调的工作 | |
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64
enumerate
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| v.列举，计算，枚举，数 | |
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65
distinctive
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| adj.特别的，有特色的，与众不同的 | |
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66
postal
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| adj.邮政的，邮局的 | |
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67
recipient
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| a.接受的,感受性强的 n.接受者,感受者,容器 | |
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68
alignment
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| n.队列；结盟，联合 | |
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69
provenance
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| n.出处；起源 | |
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70
bucolic
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| adj.乡村的；牧羊的 | |
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71
arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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72
illiterate
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| adj.文盲的；无知的；n.文盲 | |
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73
fluency
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| n.流畅，雄辩，善辩 | |
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74
visualized
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| 直观的，直视的 | |
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75
prudish
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| adj.装淑女样子的，装规矩的，过分规矩的；adv.过分拘谨地 | |
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76
blackmail
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| n.讹诈，敲诈，勒索，胁迫，恫吓 | |
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77
remorseful
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| adj.悔恨的 | |
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78
mania
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| n.疯狂；躁狂症，狂热，癖好 | |
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79
pitcher
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| n.(有嘴和柄的)大水罐；(棒球)投手 | |
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80
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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81
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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82
tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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83
forfeit
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| vt.丧失；n.罚金，罚款，没收物 | |
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84
pusillanimity
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| n.无气力，胆怯 | |
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85
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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86
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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87
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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88
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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89
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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90
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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