IT hings never come when they are expected.
I was full of Joanna’s and my personal affairs and was quite taken aback the next morning when Nash’s voice saidover the telephone: “We’ve got her, Mr. Burton!”
I was so startled I nearly dropped the receiver.
“You mean the—”
He interrupted.
“Can you be overheard where you are?”
“No, I don’t think so—well, perhaps—”
It seemed to me that the baize door to the kitchen had swung open a trifle.
“Perhaps you’d care to come down to the station?”
“I will. Right away.”
I was at the police station in next to no time. In an inner room Nash and Sergeant1 Parkins were together. Nash waswreathed in smiles.
“It’s been a long chase,” he said. “But we’re there at last.”
He flicked2 a letter across the table. This time it was all typewritten. It was, of its kind, fairly mild.
“It’s no use thinking you’re going to step into a dead woman’s shoes. The whole town is laughing at you.
Get out now. Soon it will be too late. This is a warning. Remember what happened to that other girl. Getout and stay out.”
It finished with some mildly obscene language.
“That reached Miss Holland this morning,” said Nash.
“Thought it was funny she hadn’t had one before,” said Sergeant Parkins.
“Who wrote it?” I asked.
Some of the exultation3 faded out of Nash’s face.
He looked tired and concerned. He said soberly:
“I’m sorry about it, because it will hit a decent man hard, but there it is. Perhaps he’s had his suspicions already.”
“Who wrote it?” I reiterated4.
“Miss Aimée Griffith.”
II
Nash and Parkins went to the Griffiths’ house that afternoon with a warrant.
By Nash’s invitation I went with them.
“The doctor,” he said, “is very fond of you. He hasn’t many friends in this place. I think if it is not too painful toyou, Mr. Burton, that you might help him to bear up under the shock.”
I said I would come. I didn’t relish5 the job, but I thought I might be some good.
We rang the bell and asked for Miss Griffith and we were shown into the drawing room. Elsie Holland, Megan andSymmington were there having tea.
Nash behaved very circumspectly6.
He asked Aimée if he might have a few words with her privately7.
She got up and came towards us. I thought I saw just a faint hunted look in her eye. If so, it went again. She wasperfectly normal and hearty8.
“Want me? Not in trouble over my car lights again, I hope?”
She led the way out of the drawing room and across the hall into a small study.
As I closed the drawing room door, I saw Symmington’s head jerk up sharply. I supposed his legal training hadbrought him in contact with police cases, and he had recognized something in Nash’s manner. He half rose.
That is all I saw before I shut the door and followed the others.
Nash was saying his piece. He was very quiet and correct. He cautioned her and then told her that he must ask herto accompany him. He had a warrant for her arrest and he read out the charge—I forget now the exact legal term. It was the letters, not murder yet.
Aimée Griffith flung up her head and bayed with laughter. She boomed out: “What ridiculous nonsense! As thoughI’d write a packet of indecent stuff like that. You must be mad. I’ve never written a word of the kind.”
Nash had produced the letter to Elsie Holland. He said:
“Do you deny having written this, Miss Griffith?”
If she hesitated it was only for a split second.
“Of course I do. I’ve never seen it before.”
Nash said quietly: “I must tell you, Miss Griffith, that you were observed to type that letter on the machine at theWomen’s Institute between eleven and eleven thirty p.m. on the night before last. Yesterday you entered the postoffice with a bunch of letters in your hand—”
“I never posted this.”
“No, you did not. Whilst waiting for stamps, you dropped it inconspicuously on the floor, so that somebody shouldcome along unsuspectingly and pick it up and post it.”
“I never—”
The door opened and Symmington came in. He said sharply: “What’s going on? Aimée, if there is anything wrong,you ought to be legally represented. If you wish me—”
She broke then. Covered her face with her hands and staggered to a chair. She said:
“Go away, Dick, go away. Not you! Not you!”
“You need a solicitor9, my dear girl.”
“Not you. I—I—couldn’t bear it. I don’t want you to know—all this.”
He understood then, perhaps. He said quietly:
“I’ll get hold of Mildmay, of Exhampton. Will that do?”
She nodded. She was sobbing10 now.
Symmington went out of the room. In the doorway11 he collided with Owen Griffith.
“What’s this?” said Owen violently. “My sister—”
“I’m sorry, Dr. Griffith. Very sorry. But we have no alternative.”
“You think she—was responsible for those letters?”
“I’m afraid there is no doubt of it, sir,” said Nash—he turned to Aimée, “You must come with us now, please, MissGriffith—you shall have every facility for seeing a solicitor, you know.”
Owen cried: “Aimée?”
She brushed past him without looking at him.
She said: “Don’t talk to me. Don’t say anything. And for God’s sake don’t look at me!”
They went out. Owen stood like a man in a trance.
I waited a bit, then I came up to him. “If there’s anything I can do, Griffith, tell me.”
He said like a man in a dream:
“Aimée? I don’t believe it.”
“It may be a mistake,” I suggested feebly.
He said slowly: “She wouldn’t take it like that if it were. But I would never have believed it. I can’t believe it.”
He sank down on a chair. I made myself useful by finding a stiff drink and bringing it to him. He swallowed itdown and it seemed to do him good.
He said: “I couldn’t take it in at first. I’m all right now. Thanks, Burton, but there’s nothing you can do. Nothinganyone can do.”
The door opened and Joanna came in. She was very white.
She came over to Owen and looked at me.
She said: “Get out, Jerry. This is my business.”
As I went out of the door, I saw her kneel down by his chair.
III
I can’t tell you coherently the events of the next twenty-four hours. Various incidents stand out, unrelated to otherincidents.
I remember Joanna coming home, very white and drawn12, and of how I tried to cheer her up, saying:
“Now who’s being a ministering angel?”
And of how she smiled in a pitiful twisted way and said:
“He says he won’t have me, Jerry. He’s very, very proud and stiff!”
And I said: “My girl won’t have me, either….”
We sat there for a while, Joanna saying at last:
“The Burton family isn’t exactly in demand at the moment!”
I said, “Never mind, my sweet, we still have each other,” and Joanna said, “Somehow or other, Jerry, that doesn’tcomfort me much just now….”
IV
Owen came the next day and rhapsodied in the most fulsome13 way about Joanna. She was wonderful, marvellous! Theway she’d come to him, the way she was willing to marry him—at once if he liked. But he wasn’t going to let her dothat. No, she was too good, too fine to be associated with the kind of muck that would start as soon as the papers gothold of the news.
I was fond of Joanna, and knew she was the kind who’s all right when standing14 by in trouble, but I got rather boredwith all this highfalutin” stuff. I told Owen rather irritably15 not to be so damned noble.
I went down to the High Street and found everybody’s tongues wagging nineteen to the dozen. Emily Barton wassaying that she had never really trusted Aimée Griffith. The grocer’s wife was saying with gusto that she’d alwaysthought Miss Griffith had a queer look in her eye—They had completed the case against Aimée, so I learnt from Nash. A search of the house had brought to light thecut pages of Emily Barton’s book—in the cupboard under the stairs, of all places, wrapped up in an old roll ofwallpaper.
“And a jolly good place too,” said Nash appreciatively. “You never know when a prying16 servant won’t tamper17 witha desk or a locked drawer—but those junk cupboards full of last year’s tennis balls and old wallpaper are never openedexcept to shove something more in.”
“The lady would seem to have had a penchant18 for that particular hiding place,” I said.
“Yes. The criminal mind seldom has much variety. By the way, talking of the dead girl, we’ve got one fact to goupon. There’s a large heavy pestle19 missing from the doctor’s dispensary. I’ll bet anything you like that’s what she wasstunned with.”
“Rather an awkward thing to carry about,” I objected.
“Not for Miss Griffith. She was going to the Guides that afternoon, but she was going to leave flowers andvegetables at the Red Cross stall on the way, so she’d got a whopping great basket with her.”
“You haven’t found the skewer20?”
“No, and I shan’t. The poor devil may be mad, but she wasn’t mad enough to keep a bloodstained skewer just tomake it easy for us, when all she’d got to do was to wash it and return it to a kitchen drawer.”
“I suppose,” I conceded, “that you can’t have everything.”
The vicarage had been one of the last places to hear the news. Old Miss Marple was very much distressed21 by it.
She spoke22 to me very earnestly on the subject.
“It isn’t true, Mr. Burton. I’m sure it isn’t true.”
“It’s true enough, I’m afraid. They were lying in wait, you know. They actually saw her type that letter.”
“Yes, yes—perhaps they did. Yes, I can understand that.”
“And the printed pages from which the letters were cut were found where she’d hidden them in her house.”
Miss Marple stared at me. Then she said, in a very low voice: “But that is horrible—really wicked.”
Mrs. Dane Calthrop came up with a rush and joined us and said: “What’s the matter, Jane?” Miss Marple wasmurmuring helplessly:
“Oh dear, oh dear, what can one do?”
“What’s upset you, Jane?”
Miss Marple said: “There must be something. But I am so old and so ignorant, and I am afraid, so foolish.”
I felt rather embarrassed and was glad when Mrs. Dane Calthrop took her friend away.
I was to see Miss Marple again that afternoon, however. Much later when I was on my way home.
She was standing near the little bridge at the end of the village, near Mrs. Cleat’s cottage, and talking to Megan ofall people.
I wanted to see Megan. I had been wanting to see her all day. I quickened my pace. But as I came up to them,Megan turned on her heel and went off in the other direction.
It made me angry and I would have followed her, but Miss Marple blocked my way.
She said: “I wanted to speak to you. No, don’t go after Megan now. It wouldn’t be wise.”
I was just going to make a sharp rejoinder when she disarmed23 me by saying:
“That girl has great courage—a very high order of courage.”
I still wanted to go after Megan, but Miss Marple said:
“Don’t try and see her now. I do know what I am talking about. She must keep her courage intact.”
There was something about the old lady’s assertion that chilled me. It was as though she knew something that Ididn’t.
I was afraid and didn’t know why I was afraid.
I didn’t go home. I went back into the High Street and walked up and down aimlessly. I don’t know what I waswaiting for, nor what I was thinking about….
I got caught by that awful old bore Colonel Appleton. He asked after my pretty sister as usual and then went on:
“What’s all this about Griffith’s sister being mad as a hatter? They say she’s been at the bottom of this anonymousletter business that’s been such a confounded nuisance to everybody? Couldn’t believe it at first, but they say it’s quitetrue.”
I said it was true enough.
“Well, well—I must say our police force is pretty good on the whole. Give ’em time, that’s all, give ’em time.
Funny business this anonymous24 letter stunt—these desiccated old maids are always the ones who go in for it—thoughthe Griffith woman wasn’t bad looking even if she was a bit long in the tooth. But there aren’t any decent-looking girlsin this part of the world—except that governess girl of the Symmingtons. She’s worth looking at. Pleasant girl, too.
Grateful if one does any little thing for her. Came across her having a picnic or something with those kids not longago. They were romping25 about in the heather and she was knitting—ever so vexed26 she’d run out of wool. ‘Well,’ Isaid, ‘like me to run you into Lymstock? I’ve got to call for a rod of mine there. I shan’t be more than ten minutesgetting it, then I’ll run you back again.’ She was a bit doubtful about leaving the boys. ‘They’ll be all right,’ I said.
‘Who’s to harm them?’ Wasn’t going to have the boys along, no fear! So I ran her in, dropped her at the wool shop,picked her up again later and that was that. Thanked me very prettily27. Grateful and all that. Nice girl.”
I managed to get away from him.
It was after that, that I caught sight of Miss Marple for the third time. She was coming out of the police station.
VWhere do one’s fears come from? Where do they shape themselves? Where do they hide before coming out into theopen?
Just one short phrase. Heard and noted28 and never quite put aside:
“Take me away—it’s so awful being here—feeling so wicked….”
Why had Megan said that? What had she to feel wicked about?
There could be nothing in Mrs. Symmington’s death to make Megan feel wicked.
Why had the child felt wicked? Why? Why?
Could it be because she felt responsible in anyway?
Megan? Impossible! Megan couldn’t have had anything to do with those letters—those foul29 obscene letters.
Owen Griffith had known a case up North—a schoolgirl….
What had Inspector30 Graves said?
Something about an adolescent mind….
Innocent middle-aged31 ladies on operating tables babbling32 words they hardly knew. Little boys chalking up thingson walls.
No, no, not Megan.
Heredity? Bad blood? An unconscious inheritance of something abnormal? Her misfortune, not her fault, a curselaid upon her by a past generation?
“I’m not the wife for you. I’m better at hating than loving.”
Oh, my Megan, my little child. Not that! Anything but that. And that old Tabby is after you, she suspects. She saysyou have courage. Courage to do what?
It was only a brainstorm33. It passed. But I wanted to see Megan— I wanted to see her badly.
At half past nine that night I left the house and went down to the town and along to the Symmingtons.’
It was then that an entirely34 new idea came into my mind. The idea of a woman whom nobody had considered for amoment.
(Or had Nash considered her?)
Wildly unlikely, wildly improbable, and I would have said up to today impossible, too. But that was not so. No, notimpossible.
I redoubled my pace. Because it was now even more imperative35 that I should see Megan straightaway.
I passed through the Symmingtons’ gate and up to the house. It was a dark overcast36 night. A little rain wasbeginning to fall. The visibility was bad.
I saw a line of light from one of the windows. The little morning room?
I hesitated a moment or two, then instead of going up to the front door, I swerved37 and crept very quietly up to thewindow, skirting a big bush and keeping low.
The light came from a chink in the curtains which were not quite drawn. It was easy to look through and see.
It was a strangely peaceful and domestic scene. Symmington in a big armchair, and Elsie Holland, her head bent38,busily patching a boy’s torn shirt.
I could hear as well as see for the window was open at the top.
Elsie Holland was speaking.
“But I do think, really, Mr. Symmington, that the boys are quite old enough to go to boarding school. Not that Ishan’t hate leaving them because I shall. I’m ever so fond of them both.”
Symmington said: “I think perhaps you’re right about Brian, Miss Holland. I’ve decided39 that he shall start nextterm at Winhays—my old prep school. But Colin is a little young yet. I’d prefer him to wait another year.”
“Well of course I see what you mean. And Colin is perhaps a little young for his age—”
Quiet domestic talk—quiet domestic scene—and a golden head bent over needlework.
Then the door opened and Megan came in.
She stood very straight in the doorway, and I was aware at once of something tense and strung up about her. Theskin of her face was tight and drawn and her eyes were bright and resolute40. There was no diffidence about her tonightand no childishness.
She said, addressing Symmington, but giving him no title (and I suddenly reflected that I never heard her call himanything. Did she address him as father or as Dick or what?)“I would like to speak to you, please. Alone.”
Symmington looked surprised and, I fancied, not best pleased. He frowned, but Megan carried her point with adetermination unusual in her.
She turned to Elsie Holland and said:
“Do you mind, Elsie?”
“Oh, of course not,” Elsie Holland jumped up. She looked startled and a little flurried.
She went to the door and Megan came farther in so that Elsie passed her.
Just for a moment Elsie stood motionless in the doorway looking over her shoulder.
Her lips were closed, she stood quite still, one hand stretched out, the other clasping her needlework to her.
I caught my breath, overwhelmed by her beauty. When I think of her now, I always think of her like that—inarrested motion, with that matchless deathless perfection that belonged to ancient Greece.
Then she went out shutting the door.
Symmington said rather fretfully:
“Well, Megan, what is it? What do you want?”
Megan had come right up to the table. She stood there looking down at Symmington. I was struck anew by theresolute determination of her face and by something else—a hardness new to me.
Then she opened her lips and said something that startled me to the core.
“I want some money,” she said.
The request didn’t improve Symmington’s temper. He said sharply:
“Couldn’t you have waited until tomorrow morning? What’s the matter, do you think your allowance isinadequate?”
A fair man, I thought even then, open to reason, though not to emotional appeal.
Megan said: “I want a good deal of money.”
Symmington sat up straight in his chair. He said coldly:
“You will come of age in a few months’ time. Then the money left you by your grandmother will be turned over toyou by the public trustee.”
Megan said:
“You don’t understand. I want money from you.” She went on, speaking faster. “Nobody’s ever talked much to meabout my father. They’ve not wanted me to know about him. But I do know that he went to prison and I know why. Itwas for blackmail41!”
She paused.
“Well, I’m his daughter. And perhaps I take after him. Anyway, I’m asking you to give me money because—if youdon’t”—she stopped and then went on very slowly and evenly—“if you don’t—I shall say what I saw you doing to thecachet that day in my mother’s room.”
There was a pause. Then Symmington said in a completely emotionless voice:
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Megan said: “I think you do.”
And she smiled. It was not a nice smile.
Symmington got up. He went over to the writing desk. He took a cheque-book from his pocket and wrote out acheque. He blotted42 it carefully and then came back. He held it out to Megan.
“You’re grown up now,” he said. “I can understand that you may feel you want to buy something rather special inthe way of clothes and all that. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t pay attention. But here’s a cheque.”
Megan looked at it, then she said:
“Thank you. That will do to go on with.”
She turned and went out of the room. Symmington stared after her and at the closed door, then he turned round andas I saw his face I made a quick uncontrolled movement forward.
It was checked in the most extraordinary fashion. The big bush that I had noticed by the wall stopped being a bush.
Superintendent43 Nash’s arms went round me and Superintendent Nash’s voice just breathed in my ear:
“Quiet, Burton. For God’s sake.”
Then, with infinite caution he beat a retreat, his arm impelling44 me to accompany him.
Round the side of the house he straightened himself and wiped his forehead.
“Of course,” he said, “you would have to butt45 in!”
“That girl isn’t safe,” I said urgently. “You saw his face? We’ve got to get her out of here.”
Nash took a firm grip of my arm.
“Now, look here, Mr. Burton, you’ve got to listen.”
VI
Well, I listened.
I didn’t like it—but I gave in.
But I insisted on being on the spot and I swore to obey orders implicitly46.
So that is how I came with Nash and Parkins into the house by the back door which was already unlocked.
And I waited with Nash on the upstairs landing behind the velvet47 curtain masking the window alcove48 until theclocks in the house struck two, and Symmington’s door opened and he went across the landing and into Megan’sroom.
I did not stir or make a move for I knew that Sergeant Parkins was inside masked by the opening door, and I knewthat Parkins was a good man and knew his job, and I knew that I couldn’t have trusted myself to keep quiet and notbreak out.
And waiting there, with my heart thudding, I saw Symmington come out with Megan in his arms and carry herdownstairs, with Nash and myself a discreet49 distance behind him.
He carried her through to the kitchen and he had just arranged her comfortably with her head in the gas oven andhad turned on the gas when Nash and I came through the kitchen door and switched on the light.
And that was the end of Richard Symmington. He collapsed51. Even while I was hauling Megan out and turning offthe gas I saw the collapse50. He didn’t even try to fight. He knew he’d played and lost.
VII
Upstairs I sat by Megan’s bed waiting for her to come round and occasionally cursing Nash.
“How do you know she’s all right? It was too big a risk.”
Nash was very soothing52.
“Just a soporific in the milk she always had by her bed. Nothing more. It stands to reason, he couldn’t risk herbeing poisoned. As far as he’s concerned the whole business is closed with Miss Griffith’s arrest. He can’t afford tohave any mysterious death. No violence, no poison. But if a rather unhappy type of girl broods over her mother’ssuicide, and finally goes and puts her head in the gas oven—well, people just say that she was never quite normal andthe shock of her mother’s death finished her.”
I said, watching Megan:
“She’s a long time coming round.”
“You heard what Dr. Griffith said? Heart and pulse quite all right—she’ll just sleep and wake naturally. Stuff hegives a lot of his patients, he says.”
Megan stirred. She murmured something.
Superintendent Nash unobtrusively left the room.
Presently Megan opened her eyes. “Jerry.”
“Hallo, sweet.”
“Did I do it well?”
“You might have been blackmailing53 ever since your cradle!”
Megan closed her eyes again. Then she murmured:
“Last night—I was writing to you—in case anything went—went wrong. But I was too sleepy to finish. It’s overthere.”
I went across to the writing-table. In a shabby little blotter I found Megan’s unfinished letter.
“My dear Jerry,” it began primly54:
“I was reading my school Shakespeare and the sonnet55 that begins:
‘So are you to my thoughts as food to life
Or as sweet-season’d showers are to the ground.’
and I see that I am in love with you after all, because that is what I feel….”
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sergeant
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flicked
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的过去式和过去分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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exultation
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reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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circumspectly
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privately
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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solicitor
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sobbing
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doorway
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drawn
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fulsome
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standing
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irritably
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prying
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tamper
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penchant
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pestle
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skewer
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distressed
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spoke
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anonymous
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romping
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vexed
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prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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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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inspector
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| n.检查员，监察员，视察员 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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babbling
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| n.胡说，婴儿发出的咿哑声adj.胡说的v.喋喋不休( babble的现在分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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brainstorm
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| vi.动脑筋，出主意，想办法，献计，献策 | |
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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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imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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overcast
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| adj.阴天的，阴暗的，愁闷的；v.遮盖，（使）变暗，包边缝；n.覆盖，阴天 | |
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swerved
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| v.（使）改变方向，改变目的( swerve的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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blackmail
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| n.讹诈，敲诈，勒索，胁迫，恫吓 | |
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blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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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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impelling
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| adj.迫使性的，强有力的v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的现在分词 ) | |
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butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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implicitly
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| adv. 含蓄地, 暗中地, 毫不保留地 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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alcove
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| n.凹室 | |
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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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collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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53
blackmailing
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| 胁迫，尤指以透露他人不体面行为相威胁以勒索钱财( blackmail的现在分词 ) | |
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primly
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| adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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sonnet
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| n.十四行诗 | |
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