Mark Easterbrook’s Narrative1
I approached my task of interviewing Mrs. Tuckerton with the utmost re-luctance. Goaded2 to it by Ginger3, I was still far from convinced of its wis-dom. To begin with I felt myself unfitted for the task I had set myself. Iwas doubtful of my ability to produce the needed reaction, and I wasacutely conscious of masquerading under false colours.
Ginger, with the almost terrifying efficiency which she was able to dis-play when it suited her, had briefed me by telephone.
“It will be quite simple. It’s a Nash house. Not the usual style one associ-ates with him. One of his near-Gothic flights of fancy.”
“And why should I want to see it?”
“You’re considering writing an article or a book on the influences thatcause fluctuation4 of an architect’s style. That sort of thing.”
“Sounds very bogus to me,” I said.
“Nonsense,” said Ginger robustly5. “When you get on to learned subjects,or arty ones, the most incredible theories are propounded6 and writtenabout, in the utmost seriousness, by the most unlikely people. I couldquote you chapters of tosh.”
“That’s why you would really be a much better person to do this than Iam.”
“That’s where you are wrong,” Ginger told me. “Mrs. T. can look you upin Who’s Who and be properly impressed. She can’t look me up there.”
I remained unconvinced, though temporarily defeated.
On my return from my incredible interview with Mr. Bradley, Gingerand I had put our heads together. It was less incredible to her than it wasto me. It afforded her, indeed, a distinct satisfaction.
“It puts an end to whether we’re imagining things or not,” she pointedout. “Now we know that an organisation7 does exist for getting unwantedpeople out of the way.”
“By supernatural means!”
“You’re so hidebound in your thinking. It’s all that wispiness and thefalse scarabs that Sybil wears. It puts you off. And if Mr. Bradley hadturned out to be a quack8 practitioner9, or a pseudoastrologer, you’d still beunconvinced. But since he turns out to be a nasty down-to-earth little legalcrook—or that’s the impression you give me—”
“Near enough,” I said.
“Then that makes the whole thing come into line. However phony it maysound, those three women at the Pale Horse have got hold of somethingthat works.”
“If you’re so convinced, then why Mrs. Tuckerton?”
“Extra check,” said Ginger. “We know what Thyrza Grey says she can do.
We know how the financial side is worked. We know a little about three ofthe victims. We want to know more about the client angle.”
“And suppose Mrs. Tuckerton shows no signs of having been a client?”
“Then we’ll have to investigate elsewhere.”
“Of course, I may boob it,” I said gloomily.
Ginger said that I must think better of myself than that.
So here I was, arriving at the front door of Carraway Park. It certainlydid not look like my preconceived idea of a Nash house. In many ways itwas a near castle of modest proportions. Ginger had promised to supplyme with a recent book on Nash architecture, but it had not arrived in time,so I was here somewhat inadequately10 briefed.
I rang the bell, and a rather seedy-looking man in an alpaca coat openedthe door.
“Mr. Easterbrook?” he said. “Mrs. Tuckerton’s expecting you.”
He showed me into an elaborately furnished drawing room. The roommade a disagreeable impression upon me. Everything in it was expensive,but chosen without taste. Left to itself, it could have been a room of pleas-ant proportions. There were one or two good pictures, and a great manybad ones. There was a great deal of yellow brocade. Further cogitationswere interrupted by the arrival of Mrs. Tuckerton herself. I arose with dif-ficulty from the depths of a bright yellow brocade sofa.
I don’t know what I had expected, but I suffered a complete reversal offeeling. There was nothing sinister11 here; merely a completely ordinaryyoung to middle-aged12 woman. Not a very interesting woman, and not, Ithought, a particularly nice woman. The lips, in spite of a generous applic-ation of lipstick13, were thin and bad-tempered14. The chin receded15 a little.
The eyes were pale blue and gave the impression that she was appraisingthe price of everything. She was the sort of woman who undertipped port-ers and cloakroom attendants. There are a lot of women of her type to bemet in the world, though mainly less expensively dressed, and not so wellmade-up.
“Mr. Easterbrook?” She was clearly delighted by my visit. She evengushed a little. “I’m so pleased to meet you. Fancy your being interested inthis house. Of course I knew it was built by John Nash, my husband toldme so, but I never realised that it would be interesting to a person likeyou!”
“Well, you see, Mrs. Tuckerton, it’s not quite his usual style, and thatmakes it interesting to—er—”
She saved me the trouble of continuing.
“I’m afraid I’m terribly stupid about that sort of thing—architecture, Imean, and archaeology16 and all that. But you mustn’t mind my ignorance—”
I didn’t mind at all. I preferred it.
“Of course all that sort of thing is terribly interesting,” said Mrs. Tucker-ton.
I said that we specialists, on the contrary, were usually terribly dull andvery boring on our own particular subject.
Mrs. Tuckerton said she was sure that that wasn’t true, and would I liketo have tea first and see the house afterwards, or see round the house andthen have tea.
I hadn’t bargained for tea—my appointment had been for three thirty,but I said that perhaps the house first.
She showed me round, chatting vivaciously17 most of the time, and thusrelieving me of uttering any architectural judgements.
It was lucky, she said, that I’d come now. The house was up for sale—“It’s too big for me—since my husband’s death”—and she believed therewas a purchaser already, though the agents had only had it on their booksfor just over a week.
“I wouldn’t have liked you to see it when it was empty. I think a houseneeds to be lived in, if one is really to appreciate it, don’t you, Mr. Easter-brook?”
I would have preferred this house unlived in, and unfurnished, but nat-urally I could not say so. I asked her if she was going to remain in theneighborhood.
“Really, I’m not quite sure. I shall travel a little first. Get into the sun-shine. I hate this miserable18 climate. Actually I think I shall winter inEgypt. I was there two years ago. Such a wonderful country, but I expectyou know all about it.”
I knew nothing about Egypt and said so.
“I expect you’re just being modest,” she said gaily19 and vaguely20. “This isthe dining room. It’s octagonal. That’s right, isn’t it? No corners.”
I said she was quite right and praised the proportions.
Presently, the tour was completed, we returned to the drawing roomand Mrs. Tuckerton rang for tea. It was brought in by the seedy-lookingmanservant. There was a vast Victorian silver teapot which could havedone with a clean.
Mrs. Tuckerton sighed as he left the room.
“After my husband died, the married couple he had had for nearlytwenty years insisted on leaving. They said they were retiring, but I heardafterwards that they took another post. A very highly-paid one. I think it’sabsurd, myself, to pay these high wages. When you think what servants’
board and lodging21 costs—to say nothing of their laundry.”
Yes, I thought, mean. The pale eyes, the tight mouth—avarice was there.
There was no difficulty in getting Mrs. Tuckerton to talk. She liked talk-ing. She liked, in particular, talking about herself. Presently, by listeningwith close attention, and uttering an encouraging word now and then, Iknew a good deal about Mrs. Tuckerton. I knew, too, more than she wasconscious of telling me.
I knew that she had married Thomas Tuckerton, a widower22, five yearsago. She had been “much, much younger than he was.” She had met himat a big seaside hotel where she had been a bridge hostess. She was notaware that that last fact had slipped out. He had had a daughter at schoolnear there—“so difficult for a man to know what to do with a girl when hetakes her out.
“Poor Thomas, he was so lonely… His first wife had died some yearsback and he missed her very much.”
Mrs. Tuckerton’s picture of herself continued. A gracious kindly23 womantaking pity on this ageing lonely man. His deteriorating24 health and her de-votion.
“Though, of course, in the last stages of his illness I couldn’t really haveany friends of my own.”
Had there been, I wondered, some men friends whom Thomas Tucker-ton had thought undesirable25? It might explain the terms of his will.
Ginger had looked up the terms of his will for me at Somerset House.
Bequests26 to old servants, to a couple of godchildren, and then provisionfor his wife—sufficient, but not unduly27 generous. A sum in trust, the in-come to be enjoyed during her lifetime. The residue28 of his estate, whichran into a sum of six figures, to his daughter Thomasina Ann, to be hersabsolutely at the age of twenty-one, or on her marriage. If she died beforetwenty-one unmarried, the money was to go to her stepmother. There hadbeen, it seemed, no other members of the family.
The prize, I thought, had been a big one. And Mrs. Tuckerton likedmoney… It stuck out all over her. She had never had any money of herown, I was sure, till she married her elderly widower. And then, perhaps,it had gone to her head. Hampered29, in her life with an invalid30 husband,she had looked forward to the time when she would be free, still young,and rich beyond her wildest dreams.
The will, perhaps, had been a disappointment. She had dreamed ofsomething better than a moderate income. She had looked forward to ex-pensive travel, to luxury cruises, to clothes, jewels — or possibly to thesheer pleasure of money itself—mounting up in the bank.
Instead the girl was to have all that money! The girl was to be a wealthyheiress. The girl who, very likely, had disliked her stepmother and shownit with the careless ruthlessness of youth. The girl was to be the rich one—unless….
Unless…? Was that enough? Could I really believe that the blonde-hairedmeretricious creature talking platitudes31 so glibly32 was capable of seekingout the Pale Horse, and arranging for a young girl to die?
No, I couldn’t believe it….
Nevertheless, I must do my stuff. I said, rather abruptly33:
“I believe, you know, I met your daughter—stepdaughter—once.”
She looked at me in mild surprise, though without much interest.
“Thomasina? Did you?”
“Yes, in Chelsea.”
“Oh, Chelsea! Yes, it would be…” She sighed. “These girls nowadays. Sodifficult. One doesn’t seem to have any control over them. It upset herfather very much. I couldn’t do anything about it, of course. She neverlistened to anything I said.” She sighed again. “She was nearly grown-up,you know, when we married. A stepmother—” she shook her head.
“Always a difficult position,” I said sympathetically.
“I made allowances—did my best in every way.”
“I’m sure you did.”
“But it was absolutely no use. Of course Tom wouldn’t allow her to beactually rude to me, but she sailed as near to the wind as she could. Shereally made life quite impossible. In a way it was a relief to me when sheinsisted on leaving home, but I could quite understand how Tom felt aboutit. She got in with a most undesirable set.”
“I—rather gathered that,” I said.
“Poor Thomasina,” said Mrs. Tuckerton. She adjusted a stray lock ofblonde hair. Then she looked at me. “Oh, but perhaps you don’t know. Shedied about a month ago. Encephalitis—very sudden. It’s a disease that at-tacks young people, I believe—so sad.”
“I did know she was dead,” I said.
I got up.
“Thank you, Mrs. Tuckerton, very much indeed for showing me yourhouse.” I shook hands.
Then as I moved away, I turned back.
“By the way,” I said, “I think you know the Pale Horse, don’t you?”
There wasn’t any doubt of the reaction. Panic, sheer panic, showed inthose pale eyes. Beneath the makeup34, her face was suddenly white andafraid.
Her voice came shrill35 and high:
“Pale Horse? What do you mean by the Pale Horse? I don’t know any-thing about the Pale Horse.”
I let mild surprise show in my eyes.
“Oh—my mistake. There’s a very interesting old pub—in Much Deeping.
I was down there the other day and was taken to see it. It’s been charm-ingly converted, keeping all the atmosphere. I certainly thought yourname was mentioned—but perhaps it was your stepdaughter who hadbeen down there—or someone else of the same name.” I paused. “Theplace has got—quite a reputation.”
I enjoyed my exit line. In one of the mirrors on the wall I saw Mrs. Tuck-erton’s face reflected. She was staring after me. She was very, veryfrightened and I saw just how she would look in years to come… It was nota pleasant sight.
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收听单词发音
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1
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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goaded
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| v.刺激( goad的过去式和过去分词 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
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ginger
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| n.姜，精力，淡赤黄色；adj.淡赤黄色的；vt.使活泼，使有生气 | |
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fluctuation
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| n.(物价的)波动，涨落；周期性变动；脉动 | |
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robustly
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| adv.要用体力地，粗鲁地 | |
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propounded
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| v.提出（问题、计划等）供考虑[讨论]，提议( propound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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organisation
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| n.组织，安排，团体，有机休 | |
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quack
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| n.庸医；江湖医生；冒充内行的人；骗子 | |
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practitioner
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| n.实践者，从事者；(医生或律师等)开业者 | |
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inadequately
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| ad.不够地；不够好地 | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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lipstick
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| n.口红，唇膏 | |
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bad-tempered
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| adj.脾气坏的 | |
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receded
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的过去式和过去分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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archaeology
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| n.考古学 | |
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vivaciously
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| adv.快活地；活泼地；愉快地 | |
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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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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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deteriorating
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| 恶化，变坏( deteriorate的现在分词 ) | |
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undesirable
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| adj.不受欢迎的，不良的，不合意的，讨厌的；n.不受欢迎的人，不良分子 | |
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bequests
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| n.遗赠( bequest的名词复数 )；遗产，遗赠物 | |
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unduly
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| adv.过度地，不适当地 | |
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residue
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| n.残余，剩余，残渣 | |
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hampered
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| 妨碍，束缚，限制( hamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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platitudes
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| n.平常的话，老生常谈，陈词滥调( platitude的名词复数 )；滥套子 | |
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glibly
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| adv.流利地，流畅地；满口 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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makeup
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| n.组织；性格；化装品 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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