I went home with a feeling of exultation1. My scheme had succeeded farbetter than I could possibly have hoped. Lord Nasby had been positivelygenial. It only now remained for me to “make good,” as he expressed it.
Once locked in my own room, I took out my precious piece of paper andstudied it attentively2. Here was the clue to the mystery.
To begin with, what did the figures represent? There were five of them,and a dot after the first two. “Seventeen—one hundred and twenty two,” Imurmured.
That did not seem to lead to anything.
Next I added them up. That is often done in works of fiction and leads tosurprising deductions3.
“One and seven make eight and one is nine and two are eleven and twoare thirteen!”
Thirteen! Fateful number! Was this a warning to me to leave the wholething alone? Very possibly. Anyway, except as a warning, it seemed to besingularly useless. I declined to believe that any conspirator4 would takethat way of writing thirteen in real life. If he meant thirteen, he wouldwrite thirteen. “13”—like that.
There was a space between the one and the two. I accordingly subtrac-ted twenty-two from a hundred and seventy-one. The result was a hun-dred and fifty-nine. I did it again and made it a hundred and forty-nine.
These arithmetical exercises were doubtless excellent practice, but as re-garded the solution of the mystery, they seemed totally ineffectual. I leftarithmetic alone, not attempting fancy division or multiplication5, andwent on to the words.
Kilmorden Castle. That was something definite. A place. Probably thecradle of an aristocratic family. (Missing heir? Claimant to title?) Or pos-sibly a picturesque6 ruin. (Buried treasure?)
Yes, on the whole I inclined to the theory of buried treasure. Figures al-ways go with buried treasure. One pace to the right, seven paces to theleft, dig one foot, descend7 twenty-two steps. That sort of idea. I could workout that later. The thing was to get to Kilmorden Castle as quickly as pos-sible.
I made a strategic sally from my room, and returned laden8 with booksof reference. Who’s Who, Whitaker, a Gazetteer9, a History of Scotch10 Ances-tral Homes, and Somebody or other’s British Isles11.
Time passed. I searched diligently12, but with growing annoyance13. Finally,I shut the last book with a bang. There appeared to be no such place asKilmorden Castle.
Here was an unexpected check. There must be such a place. Why shouldanyone invent a name like that and write it down on a piece of paper? Ab-surd!
Another idea occurred to me. Possibly it was a castellated abominationin the suburbs with a high-sounding name invented by its owner. But if so,it was going to be extraordinarily14 hard to find. I sat back gloomily on myheels (I always sit on the floor to do anything really important) andwondered how on earth I was to set about it.
Was there any other line I could follow? I reflected earnestly and thensprang to my feet delightedly. Of course! I must visit the “scene of thecrime.” Always done by the best sleuths! And no matter how long after-wards it may be they always find something that the police have over-looked. My course was clear. I must go to Marlow.
But how was I to get into the house? I discarded several adventurousmethods, and plumped for stern simplicity15. The house had been to let—presumably was still to let. I would be a prospective16 tenant17.
I also decided18 on attacking the local house agents, as having fewerhouses on their books.
Here, however, I reckoned without my host. A pleasant clerk producedparticulars of about half a dozen desirable properties. It took me all my in-genuity to find objections to them. In the end I feared I had drawn19 a blank.
“And you’ve really nothing else?” I asked, gazing pathetically into theclerk’s eyes. “Something right on the river, and with a fair amount ofgarden and a small lodge20.” I added, summing up the main points of theMill House, as I had gathered them from the papers.
“Well, of course, there’s Sir Eustace Pedler’s place,” said the man doubt-fully. “The Mill House, you know.”
“Not — not where —” I faltered21. (Really, faltering22 is getting to be mystrong point.)
“That’s it! Where the murder took place. But perhaps you wouldn’t like—”
“Oh, I don’t think I should mind,” I said with an appearance of rallying. Ifelt my bona fides was now quite established. “And perhaps I might get itcheap—in the circumstances.”
A master touch that, I thought.
“Well, it’s possible. There’s no pretending that it will be easy to let now—servants and all that, you know. If you like the place after you’ve seen it,I should advise you to make an offer. Shall I write you out an order?”
“If you please.”
A quarter of an hour later I was at the lodge of the Mill House. In an-swer to my knock, the door flew open and a tall aged24" target="_blank">middle-aged23 woman liter-ally bounced out.
“Nobody can go into the house, do you hear that? Fairly sick of you re-porters, I am. Sir Eustace’s orders are—”
“I understood the house was to let,” I said freezingly, holding out my or-der. “Of course, if it’s already taken—”
“Oh, I’m sure I beg your pardon, miss. I’ve been fairly pestered25 withthese newspaper people. Not a minute’s peace. No, the house isn’t let—norlikely to be now.”
“Are the drains wrong?” I asked in an anxious whisper.
“Oh, Lord, miss, the drains is all right! But surely you’ve heard aboutthat foreign lady as was done to death here?”
“I believe I did read something about it in the papers,” I said carelessly.
My indifference26 piqued27 the good woman. If I had betrayed any interest,she would probably have closed up like an oyster28. As it was she positivelybridled.
“I should say you did, miss! It’s been in all the newspapers. The DailyBudget’s out still to catch the man who did it. It seems, according to them,as our police are no good at all. Well I hope they’ll get him—although anice-looking fellow he was and no mistake. A kind of soldierly look abouthim—ah, well, I dare say he’d been wounded in the war, and sometimesthey go a bit queer aftwards; my sister’s boy did. Perhaps she’d used himbad—they’re a bad lot, those foreigners. Though she was a fine-lookingwoman. Stood there where you’re standing29 now.”
“Was she dark or fair?” I ventured. “You can’t tell from these newspaperportraits.”
“Dark hair, and a very white face—too white for nature, I thought—hadher lips reddened something cruel. I don’t like to see it—a little powdernow and then is quite another thing.”
We were conversing30 like old friends now. I put another question.
“Did she seem nervous or upset at all?”
“Not a bit. She was smiling to herself, quiet like, as though she wasamused at something. That’s why you could have knocked me down witha feather when, the next afternoon, those people came running out callingfor the police and saying there’d been murder done. I shall never get overit, and as for setting foot in that house after dark I wouldn’t do it, not if itwas ever so. Why, I wouldn’t even stay here at the lodge, if Sir Eustacehadn’t been down on his bended knees to me.”
“I thought Sir Eustace Pedler was at Cannes?”
“So he was, miss. He came back to England when he heard the news,and, as to the bended knees, that was a figure of speech, his secretary, Mr.
Pagett, having offered us double pay to stay on, and, as my John says,money is money nowadays.”
I concurred31 heartily32 with John’s by no means original remarks.
“The young man now,” said Mrs. James, reverting33 suddenly to a formerpoint in the conversation. “He was upset. His eyes, light eyes, they were, Inoticed them particular, was all shining. Excited, I thought. But I neverdreamt of anything being wrong. Not even when he came out again look-ing all queer.”
“How long was he in the house?”
“Oh, not long, a matter of five minutes maybe.”
“How tall was he, do you think? About six foot?”
“I should say so maybe.”
“He was clean-shaven, you say?”
“Yes, miss—not even one of these toothbrush moustaches.”
“Was his chin at all shiny?” I asked on a sudden impulse.
Mrs. James stared at me with awe34.
“Well, now you come to mention it, miss, it was. However did youknow?”
“It’s a curious thing, but murderers often have shiny chins,” I explainedwildly.
Mrs. James accepted the statement in all good faith.
“Really, now, miss. I never heard that before.”
“You didn’t notice what kind of head he had, I suppose?”
“Just the ordinary kind, miss. I’ll fetch you the keys, shall I?”
I accepted them, and went on my way to the Mill House. My reconstruc-tions so far I considered good. All along I had realized that the differencesbetween the man Mrs. James had described and my Tube “doctor” werethose of nonessentials. An overcoat, a beard, gold-rimmed eyeglasses. The“doctor” had appeared middle- aged, but I remembered that he hadstooped over the body like a comparatively young man. There had been asuppleness which told of young joints35.
The victim of the accident (the Moth36 Ball man, as I called him to myself )and the foreign woman, Mrs. de Castina, or whatever her real name was,had had an assignation to meet at the Mill House. That was how I piecedthe thing together. Either because they feared they were being watched orfor some other reason, they chose the rather ingenious method of bothgetting an order to view the same house. Thus their meeting there mighthave the appearance of pure chance.
That the Moth Ball man had suddenly caught sight of the “doctor,” andthat the meeting was totally unexpected and alarming to him, was anotherfact of which I was fairly sure. What had happened next? The “doctor”
had removed his disguise and followed the woman to Marlow. But it waspossible that had he removed it rather hastily traces of spirit gum mightstill linger on his chin. Hence my question to Mrs. James.
Whilst occupied with my thoughts I had arrived at the low old-fashioneddoor of the Mill House. Unlocking it with the key, I passed inside. The hallwas low and dark, the place smelt37 forlorn and mildewy38. In spite of myself,I shivered. Did the woman who had come here “smiling to herself” a fewdays ago feel no chill of premonition as she entered this house? Iwondered. Did the smile fade from her lips, and did a nameless dreadclose round her heart? Or had she gone upstairs, smiling still, unconsciousof the doom39 that was so soon to overtake her? My heart beat a little faster.
Was the house really empty? Was doom waiting for me in it also? For thefirst time, I understood the meaning of the much- used word, “atmo-sphere.” There was an atmosphere in this house, an atmosphere ofcruelty, of menace, of evil.
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1
exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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deductions
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| 扣除( deduction的名词复数 )； 结论； 扣除的量； 推演 | |
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conspirator
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| n.阴谋者，谋叛者 | |
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multiplication
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| n.增加，增多，倍增；增殖，繁殖；乘法 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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7
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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gazetteer
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| n.地名索引 | |
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scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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isles
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| 岛( isle的名词复数 ) | |
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diligently
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| ad.industriously;carefully | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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prospective
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| adj.预期的，未来的，前瞻性的 | |
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tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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18
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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21
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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22
faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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pestered
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| 使烦恼，纠缠( pester的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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28
oyster
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| n.牡蛎；沉默寡言的人 | |
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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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30
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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concurred
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| 同意（concur的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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33
reverting
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| 恢复( revert的现在分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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34
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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35
joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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36
moth
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| n.蛾，蛀虫 | |
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smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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38
mildewy
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| adj.发霉的 | |
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doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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