THE THREE SISTERS
M iss Marple stood looking out of a window. Behind her, on the bed, was her suitcase. She looked out over the gardenwith unseeing eyes. It was not often that she failed to see a garden she was looking at, in either a mood of admirationor a mood of criticism. In this case it would presumably have been criticism. It was a neglected garden, a garden onwhich little money had been spent possibly for some years, and on which very little work had been done. The house,too, had been neglected. It was well proportioned, the furniture in it had been good furniture once, but had had little inlate years of polishing or attention. It was not a house, she thought, that had been, at any rate of late years, loved inany way. It lived up to its name: The Old Manor1 House. A house, built with grace and a certain amount of beauty,lived in once, cherished. The daughters and sons had married and left and now it was lived in by Mrs. Glynne who,from a word she had let fall when she showed Miss Marple up to the bedroom appointed to her, had inherited it withher sisters from an uncle and had come here to live with her sisters after her husband had died. They had all grownolder, their incomes had dwindled2, labour had been more difficult to get.
The other sisters, presumably, had remained unmarried, one older, one younger than Mrs. Glynne, two MissBradbury-Scotts.
There was no sign of anything which belonged to a child in the house. No discarded ball, no old perambulator, nolittle chair or a table. This was just a house with three sisters.
“Sounds very Russian,” murmured Miss Marple to herself. She did mean The Three Sisters, didn’t she? Chekhov,was it? Or Dostoyevsky? Really, she couldn’t remember. Three sisters. But these would certainly not be the kind ofthree sisters who were yearning3 to go to Moscow. These three sisters were presumably, she was almost sure they were,content to remain where they were. She had been introduced to the other two who had come, one out of the kitchenand one down a flight of stairs, to welcome her. Their manners were well-bred and gracious. They were what MissMarple would have called in her youth by the now obsolete4 term “ladies”—and what she once recalled calling“decayed ladies.” Her father had said to her:
“No, dear Jane, not decayed. Distressed5 gentlewomen.”
Gentlewomen nowadays were not so liable to be distressed. They were aided by Government or by Societies or bya rich relation. Or, perhaps—by someone like Mr. Rafiel. Because, after all, that was the whole point, the whole reasonfor her being here, wasn’t it? Mr. Rafiel had arranged all this. He had taken, Miss Marple thought, a good deal oftrouble about it. He had known, presumably, some four or five weeks before his death, just when that death was likelyto be, give and take a little, since doctors were usually moderately optimistic, knowing from experience that patientswho ought to die within a certain period very often took an unexpected lease of life and lingered on, still doomed6, butobstinately declining to take the final step. On the other hand, hospital nurses when in charge of patients, had, MissMarple thought from her experience, always expected the patients to be dead the next day, and were much surprisedwhen they were not. But in voicing their gloomy views to Doctor, when he came, they were apt to receive in reply asthe doctor went out of the hall door, a private aside of, “Linger a few weeks yet, I shouldn’t wonder.” Very nice ofDoctor to be so optimistic, Nurse would think, but surely Doctor was wrong. Doctor very often wasn’t wrong. Heknew that people who were in pain, helpless, crippled, even unhappy, still liked living and wanting to live. Theywould take one of Doctor’s pills to help them pass the night, but they had no intention of taking a few more thannecessary of Doctor’s pills, just in order to pass the threshold to a world that they did not as yet know anything about!
Mr. Rafiel. That was the person Miss Marple was thinking about as she looked across the garden with unseeingeyes. Mr. Rafiel? She felt now that she was getting a little closer to understanding the task laid upon her, the projectsuggested to her. Mr. Rafiel was a man who made plans. Made them in the same way that he planned financial dealsand takeovers. In the words of her servant, Cherry, he had had a problem. When Cherry had a problem, she often cameand consulted Miss Marple about it.
This was a problem that Mr. Rafiel could not deal with himself, which must have annoyed him very much, MissMarple thought, because he could usually deal with any problem himself and insisted on doing so. But he wasbedridden and dying. He could arrange his financial affairs, communicate with his lawyers, with his employees andwith such friends and relations as he had, but there was something or someone that he had not arranged for. A problemhe had not solved, a problem he still wanted to solve, a project he still wanted to bring about. And apparently7 it wasnot one that could be settled by financial aid, by business dealings, by the services of a lawyer.
“So he thought of me,” said Miss Marple.
It still surprised her very much. Very much indeed. However, in the sense she was now thinking of it, his letter hadbeen quite explicit8. He had thought she had certain qualifications for doing something. It had to do, she thought onceagain, with something in the nature of crime or affected9 by crime. The only other thing he knew about Miss Marplewas that she was devoted10 to gardens. Well it could hardly be a gardening problem that he wanted her to solve. But hemight think of her in connection with crime. Crime in the West Indies and crimes in her own neighbourhood at home.
A crime—where?
Mr. Rafiel had made arrangements. Arrangements, to begin with, with his lawyers. They had done their part. Afterthe right interval11 of time they had forwarded to her his letter. It had been, she thought, a well considered and wellthought out letter. It would have been simpler, certainly, to tell her exactly what he wanted her to do and why hewanted it. She was surprised in a way that he had not, before his death, sent for her, probably in a somewhatperemptory way and more or less lying on what he would have assured her was his deathbed, and would then havebullied her until she consented to do what he was asking her. But no, that would not really have been Mr. Rafiel’s way,she thought. He could bully12 people, none better, but this was not a case for bullying13, and he did not wish either, shewas sure, to appeal to her, to beg her to do him a favour, to urge her to redress14 a wrong. No. That again would nothave been Mr. Rafiel’s way. He wanted, she thought, as he had probably wanted all his life, to pay for what herequired. He wanted to pay her and therefore he wanted to interest her enough to enjoy doing certain work. The paywas offered to intrigue15 her, not really to tempt16 her. It was to arouse her interest. She did not think that he had said tohimself, “Offer enough money and she’ll leap at it” because, as she knew very well herself, the money sounded veryagreeable but she was not in urgent need of money. She had her dear and affectionate nephew who, if she was in straitsfor money of any kind, if she needed repairs to her house or a visit to a specialist or special treats, dear Raymondwould always provide them. No. The sum he offered was to be exciting. It was to be exciting in the same way as it wasexciting when you had a ticket for the Irish Sweep. It was a fine big sum of money that you could never achieve byany other means except luck.
But all the same, Miss Marple thought to herself, she would need some luck as well as hard work, she wouldrequire a lot of thought and pondering and possibly what she was doing might involve a certain amount of danger. Butshe’d got to find out herself what it was all about, he wasn’t going to tell her, partly perhaps because he did not want toinfluence her? It is hard to tell anyone about something without letting slip your own point of view about it. It could bethat Mr. Rafiel had thought that his own point of view might be wrong. It was not very like him to think such a thing,but it could be possible. He might suspect that his judgment17, impaired18 by illness, was not quite as good as it used tobe. So she, Miss Marple, his agent, his employee, was to make her own guesses, come to her own conclusions. Well, itwas time she came to a few conclusions now. In other words, back to the old question, what was all this about?
She had been directed. Let her take that first. She had been directed by a man who was now dead. She had beendirected away from St. Mary Mead19. Therefore, the task, whatever it must be, could not be attacked from there. It wasnot a neighbourhood problem, it was not a problem that you could solve just by looking through newspaper cuttings ormaking enquiries, not, that is, until you found what you had to make enquiries about. She had been directed, first to thelawyer’s office, then to read a letter—two letters—in her home, then to be sent on a pleasant and well run tour roundsome of the Famous Houses and Gardens of Great Britain. From that she had come to the next stepping stone. Thehouse she was in at this moment. The Old Manor House, Jocelyn St. Mary, where lived Miss Clotilde Bradbury-Scott,Mrs. Glynne and Miss Anthea Bradbury-Scott. Mr. Rafiel had arranged that, arranged it beforehand. Some weeksbefore he died. Probably it was the next thing he had done after instructing his lawyers and after booking a seat on thetour in her name. Therefore, she was in this house for a purpose. It might be for only two nights, it might be for longer.
There might be certain things arranged which would lead her to stay longer or she would be asked to stay longer. Thatbrought her back to where she stood now.
Mrs. Glynne and her two sisters. They must be concerned, implicated20 in whatever this was. She would have to findout what it was. The time was short. That was the only trouble. Miss Marple had no doubt for one moment that shehad the capacity to find out things. She was one of those chatty, fluffy21 old ladies whom other people expect to talk, toask questions that were, on the face of it, merely gossipy questions. She would talk about her childhood and thatwould lead to one of the sisters talking about theirs. She’d talk about food she had eaten, servants she had had,daughters and cousins and relations, travel, marriages, births and—yes—deaths. There must be no show of specialinterest in her eyes when she heard about a death. Not at all. Almost automatically she was sure she could come upwith the right response such as, “Oh dear me, how very sad!” She would have to find out relationships, incidents, lifestories, see if any suggestive incidents would pop up, so to speak. It might be some incidents in the neighbourhood,not directly concerned with these three people. Something they could know about, talk about, or were pretty sure totalk about. Anyway, there would be something here, some clue, some pointer. The second day from now she wouldrejoin the tour unless she had by that time some indication that she was not to rejoin the tour. Her mind swept from thehouse to the coach and the people who had sat in it. It might be that what she was seeking had been there in the coach,and would be there again when she rejoined it. One person, several people, some innocent (some not so innocent),some long past story. She frowned a little, trying to remember something. Something that had flashed in her mind thatshe had thought: Really I am sure—of what had she been sure?
Her mind went back to the three sisters. She must not be too long up here. She must unpack22 a few modest needs fortwo nights, something to change into this evening, night clothes, sponge bag, and then go down and rejoin herhostesses and make pleasant talk. A main point had to be decided23. Were the three sisters to be her allies or were thethree sisters enemies? They might fall into either category. She must think about that carefully.
There was a tap on the door and Mrs. Glynne entered.
“I do hope you will be quite comfortable here. Can I help you to unpack? We have a very nice woman who comesin but she is only here in the morning. But she’ll help you with anything.”
“Oh no, thank you,” said Miss Marple. “I only took out just a few necessities.”
“I thought I’d show you the way downstairs again. It’s rather a rambling24 house, you know. There are two staircasesand it does make it a little difficult. Sometimes people lose their way.”
“Oh, it’s very kind of you,” said Miss Marple.
“I hope then you will come downstairs and we will have a glass of sherry before lunch.”
Miss Marple accepted gratefully and followed her guide down the stairs. Mrs. Glynne, she judged, was a goodmany years younger than she herself was. Fifty, perhaps. Not much more. Miss Marple negotiated the stairs carefully,her left knee was always a little uncertain. There was, however, a banister at one side of the stairs. Very beautifulstairs they were, and she remarked on them.
“It is really a very lovely house,” she said. “Built I suppose in the 1700s. Am I right?”
“1780,” said Mrs. Glynne.
She seemed pleased with Miss Marple’s appreciation25. She took Miss Marple into the drawing room. A largegraceful room. There were one or two rather beautiful pieces of furniture. A Queen Anne desk and a William andMary oystershell bureau. There were also some rather cumbrous Victorian settees and cabinets. The curtains were ofchintz, faded and somewhat worn, the carpet was, Miss Marple thought, Irish. Possibly a Limerick Aubusson type.
The sofa was ponderous26 and the velvet27 of it much worn. The other two sisters were already sitting there. They rose asMiss Marple came in and approached her, one with a glass of sherry, the other directing her to a chair.
“I don’t know whether you like sitting rather high? So many people do.”
“I do,” said Miss Marple. “It’s so much easier. One’s back, you know.”
The sisters appeared to know about the difficulties of backs. The eldest28 of the sisters was a tall handsome woman,dark with a black coil of hair. The other one might have been a good deal younger. She was thin with grey hair thathad once been fair hanging untidily on her shoulders and a faintly wraithlike29 appearance. She could be castsuccessfully as a mature Ophelia, Miss Marple thought.
Clotilde, Miss Marple thought, was certainly no Ophelia, but she would have made a magnificent Clytemnestra—she could have stabbed a husband in his bath with exultation30. But since she had never had a husband, that solutionwouldn’t do. Miss Marple could not see her murdering anyone else but a husband — and there had been noAgamemnon in this house.
Clotilde Bradbury-Scott, Anthea Bradbury-Scott, Lavinia Glynne. Clotilde was handsome, Lavinia was plain butpleasant-looking, Anthea had one eyelid31 which twitched32 from time to time. Her eyes were large and grey and she hadan odd way of glancing round to right and then to left, and then suddenly, in a rather strange manner, behind her overher shoulder. It was as though she felt someone was watching her all the time. Odd, thought Miss Marple. Shewondered a little about Anthea.
They sat down and conversation ensued. Mrs. Glynne left the room, apparently for the kitchen. She was, it seemed,the active domestic one of the three. The conversation took a usual course. Clotilde Bradbury-Scott explained that thehouse was a family one. It had belonged to her great-uncle and then to her uncle and when he had died it was left toher and her two sisters who had joined her there.
“He only had one son, you see,” explained Miss Bradbury-Scott, “and he was killed in the war. We are really thelast of the family, except for some very distant cousins.”
“A beautifully proportioned house,” said Miss Marple. “Your sister tells me it was built about 1780.”
“Yes, I believe so. One could wish, you know, it was not quite so large and rambling.”
“Repairs too,” said Miss Marple, “come very heavy nowadays.”
“Oh yes, indeed,” Clotilde sighed. “And in many ways we have to let a lot of it just fall down. Sad, but there it is.
A lot of the outhouses, for instance, and a greenhouse. We had a very beautiful big greenhouse.”
“Lovely muscat grapevine in it,” said Anthea. “And Cherry Pie used to grow all along the walls inside. Yes, Ireally regret that very much. Of course, during the war one could not get any gardeners. We had a very younggardener and then he was called up. One does not of course grudge33 that, but all the same it was impossible to getthings repaired and so the whole greenhouse fell down.”
“So did the little conservatory34 near the house.”
Both sisters sighed, with the sighing of those who have noted35 time passing, and times changing—but not for thebetter.
There was a melancholy36 here in this house, thought Miss Marple. It was impregnated somehow with sorrow—asorrow that could not be dispersed37 or removed since it had penetrated38 too deep. It had sunk in … She shiveredsuddenly.
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1
manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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dwindled
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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obsolete
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| adj.已废弃的，过时的 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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explicit
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| adj.详述的，明确的；坦率的；显然的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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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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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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bully
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| n.恃强欺弱者，小流氓；vt.威胁，欺侮 | |
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bullying
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| v.恐吓，威逼( bully的现在分词 )；豪；跋扈 | |
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redress
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| n.赔偿，救济，矫正；v.纠正，匡正，革除 | |
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intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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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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impaired
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| adj.受损的；出毛病的；有（身体或智力）缺陷的v.损害，削弱( impair的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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mead
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| n.蜂蜜酒 | |
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implicated
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| adj.密切关联的；牵涉其中的 | |
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fluffy
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| adj.有绒毛的，空洞的 | |
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unpack
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| vt.打开包裹（或行李），卸货 | |
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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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rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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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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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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wraithlike
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exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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eyelid
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| n.眼睑，眼皮 | |
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twitched
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| vt.& vi.（使）抽动，（使）颤动（twitch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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conservatory
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| n.温室，音乐学院；adj.保存性的，有保存力的 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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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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dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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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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