“But I don’t want to go home just yet,” said Philip Durrant. He spoke1 withplaintive irritability2.
“But, Philip, really, there’s nothing to stay here for, any longer. I mean,we had to come to see Mr. Marshall to discuss the thing, and then wait forthe police interviews. But now there’s nothing to stop us going home rightaway.”
“I think your father’s quite happy for us to stop on for a bit,” said Philip,“he likes having someone to play chess with in the evenings. My word,he’s a wizard at chess. I thought I wasn’t bad, but I never get the better ofhim.”
“Father can find someone else to play chess with,” said Mary shortly.
“What—whistle someone up from the Women’s Institute?”
“And anyway, we ought to go home,” said Mary. “Tomorrow is Mrs.
Carden’s day for doing the brasses3.”
“Polly, the perfect housewife!” said Philip laughing. “Anyway, Mrs.
Whatsaname can do the brasses without you, can’t she? Or if she can’t,send her a telegram and tell her to let them moulder4 for another week.”
“You don’t understand, Philip, about household things, and how difficultthey are.”
“I don’t see that any of them are difficult unless you make them difficult.
Anyway, I want to stop on.”
“Oh, Philip,” Mary spoke with exasperation5, “I do so hate it here.”
“But why?”
“It’s so gloomy, so miserable6 and—and all that’s happened here. Themurder and everything.”
“Now, come, Polly, don’t tell me you’re a mass of nerves over things ofthat kind. I’m sure you could take murder without turning a hair. No, youwant to go home because you want to see to the brasses and dust the placeand make sure no moths7 have got into your fur coat—”
“Moths don’t go into fur coats in winter,” said Mary.
“Well, you know what I mean, Polly. The general idea. But you see, frommy point of view, it’s so much more interesting here.”
“More interesting than being in our own home?” Mary sounded bothshocked and hurt.
Philip looked at her quickly.
“I’m sorry, darling. I didn’t put it very well. Nothing could be nicer thanour own home, and you’ve made it really lovely. Comfortable, neat, at-tractive. You see, it’d be quite different if—if I were like I used to be. Imean, I’d have lots of things to do all day. I’d be up to my ears in schemes.
And it would be perfect coming back to you and having our own home,talking about everything that had happened during the day. But you see,it’s different now.”
“Oh, I know it’s different in that way,” said Mary. “Don’t think I ever for-get that, Phil. I do mind. I mind most terribly.”
“Yes,” said Philip, and he spoke almost between his teeth. “Yes, youmind too much, Mary. You mind so much that sometimes it makes memind more. All I want is distraction8 and — no”— he held up his hand—“don’t tell me that I can get distraction from jigsaw9 puzzles and all thegadgets of occupational therapy and having people to come and give metreatment, and reading endless books. I want so badly sometimes to getmy teeth into something! And here, in this house, there is something to getone’s teeth into.”
“Philip,” Mary caught her breath, “you’re not still harping10 on—on thatidea of yours?”
“Playing at Murder Hunt?” said Philip. “Murder, murder, who did themurder? Yes, Polly, you’re not far off. I want desperately11 to know who didit.”
“But why? And how can you know? If somebody broke in or found thedoor open—”
“Still harping on the outsider theory?” asked Philip. “It won’t wash, youknow. Old Marshall put a good face upon it. But actually he was just help-ing us to keep face. Nobody believes in that beautiful theory. It just isn’ttrue.”
“Then you must see, if it isn’t true,” Mary interrupted him, “if it isn’t true—if it was, as you put it, one of us—then I don’t want to know. Why shouldwe know? Aren’t we—aren’t we a hundred times better not knowing?”
Philip Durrant looked up at her questioningly.
“Putting your head in the sand, eh, Polly? Haven’t you any natural curi-osity?”
“I tell you I don’t want to know! I think it’s all horrible. I want to forgetit and not think about it.”
“Didn’t you care enough for your mother to want to know who killedher?”
“What good would it do, knowing who killed her? For two years we’vebeen quite satisfied that Jacko killed her.”
“Yes,” said Philip, “lovely the way we’ve all been satisfied.”
His wife looked at him doubtfully.
“I don’t—I really don’t know what you mean, Philip.”
“Can’t you see, Polly, that in a way this is a challenge to me? A challengeto my intelligence? I don’t mean that I’ve felt your mother’s death particu-larly keenly or that I was particularly fond of her. I wasn’t. She’d done hervery best to stop you marrying me, but I bore her no grudge12 for that be-cause I succeeded in carrying you off all right. Didn’t I, my girl? No, it’s nota wish for revenge, it’s not even a passion for justice. I think it’s—yes,mainly curiosity, though perhaps there’s a better side to it than that.”
“It’s the sort of thing you oughtn’t to meddle13 about with,” said Mary. “Nogood can come of your meddling14 about with it. Oh, Philip, please, pleasedon’t. Let’s go home and forget all about it.”
“Well,” said Philip, “you can pretty well cart me anywhere you like, can’tyou? But I want to stay here. Don’t you sometimes want me to do what Iwant to do?”
“I want you to have everything in the world you want,” said Mary.
“You don’t really, darling. You just want to look after me like a baby inarms and know what’s best for me every day and in every possible way.”
He laughed.
Mary said, looking at him doubtfully:
“I never know when you’re serious or not.”
“Apart from curiosity,” said Philip Durrant, “somebody ought to find outthe truth, you know.”
“Why? What good can it do? Having someone else sent to prison. I thinkit’s a horrible idea.”
“You don’t quite understand,” said Philip. “I didn’t say that I’d turn inwhoever it was (if I discovered who it was) to the police. I don’t think thatI would. It depends, of course, on the circumstances. Probably it wouldn’tbe any use my turning them over to the police because I still think thatthere couldn’t be any real evidence.”
“Then if there isn’t any real evidence,” said Mary, “how are you going tofind out anything?”
“Because,” said Philip, “there are lots of ways of finding out things, ofknowing them quite certainly once and for all. And I think, you know, thatthat’s becoming rather necessary. Things aren’t going very well in thishouse and very soon they’ll be getting worse.”
“What do you mean?”
“Haven’t you noticed anything, Polly? What about your father andGwenda Vaughan?”
“What about them? Why my father should want to marry again at hisage—”
“I can understand that,” said Philip. “After all, he had rather a raw dealin marriage. He’s got a chance now of real happiness. Autumn happiness,if you like, but he’s got it. Or, shall we say, he had it. Things aren’t goingtoo well between them now.”
“I suppose, all this business—” said Mary vaguely15.
“Exactly,” said Philip. “All this business. It’s shoving them further apartevery day. And there could be two reasons for that. Suspicion or guilt16.”
“Suspicion of whom?”
“Well, let’s say of each other. Or suspicion on one side and conscious-ness of guilt on the other and vice17 versa and as you were and as you likeit.”
“Don’t, Philip, you’re confusing me.” Suddenly a faint trace of animationcame into Mary’s manner. “So you think it was Gwenda?” she said. “Per-haps you’re right. Oh, what a blessing18 it would be if it was Gwenda.”
“Poor Gwenda. Because she’s one removed from the family, you mean?”
“Yes,” said Mary. “I mean then it wouldn’t be one of us.”
“That’s all you feel about it, is it?” said Philip. “How it affects us.”
“Of course,” said Mary.
“Of course, of course,” said Philip irritably19. “The trouble with you is,Polly, you haven’t got any imagination. You can’t put yourself in anyoneelse’s place.”
“Why should one?” asked Mary.
“Yes, why should one?” said Philip. “I suppose if I’m honest I’d say topass the time away. But I can put myself in your father’s place, or inGwenda’s, and if they’re innocent, what hell it must be. What hell forGwenda to be held suddenly at arm’s length. To know in her heart thatshe’s not going to be able to marry the man she loves after all. And thenput yourself in your father’s place. He knows, he can’t help knowing, thatthe woman he is in love with had an opportunity to do the murder andhad a motive20, too. He hopes she didn’t do it, he thinks she didn’t do it, buthe isn’t sure. And what’s more he never will be sure.”
“At his age—” began Mary.
“Oh, at his age, at his age,” said Philip impatiently. “Don’t you realize it’sworse for a man of that age? It’s the last love of his life. He’s not likely tohave another. It goes deep. And taking the other point of view,” he wenton, “suppose Leo came out of the mists and shadows of the self-containedworld that he’s managed to live in so long. Suppose it was he who struckdown his wife? One can almost feel sorry for the poor devil, can’t one?
Not,” he added meditatively21, “that I really can imagine his doing anythingof the sort for a moment. But I’ve no doubt the police can imagine it allright. Now, Polly, let’s hear your views. Who do you think did it?”
“How can I possibly know?” said Mary.
“Well, perhaps you can’t know,” said Philip, “but you might have a verygood idea—if you thought.”
“I tell you I refuse to think about the thing at all.”
“I wonder why … Is that just distaste? Or is it—perhaps—because you doknow? Perhaps in your own cool, calm mind you’re quite sure … So surethat you don’t want to think about it, that you don’t want to tell me? Is itHester you’ve got in mind?”
“Why on earth should Hester want to kill Mother?”
“No real reason, is there?” said Philip meditatively. “But you know, youdo read of those things. A son or a daughter fairly well looked after, in-dulged, and then one day some silly little thing happens. Fond parent re-fuses to stump22 up for the cinema or for buying a new pair of shoes or sayswhen you’re going out with the boy friend you’ve got to be in at ten. Itmayn’t be anything very important but it seems to set a match to a trainthat’s already laid, and suddenly the adolescent in question has a brain-storm and up with a hammer or an axe23, or possibly a poker24, and that’sthat. Always hard to explain, but it happens. It’s the culmination25 of a longtrain of repressed rebellion. That’s a pattern which would fit Hester. Yousee, with Hester the trouble is that one doesn’t know what goes on in thatrather lovely head of hers. She’s weak, of course, and she resents beingweak. And your mother was the sort of person who would make her feelconscious of her weakness. Yes,” said Philip, leaning forward with someanimation, “I think I could make out quite a good case for Hester.”
“Oh, will you stop talking about it,” cried Mary.
“Oh, I’ll stop talking,” said Philip. “Talking won’t get me anywhere. Orwill it? After all, one has to decide in one’s own mind what the pattern ofthe murder might be, and apply that pattern to each of the differentpeople concerned. And then when you’ve got it taped out the way it musthave been, then you start laying your little pitfalls26 and see if they tumbleinto them.”
“There were only four people in the house,” said Mary. “You speak asthough there were half a dozen or more. I agree with you that Fathercouldn’t possibly have done it, and it’s absurd to think that Hester couldhave any real reason for doing anything of that kind. That leaves Kirstyand Gwenda.”
“Which of them do you prefer?” asked Philip, with faint mockery in histone.
“I can’t really imagine Kirsty doing such a thing,” said Mary. “She’s al-ways been so patient and good-tempered. Really quite devoted27 to Mother.
I suppose she could go queer suddenly. One does hear of such thing, butshe’s never seemed at all queer.”
“No,” said Philip thoughtfully, “I’d say Kirsty is a very normal woman,the sort of woman who’d have liked a normal woman’s life. In a way she’ssomething of the same type as Gwenda, only Gwenda is good-looking andattractive and poor old Kirsty is plain as a currant bun. I don’t supposeany man’s ever looked at her twice. But she’d have liked them to. She’dhave liked to have fallen in love and married. It must be pretty fair hell tobe born a woman and to be born plain and unattractive, especially if thatisn’t compensated28 for by having any special talent or brain. The truth isshe’d been here far too long. She ought to have left after the war, gone onwith her profession as masseuse. She might have hooked some well offelderly patient.”
“You’re like all men,” said Mary. “You think women think of nothing butgetting married.”
Philip grinned.
“I still think it’s all women’s first choice,” he said. “Hasn’t Tina any boyfriends, by the way?”
“Not that I know of,” said Mary. “But she doesn’t talk much about her-self.”
“No, she’s a quiet little mouse, isn’t she? Not exactly pretty, but verygraceful. I wonder what she knows about this business?”
“I don’t suppose she knows anything,” said Mary.
“Don’t you?” said Philip. “I do.”
“Oh, you just imagine things,” said Mary.
“I’m not imagining this. Do you know what the girl said? She said shehoped she didn’t know anything. Rather a curious way of putting things. Ibet she does know something.”
“What sort of thing?”
“Perhaps there’s something that ties in somewhere, but she herselfdoesn’t quite realize where it does tie in. I hope to get it out of her.”
“Philip!”
“It’s no good, Polly. I’ve got a mission in life. I’ve persuaded myself thatit’s very much in the public interest that I should get down to it. Nowwhere shall I start? I rather think I’ll work on Kirsty first. In many waysshe’s a simple soul.”
“I wish—oh, how I wish,” said Mary, “that you’d give all this crazy ideaup and come home. We were so happy. Everything was going along sowell—” Her voice broke as she turned away.
“Polly!” Philip was concerned. “Do you really mind so much? I didn’trealize you were quite so upset.”
Mary wheeled round, a hopeful look in her eye.
“Then you will come home and forget about it all?”
“I couldn’t forget about it all,” said Philip. “I’d only go on worrying andpuzzling and thinking. Let’s stay here till the end of the week anyway,Mary, and then, well, we’ll see.”
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收听单词发音
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1
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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2
irritability
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| n.易怒 | |
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brasses
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| n.黄铜( brass的名词复数 )；铜管乐器；钱；黄铜饰品（尤指马挽具上的黄铜圆片） | |
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moulder
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| v.腐朽，崩碎 | |
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exasperation
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| n.愤慨 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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7
moths
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| n.蛾( moth的名词复数 ) | |
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8
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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jigsaw
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| n.缕花锯，竖锯，拼图游戏；vt.用竖锯锯，使互相交错搭接 | |
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harping
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| n.反复述说 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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13
meddle
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| v.干预，干涉，插手 | |
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meddling
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| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的现在分词 ) | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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irritably
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| ad.易生气地 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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stump
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| n.残株，烟蒂，讲演台；v.砍断，蹒跚而走 | |
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axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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poker
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| n.扑克；vt.烙制 | |
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culmination
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| n.顶点；最高潮 | |
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pitfalls
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| （捕猎野兽用的）陷阱( pitfall的名词复数 )； 意想不到的困难，易犯的错误 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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compensated
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| 补偿，报酬( compensate的过去式和过去分词 )； 给（某人）赔偿（或赔款） | |
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