Race found Ruth Lessing busy with papers at a large desk. She was
dressed in a black coat and skirt and a white blouse and he was impressed
by her quiet unhurried efficiency. He noticed the dark circles under her
eyes and the unhappy set line of her mouth, but her grief, if it was grief,
was as well controlled as all her other emotions.
Race explained his visit and she responded at once.
“It is very good of you to come. Of course I know who you are. Mr. Bar-
ton was expecting you to join us last night, was he not? I remember his
saying so.”
“Did he mention that before the evening itself?”
She thought for a moment.
“No. It was when we were actually taking our seats round the table. I re-
member that I was a little surprised—” She paused and flushed slightly.
“Not, of course, at his inviting2 you. You are an old friend, I know. And you
were to have been at the other party a year ago. All I meant was that I was
surprised, if you were coming, that Mr. Barton hadn’t invited another wo-
man to balance the numbers—but of course if you were going to be late
and might perhaps not come at all—” She broke off. “How stupid I am.
Why go over all these petty things that don’t matter? I am stupid this
morning.”
“But you have come to work as usual?”
“Of course.” She looked surprised—almost shocked. “It is my job. There
is so much to clear up and arrange.”
“George always told me how much he relied upon you,” said Race
gently.
She turned away. He saw her swallow quickly and blink her eyes. Her
absence of any display of emotion almost convinced him of her entire in-
nocence. Almost, but not quite. He had met women who were good act-
resses before now, women whose reddened eyelids3 and the black circles
underneath4 whose eyes had been due to art and not to natural causes.
Reserving judgement, he said to himself:
“At any rate she’s a cool customer.”
Ruth turned back to the desk and in answer to his last remark she said
quietly:
“I was with him for many years—it will be eight years next April—and I
knew his ways, and I think he—trusted me.”
“I’m sure of that.”
He went on: “It is nearly lunchtime. I hoped you would come out and
lunch quietly with me somewhere? There is a good deal I would like to say
to you.”
“Thank you. I should like to very much.”
He took her to a small restaurant that he knew of, where the tables were
set far apart and where a quiet conversation was possible.
He ordered, and when the waiter had gone, looked across the table at
his companion.
She was a good-looking girl, he decided5, with her sleek6 dark head and
her firm mouth and chin.
He talked a little on desultory7 topics until the food was brought, and she
followed his lead, showing herself intelligent and sensible.
Presently, after a pause, she said:
“You want to talk to me about last night? Please don’t hesitate to do so.
The whole thing is so incredible that I would like to talk about it. Except
that it happened and I saw it happen, I would not have believed it.”
“You’ve seen Chief Inspector8 Kemp, of course?”
“Yes, last night. He seems intelligent and experienced.” She paused.
“Was it really murder, Colonel Race?”
“Did Kemp tell you so?”
“He didn’t volunteer any information, but his questions made it plain
enough what he had in mind.”
“Your opinion as to whether or not it was suicide should be as good as
anyone’s, Miss Lessing. You knew Barton well and you were with him
most of yesterday, I imagine. How did he seem? Much as usual? Or was he
disturbed—upset—excited?”
She hesitated.
“It’s difficult. He was upset and disturbed—but then there was a reason
for that.”
She explained the situation that had arisen in regard to Victor Drake
and gave a brief sketch9 of that young man’s career.
“H’m,” said Race. “The inevitable10 black sheep. And Barton was upset
about him?”
Ruth said slowly:
“It’s difficult to explain. I knew Mr. Barton so well, you see. He was an-
noyed and bothered about the business — and I gather Mrs. Drake had
been very tearful and upset, as she always was on these occasions—so of
course he wanted to straighten it all out. But I had the impression—”
“Yes, Miss Lessing? I’m sure your impressions will be accurate.”
“Well, then, I fancied that his annoyance11 was not quite the usual annoy-
ance, if I may put it like that. Because we had had this same business be-
fore1, in one form or another. Last year Victor Drake was in this country
and in trouble, and we had to ship him off to South America, and only last
June he cabled home for money. So you see I was familiar with Mr. Bar-
ton’s reactions. And it seemed to me this time that his annoyance was
principally at the cable having arrived just at this moment when he was
entirely12 preoccupied13 with the arrangements for the party he was giving.
He seemed so taken up by the preparations for it that he grudged14 any
other preoccupation arising.”
“Did it strike you that there was anything odd about this party of his,
Miss Lessing?”
“Yes, it did. Mr. Barton was really most peculiar15 about it. He was excited
—like a child might have been.”
“Did it occur to you that there might have been a special purpose for
such a party?”
“You mean that it was a replica16 of the party a year ago when Mrs. Bar-
ton committed suicide?”
“Yes.”
“Frankly, I thought it a most extraordinary idea.”
“But George didn’t volunteer any explanation—or confide17 in you in any
way?”
She shook her head.
“Tell me, Miss Lessing, has there ever been any doubt in your mind as to
Mrs. Barton’s having committed suicide?”
She looked astonished. “Oh, no.”
“George Barton didn’t tell you that he believed his wife had been
murdered?”
She stared at him.
“George believed that?”
“I see that is news to you. Yes, Miss Lessing. George had received an-
onymous letters stating that his wife had not committed suicide but had
been killed.”
“So that is why he became so odd this summer? I couldn’t think what
was the matter with him.”
“You knew nothing about these anonymous18 letters?”
“Nothing. Were there many of them?”
“He showed me two.”
“And I knew nothing about them!”
There was a note of bitter hurt in her voice.
He watched her for a moment or two, then he said:
“Well, Miss Lessing, what do you say? Is it possible, in your opinion, for
George to have committed suicide?”
She shook her head.
“No—oh, no.”
“But you said he was excited—upset?”
“Yes, but he had been like that for some time. I see why now. And I see
why he was so excited about last night’s party. He must have had some
special idea in his head—he must have hoped that by reproducing the con-
ditions, he would gain some additional knowledge—poor George, he must
have been so muddled19 about it all.”
“And what about Rosemary Barton, Miss Lessing? Do you still think her
death was suicide?”
She frowned.
“I’ve never dreamt of it being anything else. It seemed so natural.”
“Depression after influenza20?”
“Well, rather more than that, perhaps. She was definitely very unhappy.
One could see that.”
“And guess the cause?”
“Well—yes. At least I did. Of course I may have been wrong. But women
like Mrs. Barton are very transparent—they don’t trouble to hide their
feelings. Mercifully I don’t think Mr. Barton knew anything . . . Oh, yes,
she was very unhappy. And I know she had a bad headache that night be-
sides being run-down with flu.”
“How did you know she had a headache?”
“I heard her telling Lady Alexandra so—in the cloakroom when we were
taking off our wraps. She was wishing she had a Cachet Faivre and luckily
Lady Alexandra had one with her and gave it to her.”
Colonel Race’s hand stopped with a glass in mid21 air.
“And she took it?”
“Yes.”
He put his glass down untasted and looked across the table. The girl
looked placid22 and unaware23 of any significance in what she had said. But it
was significant. It meant that Sandra who, from her position at table,
would have had the most difficulty in putting anything unseen in Rose-
mary’s glass, had had another opportunity of administering the poison.
She could have given it to Rosemary in a cachet. Ordinarily a cachet would
take only a few minutes to dissolve, but possibly this had been a special
kind of cachet, it might have had a lining24 of gelatine or some other sub-
stance. Or Rosemary might possibly not have swallowed it then but later.
He said abruptly25:
“Did you see her take it?”
“I beg your pardon?”
He saw by her puzzled face that her mind had gone on elsewhere.
“Did you see Rosemary Barton swallow that cachet?”
Ruth looked a little startled.
“I—well, no, I didn’t actually see her. She just thanked Lady Alexandra.”
So Rosemary might have slipped the cachet in her bag and then, during
the cabaret, with a headache increasing, she might have dropped it into
her champagne26 glass and let it dissolve. Assumption—pure assumption—
but a possibility.
Ruth said:
“Why do you ask me that?”
Her eyes were suddenly alert, full of questions. He watched, so it
seemed to him, her intelligence working.
Then she said:
“Oh, I see. I see why George took that house down there near the Far-
radays. And I see why he didn’t tell me about those letters. It seemed to
me so extraordinary that he hadn’t. But of course if he believed them, it
meant that one of us, one of those five people round the table must have
killed her. It might—it might even have been me!”
Race said in a very gentle voice:
“Had you any reason for killing27 Rosemary Barton?”
He thought at first that she hadn’t heard the question. She sat so very
still with her eyes cast down.
But suddenly with a sigh, she raised them and looked straight at him.
“It is not the sort of thing one cares to talk about,” she said. “But I think
you had better know. I was in love with George Barton. I was in love with
him before he even met Rosemary. I don’t think he ever knew—certainly
he didn’t care. He was fond of me—very fond of me—but I suppose never
in that way. And yet I used to think that I would have made him a good
wife — that I could have made him happy. He loved Rosemary, but he
wasn’t happy with her.”
Race said gently:
“And you disliked Rosemary?”
“Yes, I did. Oh! She was very lovely and very attractive and could be
very charming in her way. She never bothered to be charming to me! I dis-
liked her a good deal. I was shocked when she died—and at the way she
died, but I wasn’t really sorry. I’m afraid I was rather glad.”
She paused.
“Please, shall we talk about something else?”
Race responded quickly:
“I’d like you to tell me exactly, in detail, everything you can remember
about yesterday—from the morning onwards—especially anything George
did or said.”
Ruth replied promptly29, going over the events of the morning—George’s
annoyance over Victor’s importunity30, her own telephone calls to South
America and the arrangements made and George’s pleasure when the
matter was settled. She then described her arrival at the Luxembourg and
George’s flurried excited bearing as host. She carried her narrative31 up to
the final moment of the tragedy. Her account tallied32 in every respect with
those he had already heard.
With a worried frown, Ruth voiced his own perplexity.
“It wasn’t suicide—I’m sure it wasn’t suicide—but how can it have been
murder? I mean, how can it have been done? The answer is, it couldn’t,
not by one of us! Then was it someone who slipped the poison into
George’s glass while we were away dancing? But if so, who could it have
been? It doesn’t seem to make sense.”
“The evidence is that no one went near the table while you were dan-
cing.”
“Then it really doesn’t make sense! Cyanide doesn’t get into a glass by it-
self!”
“Have you absolutely no idea—no suspicion, even, who might have put
the cyanide in the glass? Think back over last night. Is there nothing, no
small incident, that awakens33 your suspicions in any degree, however
small?”
He saw her face change, saw for a moment uncertainty34 come into her
eyes. There was a tiny, almost infinitesimal pause before she answered
“Nothing.”
But there had been something. He was sure of that. Something she had
seen or heard or noticed that, for some reason or other, she had decided
not to tell.
He did not press her. He knew that with a girl of Ruth’s type that would
be no good. If, for some reason, she had made up her mind to keep silence,
she would not, he felt sure, change her mind.
But there had been something. That knowledge cheered him and gave
him fresh assurance. It was the first sign of a crevice35 in the blank wall that
confronted him.
He took leave of Ruth after lunch and drove to Elvaston Square thinking
of the woman he had just left.
Was it possible that Ruth Lessing was guilty? On the whole, he was pre-
possessed36 in her favour. She had seemed entirely frank and straightfor-
ward28.
Was she capable of murder? Most people were, if you came to it. Cap-
able not of murder in general, but of one particular individual murder.
That was what made it so difficult to weed anyone out. There was a cer-
tain quality of ruthlessness about that young woman. And she had a
motive—or rather a choice of motives37. By removing Rosemary she had a
very good chance of becoming Mrs. George Barton. Whether it was a ques-
tion of marrying a rich man, or of marrying the man she had loved, the re-
moval of Rosemary was the first essential.
Race was inclined to think that marrying a rich man was not enough.
Ruth Lessing was too coolheaded and cautious to risk her neck for mere38
comfortable living as a rich man’s wife. Love? Perhaps. For all her cool
and detached manner, he suspected her of being one of those women who
can be kindled39 to unlikely passion by one particular man. Given love of
George and hate of Rosemary, she might have coolly planned and ex-
ecuted Rosemary’s death. The fact that it had gone off without a hitch40, and
that suicide had been universally accepted without demur41, proved her in-
herent capability42.
And then George had received anonymous letters (From whom? Why?
That was the teasing vexing43 problem that never ceased to nag44 at him) and
had grown suspicious. He had planned a trap. And Ruth had silenced him.
No, that wasn’t right. That didn’t ring true. That spelt panic—and Ruth
Lessing was not the kind of woman who panicked. She had better brains
than George and could have avoided any trap that he was likely to set with
the greatest of ease.
It looked as though Ruth didn’t add up after all.
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收听单词发音
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1
fore
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| adv.在前面；adj.先前的；在前部的；n.前部 | |
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2
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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3
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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5
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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6
sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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7
desultory
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| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
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8
inspector
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| n.检查员，监察员，视察员 | |
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9
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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10
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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11
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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12
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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13
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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14
grudged
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| 怀恨（grudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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15
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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16
replica
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| n.复制品 | |
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17
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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18
anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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19
muddled
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| adj.混乱的；糊涂的；头脑昏昏然的v.弄乱，弄糟( muddle的过去式)；使糊涂；对付，混日子 | |
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20
influenza
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| n.流行性感冒，流感 | |
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21
mid
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| adj.中央的，中间的 | |
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22
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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23
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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24
lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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25
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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26
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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27
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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28
ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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29
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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30
importunity
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| n.硬要，强求 | |
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31
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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32
tallied
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| v.计算，清点( tally的过去式和过去分词 )；加标签（或标记）于；（使）符合；（使）吻合 | |
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33
awakens
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的第三人称单数 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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34
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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35
crevice
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| n.(岩石、墙等)裂缝；缺口 | |
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36
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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37
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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38
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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39
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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40
hitch
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| v.免费搭(车旅行)；系住；急提；n.故障；急拉 | |
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41
demur
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| v．表示异议，反对 | |
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42
capability
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| n.能力；才能；(pl)可发展的能力或特性等 | |
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43
vexing
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| adj.使人烦恼的，使人恼火的v.使烦恼( vex的现在分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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44
nag
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| v.(对…)不停地唠叨；n.爱唠叨的人 | |
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