THE COMPANION
“ N ow, Dr. Lloyd,” said Miss Helier. “Don’t you know any creepy stories?”
She smiled at him—the smile that nightly bewitched the theatre-going public. Jane Helier was sometimes calledthe most beautiful woman in England, and jealous members of her own profession were in the habit of saying to eachother: “Of course Jane’s not an artist. She can’t act—if you know what I mean. It’s those eyes!”
And those “eyes” were at this minute fixed1 appealingly on the grizzled elderly bachelor doctor who, for the lastfive years, had ministered to the ailments2 of the village of St. Mary Mead3.
With an unconscious gesture, the doctor pulled down his waistcoat (inclined of late to be uncomfortably tight) andracked his brains hastily, so as not to disappoint the lovely creature who addressed him so confidently.
“I feel,” said Jane dreamily, “that I would like to wallow in crime this evening.”
“Splendid,” said Colonel Bantry, her host. “Splendid, splendid.” And he laughed a loud hearty4 military laugh. “Eh,Dolly?”
His wife, hastily recalled to the exigencies5 of social life (she had been planning her spring border) agreedenthusiastically.
“Of course it’s splendid,” she said heartily6 but vaguely7. “I always thought so.”
“Did you, my dear?” said old Miss Marple, and her eyes twinkled a little.
“We don’t get much in the creepy line—and still less in the criminal line—in St. Mary Mead, you know, MissHelier,” said Dr. Lloyd.
“You surprise me,” said Sir Henry Clithering. The ex-Commissioner of Scotland Yard turned to Miss Marple. “Ialways understood from our friend here that St. Mary Mead is a positive hotbed of crime and vice8.”
“Oh, Sir Henry!” protested Miss Marple, a spot of colour coming into her cheeks. “I’m sure I never said anythingof the kind. The only thing I ever said was that human nature is much the same in a village as anywhere else, only onehas opportunities and leisure for seeing it at closer quarters.”
“But you haven’t always lived here,” said Jane Helier, still addressing the doctor. “You’ve been in all sorts ofqueer places all over the world—places where things happen!”
“That is so, of course,” said Dr. Lloyd, still thinking desperately10. “Yes, of course .?.?. Yes.?.?. Ah! I have it!”
He sank back with a sigh of relief.
“It is some years ago now—I had almost forgotten. But the facts were really very strange—very strange indeed.
And the final coincidence which put the clue into my hand was strange also.”
Miss Helier drew her chair a little nearer to him, applied11 some lipstick12 and waited expectantly. The others alsoturned interested faces towards him.
“I don’t know whether any of you know the Canary Islands,” began the doctor.
“They must be wonderful,” said Jane Helier. “They’re in the South Seas, aren’t they? Or is it the Mediterranean13?”
“I’ve called in there on my way to South Africa,” said the Colonel. “The Peak of Tenerife is a fine sight with thesetting sun on it.”
“The incident I am describing happened in the island of Grand Canary, not Tenerife. It is a good many years agonow. I had had a breakdown14 in health and was forced to give up my practice in England and go abroad. I practised inLas Palmas, which is the principal town of Grand Canary. In many ways I enjoyed the life out there very much. Theclimate was mild and sunny, there was excellent surf bathing (and I am an enthusiastic bather) and the sea life of theport attracted me. Ships from all over the world put in at Las Palmas. I used to walk along the mole15 every morning farmore interested than any member of the fair sex could be in a street of hat shops.
“As I say, ships from all over the world put in at Las Palmas. Sometimes they stay a few hours, sometimes a day ortwo. In the principal hotel there, the Metropole, you will see people of all races and nationalities—birds of passage.
Even the people going to Tenerife usually come here and stay a few days before crossing to the other island.
“My story begins there, in the Metropole Hotel, one Thursday evening in January. There was a dance going on andI and a friend had been sitting at a small table watching the scene. There were a fair sprinkling of English and othernationalities, but the majority of the dancers were Spanish; and when the orchestra struck up a tango, only half a dozencouples of the latter nationality took the floor. They all danced well and we looked on and admired. One woman inparticular excited our lively admiration16. Tall, beautiful and sinuous17, she moved with the grace of a half- tamedleopardess. There was something dangerous about her. I said as much to my friend and he agreed.
“‘Women like that,’ he said, ‘are bound to have a history. Life will not pass them by.’
“‘Beauty is perhaps a dangerous possession,’ I said.
“‘It’s not only beauty,’ he insisted. ‘There is something else. Look at her again. Things are bound to happen to thatwoman, or because of her. As I said, life will not pass her by. Strange and exciting events will surround her. You’veonly got to look at her to know it.’
“He paused and then added with a smile:
“‘Just as you’ve only got to look at those two women over there, and know that nothing out of the way could everhappen to either of them! They are made for a safe and uneventful existence.’
“I followed his eyes. The two women he referred to were travellers who had just arrived—a Holland Lloyd boathad put into port that evening, and the passengers were just beginning to arrive.
“As I looked at them I saw at once what my friend meant. They were two English ladies—the thoroughly18 nicetravelling English that you do find abroad. Their ages, I should say, were round about forty. One was fair and a little—just a little—too plump; the other was dark and a little—again just a little—inclined to scragginess. They were what iscalled well-preserved, quietly and inconspicuously dressed in well-cut tweeds, and innocent of any kind of makeup19.
They had that air of quiet assurance which is the birthright of well-bred Englishwomen. There was nothing remarkableabout either of them. They were like thousands of their sisters. They would doubtless see what they wished to see,assisted by Baedeker, and be blind to everything else. They would use the English library and attend the EnglishChurch in any place they happened to be, and it was quite likely that one or both of them sketched21 a little. And as myfriend said, nothing exciting or remarkable20 would ever happen to either of them, though they might quite likely travelhalf over the world. I looked from them back to our sinuous Spanish woman with her half-closed smouldering eyesand I smiled.”
“Poor things,” said Jane Helier with a sigh. “But I do think it’s so silly of people not to make the most ofthemselves. That woman in Bond Street—Valentine—is really wonderful. Audrey Denman goes to her; and have youseen her in ‘The Downward Step’? As the schoolgirl in the first act she’s really marvellous. And yet Audrey is fifty ifshe’s a day. As a matter of fact I happen to know she’s really nearer sixty.”
“Go on,” said Mrs. Bantry to Dr. Lloyd. “I love stories about sinuous Spanish dancers. It makes me forget how oldand fat I am.”
“I’m sorry,” said Dr. Lloyd apologetically. “But you see, as a matter of fact, this story isn’t about the Spanishwoman.”
“It isn’t?”
“No. As it happens my friend and I were wrong. Nothing in the least exciting happened to the Spanish beauty. Shemarried a clerk in a shipping22 office, and by the time I left the island she had had five children and was getting veryfat.”
“Just like that girl of Israel Peters,” commented Miss Marple. “The one who went on the stage and had such goodlegs that they made her principal boy in the pantomime. Everyone said she’d come to no good, but she married acommercial traveller and settled down splendidly.”
“The village parallel,” murmured Sir Henry softly.
“No,” went on the doctor. “My story is about the two English ladies.”
“Something happened to them?” breathed Miss Helier.
“Something happened to them—and the very next day, too.”
“Yes?” said Mrs. Bantry encouragingly.
“Just for curiosity, as I went out that evening I glanced at the hotel register. I found the names easily enough. MissMary Barton and Miss Amy Durrant of Little Paddocks, Caughton Weir23, Bucks24. I little thought then how soon I was toencounter the owners of those names again—and under what tragic25 circumstances.
“The following day I had arranged to go for a picnic with some friends. We were to motor across the island, takingour lunch, to a place called (as far as I remember—it is so long ago) Las Nieves, a well-sheltered bay where we couldbathe if we felt inclined. This programme we duly carried out, except that we were somewhat late in starting, so thatwe stopped on the way and picnicked, going on to Las Nieves afterwards for a bathe before tea.
“As we approached the beach, we were at once aware of a tremendous commotion26. The whole population of thesmall village seemed to be gathered on the shore. As soon as they saw us they rushed towards the car and beganexplaining excitedly. Our Spanish not being very good, it took me a few minutes to understand, but at last I got it.
“Two of the mad English ladies had gone in to bathe, and one had swum out too far and got into difficulties. Theother had gone after her and had tried to bring her in, but her strength in turn had failed and she too would havedrowned had not a man rowed out in a boat and brought in rescuer and rescued—the latter beyond help.
“As soon as I got the hang of things I pushed the crowd aside and hurried down the beach. I did not at firstrecognize the two women. The plump figure in the black stockinet costume and the tight green rubber bathing capawoke no chord of recognition as she looked up anxiously. She was kneeling beside the body of her friend, makingsomewhat amateurish27 attempts at artificial respiration28. When I told her that I was a doctor she gave a sigh of relief, andI ordered her off at once to one of the cottages for a rub down and dry clothing. One of the ladies in my party wentwith her. I myself worked unavailingly on the body of the drowned woman in vain. Life was only too clearly extinct,and in the end I had reluctantly to give in.
“I rejoined the others in the small fisherman’s cottage and there I had to break the sad news. The survivor29 wasattired now in her own clothes, and I immediately recognized her as one of the two arrivals of the night before. Shereceived the sad news fairly calmly, and it was evidently the horror of the whole thing that struck her more than anygreat personal feeling.
“‘Poor Amy,’ she said. ‘Poor, poor Amy. She had been looking forward to the bathing here so much. And she wasa good swimmer too. I can’t understand it. What do you think it can have been, doctor?’
“‘Possibly cramp30. Will you tell me exactly what happened?’
“‘We had both been swimming about for some time—twenty minutes, I should say. Then I thought I would go in,but Amy said she was going to swim out once more. She did so, and suddenly I heard her call and realized she wascrying for help. I swam out as fast as I could. She was still afloat when I got to her, but she clutched at me wildly andwe both went under. If it hadn’t been for that man coming out with his boat I should have been drowned too.’
“‘That has happened fairly often,’ I said. ‘To save anyone from drowning is not an easy affair.’
“‘It seems so awful,’ continued Miss Barton. ‘We only arrived yesterday, and were so delighting in the sunshineand our little holiday. And now this—this terrible tragedy occurs.’
“I asked her then for particulars about the dead woman, explaining that I would do everything I could for her, butthat the Spanish authorities would require full information. This she gave me readily enough.
“The dead woman, Miss Amy Durrant, was her companion and had come to her about five months previously31.
They had got on very well together, but Miss Durrant had spoken very little about her people. She had been left anorphan at an early age and had been brought up by an uncle and had earned her own living since she was twenty-one.
“And so that was that,” went on the doctor. He paused and said again, but this time with a certain finality in hisvoice, “And so that was that.”
“I don’t understand,” said Jane Helier. “Is that all? I mean, it’s very tragic, I suppose, but it isn’t—well, it isn’twhat I call creepy.”
“I think there’s more to follow,” said Sir Henry.
“Yes,” said Dr. Lloyd, “there’s more to follow. You see, right at the time there was one queer thing. Of course Iasked questions of the fishermen, etc., as to what they’d seen. They were eyewitnesses33. And one woman had rather afunny story. I didn’t pay any attention to it at the time, but it came back to me afterwards. She insisted, you see, thatMiss Durrant wasn’t in difficulties when she called out. The other swam out to her and, according to this woman,deliberately34 held Miss Durrant’s head under water. I didn’t, as I say, pay much attention. It was such a fantastic story,and these things look so differently from the shore. Miss Barton might have tried to make her friend loseconsciousness, realizing that the latter’s panic-stricken clutching would drown them both. You see, according to theSpanish woman’s story, it looked as though—well, as though Miss Barton was deliberately trying to drown hercompanion.
“As I say, I paid very little attention to this story at the time. It came back to me later. Our great difficulty was tofind out anything about this woman, Amy Durrant. She didn’t seem to have any relations. Miss Barton and I wentthrough her things together. We found one address and wrote there, but it proved to be simply a room she had taken inwhich to keep her things. The landlady35 knew nothing, had only seen her when she took the room. Miss Durrant hadremarked at the time that she always liked to have one place she could call her own to which she could return at anymoment. There were one or two nice pieces of old furniture and some bound numbers of Academy pictures, and atrunk full of pieces of material bought at sales, but no personal belongings36. She had mentioned to the landlady that herfather and mother had died in India when she was a child and that she had been brought up by an uncle who was aclergyman, but she did not say if he was her father’s or her mother’s brother, so the name was no guide.
“It wasn’t exactly mysterious, it was just unsatisfactory. There must be many lonely women, proud and reticent37, injust that position. There were a couple of photographs amongst her belongings in Las Palmas—rather old and fadedand they had been cut to fit the frames they were in, so that there was no photographer’s name upon them, and therewas an old daguerreotype38 which might have been her mother or more probably her grandmother.
“Miss Barton had had two references with her. One she had forgotten, the other name she recollected39 after aneffort. It proved to be that of a lady who was now abroad, having gone to Australia. She was written to. Her answer, ofcourse, was a long time in coming, and I may say that when it did arrive there was no particular help to be gained fromit. She said Miss Durrant had been with her as companion and had been most efficient and that she was a verycharming woman, but that she knew nothing of her private affairs or relations.
“So there it was—as I say, nothing unusual, really. It was just the two things together that aroused my uneasiness.
This Amy Durrant of whom no one knew anything, and the Spanish woman’s queer story. Yes, and I’ll add a thirdthing: When I was first bending over the body and Miss Barton was walking away towards the huts, she looked back.
Looked back with an expression on her face that I can only describe as one of poignant40 anxiety—a kind of anguisheduncertainty that imprinted41 itself on my brain.
“It didn’t strike me as anything unusual at the time. I put it down to her terrible distress42 over her friend. But, yousee, later I realized that they weren’t on those terms. There was no devoted43 attachment44 between them, no terrible grief.
Miss Barton was fond of Amy Durrant and shocked by her death—that was all.
“But, then, why that terrible poignant anxiety? That was the question that kept coming back to me. I had not beenmistaken in that look. And almost against my will, an answer began to shape itself in my mind. Supposing the Spanishwoman’s story were true; supposing that Mary Barton wilfully45 and in coldblood tried to drown Amy Durrant. Shesucceeds in holding her under water whilst pretending to be saving her. She is rescued by a boat. They are on a lonelybeach far from anywhere. And then I appear—the last thing she expects. A doctor! And an English doctor! She knowswell enough that people who have been under water far longer than Amy Durrant have been revived by artificialrespiration. But she has to play her part—to go off leaving me alone with her victim. And as she turns for one lastlook, a terrible poignant anxiety shows in her face. Will Amy Durrant come back to life and tell what she knows?”
“Oh!” said Jane Helier. “I’m thrilled now.”
“Viewed in that aspect the whole business seemed more sinister46, and the personality of Amy Durrant became moremysterious. Who was Amy Durrant? Why should she, an insignificant47 paid companion, be murdered by her employer?
What story lay behind that fatal bathing expedition? She had entered Mary Barton’s employment only a few monthsbefore. Mary Barton had brought her abroad, and the very day after they landed the tragedy had occurred. And theywere both nice, commonplace, refined Englishwomen! The whole thing was fantastic, and I told myself so. I had beenletting my imagination run away with me.”
“You didn’t do anything, then?” asked Miss Helier.
“My dear young lady, what could I do? There was no evidence. The majority of the eyewitnesses told the samestory as Miss Barton. I had built up my own suspicions out of a fleeting48 expression which I might possibly haveimagined. The only thing I could and did do was to see that the widest inquiries49 were made for the relations of AmyDurrant. The next time I was in England I even went and saw the landlady of her room, with the results I have toldyou.”
“But you felt there was something wrong,” said Miss Marple.
Dr. Lloyd nodded.
“Half the time I was ashamed of myself for thinking so. Who was I to go suspecting this nice, pleasant-manneredEnglish lady of a foul50 and cold-blooded crime? I did my best to be as cordial as possible to her during the short timeshe stayed on the island. I helped her with the Spanish authorities. I did everything I could do as an Englishman tohelp a compatriot in a foreign country; and yet I am convinced that she knew I suspected and disliked her.”
“How long did she stay out there?” asked Miss Marple.
“I think it was about a fortnight. Miss Durrant was buried there, and it must have been about ten days later whenshe took a boat back to England. The shock had upset her so much that she felt she couldn’t spend the winter there asshe had planned. That’s what she said.”
“Did it seem to have upset her?” asked Miss Marple.
The doctor hesitated.
“Well, I don’t know that it affected51 her appearance at all,” he said cautiously.
“She didn’t, for instance, grow fatter?” asked Miss Marple.
“Do you know—it’s a curious thing your saying that. Now I come to think back, I believe you’re right. She—yes,she did seem, if anything, to be putting on weight.”
“How horrible,” said Jane Helier with a shudder52. “It’s like—it’s like fattening53 on your victim’s blood.”
“And yet, in another way, I may be doing her an injustice,” went on Dr. Lloyd. “She certainly said somethingbefore she left, which pointed54 in an entirely55 different direction. There may be, I think there are, consciences whichwork very slowly—which take some time to awaken56 to the enormity of the deed committed.
“It was the evening before her departure from the Canaries. She had asked me to go and see her, and had thankedme very warmly for all I had done to help her. I, of course, made light of the matter, said I had only done what wasnatural under the circumstances, and so on. There was a pause after that, and then she suddenly asked me a question.
“‘Do you think,’ she asked, ‘that one is ever justified57 in taking the law into one’s own hands?’
“I replied that that was rather a difficult question, but that on the whole, I thought not. The law was the law, and wehad to abide58 by it.
“‘Even when it is powerless?’
“‘I don’t quite understand.’
“‘It’s difficult to explain; but one might do something that is considered definitely wrong—that is considered acrime, even, for a good and sufficient reason.’
“I replied drily that possibly several criminals had thought that in their time, and she shrank back.
“‘But that’s horrible,’ she murmured. ‘Horrible.’
“And then with a change of tone she asked me to give her something to make her sleep. She had not been able tosleep properly since—she hesitated—since that terrible shock.
“‘You’re sure it is that? There is nothing worrying you? Nothing on your mind?’
“‘On my mind? What should be on my mind?’
“She spoke32 fiercely and suspiciously.
“‘Worry is a cause of sleeplessness59 sometimes,’ I said lightly.
“She seemed to brood for a moment.
“‘Do you mean worrying over the future, or worrying over the past, which can’t be altered?’
“‘Either.’
“‘Only it wouldn’t be any good worrying over the past. You couldn’t bring back—Oh! what’s the use! Onemustn’t think. One must not think.’
“I prescribed her a mild sleeping draught60 and made my adieu. As I went away I wondered not a little over thewords she had spoken. ‘You couldn’t bring back—’ What? Or who?
“I think that last interview prepared me in a way for what was to come. I didn’t expect it, of course, but when ithappened, I wasn’t surprised. Because, you see, Mary Barton struck me all along as a conscientious61 woman—not aweak sinner, but a woman with convictions, who would act up to them, and who would not relent as long as she stillbelieved in them. I fancied that in the last conversation we had she was beginning to doubt her own convictions. Iknow her words suggested to me that she was feeling the first faint beginnings of that terrible soul-searcher—remorse62.
“The thing happened in Cornwall, in a small watering-place, rather deserted63 at that season of the year. It must havebeen—let me see—late March. I read about it in the papers. A lady had been staying at a small hotel there—a MissBarton. She had been very odd and peculiar64 in her manner. That had been noticed by all. At night she would walk upand down her room, muttering to herself, and not allowing the people on either side of her to sleep. She had called onthe vicar one day and had told him that she had a communication of the gravest importance to make to him. She had,she said, committed a crime. Then, instead of proceeding65, she had stood up abruptly66 and said she would call anotherday. The vicar put her down as being slightly mental, and did not take her self-accusation seriously.
“The very next morning she was found to be missing from her room. A note was left addressed to the coroner. Itran as follows:
“I tried to speak to the vicar yesterday, to confess all, but was not allowed. She would not let me. I can makeamends only one way—a life for a life; and my life must go the same way as hers did. I, too, must drown in thedeep sea. I believed I was justified. I see now that that was not so. If I desire Amy’s forgiveness I must go toher. Let no one be blamed for my death—Mary Barton.
“Her clothes were found lying on the beach in a secluded67 cove68 nearby, and it seemed clear that she had undressedthere and swum resolutely69 out to sea where the current was known to be dangerous, sweeping70 one down the coast.
“The body was not recovered, but after a time leave was given to presume death. She was a rich woman, her estatebeing proved at a hundred thousand pounds. Since she died intestate it all went to her next of kin9—a family of cousinsin Australia. The papers made discreet71 references to the tragedy in the Canary Islands, putting forward the theory thatthe death of Miss Durrant had unhinged her friend’s brain. At the inquest the usual verdict of Suicide whilsttemporarily insane was returned.
“And so the curtain falls on the tragedy of Amy Durrant and Mary Barton.”
There was a long pause and then Jane Helier gave a great gasp72.
“Oh, but you mustn’t stop there—just at the most interesting part. Go on.”
“But you see, Miss Helier, this isn’t a serial73 story. This is real life; and real life stops just where it chooses.”
“But I don’t want it to,” said Jane. “I want to know.”
“This is where we use our brains, Miss Helier,” explained Sir Henry. “Why did Mary Barton kill her companion?
That’s the problem Dr. Lloyd has set us.”
“Oh, well,” said Miss Helier, “she might have killed her for lots of reasons. I mean—oh, I don’t know. She mighthave got on her nerves, or else she got jealous, although Dr. Lloyd doesn’t mention any men, but still on the boat out—well, you know what everyone says about boats and sea voyages.”
Miss Helier paused, slightly out of breath, and it was borne in upon her audience that the outside of Jane’scharming head was distinctly superior to the inside.
“I would like to have a lot of guesses,” said Mrs. Bantry. “But I suppose I must confine myself to one. Well, Ithink that Miss Barton’s father made all his money out of ruining Amy Durrant’s father, so Amy determined74 to haveher revenge. Oh, no, that’s the wrong way round. How tiresome75! Why does the rich employer kill the humblecompanion? I’ve got it. Miss Barton had a young brother who shot himself for love of Amy Durrant. Miss Bartonwaits her time. Amy comes down in the world. Miss B. engages her as companion and takes her to the Canaries andaccomplishes her revenge. How’s that?”
“Excellent,” said Sir Henry. “Only we don’t know that Miss Barton ever had a young brother.”
“We deduce that,” said Mrs. Bantry. “Unless she had a young brother there’s no motive77. So she must have had ayoung brother. Do you see, Watson?”
“That’s all very fine, Dolly,” said her husband. “But it’s only a guess.”
“Of course it is,” said Mrs. Bantry. “That’s all we can do—guess. We haven’t got any clues. Go on, dear, have aguess yourself.”
“Upon my word, I don’t know what to say. But I think there’s something in Miss Helier’s suggestion that they fellout about a man. Look here, Dolly, it was probably some high church parson. They both embroidered78 him a cope orsomething, and he wore the Durrant woman’s first. Depend upon it, it was something like that. Look how she went offto a parson at the end. These women all lose their heads over a good-looking clergyman. You hear of it over and overagain.”
“I think I must try to make my explanation a little more subtle,” said Sir Henry, “though I admit it’s only a guess. Isuggest that Miss Barton was always mentally unhinged. There are more cases like that than you would imagine. Hermania grew stronger and she began to believe it her duty to rid the world of certain persons—possibly what is termedunfortunate females. Nothing much is known about Miss Durrant’s past. So very possibly she had a past — an‘unfortunate’ one. Miss Barton learns of this and decides on extermination79. Later, the righteousness of her act beginsto trouble her and she is overcome by remorse. Her end shows her to be completely unhinged. Now, do say you agreewith me, Miss Marple.”
“I’m afraid I don’t, Sir Henry,” said Miss Marple, smiling apologetically. “I think her end shows her to have beena very clever and resourceful woman.”
Jane Helier interrupted with a little scream.
“Oh! I’ve been so stupid. May I guess again? Of course it must have been that. Blackmail80! The companion womanwas blackmailing81 her. Only I don’t see why Miss Marple says it was clever of her to kill herself. I can’t see that at all.”
“Ah!” said Sir Henry. “You see, Miss Marple knew a case just like it in St. Mary Mead.”
“You always laugh at me, Sir Henry,” said Miss Marple reproachfully. “I must confess it does remind me, just alittle, of old Mrs. Trout82. She drew the old age pension, you know, for three old women who were dead, in differentparishes.”
“It sounds a most complicated and resourceful crime,” said Sir Henry. “But it doesn’t seem to me to throw anylight upon our present problem.”
“Of course not,” said Miss Marple. “It wouldn’t—to you. But some of the families were very poor, and the old agepension was a great boon83 to the children. I know it’s difficult for anyone outside to understand. But what I reallymeant was that the whole thing hinged upon one old woman being so like any other old woman.”
“Eh?” said Sir Henry, mystified.
“I always explain things so badly. What I mean is that when Dr. Lloyd described the two ladies first, he didn’tknow which was which, and I don’t suppose anyone else in the hotel did. They would have, of course, after a day orso, but the very next day one of the two was drowned, and if the one who was left said she was Miss Barton, I don’tsuppose it would ever occur to anyone that she mightn’t be.”
“You think—Oh! I see,” said Sir Henry slowly.
“It’s the only natural way of thinking of it. Dear Mrs. Bantry began that way just now. Why should the richemployer kill the humble76 companion? It’s so much more likely to be the other way about. I mean—that’s the waythings happen.”
“Is it?” said Sir Henry. “You shock me.”
“But of course,” went on Miss Marple, “she would have to wear Miss Barton’s clothes, and they would probablybe a little tight on her, so that her general appearance would look as though she had got a little fatter. That’s why Iasked that question. A gentleman would be sure to think it was the lady who had got fatter, and not the clothes that hadgot smaller—though that isn’t quite the right way of putting it.”
“But if Amy Durrant killed Miss Barton, what did she gain by it?” asked Mrs. Bantry. “She couldn’t keep up thedeception for ever.”
“She only kept it up for another month or so,” pointed out Miss Marple. “And during that time I expect shetravelled, keeping away from anyone who might know her. That’s what I meant by saying that one lady of a certainage looks so like another. I don’t suppose the different photograph on her passport was ever noticed—you know whatpassports are. And then in March, she went down to this Cornish place and began to act queerly and draw attention toherself so that when people found her clothes on the beach and read her last letter they shouldn’t think of thecommonsense conclusion.”
“Which was?” asked Sir Henry.
“No body,” said Miss Marple firmly. “That’s the thing that would stare you in the face, if there weren’t such a lotof red herrings to draw you off the trail—including the suggestion of foul play and remorse. No body. That was thereal significant fact.”
“Do you mean—” said Mrs. Bantry—“do you mean that there wasn’t any remorse? That there wasn’t—that shedidn’t drown herself?”
“Not she!” said Miss Marple. “It’s just Mrs. Trout over again. Mrs. Trout was very good at red herrings, but shemet her match in me. And I can see through your remorse-driven Miss Barton. Drown herself? Went off to Australia,if I’m any good at guessing.”
“You are, Miss Marple,” said Dr. Lloyd. “Undoubtedly you are. Now it again took me quite by surprise. Why, youcould have knocked me down with a feather that day in Melbourne.”
“Was that what you spoke of as a final coincidence?”
Dr. Lloyd nodded.
“Yes, it was rather rough luck on Miss Barton—or Miss Amy Durrant—whatever you like to call her. I became aship’s doctor for a while, and landing in Melbourne, the first person I saw as I walked down the street was the lady Ithought had been drowned in Cornwall. She saw the game was up as far as I was concerned, and she did the bold thing—took me into her confidence. A curious woman, completely lacking, I suppose, in some moral sense. She was theeldest of a family of nine, all wretchedly poor. They had applied once for help to their rich cousin in England and beenrepulsed, Miss Barton having quarrelled with their father. Money was wanted desperately, for the three youngestchildren were delicate and wanted expensive medical treatment. Amy Barton then and there seems to have decided84 onher plan of cold-blooded murder. She set out for England, working her passage over as a children’s nurse. Sheobtained the situation of companion to Miss Barton, calling herself Amy Durrant. She engaged a room and put somefurniture into it so as to create more of a personality for herself. The drowning plan was a sudden inspiration. She hadbeen waiting for some opportunity to present itself. Then she staged the final scene of the drama and returned toAustralia, and in due time she and her brothers and sisters inherited Miss Barton’s money as next of kin.”
“A very bold and perfect crime,” said Sir Henry. “Almost the perfect crime. If it had been Miss Barton who haddied in the Canaries, suspicion might attach to Amy Durrant and her connection with the Barton family might havebeen discovered; but the change of identity and the double crime, as you may call it, effectually did away with that.
Yes, almost the perfect crime.”
“What happened to her?” asked Mrs. Bantry. “What did you do in the matter, Dr. Lloyd?”
“I was in a very curious position, Mrs. Bantry. Of evidence as the law understands it, I still have very little. Also,there were certain signs, plain to me as a medical man, that though strong and vigorous in appearance, the lady wasnot long for this world. I went home with her and saw the rest of the family—a charming family, devoted to theireldest sister and without an idea in their heads that she might prove to have committed a crime. Why bring sorrow onthem when I could prove nothing? The lady’s admission to me was unheard by anyone else. I let Nature take itscourse. Miss Amy Barton died six months after my meeting with her. I have often wondered if she was cheerful andunrepentant up to the last.”
“Surely not,” said Mrs. Bantry.
“I expect so,” said Miss Marple. “Mrs. Trout was.”
Jane Helier gave herself a little shake.
“Well,” she said. “It’s very, very thrilling. I don’t quite understand now who drowned which. And how does thisMrs. Trout come into it?”
“She doesn’t, my dear,” said Miss Marple. “She was only a person—not a very nice person—in the village.”
“Oh!” said Jane. “In the village. But nothing ever happens in a village, does it?” She sighed. “I’m sure I shouldn’thave any brains at all if I lived in a village.”
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1
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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ailments
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| 疾病（尤指慢性病），不适( ailment的名词复数 ) | |
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3
mead
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| n.蜂蜜酒 | |
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4
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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exigencies
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| n.急切需要 | |
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6
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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7
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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8
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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11
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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lipstick
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| n.口红，唇膏 | |
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13
Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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14
breakdown
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| n.垮，衰竭；损坏，故障，倒塌 | |
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15
mole
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| n.胎块；痣；克分子 | |
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16
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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sinuous
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| adj.蜿蜒的，迂回的 | |
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18
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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19
makeup
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| n.组织；性格；化装品 | |
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20
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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21
sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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shipping
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| n.船运（发货，运输，乘船） | |
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23
weir
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| n.堰堤，拦河坝 | |
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24
bucks
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| n.雄鹿( buck的名词复数 )；钱；（英国十九世纪初的）花花公子；（用于某些表达方式）责任v.（马等）猛然弓背跃起( buck的第三人称单数 )；抵制；猛然震荡；马等尥起后蹄跳跃 | |
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25
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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26
commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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amateurish
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| n.业余爱好的，不熟练的 | |
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28
respiration
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| n.呼吸作用；一次呼吸；植物光合作用 | |
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survivor
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| n.生存者，残存者，幸存者 | |
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30
cramp
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| n.痉挛；[pl.](腹)绞痛；vt.限制，束缚 | |
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31
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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32
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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33
eyewitnesses
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| 目击者( eyewitness的名词复数 ) | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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37
reticent
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| adj.沉默寡言的；言不如意的 | |
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38
daguerreotype
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| n.银板照相 | |
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39
recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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40
poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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41
imprinted
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| v.盖印（imprint的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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42
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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43
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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44
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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45
wilfully
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| adv.任性固执地；蓄意地 | |
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46
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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47
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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48
fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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49
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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50
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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51
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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52
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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53
fattening
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| adj.（食物）要使人发胖的v.喂肥( fatten的现在分词 )；养肥（牲畜）；使（钱）增多；使（公司）升值 | |
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54
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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55
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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56
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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57
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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58
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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59
sleeplessness
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| n.失眠，警觉 | |
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60
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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61
conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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62
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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63
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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64
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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65
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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66
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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67
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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68
cove
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| n.小海湾，小峡谷 | |
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69
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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70
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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71
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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72
gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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73
serial
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| n.连本影片，连本电视节目；adj.连续的 | |
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74
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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75
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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76
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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77
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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78
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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79
extermination
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| n.消灭，根绝 | |
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80
blackmail
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| n.讹诈，敲诈，勒索，胁迫，恫吓 | |
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81
blackmailing
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| 胁迫，尤指以透露他人不体面行为相威胁以勒索钱财( blackmail的现在分词 ) | |
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82
trout
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| n.鳟鱼；鲑鱼(属) | |
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83
boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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84
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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