I
The sun was shining when Luke came over the hill and down into the littlecountry town of Wychwood- under- Ashe. He had bought a secondhandStandard Swallow, and he stopped for a moment on the brow of the hilland switched off the engine.
The summer day was warm and sunny. Below him was the village, sin-gularly unspoilt by recent developments. It lay innocently and peacefullyin the sunlight — mainly composed of a long straggling street that ranalong under the overhanging brow of Ashe Ridge1.
It seemed singularly remote, strangely untouched. Luke thought, “I’mprobably mad. The whole thing’s fantastic.”
Had he really come here solemnly to hunt down a killer—simply on thestrength of some garrulous2 ramblings on the part of an old lady, and achance obituary4 notice?
He shook his head.
“Surely these things don’t happen,” he murmured. “Or—do they? Luke,my boy, it’s up to you to find out if you’re the world’s most credulous5 prizeass, or if your policeman’s nose has led you hot on the scent6.”
He switched on the engine, threw in the gear and drove gently down thetwisting road and so entered the main street.
Wychwood, as has been said, consists mainly of its one principal street.
There were shops, small Georgian houses, prim7 and aristocratic, withwhitened steps and polished knockers, there were picturesque8 cottageswith flower gardens. There was an inn, the Bells and Motley, standing9 alittle back from the street. There was a village green and a duck pond, andpresiding over them a dignified10 Georgian house which Luke thought atfirst must be his destination, Ashe Manor11. But on coming nearer he sawthat there was a large painted board announcing that it was the Museumand Library. Farther on there was an anachronism, a large white modernbuilding, austere12 and irrelevant13 to the cheerful haphazardness14 of the restof the place. It was, Luke gathered, a local Institute and Lads’ Club.
It was at this point that he stopped and asked the way to his destination.
He was told that Ashe Manor was about half a mile farther on — hewould see the gates on his right.
Luke continued his course. He found the gates easily—they were of newand elaborate wrought15 iron. He drove in, caught a gleam of red brickthrough the trees, and turned a corner of the drive to be stupefied by theappalling and incongruous castellated mass that greeted his eyes.
While he was contemplating16 the nightmare, the sun went in. He becamesuddenly conscious of the overlying menace of Ashe Ridge. There was asudden sharp gust17 of wind, blowing back the leaves of the trees, and atthat moment a girl came round the corner of the castellated mansion18.
Her black hair was blown up off her head by the sudden gust and Lukewas reminded of a picture he had once seen—Nevinson’s “Witch.” Thelong pale delicate face, the black hair flying up to the stars. He could seethis girl on a broomstick flying up to the moon….
She came straight towards him.
“You must be Luke Fitzwilliam. I’m Bridget Conway.”
He took the hand she held out. He could see her now as she was—not ina sudden moment of fantasy. Tall, slender, a long delicate face withslightly hollow cheekbones—ironic black brows—black eyes and hair. Shewas like a delicate etching, he thought—poignant and beautiful.
He had had an acknowledged picture at the back of his mind during hisvoyage home to England—a picture of an English girl flushed and sun-burnt—stroking a horse’s neck, stooping to weed a herbaceous border, sit-ting holding out her hands to the blaze of a wood fire. It had been a warmgracious vision….
Now—he didn’t know if he liked Bridget Conway or not—but he knewthat that secret picture wavered and broke up—became meaningless andfoolish….
He said:
“How d’you do? I must apologize for wishing myself on you like this.
Jimmy would have it that you wouldn’t mind.”
“Oh, we don’t. We’re delighted.” She smiled, a sudden curving smile thatbrought the corners of her long mouth halfway19 up her cheeks. “Jimmyand I always stand in together. And if you’re writing a book on folklorethis is a splendid place. All sorts of legends and picturesque spots.”
“Splendid,” said Luke.
They went together towards the house. Luke stole another glance at it.
He discerned now traces of a sober Queen Anne dwelling20 overlaid andsmothered by the florid magnificence. He remembered that Jimmy hadmentioned the house as having originally belonged to Bridget’s family.
That, he thought grimly, was in its unadorned days. Stealing a glance atthe line of her profile, at the long beautiful hands, he wondered.
She was about twenty-eight or -nine, he supposed. And she had brains.
And she was one of those people about whom you knew absolutely noth-ing unless they chose that you should….
Inside, the house was comfortable and in good taste—the good taste of afirst-class decorator. Bridget Conway led the way to a room with book-shelves and comfortable chairs where a tea table stood near the windowwith two people sitting by it.
She said:
“Gordon, this is Luke, a sort of cousin of a cousin of mine.”
Lord Whitfield was a small man with a semi-bald head. His face wasround and ingenuous21, with a pouting22 mouth and boiled gooseberry eyes.
He was dressed in careless-looking country clothes. They were unkind tohis figure, which ran mostly to stomach.
He greeted Luke with affability.
“Glad to see you—very glad. Just come back from the East, I hear? Inter-esting place. Writing a book, so Bridget tells me. They say too many booksare written nowadays. I say no—always room for a good one.”
Bridget said, “My aunt, Mrs. Anstruther,” and Luke shook hands with amiddle-aged woman with a rather foolish mouth.
Mrs. Anstruther, as Luke soon learned, was devoted23 body and soul togardening. She never talked of anything else, and her mind was constantlyoccupied by considerations of whether some rare plant was likely to dowell in the place she intended to put it.
After acknowledging the introduction, she said now:
“You know, Gordon, the ideal spot for a rockery would be just beyondthe rose garden, and then you could have the most marvellous watergarden where the stream comes through that dip.”
Lord Whitfield stretched himself back in his chair.
“You fix all that with Bridget,” he said easily. “Rock plants are nigglylittle things, I think—but that doesn’t matter.”
Bridget said:
“Rock plants aren’t sufficiently24 in the grand manner for you, Gordon.”
She poured out some tea for Luke and Lord Whitfield said placidly25:
“That’s right. They’re not what I call good value for money. Little bits offlowers you can hardly see…I like a nice show in a conservatory26, or somegood beds of scarlet27 geraniums.”
Mrs. Anstruther, who possessed28 par3 excellence29 the gift of continuing withher own subject undisturbed by that of anyone else, said:
“I believe those new rock roses would do perfectly30 in this climate,” andproceeded to immerse herself in catalogues.
Throwing his squat31 little figure back in his chair, Lord Whitfield sippedhis tea and studied Luke appraisingly32.
“So you write books,” he murmured.
Feeling slightly nervous, Luke was about to enter on explanations whenhe perceived that Lord Whitfield was not really seeking for information.
“I’ve often thought,” said his lordship complacently33, “that I’d like towrite a book myself.”
“Yes?” said Luke.
“I could, mark you,” said Lord Whitfield. “And a very interesting book itwould be. I’ve come across a lot of interesting people. Trouble is, I haven’tgot the time. I’m a very busy man.”
“Of course. You must be.”
“You wouldn’t believe what I’ve got on my shoulders,” said Lord Whit-field. “I take a personal interest in each one of my publications. I considerthat I’m responsible for moulding the public mind. Next week millions ofpeople will be thinking and feeling just exactly what I’ve intended to makethem feel and think. That’s a very solemn thought. That means responsib-ility. Well, I don’t mind responsibility. I’m not afraid of it. I can do with re-sponsibility.”
Lord Whitfield swelled34 out his chest, attempted to draw in his stomach,and glared amiably35 at Luke.
Bridget Conway said lightly:
“You’re a great man, Gordon. Have some more tea.”
Lord Whitfield replied simply:
“I am a great man. No, I won’t have anymore tea.”
Then, descending36 from his own Olympian heights to the level of moreordinary mortals, he inquired kindly37 of his guest:
“Know anybody round this part of the world?”
Luke shook his head. Then, on an impulse, and feeling that the soonerhe began to get down to his job the better, he added:
“At least, there’s a man here that I promised to look up — friend offriends of mine. Man called Humbleby. He’s a doctor.”
“Oh!” Lord Whitfield struggled upright in his chair. “Dr. Humbleby?
Pity.”
“What’s a pity?”
“Died about a week ago,” said Lord Whitfield.
“Oh, dear,” said Luke. “I’m sorry about that.”
“Don’t think you’d have cared for him,” said Lord Whitfield. “Opinion-ated, pestilential, muddleheaded old fool.”
“Which means,” put in Bridget, “that he disagreed with Gordon.”
“Question of our water supply,” said Lord Whitfield. “I may tell you, Mr.
Fitzwilliam, that I’m a public- spirited man. I’ve got the welfare of thistown at heart. I was born here. Yes, born in this very town—”
With chagrin38 Luke perceived that they had left the topic of Dr.
Humbleby and had reverted39 to the topic of Lord Whitfield.
“I’m not ashamed of it and I don’t care who knows it,” went on that gen-tleman. “I had none of your natural advantages. My father kept a boot-shop—yes, a plain boot-shop. And I served in that shop when I was ayoung lad. I raised myself by my own efforts, Fitzwilliam—I determined40 toget out of the rut—and I got out of the rut! Perseverance41, hard work andthe help of God — that’s what did it! That’s what made me what I amtoday.”
Exhaustive details of Lord Whitfield’s career were produced for Luke’sbenefit and the former wound up triumphantly42:
“And here I am and the whole world’s welcome to know how I’ve gothere! I’m not ashamed of my beginnings—no, sir—I’ve come back herewhere I was born. Do you know what stands where my father’s shop usedto be? A fine building built and endowed by me—Institute, Boys’ Clubs,everything tip-top and up to date. Employed the best architect in the coun-try! I must say he’s made a bare plain job of it—looks like a workhouse ora prison to me—but they say it’s all right, so I suppose it must be.”
“Cheer up,” said Bridget. “You had your own way over this house!”
Lord Whitfield chuckled44 appreciatively.
“Yes, they tried to put it over on me here! Carry out the original spirit ofthe building. No, I said, I’m going to live in the place, and I want somethingto show for my money! When one architect wouldn’t do what I wanted Isacked him and got another. The fellow I got in the end understood myideas pretty well.”
“He pandered45 to your worst flights of imagination,” said Bridget.
“She’d have liked the place left as it was,” said Lord Whitfield. He pattedher arm. “No use living in the past, my dear. Those old Georges didn’tknow much. I didn’t want a plain redbrick house. I always had a fancy fora castle—and now I’ve got one!” He added, “I know my taste isn’t veryclassy, so I gave a good firm carte blanche to do the inside, and I must saythey haven’t done too badly—though some of it is a bit drab.”
“Well,” said Luke, a little at a loss for words, “it’s a great thing to knowwhat you want.”
“And I usually get it too,” said the other, chuckling46.
“You nearly didn’t get your way about the water scheme,” Bridget re-minded him.
“Oh, that!” said Lord Whitfield. “Humbleby was a fool. These elderlymen are inclined to be pigheaded. They won’t listen to reason.”
“Dr. Humbleby was rather an outspoken47 man, wasn’t he?” Luke ven-tured. “He made a good many enemies that way, I should imagine.”
“N-no, I don’t know that I should say that,” demurred48 Lord Whitfield,rubbing his nose. “Eh, Bridget?”
“He was very popular with everyone, I always thought,” said Bridget. “Ionly saw him when he came about my ankle that time, but I thought hewas a dear.”
“Yes, he was popular enough on the whole,” admitted Lord Whitfield.
“Though I know one or two people who had it in for him. Pigheadednessagain.”
“One or two of the people living here?”
Lord Whitfield nodded.
“Lots of little feuds49 and cliques50 in a place like this,” he said.
“Yes, I suppose so,” said Luke. He hesitated, uncertain of his next step.
“What sort of people live here mostly?” he queried51.
It was rather a weak question, but he got an instant response.
“Relicts, mostly,” said Bridget. “Clergymen’s daughters and sisters andwives. Doctors’ dittoes. About six women to every man.”
“But there are some men?” hazarded Luke.
“Oh, yes, there’s Mr. Abbot, the solicitor52, and young Dr. Thomas, Dr.
Humbleby’s partner, and Mr. Wake, the rector, and—who else is there,Gordon? Oh! Mr. Ellsworthy, who keeps the antique shop and who is too,too terribly sweet! And Major Horton and his bulldogs.”
“There’s somebody else I believe my friends mentioned as living downhere,” said Luke. “They said she was a nice old pussy53 but talked a lot.”
Bridget laughed. “That applies to half the village!”
“What was the name now? I’ve got it. Pinkerton.”
Lord Whitfield said with a hoarse54 chuckle43:
“Really, you’ve no luck! She’s dead too. Got run over the other day inLondon. Killed outright55.”
“You seem to have a lot of deaths here,” said Luke lightly.
Lord Whitfield bridled56 immediately.
“Not at all. One of the healthiest places in England. Can’t count acci-dents. They may happen to anyone.”
But Bridget Conway said thoughtfully:
“As a matter of fact, Gordon, there have been a lot of deaths in the lastyear. They’re always having funerals.”
“Nonsense, my dear.”
Luke said:
“Was Dr. Humbleby’s death an accident too?”
Lord Whitfield shook his head.
“Oh, no,” he said. “Humbleby died of acute septic?mia. Just like a doc-tor. Scratched his finger with a rusty57 nail or something—paid no attentionto it, and it turned septic. He was dead in three days.”
“Doctors are rather like that,” said Bridget. “And of course, they’re veryliable to infection, I suppose, if they don’t take care. It was sad, though. Hiswife was brokenhearted.”
“No good rebelling against the will of providence58,” said Lord Whitfieldeasily.
II
“But was it the will of providence?” Luke asked himself later as hechanged into his dinner jacket. Septic?mia? Perhaps. A very suddendeath, though.
And there echoed through his head Bridget Conway’s lightly spokenwords:
“There have been a lot of deaths in the last year.”
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1
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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garrulous
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| adj.唠叨的，多话的 | |
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par
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| n.标准，票面价值，平均数量；adj.票面的，平常的，标准的 | |
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obituary
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| n.讣告，死亡公告；adj.死亡的 | |
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credulous
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scent
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prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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picturesque
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standing
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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manor
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austere
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irrelevant
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haphazardness
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wrought
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contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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gust
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mansion
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halfway
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dwelling
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ingenuous
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| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
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pouting
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devoted
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sufficiently
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placidly
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conservatory
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scarlet
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possessed
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excellence
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perfectly
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squat
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appraisingly
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complacently
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swelled
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amiably
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descending
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kindly
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chagrin
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reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pandered
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| v.迎合（他人的低级趣味或淫欲）( pander的过去式和过去分词 )；纵容某人；迁就某事物 | |
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chuckling
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的现在分词 ) | |
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outspoken
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| adj.直言无讳的，坦率的，坦白无隐的 | |
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demurred
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| v.表示异议，反对( demur的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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feuds
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| n.长期不和，世仇( feud的名词复数 ) | |
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cliques
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| n.小集团，小圈子，派系( clique的名词复数 ) | |
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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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solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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pussy
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| n.(儿语)小猫，猫咪 | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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bridled
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| 给…套龙头( bridle的过去式和过去分词 )； 控制； 昂首表示轻蔑（或怨忿等）； 动怒，生气 | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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