UNKNOWN FACTOR?
IW hen Giles came back from seeing Dr. Kennedy off, he found Gwenda sitting where he had left her. There was abright red patch on each of her cheeks, and her eyes looked feverish1. When she spoke2 her voice was harsh and brittle3.
“What’s the old catchphrase? Death or madness either way? That’s what this is—death or madness.”
“Gwenda—darling.” Giles went to her—put his arm round her. Her body felt hard and stiff.
“Why didn’t we leave it all alone? Why didn’t we? It was my own father who strangled her. And it was my ownfather’s voice I heard saying those words. No wonder it all came back—no wonder I was so frightened. My ownfather.”
“Wait, Gwenda—wait. We don’t really know—”
“Of course we know! He told Dr. Kennedy he had strangled his wife, didn’t he?”
“But Kennedy is quite positive he didn’t—”
“Because he didn’t find a body. But there was a body—and I saw it.”
“You saw it in the hall—not the bedroom.”
“What difference does that make?”
“Well, it’s queer, isn’t it? Why should Halliday say he strangled his wife in the bedroom if he actually strangled herin the hall?”
“Oh, I don’t know. That’s just a minor4 detail.”
“I’m not so sure. Pull your socks up, darling. There are some very funny points about the whole setup. We’ll takeit, if you like, that your father did strangle Helen. In the hall. What happened next?”
“He went off to Dr. Kennedy.”
“And told him he had strangled his wife in the bedroom, brought him back with him and there was no body in thehall—or in the bedroom. Dash it all, there can’t be a murder without a body. What had he done with the body?”
“Perhaps there was one and Dr. Kennedy helped him and hushed it all up—only of course he couldn’t tell us that.”
Giles shook his head.
“No, Gwenda—I don’t see Kennedy acting5 that way. He’s a hardheaded, shrewd, unemotional Scotsman. You’resuggesting that he’d be willing to put himself in jeopardy6 as an accessory after the fact. I don’t believe he would. He’ddo his best for Halliday by giving evidence as to his mental state—that, yes. But why should he stick his neck out tohush the whole thing up? Kelvin Halliday wasn’t any relation to him, nor a close friend. It was his own sister who hadbeen killed and he was clearly fond of her—even if he did show slight Victorian disapproval7 of her gay ways. It’s not,even, as though you were his sister’s child. No, Kennedy wouldn’t connive8 at concealing9 murder. If he did, there’sonly one possible way he could have set about it, and that would be deliberately10 to give a death certificate that she haddied of heart failure or something. I suppose he might have got away with that—but we know definitely that he didn’tdo that. Because there’s no record of her death in the Parish registers, and if he had done it, he would have told us thathis sister had died. So go on from there and explain, if you can, what happened to the body.”
“Perhaps my father buried it somewhere—in the garden?”
“And then went to Kennedy and told him he’d murdered his wife? Why? Why not rely on the story that she’d ‘lefthim’?”
Gwenda pushed back her hair from her forehead. She was less stiff and rigid11 now, and the patches of sharp colourwere fading.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “It does seem a bit screwy now you’ve put it that way. Do you think Dr. Kennedywas telling us the truth?”
“Oh yes—I’m pretty sure of it. From his point of view it’s a perfectly12 reasonable story. Dreams, hallucinations—finally a major hallucination. He’s got no doubt that it was a hallucination because, as we’ve just said, you can’t have amurder without a body. That’s where we’re in a different position from him. We know that there was a body.”
He paused and went on: “From his point of view, everything fits in. Missing clothes and suitcase, the farewell note.
And later, two letters from his sister.
Gwenda stirred.
“Those letters. How do we explain those?”
“We don’t—but we’ve got to. If we assume that Kennedy was telling us the truth (and as I say, I’m pretty sure thathe was), we’ve got to explain those letters.”
“I suppose they really were in his sister’s handwriting? He recognized it?”
“You know, Gwenda, I don’t believe that point would arise. It’s not like a signature on a doubtful cheque. If thoseletters were written in a reasonably close imitation of his sister’s writing, it wouldn’t occur to him to doubt them. He’salready got the preconceived idea that she’s gone away with someone. The letters just confirmed that belief. If he hadnever heard from her at all—why, then he might have got suspicious. All the same, there are certain curious pointsabout those letters that wouldn’t strike him, perhaps, but do strike me. They’re strangely anonymous13. No addressexcept a poste restante. No indication of who the man in the case was. A clearly stated determination to make a cleanbreak with all old ties. What I mean is, they’re exactly the kind of letters a murderer would devise if he wanted toallay any suspicions on the part of his victim’s family. It’s the old Crippen touch again. To get the letters posted fromabroad would be easy.”
“You think my father—”
“No—that’s just it—I don’t. Take a man who’s deliberately decided14 to get rid of his wife. He spreads rumoursabout her possible unfaithfulness. He stages her departure—note left behind, clothes packed and taken. Letters will bereceived from her at carefully spaced intervals15 from somewhere abroad. Actually he has murdered her quietly and puther, say, under the cellar floor. That’s one pattern of murder—and it’s often been done. But what that type of murdererdoesn’t do is to rush to his brother-in-law and say he’s murdered his wife and hadn’t they better go to the police? Onthe other hand, if your father was the emotional type of killer16, and was terribly in love with his wife and strangled herin a fit of frenzied17 jealousy—Othello fashion—(and that fits in with the words you heard) he certainly doesn’t packclothes and arrange for letters to come, before he rushes off to broadcast his crime to a man who isn’t the type likely tohush it up. It’s all wrong, Gwenda. The whole pattern is wrong.”
“Then what are you trying to get at, Giles?”
“I don’t know … It’s just that throughout it all, there seems to be an unknown factor—call him X. Someone whohasn’t appeared as yet. But one gets glimpses of his technique.”
“X?” said Gwenda wonderingly. Then her eyes darkened. “You’re making that up, Giles. To comfort me.”
“I swear I’m not. Don’t you see yourself that you can’t make a satisfactory outline to fit all the facts? We know thatHelen Halliday was strangled because you saw—”
He stopped.
“Good Lord! I’ve been a fool. I see it now. It covers everything. You’re right. And Kennedy’s right, too. Listen,Gwenda. Helen’s preparing to go away with a lover—who that is we don’t know.”
“X?”
Giles brushed her interpolation aside impatiently.
“She’s written her note to her husband—but at that moment he comes in, reads what she’s writing and goeshaywire. He crumples18 up the note, slings19 it into the wastebasket, and goes for her. She’s terrified, rushes out into thehall—he catches up with her, throttles20 her—she goes limp and he drops her. And then, standing21 a little way from her,he quotes those words from The Duchess of Malfi just as the child upstairs has reached the banisters and is peeringdown.”
“And after that?”
“The point is, that she isn’t dead. He may have thought she was dead—but she’s merely semisuffocated. Perhapsher lover comes round—after the frantic22 husband has started for the doctor’s house on the other side of the town, orperhaps she regains23 consciousness by herself. Anyway, as soon as she has come to, she beats it. Beats it quickly. Andthat explains everything. Kelvin’s belief that he has killed her. The disappearance24 of the clothes; packed and takenaway earlier in the day. And the subsequent letters which are perfectly genuine. There you are — that explainseverything.”
Gwenda said slowly, “It doesn’t explain why Kelvin said he had strangled her in the bedroom.”
“He was so het up, he couldn’t quite remember where it had all happened.”
Gwenda said: “I’d like to believe you. I want to believe … But I go on feeling sure—quite sure—that when Ilooked down she was dead—quite dead.”
“But how could you possibly tell? A child of barely three.”
She looked at him queerly.
“I think one can tell—better than if one was older. It’s like dogs—they know death and throw back their heads andhowl. I think children—know death….”
“That’s nonsense—that’s fantastic.”
The ring of the frontdoor bell interrupted him. He said, “Who’s that, I wonder?”
Gwenda looked dismayed.
“I quite forgot. It’s Miss Marple. I asked her to tea today. Don’t let’s go saying anything about all this to her.”
II
Gwenda was afraid that tea might prove a difficult meal—but Miss Marple fortunately seemed not to notice that herhostess talked a little too fast and too feverishly25, and that her gaiety was somewhat forced. Miss Marple herself wasgently garrulous—she was enjoying her stay in Dillmouth so much and—wasn’t it exciting?—some friends of friendsof hers had written to friends of theirs in Dillmouth, and as a result she had received some very pleasant invitationsfrom the local residents.
“One feels so much less of an outsider, if you know what I mean, my dear, if one gets to know some of the peoplewho have been established here for years. For instance, I am going to tea with Mrs. Fane—she is the widow of thesenior partner in the best firm of solicitors26 here. Quite an old-fashioned family firm. Her son is carrying it on now.”
The gentle gossiping voice went on. Her landlady27 was so kind—and made her so comfortable—“and reallydelicious cooking. She was for some years with my old friend Mrs. Bantry—although she does not come from thispart of the world herself—her aunt lived here for many years and she and her husband used to come here for holidays—so she knows a great deal of the local gossip. Do you find your gardener satisfactory, by the way? I hear that he isconsidered locally as rather a scrimshanker—more talk than work.”
“Talk and tea is his speciality,” said Giles. “He has about five cups of tea a day. But he works splendidly when weare looking.”
“Come out and see the garden,” said Gwenda.
They showed her the house and the garden, and Miss Marple made the proper comments. If Gwenda had feared hershrewd observation of something amiss, then Gwenda was wrong. For Miss Marple showed no cognizance of anythingunusual.
Yet, strangely enough, it was Gwenda who acted in an unpredictable manner. She interrupted Miss Marple in themidst of a little anecdote28 about a child and a seashell to say breathlessly to Giles:
“I don’t care—I’m going to tell her….”
Miss Marple turned her head attentively29. Giles started to speak, then stopped. Finally he said, “Well, it’s yourfuneral, Gwenda.”
And so Gwenda poured it all out. Their call on Dr. Kennedy and his subsequent call on them and what he had toldthem.
“That was what you meant in London, wasn’t it?” Gwenda asked breathlessly. “You thought, then, that—that myfather might be involved?”
Miss Marple said gently, “It occurred to me as a possibility—yes. ‘Helen’ might very well be a young stepmother—and in a case of—er—strangling, it is so often a husband who is involved.”
Miss Marple spoke as one who observes natural phenomena30 without surprise or emotion.
“I do see why you urged us to leave it alone,” said Gwenda. “Oh, and I wish now we had. But one can’t go back.”
“No,” said Miss Marple, “one can’t go back.”
“And now you’d better listen to Giles. He’s been making objections and suggestions.”
“All I say is,” said Giles, “that it doesn’t fit.”
And lucidly31, clearly, he went over the points as he had previously32 outlined them to Gwenda.
Then he particularized his final theory.
“If you’ll only convince Gwenda that that’s the only way it could have been.”
Miss Marple’s eyes went from him to Gwenda and back again.
“It is a perfectly reasonable hypothesis,” she said. “But there is always, as you yourself pointed33 out, Mr. Reed, thepossibility of X.”
“X!” said Gwenda.
“The unknown factor,” said Miss Marple. “Someone, shall we say, who hasn’t appeared yet—but whose presence,behind the obvious facts, can be deduced.”
“We’re going to the Sanatorium in Norfolk where my father died,” said Gwenda. “Perhaps we’ll find outsomething there.”
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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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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brittle
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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acting
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jeopardy
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disapproval
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connive
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concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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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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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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killer
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| n.杀人者，杀人犯，杀手，屠杀者 | |
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frenzied
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| a.激怒的；疯狂的 | |
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crumples
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| 压皱，弄皱( crumple的第三人称单数 )； 变皱 | |
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slings
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| 抛( sling的第三人称单数 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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throttles
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| n.控制油、气流的阀门( throttle的名词复数 )；喉咙，气管v.扼杀( throttle的第三人称单数 )；勒死；使窒息；压制 | |
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standing
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frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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regains
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disappearance
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feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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solicitors
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| 初级律师( solicitor的名词复数 ) | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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phenomena
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lucidly
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previously
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pointed
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