‘What are you going to do this afternoon, Tuppence? Go on helping1 mewith these lists of names and dates and things?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Tuppence. ‘I’ve had all that. It really is most ex-hausting writing everything down. Every now and then I do get things abit wrong, don’t I?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t put it past you. You have made a few mistakes.’
‘I wish you weren’t more accurate than I am, Tommy. I find it so annoy-ing sometimes.’
‘What are you going to do instead?’
‘I wouldn’t mind having a good nap. Oh no, I’m not going to actually re-lax,’ said Tuppence. ‘I think I’m going to disembowel Mathilde.’
‘I beg your pardon, Tuppence.’
‘I said I was going to disembowel Mathilde.’
‘What’s the matter with you? You seem very set on violence.’
‘Mathilde–she’s in KK.’
‘What do you mean, she’s in KK?’
‘Oh, the place where all the dumps are. You know, she’s the rocking-horse, the one that’s got a hole in her stomach.’
‘Oh. And–you’re going to examine her stomach, is that it?’
‘That’s the idea,’ said Tuppence. ‘Would you like to come and help me?’
‘Not really,’ said Tommy.
‘Would you be kind enough to come and help me?’ suggested Tuppence.
‘Put like that,’ said Tommy, with a deep sigh, ‘I will force myself to con-sent. Anyway, it won’t be as bad as making lists. Is Isaac anywhere about?’
‘No. I think it’s his afternoon off. Anyway, we don’t want Isaac about. Ithink I’ve got all the information I can out of him.’
‘He knows a good deal,’ said Tommy thoughtfully. ‘I found that out theother day, he was telling me a lot of things about the past. Things he can’tremember himself.’
‘Well, he must be nearly eighty,’ said Tuppence. ‘I’m quite sure of that.’
‘Yes, I know, but things really far back.’
‘People have always heard so many things,’ said Tuppence. ‘You neverknow if they’re right or not in what they’ve heard. Anyway, let’s go anddisembowel Mathilde. I’d better change my clothes first because it’s ex-cessively dusty and cobwebby in KK and we have to burrow2 right insideher.
‘You might get Isaac, if he’s about, to turn her upside down, then wecould get at her stomach more easily.’
‘You really sound as though in your last reincarnation you must havebeen a surgeon.’
‘Well, I suppose it is a little like that. We are now going to remove for-eign matter which might be dangerous to the preservation3 of Mathilde’slife, such as is left of it. We might have her painted up and Deborah’stwins perhaps would like to ride on her when they next come to stay.’
‘Oh, our grandchildren have so many toys and presents already.’
‘That won’t matter,’ said Tuppence. ‘Children don’t particularly like ex-pensive presents. They’ll play with an old bit of string or a rag doll orsomething they call a pet bear which is only a bit of a hearthrug just madeup into a bundle with a couple of black boot-button eyes put on it. Chil-dren have their own ideas about toys.’
‘Well, come on,’ said Tommy. ‘Forward to Mathilde. To the operatingtheatre.’
The reversal of Mathilde to a position suitable for the necessary opera-tion to take place was not an easy job. Mathilde was a very fair weight. Inaddition to that, she was very well studded with various nails whichwould on occasions reverse their position, and which had points stickingout. Tuppence wiped blood from her hand and Tommy swore as he caughthis pullover which immediately tore itself in a somewhat disastrous4 fash-ion.
‘Blow this damned rocking-horse,’ said Tommy.
‘Ought to have been put on a bonfire years ago,’ said Tuppence.
It was at that moment that the aged5 Isaac suddenly appeared and joinedthem.
‘Whatever now!’ he said with some surprise. ‘Whatever be you two do-ing here now? What do you want with this old bit of horse-flesh here? CanI help you at all? What do you want to do with it–do you want it taken outof here?’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Tuppence. ‘We want to turn it upside down so thatwe can get at the hole there and pull things out.’
‘You mean pull things out from inside her, as you might say? Who’sbeen putting that idea into your head?’
‘Yes,’ said Tuppence, ‘that’s what we do mean to do.’
‘What do you think you’ll find there?’
‘Nothing but rubbish, I expect,’ said Tommy. ‘But it would be nice,’ hesaid in a rather doubtful voice, ‘if things were cleared up a bit, you know.
We might want to keep other things in here. You know–games, perhaps, acroquet set. Something like that.’
‘There used to be a crookey lawn once. Long time ago. That was in MrsFaulkner’s time. Yes. Down where the rose garden is now. Mind you, itwasn’t a full size one.’
‘When was that?’ asked Tommy.
‘What, you mean the crookey lawn? Oh, well before my time, it was.
There’s always people as wants to tell you things about what used to hap-pen–things as used to be hidden and why and who wanted to hide them.
Lot of tall stories, some of them lies. Some maybe as was true.’
‘You’re very clever, Isaac,’ said Tuppence, ‘you always seem to knowabout everything. How do you know about the croquet lawn?’
‘Oh, used to be a box of crookey things in here. Been there for ages.
Shouldn’t think there’s much of it left now.’
Tuppence relinquished6 Mathilde and went over to a corner where therewas a long wooden box. After releasing the lid with some difficulty as ithad stuck under the ravages7 of time, it yielded a faded red ball, a blue balland one mallet8 bent9 and warped10. The rest of it was mainly cobwebs.
‘Might have been in Mrs Faulkner’s time, that might. They do say, youknow, as she played in the tournaments in her time,’ said Isaac.
‘At Wimbledon?’ said Tuppence, incredulous.
‘Well, not exactly at Wimbledon, I don’t think it was. No. The locals, youknow. They used to have them down here. Pictures I’ve seen down at thephotographer’s–’
‘The photographer’s?’
‘Ah. In the village, Durrance. You know Durrance, don’t you?’
‘Durrance?’ said Tuppence vaguely11. ‘Oh, yes, he sells films and thingslike that, doesn’t he?’
‘That’s right. Mind you, he’s not the old Durrance, as manages it now.
It’s his grandson, or his great- grandson, I shouldn’t wonder. He sellsmostly postcards, you know, and Christmas cards and birthday cards andthings like that. He used to take photographs of people. Got a whole lottucked away. Somebody come in the other day, you know. Wanted a pic-ture of her great-grandmother, she said. She said she’d had one but she’dbroken it or burnt it or lost it or something, and she wondered if there wasthe negative left. But I don’t think she found it. But there’s a lot of old al-bums in there stuck away somewhere.’
‘Albums,’ said Tuppence thoughtfully.
‘Anything more I can do?’ said Isaac.
‘Well, just give us a bit of a hand with Jane, or whatever her name is.’
‘Not Jane, it’s Mathilde, and it’s not Matilda either, which it ought byrights to be, I should say. I believe it was always called Mathilde, for somereason. French, I expect.’
‘French or American,’ said Tommy, thoughtfully. ‘Mathilde. Louise. Thatsort of thing.’
‘Quite a good place to have hidden things, don’t you think?’ said Tup-pence, placing her arm into the cavity in Mathilde’s stomach. She drew outa dilapidated indiarubber ball, which had once been red and yellow butwhich now had gaping12 holes in it.
‘I suppose that’s children,’ said Tuppence. ‘They always put things in likethis.’
‘Whenever they see a hole,’ said Isaac. ‘But there was a young gentle-man once as used to leave his letters in it, so I’ve heard. Same as though itwas a post box.’
‘Letters? Who were they for?’
‘Some young lady, I’d think. But it was before my time,’ said Isaac, asusual.
‘The things that always happened long before Isaac’s time,’ said Tup-pence, as Isaac, having adjusted Mathilde into a good position, left themon the pretext13 of having to shut up the frames.
Tommy removed his jacket.
‘It’s incredible,’ said Tuppence, panting a little as she removed ascratched and dirty arm from the gaping wound in Mathilde’s stomach,‘that anyone could put so many things or want to put them, in this thing,and that nobody should ever have cleaned it out.’
‘Well, why should anyone clean it out? Why would anyone want toclean it out?’
‘That’s true,’ said Tuppence. ‘We do, though, don’t we?’
‘Only because we can’t think of anything better to do. I don’t think any-thing will come of it though. Ow!’
‘What’s the matter?’ said Tuppence.
‘Oh, I scratched myself on something.’
He drew his arm out slightly, readjusted it, and felt inside once more. Aknitted scarf rewarded him. It had clearly been the sustenance14 of moths15 atone16 time and possibly after that had descended17 to an even lower level ofsocial life.
‘Disgusting,’ said Tommy.
Tuppence pushed him aside slightly and fished in with her own arm,leaning over Mathilde while she felt about inside.
‘Mind the nails,’ said Tommy.
‘What’s this?’ said Tuppence.
She brought her find out into the open air. It appeared to be the wheeloff a bus or cart or some child’s toy.
‘I think,’ she said, ‘we’re wasting our time.’
‘I’m sure we are,’ said Tommy.
‘All the same, we might as well do it properly,’ said Tuppence. ‘Oh dear,I’ve got three spiders walking up my arm. It’ll be a worm in a minute and Ihate worms.’
‘I don’t think there’ll be any worms inside Mathilde. I mean, worms likegoing underground in the earth. I don’t think they’d care for Mathilde as aboardinghouse, do you?’
‘Oh well, it’s getting empty at any rate, I think,’ said Tuppence. ‘Hullo,what’s this? Dear me, it seems to be a needle book. What a funny thing tofind. There’s still some needles in it but they’re all rusted18.’
‘Some child who didn’t like to do her sewing, I expect,’ said Tommy.
‘Yes, that’s a good idea.’
‘I touched something that felt like a book just now,’ said Tommy.
‘Oh. Well, that might be helpful. What part of Mathilde?’
‘I should thing the appendix or the liver,’ said Tommy in a professionaltone. ‘On her right-hand side. I’m regarding this as an operation!’ he ad-ded.
‘All right, Surgeon. Better pull it out, whatever it is.’
The so-called book, barely recognizable as such, was of ancient lineage.
Its pages were loose and stained, and its binding19 was coming to pieces.
‘It seems to be a manual of French,’ said Tommy. ‘Pour les enfants. LePetit Précepteur.’
‘I see,’ said Tuppence. ‘I’ve got the same idea as you had. The child didn’twant to learn her French lesson; so she came in here and deliberately20 lostit by putting it into Mathilde. Good old Mathilde.’
‘If Mathilde was right side up, it must have been very difficult puttingthings through this hole in her stomach.’
‘Not for a child,’ said Tuppence. ‘She’d be quite the right height andeverything. I mean, she’d kneel and crawl underneath21 it. Hullo, here’ssomething which feels slippery. Feels rather like an animal’s skin.’
‘How very unpleasant,’ said Tommy. ‘Do you think it’s a dead rabbit orsomething?’
‘Well, it’s not furry22 or anything. I don’t think it’s very nice. Oh dear,there’s a nail again. Well, it seems to be hung on a nail. There’s a sort of bitof string or cord. Funny it hasn’t rotted away, isn’t it?’
She drew out her find cautiously.
‘It’s a pocket-book,’ she said. ‘Yes. Yes, it’s been quite good leather once, Ithink. Quite good leather.’
‘Let’s see what’s inside it, if there is anything inside it,’ said Tommy.
‘There’s something inside it,’ said Tuppence.
‘Perhaps it’s a lot of five pound notes,’ she added hopefully.
‘Well, I don’t suppose they’d be usable still. Paper would rot, wouldn’tit?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Tuppence. ‘A lot of queer things do survive, youknow. I think five pound notes used to be made of wonderfully good paperonce, you know. Sort of thin but very durable23.’
‘Oh well, perhaps it’s a twenty pound note. It will help with the house-keeping.’
‘What? The money’ll be before Isaac’s time too, I expect, or else he’dhave found it. Ah well. Think! It might be a hundred pound note. I wish itwere golden sovereigns. Sovereigns were always in purses. My Great-AuntMaria had a great purse full of sovereigns. She used to show it to us aschildren. It was her nest egg, she said, in case the French came. I think itwas the French. Anyway, it was for extremities24 or danger. Lovely fatgolden sovereigns. I used to think it was wonderful and I’d think howlovely it would be, you know, once one was grown up and you’d have apurse full of sovereigns.’
‘Who was going to give you a purse full of sovereigns?’
‘I didn’t think of anyone giving it to me,’ said Tuppence. ‘I thought of itas the sort of thing that belonged to you as a right, once you were a grownup person. You know, a real grown up wearing a mantle25–that’s what theycalled the things. A mantle with a sort of fur boa round it and a bonnet26.
You had this great fat purse jammed full of sovereigns, and if you had a fa-vourite grandson who was going back to school, you always gave him asovereign as a tip.’
‘What about the girls, the grand-daughters?’
‘I don’t think they got any sovereigns,’ said Tuppence. ‘But sometimesshe used to send me half a five pound note.’
‘Half a five pound note? That wouldn’t be much good.’
‘Oh yes, it was. She used to tear the five pound note in half, send me onehalf first and then the other half in another letter later. You see, it wassupposed in that way that nobody’d want to steal it.’
‘Oh dear, what a lot of precautions everyone did take.’
‘They did rather,’ said Tuppence. ‘Hullo, what’s this?’
She was fumbling27 now in the leather case.
‘Let’s get out of KK for a minute,’ said Tommy, ‘and get some air.’
They got outside KK. In the air they saw better what their trophy28 waslike. It was a thick leather wallet of good quality. It was stiff with age butnot in any way destroyed.
‘I expect it was kept from damp inside Mathilde,’ said Tuppence. ‘Oh,Tommy, do you know what I think this is?’
‘No. What? It isn’t money,’ said Tuppence, ‘but I think it’s letters. I don’tknow whether we’ll be able to read them now. They’re very old andfaded.’
Very carefully Tommy arranged the crinkled yellow paper of the letters,pushing them apart when he could. The writing was quite large and hadonce been written in a very deep blue-black ink.
‘Meeting place changed,’ said Tommy. ‘Ken Gardens near Peter Pan.
Wednesday 25th, 3.30 p.m. Joanna.’
‘I really believe,’ said Tuppence, ‘we might have something at last.’
‘You mean that someone who’d be going to London was told to go on acertain day and meet someone in Kensington Gardens bringing perhapsthe papers or the plans or whatever it was. Who do you think got thesethings out of Mathilde or put them into Mathilde?’
‘It couldn’t have been a child,’ said Tuppence. ‘It must have beensomeone who lived in the house and so could move about without beingnoticed. Got things from the naval29 spy, I suppose, and took them to Lon-don.’
Tuppence wrapped up the old leather wallet in the scarf she’d beenwearing round her neck and she and Tommy returned to the house.
‘There may be other papers in there,’ said Tuppence, ‘but most of them Ithink are perished and will more or less fall to pieces if you touch them.
Hullo, what’s this?’
On the hall table a rather bulky package was lying. Albert came outfrom the dining-room.
‘It was left by hand, madam,’ he said. ‘Left by hand this morning foryou.’
‘Ah, I wonder what it is,’ said Tuppence. She took it.
Tommy and she went into the sitting-room30 together. Tuppence undidthe knot of the string and took off the brown paper wrapping.
‘It’s a kind of album,’ she said, ‘I think. Oh, there’s a note with it. Ah, it’sfrom Mrs Griffin.
‘Dear Mrs Beresford, It was so kind of you to bring me thebirthday book the other day. I have had great pleasurelooking over it and remembering various people from pastdays. One does forget so soon. Very often one only remem-bers somebody’s Christian31 name and not their surname,sometimes it’s the other way about. I came across, a littletime ago, this old album. It doesn’t really belong to me. Ithink it belonged to my grandmother, but it has a goodmany pictures in it and among them, I think, there are oneor two of the Parkinsons, because my grandmother knewthe Parkinsons. I thought perhaps you would like to see itas you seemed to be so interested in the history of yourhouse and who has lived in it in the past. Please don’tbother to send it back to me because it means nothing tome personally really, I can assure you. One has so manythings in the house always belonging to aunts and grand-mothers and the other day when I was looking in an oldchest of drawers in the attic32 I came across six needle-books. Years and years old. And I believe that was not mygrandmother but her grandmother again who used at onetime always to give a needle-book to the maids for Christ-mas and I think these were some she had bought at a saleand would do for another year. Of course quite uselessnow. Sometimes it seems sad to think of how much wastethere has always been.
‘A photo album,’ said Tuppence. ‘Well, that might be fun. Come along,let’s have a look.’
They sat down on the sofa. The album was very typical of bygone days.
Most of the prints were faded by now but every now and then Tuppencemanaged to recognize surroundings that fitted the gardens of their ownhouse.
‘Look, there’s the monkey puzzle. Yes–and look, there’s Truelove behindit. That must be a very old photograph, and a funny little boy hanging onto Truelove. Yes, and there’s the wistaria and there’s the pampas grass. Isuppose it must have been a tea-party or something. Yes, there are a lot ofpeople sitting round a table in the garden. They’ve got names underneaththem too. Mabel. Mabel’s no beauty. And who’s that?’
‘Charles,’ said Tommy. ‘Charles and Edmund. Charles and Edmund seemto have been playing tennis. They’ve got rather queer tennis racquets. Andthere’s William, whoever he was, and Major Coates.’
‘And there’s–oh Tommy, there’s Mary.’
‘Yes. Mary Jordan. Both names there, written under the photograph.’
‘She was pretty. Very pretty, I think. It is very faded and old, but–ohTommy, it really seems wonderful to see Mary Jordan.’
‘I wonder who took the photograph?’
‘Perhaps the photographer that Isaac mentioned. The one in the villagehere. Perhaps he’d have old photographs too. I think perhaps one daywe’ll go and ask.’
Tommy had pushed aside the album by now and was opening a letterwhich had come in the midday post.
‘Anything interesting?’ asked Tuppence. ‘There are three letters here.
Two are bills, I can see. This one–yes, this one is rather different. I askedyou if it was interesting,’ said Tuppence.
‘It may be,’ said Tommy. ‘I’ll have to go to London tomorrow again.’
‘To deal with your usual committees?’
‘Not exactly,’ said Tommy. ‘I’m going to call on someone. Actually it isn’tLondon, it’s out of London. Somewhere Harrow way, I gather.’
‘What is?’ said Tuppence. ‘You haven’t told me yet.’
‘I’m going to call on someone called Colonel Pikeaway.’
‘What a name,’ said Tuppence.
‘Yes, it is rather, isn’t it?’
‘Have I heard it before?’ said Tuppence.
‘I may have mentioned it to you once. He lives in a kind of permanentatmosphere of smoke. Have you got any cough lozenges, Tuppence?’
‘Cough lozenges! Well, I don’t know. Yes, I think I have. I’ve got an oldbox of them from last winter. But you haven’t got a cough–not that I’ve no-ticed, at any rate.’
‘No, but I shall have if I’m going to see Pikeaway. As far as I can remem-ber, you take two choking breaths and then go on choking. You look hope-fully at all the windows which are tightly shut, but Pikeaway would nevertake a hint of that kind.’
‘Why do you think he wants to see you?’
‘Can’t imagine,’ said Tommy. ‘He mentions Robinson.’
‘What–the yellow one? The one who’s got a fat yellow face and is some-thing very hush-hush?’
‘That’s the one, said Tommy.
‘Oh well,’ said Tuppence, ‘perhaps what we’re mixed up in here is hush-hush.’
‘Hardly could be considering it all took place–whatever it was, if there isanything–years and years ago, before even Isaac can remember.’
‘New sins have old shadows,’ said Tuppence, ‘if that’s the saying I mean.
I haven’t got it quite right. New sins have old shadows. Or is it Old sinsmake long shadows?’
‘I should forget it,’ said Tommy. ‘None of them sounds right.’
‘I shall go and see that photographer man this afternoon, I think. Wantto come?’
‘No,’ said Tommy. ‘I think I shall god own and bathe.’
‘Bathe? It’ll be awfully33 cold.’
‘Never mind. I feel I need something cold, bracing34 and refreshing35 to re-move all the taste of cobwebs, the various remains36 of which seem to beclinging round my ears and round my neck and some even seem to havegot between my toes.’
‘This does seem a very dirty job,’ said Tuppence. ‘Well, I’ll go and see MrDurrell or Durrance, if that’s his name. There was another letter, Tommy,which you haven’t opened.’
‘Oh, I didn’t see it. Ah well, that might be something.’
‘Who is it from?’
‘My researcher,’ said Tommy, in a rather grand voice. ‘The one who hasbeen running about England, in and out of Somerset House looking updeaths, marriages and births, consulting newspaper files and census37 re-turns. She’s very good.’
‘Good and beautiful?’
‘Not beautiful so that you’d notice it,’ said Tommy.
‘I’m glad of that,’ said Tuppence. ‘You know, Tommy, now that you’regetting on in years you might–you might get some rather dangerous ideasabout a beautiful helper.’
‘You don’t appreciate a faithful husband when you’ve got one,’ saidTommy.
‘All my friends tell me you never know with husbands,’ said Tuppence.
‘You have the wrong kind of friends,’ said Tommy.
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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burrow
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| vt.挖掘(洞穴)；钻进；vi.挖洞；翻寻；n.地洞 | |
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preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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relinquished
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的过去式和过去分词 )； 放弃 | |
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ravages
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| 劫掠后的残迹，破坏的结果，毁坏后的残迹 | |
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mallet
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| n.槌棒 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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warped
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| adj.反常的；乖戾的；（变）弯曲的；变形的v.弄弯，变歪( warp的过去式和过去分词 )；使（行为等）不合情理，使乖戾， | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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sustenance
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| n.食物，粮食；生活资料；生计 | |
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moths
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| n.蛾( moth的名词复数 ) | |
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atone
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descended
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rusted
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binding
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deliberately
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underneath
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furry
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durable
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extremities
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mantle
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bonnet
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fumbling
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trophy
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naval
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sitting-room
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Christian
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attic
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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34
bracing
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| adj.令人振奋的 | |
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35
refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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36
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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37
census
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| n.(官方的)人口调查，人口普查 | |
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