Mr. Wake murmured a few more names to himself.
“Let me see now—poor Mrs. Rose, and old Bell and that child of theElkins and Harry1 Carter—they’re not all my people, you understand. Mrs.
Rose and Carter were dissenters2. And that cold spell in March took offpoor old Ben Stanbury at last—ninety-two he was.”
“Amy Gibbs died in April,” said Bridget.
“Yes, poor girl—a sad mistake to happen.”
Luke looked up to find Bridget watching him. She lowered her eyesquickly. He thought, with some annoyance3:
“There’s something here that I haven’t got on to. Something to do withthis girl Amy Gibbs.”
When they had taken leave of the vicar and were outside again, he said:
“Just who and what was Amy Gibbs?”
Bridget took a minute or two to answer. Then she said—and Luke no-ticed the slight constraint4 in her voice:
“Amy was one of the most inefficient5 housemaids I have ever known.”
“That’s why she got the sack?”
“No. She stayed out after hours playing about with some young man.
Gordon has very moral and old-fashioned views. Sin in his view does nottake place until after eleven o’clock, but then it is rampant6. So he gave thegirl notice and she was impertinent about it!”
Luke asked: “A good-looking girl?”
“Very good-looking.”
“She’s the one who swallowed hat paint in mistake for cough mixture?”
“Yes.”
“Rather a stupid thing to do?” Luke hazarded.
“Very stupid.”
“Was she stupid?”
“No, she was quite a sharp girl.”
Luke stole a look at her. He was puzzled. Her replies were given in aneven tone, without emphasis or even much interest. But behind what shesaid, there was, he felt convinced, something not put into words.
At that moment Bridget stopped to speak to a tall man who swept off hishat and greeted her with breezy heartiness7.
Bridget, after a word or two, introduced Luke.
“This is my cousin, Mr. Fitzwilliam, who is staying at the Manor8. He’sdown here to write a book. This is Mr. Abbot.”
Luke looked at Mr. Abbot with some interest. This was the solicitor9 whohad employed Tommy Pierce.
Luke had a somewhat illogical prejudice against lawyers in general—based on the grounds that so many politicians were recruited from theirranks. Also their cautious habit of not committing themselves annoyedhim. Mr. Abbot, however, was not at all the conventional type of lawyer,he was neither thin, spare, nor tight- lipped. He was a big florid man,dressed in tweeds with a hearty10 manner and a jovial11 effusiveness12. Therewere little creases13 at the corners of his eyes, and the eyes themselves weremore shrewd than one appreciated in a first casual glance.
“Writing a book, eh? Novel?”
“Folklore,” said Bridget.
“You’ve come to the right place for that,” said the lawyer. “Wonderfullyinteresting part of the world here.”
“So I’ve been led to understand,” said Luke. “I dare say you could helpme a bit. You must come across curious old deeds—or know of some inter-esting surviving customs.”
“Well, I don’t know about that—maybe—maybe—”
“Much belief in ghosts round here?” asked Luke.
“As to that I couldn’t say—I really couldn’t say.”
“No haunted house?”
“No—I don’t know of anything of that kind.”
“There’s the child superstition14, of course,” said Luke. “Death of a boychild—a violent death that is—the boy always walks. Not a girl child—in-teresting that.”
“Very,” said Mr. Abbot. “I never heard that before.”
Since Luke had just invented it, that was hardly surprising.
“Seems there’s a boy here—Tommy something—was in your office atone15 time. I’ve reason to believe they think that he’s walking.”
Mr. Abbot’s red face turned slightly purple.
“Tommy Pierce? A good for nothing, prying16, meddlesome17 jackanapes.”
“Spirits always seem to be mischievous18. Good law-abiding citizens sel-dom trouble this world after they’ve left it.”
“Who’s seen him—what’s this story?”
“These things are difficult to pin down,” said Luke. “People won’t comeout into the open with a statement. It’s just in the air, so to speak.”
“Yes—yes, I suppose so.”
Luke changed the subject adroitly19.
“The real person to get hold of is the local doctor. They hear a lot in thepoorer cases they attend. All sorts of superstitions20 and charms—probablylove philtres and all the rest of it.”
“You must get on to Thomas. Good fellow, Thomas, thoroughly21 up-to-date man. Not like poor old Humbleby.”
“Bit of a reactionary22, wasn’t he?”
“Absolutely pigheaded—a diehard of the worst description.”
“You had a real row over the water scheme, didn’t you?” asked Bridget.
Again a rich ruddy glow suffused23 Abbot’s face.
“Humbleby stood dead in the way of progress,” he said sharply. “Heheld out against the scheme! He was pretty rude, too, in what he said.
Didn’t mince24 his words. Some of the things he said to me were positivelyactionable.”
Bridget murmured: “But lawyers never go to law, do they? They knowbetter.”
Abbot laughed immoderately. His anger subsided25 as quickly as it hadarisen.
“Pretty good, Miss Bridget! And you’re not far wrong. We who are in itknow too much about law, ha, ha. Well, I must be getting along. Give me acall if you think I can help you in any way, Mr.—er—”
“Fitzwilliam,” said Luke. “Thanks, I will.”
As they walked on Bridget said:
“Your methods, I note, are to make statements and see what they pro-voke.”
“My methods,” said Luke, “are not strictly26 truthful27, if that is what youmean?”
“I’ve noticed that.”
A little uneasy, he hesitated what to say next. But before he could speak,she said:
“If you want to hear more about Amy Gibbs, I can take you to someonewho could help you.”
“Who is that?”
“A Miss Waynflete. Amy went there after she left the Manor. She wasthere when she died.”
“Oh, I see—” he was a little taken aback. “Well—thank you very much.”
“She lives just here.”
They were crossing the village green. Inclining her head in the directionof the big Georgian house that Luke had noticed the day before, Bridgetsaid: “That’s Wych Hall. It’s a library now.”
Adjoining the Hall was a little house that looked rather like a doll’shouse in proportion. Its steps were dazzlingly white, its knocker shoneand its window curtains showed white and prim28.
Bridget pushed open the gate and advanced to the steps.
As she did so the front door opened and an elderly woman came out.
She was, Luke thought, completely the country spinster. Her thin formwas neatly29 dressed in a tweed coat and skirt and she wore a grey silkblouse with a cairn- gorm brooch. Her hat, a conscientious30 felt, satsquarely upon her well-shaped head. Her face was pleasant and her eyes,through their pince-nez, decidedly intelligent. She reminded Luke of thosenimble black goats that one sees in Greece. Her eyes held just that qualityof mild inquiring surprise.
“Good morning, Miss Waynflete,” said Bridget. “This is Mr. Fitzwilliam.”
Luke bowed. “He’s writing a book—about deaths and village customs andgeneral gruesomeness.”
“Oh, dear,” said Miss Waynflete. “How very interesting.”
And she beamed encouragingly upon him.
He was reminded of Miss Pinkerton.
“I thought,” said Bridget—and again he noted32 that curious flat tone inher voice—“that you might tell him something about Amy.”
“Oh,” said Miss Waynflete. “About Amy? Yes. About Amy Gibbs.”
He was conscious of a new factor in her expression. She seemed to bethoughtfully summing him up.
Then, as though coming to a decision, she drew back into the hall.
“Do come in,” she said. “I can go out later. No, no,” in answer to a protestfrom Luke. “I had really nothing urgent to do. Just a little unimportant do-mestic shopping.”
The small drawing room was exquisitely33 neat and smelled faintly ofburnt lavender. There were some Dresden china shepherds and shepherd-esses on the mantelpiece, simpering sweetly. There were framed water-colours, two samplers, and three needlework pictures on the wall. Therewere some photographs of what were obviously nephews and nieces andsome good furniture—a Chippendale desk, some little satinwood tables—and a hideous35 and rather uncomfortable Victorian sofa.
Miss Waynflete offered her guests chairs and then said apologetically:
“I’m afraid I don’t smoke myself, so I have no cigarettes, but do pleasesmoke if you like.”
Luke refused but Bridget promptly36 lighted a cigarette.
Sitting bolt upright in a chair with carved arms, Miss Waynflete studiedher guest for a moment or two and then dropping her eyes as though satis-fied, she said:
“You want to know about that poor girl Amy? The whole thing was verysad and caused me a great deal of distress37. Such a tragic38 mistake.”
“Wasn’t there some question of—suicide?” asked Luke.
Miss Waynflete shook her head.
“No, no, that I cannot believe for a moment. Amy was not at all thattype.”
“What type was she?” asked Luke bluntly. “I’d like to hear your accountof her.”
Miss Waynflete said:
“Well, of course, she wasn’t at all a good servant. But nowadays, really,one is thankful to get anybody. She was very slipshod over her work andalways wanting to go out—well, of course she was young and girls are likethat nowadays. They don’t seem to realize that their time is their em-ployer’s.”
Luke looked properly sympathetic and Miss Waynflete proceeded to de-velop her theme.
“She wasn’t the sort of girl I care for — rather a bold type though ofcourse I wouldn’t like to say much now that she’s dead. One feels unchris-tian—though really I don’t think that that is a logical reason for suppress-ing the truth.”
Luke nodded. He realized that Miss Waynflete differed from MissPinkerton in having a more logical mind and better processes of thought.
“She was fond of admiration,” went on Miss Waynflete, “and was in-clined to think a lot of herself. Mr. Ellsworthy—he keeps the new antiqueshop but he is actually a gentleman—he dabbles39 a little in water-coloursand he had done one or two sketches40 of the girl’s head—and I think, youknow, that rather gave her ideas. She was inclined to quarrel with theyoung man she was engaged to—Jim Harvey. He’s a mechanic at the gar-age and very fond of her.”
Miss Waynflete paused and then went on.
“I shall never forget that dreadful night. Amy had been out of sorts—anasty cough and one thing and another (those silly cheap silk stockingsthey will wear and shoes with paper soles practically — of course theycatch chills) and she’d been to the doctor that afternoon.”
Luke asked quickly:
“Dr. Humbleby or Dr. Thomas?”
“Dr. Thomas. And he gave her the bottle of cough mixture that shebrought back with her. Something quite harmless, a stock mixture, I be-lieve. She went to bed early and it must have been about one in the morn-ing when the noise began—an awful kind of choking scream. I got up andwent to her door but it was locked on the inside. I called to her butcouldn’t get any answer. Cook was with me and we were both terribly up-set. And then we went to the front door and luckily there was Reed (ourconstable) just passing on his beat, and we called to him. He went roundthe back of the house and managed to climb up on the outhouse roof, andas her window was open he got in quite easily that way and unlocked thedoor. Poor girl, it was terrible. They couldn’t do anything for her, and shedied in Hospital a few hours later.”
“And it was—what—hat paint?”
“Yes. Oxalic acid poisoning is what they called it. The bottle was aboutthe same size as the cough linctus one. The latter was on her washstandand the hat paint was by her bed. She must have picked up the wrongbottle and put it by her in the dark ready to take if she felt badly. That wasthe theory at the inquest.”
Miss Waynflete stopped. Her intelligent goat’s eyes looked at him, andhe was aware that some particular significance lay behind them. He hadthe feeling that she was leaving some part of the story untold41 — and astronger feeling that, for some reason, she wanted him to be aware of thefact.
There was a silence—a long and rather difficult silence. Luke felt like anactor who does not know his cue. He said rather weakly:
“And you don’t think it was suicide?”
Miss Waynflete said promptly:
“Certainly not. If the girl had decided31 to make away with herself, shewould have bought something probably. This was an old bottle of stuffthat she must have had for years. And anyway, as I’ve told you, she wasn’tthat kind of girl.”
“So you think—what?” said Luke bluntly.
Miss Waynflete said:
“I think it was very unfortunate.”
She closed her lips and looked at him earnestly.
Just when Luke was feeling that he must try desperately42 to say some-thing anticipated, a diversion occurred. There was a scratching at the doorand a plaintive43 mew.
Miss Waynflete sprang up and went to open the door, whereupon amagnificent orange Persian walked in. He paused, looked disapprovinglyat the visitor, and sprang upon the arm of Miss Waynflete’s chair.
Miss Waynflete addressed him in a cooing voice.
“Why Wonky Pooh—where’s my Wonky Pooh been all the morning?”
The name struck a chord of memory. Where had he heard somethingabout a Persian cat called Wonky Pooh? He said:
“That’s a very handsome cat. Have you had him long?”
Miss Waynflete shook her head.
“Oh, no, he belonged to an old friend of mine, Miss Pinkerton. She wasrun over by one of these horrid44 motorcars and of course I couldn’t havelet Wonky Pooh go to strangers. Lavinia would have been most upset. Shesimply worshipped him—and he is very beautiful isn’t he?”
Luke admired the cat gravely.
Miss Waynflete said: “Be careful of his ears. They’ve been rather painfullately.”
Luke stroked the animal warily45.
Bridget rose to her feet.
She said, “We must be going.”
Miss Waynflete shook hands with Luke.
“Perhaps,” she said, “I shall see you again before long.”
Luke said cheerfully: “I hope so, I’m sure.”
He thought she looked puzzled and a little disappointed. Her gaze shif-ted to Bridget—a rapid look with a hint of interrogation in it. Luke felt thatthere was some understanding between the two women from which hewas excluded. It annoyed him, but he promised himself to get to the bot-tom of it before long.
Miss Waynflete came out with them. Luke stood a minute on the top ofthe steps looking with approval on the untouched primness47 of the villagegreen and the duck pond.
“Marvellously unspoilt, this place,” he said.
Miss Waynflete’s face lit up.
“Yes, indeed,” she said eagerly. “Really it is still just as I remember it as achild. We lived in the Hall, you know. But when it came to my brother hedid not care to live in it—indeed could not afford to do so, and it was putup for sale. A builder had made an offer and was, I believe, going to ‘deve-lop the land,’ I think that was the phrase. Fortunately, Lord Whitfieldstepped in and acquired the property and saved it. He turned the houseinto a library and museum—really it is practically untouched. I act as lib-rarian twice a week there—unpaid, of course—and I can’t tell you what apleasure it is to be in the old place and know that it will not be vandalised.
And really it is a perfect setting—you must visit our little museum one day,Mr. Fitzwilliam. There are some quite interesting local exhibits.”
“I certainly shall make a point of doing so, Miss Waynflete.”
“Lord Whitfield has been a great benefactor48 to Wychwood,” said MissWaynflete. “It grieves me that there are people who are sadly ungrateful.”
Her lips pressed themselves together. Luke discreetly49 asked no ques-tions. He said good-bye again.
When they were outside the gate Bridget said:
“Do you want to pursue further researches or shall we go home by wayof the river? It’s a pleasant walk.”
Luke answered promptly. He had no mind for further investigationswith Bridget Conway standing46 by listening. He said:
“Go round by the river, by all means.”
They walked along the High Street. One of the last houses had a signdecorated in old gold lettering with the word Antiques on it. Luke pausedand peered through one of the windows into the cool depths.
“Rather a nice slipware dish there,” he remarked. “Do for an aunt ofmine. Wonder how much they want for it?”
“Shall we go in and see?”
“Do you mind? I like pottering about antique shops. Sometimes onepicks up a good bargain.”
“I doubt if you will here,” said Bridget dryly. “Ellsworthy knows thevalue of his stuff pretty accurately50, I should say.”
The door was open. In the hall were chairs and settees and dresserswith china and pewter on them. Two rooms full of goods opened at eitherside.
Luke went into the room on the left and picked up the slipware dish. Atthe same moment a dim figure came forward from the back of the roomwhere he had been sitting at a Queen Anne walnut51 desk.
“Ah, dear Miss Conway, what a pleasure to see you.”
“Good morning, Mr. Ellsworthy.”
Mr. Ellsworthy was a very exquisite34 young man dressed in a colourscheme of russet brown. He had a long pale face with a womanish mouth,long black artistic52 hair and a mincing53 walk.
Luke was introduced and Mr. Ellsworthy immediately transferred hisattention to him.
“Genuine old English slipware. Delicious, isn’t it? I love my bits andpieces, you know, hate to sell them. It’s always been my dream to live inthe country and have a little shop. Marvellous place, Wychwood—it hasatmosphere, if you know what I mean.”
“The artistic temperament,” murmured Bridget.
Ellsworthy turned on her with a flash of long white hands.
“Not that terrible phrase, Miss Conway. No—no, I implore54 you. Don’t tellme I’m all arty and crafty—I couldn’t bear it. Really, really, you know, Idon’t stock handwoven tweeds and beaten pewter. I’m a tradesman, that’sall, just a tradesman.”
“But you’re really an artist, aren’t you?” said Luke. “I mean, you do wa-ter-colours, don’t you?”
“Now who told you that?” cried Mr. Ellsworthy, clasping his hands to-gether. “You know this place is really too marvellous—one simply can’tkeep a secret! That’s what I like about it—it’s so different from that inhu-man you-mind-your-own-business-and-I-will-mind-mine of a city! Gossipand malice55 and scandal—all so delicious if one takes them in the rightspirit!”
Luke contented56 himself with answering Mr. Ellsworthy’s question andpaying no attention to the latter part of his remarks.
“Miss Waynflete told us that you had made several sketches of a girl—Amy Gibbs.”
“Oh, Amy,” said Mr. Ellsworthy. He took a step backwards57 and set a beermug rocking. He steadied it carefully. He said: “Did I? Oh, yes, I suppose Idid.”
His poise58 seemed somewhat shaken.
“She was a pretty girl,” said Bridget.
Mr. Ellsworthy had recovered his aplomb59.
“Oh, do you think so?” he asked. “Very commonplace, I always thought.
If you’re interested in slipware,” he went on to Luke, “I’ve got a couple ofslipware birds—delicious things.”
Luke displayed a faint interest in the birds and then asked the price ofthe dish.
Ellsworthy named a figure.
“Thanks,” said Luke, “but I don’t think I’ll deprive you of it after all.”
“I’m always relieved, you know,” said Ellsworthy, “when I don’t make asale. Foolish of me, isn’t it? Look here, I’ll let you have it for a guinea less.
You care for the stuff. I can see that—it makes all the difference. And afterall, this is a shop!”
“No, thanks,” said Luke.
Mr. Ellsworthy accompanied them out to the door, waving his hands—very unpleasant hands, Luke thought they were—the flesh seemed not somuch white as faintly greenish.
“Nasty bit of goods, Mr. Ellsworthy,” he remarked when he and Bridgetwere out of earshot.
“A nasty mind and nasty habits I should say,” said Bridget.
“Why does he really come to a place like this?”
“I believe he dabbles in black magic. Not quite black Masses but thatsort of thing. The reputation of this place helps.”
Luke said rather awkwardly: “Good lord—I suppose he’s the kind ofchap I really need. I ought to have talked to him on the subject.”
“Do you think so?” said Bridget. “He knows a lot about it.”
Luke said rather uneasily:
“I’ll look him up some other day.”
Bridget did not answer. They were out of the town now. She turnedaside to follow a footpath60 and presently they came to the river.
There they passed a small man with a stiff moustache and protuberanteyes. He had three bulldogs with him to whom he was shouting hoarselyin turn. “Nero, come here, sir. Nelly, leave it. drop it, I tell you. Augustus—AUGUSTUS, I say—”
He broke off to raise his hat to Bridget, stared at Luke with what wasevidently a devouring62 curiosity and passed on resuming his hoarse61 expos-tulations.
“Major Horton and his bulldogs?” quoted Luke.
“Quite right.”
“Haven’t we seen practically everyone of note in Wychwood this morn-ing?”
“Practically.”
“I feel rather obtrusive,” said Luke. “I suppose a stranger in an Englishvillage is bound to stick out a mile,” he added ruefully, rememberingJimmy Lorrimer’s remarks.
“Major Horton never disguises his curiosity very well,” said Bridget. “Hedid stare, rather.”
“He’s the sort of man you could tell was a Major anywhere,” said Lukerather viciously.
Bridget said abruptly63: “Shall we sit on the bank a bit? We’ve got lots oftime.”
They sat on a fallen tree that made a convenient seat. Bridget went on:
“Yes, Major Horton is very military — has an orderly room manner.
You’d hardly believe he was the most henpecked man in existence a yearago!”
“What, that fellow?”
“Yes. He had the most disagreeable woman for a wife that I’ve everknown. She had the money too, and never scrupled64 to underline the factin public.”
“Poor brute—Horton, I mean.”
“He behaved very nicely to her—always the officer and gentleman. Per-sonally, I wonder he didn’t take a hatchet65 to her.”
“She wasn’t popular, I gather.”
“Everybody disliked her. She snubbed Gordon and patronized me andmade herself generally unpleasant wherever she went.”
“But I gather a merciful providence66 removed her?”
“Yes, about a year ago. Acute gastritis. She gave her husband, Dr.
Thomas and two nurses absolute Hell—but she died all right. The bulldogsbrightened up at once.”
“Intelligent brutes67!”
There was a silence. Bridget was idly picking at the long grass. Lukefrowned at the opposite bank unseeingly. Once again the dreamlike qual-ity of his mission obsessed68 him. How much was fact—how much imagina-tion? Wasn’t it bad for one to go about studying every fresh person youmet as a potential murderer? Something degrading about that point ofview.
“Damn it all,” thought Luke, “I’ve been a policeman too long!”
He was brought out of his abstraction with a shock. Bridget’s cold clearvoice was speaking.
“Mr. Fitzwilliam,” she said, “just exactly why have you come downhere?”
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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dissenters
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annoyance
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constraint
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inefficient
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rampant
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heartiness
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manor
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solicitor
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hearty
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jovial
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effusiveness
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creases
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superstition
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atone
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prying
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meddlesome
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mischievous
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adroitly
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superstitions
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thoroughly
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reactionary
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suffused
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mince
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subsided
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strictly
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truthful
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conscientious
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decided
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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dabbles
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| v.涉猎( dabble的第三人称单数 )；涉足；浅尝；少量投资 | |
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sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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untold
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| adj.数不清的，无数的 | |
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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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plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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warily
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| adv.留心地 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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primness
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| n.循规蹈矩，整洁 | |
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benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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walnut
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| n.胡桃，胡桃木，胡桃色，茶色 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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mincing
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| adj.矫饰的；v.切碎；切碎 | |
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implore
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| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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poise
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| vt./vi. 平衡，保持平衡；n.泰然自若，自信 | |
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aplomb
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| n.沉着，镇静 | |
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footpath
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| n.小路，人行道 | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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scrupled
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| v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hatchet
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| n.短柄小斧；v.扼杀 | |
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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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brutes
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| 兽( brute的名词复数 )； 畜生； 残酷无情的人； 兽性 | |
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obsessed
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| adj.心神不宁的,鬼迷心窍的,沉迷的 | |
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