OVERTURE1
I n the afternoons it was the custom of Miss Jane Marple to unfold her second newspaper. Two newspapers weredelivered at her house every morning. The first one Miss Marple read while sipping2 her early morning tea, that is, if itwas delivered in time. The boy who delivered the papers was notably3 erratic4 in his management of time. Frequently,too, there was either a new boy or a boy who was acting5 temporarily as a stand-in for the first one. And each onewould have ideas of his own as to the geographical6 route that he should take in delivering. Perhaps it varied7 monotonyfor him. But those customers who were used to reading their paper early so that they could snap up the more saucyitems in the day’s news before departing for their bus, train or other means of progress to the day’s work wereannoyed if the papers were late, though the middle-aged8 and elderly ladies who resided peacefully in St. Mary Meadoften preferred to read a newspaper propped10 up on their breakfast table.
Today, Miss Marple had absorbed the front page and a few other items in the daily paper that she had nicknamed“the Daily All-Sorts,” this being a slightly satirical allusion11 to the fact that her paper, the Daily Newsgiver, owing to achange of proprietor12, to her own and to other of her friends’ great annoyance13, now provided articles on men’stailoring, women’s dress, female heartthrobs, competitions for children, and complaining letters from women and hadmanaged pretty well to shove any real news off any part of it but the front page, or to some obscure corner where itwas impossible to find it. Miss Marple, being old-fashioned, preferred her newspapers to be newspapers and give younews.
In the afternoon, having finished her luncheon14, treated herself to twenty minutes’ nap in a specially15 purchased,upright armchair which catered16 for the demands of her rheumatic back, she had opened The Times, which lent itselfstill to a more leisurely17 perusal18. Not that The Times was what it used to be. The maddening thing about The Times wasthat you couldn’t find anything anymore. Instead of going through from the front page and knowing where everythingelse was so that you passed easily to any special articles on subjects in which you were interested, there were nowextraordinary interruptions to this time-honoured programme. Two pages were suddenly devoted19 to travel in Capriwith illustrations. Sport appeared with far more prominence20 than it had ever had in the old days. Court news andobituaries were a little more faithful to routine. The births, marriages and deaths which had at one time occupied MissMarple’s attention first of all owing to their prominent position had migrated to a different part of The Times, thoughof late, Miss Marple noted22, they had come almost permanently23 to rest on the back page.
Miss Marple gave her attention first to the main news on the front page. She did not linger long on that because itwas equivalent to what she had already read this morning, though possibly couched in a slightly more dignifiedmanner. She cast her eye down the table of contents. Articles, comments, science, sport; then she pursued her usualplan, turned the paper over and had a quick run down the births, marriages and deaths, after which she proposed toturn to the page given to correspondence, where she nearly always found something to enjoy; from that she passed onto the Court Circular, on which page today’s news from the Sale Rooms could also be found. A short article onScience was often placed there but she did not propose to read that. It seldom made sense for her.
Having turned the paper over as usual to the births, marriages and deaths, Miss Marple thought to herself, as sooften before,“It’s sad really, but nowadays one is only interested in the deaths!”
People had babies, but the people who had babies were not likely to be even known by name to Miss Marple. Ifthere had been a column dealing24 with babies labelled as grandchildren, there might have been some chance of apleasurable recognition. She might have thought to herself,“Really, Mary Prendergast has had a third granddaughter!,” though even that perhaps might have been a bitremote.
She skimmed down Marriages, also with not a very close survey, because most of her old friends’ daughters orsons had married some years ago already. She came to the Deaths column, and gave that her more serious attention.
Gave it enough, in fact, so as to be sure she would not miss a name. Alloway, Angopastro, Arden, Barton, Bedshaw,Burgoweisser-(dear me, what a German name, but he seemed to be late of Leeds). Carpenter, Camperdown, Clegg.
Clegg? Now was that one of the Cleggs she knew? No, it didn’t seem to be. Janet Clegg. Somewhere in Yorkshire.
McDonald, McKenzie, Nicholson. Nicholson? No. Again not a Nicholson she knew. Ogg, Ormerod-that must be oneof the aunts, she thought. Yes, probably so. Linda Ormerod. No, she hadn’t known her. Quantril? Dear me, that mustbe Elizabeth Quantril. Eighty-five. Well, really! She had thought Elizabeth Quantril had died some years ago. Fancyher having lived so long! So delicate she’d always been, too. Nobody had expected her to make old bones. Race,Radley, Rafiel. Rafiel? Something stirred. That name was familiar. Rafiel. Belford Park, Maidstone. Belford Park,Maidstone. No, she couldn’t recall that address. No flowers. Jason Rafiel. Oh well, an unusual name. She supposedshe’d just heard it somewhere. Ross-Perkins. Now that might be-no, it wasn’t. Ryland? Emily Ryland. No. No, she’dnever known an Emily Ryland. Deeply loved by her husband and children. Well, very nice or very sad. Whicheverway you liked to look at it.
Miss Marple laid down her paper, glancing idly through the crossword25 while she puzzled to remember why thename Rafiel was familiar to her.
“It will come to me,” said Miss Marple, knowing from long experience the way old people’s memories worked.
“It’ll come to me, I have no doubt.”
She glanced out of the window towards the garden, withdrew her gaze and tried to put the garden out of her mind.
Her garden had been the source of great pleasure and also a great deal of hard work to Miss Marple for many, manyyears. And now, owing to the fussiness26 of doctors, working in the garden was forbidden to her. She’d once tried tofight this ban, but had come to the conclusion that she had, after all, better do as she was told. She had arranged herchair at such an angle as not to be easy to look out in the garden unless she definitely and clearly wished to seesomething in particular. She sighed, picked up her knitting bag and took out a small child’s woolly jacket in process ofcoming to a conclusion. The back was done and the front. Now she would have to get on with the sleeves. Sleeveswere always boring. Two sleeves, both alike. Yes, very boring. Pretty coloured pink wool, however. Pink wool. Nowwait a minute, where did that fit in? Yes-yes-it fitted in with that name she’d just read in the paper. Pink wool. Ablue sea. A Caribbean sea. A sandy beach. Sunshine. Herself knitting and-why, of course, Mr. Rafiel. That trip shehad made to the Caribbean. The island of St. Honoré. A treat from her nephew Raymond. And she remembered Joan,her niece-in-law, Raymond’s wife, saying:
“Don’t get mixed up in any more murders, Aunt Jane. It isn’t good for you.”
Well, she hadn’t wished to get mixed up in any murders, but it just happened. That was all. Simply because of anelderly Major with a glass eye who had insisted on telling her some very long and boring stories. Poor Major-nowwhat was his name? She’d forgotten that now. Mr. Rafiel and his secretary, Mrs.-Mrs. Walters, yes, Esther Walters,and his masseur-attendant, Jackson. It all came back. Well, well. Poor Mr. Rafiel. So Mr. Rafiel was dead. He hadknown he was going to die before very long. He had practically told her so. It seemed as though he had lasted longerthan the doctors had thought. He was a strong man, an obstinate27 man-a very rich man.
Miss Marple remained in thought, her knitting needles working regularly, but her mind not really on her knitting.
Her mind was on the late Mr. Rafiel, and remembering what she could remember about him. Not an easy man toforget, really. She could conjure28 his appearance up mentally quite well. Yes, a very definite personality, a difficultman, an irritable29 man, shockingly rude sometimes. Nobody ever resented his being rude, though. She remembered thatalso. They didn’t resent his being rude because he was so rich. Yes, he had been very rich. He had had his secretarywith him and a valet attendant, a qualified30 masseur. He had not been able to get about very well without help.
Rather a doubtful character that nurse-attendant had been, Miss Marple thought. Mr. Rafiel had been very rude tohim sometimes. He had never seemed to mind. And that, again, of course was because Mr. Rafiel was so rich.
“Nobody else would pay him half what I do,” Mr. Rafiel had said, “and he knows it. He’s good at his job, though.”
Miss Marple wondered whether Jackson?-Johnson? had stayed on with Mr. Rafiel. Stayed on for what must havebeen-another year? A year and three or four months. She thought probably not. Mr. Rafiel was one who liked achange. He got tired of people, tired of their ways, tired of their faces, tired of their voices.
Miss Marple understood that. She had felt the same sometimes. That companion of hers, that nice, attentive,maddening woman with her cooing voice.
“Ah,” said Miss Marple, “what a change for the better since-” oh dear, she’d forgotten her name now-Miss-Miss Bishop31?-no, not Miss Bishop. Oh dear, how difficult it was.
Her mind went back to Mr. Rafiel and to-no, it wasn’t Johnson, it had been Jackson, Arthur Jackson.
“Oh, dear,” said Miss Marple again, “I always get all the names wrong. And of course, it was Miss Knight32 I wasthinking of. Not Miss Bishop. Why do I think of her as Miss Bishop?” The answer came to her. Chess, of course. Achess piece. A knight. A bishop.
“I shall be calling her Miss Castle next time I think of her, I suppose, or Miss Rook. Though, really, she’s not thesort of person who would ever rook anybody. No, indeed. And now what was the name of that nice secretary that Mr.
Rafiel had. Oh yes, Esther Walters. That was right. I wonder what has happened to Esther Walters? She’d inheritedmoney? She would probably inherit money now.”
Mr. Rafiel, she remembered, had told her something about that, or she had-oh, dear, what a muddle33 things werewhen you tried to remember with any kind of exactitude. Esther Walters. It had hit her badly, that business in theCaribbean, but she would have got over it. She’d been a widow, hadn’t she? Miss Marple hoped that Esther Waltershad married again, some nice, kindly34, reliable man. It seemed faintly unlikely. Esther Walters, she thought, had hadrather a genius for liking35 the wrong kind of men to marry.
Miss Marple went back to thinking about Mr. Rafiel. No flowers, it had said. Not that she herself would havedreamed of sending flowers to Mr. Rafiel. He could buy up all the nurseries in England if he’d wanted to. Andanyway, they hadn’t been on those terms. They hadn’t been-friends, or on terms of affection. They had been-whatwas the word she wanted?-allies. Yes, they had been allies for a very short time. A very exciting time. And he hadbeen an ally worth having. She had known so. She’d known it as she had gone running through a dark, tropical nightin the Caribbean and had come to him. Yes, she remembered, she’d been wearing that pink wool-what used they tocall them when she was young?-a fascinator. That nice pink wool kind of shawl-scarf that she’d put round her head,and he had looked at her and laughed, and later when she had said-she smiled at the remembrance-one word shehad used and he had laughed, but he hadn’t laughed in the end. No, he’d done what she asked him and therefore-“Ah!” Miss Marple sighed, it had been, she had to admit it, all very exciting. And she’d never told her nephew ordear Joan about it because, after all, it was what they’d told her not to do, wasn’t it? Miss Marple nodded her head.
Then she murmured softly,
“Poor Mr. Rafiel, I hope he didn’t-suffer.”
Probably not. Probably he’d been kept by expensive doctors under sedatives36, easing the end. He had suffered agreat deal in those weeks in the Caribbean. He’d nearly always been in pain. A brave man.
A brave man. She was sorry he was dead because she thought that though he’d been elderly and an invalid37 and ill,the world had lost something through his going. She had no idea what he could have been like in business. Ruthless,she thought, and rude and overmastering and aggressive. A great attacker. But-but a good friend, she thought. Andsomewhere in him a deep kind of kindness that he was very careful never to show on the surface. A man she admiredand respected. Well, she was sorry he was gone and she hoped he hadn’t minded too much and that his passing hadbeen easy. And now he would be cremated38 no doubt and put in some large, handsome marble vault39. She didn’t evenknow if he’d been married. He had never mentioned a wife, never mentioned children. A lonely man? Or had his lifebeen so full that he hadn’t needed to feel lonely? She wondered.
She sat there quite a long time that afternoon, wondering about Mr. Rafiel. She had never expected to see him againafter she had returned to England and she never had seen him again. Yet in some queer way she could at any momenthave felt she was in touch with him. If he had approached her or had suggested that they meet again, feeling perhaps abond because of a life that had been saved between them, or of some other bond. A bond-“Surely,” said Miss Marple, aghast at an idea that had come into her mind, “there can’t be a bond of ruthlessnessbetween us?” Was she, Jane Marple-could she ever be-ruthless? “D’you know,” said Miss Marple to herself, “it’sextraordinary, I never thought about it before. I believe, you know, I could be ruthless….”
The door opened and a dark, curly head was popped in. It was Cherry, the welcome successor to Miss Bishop-Miss Knight.
“Did you say something?” said Cherry.
“I was speaking to myself,” said Miss Marple, “I just wondered if I could ever be ruthless.”
“What, you?” said Cherry. “Never! You’re kindness itself.”
“All the same,” said Miss Marple, “I believe I could be ruthless if there was due cause.”
“What would you call due cause?”
“In the cause of justice,” said Miss Marple.
“You did have it in for little Gary Hopkins I must say,” said Cherry. “When you caught him torturing his cat thatday. Never knew you had it in you to go for anyone like that! Scared him stiff, you did. He’s never forgotten it.”
“I hope he hasn’t tortured anymore cats.”
“Well, he’s made sure you weren’t about if he did,” said Cherry. “In fact I’m not at all sure as there isn’t other boysas got scared. Seeing you with your wool and the pretty things you knits and all that-anyone would think you weregentle as a lamb. But there’s times I could say you’d behave like a lion if you was goaded40 into it.”
Miss Marple looked a little doubtful. She could not quite see herself in the r?le in which Cherry was now castingher. Had she ever-she paused on the reflection, recalling various moments-there had been intense irritation41 withMiss Bishop-Knight. (Really, she must not forget names in this way.) But her irritation had shown itself in more orless ironical42 remarks. Lions, presumably, did not use irony43. There was nothing ironical about a lion. It sprang. Itroared. It used its claws, presumably it took large bites at its prey44.
“Really,” said Miss Marple, “I don’t think I have ever behaved quite like that.”
Walking slowly along her garden that evening with the usual feelings of vexation rising in her, Miss Marpleconsidered the point again. Possibly the sight of a plant of snapdragons recalled it to her mind. Really, she had told oldGeorge again and again that she only wanted sulphur-coloured antirrhinums, not that rather ugly purple shade thatgardeners always seemed so fond of. “Sulphur yellow,” said Miss Marple aloud.
Someone the other side of the railing that abutted45 on the lane past her house turned her head and spoke46.
“I beg your pardon? You said something?”
“I was talking to myself, I’m afraid,” said Miss Marple, turning to look over the railing.
This was someone she did not know, and she knew most people in St. Mary Mead9. Knew them by sight even if notpersonally. It was a thickset woman in a shabby but tough tweed skirt, and wearing good country shoes. She wore anemerald pullover and a knitted woollen scarf.
“I’m afraid one does at my age,” added Miss Marple.
“Nice garden you’ve got here,” said the other woman.
“Not particularly nice now,” said Miss Marple. “When I could attend to it myself-”
“Oh I know. I understand just what you feel. I suppose you’ve got one of those-I have a lot of names for them,mostly very rude-elderly chaps who say they know all about gardening. Sometimes they do, sometimes they don’tknow a thing about it. They come and have a lot of cups of tea and do a little very mild weeding. They’re quite nice,some of them, but all the same it does make one’s temper rise.” She added, “I’m quite a keen gardener myself.”
“Do you live here?” asked Miss Marple, with some interest.
“Well, I’m boarding with a Mrs. Hastings. I think I’ve heard her speak of you. You’re Miss Marple, aren’t you?”
“Oh yes.”
“I’ve come as a sort of companion-gardener. My name is Bartlett, by the way. Miss Bartlett. There’s not reallymuch to do there,” said Miss Bartlett. “She goes in for annuals and all that. Nothing you can really get your teethinto.” She opened her mouth and showed her teeth when making this remark. “Of course I do a few odd jobs as well.
Shopping, you know, and things like that. Anyway, if you want any time put in here, I could put in an hour or two foryou. I’d say I might be better than any chap you’ve got now.”
“That would be easy,” said Miss Marple. “I like flowers best. Don’t care so much for vegetables.”
“I do vegetables for Mrs. Hastings. Dull but necessary. Well, I’ll be getting along.” Her eyes swept over MissMarple from head to foot, as though memorizing her, then she nodded cheerfully and tramped off.
Mrs. Hastings? Miss Marple couldn’t remember the name of any Mrs. Hastings. Certainly Mrs. Hastings was notan old friend. She had certainly never been a gardening chum. Ah, of course, it was probably those newly built housesat the end of Gibraltar Road. Several families had moved in in the last year. Miss Marple sighed, looked again withannoyance at the antirrhinums, saw several weeds which she yearned47 to root up, one or two exuberant48 suckers shewould like to attack with her secateurs, and finally, sighing, and manfully resisting temptation, she made a detourround by the lane and returned to her house. Her mind recurred49 again to Mr. Rafiel. They had been, he and she-whatwas the title of that book they used to quote so much when she was young? Ships that pass in the night. Rather apt itwas really, when she came to think of it. Ships that pass in the night … It was in the night that she had gone to him toask-no, to demand-help. To insist, to say no time must be lost. And he had agreed, and put things in train at once!
Perhaps she had been rather lionlike on that occasion? No. No, that was quite wrong. It had not been anger she hadfelt. It had been insistence50 on something that was absolutely imperative51 to be put in hand at once. And he’dunderstood.
Poor Mr. Rafiel. The ship that had passed in the night had been an interesting ship. Once you got used to his beingrude, he might have been quite an agreeable man? No! She shook her head. Mr. Rafiel could never have been anagreeable man. Well, she must put Mr. Rafiel out of her head.
Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing;Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness.
She would probably never think of him again. She would look out perhaps to see if there was an obituary52 of him inThe Times. But she did not think it was very likely. He was not a very well known character, she thought. Not famous.
He had just been very rich. Of course, many people did have obituaries21 in the paper just because they were very rich;but she thought that Mr. Rafiel’s richness would possibly not have been of that kind. He had not been prominent inany great industry, he had not been a great financial genius, or a noteworthy banker. He had just all his life madeenormous amounts of money….
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overture
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| n.前奏曲、序曲，提议，提案，初步交涉 | |
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sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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notably
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| adv.值得注意地，显著地，尤其地，特别地 | |
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erratic
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| adj.古怪的，反复无常的，不稳定的 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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geographical
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| adj.地理的；地区(性)的 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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mead
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| n.蜂蜜酒 | |
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propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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catered
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| 提供饮食及服务( cater的过去式和过去分词 )； 满足需要，适合 | |
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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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prominence
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| n.突出；显著；杰出；重要 | |
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obituaries
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| 讣告，讣闻( obituary的名词复数 ) | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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crossword
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| n.纵横字谜，纵横填字游戏 | |
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fussiness
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| [医]易激怒 | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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conjure
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| v.恳求，祈求；变魔术，变戏法 | |
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irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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muddle
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| n.困惑，混浊状态；vt.使混乱，使糊涂，使惊呆；vi.胡乱应付，混乱 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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sedatives
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| n.镇静药，镇静剂( sedative的名词复数 ) | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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cremated
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| v.火葬，火化（尸体）( cremate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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goaded
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| v.刺激( goad的过去式和过去分词 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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abutted
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| v.（与…）邻接( abut的过去式和过去分词 )；（与…）毗连；接触；倚靠 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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48
exuberant
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| adj.充满活力的；（植物）繁茂的 | |
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49
recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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50
insistence
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| n.坚持；强调；坚决主张 | |
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51
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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52
obituary
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| n.讣告，死亡公告；adj.死亡的 | |
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