Lucilla Drake was delighted to see Colonel Race.
The blinds were all down and Lucilla came into the room draped in
black and with a handkerchief to her eyes and explained, as she advanced
a tremulous hand to meet his, how of course she couldn’t have seen any-
one—anyone at all—except such an old friend of dear, dear George’s—and
it was so dreadful to have no man in the house! Really without a man in
the house one didn’t know how to tackle anything. Just herself, a poor
lonely widow, and Iris1, just a helpless young girl, and George had always
looked after everything. So kind of dear Colonel Race and really she was
so grateful—no idea what they ought to do. Of course Miss Lessing would
attend to all business matters—and the funeral to arrange for—but how
about the inquest? and so dreadful having the police — actually in the
house—plain clothes, of course, and really very considerate. But she was
so bewildered and the whole thing was such an absolute tragedy and
didn’t Colonel Race think it must be all due to suggestion—that was what
the psychoanalyst said, wasn’t it, that everything is suggestion? And poor
George at that horrid2 place, the Luxembourg, and practically the same
party and remembering how poor Rosemary had died there—and it must
have come over him quite suddenly, only if he’d listened to what she, Lu-
cilla, had said, and taken that excellent tonic3 of dear Dr. Gaskell’s—run-
down, all the summer—yes, thoroughly4 run-down.
Whereupon Lucilla herself ran down temporarily, and Race had a
chance to speak.
He said how deeply he sympathized and how Mrs. Drake must count
upon him in every way.
Whereupon Lucilla started off again and said it was indeed kind of him,
and it was the shock that had been so terrible—here today, and gone to-
morrow, as it said in the Bible, cometh up like grass and cut down in the
evening—only that wasn’t quite right, but Colonel Race would know what
she meant, and it was so nice to feel there was someone on whom they
could rely. Miss Lessing meant well, of course, and was very efficient, but
rather an unsympathetic manner and sometimes took things upon herself
a little too much, and in her, Lucilla’s, opinion, George had always relied
upon her far too much, and at one time she had been really afraid that he
might do something foolish which would have been a great pity and prob-
ably she would have bullied5 him unmercifully once they were married. Of
course she, Lucilla, had seen what was in the wind. Dear Iris was so un-
worldly, and it was nice, didn’t Colonel Race think, for young girls to be
unspoilt and simple? Iris had really always been very young for her age
and very quiet—one didn’t know half the time what she was thinking
about. Rosemary being so pretty and so gay had been out a great deal, and
Iris had mooned about the house which wasn’t really right for a young girl
—they should go to classes—cooking and perhaps dressmaking. It occu-
pied their minds and one never knew when it might come in useful. It had
really been a mercy that she, Lucilla, had been free to come and live here
after poor Rosemary’s death—that horrid ’flu, quite an unusual kind of flu,
Dr. Gaskell had said. Such a clever man and such a nice, breezy manner.
She had wanted Iris to see him this summer. The girl had looked so
white and pulled down. “But really, Colonel Race, I think it was the situ-
ation of the house. Low, you know, and damp, with quite a miasma6 in the
evenings.” Poor George had gone off and bought it all by himself without
asking anyone’s advice—such a pity. He had said he wanted it to be a sur-
prise, but really it would have been better if he had taken some older wo-
man’s advice. Men knew nothing about houses. George might have real-
ized that she, Lucilla, would have been willing to take any amount of
trouble. For, after all, what was her life now? Her dear husband dead
many years ago, and Victor, her dear boy, far away in the Argentine—she
meant Brazil, or was it the Argentine? Such an affectionate, handsome
boy.
Colonel Race said he had heard she had a son abroad.
For the next quarter of an hour, he was regaled with a full account of
Victor’s multitudinous activities. Such a spirited boy, willing to turn his
hand to anything — here followed a list of Victor’s varied7 occupations.
Never unkind, or bearing malice8 to anyone. “He’s always been unlucky,
Colonel Race. He was misjudged by his housemaster and I consider the au-
thorities at Oxford9 behaved quite disgracefully. People don’t seem to un-
derstand that a clever boy with a taste for drawing would think it an ex-
cellent joke to imitate someone’s handwriting. He did it for the fun of the
thing, not for money.” But he’d always been a good son to his mother, and
he never failed to let her know when he was in trouble which showed,
didn’t it, that he trusted her? Only it did seem curious, didn’t it, that the
jobs people found for him so often seemed to take him out of England. She
couldn’t help feeling that if only he could be given a nice job, in the Bank
of England say, he would settle down much better. He might perhaps live
a little out of London and have a little car.
It was quite twenty minutes before Colonel Race, having heard all Vic-
tor’s perfections and misfortunes, was able to switch Lucilla from the sub-
ject of sons to that of servants.
Yes, it was very true what he said, the old-fashioned type of servant
didn’t exist any longer. Really the trouble people had nowadays! Not that
she ought to complain, for really they had been very lucky. Mrs. Pound,
though she had the misfortune to be slightly deaf, was an excellent wo-
man. Her pastry10 sometimes a little heavy and a tendency to overpepper
the soup, but really on the whole most reliable—and economical too. She
had been there ever since George married and she had made no fuss
about going to the country this year, though there had been trouble with
the others over that and the parlour maid had left—but that really was all
for the best—an impertinent girl who answered back—besides breaking
six of the best wineglasses, not one by one at odd times which might hap-
pen to anybody, but all at once which really meant gross carelessness,
didn’t Colonel Race think so?
“Very careless indeed.”
“That is what I told her. And I said to her that I should be obliged to say
so in her reference—for I really feel one has a duty, Colonel Race. I mean,
one should not mislead. Faults should be mentioned as well as good qual-
ities. But the girl was—really—well, quite insolent11 and said that at any rate
she hoped that in her next place she wouldn’t be in the kind of house
where people got bumped off—a dreadful common expression, acquired
at the cinema, I believe, and ludicrously inappropriate since poor dear
Rosemary took her own life—though not at the time responsible for her
actions as the coroner very rightly pointed12 out—and that dreadful expres-
sion refers, I believe, to gangsters13 executing each other with tommy guns.
I am so thankful that we have nothing of that kind in England. And so, as I
say, I put in her reference that Betty Archdale thoroughly understood her
duties as parlourmaid and was sober and honest, but that she was in-
clined to have too many breakages and was not always respectful in her
manner. And personally, if I had been Mrs. Rees- Talbot, I should have
read between the lines and not engaged her. But people nowadays just
jump at anything they can get, and will sometimes take a girl who has only
stayed her month in three places running.”
Whilst Mrs. Drake paused to take breath, Colonel Race asked quickly
whether that was Mrs. Richard Rees-Talbot? If so, he had known her, he
said, in India.
“I really couldn’t say. Cadogan Square was the address.”
“Then it is my friends.”
Lucilla said that the world was such a small place, wasn’t it? And that
there were no friends like old friends. Friendship was a wonderful thing.
She had always thought it had been so romantic about Viola and Paul.
Dear Viola, she had been a lovely girl, and so many men in love with her,
but, oh dear, Colonel Race wouldn’t even know who she was talking about.
One did so tend to re-live the past.
Colonel Race begged her to go on and in return for this politeness re-
ceived the life history of Hector Marle, of his upbringing by his sister, of
his peculiarities14 and his weaknesses and finally, when Colonel Race had
almost forgotten her, of his marriage to the beautiful Viola. “She was an
orphan15, you know, and a ward16 in Chancery.” He heard how Paul Bennett,
conquering his disappointment at Viola’s refusal, had transformed himself
from lover to family friend, and of his fondness for his godchild, Rose-
mary, and of his death and the terms of his will. “Which I have always felt
most romantic—such an enormous fortune! Not of course that money is
everything—no, indeed. One has only to think of poor Rosemary’s tragic17
death. And even dear Iris I am not quite happy about!”
Race gave her an inquiring look.
“I find the responsibility most worrying. The fact that she is a great heir-
ess is of course well known. I keep a very sharp eye on the undesirable18
type of young man, but what can one do, Colonel Race? One can’t look
after girls nowadays as one used to do. Iris has friends I know next to
nothing about. ‘Ask them to the house, dear,’ is what I always say—but I
gather that some of these young men simply will not be brought. Poor
George was worried, too. About a young man called Browne. I myself have
never seen him, but it seems that he and Iris have been seeing a good deal
of each other. And one does feel that she could do better. George didn’t
like him—I’m quite sure of that. And I always think, Colonel Race, that
men are so much better judges of other men. I remember thinking Colonel
Pusey, one of our churchwardens, such a charming man, but my husband
always preserved a very distant attitude towards him and enjoined20 on me
to do the same — and sure enough one Sunday when he was handing
round the offertory plate, he fell right down—completely intoxicated21, it
seems. And of course afterwards—one always hears these things after-
wards19, so much better if one heard them before—we found out that dozens
of empty brandy bottles were taken out of the house every week! It was
very sad really, because he was truly religious, though inclined to be Evan-
gelical in his views. He and my husband had a terrific battle over the de-
tails of the service on All Saints’ Day. Oh, dear, All Saints’ Day. To think
that yesterday was All Souls’ Day.”
A faint sound made Race look over Lucilla’s head at the open doorway22.
He had seen Iris before—at Little Priors. Nevertheless he felt that he was
seeing her now for the first time. He was struck by the extraordinary ten-
sion behind her stillness and her wide eyes met his with something in
their expression that he felt he ought to recognize, yet failed to do so.
In her turn, Lucilla Drake turned her head.
“Iris, dear, I didn’t hear you come in. You know Colonel Race? He is be-
ing so very kind.”
Iris came and shook hands with him gravely, the black dress she wore
made her look thinner and paler than he remembered her.
“I came to see if I could be of any help to you,” said Race.
“Thank you. That was kind of you.”
She had had a bad shock, that was evident, and was still suffering from
the effects of it. But had she been so fond of George that his death could af-
fect her so powerfully?
She turned her eyes to her aunt and Race realized that they were watch-
ful eyes. She said:
“What were you talking about—just now, as I came in?”
Lucilla became pink and flustered23. Race guessed that she was anxious to
avoid any mention of the young man, Anthony Browne. She exclaimed:
“Now let me see — oh, yes, All Saints’ Day — and yesterday being All
Souls.’ All Souls’—that seems to me such an odd thing—one of those coin-
cidences one never believes in in real life.”
“Do you mean,” said Iris, “that Rosemary came back yesterday to fetch
George?”
Lucilla gave a little scream.
“Iris, dear, don’t. What a terrible thought—so un-Christian.”
“Why un-Christian? It’s the Day of the Dead. In Paris people used to go
and put flowers on the graves.”
“Oh, I know, dear, but then they are Catholics, aren’t they?”
A faint smile twisted Iris’s lips. Then she said directly:
“I thought, perhaps, you were talking of Anthony—Anthony Browne.”
“Well,” Lucilla’s twitter became very high and birdlike, “as a matter of
fact we did just mention him. I happened to say, you know, that we know
nothing about him—”
Iris interrupted, her voice hard:
“Why should you know anything about him?”
“No, dear, of course not. At least, I mean, well, it would be rather nice,
wouldn’t it, if we did?”
“You’ll have every chance of doing so in future,” said Iris, “because I’m
going to marry him.”
“Oh, Iris!” It was halfway24 between a wail25 and a bleat26. “You mustn’t do
anything rash—I mean nothing can be settled at present.”
“It is settled, Aunt Lucilla.”
“No, dear, one can’t talk about things like marriage when the funeral
hasn’t even taken place yet. It wouldn’t be decent. And this dreadful in-
quest and everything. And really, Iris, I don’t think dear George would
have approved. He didn’t like this Mr. Browne.”
“No,” said Iris, “George wouldn’t have liked it and he didn’t like An-
thony, but that doesn’t make any difference. It’s my life, not George’s—and
anyway George is dead. . . .”
Mrs. Drake gave another wail.
“Iris, Iris. What has come over you? Really that was a most unfeeling
thing to say.”
“I’m sorry, Aunt Lucilla.” The girl spoke27 wearily. “I know it must have
sounded like that but I didn’t mean it that way. I only meant that George is
at peace somewhere and hasn’t got to worry about me and my future any-
more. I must decide things for myself.”
“Nonsense, dear, nothing can be decided28 at a time like this—it would be
most unfitting. The question simply doesn’t arise.”
Iris gave a sudden short laugh.
“But it has arisen. Anthony asked me to marry him before we left Little
Priors. He wanted me to come up to London and marry him the next day
without telling anyone. I wish now that I had.”
“Surely that was a very curious request,” said Colonel Race gently.
She turned defiant29 eyes to him.
“No, it wasn’t. It would have saved a lot of fuss. Why couldn’t I trust
him? He asked me to trust him and I didn’t. Anyway, I’ll marry him now
as soon as he likes.”
Lucilla burst out in a stream of incoherent protest. Her plump cheeks
quivered and her eyes filled.
Colonel Race took rapid charge of the situation.
“Miss Marle, might I have a word with you before I go? On a strictly30
business matter?”
Rather startled, the girl murmured “Yes,” and found herself moving to
the door. As she passed through, Race took a couple of strides back to Mrs.
Drake.
“Don’t upset yourself, Mrs. Drake. Least said, you know, soonest men-
ded. We’ll see what we can do.”
Leaving her slightly comforted he followed Iris who led him across the
hall and into a small room giving out on the back of the house where a
melancholy31 plane tree was shedding its last leaves.
Race spoke in a businesslike tone.
“All I had to say, Miss Marle, was that Chief Inspector32 Kemp is a per-
sonal friend of mine, and that I am sure you will find him most helpful
and kindly33. His duty is an unpleasant one, but I’m sure he will do it with
the utmost consideration possible.”
She looked at him for a moment or two without speaking, then she said
abruptly34:
“Why didn’t you come and join us last night as George expected you to
do?”
He shook his head.
“George didn’t expect me.”
“But he said he did.”
“He may have said so, but it wasn’t true. George knew perfectly35 well
that I wasn’t coming.”
She said: “But that empty chair . . . Who was it for?”
“Not for me.”
Her eyes half closed and her face went very white.
She whispered:
“It was for Rosemary . . . I see . . . It was for Rosemary. . . .”
He thought she was going to fall. He came quickly to her and steadied
her, then forced her to sit down.
“Take it easy. . . .”
She said in a low breathless voice:
“I’m all right . . . But I don’t know what to do . . . I don’t know what to
do.”
“Can I help you?”
She raised her eyes to his face. They were wistful and sombre.
Then she said: “I must get things clear. I must get them”—she made a
groping gesture with her hands —“in sequence. First of all, George be-
lieved Rosemary didn’t kill herself—but was killed. He believed that be-
cause of those letters. Colonel Race, who wrote those letters?”
“I don’t know. Nobody knows. Have you yourself any idea?”
“I simply can’t imagine. Anyway, George believed what they said, and
he arranged this party last night, and he had an empty chair and it was All
Souls’ Day . . . that’s the Day of the Dead—and it was a day when Rose-
mary’s spirit could have come back and—and told him the truth.”
“You mustn’t be too imaginative.”
“But I’ve felt her myself—felt her quite near sometimes—I’m her sister—
and I think she’s trying to tell me something.”
“Take it easy, Iris.”
“I must talk about it. George drank Rosemary’s health and he—died. Per-
haps—she came and took him.”
“The spirits of the dead don’t put potassium cyanide in a champagne36
glass, my dear.”
The words seemed to restore her balance. She said in a more normal
tone:
“But it’s so incredible. George was killed—yes, killed. That’s what the po-
lice think and it must be true. Because there isn’t any other alternative.
But it doesn’t make sense.”
“Don’t you think it does? If Rosemary was killed, and George was begin-
ning to suspect by whom—”
She interrupted him.
“Yes, but Rosemary wasn’t killed. That’s why it doesn’t make sense.
George believed those stupid letters partly because depression after influ-
enza isn’t a very convincing reason for killing37 yourself. But Rosemary had
a reason. Look, I’ll show you.”
She ran out of the room and returned a few moments later with a folded
letter in her hand. She thrust it on him.
“Read it. See for yourself.”
He unfolded the slightly crumpled38 sheet.
“Leopard darling. . . .”
He read it twice before handing it back.
The girl said eagerly:
“You see? She was unhappy—brokenhearted. She didn’t want to go on
living.”
“Do you know to whom that letter was written?”
Iris nodded.
“Stephen Farraday. It wasn’t Anthony. She was in love with Stephen and
he was cruel to her. So she took the stuff with her to the restaurant and
drank it there where he could see her die. Perhaps she hoped he’d be
sorry then.”
Race nodded thoughtfully, but said nothing. After a moment or two he
said:
“When did you find this?”
“About six months ago. It was in the pocket of an old dressing39 gown.”
“You didn’t show it to George?”
Iris cried passionately40:
“How could I? How could I? Rosemary was my sister. How could I give
her away to George? He was so sure that she loved him. How could I show
him this after she was dead? He’d got it all wrong, but I couldn’t tell him
so. But what I want to know is, what am I to do now? I’ve shown it to you
because you were George’s friend. Has Inspector Kemp got to see it?”
“Yes. Kemp must have it. It’s evidence, you see.”
“But then they’ll—they might read it out in court?”
“Not necessarily. That doesn’t follow. It’s George’s death that is being in-
vestigated. Nothing will be made public that is not strictly relevant. You
had better let me take this now.”
“Very well.”
She went with him to the front door. As he opened it she said abruptly:
“It does show, doesn’t it, that Rosemary’s death was suicide?”
Race said:
“It certainly shows that she had a motive41 for taking her own life.”
She gave a deep sigh. He went down the steps. Glancing back once, he
saw her standing42 framed in the open doorway, watching him walk away
across the square.
点击
收听单词发音
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1
iris
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| n.虹膜，彩虹 | |
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2
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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3
tonic
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| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
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4
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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5
bullied
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| adj.被欺负了v.恐吓，威逼( bully的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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6
miasma
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| n.毒气；不良气氛 | |
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7
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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8
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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9
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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10
pastry
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| n.油酥面团，酥皮糕点 | |
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11
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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12
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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13
gangsters
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| 匪徒，歹徒( gangster的名词复数 ) | |
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14
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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15
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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16
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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17
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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18
undesirable
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| adj.不受欢迎的，不良的，不合意的，讨厌的；n.不受欢迎的人，不良分子 | |
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19
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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20
enjoined
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| v.命令( enjoin的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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21
intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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22
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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23
flustered
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| adj.慌张的；激动不安的v.使慌乱，使不安( fluster的过去式和过去分词) | |
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24
halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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25
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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26
bleat
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| v.咩咩叫，(讲)废话，哭诉；n.咩咩叫，废话，哭诉 | |
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27
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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28
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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29
defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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30
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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31
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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32
inspector
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| n.检查员，监察员，视察员 | |
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33
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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34
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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35
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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36
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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37
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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38
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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39
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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40
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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41
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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42
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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