The two men parted. Race halted a taxi and was driven to George Barton’s
office in the city. Chief Inspector1 Kemp, mindful of his expense account,
took a bus to within a stone’s throw of Kidderminster House.
The inspector’s face was rather grim as he mounted the steps and
pushed the bell. He was, he knew, on difficult ground. The Kidderminster
faction2 had immense political influence and its ramifications3 spread out
like a network throughout the country. Chief Inspector Kemp had full be-
lief in the impartiality4 of British justice. If Stephen or Alexandra Farraday
had been concerned in the death of Rosemary Barton or in that of George
Barton no “pull” or “influence” would enable them to escape the conse-
quences. But if they were guiltless, or the evidence against them was too
vague to ensure conviction, then the responsible officer must be careful
how he trod or he would be liable to get a rap over the knuckles5 from his
superiors. In these circumstances it can be understood that the chief in-
spector did not much relish6 what lay before him. It seemed to him highly
probable that the Kidderminsters would, as he phrased it to himself, “cut
up rough.”
Kemp soon found, however, that he had been somewhat naïve in his as-
sumption. Lord Kidderminster was far too experienced a diplomat7 to re-
sort to crudities.
On stating his business, Chief Inspector Kemp was taken at once by a
pontifical8 butler to a dim book-lined room at the back of the house where
he found Lord Kidderminster and his daughter and son-in-law awaiting
him.
Coming forward, Lord Kidderminster shook hands and said courteously9:
“You are exactly on time, chief inspector. May I say that I much appreci-
ate your courtesy in coming here instead of demanding that my daughter
and her husband should come to Scotland Yard which, of course, they
would have been quite prepared to do if necessary—that goes without say-
ing—but they appreciate your kindness.”
Sandra said in a quiet voice:
“Yes, indeed, inspector.”
She was wearing a dress of some soft dark red material, and sitting as
she was with the light from the long narrow window behind her, she re-
minded Kemp of a stained glass figure he had once seen in a cathedral
abroad. The long oval of her face and the slight angularity of her
shoulders helped the illusion. Saint Somebody or other, they had told him
—but Lady Alexandra Farraday was no saint—not by a long way. And yet
some of these old saints had been funny people from his point of view, not
kindly11 ordinary decent Christian12 folk, but intolerant, fanatical, cruel to
themselves and others.
Stephen Farraday stood close by his wife. His face expressed no emotion
whatever. He looked correct and formal, an appointed legislator of the
people. The natural man was well buried. But the natural man was there,
as the chief inspector knew.
Lord Kidderminster was speaking, directing with a good deal of ability
the trend of the interview.
“I won’t disguise from you, chief inspector, that this is a very painful
and disagreeable business for us all. This is the second time that my
daughter and son-in-law have been connected with a violent death in a
public place—the same restaurant and two members of the same family.
Publicity13 of such a kind is always harmful to a man in the public eye. Pub-
licity, of course, cannot be avoided. We all realize that, and both my
daughter and Mr. Farraday are anxious to give you all the help they can in
the hope that the matter may be cleared up speedily and public interest in
it die down.”
“Thank you, Lord Kidderminster. I much appreciate the attitude you
have taken up. It certainly makes things easier for us.”
Sandra Farraday said:
“Please ask us any questions you like, chief inspector.”
“Thank you, Lady Alexandra.”
“Just one point, chief inspector,” said Lord Kidderminster. “You have, of
course, your own sources of information and I gather from my friend the
Commissioner14 that this man Barton’s death is regarded as murder rather
than suicide, though on the face of it, to the outside public, suicide would
seem a more likely explanation. You thought it was suicide, didn’t you,
Sandra, my dear?”
The Gothic figure bowed its head slightly. Sandra said in a thoughtful
voice:
“It seemed to me so obvious last night. We were there in the same res-
taurant and actually at the same table where poor Rosemary Barton
poisoned herself last year. We have seen something of Mr. Barton during
the summer in the country and he has really been very odd—quite unlike
himself — and we all thought that his wife’s death was preying15 on his
mind. He was very fond of her, you know, and I don’t think he ever got
over her death. So that the idea of suicide seemed, it not natural, at least
possible—whereas I can’t imagine why anyone should want to murder
George Barton.”
Stephen Farraday said quickly:
“No more can I. Barton was an excellent fellow. I’m sure he hadn’t got
an enemy in the world.”
Chief Inspector Kemp looked at the three inquiring faces turned to-
wards16 him and reflected a moment before speaking. “Better let ’em have
it,” he thought to himself.
“What you say is quite correct, I am sure, Lady Alexandra. But you see
there are a few things that you probably don’t know yet.”
Lord Kidderminster interposed quickly:
“We mustn’t force the chief inspector’s hand. It is entirely17 in his discre-
tion what facts he makes public.”
“Thanks, m’lord, but there’s no reason I shouldn’t explain things a little
more clearly. I’ll boil it down to this. George Barton, before his death, ex-
pressed to two people his belief that his wife had not, as was believed,
committed suicide, but had instead been poisoned by some third party. He
also thought that he was on the track of that third party, and the dinner
and celebration last night, ostensibly in honour of Miss Marle’s birthday,
was really some part of a plan he had made for finding out the identity of
his wife’s murderer.”
There was a moment’s silence — and in that silence Chief Inspector
Kemp, who was a sensitive man in spite of his wooden appearance, felt
the presence of something that he classified as dismay. It was not appar-
ent on any face, but he could have sworn that it was there.
Lord Kidderminster was the first to recover himself. He said:
“But surely—that belief in itself might point to the fact that poor Barton
was not quite—er—himself? Brooding over his wife’s death might have
slightly unhinged him mentally.”
“Quite so, Lord Kidderminster, but it at least shows that his frame of
mind was definitely not suicidal.”
“Yes—yes, I take your point.”
And again there was silence. Then Stephen Farraday said sharply:
“But how did Barton get such an idea into his head? After all, Mrs. Bar-
ton did commit suicide.”
Chief Inspector Kemp transferred a placid18 gaze to him.
“Mr. Barton didn’t think so.”
Lord Kidderminster interposed.
“But the police were satisfied? There was no suggestion of anything but
suicide at the time?”
Chief Inspector Kemp said quietly:
“The facts were compatible with suicide. There was no evidence that her
death was due to any other agency.”
He knew that a man of Lord Kidderminster’s calibre would seize on the
exact meaning of that.
Becoming slightly more official, Kemp said, “I would like to ask you
some questions now, if I may, Lady Alexandra?”
“Certainly.” She turned her head slightly towards him.
“You had no suspicions at the time of Mr. Barton’s death that it might be
murder, not suicide?”
“Certainly not. I was quite sure it was suicide.” She added, “I still am.”
Kemp let that pass. He said:
“Have you received any anonymous19 letters in the past year, Lady Alex-
andra?”
The calm of her manner seemed broken by pure astonishment20.
“Anonymous letters? Oh, no.”
“You’re quite sure? Such letters are very unpleasant things and people
usually prefer to ignore them, but they may be particularly important in
this case, and that is why I want to stress that if you did receive any such
letters it is most essential that I should know about them.”
“I see. But I can only assure you, chief inspector, that I have received
nothing of the kind.”
“Very well. Now you say Mr. Barton’s manner has been odd this sum-
mer. In what way?”
She considered a minute.
“Well, he was jumpy, nervous. It seemed difficult for him to focus his at-
tention on what was said to him.” She turned her head towards her hus-
band. “Was that how it struck you, Stephen?”
“Yes, I should say that was a very fair description. The man looked phys-
ically ill, too. He had lost weight.”
“Did you notice any difference in his attitude towards you and your hus-
band? Any less cordiality, for instance?”
“No. On the contrary. He had bought a house, you know, quite close to
us, and he seemed very grateful for what we were able to do for him—in
the way of local introductions, I mean, and all that. Of course we were
only too pleased to do everything we could in that line, both for him and
for Iris21 Marle who is a charming girl.”
“Was the late Mrs. Barton a great friend of yours, Lady Alexandra?”
“No, we were not very intimate.” She gave a light laugh. “She was really
mostly Stephen’s friend. She became interested in politics and he helped
to—well, educate her politically—which I’m sure he enjoyed. She was a
very charming and attractive woman, you know.”
“And you’re a very clever one,” thought Chief Inspector Kemp to himself
appreciatively. “I wonder how much you know about those two—a good
deal, I shouldn’t wonder.”
He went on:
“Mr. Barton never expressed to you the view that his wife did not com-
mit suicide?”
“No, indeed. That was why I was so startled just now.”
“And Miss Marle? She never talked about her sister’s death, either?”
“No.”
“Any idea what made George Barton buy a house in the country? Did
you or your husband suggest the idea to him?”
“No. It was quite a surprise.”
“And his manner to you was always friendly?”
“Very friendly indeed.”
“And what do you know about Mr. Anthony Browne, Lady Alexandra?”
“I really know nothing at all. I have met him occasionally and that is
all.”
“What about you, Mr. Farraday?”
“I think I know probably less about Browne than my wife does. She at
any rate has danced with him. He seems a likeable chap—American, I be-
lieve.”
“Would you say from observation at the time that he was on special
terms of intimacy22 with Mrs. Barton?”
“I have absolutely no knowledge on that point, chief inspector.”
“I am simply asking you for your impression, Mr. Farraday.”
Stephen frowned.
“They were friendly—that is all I can say.”
“And you, Lady Alexandra?”
“Simply my impression, chief inspector?”
“Simply your impression.”
“Then, for what it is worth, I did form the impression that they knew
each other well and were on intimate terms. Simply, you understand,
from the way they looked at each other—I have no concrete evidence.”
“Ladies have often very good judgement on these matters,” said Kemp.
That somewhat fatuous23 smile with which he delivered this remark would
have amused Colonel Race if he had been present. “Now, what about Miss
Lessing, Lady Alexandra?”
“Miss Lessing, I understand, was Mr. Barton’s secretary. I met her for
the first time on the evening that Mrs. Barton died. After that I met her
once when she was staying down in the country, and last night.”
“If I may ask you another informal question, did you form the impres-
sion that she was in love with George Barton?”
“I really haven’t the least idea.”
“Then we’ll come to the events of last night.”
He questioned both Stephen and his wife minutely on the course of the
tragic24 evening. He had not hoped for much from this, and all he got was
confirmation25 of what he had already been told. All accounts agreed on the
important points—Barton had proposed a toast to Iris, had drunk it and
immediately afterwards had got up to dance. They had all left the table to-
gether and George and Iris had been the first to return to it. Neither of
them had any explanation to offer as to the empty chair except that
George Barton had distinctly said that he was expecting a friend of his, a
Colonel Race, to occupy it later in the evening—a statement which, as the
inspector knew, could not possibly be the truth. Sandra Farraday said, and
her husband agreed, that when the lights went up after the cabaret,
George had stared at the empty chair in a peculiar26 manner and had for
some moments seemed so absentminded as not to hear what was said to
him—then he had rallied himself and proposed Iris’s health.
The only item that the chief inspector could count as an addition to his
knowledge, was Sandra’s account of her conversation with George at
Fairhaven—and his plea that she and her husband would collaborate27 with
him over this party for Iris’s sake.
It was a reasonably plausible28 pretext29, the chief inspector thought,
though not the true one. Closing his notebook in which he had jotted30 down
one or two hieroglyphics31, he rose to his feet.
“I’m very grateful to you, my lord, and to Mr. Farraday and Lady Alex-
andra for your help and collaboration32.”
“Will my daughter’s presence be required at the inquest?”
“The proceedings33 will be purely34 formal on this occasion. Evidence of
identification and the medical evidence will be taken and the inquest will
then be adjourned35 for a week. By then,” said the chief inspector, his tone
changing slightly, “we shall, I hope, be further on.”
He turned to Stephen Farraday:
“By the way, Mr. Farraday, there are one or two small points where I
think you could help me. No need to trouble Lady Alexandra. If you will
give me a ring at the Yard, we can settle a time that will suit you. You are, I
know, a busy man.”
It was pleasantly said, with an air of casualness, but on three pairs of
ears the words fell with deliberate meaning.
With an air of friendly cooperation Stephen managed to say:
“Certainly, chief inspector.” Then he looked at his watch and mur-
mured: “I must go along to the House.”
When Stephen had hurried off, and the chief inspector had likewise de-
parted, Lord Kidderminster turned to his daughter and asked a question
with no beating about the bush.
“Had Stephen been having an affair with that woman?”
There was a split second of a pause before his daughter answered.
“Of course not. I should have known it if he had. And anyway, Stephen’s
not that kind.”
“Now, look here, my dear, no good laying your ears back and digging
your hoofs36 in. These things are bound to come out. We want to know
where we are in this business.”
“Rosemary Barton was a friend of that man, Anthony Browne. They
went about everywhere together.”
“Well,” said Lord Kidderminster slowly. “You should know.”
He did not believe his daughter. His face, as he went slowly out of the
room, was grey and perplexed37. He went upstairs to his wife’s sitting room.
He had vetoed her presence in the library, knowing too well that her ar-
rogant methods were apt to arouse antagonism38 and at this juncture39 he felt
it vital that relations with the official police should be harmonious40.
“Well?” said Lady Kidderminster. “How did it go off?”
“Quite well on the face of it,” said Lord Kidderminster slowly. “Kemp is
a courteous10 fellow—very pleasant in his manner—he handled the whole
thing with tact41—just a little too much tact for my fancy.”
“It’s serious, then?”
“Yes, it’s serious. We should never have let Sandra marry that fellow,
Vicky.”
“That’s what I said.”
“Yes—yes . . .” He acknowledged her claim. “You were right—and I was
wrong. But, mind you, she would have had him anyway. You can’t turn
Sandra when her mind is fixed42 on a thing. Her meeting Farraday was a
disaster—a man of whose antecedents and ancestors we know nothing.
When a crisis comes how does one know how a man like that will react?”
“I see,” said Lady Kidderminster. “You think we’ve taken a murderer
into the family?”
“I don’t know. I don’t want to condemn43 the fellow offhand—but it’s what
the police think—and they’re pretty shrewd. He had an affair with this
Barton woman—that’s plain enough. Either she committed suicide on his
account, or else he—Well, whatever happened, Barton got wise to it and
was heading for an exposé and scandal. I suppose Stephen simply couldn’t
take it—and—”
“Poisoned him?”
“Yes.”
Lady Kidderminster shook her head.
“I don’t agree with you.”
“I hope you’re right. But somebody poisoned him.”
“If you ask me,” said Lady Kidderminster, “Stephen simply wouldn’t
have the nerve to do a thing like that.”
“He’s in deadly earnest about his career—he’s got great gifts, you know,
and the makings of a true statesman. You can’t say what anyone will do
when they’re forced into a corner.”
His wife still shook her head.
“I still say he hasn’t got the nerve. You want someone who’s a gambler
and capable of being reckless. I’m afraid, William, I’m horribly afraid.”
He stared at her. “Are you suggesting that Sandra—Sandra—?”
“I hate even to suggest such a thing—but it’s no use being cowardly and
refusing to face possibilities. She’s besotted about that man—she always
has been—and there’s a queer streak44 in Sandra. I’ve never really under-
stood her—but I’ve always been afraid for her. She’d risk anything—any-
thing — for Stephen. Without counting the cost. And if she’s been mad
enough and wicked enough to do this thing, she’s got to be protected.”
“Protected? What do you mean—protected?”
“By you. We’ve got to do something about our own daughter, haven’t
we? Mercifully you can pull any amount of strings45.”
Lord Kidderminster was staring at her. Though he had thought he knew
his wife’s character well, he was nevertheless appalled46 at the force and
courage of her realism—at her refusal to blink at unpalatable facts—and
also at her unscrupulousness.
“If my daughter’s a murderess, do you suggest that I should use my offi-
cial position to rescue her from the consequences of her act?”
“Of course,” said Lady Kidderminster.
“My dear Vicky! You don’t understand! One can’t do things like that. It
would be a breach47 of—of honour.”
“Rubbish!” said Lady Kidderminster.
They looked at each other—so far divided that neither could see the
other’s point of view. So might Agamemnon and Clytemnestra have stared
at each other with the word Iphigenia on their lips.
“You could bring government pressure to bear on the police so that the
whole thing is dropped and a verdict of suicide brought in. It has been
done before—don’t pretend.”
“That has been when it was a matter of public policy—in the interests of
the State. This is a personal and private matter. I doubt very much
whether I could do such a thing.”
“You can if you have sufficient determination.”
Lord Kidderminster flushed angrily.
“If I could, I wouldn’t! It would be abusing my public position.”
“If Sandra were arrested and tried, wouldn’t you employ the best coun-
sel and do everything possible to get her off however guilty she was?”
“Of course, of course. That’s entirely different. You women never grasp
these things.”
Lady Kidderminster was silent, unperturbed by the thrust. Sandra was
the least dear to her of her children—nevertheless she was at this moment
a mother, and a mother only—willing to defend her young by any means,
honourable48 or dishonourable. She would fight with tooth and claw for
Sandra.
“In any case,” said Lord Kidderminster, “Sandra will not be charged un-
less there is an absolutely convincing case against her. And I, for one, re-
fuse to believe that a daughter of mine is a murderess. I’m astonished at
you, Vicky, for entertaining such an idea for a moment.”
His wife said nothing, and Lord Kidderminster went uneasily out of the
room. To think that Vicky—Vicky—whom he had known intimately for so
many years—should prove to have such unsuspected and really very dis-
turbing depths in her!
点击
收听单词发音
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1
inspector
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| n.检查员，监察员，视察员 | |
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2
faction
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| n.宗派，小集团；派别；派系斗争 | |
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3
ramifications
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| n.结果，后果( ramification的名词复数 ) | |
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4
impartiality
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| n. 公平, 无私, 不偏 | |
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5
knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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6
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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7
diplomat
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| n.外交官，外交家；能交际的人，圆滑的人 | |
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8
pontifical
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| adj.自以为是的，武断的 | |
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9
courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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10
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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11
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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12
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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13
publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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14
commissioner
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| n.（政府厅、局、处等部门）专员，长官，委员 | |
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15
preying
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| v.掠食( prey的现在分词 )；掠食；折磨；（人）靠欺诈为生 | |
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16
wards
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| 区( ward的名词复数 )； 病房； 受监护的未成年者； 被人照顾或控制的状态 | |
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17
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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18
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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19
anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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20
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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21
iris
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| n.虹膜，彩虹 | |
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22
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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23
fatuous
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| adj.愚昧的；昏庸的 | |
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24
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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25
confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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26
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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27
collaborate
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| vi.协作，合作；协调 | |
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28
plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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29
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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30
jotted
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| v.匆忙记下( jot的过去式和过去分词 )；草草记下，匆匆记下 | |
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31
hieroglyphics
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| n.pl.象形文字 | |
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32
collaboration
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| n.合作，协作；勾结 | |
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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34
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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adjourned
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| （使）休会， （使）休庭( adjourn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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37
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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antagonism
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| n.对抗，敌对，对立 | |
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juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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strings
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| n.弦 | |
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46
appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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47
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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