THE HERB OF DEATH
“ N ow then, Mrs. B.,” said Sir Henry Clithering encouragingly.
Mrs. Bantry, his hostess, looked at him in cold reproof1.
“I’ve told you before that I will not be called Mrs. B. It’s not dignified2.”
“Scheherazade, then.”
“And even less am I Sche—what’s her name! I never can tell a story properly, ask Arthur if you don’t believe me.”
“You’re quite good at the facts, Dolly,” said Colonel Bantry, “but poor at the embroidery3.”
“That’s just it,” said Mrs. Bantry. She flapped the bulb catalogue she was holding on the table in front of her. “I’vebeen listening to you all and I don’t know how you do it. ‘He said, she said, you wondered, they thought, everyoneimplied’—well, I just couldn’t and there it is! And besides I don’t know anything to tell a story about.”
“We can’t believe that, Mrs. Bantry,” said Dr. Lloyd. He shook his grey head in mocking disbelief.
Old Miss Marple said in her gentle voice: “Surely dear—”
Mrs. Bantry continued obstinately4 to shake her head.
“You don’t know how banal5 my life is. What with the servants and the difficulties of getting scullery maids, andjust going to town for clothes, and dentists, and Ascot (which Arthur hates) and then the garden—”
“Ah!” said Dr. Lloyd. “The garden. We all know where your heart lies, Mrs. Bantry.”
“It must be nice to have a garden,” said Jane Helier, the beautiful young actress. “That is, if you hadn’t got to dig,or to get your hands messed up. I’m ever so fond of flowers.”
“The garden,” said Sir Henry. “Can’t we take that as a starting point? Come, Mrs. B. The poisoned bulb, thedeadly daffodils, the herb of death!”
“Now it’s odd your saying that,” said Mrs. Bantry. “You’ve just reminded me. Arthur, do you remember thatbusiness at Clodderham Court? You know. Old Sir Ambrose Bercy. Do you remember what a courtly charming oldman we thought him?”
“Why, of course. Yes, that was a strange business. Go ahead, Dolly.”
“You’d better tell it, dear.”
“Nonsense. Go ahead. Must paddle your own canoe. I did my bit just now.”
Mrs. Bantry drew a deep breath. She clasped her hands and her face registered complete mental anguish6. Shespoke rapidly and fluently.
“Well, there’s really not much to tell. The Herb of Death—that’s what put it into my head, though in my own mindI call it sage7 and onions.”
“Sage and onions?” asked Dr. Lloyd.
Mrs. Bantry nodded.
“That was how it happened you see,” she explained. “We were staying, Arthur and I, with Sir Ambrose Bercy atClodderham Court, and one day, by mistake (though very stupidly, I’ve always thought) a lot of foxglove leaves werepicked with the sage. The ducks for dinner that night were stuffed with it and everyone was very ill, and one poor girl—Sir Ambrose’s ward8—died of it.”
She stopped.
“Dear, dear,” said Miss Marple, “how very tragic9.”
“Wasn’t it?”
“Well,” said Sir Henry, “what next?”
“There isn’t any next,” said Mrs. Bantry, “that’s all.”
Everyone gasped10. Though warned beforehand, they had not expected quite such brevity as this.
“But, my dear lady,” remonstrated11 Sir Henry, “it can’t be all. What you have related is a tragic occurrence, but notin any sense of the word a problem.”
“Well, of course there’s some more,” said Mrs. Bantry. “But if I were to tell you it, you’d know what it was.”
She looked defiantly12 round the assembly and said plaintively13:
“I told you I couldn’t dress things up and make it sound properly like a story ought to do.”
“Ah ha!” said Sir Henry. He sat up in his chair and adjusted an eyeglass. “Really, you know, Scheherazade, this ismost refreshing14. Our ingenuity15 is challenged. I’m not so sure you haven’t done it on purpose—to stimulate16 ourcuriosity. A few brisk rounds of ‘Twenty Questions’ is indicated, I think. Miss Marple, will you begin?”
“I’d like to know something about the cook,” said Miss Marple. “She must have been a very stupid woman, or elsevery inexperienced.”
“She was just very stupid,” said Mrs. Bantry. “She cried a great deal afterwards and said the leaves had beenpicked and brought in to her as sage, and how was she to know?”
“Not one who thought for herself,” said Miss Marple.
“Probably an elderly woman and, I dare say, a very good cook?”
“Oh! excellent,” said Mrs. Bantry.
“Your turn, Miss Helier,” said Sir Henry.
“Oh! You mean—to ask a question?” There was a pause while Jane pondered. Finally she said helplessly, “Really—I don’t know what to ask.”
Her beautiful eyes looked appealingly at Sir Henry.
“Why not dramatis personae, Miss Helier?” he suggested smiling.
Jane still looked puzzled.
“Characters in order of their appearance,” said Sir Henry gently.
“Oh, yes,” said Jane. “That’s a good idea.”
Mrs. Bantry began briskly to tick people off on her fingers.
“Sir Ambrose—Sylvia Keene (that’s the girl who died)—a friend of hers who was staying there, Maud Wye, oneof those dark ugly girls who manage to make an effort somehow—I never know how they do it. Then there was a Mr.
Curle who had come down to discuss books with Sir Ambrose—you know, rare books—queer old things in Latin—allmusty parchment. There was Jerry Lorimer—he was a kind of next door neighbour. His place, Fairlies, joined SirAmbrose’s estate. And there was Mrs. Carpenter, one of those aged18" target="_blank">middle-aged17 pussies19 who always seem to manage to digthemselves in comfortably somewhere. She was by way of being dame20 de compagnie to Sylvia, I suppose.”
“If it is my turn,” said Sir Henry, “and I suppose it is, as I’m sitting next to Miss Helier, I want a good deal. I wanta short verbal portrait, please, Mrs. Bantry, of all the foregoing.”
“Oh!” Mrs. Bantry hesitated.
“Sir Ambrose now,” continued Sir Henry. “Start with him. What was he like?”
“Oh! he was a very distinguished-looking old man—and not so very old really—not more than sixty, I suppose.
But he was very delicate—he had a weak heart, could never go upstairs—he had to have a lift put in, and so that madehim seem older than he was. Very charming manners—courtly—that’s the word that describes him best. You neversaw him ruffled21 or upset. He had beautiful white hair and a particularly charming voice.”
“Good,” said Sir Henry. “I see Sir Ambrose. Now the girl Sylvia—what did you say her name was?”
“Sylvia Keene. She was pretty—really very pretty. Fair-haired, you know, and a lovely skin. Not, perhaps, veryclever. In fact, rather stupid.”
“Oh! come, Dolly,” protested her husband.
“Arthur, of course, wouldn’t think so,” said Mrs. Bantry drily. “But she was stupid—she really never said anythingworth listening to.”
“One of the most graceful22 creatures I ever saw,” said Colonel Bantry warmly. “See her playing tennis—charming,simply charming. And she was full of fun—most amusing little thing. And such a pretty way with her. I bet the youngfellows all thought so.”
“That’s just where you’re wrong,” said Mrs. Bantry. “Youth, as such, has no charms for young men nowadays. It’sonly old buffers23 like you, Arthur, who sit maundering on about young girls.”
“Being young’s no good,” said Jane. “You’ve got to have SA.”
“What,” said Miss Marple, “is SA?”
“Sex appeal,” said Jane.
“Ah! yes,” said Miss Marple. “What in my day they used to call ‘having the come hither in your eye.’”
“Not a bad description,” said Sir Henry. “The dame de compagnie you described, I think, as a pussy24, Mrs.
Bantry?”
“I didn’t mean a cat, you know,” said Mrs. Bantry. “It’s quite different. Just a big soft white purry person. Alwaysvery sweet. That’s what Adelaide Carpenter was like.”
“What sort of aged woman?”
“Oh! I should say fortyish. She’d been there some time—ever since Sylvia was eleven, I believe. A very tactfulperson. One of those widows left in unfortunate circumstances with plenty of aristocratic relations, but no ready cash.
I didn’t like her myself—but then I never do like people with very white long hands. And I don’t like pussies.”
“Mr. Curle?”
“Oh! one of those elderly stooping men. There are so many of them about, you’d hardly know one from the other.
He showed enthusiasm when talking about his musty books, but not at any other time. I don’t think Sir Ambrose knewhim very well.”
“And Jerry next door?”
“A really charming boy. He was engaged to Sylvia. That’s what made it so sad.”
“Now I wonder—” began Miss Marple, and then stopped.
“What?”
“Nothing, dear.”
Sir Henry looked at the old lady curiously25. Then he said thoughtfully:
“So this young couple were engaged. Had they been engaged long?”
“About a year. Sir Ambrose had opposed the engagement on the plea that Sylvia was too young. But after a year’sengagement he had given in and the marriage was to have taken place quite soon.”
“Ah! Had the young lady any property?”
“Next to nothing—a bare hundred or two a year.”
“No rat in that hole, Clithering,” said Colonel Bantry, and laughed.
“It’s the doctor’s turn to ask a question,” said Sir Henry. “I stand down.”
“My curiosity is mainly professional,” said Dr. Lloyd. “I should like to know what medical evidence was given atthe inquest—that is, if our hostess remembers, or, indeed, if she knows.”
“I know roughly,” said Mrs. Bantry. “It was poisoning by digitalin—is that right?”
Dr. Lloyd nodded.
“The active principle of the foxglove—digitalis—acts on the heart. Indeed, it is a very valuable drug in someforms of heart trouble. A very curious case altogther. I would never have believed that eating a preparation offoxglove leaves could possibly result fatally. These ideas of eating poisonous leaves and berries are very muchexaggerated. Very few people realize that the vital principle, or alkaloid, has to be extracted with much care andpreparation.”
“Mrs. MacArthur sent some special bulbs round to Mrs. Toomie the other day,” said Miss Marple. “And Mrs.
Toomie’s cook mistook them for onions, and all the Toomies were very ill indeed.”
“But they didn’t die of it,” said Dr. Lloyd.
“No. They didn’t die of it,” admitted Miss Marple.
“A girl I knew died of ptomaine poisoning,” said Jane Helier.
“We must get on with investigating the crime,” said Sir Henry.
“Crime?” said Jane, startled. “I thought it was an accident.”
“If it were an accident,” said Sir Henry gently, “I do not think Mrs. Bantry would have told us this story. No, as Iread it, this was an accident only in appearance—behind it is something more sinister26. I remember a case—variousguests in a house party were chatting after dinner. The walls were adorned27 with all kinds of old-fashioned weapons.
Entirely28 as a joke one of the party seized an ancient horse pistol and pointed29 it at another man, pretending to fire it.
The pistol was loaded and went off, killing30 the man. We had to ascertain31 in that case, first, who had secretly preparedand loaded that pistol, and secondly32 who had so led and directed the conversation that that final bit of horseplayresulted—for the man who had fired the pistol was entirely innocent!
“It seems to me we have much the same problem here. Those digitalin leaves were deliberately33 mixed with thesage, knowing what the result would be. Since we exonerate34 the cook—we do exonerate the cook, don’t we?—thequestion arises: Who picked the leaves and delivered them to the kitchen?”
“That’s easily answered,” said Mrs. Bantry. “At least the last part of it is. It was Sylvia herself who took the leavesto the kitchen. It was part of her daily job to gather things like salad or herbs, bunches of young carrots—all the sort ofthings that gardeners never pick right. They hate giving you anything young and tender—they wait for them to be finespecimens. Sylvia and Mrs. Carpenter used to see to a lot of these things themselves. And there was foxglove actuallygrowing all amongst the sage in one corner, so the mistake was quite natural.”
“But did Sylvia actually pick them herself?”
“That, nobody ever knew. It was assumed so.”
“Assumptions,” said Sir Henry, “are dangerous things.”
“But I do know that Mrs. Carpenter didn’t pick them,” said Mrs. Bantry. “Because, as it happened, she waswalking with me on the terrace that morning. We went out there after breakfast. It was unusually nice and warm forearly spring. Sylvia went alone down into the garden, but later I saw her walking arm-in-arm with Maud Wye.”
“So they were great friends, were they?” asked Miss Marple.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Bantry. She seemed as though about to say something, but did not do so.
“Had she been staying there long?” asked Miss Marple.
“About a fortnight,” said Mrs. Bantry.
There was a note of trouble in her voice.
“You didn’t like Miss Wye?” suggested Sir Henry.
“I did. That’s just it. I did.”
The trouble in her voice had grown to distress35.
“You’re keeping something back, Mrs. Bantry,” said Sir Henry accusingly.
“I wondered just now,” said Miss Marple, “but I didn’t like to go on.”
“When did you wonder?”
“When you said that the young people were engaged. You said that that was what made it so sad. But, if you knowwhat I mean, your voice didn’t sound right when you said it—not convincing, you know.”
“What a dreadful person you are,” said Mrs. Bantry. “You always seem to know. Yes, I was thinking of something.
But I don’t really know whether I ought to say it or not.”
“You must say it,” said Sir Henry. “Whatever your scruples36, it mustn’t be kept back.”
“Well, it was just this,” said Mrs. Bantry. “One evening—in fact the very evening before the tragedy—I happenedto go out on the terrace before dinner. The window in the drawing room was open. And as it chanced I saw JerryLorimer and Maud Wye. He was—well—kissing her. Of course I didn’t know whether it was just a sort of chanceaffair, or whether—well, I mean, one can’t tell. I knew Sir Ambrose never had really liked Jerry Lorimer—so perhapshe knew he was that kind of young man. But one thing I am sure of: that girl, Maud Wye, was really fond of him.
You’d only to see her looking at him when she was off guard. And I think, too, they were really better suited than heand Sylvia were.”
“I am going to ask a question quickly, before Miss Marple can,” said Sir Henry. “I want to know whether, after thetragedy, Jerry Lorimer married Maud Wye?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Bantry. “He did. Six months afterwards.”
“Oh! Scheherezade, Scheherezade,” said Sir Henry. “To think of the way you told us this story at first! Bare bonesindeed—and to think of the amount of flesh we’re finding on them now.”
“Don’t speak so ghoulishly,” said Mrs. Bantry. “And don’t use the word flesh. Vegetarians38 always do. They say, ‘Inever eat flesh’ in a way that puts you right off your little beefsteak. Mr. Curle was a vegetarian37. He used to eat somepeculiar stuff that looked like bran for breakfast. Those elderly stooping men with beards are often faddy. They havepatent kinds of underwear, too.”
“What on earth, Dolly,” said her husband, “do you know about Mr. Curle’s underwear?”
“Nothing,” said Mrs. Bantry with dignity. “I was just making a guess.”
“I’ll amend40 my former statement,” said Sir Henry. “I’ll say instead that the dramatis personae in your problem arevery interesting. I’m beginning to see them all—eh, Miss Marple?”
“Human nature is always interesting, Sir Henry. And it’s curious to see how certain types always tend to act inexactly the same way.”
“Two women and a man,” said Sir Henry. “The old eternal human triangle. Is that the base of our problem here? Irather fancy it is.”
Dr. Lloyd cleared his throat.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said rather diffidently. “Do you say, Mrs. Bantry, that you yourself were ill?”
“Was I not! So was Arthur! So was everyone!”
“That’s just it—everyone,” said the doctor. “You see what I mean? In Sir Henry’s story which he told us just now,one man shot another—he didn’t have to shoot the whole room full.”
“I don’t understand,” said Jane. “Who shot who?”
“I’m saying that whoever planned this thing went about it very curiously, either with a blind belief in chance, orelse with an absolutely reckless disregard for human life. I can hardly believe there is a man capable of deliberatelypoisoning eight people with the object of removing one amongst them.”
“I see your point,” said Sir Henry, thoughtfully. “I confess I ought to have thought of that.”
“And mightn’t he have poisoned himself too?” asked Jane.
“Was anyone absent from dinner that night?” asked Miss Marple.
Mrs. Bantry shook her head.
“Everyone was there.”
“Except Mr. Lorimer, I suppose, my dear. He wasn’t staying in the house, was he?”
“No; but he was dining there that evening,” said Mrs. Bantry.
“Oh!” said Miss Marple in a changed voice. “That makes all the difference in the world.”
She frowned vexedly to herself.
“I’ve been very stupid,” she murmured. “Very stupid indeed.”
“I confess your point worries me, Lloyd,” said Sir Henry.
“How ensure that the girl, and the girl only, should get a fatal dose?”
“You can’t,” said the doctor. “That brings me to the point I’m going to make. Supposing the girl was not theintended victim after all?”
“What?”
“In all cases of food poisoning, the result is very uncertain. Several people share a dish. What happens? One ortwo are slightly ill, two more, say, are seriously indisposed, one dies. That’s the way of it—there’s no certaintyanywhere. But there are cases where another factor might enter in. Digitalin is a drug that acts directly on the heart—as I’ve told you it’s prescribed in certain cases. Now, there was one person in that house who suffered from a heartcomplaint. Suppose he was the victim selected? What would not be fatal to the rest would be fatal to him—or so themurderer might reasonably suppose. That the thing turned out differently is only a proof of what I was saying just now—the uncertainty41 and unreliability of the effects of drugs on human beings.”
“Sir Ambrose,” said Sir Henry, “you think he was the person aimed at? Yes, yes—and the girl’s death was amistake.”
“Who got his money after he was dead?” asked Jane.
“A very sound question, Miss Helier. One of the first we always ask in my late profession,” said Sir Henry.
“Sir Ambrose had a son,” said Mrs. Bantry slowly. “He had quarrelled with him many years previously42. The boywas wild, I believe. Still, it was not in Sir Ambrose’s power to disinherit him—Clodderham Court was entailed43.
Martin Bercy succeeded to the title and estate. There was, however, a good deal of other property that Sir Ambrosecould leave as he chose, and that he left to his ward Sylvia. I know this because Sir Ambrose died less than a year afterthe events I am telling you of, and he had not troubled to make a new will after Sylvia’s death. I think the money wentto the Crown—or perhaps it was to his son as next of kin—I don’t really remember.”
“So it was only to the interest of a son who wasn’t there and the girl who died herself to make away with him,”
said Sir Henry thoughtfully. “That doesn’t seem very promising44.”
“Didn’t the other woman get anything?” asked Jane. “The one Mrs. Bantry calls the Pussy woman.”
“She wasn’t mentioned in the will,” said Mrs. Bantry.
“Miss Marple, you’re not listening,” said Sir Henry. “You’re somewhere faraway.”
“I was thinking of old Mr. Badger45, the chemist,” said Miss Marple. “He had a very young housekeeper46—youngenough to be not only his daughter, but his granddaughter. Not a word to anyone, and his family, a lot of nephews andnieces, full of expectations. And when he died, would you believe it, he’d been secretly married to her for two years?
Of course Mr. Badger was a chemist, and a very rude, common old man as well, and Sir Ambrose Bercy was a verycourtly gentleman, so Mrs. Bantry says, but for all that human nature is much the same everywhere.”
There was a pause. Sir Henry looked very hard at Miss Marple who looked back at him with gently quizzical blueeyes. Jane Helier broke the silence.
“Was this Mrs. Carpenter good-looking?” she asked.
“Yes, in a very quiet way. Nothing startling.”
“She had a very sympathetic voice,” said Colonel Bantry.
“Purring—that’s what I call it,” said Mrs. Bantry. “Purring!”
“You’ll be called a cat yourself one of these days, Dolly.”
“I like being a cat in my home circle,” said Mrs. Bantry. “I don’t much like women anyway, and you know it. Ilike men and flowers.”
“Excellent taste,” said Sir Henry. “Especially in putting men first.”
“That was tact,” said Mrs. Bantry. “Well, now, what about my little problem? I’ve been quite fair, I think. Arthur,don’t you think I’ve been fair?”
“Yes, my dear. I don’t think there’ll be any inquiry47 into the running by the stewards48 of the Jockey Club.”
“First boy,” said Mrs. Bantry, pointing a finger at Sir Henry.
“I’m going to be long-winded. Because, you see, I haven’t really got any feeling of certainty about the matter.
First, Sir Ambrose. Well, he wouldn’t take such an original method of committing suicide—and on the other hand hecertainly had nothing to gain by the death of his ward. Exit Sir Ambrose. Mr. Curle. No motive49 for death of girl. If SirAmbrose was intended victim, he might possibly have purloined50 a rare manuscript or two that no one else would miss.
Very thin and most unlikely. So I think, that in spite of Mrs. Bantry’s suspicions as to his underclothing, Mr. Curle iscleared. Miss Wye. Motive for death of Sir Ambrose—none. Motive for death of Sylvia pretty strong. She wantedSylvia’s young man, and wanted him rather badly—from Mrs. Bantry’s account. She was with Sylvia that morning inthe garden, so had opportunity to pick leaves. No, we can’t dismiss Miss Wye so easily. Young Lorimer. He’s got amotive in either case. If he gets rid of his sweetheart, he can marry the other girl. Still it seems a bit drastic to kill her—what’s a broken engagement these days? If Sir Ambrose dies, he will marry a rich girl instead of a poor one. Thatmight be important or not—depends on his financial position. If I find that his estate was heavily mortgaged and thatMrs. Bantry has deliberately withheld51 that fact from us, I shall claim a foul52. Now Mrs. Carpenter. You know, I havesuspicions of Mrs. Carpenter. Those white hands, for one thing, and her excellent alibi53 at the time the herbs werepicked—I always distrust alibis54. And I’ve got another reason for suspecting her which I will keep to myself. Still, onthe whole, if I’ve got to plump, I shall plump for Miss Maude Wye, because there’s more evidence against her thananyone else.”
“Next boy,” said Mrs. Bantry, and pointed at Dr. Lloyd.
“I think you’re wrong, Clithering, in sticking to the theory that the girl’s death was meant. I am convinced that themurderer intended to do away with Sir Ambrose. I don’t think that young Lorimer had the necessary knowledge. I aminclined to believe that Mrs. Carpenter was the guilty party. She had been a long time with the family, knew all aboutthe state of Sir Ambrose’s health, and could easily arrange for this girl Sylvia (who, you said yourself, was ratherstupid) to pick the right leaves. Motive, I confess, I don’t see; but I hazard the guess that Sir Ambrose had at one timemade a will in which she was mentioned. That’s the best I can do.”
Mrs. Bantry’s pointing finger went on to Jane Helier.
“I don’t know what to say,” said Jane, “except this: Why shouldn’t the girl herself have done it? She took theleaves into the kitchen after all. And you say Sir Ambrose had been sticking out against her marriage. If he died, she’dget the money and be able to marry at once. She’d know just as much about Sir Ambrose’s health as Mrs. Carpenterwould.”
Mrs. Bantry’s finger came slowly round to Miss Marple.
“Now then, School Marm,” she said.
“Sir Henry has put it all very clearly—very clearly indeed,” said Miss Marple. “And Dr. Lloyd was so right inwhat he said. Between them they seem to have made things so very clear. Only I don’t think Dr. Lloyd quite realizedone aspect of what he said. You see, not being Sir Ambrose’s medical adviser55, he couldn’t know just what kind ofheart trouble Sir Ambrose had, could he?”
“I don’t quite see what you mean, Miss Marple,” said Dr. Lloyd.
“You’re assuming—aren’t you?—that Sir Ambrose had the kind of heart that digitalin would affect adversely56? Butthere’s nothing to prove that that’s so. It might be just the other way about.”
“The other way about?”
“Yes, you did say that it was often prescribed for heart trouble?”
“Even then, Miss Marple, I don’t see what that leads to?”
“Well, it would mean that he would have digitalin in his possession quite naturally—without having to account forit. What I am trying to say (I always express myself so badly) is this: Supposing you wanted to poison anyone with afatal dose of digitalin. Wouldn’t the simplest and easiest way be to arrange for everyone to be poisoned—actually bydigitalin leaves? It wouldn’t be fatal in anyone else’s case, of course, but no one would be surprised at one victimbecause, as Dr. Lloyd said, these things are so uncertain. No one would be likely to ask whether the girl had actuallyhad a fatal dose of infusion57 of digitalis or something of that kind. He might have put it in a cocktail58, or in her coffee oreven made her drink it quite simply as a tonic59.”
“You mean Sir Ambrose poisoned his ward, the charming girl whom he loved?”
“That’s just it,” said Miss Marple. “Like Mr. Badger and his young housekeeper. Don’t tell me it’s absurd for aman of sixty to fall in love with a girl of twenty. It happens every day—and I dare say with an old autocrat60 like SirAmbrose, it might take him queerly. These things become a madness sometimes. He couldn’t bear the thought of hergetting married—did his best to oppose it—and failed. His mad jealousy61 became so great that he preferred killing herto letting her go to young Lorimer. He must have thought of it sometime beforehand, because that foxglove seedwould have to be sown among the sage. He’d pick it himself when the time came, and send her into the kitchen with it.
It’s horrible to think of, but I suppose we must take as merciful a view of it as we can. Gentlemen of that age aresometimes very peculiar39 indeed where young girls are concerned. Our last organist—but there, I mustn’t talk scandal.”
“Mrs. Bantry,” said Sir Henry. “Is this so?”
Mrs. Bantry nodded.
“Yes. I’d no idea of it—never dreamed of the thing being anything but an accident. Then, after Sir Ambrose’sdeath, I got a letter. He had left directions to send it to me. He told me the truth in it. I don’t know why—but he and Ialways got on very well together.”
In the momentary62 silence, she seemed to feel an unspoken criticism and went on hastily:
“You think I’m betraying a confidence—but that isn’t so. I’ve changed all the names. He wasn’t really called SirAmbrose Bercy. Didn’t you see how Arthur stared stupidly when I said that name to him? He didn’t understand atfirst. I’ve changed everything. It’s like they say in magazines and in the beginning of books: ‘All the characters in thisstory are purely63 fictitious64.’ You never know who they really are.”
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reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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banal
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| adj.陈腐的，平庸的 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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defiantly
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| adv.挑战地，大胆对抗地 | |
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plaintively
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| adv.悲哀地，哀怨地 | |
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refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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stimulate
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| vt.刺激，使兴奋；激励，使…振奋 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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pussies
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| n.（粗俚） 女阴( pussy的名词复数 )；（总称）（作为性对象的）女人；（主要北美使用，非正式）软弱的；小猫咪 | |
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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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buffers
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| 起缓冲作用的人（或物）( buffer的名词复数 )； 缓冲器； 减震器； 愚蠢老头 | |
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pussy
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| n.(儿语)小猫，猫咪 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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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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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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exonerate
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| v.免除责任，确定无罪 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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vegetarian
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| n.素食者；adj.素食的 | |
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vegetarians
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| n.吃素的人( vegetarian的名词复数 )；素食者；素食主义者；食草动物 | |
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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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amend
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| vt.修改，修订，改进；n.[pl.]赔罪，赔偿 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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entailed
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| 使…成为必要( entail的过去式和过去分词 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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badger
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| v.一再烦扰，一再要求，纠缠 | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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stewards
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| （轮船、飞机等的）乘务员( steward的名词复数 )； （俱乐部、旅馆、工会等的）管理员； （大型活动的）组织者； （私人家中的）管家 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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purloined
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| v.偷窃( purloin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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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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alibi
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| n.某人当时不在犯罪现场的申辩或证明；借口 | |
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alibis
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| 某人在别处的证据( alibi的名词复数 )； 不在犯罪现场的证人； 借口； 托辞 | |
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adviser
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| n.劝告者，顾问 | |
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adversely
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| ad.有害地 | |
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infusion
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| n.灌输 | |
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cocktail
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| n.鸡尾酒；餐前开胃小吃；混合物 | |
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tonic
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| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
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autocrat
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| n.独裁者；专横的人 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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fictitious
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| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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