山核桃大街谋杀案（10）
时间：2025-03-03 03:09:16
（单词翻译:单击）
Chapter Nine
Inspector Sharpe sighed, leaned back in his chair and rubbed his forehead with a handkerchief. He
had interviewed an indignant and tearful French girl, a supercilious and uncooperative young
Frenchman, a stolid and suspicious Dutchman, a voluble and aggressive Egyptian. He had
exchanged a few brief remarks with two nervous young Turkish students who did not really
understand what he was saying and the same went for a charming young Iraqi. None of these, he
was pretty certain, had had anything to do, or could help him in any way with the death of Celia
Austin. He had dismissed them one by one with a few reassuring words and was now preparing to
do the same to Mr. Akibombo.
The young West African looked at him with smiling white teeth and rather childlike, plaintive,
eyes.
“I should like to help—yes—please,” he said. “She is very nice to me, this Miss Celia. She give
me once a box of Edinburgh rock—very nice confection which I do not know before. It seems
very sad she should be killed. Is it blood feud, perhaps? Or is it perhaps fathers or uncles who
come and kill her because they have heard false stories that she do wrong things.”
Inspector Sharpe assured him that none of these things were remotely possible. The young man
shook his head sadly.
“Then I do not know why it happened,” he said. “I do not see why anybody here should want to
do harm to her. But you give me piece of her hair and nail clippings,” he continued, “and I see if I
find out by old method. Not scientific, not modern, but very much in use where I come from.”
“Well, thank you, Mr. Akibombo, but I don’t think that will be necessary. We—er—don’t do
things that way over here.”
“No, sir, I quite understand. Not modern. Not atomic age. Not done at home now by new
policemen—only old men from bush. I am sure all new methods very superior and sure to achieve
complete success.” Mr. Akibombo bowed politely and removed himself. Inspector Sharpe
murmured to himself:
“I sincerely hope we do meet with success—if only to maintain prestige.”
His next interview was with Nigel Chapman, who was inclined to take the conduct of the
conversation into his own hands.
“This is an absolutely extraordinary business, isn’t it?” he said. “Mind you, I had an idea that
you were barking up the wrong tree when you insisted on suicide. I must say, it’s rather gratifying
to me to think that the whole thing hinges, really, on her having filled her fountain pen with my
green ink. Just the one thing the murderer couldn’t possibly foresee. I suppose you’ve given due
consideration as to what can possibly be the motive for this crime?”
“I’m asking the questions, Mr. Chapman,” said Inspector Sharpe drily.
“Oh, of course, of course,” said Nigel, airily, waving a hand. “I was trying to make a bit of a
shortcut of it, that was all. But I suppose we’ve got to go through with all the red tape as usual.
Name, Nigel Chapman. Age, twenty-five. Born, I believe, in Nagasaki—it really seems a most
ridiculous place. What my father and mother were doing there at the time I can’t imagine. On a
world tour, I suppose. However, it doesn’t make me necessarily a Japanese, I understand. I’m
taking a diploma at London University in Bronze Age and Medieval History. Anything else you
want to know?”
“What is your home address, Mr. Chapman?”
“No home address, my dear sir. I have a papa, but he and I have quarrelled, and his address is
therefore no longer mine. So 26 Hickory Road and Coutts Bank, Leadenhall Street Branch, will
always find me, as one says to travelling acquaintances whom you hope you will never meet
again.”
Inspector Sharpe displayed no reaction towards Nigel’s airy impertinence. He had met Nigels
before and shrewdly suspected that Nigel’s impertinence masked a natural nervousness of being
questioned in connection with murder.
“How well did you know Celia Austin?” he asked.
“That’s really quite a difficult question. I knew her very well in the sense of seeing her
practically every day, and being on quite cheerful terms with her, but actually I didn’t know her at
all. Of course, I wasn’t in the least bit interested in her and I think she probably disapproved of
me, if anything.”
“Did she disapprove of you for any particular reason?”
“Well, she didn’t like my sense of humour very much. Then, of course, I wasn’t one of those
brooding, rude young men like Colin McNabb. That kind of rudeness is really the perfect
technique for attracting women.”
“When was the last time you saw Celia Austin?”
“At dinner yesterday evening. We’d all given her the big hand, you know. Colin had got up and
hemmed and hawed and finally admitted, in a coy and bashful way, that they were engaged. Then
we all ragged him a bit, and that was that.”
“Was that at dinner or in the common room?”
“Oh, at dinner. Afterwards, when we went into the common room Colin went off somewhere.”
“And the rest of you had coffee in the common room.”
“If you call the fluid they serve coffee—yes,” said Nigel.
“Did Celia Austin have coffee?”
“Well, I suppose so. I mean, I didn’t actually notice her having coffee, but she must have had
it.”
“You did not personally hand her her coffee, for instance?”
“How horribly suggestive all this is! When you said that and looked at me in that searching
way, d’you know I felt quite certain that I had handed Celia her coffee and had filled it up with
strychnine, or whatever it was. Hypnotic suggestion, I suppose, but actually, Mr. Sharpe, I didn’t
go near her—and to be frank, I didn’t even notice her drinking coffee, and I can assure you,
whether you believe me or not, that I have never had any passion for Celia myself and that the
announcement of her engagement to Colin McNabb aroused no feelings of murderous revenge in
me.”
“I’m not really suggesting anything of the kind, Mr. Chapman,” said Sharpe mildly. “Unless
I’m very much mistaken, there’s no particular love angle to this, but somebody wanted Celia
Austin out of the way. Why?”
“I simply can’t imagine why, Inspector. It’s really most intriguing because Celia was really a
most harmless kind of girl, if you know what I mean. Slow on the uptake; a bit of a bore;
thoroughly nice; and absolutely, I should say, not the kind of girl to get herself murdered.”
“Were you surprised when you found that it was Celia Austin who had been responsible for the
various disappearances, thefts, etcetera, in this place?”
“My dear man, you could have knocked me over with a feather! Most uncharacteristic, that’s
what I thought.”
“You didn’t, perhaps, put her up to doing these things?”
Nigel’s stare of surprise seemed quite genuine.
“I? Put her up to it? Why should I?”
“Well, that would be rather the question, wouldn’t it? Some people have a funny sense of
humour.”
“Well, really, I may be dense, but I can’t see anything amusing about all this silly pilfering
that’s been going on.”
“Not your idea of a joke?”
“It never occurred to me it was meant to be funny. Surely, Inspector, the thefts were purely
psychological?”
“You definitely consider that Celia Austin was a kleptomaniac?”
“But surely there can’t be any other explanation, Inspector?”
“Perhaps you don’t know as much about kleptomaniacs as I do, Mr. Chapman.”
“Well, I really can’t think of any other explanation.”
“You don’t think it’s possible that someone might have put Miss Austin up to all this as a means
of—say—arousing Mr. McNabb’s interest in her?”
Nigel’s eyes glistened with appreciative malice.
“Now that really is a most diverting explanation, Inspector,” he said. “You know, when I think
of it, it’s perfectly possible and of course old Colin would swallow it, line, hook and sinker.” Nigel
savoured this with much glee for a second or two. Then he shook his head sadly.
“But Celia wouldn’t have played,” he said. “She was soppy about him.”
“You’ve no theory of your own, Mr. Chapman, about the things that have been going on in this
house? About, for instance, the spilling of ink over Miss Johnston’s papers?”
“If you’re thinking I did it, Inspector Sharpe, that’s quite untrue. Of course, it looks like me
because of the green ink, but if you ask me, that was just spite.”
“What was spite?”
“Using my ink. Somebody deliberately used my ink to make it look like me. There’s a lot of
spite about here, Inspector.”
The Inspector looked at him sharply.
“Now what exactly do you mean by a lot of spite about?”
But Nigel immediately drew back into his shell and became noncommittal.
“I didn’t mean anything really—just that when a lot of people are cooped up together, they get
rather petty.”
The next person on Inspector Sharpe’s list was Leonard Bateson. Len Bateson was even less at
his ease than Nigel, though it showed in a different way. He was suspicious and truculent.
“All right!” he burst out, after the first routine inquiries were concluded. “I poured out Celia’s
coffee and gave it to her. So what?”
“You gave her her after-dinner coffee—is that what you’re saying, Mr. Bateson?”
“Yes. At least I filled the cup up from the urn and put it down beside her and you can believe it
or not, but there was no morphia in it.”
“You saw her drink it?”
“No, I didn’t actually see her drink it. We were all moving around and I got into an argument
with someone just after that. I didn’t notice when she drank it. There were other people round
her.”
“I see. In fact, what you are saying is that anybody could have dropped morphia into her coffee
cup?”
“You try and put anything in anyone’s cup! Everybody would see you.”
“Not necessarily,” said Sharpe.
Len burst out aggressively:
“What the hell do you think I want to poison the kid for? I’ve nothing against her.”
“I’ve not suggested that you did want to poison her.”
“She took the stuff herself. She must have taken it herself. There’s no other explanation.”
“We might think so, if it weren’t for that faked suicide note.”
“Faked my hat! She wrote it, didn’t she?”
“She wrote it as part of a letter, early that morning.”
“Well—she could have torn a bit out and used it as a suicide note.”
“Come now, Mr. Bateson. If you wanted to write a suicide note you’d write one. You wouldn’t
take a letter you’d written to somebody else and carefully tear out one particular phrase.”
“I might do. People do all sorts of funny things.”
“In that case, where is the rest of the letter?”
“How should I know? That’s your business, not mine.”
“I’m making it my business. You’d be well advised, Mr. Bateson, to answer my questions
civilly.”
“Well, what do you want to know? I didn’t kill the girl, and I’d no motive for killing her.”
“You liked her?”
Len said less aggressively:
“I liked her very much. She was a nice kid. A bit dumb, but nice.”
“You believed her when she owned up to having committed the thefts which had been worrying
everyone for some time past?”
“Well, I believed her, of course, since she said so. But I must say it seemed odd.”
“You didn’t think it was a likely thing for her to do?”
“Well, no. Not really.”
Leonard’s truculence had subsided now that he was no longer on the defensive and was giving
his mind to a problem which obviously intrigued him.
“She didn’t seem to be the type of a kleptomaniac, if you know what I mean,” he said. “Nor a
thief either.”
“And you can’t think of any other reason for her having done what she did?”
“Other reason? What other reason could there be?”
“Well, she might have wanted to arouse the interest of Mr. Colin McNabb.”
“That’s a bit far-fetched, isn’t it?”
“But it did arouse his interest.”
“Yes, of course it did. Old Colin’s absolutely dead keen on any kind of psychological
abnormality.”
“Well, then. If Celia Austin knew that. . . .”
Len shook his head.
“You’re wrong there. She wouldn’t have been capable of thinking a thing like that out. Of
planning it, I mean. She hadn’t got the knowledge.”
“You’ve got the knowledge, though, haven’t you?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that, out of a purely kind intention, you might have suggested something of the kind to
her.”
Len gave a short laugh.
“Think I’d do a damfool thing like that? You’re crazy.”
The Inspector shifted his ground.
“Do you think that Celia Austin spilled the ink over Elizabeth Johnston’s papers or do you think
someone else did it?”
“Someone else. Celia said she didn’t do that and I believe her. Celia never got riled by Bess; not
like some other people did.”
“Who got riled by her—and why?”
“She ticked people off, you know.” Len thought about it for a moment or two. “Anyone who
made a rash statement. She’d look across the table and she’d say, in that precise way of hers, ‘I’m
afraid that is not borne out by the facts. It has been well established by statistics that . . . ’
Something of that kind. Well, it was riling, you know—especially to people who like making rash
statements, like Nigel Chapman for instance.”
“Ah yes. Nigel Chapman.”
“And it was green ink, too.”
“So you think it was Nigel who did it?”
“Well, it’s possible, at least. He’s a spiteful sort of cove, you know, and I think he might have a
bit of racial feeling. About the only one of us who has.”
“Can you think of anybody else who Miss Johnston annoyed with her exactitude and her habit
of correction?”
“Well, Colin McNabb wasn’t too pleased now and again, and she got Jean Tomlinson’s goat
once or twice.”
Sharpe asked a few more desultory questions but Len Bateson had nothing useful to add. Next
Sharpe saw Valerie Hobhouse.
Valerie was cool, elegant, and wary. She displayed much less nervousness than either of the
men had done. She had been fond of Celia, she said. Celia was not particularly bright and it was
rather pathetic the way she had set her heart on Colin McNabb.
“Do you think she was a kleptomaniac, Miss Hobhouse?”
“Well, I suppose so. I don’t really know much about the subject.”
“Do you think anyone had put her up to doing what she did?”
Valerie shrugged her shoulders.
“You mean in order to attract that pompous ass Colin?”
“You’re very quick on the point, Miss Hobhouse. Yes, that’s what I mean. You didn’t suggest it
to her yourself, I suppose?”
Valerie looked amused.
“Well, hardly, my dear man, considering that a particularly favourite scarf of mine was cut to
ribbons. I’m not so altruistic as that.”
“Do you think anyone else suggested it to her?”
“I should hardly think so. I should say it was just natural on her part.”
“What do you mean by natural?”
“Well, I first had a suspicion that it was Celia when all the fuss happened about Sally’s shoe.
Celia was jealous of Sally. Sally Finch, I’m talking about. She’s far and away the most attractive
girl here and Colin paid her a fair amount of attention. So on the night of this party Sally’s shoe
disappears and she has to go in an old black dress and black shoes. There was Celia looking as
smug as a cat that’s swallowed cream about it. Mind you, I didn’t suspect her of all these petty
thievings of bracelets and compacts.”
“Who did you think was responsible for those?”
Valerie shrugged her shoulders.
“Oh, I don’t know. One of the cleaning women, I thought.”
“And the slashed rucksack?”
“Was there a slashed rucksack? I’d forgotten. That seems very pointless.”
“You’ve been here a good long time, haven’t you, Miss Hobhouse?”
“Well, yes. I should say I’m probably the oldest inhabitant. That is to say, I’ve been here two
years and a half now.”
“So you probably know more about this hostel than anybody else?”
“I should say so, yes.”
“Have you any ideas of your own about Celia Austin’s death? Any idea of the motive that
underlay it?”
Valerie shook her head. Her face was serious now.
“No,” she said. “It was a horrible thing to happen. I can’t see anybody who could possibly have
wanted Celia to die. She was a nice, harmless child, and she’d just got engaged to be married, and.
. . .”
“Yes. And?” the Inspector prompted.
“I wondered if that was why,” said Valerie slowly. “Because she’d got engaged. Because she
was going to be happy. But that means, doesn’t it, somebody—well—mad.”
She said the word with a little shiver, and Inspector Sharpe looked at her thoughtfully.
“Yes,” he said. “We can’t quite rule out madness.” He went on, “Have you any theory about the
damage done to Elizabeth Johnston’s notes and papers?”
“No. That was a spiteful thing, too. I don’t believe for a moment that Celia would do a thing
like that.”
“Any idea who it could have been?”
“Well . . . Not a reasonable idea.”
“But an unreasonable one?”
“You don’t want to hear something that’s just a hunch, do you, Inspector?”
“I’d like to hear a hunch very much. I’ll accept it as such, and it’ll only be between ourselves.”
“Well, I may probably be quite wrong, but I’ve got a sort of idea that it was Patricia Lane’s
work.”
“Indeed! Now you do surprise me, Miss Hobhouse. I shouldn’t have thought of Patricia Lane.
She seems a very well-balanced, amiable, young lady.”
“I don’t say she did do it. I just had a sort of idea she might have done.”
“For what reason in particular?”
“Well, Patricia disliked Black Bess. Black Bess was always ticking off Patricia’s beloved Nigel,
putting him right, you know, when he made silly statements in the way he does sometimes.”
“You think it was more likely to have been Patricia Lane than Nigel himself?”
“Oh, yes. I don’t think Nigel would bother, and he’d certainly not go using his own pet brand of
ink. He’s got plenty of brains. But it’s just the sort of stupid thing that Patricia would do without
thinking that it might involve her precious Nigel as a suspect.”
“Or again, it might be somebody who had a down on Nigel Chapman and wanted to suggest
that it was his doing?”
“Yes, that’s another possibility.”
“Who dislikes Nigel Chapman?”
“Oh, well, Jean Tomlinson for one. And he and Len Bateson are always scrapping a good deal.”
“Have you any ideas, Miss Hobhouse, how morphia could have been administered to Celia
Austin?”
“I’ve been thinking and thinking. Of course, I suppose the coffee is the most obvious way. We
were all milling around in the common room. Celia’s coffee was on a small table near her and she
always waited until her coffee was nearly cold before she drank it. I suppose anybody who had
sufficient nerve could have dropped a tablet or something into her cup without being seen, but it
would be rather a risk to take. I mean, it’s the sort of thing that might be noticed quite easily.”
“The morphia,” said Inspector Sharpe, “was not in tablet form.”
“What was it? Powder?”
“Yes.”
Valerie frowned.
“That would be rather more difficult, wouldn’t it?”
“Anything else besides coffee you can think of?”
“She sometimes had a glass of hot milk before she went to bed. I don’t think she did that night,
though.”
“Can you describe to me exactly what happened that evening in the common room?”
“Well, as I say, we all sat about, talked; somebody turned the wireless on. Most of the boys, I
think, went out. Celia went up to bed fairly early and so did Jean Tomlinson. Sally and I sat on
there fairly late. I was writing letters and Sally was mugging over some notes. I rather think I was
the last to go up to bed.”
“It was just a usual evening, in fact?”
“Absolutely, Inspector.”
“Thank you, Miss Hobhouse. Will you send Miss Lane to me now?”
Patricia Lane looked worried, but not apprehensive. Questions and answers elicited nothing
very new. Asked about the damage to Elizabeth Johnston’s papers Patricia said that she had no
doubt that Celia had been responsible.
“But she denied it, Miss Lane, very vehemently.”
“Well, of course,” said Patricia. “She would. I think she was ashamed of having done it. But it
fits in, doesn’t it, with all the other things?”
“Do you know what I find about this case, Miss Lane? That nothing fits in very well.”
“I suppose,” said Patricia, flushing, “that you would think it was Nigel who messed up Bess’s
papers. Because of the ink. That’s such absolute nonsense. I mean, Nigel wouldn’t have used his
own ink if he’d done a thing like that. He wouldn’t be such a fool. But anyway, he wouldn’t do it.”
“He didn’t always get on very well with Miss Johnston, did he?”
“Oh, she had an annoying manner sometimes, but he didn’t really mind.” Patricia Lane leaned
forward earnestly. “I would like to try and make you understand one or two things, Inspector.
About Nigel Chapman, I mean. You see, Nigel is really very much his own worst enemy. I’m the
first to admit that he’s got a very difficult manner. It prejudices people against him. He’s rude and
sarcastic and makes fun of people, and so he puts people’s backs up and they think the worst of
him. But really he’s quite different from what he seems. He’s one of those shy, rather unhappy
people who really want to be liked but who, from a kind of spirit of contradiction, find themselves
saying and doing the opposite to what they mean to say and do.”
“Ah,” said Inspector Sharpe. “Rather unfortunate for them, that.”
“Yes, but they really can’t help it, you know. It comes from having had an unfortunate
childhood. Nigel had a very unhappy home life. His father was very harsh and severe and never
understood him. And his father treated his mother very badly. After she died they had the most
terrific quarrel and Nigel flung out of the house, and his father said that he’d never give him a
penny and he must get on as well as he could without any help from him. Nigel said he didn’t
want any help from his father; and wouldn’t take it if it was offered. A small amount of money
came to him under his mother’s will, and he never wrote to his father or went near him again. Of
course, I think that was a pity in a way, but there’s no doubt that his father is a very unpleasant
man. I don’t wonder that that’s made Nigel bitter and difficult to get on with. Since his mother
died, he’s never had anyone to care for him and look after him. His health’s not been good, though
his mind is brilliant. He is handicapped in life and he just can’t show himself as he really is.”
Patricia Lane stopped. She was flushed and a little breathless as the result of her long earnest
speech. Inspector Sharpe looked at her thoughtfully. He had come across many Patricia Lanes
before. “In love with the chap,” he thought to himself. “Don’t suppose he cares twopence for her,
but probably accepts being mothered. Father certainly sounds a cantankerous old cuss, but I dare
say the mother was a foolish woman who spoilt her son and by doting on him, widened the breach
between him and his father. I’ve seen enough of that kind of thing.” He wondered if Nigel
Chapman had been attracted at all to Celia Austin. It seemed unlikely, but it might be so. “And if
so,” he thought, “Patricia Lane might have bitterly resented the fact.” Resented it enough to do
murder? Surely not—and in any case, the fact that Celia had got engaged to Colin McNabb would
surely wash that out as a possible motive for murder. He dismissed Patricia Lane and asked for
Jean Tomlinson.
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