顺水推舟35
时间：2025-01-30 17:30:39
（单词翻译:单击）
Six
Poirot left the police station frowning to himself. His steps grew slower as he walked. In the
plate, and a little way along was the post office. On the other side was Jeremy Cloade’s house. In
front of Poirot, set back a little, was the Roman Catholic Church of the Assumption, a small
modest affair, a shrinking violet compared to the aggressiveness of St. Mary’s which stood
arrogantly2 in the middle of the square facing the Cornmarket, and proclaiming the dominance of
the Protestant religion.
Moved by an impulse Poirot went through the gate and along the path to the door of the Roman
Catholic building. He removed his hat, genuflected3 in front of the altar and knelt down behind one
her hands. Presently she got up and, still sobbing7 under her breath, went towards the door. Poirot,
his eyes wide with interest, got up and followed her. He had recognized Rosaleen Cloade.
“Madame, can I help you?”
She showed no signs of surprise, but answered with the simplicity9 of an unhappy child.
“No,” she said. “No one can help me.”
“You are in very bad trouble. That is it, is it not?”
She said: “They’ve taken David away…I’m all alone. They say he killed—But he didn’t!
He didn’t!”
She looked at Poirot and said: “You were there today? At the inquest. I saw you!”
“Yes. If I can help you, Madame, I shall be very glad to do so.”
“I’m frightened. David said I’d be safe as long as he was there to look after me. But now
they’ve taken him away—I’m afraid. He said—they all wanted me dead. That’s a dreadful
thing to say. But perhaps it’s true.”
“Let me help you, Madame.”
She shook her head.
“No,” she said. “No one can help me. I can’t go to confession10, even. I’ve got to bear the
weight of my wickedness all alone. I’m cut off from the mercy of God.”
“Nobody,” said Hercule Poirot, “is cut off from the mercy of God. You know that well, my
child.”
Again she looked at him—a wild unhappy look.
“I’d have to confess my sins—to confess. If I could confess—”
“Can’t you confess? You came to the church for that, did you not?”
“I came to get comfort—comfort. But what comfort is there for me? I’m a sinner.”
“We are all sinners.”
“But you’d have to repent—I’d have to say—to tell—” Her hands went up to her face.
“Oh, the lies I’ve told—the lies I’ve told.”
“You told a lie about your husband? About Robert Underhay? It was Robert Underhay who
was killed here, wasn’t it?”
“I tell you it was not my husband. It wasn’t the least like him!”
“The dead man was not in the least like your husband?”
“Tell me,” said Poirot, “what was your husband like?”
Her eyes stared at him. Then her face hardened into alarm. Her eyes grew dark with fear.
She cried out:
“I’ll not talk to you any more!”
Going swiftly past him, she ran down the path and passed through the gate out into the market
square.
Poirot did not try and follow her. Instead he nodded his head with a good deal of satisfaction.
“Ah,” he said. “So that is that!”
He walked slowly out into the square.
the last building before the open country.
Poirot looked at the girl with interest. A handsome girl, he thought, and intelligent also. Not the
type he himself admired. He preferred something softer, more feminine. Lynn Marchmont, he
thought, was essentially16 a modern type — though one might, with equal accuracy, call it an
Elizabethan type. Women who thought for themselves, who were free in language, and who
“We’re very grateful to you, M. Poirot,” said Rowley. “By Jove, it really was quite like a
Which was exactly what it had been, Poirot reflected! Asked a question to which you knew the
answer, there was no difficulty whatsoever19 in performing a trick with the requisite20 frills. He quite
appreciated that to the simple Rowley, the production of Major Porter out of the blue, so to speak,
had been as breathtaking as any number of rabbits produced from the conjurer’s hat.
“How you go about these things beats me,” said Rowley.
Poirot did not enlighten him. He was, after all, only human. The conjurer does not tell his
audience how the trick was done.
“Anyway, Lynn and I are no end grateful,” Rowley went on.
Lynn Marchmont, Poirot thought, was not looking particularly grateful. There were lines of
strain round her eyes, her fingers had a nervous trick of twining and intertwining themselves.
“It’s going to make a lot of difference to our future married life,” said Rowley.
Lynn said sharply:
“How do you know? There are all sorts of formalities and things, I’m sure.”
“You are getting married, when?” asked Poirot politely.
“June.”
“And you have been engaged since when?”
“And is it forbidden to marry in the Wrens, yes?”
“I’ve been overseas.”
Poirot noticed Rowley’s swift frown. He said shortly:
“Come on, Lynn. We must get going. I expect M. Poirot wants to get back to town.”
Poirot said smilingly:
“But I’m not going back to town.”
“What?”
Rowley stopped dead, giving a queer wooden effect.
“I am staying here, at the Stag, for a short while.”
“But—but why?”
Rowley said uncertainly:
“Yes, of course…But aren’t you—well, I mean, busy?”
No, I can enjoy my leisure and spend my time where the fancy takes me. And my fancy inclines to
Warmsley Vale.”
He saw Lynn Marchmont raise her head and gaze at him intently. Rowley, he thought, was
slightly annoyed.
“I suppose you play golf?” he said. “There’s a much better hotel at Warmsley Heath. This
is a very one-horse sort of place.”
Lynn said:
“Come along, Rowley.”
Half reluctantly, Rowley followed her. At the door, Lynn paused and then came swiftly back.
She spoke to Poirot in a quiet low voice.
“They arrested David Hunter after the inquest. Do you—do you think they were right?”
“They had no alternative, Mademoiselle, after the verdict.”
“I mean—do you think he did it?”
“Do you?” said Poirot.
“Goodbye, M. Poirot. I—I hope we meet again.”
“Now, I wonder,” said Poirot to himself.
Presently, after arranging with Beatrice Lippincott about a room, he went out again. His steps
led him to Dr. Lionel Cloade’s house.
Poirot!”
“At your service, Madame.” Poirot bowed. “I came to pay my respects.”
“Well, that’s very nice of you, I’m sure. Yes—well—I suppose you’d better come in. Sit
down—I’ll move Madame Blavatsky—and perhaps a cup of tea—only the cake is terribly stale.
I meant to go to Peacocks for some, they do have Swiss roll sometimes on a Wednesday—but an
inquest puts one’s household routine out, don’t you think so?”
Poirot said that he thought that was entirely understandable.
He had fancied that Rowley Cloade was annoyed by the announcement of his stay in Warmsley
Vale. Aunt Kathie’s manner, without any doubt, was far from welcoming. She was looking at
conspiratorial29 whisper:
“You won’t tell my husband, will you, that I came and consulted you about—well, about we
know what?”
“My lips are sealed.”
“I mean—of course I’d no idea at the time—that Robert Underhay, poor man, so tragic—
was actually in Warmsley Vale. That seems to me still a most extraordinary coincidence!”
“It would have been simpler,” agreed Poirot, “if the Ouija board had directed you straight to
the Stag.”
Aunt Kathie cheered up a little at the mention of the Ouija board.
“The way things come about in the spirit world seem quite incalculable,” she said. “But I do
feel, M. Poirot, that there is a purpose in it all. Don’t you feel that in life? That there is always a
purpose?”
“Yes, indeed, Madame. Even that I should sit here, now, in your drawing room, there is a
purpose in that.”
“Oh, is there?” Mrs. Cloade looked rather taken aback. “Is there, really? Yes, I suppose
so…You’re on your way back to London, of course?”
“Not at present. I stay for a few days at the Stag.”
“At the Stag? Oh—at the Stag! But that’s where—oh, M. Poirot, do you think you are
wise?”
“I have been guided to the Stag,” said Poirot solemnly.
“Guided? What do you mean?”
“Guided by you.”
“Oh, but I never meant—I mean, I had no idea. It’s all so dreadful, don’t you think so?”
Poirot shook his head sadly, and said:
“I have been talking to Mr. Rowley Cloade and Miss Marchmont. They are getting married, I
hear, quite soon?”
Aunt Kathie was immediately diverted.
“Dear Lynn, she is such a sweet girl—and so very good at figures. Now, I have no head for
figures—no head at all. Having Lynn home is an absolute blessing30. If I get in a terrible muddle31 she
always straightens things out for me. Dear girl, I do hope she will be happy. Rowley, of course, is
a splendid person, but possibly—well, a little dull. I mean dull to a girl who has seen as much of
the world as Lynn has. Rowley, you see, has been here on his farm all through the war—oh, quite
rightly, of course—I mean the Government wanted him to—that side of it is quite all right—not
white feathers or things like that as they did in the Boer War—but what I mean is, it’s made him
rather limited in his ideas.”
“Six years’ engagement is a good test of affection.”
“Oh, it is! But I think these girls, when they come home, they get rather restless—and if there
is someone else about—someone, perhaps, who has led an adventurous32 life—”
“Such as David Hunter?”
“There isn’t anything between them,” Aunt Kathie said anxiously. “Nothing at all. I’m
quite sure of that! It would have been dreadful if there had been, wouldn’t there, with his turning
out a murderer? His own brother-in-law, too! Oh, no, M. Poirot, please don’t run away with the
idea that there’s any kind of an understanding between Lynn and David. Really, they seemed to
quarrel more than anything else every time they met. What I felt is that—oh, dear, I think that’s
my husband coming. You will remember, won’t you, M. Poirot, not a word about our first
meeting? My poor dear husband gets so annoyed if he thinks that—oh, Lionel dear, here is M.
Poirot who so cleverly brought that Major Porter down to see the body.”
Dr. Cloade looked tired and haggard. His eyes, pale blue, with pin-point pupils, wandered
“How do you do, M. Poirot; on your way back to town?”
“Mon Dieu, another who packs me back to London!” thought Poirot.
Aloud he said patiently:
“No, I remain at the Stag for a day or so.”
“The Stag?” Lionel Cloade frowned. “Oh? Police want to keep you here for a bit?”
“No. It is my own choice.”
“Indeed?” The doctor suddenly flashed a quick intelligent look. “So you’re not
satisfied?”
“Why should you think that, Dr. Cloade?”
“Come, man, it’s true, isn’t it?” Twittering about tea, Mrs. Cloade left the room. The
doctor went on: “You’ve a feeling, haven’t you, that something’s wrong?”
Poirot was startled.
“It is odd that you should say that. Do you, then, feel that yourself?”
Cloade hesitated.
“N-n-o. Hardly that…perhaps it’s just a feeling of unreality. In books the blackmailer34 gets
“Was there anything unsatisfactory about the medical aspect of the case? I ask unofficially, of
course.”
Dr. Cloade said thoughtfully:
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Yes—there is something. I can see there is something.”
When he wished, Poirot’s voice could assume an almost hypnotic quality. Dr. Cloade frowned
a little, then he said hesitatingly:
“I’ve no experience, of course, of police cases. And anyway medical evidence isn’t the
indefinite clues which point in more than one direction. I’m pretty sound, perhaps, at diagnosing
extraordinary wide variation of signs and symptoms. You hardly ever get what a text book tells
you is a ‘typical case’ of measles. But I’ve known some queer things in my time—I’ve seen
a woman practically on the operating table ready for her appendix to be whipped out — and
paratyphoid diagnosed just in time! I’ve seen a child with skin trouble pronounced as a case of
comes along and mentions to the mother that the cat the child is hugging has got ringworm and
that the child has caught it!
“Doctors, like every one else, are victims of the preconceived idea. Here’s a man, obviously
was hit with anything else, and yet, speaking out of complete inexperience of people with their
heads smashed in, I’d have suspected something rather different—something not so smooth and
round—something—oh, I don’t know, something with a more cutting edge—a brick, something
like that.”
“You did not say so at the inquest?”
“No—because I don’t really know. Jenkins, the police surgeon, was satisfied, and he’s the
fellow who counts. But there’s the preconceived idea—weapon lying beside the body. Could the
what made it—well, I don’t know whether you’d say it, because it really doesn’t make sense
—I mean if you had two fellows, one hitting him with a brick and one with the tongs—” The
doctor stopped, shook his head in a dissatisfied way. “Doesn’t make sense, does it?” he said to
Poirot.
“Could he have fallen on some sharp object?”
Dr. Cloade shook his head.
“He was lying face down in the middle of the floor—on a good thick old-fashioned Axminster
carpet.”
He broke off as his wife entered the room.
“Here’s Kathie with the catlap,” he remarked.
Aunt Kathie was balancing a tray covered with crockery, half a loaf of bread and some
depressing-looking jam in the bottom of a 2-lb. pot.
“I think the kettle was boiling,” she remarked doubtfully as she raised the lid of the teapot
and peered inside.
Dr. Cloade snorted again and muttered: “Catlap,” with which explosive word he left the
room.
“Poor Lionel, his nerves are in a terrible state since the war. He worked much too hard. So
many doctors away. He gave himself no rest. Out morning, noon, and night. I wonder he didn’t
break down completely. Of course he looked forward to retiring as soon as peace came. That was
herbs in the Middle Ages. He’s writing a book on it. He was looking forward to a quiet life and
doing the necessary research. But then, when Gordon died like that—well, you know what things
very bitter. And really it does seem unfair. Gordon’s dying like that, without a will—well, it
really quite shook my faith. I mean, I really couldn’t see the purpose in that. It seemed, I
couldn’t help feeling, a mistake.”
She sighed, then cheered up a little.
“But I get some lovely reassurances46 from the other side. ‘Courage and patience and a way
will be found.’ And really, when that nice Major Porter stood up today and said in such a firm
found! It’s wonderful, isn’t it, M. Poirot, how things do turn out for the best?”
“Even murder,” said Hercule Poirot.
点击
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收听单词发音 |
1
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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2
arrogantly
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| adv.傲慢地 | |
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3
genuflected
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| v.屈膝（尤指宗教礼节中）( genuflect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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4
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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5
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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6
aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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7
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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8
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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9
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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10
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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11
wary
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| adj.谨慎的，机警的，小心的 | |
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12
defiantly
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| adv.挑战地，大胆对抗地 | |
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13
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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14
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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15
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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16
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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17
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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18
conjuring
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| n.魔术 | |
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19
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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20
requisite
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| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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21
wrens
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| n.鹪鹩( wren的名词复数 ) | |
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22
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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23
placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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24
unduly
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| adv.过度地，不适当地 | |
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25
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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26
poker
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| n.扑克；vt.烙制 | |
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27
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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28
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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29
conspiratorial
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| adj.阴谋的，阴谋者的 | |
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30
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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31
muddle
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| n.困惑，混浊状态；vt.使混乱，使糊涂，使惊呆；vi.胡乱应付，混乱 | |
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32
adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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33
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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34
blackmailer
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| 敲诈者，勒索者 | |
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35
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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37
laymen
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| 门外汉，外行人( layman的名词复数 )； 普通教徒（有别于神职人员） | |
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38
diagnosis
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| n.诊断，诊断结果，调查分析，判断 | |
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measles
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| n.麻疹，风疹，包虫病，痧子 | |
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40
conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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41
vet
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| n.兽医，退役军人；vt.检查 | |
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42
tongs
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| n.钳；夹子 | |
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43
inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44
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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45
taxation
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| n.征税，税收，税金 | |
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46
reassurances
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| n.消除恐惧或疑虑( reassurance的名词复数 )；恢复信心；使人消除恐惧或疑虑的事物；使人恢复信心的事物 | |
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47
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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