I returned to consciousness so gradually that I didn’t at first realize that Ihad been asleep.
The scent1 of the flowers was in my nose. In front of me a round whiteblob appeared to float in space. It was some few seconds before I realizedthat it was a human face I was looking at—a face suspended in the airabout a foot or two away from me. As my faculties2 returned, my vision be-came more precise. The face still had its goblin suggestion—it was roundwith a bulging3 brow, combed-back hair and small, rather beady, blackeyes. But it was definitely attached to a body—a small skinny body. It wasregarding me very earnestly.
“Hallo,” it said.
“Hallo,” I replied, blinking.
“I’m Josephine.”
I had already deduced that. Sophia’s sister, Josephine, was, I judged,about eleven or twelve years of age. She was a fantastically ugly child witha very distinct likeness4 to her grandfather. It seemed to me possible thatshe also had his brains.
“You’re Sophia’s young man,” said Josephine.
I acknowledged the correctness of this remark.
“But you came down here with Chief-Inspector5 Taverner. Why did youcome with Chief-Inspector Taverner?”
“He’s a friend of mine.”
“Is he? I don’t like him. I shan’t tell him things.”
“What sort of things?”
“The things I know. I know a lot of things. I like knowing things.”
She sat down on the arm of the chair and continued her searching scru-tiny of my face. I began to feel quite uncomfortable.
“Grandfather’s been murdered. Did you know?”
“Yes,” I said. “I knew.”
“He was poisoned. With es-er-ine.” She pronounced the word very care-fully. “It’s interesting, isn’t it?”
“I suppose it is.”
“Eustace and I are very interested. We like detective stories. I’ve alwayswanted to be a detective. I’m being one now. I’m collecting clues.”
She was, I felt, rather a ghoulish child.
She returned to the charge.
“The man who came with Chief-Inspector Taverner is a detective too,isn’t he? In books it says you can always know plain-clothes detectives bytheir boots. But this detective was wearing suede6 shoes.”
“The old order changeth,” I said.
Josephine interpreted this remark according to her own ideas.
“Yes,” she said, “there will be a lot of changes here now, I expect. Weshall go and live in a house in London on the Embankment. Mother haswanted to for a long time. She’ll be very pleased. I don’t expect father willmind if his books go, too. He couldn’t afford it before. He lost an awful lotof money over Jezebel.”
“Jezebel?” I queried7.
“Yes, didn’t you see it?”
“Oh, it was a play? No, I didn’t. I’ve been abroad.”
“It didn’t run very long. Actually it was the most awful flop8. I don’t thinkmother’s really the type to play Jezebel, do you?”
I balanced my impressions of Magda. Neither in the peach-coloured nég-ligé nor in the tailored suit had she conveyed any suggestion of Jezebel,but I was willing to believe that there were other Magdas that I had not yetseen.
“Perhaps not,” I said cautiously.
“Grandfather always said it would be a flop. He said he wouldn’t put upany money for one of those historical religious plays. He said it wouldnever be a box-office success. But mother was frightfully keen. I didn’t likeit much myself. It wasn’t really a bit like the story in the Bible. I mean,Jezebel wasn’t wicked like she is in the Bible. She was all patriotic10 andreally quite nice. That made it dull. Still, the end was all right. They threwher out of the window. Only no dogs came and ate her. I think that was apity, don’t you? I like the part about the dogs eating her best. Mother saysyou can’t have dogs on the stage but I don’t see why. You could have per-forming dogs.” She quoted with gusto: “‘And they ate her all but the palms ofher hands.’ Why didn’t they eat the palms of her hands?”
“I’ve really no idea,” I said.
“You wouldn’t think, would you, that dogs were so particular. Our dogsaren’t. They eat simply anything.”
Josephine brooded on this Biblical mystery for some seconds.
“I’m sorry the play was a flop,” I said.
“Yes. Mother was terribly upset. The notices were simply frightful9.
When she read them, she burst into tears and cried all day and she threwher breakfast tray at Gladys, and Gladys gave notice. It was rather fun.”
“I perceive that you like drama, Josephine,” I said.
“They did a post-mortem on grandfather,” said Josephine. “To find outwhat he had died of. A P.M., they call it, but I think that’s rather confusing,don’t you? Because P.M. stands for Prime Minister too. And for afternoon,”
she added thoughtfully.
“Are you sorry your grandfather is dead?” I asked.
“Not particularly. I didn’t like him much. He stopped me learning to be aballet dancer.”
“Did you want to learn ballet dancing?”
“Yes, and mother was willing for me to learn, and father didn’t mind,but grandfather said I’d be no good.”
She slipped off the arm of the chair, kicked off her shoes and endeav-oured to get on to what are called technically11, I believe, her points.
“You have to have the proper shoes, of course,” she explained, “andeven then you get frightful abscesses sometimes on the ends of your toes.”
She resumed her shoes and inquired casually12:
“Do you like this house?”
“I’m not quite sure,” I said.
“I suppose it will be sold now. Unless Brenda goes on living in it. And Isuppose Uncle Roger and Aunt Clemency13 won’t be going away now.”
“Were they going away?” I asked with a faint stirring of interest.
“Yes. They were going on Tuesday. Abroad somewhere. They were goingby air. Aunt Clemency bought one of those new featherweight cases.”
“I hadn’t heard they were going abroad,” I said.
“No,” said Josephine. “Nobody knew. It was a secret. They weren’t goingto tell anyone until after they’d gone. They were going to leave a note be-hind for grandfather.”
She added:
“Not pinned to the pincushion. That’s only in very old-fashioned booksand wives do it when they leave their husbands. But it would be silly nowbecause nobody has pincushions any more.”
“Of course they don’t. Josephine, do you know why your Uncle Rogerwas—going away?”
She shot me a cunning sideways glance.
“I think I do. It was something to do with Uncle Roger’s office in London.
I rather think—but I’m not sure—that he’d embezzled14 something.”
“What makes you think that?”
Josephine came nearer and breathed heavily in my face.
“The day that grandfather was poisoned Uncle Roger was shut up in hisroom with him ever so long. They were talking and talking. And Uncle Ro-ger was saying that he’d never been any good, and that he’d let grand-father down—and that it wasn’t the money so much—it was the feelinghe’d been unworthy of trust. He was in an awful state.”
I looked at Josephine with mixed feelings.
“Josephine,” I said, “hasn’t anybody ever told you that it’s not nice tolisten at doors?”
Josephine nodded her head vigorously.
“Of course they have. But if you want to find things out, you have tolisten at doors. I bet Chief-Inspector Taverner does, don’t you?”
I considered the point. Josephine went on vehemently15:
“And anyway, if he doesn’t, the other one does, the one with the suedeshoes. And they look in people’s desks and read all their letters, and findout all their secrets. Only they’re stupid! They don’t know where to look!”
Josephine spoke16 with cold superiority. I was stupid enough to let the in-ference escape me. The unpleasant child went on:
“Eustace and I know lots of things—but I know more than Eustace does.
And I shan’t tell him. He says women can’t ever be great detectives. But Isay they can. I’m going to write down everything in a notebook and then,when the police are completely baffled, I shall come forward and say, ‘Ican tell you who did it.’”
“Do you read a lot of detective stories, Josephine?”
“Masses.”
“I suppose you think you know who killed your grandfather?”
“Well, I think so—but I shall have to find a few more clues.” She pausedand added: “Chief-Inspector Taverner thinks that Brenda did it, doesn’the? Or Brenda and Laurence together because they’re in love with eachother.”
“You shouldn’t say things like that, Josephine.”
“Why not? They are in love with each other.”
“You can’t possibly judge.”
“Yes, I can. They write to each other. Love letters.”
“Josephine! How do you know that?”
“Because I’ve read them. Awfully17 soppy letters. But Laurence is soppy.
He was too frightened to fight in the war. He went into basements, andstoked boilers18. When the flying-bombs went over here, he used to turngreen—really green. It made Eustace and me laugh a lot.”
What I would have said next I do not know, for at that moment a cardrew up outside. In a flash Josephine was at the window, her snub nosepressed to the pane19.
“Who is it?” I asked.
“It’s Mr. Gaitskill, grandfather’s lawyer. I expect he’s come about thewill.”
Breathing excitedly, she hurried from the room, doubtless to resume hersleuthing activities.
Magda Leonides came into the room, and to my surprise came across tome and took my hands in hers.
“My dear,” she said, “thank goodness you’re still here. One needs a manso badly.”
She dropped my hands, crossed to a high-backed chair, altered its posi-tion a little, glanced at herself in a mirror, then, picking up a small Batter-sea enamel20 box from a table, she stood pensively21 opening and shutting it.
It was an attractive pose.
Sophia put her head in at the door and said in an admonitory whisper,“Gaitskill!”
“I know,” said Magda.
A few moments later Sophia entered the room, accompanied by a smallelderly man, and Magda put down her enamel box and came forward tomeet him.
“Good morning, Mrs. Philip. I’m on my way upstairs. It seems there’ssome misunderstanding about the will. Your husband wrote to me withthe impression that the will was in my keeping. I understood from Mr. Le-onides himself that it was at his vault22. You don’t know anything about it, Isuppose?”
“About poor Sweetie’s will?” Magda opened astonished eyes. “No, ofcourse not. Don’t tell me that wicked woman upstairs has destroyed it?”
“Now, Mrs. Philip,”—he shook an admonitory finger at her—“no wildsurmises. It’s just a question of where your father-in-law kept it.”
“But he sent it to you—surely he did—after signing it. He actually told ushe had.”
“The police, I understand, have been through Mr. Leonides’ private pa-pers,” said Mr. Gaitskill. “I’ll just have a word with Chief-Inspector Tav-erner.”
He left the room.
“Darling,” cried Magda. “She has destroyed it. I know I’m right.”
“Nonsense, Mother, she wouldn’t do a stupid thing like that.”
“It wouldn’t be stupid at all. If there’s no will she’ll get everything.”
“Ssh—here’s Gaitskill back again.”
The lawyer reentered the room. Chief-Inspector Taverner was with himand behind Taverner came Philip.
“I understood from Mr. Leonides,” Gaitskill was saying, “that he hadplaced his will with the Bank for safe keeping.”
Taverner shook his head.
“I’ve been in communication with the Bank. They have no private pa-pers belonging to Mr. Leonides beyond certain securities which they heldfor him.”
Philip said:
“I wonder if Roger—or Aunt Edith … Perhaps, Sophia, you’d ask them tocome down here.”
But Roger Leonides, summoned with the others to the conclave23, couldgive no assistance.
“But it’s nonsense—absolute nonsense,” he declared. “Father signed thewill and said distinctly that he was posting it to Mr. Gaitskill on the follow-ing day.”
“If my memory serves me,” said Mr. Gaitskill, leaning back and half-clos-ing his eyes, “it was on November 24th of last year that I forwarded a draftdrawn up according to Mr. Leonides’ instructions. He approved the draft,returned it to me, and in due course I sent him the will for signature. Aftera lapse24 of a week, I ventured to remind him that I had not yet received thewill duly signed and attested25, and asking him if here was anything hewished altered. He replied that he was perfectly26 satisfied, and added thatafter signing the will he had sent it to his bank.”
“That’s quite right,” said Roger eagerly. “It was about the end of Novem-ber last year—you remember, Philip? Father had us all up one eveningand read the will to us.”
Taverner turned towards Philip Leonides.
“That agrees with your recollection, Mr. Leonides?”
“Yes,” said Philip.
“It was rather like the Voysey Inheritance,” said Magda. She sighedpleasurably. “I always think there’s something so dramatic about a will.”
“Miss Sophia?”
“Yes,” said Sophia. “I remember perfectly.”
“And the provisions of that will?” asked Taverner.
Mr. Gaitskill was about to reply in his precise fashion, but Roger Le-onides got ahead of him.
“It was a perfectly simple will. Electra and Joyce had died and theirshare of the settlements had returned to father. Joyce’s son, William, hadbeen killed in action in Burma, and the money he left went to his father.
Philip and I and the children were the only relatives left. Father explainedthat. He left fifty thousand pounds free of duty to Aunt Edith, a hundredthousand pounds free of duty to Brenda, this house to Brenda, or else asuitable house in London to be purchased for her, whichever she pre-ferred. The residue27 to be divided into three portions, one to myself, one toPhilip, the third to be divided between Sophia, Eustace, and Josephine, theportions of the last two to be held in trust until they should come of age. Ithink that’s right, isn’t it, Mr. Gaitskill?”
“Those are—roughly stated—the provisions of the document I drew up,”
agreed Mr. Gaitskill, displaying some slight acerbity28 at not having been al-lowed to speak for himself.
“Father read it out to us,” said Roger. “He asked if there was any com-ment we might like to make. Of course there was none.”
“Brenda made a comment,” said Miss de Haviland.
“Yes,” said Magda with zest29. “She said she couldn’t bear her darling oldAristide to talk about death. It ‘gave her the creeps,’ she said. And after hewas dead she didn’t want any of the horrid30 money!”
“That,” said Miss de Haviland, “was a conventional protest, typical ofher class.”
It was a cruel and biting little remark. I realized suddenly how muchEdith de Haviland disliked Brenda.
“A very fair and reasonable disposal of his estate,” said Mr. Gaitskill.
“And after reading it what happened?” asked Inspector Taverner.
“After reading it,” said Roger, “he signed it.”
Taverner leaned forward.
“Just how and when did he sign it?”
Roger looked round at his wife in an appealing way. Clemency spoke inanswer to that look. The rest of the family seemed content for her to do so.
“You want to know exactly what took place?”
“If you please, Mrs. Roger.”
“My father-in-law laid the will down on his desk and requested one of us—Roger, I think—to ring the bell. Roger did so. When Johnson came in an-swer to the bell, my father-in-law requested him to fetch Janet Wolmer,the parlourmaid. When they were both there, he signed the will and re-quested them to sign their own names beneath his signature.”
“The correct procedure,” said Mr. Gaitskill. “A will must be signed by thetestator in the presence of two witnesses who must affix31 their own signa-tures at the same time and place.”
“And after that?” asked Taverner.
“My father-in-law thanked them, and they went out. My father-in-lawpicked up the will, put it in a long envelope and mentioned that he wouldsend it to Mr. Gaitskill on the following day.”
“You all agree,” said Inspector Taverner, looking round, “that this is anaccurate account of what happened?”
There were murmurs32 of agreement.
“The will was on the desk, you said. How near were any of you to thatdesk?”
“Not very near. Five or six yards, perhaps, would be the nearest.”
“When Mr. Leonides read you the will was he himself sitting at thedesk?”
“Yes.”
“Did he get up, or leave the desk, after reading the will and before sign-ing it?”
“No.”
“Could the servants read the document when they signed their names?”
“No,” said Clemency. “My father-in-law placed a sheet of paper acrossthe upper part of the document.”
“Quite properly,” said Philip. “The contents of the will were no businessof the servants.”
“I see,” said Taverner. “At least—I don’t see.”
With a brisk movement he produced a long envelope and leaned for-ward to hand it to the lawyer.
“Have a look at that,” he said. “And tell me what it is.”
Mr. Gaitskill drew a folded document out of the envelope. He looked atit with lively astonishment33, turning it round and round in his hands.
“This,” he said, “is somewhat surprising. I do not understand it at all.
Where was this, if I may ask?”
“In the safe, amongst Mr. Leonides’ other papers.”
“But what is it?” demanded Roger. “What’s all the fuss about?”
“This is the will I prepared for your father’s signature, Roger—but—Ican’t understand it after what you have all said—it is not signed.”
“What? Well, I suppose it is just a draft.”
“No,” said the lawyer. “Mr. Leonides returned me the original draft. Ithen drew up the will—this will,” he tapped it with his finger—“and sent itto him for signature. According to your evidence he signed the will infront of you all—and two witnesses also appended their signatures—andyet this will is unsigned.”
“But that’s impossible,” exclaimed Philip Leonides, speaking with moreanimation than I had yet heard from him.
Taverner asked: “How good was your father’s eyesight?”
“He suffered from glaucoma. He used strong glasses, of course, for read-ing.”
“He had those glasses on that evening?”
“Certainly. He didn’t take his glasses off until after he had signed. I thinkI am right.”
“Quite right,” said Clemency.
“And nobody—you are all sure of that—went near the desk before thesigning of the will?”
“I wonder now,” said Magda, screwing up her eyes. “If one could onlyvisualize it all again.”
“Nobody went near the desk,” said Sophia. “And grandfather sat at it allthe time.”
“The desk was in the position it is now? It was not near a door, or a win-dow, or any drapery?”
“It was where it is now.”
“I am trying to see how a substitution of some kind could be effected,”
said Taverner. “Some kind of substitution there must have been. Mr. Le-onides was under the impression that he was signing the document hehad just read aloud.”
“Couldn’t the signatures have been erased34?” Roger demanded.
“No, Mr. Leonides. Not without leaving signs of erasion. There is oneother possibility. That this is not the document sent to Mr. Leonides by Mr.
Gaitskill and which he signed in your presence.”
“On the contrary,” said Mr. Gaitskill. “I could swear to this being the ori-ginal document. There is a small flaw in the paper—at the top left-handcorner—it resembles, by a stretch of fancy, an aeroplane. I noticed it at thetime.”
The family looked blankly at one another.
“A most curious set of circumstances,” said Mr. Gaitskill. “Quite withoutprecedent in my experience.”
“The whole thing’s impossible,” said Roger. “We were all there. It simplycouldn’t have happened.”
Miss de Haviland gave a dry cough.
“Never any good wasting breath saying something that has happenedcouldn’t have happened,” she remarked. “What’s the position now? That’swhat I’d like to know.”
Gaitskill immediately became the cautious lawyer.
“The position will have to be examined very carefully,” he said. “Thisdocument, of course, revokes35 all former wills and testaments36. There are alarge number of witnesses who saw Mr. Leonides sign what he certainlybelieved to be this will in perfectly good faith. Hum. Very interesting.
Quite a little legal problem.”
Taverner glanced at his watch.
“I’m afraid,” he said, “I’ve been keeping you from your lunch.”
“Won’t you stay and lunch with us, Chief-Inspector?” asked Philip.
“Thank you, Mr. Leonides, but I am meeting Dr. Gray in Swinly Dean.”
Philip turned to the lawyer.
“You’ll lunch with us, Gaitskill?”
“Thank you, Philip.”
Everybody stood up. I edged unobtrusively towards Sophia.
“Do I go or stay?” I murmured. It sounded ridiculously like the title of aVictorian song.
“Go, I think,” said Sophia.
I slipped quietly out of the room in pursuit of Taverner. Josephine wasswinging to and fro on a baize door leading to the back quarters. She ap-peared to be highly amused about something.
“The police are stupid,” she observed.
Sophia came out of the drawing room.
“What have you been doing, Josephine?”
“Helping Nannie.”
“I believe you’ve been listening outside the door.”
Josephine made a face at her and retreated.
“That child,” said Sophia, “is a bit of a problem.”
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收听单词发音
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1
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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bulging
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| 膨胀； 凸出（部）； 打气； 折皱 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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inspector
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| n.检查员，监察员，视察员 | |
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suede
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| n.表面粗糙的软皮革 | |
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queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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flop
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| n.失败(者)，扑通一声；vi.笨重地行动，沉重地落下 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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technically
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| adv.专门地，技术上地 | |
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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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clemency
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| n.温和，仁慈，宽厚 | |
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embezzled
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| v.贪污，盗用（公款）( embezzle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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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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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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boilers
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| 锅炉，烧水器，水壶( boiler的名词复数 ) | |
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pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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enamel
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| n.珐琅，搪瓷，瓷釉；(牙齿的)珐琅质 | |
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pensively
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| adv.沉思地，焦虑地 | |
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vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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conclave
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| n.秘密会议，红衣主教团 | |
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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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attested
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| adj.经检验证明无病的，经检验证明无菌的v.证明( attest的过去式和过去分词 )；证实；声称…属实；使宣誓 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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residue
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| n.残余，剩余，残渣 | |
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acerbity
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| n.涩，酸，刻薄 | |
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zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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affix
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| n.附件，附录 vt.附贴，盖(章)，签署 | |
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murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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erased
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| v.擦掉( erase的过去式和过去分词 )；抹去；清除 | |
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revokes
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| v.撤销，取消，废除( revoke的第三人称单数 ) | |
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testaments
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| n.遗嘱( testament的名词复数 )；实际的证明 | |
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