IIt was so sudden and so unexpected that it took every one’s breath away.
They remained stupidly staring at the crumpled1 figure on the ground.
Then Dr Armstrong jumped up and went over to him, kneeling besidehim. When he raised his head his eyes were bewildered.
He said in a low awe-struck whisper:
‘My God! he’s dead.’
They didn’t take it in. Not at once.
Dead? Dead? That young Norse God in the prime of his health andstrength. Struck down all in a moment. Healthy young men didn’t die likethat, choking over a whisky and soda…
No, they couldn’t take it in.
Dr Armstrong was peering into the deadman’s face. He sniffed2 at theblue twisted lips. Then he picked up the glass from which Anthony Mar-ston had been drinking.
General Macarthur said:
‘Dead? D’you mean the fellow just choked and—and died?’
The physician said:
‘You can call it choking if you like. He died of asphyxiation3 rightenough.’
He was sniffing4 now at the glass. He dipped a finger into the dregs andvery cautiously just touched the finger with the tip of his tongue.
His expression altered.
General Macarthur said:
‘Never knew a man could die like that—just of a choking fit!’
Emily Brent said in a clear voice:
‘In the midst of life we are in death.’
Dr Armstrong stood up. He said brusquely:
‘No, a man doesn’t die of a mere5 choking fit. Marston’s death wasn’twhat we call a natural death.’
Vera said almost in a whisper:
‘Was there—something—in the whisky?’
Armstrong nodded.
‘Yes. Can’t say exactly. Everything points to one of the cyanides. No dis-tinctive smell of Prussic Acid, probably Potassium Cyanide. It acts prettywell instantaneously.’
The judge said sharply:
‘It was in his glass?’
‘Yes.’
The doctor strode to the table where the drinks were. He removed thestopper from the whisky and smelt6 and tasted it. Then he tasted the sodawater. He shook his head.
‘They’re both all right.’
Lombard said:
‘You mean—he must have put the stuff in his glass himself?’
Armstrong nodded with a curiously7 dissatisfied expression. He said:
‘Seems like it.’
Blore said:
‘Suicide, eh? That’s a queer go.’
Vera said slowly:
‘You’d never think that he would kill himself. He was so alive. He was—oh—enjoying himself! When he came down the hill in his car this eveninghe looked—he looked—oh I can’t explain!’
But they knew what she meant. Anthony Marston, in the height of hisyouth and manhood, had seemed like a being who was immortal8. Andnow, crumpled and broken, he lay on the floor.
Dr Armstrong said:
‘Is there any possibility other than suicide?’
Slowly every one shook their heads. There could be no other explana-tion. The drinks themselves were untampered with. They had all seen An-thony Marston go across and help himself. It followed therefore that anycyanide in the drink must have been put there by Anthony Marston him-self.
And yet—why should Anthony Marston commit suicide?
Blore said thoughtfully:
‘You know, doctor, it doesn’t seem right to me. I shouldn’t have said MrMarston was a suicidal type of gentleman.’
Armstrong answered:
‘I agree.’
II
They had left it like that. What else was there to say?
Together Armstrong and Lombard had carried the inert9 body of An-thony Marston to his bedroom and had laid him there covered over with asheet.
When they came downstairs again, the others were standing10 in a group,shivering a little, though the night was not cold.
Emily Brent said:
‘We’d better go to bed. It’s late.’
It was past twelve o’clock. The suggestion was a wise one—yet every onehesitated. It was as though they clung to each other’s company for reassur-ance.
The judge said:
‘Yes, we must get some sleep.’
Rogers said:
‘I haven’t cleared yet—in the dining-room.’
Lombard said curtly11:
‘Do it in the morning.’
Armstrong said to him:
‘Is your wife all right?’
‘I’ll go and see, sir.’
He returned a minute or two later.
‘Sleeping beautiful, she is.’
‘Good,’ said the doctor. ‘Don’t disturb her.’
‘No, sir. I’ll just put things straight in the dining-room and make sureeverything’s locked up right, and then I’ll turn in.’
He went across the hall into the dining-room.
The others went upstairs, a slow unwilling12 procession.
If this had been an old house, with creaking wood, and dark shadows,and heavily panelled walls, there might have been an eerie13 feeling. Butthis house was the essence of modernity. There were no dark corners—nopossible sliding panels—it was flooded with electric light—everything wasnew and bright and shining. There was nothing hidden in this house,nothing concealed14. It had no atmosphere about it.
Somehow, that was the most frightening thing of all…They exchanged good-nights on the upper landing. Each of them wentinto his or her own room, and each of them automatically, almost withoutconscious thought, locked the door…
III
In his pleasant softly tinted15 room, Mr Justice Wargrave removed his gar-ments and prepared himself for bed.
He was thinking about Edward Seton.
He remembered Seton very well. His fair hair, his blue eyes, his habit oflooking you straight in the face with a pleasant air of straightforwardness16.
That was what had made so good an impression on the jury.
Llewellyn, for the Crown, had bungled17 it a bit. He had been over-vehe-ment, had tried to prove too much.
Matthews, on the other hand, for the Defence, had been good. His pointshad told. His cross-examinations had been deadly. His handling of his cli-ent in the witness-box had been masterly.
And Seton had come through the ordeal18 of cross-examination well. Hehad not got excited or over-vehement. The jury had been impressed. Ithad seemed to Matthews, perhaps, as though everything had been overbar the shouting.
The judge wound up his watch carefully and placed it by the bed.
He remembered exactly how he had felt sitting there—listening, makingnotes, appreciating everything, tabulating19 every scrap20 of evidence thattold against the prisoner.
He’d enjoyed that case! Matthews’ final speech had been first- class.
Llewellyn, coming after it, had failed to remove the good impression thatthe defending counsel had made.
And then had come his own summing up…
Carefully, Mr Justice Wargrave removed his false teeth and droppedthem into a glass of water. The shrunken lips fell in. It was a cruel mouthnow, cruel and predatory.
Hooding21 his eyes, the judge smiled to himself.
He’d cooked Seton’s goose all right!
With a slightly rheumatic grunt22, he climbed into bed and turned out theelectric light.
IV
Downstairs in the dining-room, Rogers stood puzzled.
He was staring at the china figures in the centre of the table.
He muttered to himself:
‘That’s a rum go! I could have sworn there were ten of them.’
VGeneral Macarthur tossed from side to side.
Sleep would not come to him.
In the darkness he kept seeing Arthur Richmond’s face.
He’d liked Arthur—he’d been damned fond of Arthur. He’d been pleasedthat Leslie liked him too.
Leslie was so capricious. Lots of good fellows that Leslie would turn upher nose at and pronounce dull. ‘Dull!’ Just like that.
But she hadn’t found Arthur Richmond dull. They’d got on well togetherfrom the beginning. They’d talked of plays and music and pictures to-gether. She’d teased him, made fun of him, ragged23 him. And he, Macar-thur, had been delighted at the thought that Leslie took quite a motherlyinterest in the boy.
Motherly indeed! Damn’ fool not to remember that Richmond wastwenty-eight to Leslie’s twenty-nine.
He’d loved Leslie. He could see her now. Her heart-shaped face, and herdancing deep grey eyes, and the brown curling mass of her hair. He’dloved Leslie and he’d believed in her absolutely.
Out there in France, in the middle of all the hell of it, he’d sat thinking ofher, taken her picture out of the breast pocket of his tunic24.
And then—he’d found out!
It had come about exactly in the way things happened in books. The let-ter in the wrong envelope. She’d been writing to them both and she’d puther letter to Richmond in the envelope addressed to her husband. Evennow, all these years after, he could feel the shock of it—the pain…God, it had hurt!
And the business had been going on some time. The letter made thatclear. Weekends! Richmond’s last leave…
Leslie—Leslie and Arthur!
God damn the fellow! Damn his smiling face, his brisk ‘Yes, sir.’ Liar25 andhypocrite! Stealer of another man’s wife!
It had gathered slowly—that cold murderous rage.
He’d managed to carry on as usual—to show nothing. He’d tried to makehis manner to Richmond just the same.
Had he succeeded? He thought so. Richmond hadn’t suspected. Inequal-ities of temper were easily accounted for out there, where men’s nerveswere continually snapping under the strain.
Only young Armitage had looked at him curiously once or twice. Quite ayoung chap, but he’d had perceptions, that boy.
Armitage, perhaps, had guessed—when the time came.
He’d sent Richmond deliberately26 to death. Only a miracle could havebrought him through unhurt. That miracle didn’t happen. Yes, he’d sentRichmond to his death and he wasn’t sorry. It had been easy enough. Mis-takes were being made all the time, officers being sent to death needlessly.
All was confusion, panic. People might say afterwards ‘Old Macarthur losthis nerve a bit, made some colossal27 blunders, sacrificed some of his bestmen.’ They couldn’t say more.
But young Armitage was different. He’d looked at his commanding of-ficer very oddly. He’d known, perhaps, that Richmond was being deliber-ately sent to death.
(After the War was over—had Armitage talked?)Leslie hadn’t known. Leslie had wept for her lover (he supposed) buther weeping was over by the time he’d come back to England. He’d nevertold her that he’d found her out. They’d gone on together—only, somehow,she hadn’t seemed very real any more. And then, three or four years latershe’d got double pneumonia28 and died.
That had been a long time ago. Fifteen years—sixteen years?
And he’d left the Army and come to live in Devon—bought the sort oflittle place he’d always meant to have. Nice neighbours—pleasant part ofthe world. There was a bit of shooting and fishing. He’d gone to church onSundays. (But not the day that the lesson was read about David puttingUriah in the forefront of the battle. Somehow he couldn’t face that. Gavehim an uncomfortable feeling.)
Everybody had been very friendly. At first, that is. Later, he’d had an un-easy feeling that people were talking about him behind his back. Theyeyed him differently, somehow. As though they’d heard something—somelying rumour…
(Armitage? Supposing Armitage had talked.)
He’d avoided people after that—withdrawn into himself. Unpleasant tofeel that people were discussing you.
And all so long ago. So—so purposeless now. Leslie had faded into thedistance and Arthur Richmond too. Nothing of what had happenedseemed to matter any more.
It made life lonely, though. He’d taken to shunning29 his old Army friends.
(If Armitage had talked, they’d know about it.)And now—this evening—a hidden voice had blared out that old hiddenstory.
Had he dealt with it all right? Kept a stiff upper lip? Betrayed the rightamount of feeling—indignation, disgust—but no guilt30, no discomfiture31?
Difficult to tell.
Surely nobody could have taken the accusation32 seriously. There hadbeen a pack of other nonsense, just as far-fetched. That charming girl—thevoice had accused her of drowning a child! Idiotic33! Some madman throw-ing crazy accusations34 about!
Emily Brent, too—actually a niece of old Tom Brent of the Regiment35. Ithad accused her of murder! Any one could see with half an eye that thewoman was as pious36 as could be—the kind that was hand and glove withparsons.
Damned curious business the whole thing! Crazy, nothing less.
Ever since they had got here—when was that? Why, damn it, it was onlythis afternoon! Seemed a good bit longer than that.
He thought: ‘I wonder when we shall get away again.’
Tomorrow, of course, when the motor-boat came from the mainland.
Funny, just this minute he didn’t want much to get away from the is-land…To go back to the mainland, back to his little house, back to all thetroubles and worries. Through the open window he could hear the wavesbreaking on the rocks—a little louder now than earlier in the evening.
Wind was getting up, too.
He thought: Peaceful sound. Peaceful place…
He thought: Best of an island is once you get there—you can’t go anyfarther…you’ve come to the end of things…
He knew, suddenly, that he didn’t want to leave the island.
VI
Vera Claythorne lay in bed, wide awake, staring up at the ceiling.
The light beside her was on. She was frightened of the dark.
She was thinking:
‘Hugo…Hugo…Why do I feel you’re so near to me tonight?…Somewherequite close…
‘Where is he really? I don’t know. I never shall know. He just went away—right away—out of my life.’
It was no good trying not to think of Hugo. He was close to her. She hadto think of him—to remember…
Cornwall…
The black rocks, the smooth yellow sand. Mrs Hamilton, stout37, good-hu-moured. Cyril, whining38 a little always, pulling at her hand.
‘I want to swim out to the rock, Miss Claythorne. Why can’t I swim out to therock?’
Looking up—meeting Hugo’s eyes watching her.
The evenings after Cyril was in bed…
‘Come out for a stroll, Miss Claythorne.’
‘I think perhaps I will.’
The decorous stroll down to the beach. The moonlight—the soft Atlanticair.
And then, Hugo’s arms round her.
‘I love you. I love you. You know I love you, Vera?’
Yes, she knew.
(Or thought she knew.)
‘I can’t ask you to marry me. I’ve not got a penny. It’s all I can do to keepmyself. Queer, you know, once, for three months I had the chance of being arich man to look forward to. Cyril wasn’t born until three months afterMaurice died. If he’d been a girl…’
If the child had been a girl, Hugo would have come into everything. He’dbeen disappointed, he admitted.
‘I hadn’t built on it, of course. But it was a bit of a knock. Oh well, luck’sluck! Cyril’s a nice kid. I’m awfully39 fond of him.’ And he was fond of him,too. Always ready to play games or amuse his small nephew. No rancourin Hugo’s nature.
Cyril wasn’t really strong. A puny40 child—no stamina41. The kind of child,perhaps, who wouldn’t live to grow up…
And then—?
‘Miss Claythorne, why can’t I swim to the rock?’
Irritating whiney repetition.
‘It’s too far, Cyril.’
‘But, Miss Claythorne…’
Vera got up. She went to the dressing-table and swallowed three aspir-ins.
She thought:
‘I wish I had some proper sleeping stuff.’
She thought:
‘If I were doing away with myself I’d take an overdose of veronal —something like that—not cyanide!’
She shuddered42 as she remembered Anthony Marston’s convulsed purpleface.
As she passed the mantelpiece, she looked up at the framed doggerel43.
‘Ten little soldier boys went out to dine;
One choked his little self and then there were Nine.’
She thought to herself:
‘It’s horrible—just like us this evening…’
Why had Anthony Marston wanted to die?
She didn’t want to die.
She couldn’t imagine wanting to die…
Death was for—the other people…
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收听单词发音
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1
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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2
sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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3
asphyxiation
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| n. 窒息 | |
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sniffing
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| n.探查法v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的现在分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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5
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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7
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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8
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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9
inert
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| adj.无活动能力的，惰性的；迟钝的 | |
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10
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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11
curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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12
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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13
eerie
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| adj.怪诞的；奇异的；可怕的；胆怯的 | |
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14
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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15
tinted
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| adj. 带色彩的 动词tint的过去式和过去分词 | |
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16
straightforwardness
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| n.坦白，率直 | |
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17
bungled
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| v.搞糟，完不成( bungle的过去式和过去分词 )；笨手笨脚地做；失败；完不成 | |
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18
ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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19
tabulating
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| 把（数字、事实）列成表( tabulate的现在分词 )； 制表 | |
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20
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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21
hooding
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| v.兜帽( hood的现在分词 )；头巾；（汽车、童车等的）折合式车篷；汽车发动机罩 | |
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22
grunt
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| v.嘟哝；作呼噜声；n.呼噜声，嘟哝 | |
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23
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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tunic
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| n.束腰外衣 | |
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25
liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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26
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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27
colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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28
pneumonia
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| n.肺炎 | |
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29
shunning
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的现在分词 ) | |
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30
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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31
discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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32
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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33
idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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34
accusations
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| n.指责( accusation的名词复数 )；指控；控告；（被告发、控告的）罪名 | |
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35
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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36
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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38
whining
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| n. 抱怨，牢骚 v. 哭诉，发牢骚 | |
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39
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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40
puny
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| adj.微不足道的，弱小的 | |
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41
stamina
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| n.体力；精力；耐力 | |
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42
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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43
doggerel
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| n.拙劣的诗，打油诗 | |
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