GREENSHAW’S FOLLY1
T he two men rounded the corner of the shrubbery.
“Well, there you are,” said Raymond West. “That’s it.”
Horace Bindler took a deep, appreciative2 breath.
“But my dear,” he cried, “how wonderful.” His voice rose in a high screech3 of ’sthetic delight, then deepened inreverent awe4. “It’s unbelievable. Out of this world! A period piece of the best.”
“I thought you’d like it,” said Raymond West, complacently5.
“Like it? My dear—” Words failed Horace. He unbuckled the strap6 of his camera and got busy. “This will be oneof the gems8 of my collection,” he said happily. “I do think, don’t you, that it’s rather amusing to have a collection ofmonstrosities? The idea came to me one night seven years ago in my bath. My last real gem7 was in the Campo Santoat Genoa, but I really think this beats it. What’s it called?”
“I haven’t the least idea,” said Raymond.
“I suppose it’s got a name?”
“It must have. But the fact is that it’s never referred to round here as anything but Greenshaw’s Folly.”
“Greenshaw being the man who built it?”
“Yes. In eighteen-sixty or seventy or thereabouts. The local success story of the time. Barefoot boy who had risento immense prosperity. Local opinion is divided as to why he built this house, whether it was sheer exuberance9 ofwealth or whether it was done to impress his creditors10. If the latter, it didn’t impress them. He either went bankrupt orthe next thing to it. Hence the name, Greenshaw’s Folly.”
Horace’s camera clicked. “There,” he said in a satisfied voice. “Remind me to show you No. 310 in my collection.
A really incredible marble mantelpiece in the Italian manner.” He added, looking at the house, “I can’t conceive ofhow Mr. Greenshaw thought of it all.”
“Rather obvious in some ways,” said Raymond. “He had visited the ch?teaux of the Loire, don’t you think? Thoseturrets. And then, rather unfortunately, he seems to have travelled in the Orient. The influence of the Taj Mahal isunmistakable. I rather like the Moorish11 wing,” he added, “and the traces of a Venetian palace.”
“One wonders how he ever got hold of an architect to carry out these ideas.”
Raymond shrugged12 his shoulders.
“No difficulty about that, I expect,” he said. “Probably the architect retired13 with a good income for life while poorold Greenshaw went bankrupt.”
“Could we look at it from the other side?” asked Horace, “or are we trespassing14!”
“We’re trespassing all right,” said Raymond, “but I don’t think it will matter.”
He turned towards the corner of the house and Horace skipped after him.
“But who lives here, my dear? Orphans16 or holiday visitors? It can’t be a school. No playing fields or briskefficiency.”
“Oh, a Greenshaw lives here still,” said Raymond over his shoulder. “The house itself didn’t go in the crash. OldGreenshaw’s son inherited it. He was a bit of a miser17 and lived here in a corner of it. Never spent a penny. Probablynever had a penny to spend. His daughter lives here now. Old lady—very eccentric.”
As he spoke18 Raymond was congratulating himself on having thought of Greenshaw’s Folly as a means ofentertaining his guest. These literary critics always professed19 themselves as longing20 for a weekend in the country, andwere wont21 to find the country extremely boring when they got there. Tomorrow there would be the Sunday papers, andfor today Raymond West congratulated himself on suggesting a visit to Greenshaw’s Folly to enrich Horace Bindler’swell-known collection of monstrosities.
They turned the corner of the house and came out on a neglected lawn. In one corner of it was a large artificialrockery, and bending over it was a figure at sight of which Horace clutched Raymond delightedly by the arm.
“My dear,” he exclaimed, “do you see what she’s got on? A sprigged print dress. Just like a housemaid—whenthere were housemaids. One of my most cherished memories is staying at a house in the country when I was quite aboy where a real housemaid called you in the morning, all crackling in a print dress and a cap. Yes, my boy, really—acap. Muslin with streamers. No, perhaps it was the parlourmaid who had the streamers. But anyway she was a realhousemaid and she brought in an enormous brass22 can of hot water. What an exciting day we’re having.”
The figure in the print dress had straightened up and had turned towards them, trowel in hand. She was asufficiently startling figure. Unkempt locks of iron-grey fell wispily on her shoulders, a straw hat rather like the hatsthat horses wear in Italy was crammed23 down on her head. The coloured print dress she wore fell nearly to her ankles.
Out of a weather-beaten, not-too-clean face, shrewd eyes surveyed them appraisingly24.
“I must apologize for trespassing, Miss Greenshaw,” said Raymond West, as he advanced towards her, “but Mr.
Horace Bindler who is staying with me—”
Horace bowed and removed his hat.
“—is most interested in—er—ancient history and—er—fine buildings.”
Raymond West spoke with the ease of a well-known author who knows that he is a celebrity25, that he can venturewhere other people may not.
Miss Greenshaw looked up at the sprawling26 exuberance behind her.
“It is a fine house,” she said appreciatively. “My grandfather built it—before my time, of course. He is reported ashaving said that he wished to astonish the natives.”
“I’ll say he did that, ma’am,” said Horace Bindler.
“Mr. Bindler is the well-known literary critic,” said Raymond West.
Miss Greenshaw had clearly no reverence27 for literary critics. She remained unimpressed.
“I consider it,” said Miss Greenshaw, referring to the house, “as a monument to my grandfather’s genius. Sillyfools come here, and ask me why I don’t sell it and go and live in a flat. What would I do in a flat? It’s my home and Ilive in it,” said Miss Greenshaw. “Always have lived here.” She considered, brooding over the past. “There were threeof us. Laura married the curate. Papa wouldn’t give her any money, said clergymen ought to be unworldly. She died,having a baby. Baby died too. Nettie ran away with the riding master. Papa cut her out of his will, of course.
Handsome fellow, Harry28 Fletcher, but no good. Don’t think Nettie was happy with him. Anyway, she didn’t live long.
They had a son. He writes to me sometimes, but of course he isn’t a Greenshaw. I’m the last of the Greenshaws.” Shedrew up her bent29 shoulders with a certain pride, and readjusted the rakish angle of the straw hat. Then, turning, shesaid sharply,
“Yes, Mrs. Cresswell, what is it?”
Approaching them from the house was a figure that, seen side by side with Miss Greenshaw, seemed ludicrouslydissimilar. Mrs. Cresswell had a marvellously dressed head of well-blued hair towering upwards30 in meticulouslyarranged curls and rolls. It was as though she had dressed her head to go as a French marquise to a fancy-dress party.
The rest of her middle-aged31 person was dressed in what ought to have been rustling32 black silk but was actually one ofthe shinier varieties of black rayon. Although she was not a large woman, she had a well-developed and sumptuousbust. Her voice when she spoke, was unexpectedly deep. She spoke with exquisite33 diction, only a slight hesitation34 overwords beginning with “h” and the final pronunciation of them with an exaggerated aspirate gave rise to a suspicionthat at some remote period in her youth she might have had trouble over dropping her h’s.
“The fish, madam,” said Mrs. Cresswell, “the slice of cod35. It has not arrived. I have asked Alfred to go down for itand he refuses to do so.”
Rather unexpectedly, Miss Greenshaw gave a cackle of laughter.
“Refuses, does he?”
“Alfred, madam, has been most disobliging.”
Miss Greenshaw raised two earth-stained fingers to her lips, suddenly produced an ear-splitting whistle and at thesame time yelled:
“Alfred. Alfred, come here.”
Round the corner of the house a young man appeared in answer to the summons, carrying a spade in his hand. Hehad a bold, handsome face and as he drew near he cast an unmistakably malevolent36 glance towards Mrs. Cresswell.
“You wanted me, miss?” he said.
“Yes, Alfred. I hear you’ve refused to go down for the fish. What about it, eh?”
Alfred spoke in a surly voice.
“I’ll go down for it if you wants it, miss. You’ve only got to say.”
“I do want it. I want it for my supper.”
“Right you are, miss. I’ll go right away.”
He threw an insolent37 glance at Mrs. Cresswell, who flushed and murmured below her breath:
“Really! It’s unsupportable.”
“Now that I think of it,” said Miss Greenshaw, “a couple of strange visitors are just what we need aren’t they, Mrs.
Cresswell?”
Mrs. Cresswell looked puzzled.
“I’m sorry, madam—”
“For you-know-what,” said Miss Greenshaw, nodding her head. “Beneficiary to a will mustn’t witness it. That’sright, isn’t it?” She appealed to Raymond West.
“Quite correct,” said Raymond.
“I know enough law to know that,” said Miss Greenshaw. “And you two are men of standing38.”
She flung down her trowel on her weeding basket.
“Would you mind coming up to the library with me?”
“Delighted,” said Horace eagerly.
She led the way through french windows and through a vast yellow and gold drawing room with faded brocade onthe walls and dust covers arranged over the furniture, then through a large dim hall, up a staircase and into a room onthe first floor.
“My grandfather’s library,” she announced.
Horace looked round the room with acute pleasure. It was a room, from his point of view, quite full ofmonstrosities. The heads of sphinxes appeared on the most unlikely pieces of furniture, there was a colossal39 bronzerepresenting, he thought, Paul and Virginia, and a vast bronze clock with classical motifs40 of which he longed to take aphotograph.
“A fine lot of books,” said Miss Greenshaw.
Raymond was already looking at the books. From what he could see from a cursory41 glance there was no book hereof any real interest or, indeed, any book which appeared to have been read. They were all superbly bound sets of theclassics as supplied ninety years ago for furnishing a gentleman’s library. Some novels of a bygone period wereincluded. But they too showed little signs of having been read.
Miss Greenshaw was fumbling42 in the drawers of a vast desk. Finally she pulled out a parchment document.
“My will,” she explained. “Got to leave your money to someone—or so they say. If I died without a will I supposethat son of a horse-coper would get it. Handsome fellow, Harry Fletcher, but a rogue43 if there ever was one. Don’t seewhy his son should inherit this place. No,” she went on, as though answering some unspoken objection, “I’ve made upmy mind. I’m leaving it to Cresswell.”
“Your housekeeper44?”
“Yes. I’ve explained it to her. I make a will leaving her all I’ve got and then I don’t need to pay her any wages.
Saves me a lot in current expenses, and it keeps her up to the mark. No giving me notice and walking off at anyminute. Very la-di-dah and all that, isn’t she? But her father was a working plumber45 in a very small way. She’snothing to give herself airs about.”
She had by now unfolded the parchment. Picking up a pen she dipped it in the inkstand and wrote her signature,Katherine Dorothy Greenshaw.
“That’s right,” she said. “You’ve seen me sign it, and then you two sign it, and that makes it legal.”
She handed the pen to Raymond West. He hesitated a moment, feeling an unexpected repulsion to what he wasasked to do. Then he quickly scrawled46 the well-known signature, for which his morning’s mail usually brought at leastsix demands a day.
Horace took the pen from him and added his own minute signature.
“That’s done,” said Miss Greenshaw.
She moved across to the bookcase and stood looking at them uncertainly, then she opened a glass door, took out abook and slipped the folded parchment inside.
“I’ve my own places for keeping things,” she said.
“Lady Audley’s Secret,” Raymond West remarked, catching47 sight of the title as she replaced the book.
Miss Greenshaw gave another cackle of laughter.
“Best seller in its day,” she remarked. “Not like your books, eh?”
She gave Raymond a sudden friendly nudge in the ribs48. Raymond was rather surprised that she even knew hewrote books. Although Raymond West was quite a name in literature, he could hardly be described as a best seller.
Though softening49 a little with the advent50 of middle age, his books dealt bleakly51 with the sordid52 side of life.
“I wonder,” Horace demanded breathlessly, “if I might just take a photograph of the clock?”
“By all means,” said Miss Greenshaw. “It came, I believe, from the Paris exhibition.”
“Very probably,” said Horace. He took his picture.
“This room’s not been used much since my grandfather’s time,” said Miss Greenshaw. “This desk’s full of olddiaries of his. Interesting, I should think. I haven’t the eyesight to read them myself. I’d like to get them published, butI suppose one would have to work on them a good deal.”
“You could engage someone to do that,” said Raymond West.
“Could I really? It’s an idea, you know. I’ll think about it.”
Raymond West glanced at his watch.
“We mustn’t trespass15 on your kindness any longer,” he said.
“Pleased to have seen you,” said Miss Greenshaw graciously. “Thought you were the policeman when I heard youcoming round the corner of the house.”
“Why a policeman?” demanded Horace, who never minded asking questions.
Miss Greenshaw responded unexpectedly.
“If you want to know the time, ask a policeman,” she carolled, and with this example of Victorian wit, nudgedHorace in the ribs and roared with laughter.
“It’s been a wonderful afternoon,” sighed Horace as they walked home. “Really, that place has everything. Theonly thing the library needs is a body. Those old-fashioned detective stories about murder in the library—that’s justthe kind of library I’m sure the authors had in mind.”
“If you want to discuss murder,” said Raymond, “you must talk to my Aunt Jane.”
“Your Aunt Jane? Do you mean Miss Marple?” He felt a little at a loss.
The charming old-world lady to whom he had been introduced the night before seemed the last person to bementioned in connection with murder.
“Oh, yes,” said Raymond. “Murder is a speciality of hers.”
“But my dear, how intriguing53. What do you really mean?”
“I mean just that,” said Raymond. He paraphrased54: “Some commit murder, some get mixed-up in murders, othershave murder thrust upon them. My Aunt Jane comes into the third category.”
“You are joking.”
“Not in the least. I can refer you to the former Commissioner55 of Scotland Yard, several Chief Constables57 and oneor two hardworking inspectors59 of the CID.”
Horace said happily that wonders would never cease. Over the tea table they gave Joan West, Raymond’s wife,Lou Oxley her niece, and old Miss Marple, a résumé of the afternoon’s happenings, recounting in detail everythingthat Miss Greenshaw had said to them.
“But I do think,” said Horace, “that there is something a little sinister60 about the whole setup. That duchess-likecreature, the housekeeper—arsenic61, perhaps, in the teapot, now that she knows her mistress has made the will in herfavour?”
“Tell us, Aunt Jane,” said Raymond. “Will there be murder or won’t there? What do you think?”
“I think,” said Miss Marple, winding62 up her wool with a rather severe air, “that you shouldn’t joke about thesethings as much as you do, Raymond. Arsenic is, of course, quite a possibility. So easy to obtain. Probably present inthe toolshed already in the form of weed killer63.”
“Oh, really, darling,” said Joan West, affectionately. “Wouldn’t that be rather too obvious?”
“It’s all very well to make a will,” said Raymond, “I don’t suppose really the poor old thing has anything to leaveexcept that awful white elephant of a house, and who would want that?”
“A film company possibly,” said Horace, “or a hotel or an institution?”
“They’d expect to buy it for a song,” said Raymond, but Miss Marple was shaking her head.
“You know, dear Raymond, I cannot agree with you there. About the money, I mean. The grandfather wasevidently one of those lavish64 spenders who make money easily, but can’t keep it. He may have gone broke, as you say,but hardly bankrupt or else his son would not have had the house. Now the son, as is so often the case, was an entirelydifferent character to his father. A miser. A man who saved every penny. I should say that in the course of his lifetimehe probably put by a very good sum. This Miss Greenshaw appears to have taken after him, to dislike spendingmoney, that is. Yes, I should think it quite likely that she had quite a good sum tucked away.”
“In that case,” said Joan West, “I wonder now—what about Lou?”
They looked at Lou as she sat, silent, by the fire.
Lou was Joan West’s niece. Her marriage had recently, as she herself put it, come unstuck, leaving her with twoyoung children and a bare sufficiency of money to keep them on.
“I mean,” said Joan, “if this Miss Greenshaw really wants someone to go through diaries and get a book ready forpublication.?.?.?.”
“It’s an idea,” said Raymond.
Lou said in a low voice:
“It’s work I could do—and I’d enjoy it.”
“I’ll write to her,” said Raymond.
“I wonder,” said Miss Marple thoughtfully, “what the old lady meant by that remark about a policeman?”
“Oh, it was just a joke.”
“It reminded me,” said Miss Marple, nodding her head vigorously, “yes, it reminded me very much of Mr.
Naysmith.”
“Who was Mr. Naysmith?” asked Raymond, curiously65.
“He kept bees,” said Miss Marple, “and was very good at doing the acrostics in the Sunday papers. And he likedgiving people false impressions just for fun. But sometimes it led to trouble.”
Everybody was silent for a moment, considering Mr. Naysmith, but as there did not seem to be any points ofresemblance between him and Miss Greenshaw, they decided66 that dear Aunt Jane was perhaps getting a little bitdisconnected in her old age.
Horace Bindler went back to London without having collected any more monstrosities and Raymond West wrote aletter to Miss Greenshaw telling her that he knew of a Mrs. Louisa Oxley who would be competent to undertake workon the diaries. After a lapse67 of somedays, a letter arrived, written in spidery old-fashioned handwriting, in which MissGreenshaw declared herself anxious to avail herself of the services of Mrs. Oxley, and making an appointment forMrs. Oxley to come and see her.
Lou duly kept the appointment, generous terms were arranged and she started work on the following day.
“I’m awfully68 grateful to you,” she said to Raymond. “It will fit in beautifully. I can take the children to school, goon to Greenshaw’s Folly and pick them up on my way back. How fantastic the whole setup is! That old woman has tobe seen to be believed.”
On the evening of her first day at work she returned and described her day.
“I’ve hardly seen the housekeeper,” she said. “She came in with coffee and biscuits at half past eleven with hermouth pursed up very prunes69 and prisms, and would hardly speak to me. I think she disapproves70 deeply of my havingbeen engaged.” She went on, “It seems there’s quite a feud71 between her and the gardener, Alfred. He’s a local boy andfairly lazy, I should imagine, and he and the housekeeper won’t speak to each other. Miss Greenshaw said in her rathergrand way, ‘There have always been feuds72 as far as I can remember between the garden and the house staff. It was soin my grandfather’s time. There were three men and a boy in the garden then, and eight maids in the house, but therewas always friction73.’”
On the following day Lou returned with another piece of news.
“Just fancy,” she said, “I was asked to ring up the nephew this morning.”
“Miss Greenshaw’s nephew?”
“Yes. It seems he’s an actor playing in the company that’s doing a summer season at Boreham on Sea. I rang upthe theatre and left a message asking him to lunch tomorrow. Rather fun, really. The old girl didn’t want thehousekeeper to know. I think Mrs. Cresswell has done something that’s annoyed her.”
“Tomorrow another instalment of this thrilling serial74,” murmured Raymond.
“It’s exactly like a serial, isn’t it? Reconciliation75 with the nephew, blood is thicker than water—another will to bemade and the old will destroyed.”
“Aunt Jane, you’re looking very serious.”
“Was I, my dear? Have you heard anymore about the policeman?”
Lou looked bewildered. “I don’t know anything about a policeman.”
“That remark of hers, my dear,” said Miss Marple, “must have meant something.”
Lou arrived at her work the next day in a cheerful mood. She passed through the open front door—the doors andwindows of the house were always open. Miss Greenshaw appeared to have no fear of burglars, and was probablyjustified, as most things in the house weighed several tons and were of no marketable value.
Lou had passed Alfred in the drive. When she first caught sight of him he had been leaning against a tree smokinga cigarette, but as soon as he had caught sight of her he had seized a broom and begun diligently76 to sweep leaves. Anidle young man, she thought, but good-looking. His features reminded her of someone. As she passed through the hallon her way upstairs to the library she glanced at the large picture of Nathaniel Greenshaw which presided over themantelpiece, showing him in the acme77 of Victorian prosperity, leaning back in a large armchair, his hands resting onthe gold albert across his capacious stomach. As her glance swept up from the stomach to the face with its heavyjowls, its bushy eyebrows78 and its flourishing black moustache, the thought occurred to her that Nathaniel Greenshawmust have been handsome as a young man. He had looked, perhaps, a little like Alfred.?.?.?.
She went into the library, shut the door behind her, opened her typewriter and got out the diaries from the drawerat the side of the desk. Through the open window she caught a glimpse of Miss Greenshaw in a puce-colouredsprigged print, bending over the rockery, weeding assiduously. They had had two wet days, of which the weeds hadtaken full advantage.
Lou, a town-bred girl, decided that if she ever had a garden it would never contain a rockery which needed handweeding. Then she settled down to her work.
When Mrs. Cresswell entered the library with the coffee tray at half past eleven, she was clearly in a very badtemper. She banged the tray down on the table, and observed to the universe.
“Company for lunch—and nothing in the house! What am I supposed to do, I should like to know? And no sign ofAlfred.”
“He was sweeping79 in the drive when I got here,” Lou offered.
“I dare say. A nice soft job.”
Mrs. Cresswell swept out of the room and banged the door behind her. Lou grinned to herself. She wondered what“the nephew” would be like.
She finished her coffee and settled down to her work again. It was so absorbing that time passed quickly. NathanielGreenshaw, when he started to keep a diary, had succumbed80 to the pleasure of frankness. Trying out a passage relatingto the personal charm of a barmaid in the neighbouring town, Lou reflected that a good deal of editing would benecessary.
As she was thinking this, she was startled by a scream from the garden. Jumping up, she ran to the open window.
Miss Greenshaw was staggering away from the rockery towards the house. Her hands were clasped to her breast andbetween them there protruded81 a feathered shaft82 that Lou recognized with stupefaction to be the shaft of an arrow.
Miss Greenshaw’s head, in its battered83 straw hat, fell forward on her breast. She called up to Lou in a failing voice:
“.?.?. shot.?.?. he shot me .?.?. with an arrow .?.?. get help.?.?.?.”
Lou rushed to the door. She turned the handle, but the door would not open. It took her a moment or two of futileendeavour to realize that she was locked in. She rushed back to the window.
“I’m locked in.”
Miss Greenshaw, her back towards Lou, and swaying a little on her feet was calling up to the housekeeper at awindow farther along.
“Ring police .?.?. telephone.?.?.?.”
Then, lurching from side to side like a drunkard she disappeared from Lou’s view through the window below intothe drawing room. A moment later Lou heard a crash of broken china, a heavy fall, and then silence. Her imaginationreconstructed the scene. Miss Greenshaw must have staggered blindly into a small table with a Sèvres tea set on it.
Desperately84 Lou pounded on the door, calling and shouting. There was no creeper or drainpipe outside the windowthat could help her to get out that way.
Tired at last of beating on the door, she returned to the window. From the window of her sitting room fartheralong, the housekeeper’s head appeared.
“Come and let me out, Mrs. Oxley. I’m locked in.”
“So am I.”
“Oh dear, isn’t it awful? I’ve telephoned the police. There’s an extension in this room, but what I can’t understand,Mrs. Oxley, is our being locked in. I never heard a key turn, did you?”
“No. I didn’t hear anything at all. Oh dear, what shall we do? Perhaps Alfred might hear us.” Lou shouted at thetop of her voice, “Alfred, Alfred.”
“Gone to his dinner as likely as not. What time is it?”
Lou glanced at her watch.
“Twenty-five past twelve.”
“He’s not supposed to go until half past, but he sneaks85 off earlier whenever he can.”
“Do you think—do you think—”
Lou meant to ask “Do you think she’s dead?” but the words stuck in her throat.
There was nothing to do but wait. She sat down on the window-sill. It seemed an eternity86 before the stolidhelmeted figure of a police constable56 came round the corner of the house. She leant out of the window and he lookedup at her, shading his eyes with his hand. When he spoke his voice held reproof87.
“What’s going on here?” he asked disapprovingly88.
From their respective windows, Lou and Mrs. Cresswell poured a flood of excited information down on him.
The constable produced a notebook and pencil. “You ladies ran upstairs and locked yourselves in? Can I have yournames, please?”
“No. Somebody else locked us in. Come and let us out.”
The constable said reprovingly, “All in good time,” and disappeared through the window below.
Once again time seemed infinite. Lou heard the sound of a car arriving, and, after what seemed an hour, but wasactually three minutes, first Mrs. Cresswell and then Lou, were released by a police sergeant89 more alert than theoriginal constable.
“Miss Greenshaw?” Lou’s voice faltered90. “What—what’s happened?”
The sergeant cleared his throat.
“I’m sorry to have to tell you, madam,” he said, “what I’ve already told Mrs. Cresswell here. Miss Greenshaw isdead.”
“Murdered,” said Mrs. Cresswell. “That’s what it is—murder.”
The sergeant said dubiously91:
“Could have been an accident—some country lads shooting with bows and arrows.”
Again there was the sound of a car arriving. The sergeant said:
“That’ll be the MO,” and started downstairs.
But it was not the MO. As Lou and Mrs. Cresswell came down the stairs a young man stepped hesitatingly throughthe front door and paused, looking round him with a somewhat bewildered air.
Then, speaking in a pleasant voice that in some way seemed familiar to Lou—perhaps it had a family resemblanceto Miss Greenshaw’s—he asked:
“Excuse me, does—er—does Miss Greenshaw live here?”
“May I have your name if you please,” said the sergeant advancing upon him.
“Fletcher,” said the young man. “Nat Fletcher. I’m Miss Green-shaw’s nephew, as a matter of fact.”
“Indeed, sir, well—I’m sorry—I’m sure—”
“Has anything happened?” asked Nat Fletcher.
“There’s been an—accident—your aunt was shot with an arrow—penetrated92 the jugular93 vein—”
Mrs. Cresswell spoke hysterically94 and without her usual refinement95:
“Your h’aunt’s been murdered, that’s what’s ’appened. Your h ’aunt’s been murdered.”
Inspector58 Welch drew his chair a little nearer to the table and let his gaze wander from one to the other of the fourpeople in the room. It was the evening of the same day. He had called at the Wests’ house to take Lou Oxley oncemore over her statement.
“You are sure of the exact words? Shot—he shot me—with an arrow—get help?”
Lou nodded.
“And the time?”
“I looked at my watch a minute or two later—it was then twelve twenty-five.”
“Your watch keeps good time?”
“I looked at the clock as well.”
The inspector turned to Raymond West.
“It appears, sir, that about a week ago you and a Mr. Horace Bindler were witnesses to Miss Greenshaw’s will?”
Briefly96, Raymond recounted the events of the afternoon visit that he and Horace Bindler had paid to Greenshaw’sFolly.
“This testimony97 of yours may be important,” said Welch. “Miss Greenshaw distinctly told you, did she, that herwill was being made in favour of Mrs. Cresswell, the housekeeper, that she was not paying Mrs. Cresswell any wagesin view of the expectations Mrs. Cresswell had of profiting by her death?”
“That is what she told me—yes.”
“Would you say that Mrs. Cresswell was definitely aware of these facts?”
“I should say undoubtedly98. Miss Greenshaw made a reference in my presence to beneficiaries not being able towitness a will and Mrs. Cresswell clearly understood what she meant by it. Moreover, Miss Greenshaw herself told methat she had come to this arrangement with Mrs. Cresswell.”
“So Mrs. Cresswell had reason to believe she was an interested party. Motive99’s clear enough in her case, and I daresay she’d be our chief suspect now if it wasn’t for the fact that she was securely locked in her room like Mrs. Oxleyhere, and also that Miss Greenshaw definitely said a man shot her—”
“She definitely was locked in her room?”
“Oh yes. Sergeant Cayley let her out. It’s a big old-fashioned lock with a big old-fashioned key. The key was inthe lock and there’s not a chance that it could have been turned from inside or any hanky-panky of that kind. No, youcan take it definitely that Mrs. Cresswell was locked inside that room and couldn’t get out. And there were no bowsand arrows in the room and Miss Greenshaw couldn’t in any case have been shot from a window—the angle forbids it—no, Mrs. Cresswell’s out of it.”
He paused and went on:
“Would you say that Miss Greenshaw, in your opinion, was a practical joker?”
Miss Marple looked up sharply from her corner.
“So the will wasn’t in Mrs. Cresswell’s favour after all?” she said.
Inspector Welch looked over at her in a rather surprised fashion.
“That’s a very clever guess of yours, madam,” he said. “No. Mrs. Cresswell isn’t named as beneficiary.”
“Just like Mr. Naysmith,” said Miss Marple, nodding her head. “Miss Greenshaw told Mrs. Cresswell she wasgoing to leave her everything and so got out of paying her wages; and then she left her money to somebody else. Nodoubt she was vastly pleased with herself. No wonder she chortled when she put the will away in Lady Audley’sSecret.”
“It was lucky Mrs. Oxley was able to tell us about the will and where it was put,” said the inspector. “We mighthave had a long hunt for it otherwise.”
“A Victorian sense of humour,” murmured Raymond West. “So she left her money to her nephew after all,” saidLou.
The inspector shook his head.
“No,” he said, “she didn’t leave it to Nat Fletcher. The story goes around here—of course I’m new to the place andI only get the gossip that’s secondhand—but it seems that in the old days both Miss Greenshaw and her sister were seton the handsome young riding master, and the sister got him. No, she didn’t leave the money to her nephew—” Hepaused, rubbing his chin, “She left it to Alfred,” he said.
“Alfred—the gardener?” Joan spoke in a surprised voice.
“Yes, Mrs. West. Alfred Pollock.”
“But why?” cried Lou.
Miss Marple coughed and murmured:
“I should imagine, though perhaps I am wrong, that there may have been—what we might call family reasons.”
“You could call them that in a way,” agreed the inspector. “It’s quite well-known in the village, it seems, thatThomas Pollock, Alfred’s grandfather, was one of old Mr. Greenshaw’s by-blows.”
“Of course,” cried Lou, “the resemblance! I saw it this morning.”
She remembered how after passing Alfred she had come into the house and looked up at old Greenshaw’s portrait.
“I dare say,” said Miss Marple, “that she thought Alfred Pollock might have a pride in the house, might even wantto live in it, whereas her nephew would almost certainly have no use for it whatever and would sell it as soon as hecould possibly do so. He’s an actor, isn’t he? What play exactly is he acting100 in at present?”
Trust an old lady to wander from the point, thought Inspector Welch, but he replied civilly:
“I believe, madam, they are doing a season of James Barrie’s plays.”
“Barrie,” said Miss Marple thoughtfully.
“What Every Woman Knows,” said Inspector Welch, and then blushed. “Name of a play,” he said quickly. “I’m notmuch of a theatregoer myself,” he added, “but the wife went along and saw it last week. Quite well done, she said itwas.”
“Barrie wrote some very charming plays,” said Miss Marple, “though I must say that when I went with an oldfriend of mine, General Easterly, to see Barrie’s Little Mary—” she shook her head sadly, “—neither of us knewwhere to look.”
The inspector, unacquainted with the play Little Mary looked completely fogged. Miss Marple explained:
“When I was a girl, Inspector, nobody ever mentioned the word stomach.”
The inspector looked even more at sea. Miss Marple was murmuring titles under her breath.
“The Admirable Crichton. Very clever. Mary Rose—a charming play. I cried, I remember. Quality Street I didn’tcare for so much. Then there was A Kiss for Cinderella. Oh, of course.”
Inspector Welch had no time to waste on theatrical101 discussion. He returned to the matter in hand.
“The question is,” he said, “did Alfred Pollock know that the old lady had made a will in his favour? Did she tellhim?” He added: “You see—there’s an archery club over at Boreham Lovell and Alfred Pollock’s a member. He’s avery good shot indeed with a bow and arrow.”
“Then isn’t your case quite clear?” asked Raymond West. “It would fit in with the doors being locked on the twowomen—he’d know just where they were in the house.”
The inspector looked at him. He spoke with deep melancholy102.
“He’s got an alibi,” said the inspector.
“I always think alibis103 are definitely suspicious.”
“Maybe, sir,” said Inspector Welch. “You’re talking as a writer.”
“I don’t write detective stories,” said Raymond West, horrified104 at the mere105 idea.
“Easy enough to say that alibis are suspicious,” went on Inspector Welch, “but unfortunately we’ve got to dealwith facts.”
He sighed.
“We’ve got three good suspects,” he said. “Three people who, as it happened, were very close upon the scene atthe time. Yet the odd thing is that it looks as though none of the three could have done it. The housekeeper I’vealready dealt with—the nephew, Nat Fletcher, at the moment Miss Greenshaw was shot, was a couple of miles awayfilling up his car at a garage and asking his way—as for Alfred Pollock six people will swear that he entered the Dogand Duck at twenty past twelve and was there for an hour having his usual bread and cheese and beer.”
“Deliberately establishing an alibi,” said Raymond West hopefully.
“Maybe,” said Inspector Welch, “but if so, he did establish it.”
There was a long silence. Then Raymond turned his head to where Miss Marple sat upright and thoughtful.
“It’s up to you, Aunt Jane,” he said. “The inspector’s baffled, the sergeant’s baffled, I’m baffled, Joan’s baffled,Lou is baffled. But to you, Aunt Jane, it is crystal clear. Am I right?”
“I wouldn’t say that, dear,” said Miss Marple, “not crystal clear, and murder, dear Raymond, isn’t a game. I don’tsuppose poor Miss Greenshaw wanted to die, and it was a particularly brutal106 murder. Very well planned and quitecold-blooded. It’s not a thing to make jokes about!”
“I’m sorry,” said Raymond, abashed107. “I’m not really as callous108 as I sound. One treats a thing lightly to take awayfrom the—well, the horror of it.”
“That is, I believe, the modern tendency,” said Miss Marple, “All these wars, and having to joke about funerals.
Yes, perhaps I was thoughtless when I said you were callous.”
“It isn’t,” said Joan, “as though we’d known her at all well.”
“That is very true,” said Miss Marple. “You, dear Joan, did not know her at all. I did not know her at all. Raymondgathered an impression of her from one afternoon’s conversation. Lou knew her for two days.”
“Come now, Aunt Jane,” said Raymond, “tell us your views. You don’t mind, Inspector?”
“Not at all,” said the inspector politely.
“Well, my dear, it would seem that we have three people who had, or might have thought they had, a motive to killthe old lady. And three quite simple reasons why none of the three could have done so. The housekeeper could nothave done so because she was locked in her room and because Miss Greenshaw definitely stated that a man shot her.
The gardener could not have done it because he was inside the Dog and Duck at the time the murder was committed,the nephew could not have done it because he was still some distance away in his car at the time of the murder.”
“Very clearly put, madam,” said the inspector.
“And since it seems most unlikely that any outsider should have done it, where, then, are we?”
“That’s what the inspector wants to know,” said Raymond West.
“One so often looks at a thing the wrong way round,” said Miss Marple apologetically. “If we can’t alter themovements or the position of those three people, then couldn’t we perhaps alter the time of the murder?”
“You mean that both my watch and the clock were wrong?” asked Lou.
“No dear,” said Miss Marple, “I didn’t mean that at all. I mean that the murder didn’t occur when you thought itoccurred.”
“But I saw it,” cried Lou.
“Well, what I have been wondering, my dear, was whether you weren’t meant to see it. I’ve been asking myself,you know, whether that wasn’t the real reason why you were engaged for this job.”
“What do you mean, Aunt Jane?”
“Well, dear, it seems odd. Miss Greenshaw did not like spending money, and yet she engaged you and agreedquite willingly to the terms you asked. It seems to me that perhaps you were meant to be there in that library on thefirst floor, looking out of the window so that you could be the key witness—someone from outside of irreproachablegood faith—to fix a definite time and place for the murder.”
“But you can’t mean,” said Lou, incredulously, “that Miss Greenshaw intended to be murdered.”
“What I mean, dear,” said Miss Marple, “is that you didn’t really know Miss Greenshaw. There’s no real reason, isthere, why the Miss Greenshaw you saw when you went up to the house should be the same Miss Greenshaw thatRaymond saw a few days earlier? Oh, yes, I know,” she went on, to prevent Lou’s reply, “she was wearing thepeculiar old-fashioned print dress and the strange straw hat, and had unkempt hair. She corresponded exactly to thedescription Raymond gave us last weekend. But those two women, you know, were much of an age and height andsize. The housekeeper, I mean, and Miss Greenshaw.”
“But the housekeeper is fat!” Lou exclaimed. “She’s got an enormous bosom109.”
Miss Marple coughed.
“But my dear, surely, nowadays I have seen—er—them myself in shops most indelicately displayed. It is veryeasy for anyone to have a—a bust—of any size and dimension.”
“What are you trying to say?” demanded Raymond.
“I was just thinking, dear, that during the two or three days Lou was working there, one woman could have playedthe two parts. You said yourself, Lou, that you hardly saw the housekeeper, except for the one moment in the morningwhen she brought you in the tray with coffee. One sees those clever artists on the stage coming in as differentcharacters with only a minute or two to spare, and I am sure the change could have been effected quite easily. Thatmarquise head-dress could be just a wig110 slipped on and off.”
“Aunt Jane! Do you mean that Miss Greenshaw was dead before I started work there?”
“Not dead. Kept under drugs, I should say. A very easy job for an unscrupulous woman like the housekeeper to do.
Then she made the arrangements with you and got you to telephone to the nephew to ask him to lunch at a definitetime. The only person who would have known that this Miss Greenshaw was not Miss Greenshaw would have beenAlfred. And if you remember, the first two days you were working there it was wet, and Miss Greenshaw stayed in thehouse. Alfred never came into the house because of his feud with the housekeeper. And on the last morning Alfredwas in the drive, while Miss Greenshaw was working on the rockery—I’d like to have a look at that rockery.”
“Do you mean it was Mrs. Cresswell who killed Miss Greenshaw?”
“I think that after bringing you your coffee, the woman locked the door on you as she went out, carried theunconscious Miss Greenshaw down to the drawing room, then assumed her ‘Miss Greenshaw’ disguise and went outto work on the rockery where you could see her from the window. In due course she screamed and came staggering tothe house clutching an arrow as though it had penetrated her throat. She called for help and was careful to say ‘he shotme’ so as to remove suspicion from the housekeeper. She also called up to the housekeeper’s window as though shesaw her there. Then, once inside the drawing room, she threw over a table with porcelain111 on it—and ran quicklyupstairs, put on her marquise wig and was able a few moments later to lean her head out of the window and tell youthat she, too, was locked in.”
“But she was locked in,” said Lou.
“I know. That is where the policeman comes in.”
“What policeman?”
“Exactly—what policeman? I wonder, Inspector, if you would mind telling me how and when you arrived on thescene?”
The inspector looked a little puzzled.
“At twelve twenty-nine we received a telephone call from Mrs. Cresswell, housekeeper to Miss Greenshaw, statingthat her mistress had been shot. Sergeant Cayley and myself went out there at once in a car and arrived at the house attwelve thirty-five. We found Miss Greenshaw dead and the two ladies locked in their rooms.”
“So, you see, my dear,” said Miss Marple to Lou. “The police constable you saw wasn’t a real police constable.
You never thought of him again—one doesn’t—one just accepts one more uniform as part of the law.”
“But who—why?”
“As to who—well, if they are playing A Kiss for Cinderella, a policeman is the principal character. Nat Fletcherwould only have to help himself to the costume he wears on the stage. He’d ask his way at a garage being careful tocall attention to the time—twelve twenty-five, then drive on quickly, leave his car round a corner, slip on his policeuniform and do his ‘act.’”
“But why?—why?”
“Someone had to lock the housekeeper’s door on the outside, and someone had to drive the arrow through MissGreenshaw’s throat. You can stab anyone with an arrow just as well as by shooting it—but it needs force.”
“You mean they were both in it?”
“Oh yes, I think so. Mother and son as likely as not.”
“But Miss Greenshaw’s sister died long ago.”
“Yes, but I’ve no doubt Mr. Fletcher married again. He sounds the sort of man who would, and I think it possiblethat the child died too, and that this so-called nephew was the second wife’s child, and not really a relation at all. Thewoman got a post as housekeeper and spied out the land. Then he wrote as her nephew and proposed to call upon her—he may have made some joking reference to coming in his policeman’s uniform—or asked her over to see the play.
But I think she suspected the truth and refused to see him. He would have been her heir if she had died without makinga will—but of course once she had made a will in the housekeeper’s favour (as they thought) then it was clear sailing.”
“But why use an arrow?” objected Joan. “So very far-fetched.”
“Not far-fetched at all, dear. Alfred belonged to an archery club—Alfred was meant to take the blame. The factthat he was in the pub as early as twelve twenty was most unfortunate from their point of view. He always left a littlebefore his proper time and that would have been just right—” she shook her head. “It really seems all wrong—morally, I mean, that Alfred’s laziness should have saved his life.”
The inspector cleared his throat.
“Well, madam, these suggestions of yours are very interesting. I shall have, of course, to investigate—”
Miss Marple and Raymond West stood by the rockery and looked down at that gardening basket full of dyingvegetation.
Miss Marple murmured:
“Alyssum, saxifrage, cytisus, thimble campanula .?.?. Yes, that’s all the proof I need. Whoever was weeding hereyesterday morning was no gardener—she pulled up plants as well as weeds. So now I know I’m right. Thank you, dearRaymond, for bringing me here. I wanted to see the place for myself.”
She and Raymond both looked up at the outrageous112 pile of Greenshaw’s Folly.
A cough made them turn. A handsome young man was also looking at the house.
“Plaguey big place,” he said. “Too big for nowadays—or so they say. I dunno about that. If I won a football pooland made a lot of money, that’s the kind of house I’d like to build.”
He smiled bashfully at them.
“Reckon I can say so now—that there house was built by my great-grandfather,” said Alfred Pollock. “And a finehouse it is, for all they call it Greenshaw’s Folly!”
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1
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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appreciative
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| adj.有鉴赏力的，有眼力的；感激的 | |
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screech
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| n./v.尖叫；(发出)刺耳的声音 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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strap
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| n.皮带，带子；v.用带扣住，束牢；用绷带包扎 | |
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gem
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| n.宝石，珠宝；受爱戴的人 [同]jewel | |
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gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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exuberance
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| n.丰富；繁荣 | |
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creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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moorish
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| adj.沼地的，荒野的，生[住]在沼地的 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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trespassing
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| [法]非法入侵 | |
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trespass
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| n./v.侵犯，闯入私人领地 | |
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orphans
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| 孤儿( orphan的名词复数 ) | |
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miser
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| n.守财奴，吝啬鬼 (adj.miserly) | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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appraisingly
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| adv.以品评或评价的眼光 | |
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celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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cod
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| n.鳕鱼；v.愚弄；哄骗 | |
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malevolent
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| adj.有恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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motifs
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| n. （文艺作品等的）主题( motif的名词复数 )；中心思想；基本模式；基本图案 | |
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cursory
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| adj.粗略的；草率的；匆促的 | |
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fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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plumber
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| n.(装修水管的)管子工 | |
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scrawled
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| 乱涂，潦草地写( scrawl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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bleakly
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| 无望地，阴郁地，苍凉地 | |
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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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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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paraphrased
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| v.释义，意译( paraphrase的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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commissioner
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| n.（政府厅、局、处等部门）专员，长官，委员 | |
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constable
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| n.(英国)警察，警官 | |
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constables
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| n.警察( constable的名词复数 ) | |
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inspector
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| n.检查员，监察员，视察员 | |
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inspectors
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| n.检查员( inspector的名词复数 )；（英国公共汽车或火车上的）查票员；（警察）巡官；检阅官 | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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arsenic
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| n.砒霜，砷；adj.砷的 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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killer
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| n.杀人者，杀人犯，杀手，屠杀者 | |
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lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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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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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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67
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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68
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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69
prunes
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| n.西梅脯，西梅干( prune的名词复数 )v.修剪（树木等）( prune的第三人称单数 )；精简某事物，除去某事物多余的部分 | |
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70
disapproves
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| v.不赞成( disapprove的第三人称单数 ) | |
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71
feud
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| n.长期不和；世仇；v.长期争斗；世代结仇 | |
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72
feuds
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| n.长期不和，世仇( feud的名词复数 ) | |
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73
friction
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| n.摩擦，摩擦力 | |
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74
serial
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| n.连本影片，连本电视节目；adj.连续的 | |
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75
reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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76
diligently
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| ad.industriously;carefully | |
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77
acme
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| n.顶点，极点 | |
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78
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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79
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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80
succumbed
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的过去式和过去分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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81
protruded
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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83
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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84
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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85
sneaks
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| abbr.sneakers (tennis shoes) 胶底运动鞋（网球鞋）v.潜行( sneak的第三人称单数 )；偷偷溜走；（儿童向成人）打小报告；告状 | |
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86
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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87
reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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88
disapprovingly
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| adv.不以为然地，不赞成地，非难地 | |
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89
sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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90
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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dubiously
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| adv.可疑地，怀疑地 | |
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92
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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93
jugular
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| n.颈静脉 | |
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94
hysterically
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| ad. 歇斯底里地 | |
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95
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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97
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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98
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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99
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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100
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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101
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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102
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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103
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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104
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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105
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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106
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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107
abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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108
callous
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| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
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109
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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110
wig
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| n.假发 | |
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111
porcelain
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| n.瓷；adj.瓷的，瓷制的 | |
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112
outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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