Mark Easterbrook’s Narrative1
I
“So there you are! We wondered where you were.” Rhoda came throughthe open door, the others behind her. She looked round her. “This iswhere you hold your séances, isn’t it?”
“You’re well informed,” Thyrza Grey laughed breezily. “In a villageeveryone knows your business better than you do. We’ve a splendid sinis-ter reputation, so I’ve heard. A hundred years ago it would have been sinkor swim or the funeral pyre. My great-great-aunt—or one or two moregreats—was burned as a witch, I believe, in Ireland. Those were the days!”
“I always thought you were Scottish?”
“On my father’s side—hence the second sight. Irish on my mother’s.
Sybil is our pythoness, originally of Greek extraction. Bella represents OldEnglish.”
“A macabre2 human cocktail,” remarked Colonel Despard.
“As you say.”
“Fun!” said Ginger3.
Thyrza shot her a quick glance.
“Yes, it is in a way.” She turned to Mrs. Oliver. “You should write one ofyour books about a murder by black magic. I can give you a lot of dopeabout it.”
Mrs. Oliver blinked and looked embarrassed.
“I only write very plain murders,” she said apologetically.
Her tone was of one who says “I only do plain cooking.”
“Just about people who want other people out of the way and try to beclever about it,” she added.
“They’re usually too clever for me,” said Colonel Despard. He glanced athis watch. “Rhoda, I think—”
“Oh yes, we must go. It’s much later than I thought.”
Thanks and good-byes were said. We did not go back through the housebut round to a side gate.
“You keep a lot of poultry,” remarked Colonel Despard, looking into awired enclosure.
“I hate hens,” said Ginger. “They cluck in such an irritating way.”
“Mostly cockerels they be.” It was Bella who spoke4. She had come outfrom a back door.
“White cockerels,” I said.
“Table birds?” asked Despard.
Bella said, “They’m useful to us.”
Her mouth widened in a long curving line across the pudgy shapeless-ness of her face. Her eyes had a sly knowing look.
“They’re Bella’s province,” said Thyrza Grey lightly.
We said good-bye and Sybil Stamfordis appeared from the open frontdoor to join in speeding the parting guests.
“I don’t like that woman,” said Mrs. Oliver, as we drove off. “I don’t likeher at all.”
“You mustn’t take old Thyrza too seriously,” said Despard indulgently.
“She enjoys spouting5 all that stuff and seeing what effect it has on you.”
“I didn’t mean her. She’s an unscrupulous woman, with a keen eye onthe main chance. But she’s not dangerous like the other one.”
“Bella? She is a bit uncanny, I’ll admit.”
“I didn’t mean her either. I meant the Sybil one. She seems just silly. Allthose beads6 and draperies and all the stuff about voodoo, and all thosefantastic reincarnations she was telling us about. (Why is it that anybodywho was a kitchen maid or an ugly old peasant never seems to get rein-carnated? It’s always Egyptian Princesses or beautiful Babylonian slaves.
Very fishy7.) But all the same, though she’s stupid, I have a feeling that shecould really do things—make queer things happen. I always put thingsbadly—but I mean she could be used—by something—in a way just be-cause she is so silly. I don’t suppose anyone understands what I mean,”
she finished pathetically.
“I do,” said Ginger. “And I shouldn’t wonder if you weren’t right.”
“We really ought to go to one of their séances,” said Rhoda wistfully. “Itmight be rather fun.”
“No, you don’t,” said Despard firmly. “I’m not having you getting mixedup in anything of that sort.”
They fell into a laughing argument. I roused myself only when I heardMrs. Oliver asking about trains the next morning.
“You can drive back with me,” I said.
Mrs. Oliver looked doubtful.
“I think I’d better go by train—”
“Oh, come now. You’ve driven with me before. I’m a most reliabledriver.”
“It’s not that, Mark. But I’ve got to go to a funeral tomorrow. So I mustn’tbe late in getting back to town.” She sighed. “I do hate going to funerals.”
“Must you?”
“I think I must in this case. Mary Delafontaine was a very old friend—and I think she’d want me to go. She was that sort of person.”
“Of course,” I exclaimed. “Delafontaine—of course.”
The others stared at me, surprised.
“Sorry,” I said. “It’s only—that—well, I was wondering where I’d heardthe name Delafontaine lately. It was you, wasn’t it?” I looked at Mrs.
Oliver. “You said something about visiting her—in a nursing home.”
“Did I? Quite likely.”
“What did she die of?”
Mrs. Oliver wrinkled her forehead.
“Toxic polyneuritis—something like that.”
Ginger was looking at me curiously8. She had a sharp penetrating9 glance.
As we got out of the car, I said abruptly10:
“I think I’ll go for a bit of a walk. Such a lot of food. That wonderfullunch and tea on top of it. It’s got to be worked off somehow.”
I went off briskly before anyone could offer to accompany me. I wantedbadly to get by myself and sort out my ideas.
What was all this business? Let me at least get it clear to myself. It hadstarted, had it not, with that casual but startling remark by Poppy, that ifyou wanted to “get rid of someone” the Pale Horse was the place to go.
Following on that, there had been my meeting with Jim Corrigan, andhis list of “names”—as connected with the death of Father Gorman. Onthat list had been the name of Hesketh-Dubois, and the name of Tucker-ton, causing me to hark back to that evening at Luigi’s coffee bar. Therehad been the name of Delafontaine, too, vaguely11 familiar. It was Mrs.
Oliver who had mentioned it, in connection with a sick friend. The sickfriend was now dead.
After that, I had, for some reason which I couldn’t quite identify, gone tobeard Poppy in her floral bower12. And Poppy had denied vehemently13 anyknowledge of such an institution as the Pale Horse. More significant still,Poppy had been afraid.
Today—there had been Thyrza Grey.
But surely the Pale Horse and its occupants was one thing and that listof names something separate, quite unconnected. Why on earth was Icoupling them together in my mind?
Why should I imagine for one moment that there was any connectionbetween them?
Mrs. Delafontaine had presumably lived in London. Thomasina Tucker-ton’s home had been somewhere in Surrey. No one on the list had anyconnection with the little village of Much Deeping. Unless—I was just coming abreast14 of the King’s Arms. The King’s Arms was agenuine pub with a superior look about it and a freshlypainted announce-ment of Lunches, Dinners and Teas.
I pushed its door open and went inside. The bar, not yet open, was onmy left, on my right was a minute lounge smelling of stale smoke. By thestairs was a notice: Office. The office consisted of a glass window, firmlyclosed and a printed card. PRESS BELL. The whole place had the desertedair of a pub at this particular time of day. On a shelf by the office windowwas a battered15 registration16 book for visitors. I opened it and flickedthrough the pages. It was not much patronised. There were five or sixentries, perhaps, in a week, mostly for one night only. I flicked17 back thepages, noting the names.
It was not long before I shut the book. There was still no one about.
There were really no questions I wanted to ask at this stage. I went outagain into the soft damp afternoon.
Was it only coincidence that someone called Sandford and someone elsecalled Parkinson had stayed at the King’s Arms during the last year? Bothnames were on Corrigan’s list. Yes, but they were not particularly uncom-mon names. But I had noted18 one other name—the name of Martin Digby.
If it was the Martin Digby I knew, he was the great-nephew of the womanI had always called Aunt Min—Lady Hesketh-Dubois.
I strode along, not seeing where I was going. I wanted very badly to talkto someone. To Jim Corrigan. Or to David Ardingly. Or to Hermia with hercalm good sense. I was alone with my chaotic19 thoughts and I didn’t wantto be alone. What I wanted, frankly20, was someone who would argue meout of the things that I was thinking.
It was after about half an hour of tramping muddy lanes that I finallyturned in at the gates of the vicarage, and made my way up a singularlyill-kept drive, to pull a rusty21 looking bell at the side of the front door.
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
narrative
|
|
| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
macabre
|
|
| adj.骇人的，可怖的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
ginger
|
|
| n.姜，精力，淡赤黄色；adj.淡赤黄色的；vt.使活泼，使有生气 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
spoke
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
spouting
|
|
| n.水落管系统v.（指液体）喷出( spout的现在分词 )；滔滔不绝地讲；喋喋不休地说；喷水 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
beads
|
|
| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
fishy
|
|
| adj. 值得怀疑的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
curiously
|
|
| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
penetrating
|
|
| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
abruptly
|
|
| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
vaguely
|
|
| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
bower
|
|
| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
vehemently
|
|
| adv. 热烈地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
abreast
|
|
| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
battered
|
|
| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
registration
|
|
| n.登记，注册，挂号 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
flicked
|
|
| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的过去式和过去分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
noted
|
|
| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
chaotic
|
|
| adj.混沌的，一片混乱的，一团糟的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
frankly
|
|
| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
rusty
|
|
| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |