RICHARD ERSKINE
IA nstell Manor1 had a bleak2 aspect. It was a white house, set against a background of bleak hills. A winding3 drive ledup through dense4 shrubbery.
Giles said to Gwenda, “Why have we come? What can we possibly say?”
“We’ve got it worked out.”
“Yes—so far as that goes. It’s lucky that Miss Marple’s cousin’s sister’s aunt’s brother-in-law or whatever it waslives near here … But it’s a far step from a social call to asking your host about his bygone love affairs.”
“And such a long time ago. Perhaps—perhaps he doesn’t even remember her.”
“Perhaps he doesn’t. And perhaps there never was a love affair.”
“Giles, are we making unutterable fools of ourselves?”
“I don’t know … Sometimes I feel that. I don’t see why we’re concerning ourselves with all this. What does itmatter now?”
“So long after … Yes, I know … Miss Marple and Dr. Kennedy both said, “Leave it alone.” Why don’t we, Giles?
What makes us go on? Is it her?”
“Her?”
“Helen. Is that why I remember? Is my childish memory the only link she’s got with life—with truth? Is it Helenwho’s using me—and you—so that the truth will be known?”
“You mean, because she died a violent death—?”
“Yes. They say—books say—that sometimes they can’t rest….”
“I think you’re being fanciful, Gwenda.”
“Perhaps I am. Anyway, we can—choose. This is only a social call. There’s no need for it to be anything more—unless we want it to be—”
Giles shook his head.
“We shall go on. We can’t help ourselves.”
“Yes—you’re right. All the same, Giles, I think I’m rather frightened—”
II
“Looking for a house, are you?” said Major Erskine.
He offered Gwenda a plate of sandwiches. Gwenda took one, looking up at him. Richard Erskine was a small man,five foot nine or so. His hair was grey and he had tired, rather thoughtful eyes. His voice was low and pleasant with aslight drawl. There was nothing remarkable5 about him, but he was, Gwenda thought, definitely attractive … He wasactually not nearly as good-looking as Walter Fane, but whereas most women would pass Fane without a secondglance, they would not pass Erskine. Fane was nondescript. Erskine, in spite of his quietness, had personality. Hetalked of ordinary things in an ordinary manner, but there was something—that something that women are quick torecognize and to which they react in a purely6 female way. Almost unconsciously Gwenda adjusted her skirt, tweakedat a side curl, retouched her lips. Nineteen years ago Helen Kennedy could have fallen in love with this man. Gwendawas quite sure of that.
She looked up to find her hostess’s eyes full upon her, and involuntarily she flushed. Mrs. Erskine was talking toGiles, but she was watching Gwenda and her glance was both appraising7 and suspicious. Janet Erskine was a tallwoman, her voice was deep—almost as deep as a man’s. Her build was athletic8, she wore a well-cut tweed with bigpockets. She looked older than her husband, but, Gwenda decided9, well might not be so. There was a certainhaggardness about her face. An unhappy, hungry woman, thought Gwenda.
I bet she gives him Hell, she said to herself.
Aloud she continued the conversation.
“House-hunting is terribly discouraging,” she said. “House agents’ descriptions are always glowing—and then,when you actually get there, the place is quite unspeakable.”
“You’re thinking of settling down in this neighbourhood?”
“Well—this is one of the neighbourhoods we thought of. Really because it’s near Hadrian’s Wall. Giles has alwaysbeen fascinated by Hadrian’s Wall. You see—it sounds rather odd, I expect, to you—but almost anywhere in Englandis the same to us. My own home is in New Zealand and I haven’t any ties here. And Giles was taken in by differentaunts for different holidays and so hasn’t any particular ties either. The one thing we don’t want is to be too nearLondon. We want the real country.”
Erskine smiled.
“You’ll certainly find it real country all round here. It’s completely isolated10. Our neighbours are few and farbetween.”
Gwenda thought she detected an undercurrent of bleakness11 in the pleasant voice. She had a sudden glimpse of alonely life—of short dark winter days with the wind whistling in the chimneys—the curtains drawn13—shut in—shut inwith that woman with the hungry, unhappy eyes—and neighbours few and far between.
Then the vision faded. It was summer again, with the french windows open to the garden—with the scent14 of rosesand the sounds of summer drifting in.
She said: “This is an old house, isn’t it?”
Erskine nodded.
“Queen Anne. My people have lived here for nearly three hundred years.”
“It’s a lovely house. You must be very proud of it.”
“It’s rather a shabby house now. Taxation15 makes it difficult to keep anything up properly. However, now thechildren are out in the world, the worst strain is over.”
“How many children have you?”
“Two boys. One’s in the Army. The other’s just come down from Oxford16. He’s going into a publishing firm.”
His glance went to the mantelpiece and Gwenda’s eyes followed his. There was a photograph there of two boys—presumably about eighteen and nineteen, taken a few years ago, she judged. There was pride and affection in hisexpression.
“They’re good lads,” he said, “though I say it myself.”
“They look awfully17 nice,” said Gwenda.
“Yes,” said Erskine. “I think it’s worth it—really. Making sacrifices for one’s children, I mean,” he added inanswer to Gwenda’s enquiring18 look.
“I suppose—often—one has to give up a good deal,” said Gwenda.
“A great deal sometimes….”
Again she caught a dark undercurrent, but Mrs. Erskine broke in, saying in her deep authoritative19 voice, “And youare really looking for a house in this part of the world? I’m afraid I don’t know of anything at all suitable round here.”
And wouldn’t tell me if you did, thought Gwenda, with a faint spurt20 of mischief21. That foolish old woman isactually jealous, she thought. Jealous because I’m talking to her husband and because I’m young and attractive!
“It depends how much of a hurry you’re in,” said Erskine.
“No hurry at all really,” said Giles cheerfully. “We want to be sure of finding something we really like. At themoment we’ve got a house in Dillmouth—on the south coast.”
Major Erskine turned away from the tea table. He went to get a cigarette box from a table by the window.
“Dillmouth,” said Mrs. Erskine. Her voice was expressionless. Her eyes watched the back of her husband’s head.
“Pretty little place,” said Giles. “Do you know it at all?”
There was a moment’s silence, then Mrs. Erskine said in that same expressionless voice, “We spent a few weeksthere one summer—many, many years ago. We didn’t care for it—found it too relaxing.”
“Yes,” said Gwenda. “That’s just what we find. Giles and I feel we’d prefer more bracing22 air.”
Erskine came back with the cigarettes. He offered the box to Gwenda.
“You’ll find it bracing enough round here,” he said. There was a certain grimness in his voice.
Gwenda looked up at him as he lighted her cigarette for her.
“Do you remember Dillmouth at all well?” she asked artlessly.
His lips twitched23 in what she guessed to be a sudden spasm24 of pain. In a noncommittal voice he answered, “Quitewell, I think. We stayed—let me see—at the Royal George—no, Royal Clarence Hotel.”
“Oh yes, that’s the nice old-fashioned one. Our house is quite near there. Hillside it’s called, but it used to be calledSt.—St.—Mary’s, was it, Giles?”
“St. Catherine’s,” said Giles.
This time there was no mistaking the reaction. Erskine turned sharply away, Mrs. Erskine’s cup clattered25 on hersaucer.
“Perhaps,” she said abruptly26, “you would like to see the garden.”
“Oh yes, please.”
They went out through the french windows. It was a well-kept, well-stocked garden, with a long border and flaggedwalks. The care of it was principally Major Erskine’s, so Gwenda gathered. Talking to her about roses, aboutherbaceous plants, Erskine’s dark, sad face lit up. Gardening was clearly his enthusiasm.
When they finally took their leave, and were driving away in the car, Giles asked hesitantly, “Did you—did youdrop it?”
Gwenda nodded.
“By the second clump27 of delphiniums.” She looked down at her finger and twisted the wedding ring on it absently.
“And supposing you never find it again?”
“Well, it’s not my real engagement ring. I wouldn’t risk that.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“I’m very sentimental28 about that ring. Do you remember what you said when you put it on my finger? A greenemerald because I was an intriguing29 green-eyed little cat.”
“I dare say,” said Giles dispassionately, “that our peculiar31 form of endearments32 might sound odd to someone of,say, Miss Marple’s generation.”
“I wonder what she’s doing now, the dear old thing. Sitting in the sun on the front?”
“Up to something—if I know her! Poking33 here, or prying34 there, or asking a few questions. I hope she doesn’t asktoo many one of these days.”
“It’s quite a natural thing to do—for an old lady, I mean. It’s not as noticeable as though we did it.”
Giles’s face sobered again.
“That’s why I don’t like—” He broke off. “It’s you having to do it that I mind. I can’t bear the feeling that I sit athome and send you out to do the dirty work.”
Gwenda ran a finger down his worried cheek.
“I know, darling, I know. But you must admit, it’s tricky35. It’s impertinent to catechize a man about his past loveaffairs—but it’s the kind of impertinence a woman can just get away with—if she’s clever. And I mean to be clever.”
“I know you’re clever. But if Erskine is the man we are looking for—”
Gwenda said meditatively36: “I don’t think he is.”
“You mean we’re barking up the wrong tree?”
“Not entirely37. I think he was in love with Helen all right. But he’s nice, Giles, awfully nice. Not the strangling kindat all.”
“You haven’t an awful lot of experience of the strangling kind, have you, Gwenda?”
“No. But I’ve got my woman’s instinct.”
“I dare say that’s what a strangler’s victims often say. No, Gwenda, joking apart, do be careful, won’t you?”
“Of course. I feel so sorry for the poor man—that dragon of a wife. I bet he’s had a miserable38 life.”
“She’s an odd woman … Rather alarming somehow.”
“Yes, quite sinister39. Did you see how she watched me all the time?”
“I hope the plan will go off all right.”
III
The plan was put into execution the following morning.
Giles, feeling, as he put it, rather like a shady detective in a divorce suit, took up his position at a point of vantageoverlooking the front gate of Anstell Manor. About half past eleven he reported to Gwenda that all had gone well.
Mrs. Erskine had left in a small Austin car, clearly bound for the market town three miles away. The coast was clear.
Gwenda drove up to the front door and rang the bell. She asked for Mrs. Erskine and was told she was out. Shethen asked for Major Erskine. Major Erskine was in the garden. He straightened up from operations on a flowerbed asGwenda approached.
“I’m so sorry to bother you,” said Gwenda. “But I think I must have dropped a ring somewhere out here yesterday.
I know I had it when we came out from tea. It’s rather loose, but I couldn’t bear to lose it because it’s my engagementring.”
The hunt was soon under way. Gwenda retraced40 her steps of yesterday, tried to recollect41 where she had stood andwhat flowers she had touched. Presently the ring came to light near a large clump of delphiniums. Gwenda wasprofuse in her relief.
“And now can I get you a drink, Mrs. Reed? Beer? A glass of sherry? Or would you prefer coffee, or somethinglike that?”
“I don’t want anything—no, really. Just a cigarette—thanks.”
She sat down on a bench and Erskine sat down beside her.
They smoked for a few minutes in silence. Gwenda’s heart was beating rather fast. No two ways about it. She hadto take the plunge42.
“I want to ask you something,” she said. “Perhaps you’ll think it terribly impertinent of me. But I want to knowdreadfully—and you’re probably the only person who could tell me. I believe you were once in love with mystepmother.”
He turned an astonished face towards her.
“With your stepmother?”
“Yes. Helen Kennedy. Helen Halliday as she became afterwards.”
“I see.” The man beside her was very quiet. His eyes looked out across the sunlit lawn unseeingly. The cigarettebetween his fingers smouldered. Quiet as he was, Gwenda sensed a turmoil43 within that taut44 figure, the arm of whichtouched her own.
As though answering some question he had put to himself, Erskine said: “Letters, I suppose.”
Gwenda did not answer.
“I never wrote her many—two, perhaps three. She said she had destroyed them—but women never do destroyletters, do they? And so they came into your hands. And you want to know.”
“I want to know more about her. I was—very fond of her. Although I was such a small child when—she wentaway.”
“She went away?”
“Didn’t you know?”
His eyes, candid45 and surprised, met hers.
“I’ve no news of her,” he said, “since—since that summer in Dillmouth.”
“Then you don’t know where she is now?”
“How should I? It’s years ago—years. All finished and done with. Forgotten.”
“Forgotten?”
He smiled rather bitterly.
“No, perhaps not forgotten … You’re very perceptive46, Mrs. Reed. But tell me about her. She’s not—dead, is she?”
A small cold wind sprang up suddenly, chilled their necks and passed.
“I don’t know if she is dead or not,” said Gwenda. “I don’t know anything about her. I thought perhaps you mightknow?”
She went on as he shook his head: “You see, she went away from Dillmouth that summer. Quite suddenly oneevening. Without telling anyone. And she never came back.”
“And you thought I might have heard from her?”
“Yes.”
He shook his head.
“No. Never a word. But surely her brother—doctor chap—lives in Dillmouth. He must know. Or is he dead too?”
“No, he’s alive. But he doesn’t know either. You see—they all thought she went away—with somebody.”
He turned his head to look at her. Deep sorrowful eyes.
“They thought she went away with me?”
“Well, it was a possibility.”
“Was it a possibility? I don’t think so. It was never that. Or were we fools—conscientious fools who passed up ourchance of happiness?”
Gwenda did not speak. Again Erskine turned his head and looked at her.
“Perhaps you’d better hear about it. There isn’t really very much to hear. But I wouldn’t like you to misjudgeHelen. We met on a boat going out to India. One of the children had been ill, and my wife was following on the nextboat. Helen was going out to marry a man in the Woods and Forests or something of that kind. She didn’t love him.
He was just an old friend, nice and kind, and she wanted to get away from home where she wasn’t happy. We fell inlove.”
He paused.
“Always a bald kind of statement. But it wasn’t—I want to make that quite clear—just the usual shipboard loveaffair. It was serious. We were both—well—shattered by it. And there wasn’t anything to be done. I couldn’t let Janetand the children down. Helen saw it the same way as I did. If it had been only Janet—but there were the boys. It wasall hopeless. We agreed to say good-bye and try and forget.”
He laughed, a short mirthless laugh.
“Forget? I never forgot—not for one moment. Life was just a living Hell. I couldn’t stop thinking about Helen….
“Well, she didn’t marry the chap she had been going out to marry. At the last moment, she just couldn’t face it. Shewent home to England and on the way home she met this other man—your father, I suppose. She wrote to me a coupleof months later telling me what she had done. He was very unhappy over the loss of his wife, she said, and there was achild. She thought that she could make him happy and that it was the best thing to do. She wrote from Dillmouth.
About eight months later my father died and I came into this place. I sent in my papers and came back to England. Wewanted a few weeks’ holiday until we could get into this house. My wife suggested Dillmouth. Some friend hadmentioned it as a pretty place and quiet. She didn’t know, of course, about Helen. Can you imagine the temptation? Tosee her again. To see what this man she had married was like.”
There was a short silence, then Erskine said:
“We came and stayed at the Royal Clarence. It was a mistake. Seeing Helen again was Hell … She seemed happyenough, on the whole—I didn’t know whether she cared still, or whether she didn’t … Perhaps she’d got over it. Mywife, I think, suspected something … She’s—she’s a very jealous woman—always has been.”
He added brusquely, “That’s all there is to it. We left Dillmouth—”
“On August 17th,” said Gwenda.
“Was that the date? Probably. I can’t remember exactly.”
“It was a Saturday,” said Gwenda.
“Yes, you’re right. I remember Janet said it might be a crowded day to travel north—but I don’t think it was….”
“Please try and remember, Major Erskine. When was the last time you saw my stepmother—Helen?”
He smiled, a gentle, tired smile.
“I don’t need to try very hard. I saw her the evening before we left. On the beach. I’d strolled down there afterdinner—and she was there. There was no one else about. I walked up with her to her house. We went through thegarden—”
“What time?”
“I don’t know … Nine o’clock, I suppose.”
“And you said good-bye?”
“And we said good-bye.” Again he laughed. “Oh, not the kind of good-bye you’re thinking of. It was very brusqueand curt12. Helen said: ‘Please go away now. Go quickly. I’d rather not—’ She stopped then—and I—I just went.”
“Back to the hotel?”
“Yes, yes, eventually. I walked a long way first—right out into the country.”
Gwenda said, “It’s difficult with dates—after so many years. But I think that that was the night she went away—and didn’t come back.”
“I see. And as I and my wife left the next day, people gossiped and said she’d gone away with me. Charming mindspeople have.”
“Anyway,” said Gwenda bluntly, “she didn’t go away with you?”
“Good Lord, no, there was never any question of such a thing.”
“Then why do you think,” asked Gwenda, “that she went away?”
Erskine frowned. His manner changed, became interested.
“I see,” he said. “That is a bit of a problem. She didn’t—er—leave any explanation?”
Gwenda considered. Then she voiced her own belief.
“I don’t think she left any word at all. Do you think she went away with someone else?”
“No, of course she didn’t.”
“You seem rather sure about that.”
“I am sure.”
“Then why did she go?”
“If she went off—suddenly—like that—I can only see one possible reason. She was running away from me.”
“From you?”
“Yes. She was afraid, perhaps, that I’d try to see her again—that I’d pester47 her. She must have seen that I was still—crazy about her … Yes, that must have been it.”
“It doesn’t explain,” said Gwenda, “why she never came back. Tell me, did Helen say anything to you about myfather? That she was worried about him? Or—or afraid of him? Anything like that?”
“Afraid of him? Why? Oh I see, you thought he might have been jealous. Was he a jealous man?”
“I don’t know. He died when I was a child.”
“Oh, I see. No—looking back—he always seemed normal and pleasant. He was fond of Helen, proud of her—Idon’t think more. No, I was the one who was jealous of him.”
“They seemed to you reasonably happy together?”
“Yes, they did. I was glad—and yet, at the same time, it hurt, to see it … No, Helen never discussed him with me.
As I tell you, we were hardly ever alone, never confidential48 together. But now that you have mentioned it, I doremember thinking that Helen was worried….”
“Worried?”
“Yes. I thought perhaps it was because of my wife—” He broke off. “But it was more than that.”
He looked again sharply at Gwenda.
“Was she afraid of her husband? Was he jealous of other men where she was concerned?”
“You seem to think not.”
“Jealousy is a very queer thing. It can hide itself sometimes so that you’d never suspect it.” He gave a short quickshiver. “But it can be frightening—very frightening….”
“Another thing I would like to know—” Gwenda broke off.
A car had come up the drive. Major Erskine said, “Ah, my wife has come back from shopping.”
In a moment, as it were, he became a different person. His tone was easy yet formal, his face expressionless. Aslight tremor49 betrayed that he was nervous.
Mrs. Erskine came striding round the corner of the house.
Her husband went towards her.
“Mrs. Reed dropped one of her rings in the garden yesterday,” he said.
Mrs. Erskine said abruptly: “Indeed?”
“Good morning,” said Gwenda. “Yes, luckily I have found it.”
“That’s very fortunate.”
“Oh, it is. I should have hated to lose it. Well, I must be going.”
Mrs. Erskine said nothing. Major Erskine said: “I’ll see you to your car.”
He started to follow Gwenda along the terrace. His wife’s voice came sharply.
“Richard. If Mrs. Reed will excuse you, there is a very important call—”
Gwenda said hastily, “Oh, that’s quite all right. Please don’t bother.”
She ran quickly along the terrace and round the side of the house to the drive.
Then she stopped. Mrs. Erskine had drawn up her car in such a way that Gwenda doubted whether she could gether own car past and down the drive. She hesitated, then slowly retraced her steps to the terrace.
Just short of the french windows she stopped dead. Mrs. Erskine’s voice, deep and resonant50, came distinctly to herears.
“I don’t care what you say. You arranged it—arranged it yesterday. You fixed51 it up with that girl to come herewhilst I was in Daith. You’re always the same—any pretty girl. I won’t stand it, I tell you. I won’t stand it.”
Erskine’s voice cut in—quiet, almost despairing.
“Sometimes, Janet, I really think you’re insane.”
“I’m not the one who’s insane. It’s you! You can’t leave women alone.”
“You know that’s not true, Janet.”
“It is true! Even long ago—in the place where this girl comes from—Dillmouth. Do you dare tell me that youweren’t in love with that yellow-haired Halliday woman?”
“Can you never forget anything? Why must you go on harping52 on these things? You simply work yourself up and—”
“It’s you! You break my heart … I won’t stand it, I tell you! I won’t stand it! Planning assignations! Laughing atme behind my back! You don’t care for me—you’ve never cared for me. I’ll kill myself! I’ll throw myself over a cliff—I wish I were dead—”
“Janet—Janet—for God’s sake….”
The deep voice had broken. The sound of passionate30 sobbing53 floated out into the summer air.
On tip-toe Gwenda crept away and round into the drive again. She cogitated54 for a moment, then rang the frontdoorbell.
“I wonder,” she said, “if there is anyone who—er—could move this car. I don’t think I can get out.”
The servant went into the house. Presently a man came round from what had been the stable yard. He touched hiscap to Gwenda, got into the Austin and drove it into the yard. Gwenda got into her car and drove rapidly back to thehotel where Giles was waiting for her.
“What a time you’ve been,” he greeted her. “Get anything?”
“Yes. I know all about it now. It’s really rather pathetic. He was terribly in love with Helen.”
She narrated55 the events of the morning.
“I really think,” she ended, “that Mrs. Erskine is a bit insane. She sounded quite mad. I see now what he meant byjealousy. It must be awful to feel like that. Anyway, we know now that Erskine wasn’t the man who went away withHelen, and that he knows nothing about her death. She was alive that evening when he left her.”
“Yes,” said Giles. “At least—that’s what he says.”
Gwenda looked indignant.
“That,” repeated Giles firmly, “is what he says.”
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manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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purely
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appraising
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| v.估价( appraise的现在分词 )；估计；估量；评价 | |
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athletic
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decided
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isolated
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bleakness
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curt
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drawn
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scent
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taxation
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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awfully
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enquiring
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authoritative
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spurt
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mischief
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bracing
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twitched
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spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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clattered
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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intriguing
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| adj.有趣的；迷人的v.搞阴谋诡计(intrigue的现在分词)；激起…的好奇心 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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endearments
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| n.表示爱慕的话语，亲热的表示( endearment的名词复数 ) | |
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poking
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| n. 刺，戳，袋 vt. 拨开，刺，戳 vi. 戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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prying
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| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
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tricky
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| adj.狡猾的，奸诈的；(工作等)棘手的，微妙的 | |
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meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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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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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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retraced
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| v.折回( retrace的过去式和过去分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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taut
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| adj.拉紧的，绷紧的，紧张的 | |
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candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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perceptive
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| adj.知觉的，有洞察力的，感知的 | |
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pester
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| v.纠缠，强求 | |
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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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resonant
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| adj.(声音)洪亮的，共鸣的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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harping
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| n.反复述说 | |
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sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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cogitated
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| v.认真思考，深思熟虑( cogitate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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narrated
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| v.故事( narrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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