山核桃大街谋杀案（12）
时间：2025-03-03 03:09:40
（单词翻译:单击）
Chapter Eleven
The story of the bet and the disposal of the poison was confirmed by Len Bateson and by Colin
McNabb. Sharpe retained Colin McNabb after the others had gone.
“I don’t want to cause you any more pain than I can help, Mr. McNabb,” he said. “I can realise
what it means to you for your fiancée to have been poisoned on the very night of your
engagement.”
“There’ll be no need to go into that aspect of it,” said Colin McNabb, his face immovable.
“You’ll not need to concern yourself with my feelings. Just ask me any questions you like which
you think may be useful to you.”
“It was your considered opinion that Celia Austin’s behaviour had a psychological origin?”
“There’s no doubt about it at all,” said Colin McNabb. “If you’d like me to go into the theory of
the thing. . . .”
“No, no,” said Inspector Sharpe hastily. “I’m taking your word for it as a student of
psychology.”
“Her childhood had been particularly unfortunate. It had set up an emotional block. . . .”
“Quite so, quite so.” Inspector Sharpe was desperately anxious to avoid hearing the story of yet
another unhappy childhood. Nigel’s had been quite enough.
“You had been attracted to her for some time?”
“I would not say precisely that,” said Colin, considering the matter conscientiously. “These
things sometimes surprise you by the way they dawn upon you suddenly, like. Subconsciously no
doubt, I had been attracted, but I was not aware of the fact. Since it was not my intention to marry
young, I had no doubt set up a considerable resistance to the idea in my conscious mind.”
“Yes. Just so. Celia Austin was happy in her engagement to you? I mean, she expressed no
doubts? Uncertainties? There was nothing she felt she ought to tell you?”
“She made a very full confession of all she’d been doing. There was nothing more in her mind
to worry her.”
“And you were planning to get married—when?”
“Not for a considerable time. I’m not in a position at the moment to support a wife.”
“Had Celia any enemies here? Anyone who did not like her?”
“I can hardly believe so. I’ve given that point of view a great deal of thought, Inspector. Celia
was well-liked here. I’d say, myself, it was not a personal matter at all which brought about her
end.”
“What do you mean by ‘not a personal matter?’ ”
“I do not wish to be very precise at the moment. It’s only a vague kind of idea I have and I’m
not clear about it myself.”
From that position the inspector could not budge him.
The last two students to be interviewed were Sally Finch and Elizabeth Johnston. The inspector
took Sally Finch first.
Sally was an attractive girl with a mop of red hair and eyes that were bright and intelligent.
After routine inquiries Sally Finch suddenly took the initiative.
“D’you know what I’d like to do, Inspector? I’d like to tell you just what I think. I personally.
There’s something all wrong about this house, something very wrong indeed. I’m sure of that.”
“You mean you’re afraid of something, Miss Finch?” Sally nodded her head.
“Yes, I’m afraid. There’s something or someone here who’s pretty ruthless. The whole place
isn’t—well, how shall I put it?—it isn’t what it seems. No, no, Inspector, I don’t mean
communists. I can see that just trembling on your lips. It’s not communists I mean. Perhaps it isn’t
even criminal. I don’t know. But I’ll bet you anything you like that awful old woman knows about
it all.”
“What old woman? You don’t mean Mrs. Hubbard?”
“No. Not Ma Hubbard. She’s a dear. I mean old Nicoletis. That old she-wolf.”
“That’s interesting, Miss Finch. Can you be more definite? About Mrs. Nicoletis, I mean.”
Sally shook her head.
“No. That’s just what I can’t be. All I can tell you is she gives me the creeps every time I pass
her. Something queer is going on here, Inspector.”
“I wish you could be a little more definite.”
“So do I. You’ll be thinking I’m fanciful. Well, perhaps I am, but other people feel it too.
Akibombo does. He’s scared. I believe Black Bess does, too, but she wouldn’t let on. And I think,
Inspector, that Celia knew something about it.”
“Knew something about what?”
“That’s just it. What? But there were things she said. Said that last day. About clearing
everything up. She had owned up to her part in what was going on, but she sort of hinted that there
were other things she knew about and she wanted to get them cleared up too. I think she knew
something, Inspector, about someone. That’s the reason I think she was killed.”
“But if it was something as serious as that. . . .”
Sally interrupted him.
“I’d say that she had no idea how serious it was. She wasn’t bright, you know. She was pretty
dumb. She’d got hold of something but she’d no idea that the something she’d got hold of was
dangerous. Anyway, that’s my hunch for what it’s worth.”
“I see. Thank you . . . Now the last time you saw Celia Austin was in the common room after
dinner last night, is that right?”
“That’s right. At least, actually, I saw her after that.”
“You saw her after that? Where? In her room?”
“No. When I went up to bed she was going out of the front door just as I came out of the
common room.”
“Going out of the front door? Out of the house, do you mean?”
“Yes.”
“That’s rather surprising. Nobody else has suggested that.”
“I dare say they didn’t know. She certainly said good night and that she was going up to bed,
and if I hadn’t seen her I would have assumed that she had gone up to bed.”
“Whereas actually she went upstairs, put on some outdoor things and then left the house. Is that
right?”
Sally nodded.
“And I think she was going to meet someone.”
“I see. Someone from outside. Or could it have been one of the students?”
“Well, it’s my hunch that it would be one of the students. You see, if she wanted to speak to
somebody privately, there was nowhere very well she could do it in the house. Someone might
have suggested that she should come out and meet them somewhere outside.”
“Have you any idea when she got in again?”
“No idea whatever.”
“Would Geronimo know, the manservant?”
“He’d know if she came in after eleven o’clock because that’s the time he bolts and chains the
door. Up to that time anyone can get in with their own key.”
“Do you know exactly what time it was when you saw her going out of the house?”
“I’d say it was about—ten. Perhaps a little past ten, but not much.”
“I see. Thank you, Miss Finch, for what you’ve told me.”
Last of all the inspector talked to Elizabeth Johnston. He was at once impressed with the quiet
capability of the girl. She answered his questions with intelligent decision and then waited for him
to proceed.
“Celia Austin,” he said, “protested vehemently that it was not she who damaged your papers,
Miss Johnston. Do you believe her?”
“I do not think Celia did that. No.”
“You don’t know who did?”
“The obvious answer is Nigel Chapman. But it seems to me a little too obvious. Nigel is
intelligent. He would not use his own ink.”
“And if not Nigel, who then?”
“That is more difficult. But I think Celia knew who it was—or at least guessed.”
“Did she tell you so?”
“Not in so many words; but she came to my room on the evening of the day she died, before
going down to dinner. She came to tell me that though she was responsible for the thefts she had
not sabotaged my work. I told her that I accepted that assurance. I asked her if she knew who had
done so.”
“And what did she say?”
“She said”—Elizabeth paused a moment, as though to be sure of the accuracy of what she was
about to say—“she said, ‘I can’t really be sure, because I don’t see why . . . It might have been a
mistake or an accident . . . I’m sure whoever did it is very unhappy about it, and would really like
to own up.’ Celia went on, ‘There are some things I don’t understand, like the electric lightbulbs
the day the police came.’ ”
Sharpe interrupted.
“What’s this about the police and electric lightbulbs?”
“I don’t know. All Celia said was: ‘I didn’t take them out.’ And then she said: ‘I wondered if it
had anything to do with the passport?’ I said, ‘What passport are you talking about?’ And she said:
‘I think someone might have a forged passport.’ ”
The inspector was silent for a moment or two.
Here at last some vague pattern seemed to be taking shape. A passport. . . .
He asked, “What more did she say?”
“Nothing more. She just said: ‘Anyway I shall know more about it tomorrow.’ ”
“She said that, did she? I shall know more about it tomorrow. That’s a very significant remark,
Miss Johnston.”
“Yes.”
The inspector was again silent as he reflected.
Something about a passport—and a visit from the police . . . Before coming to Hickory Road,
he had carefully looked up the files. A fairly close eye was kept on hostels which housed foreign
students. 26 Hickory Road had a good record. Such details as there were, were meagre and
unsuggestive. A West African student wanted by the Sheffield police for living on a woman’s
earnings; the student in question had been at Hickory Road for a few days and had then gone
elsewhere, and had in due course been gathered in and since deported. There had been a routine
check of all hostels and boardinghouses for a Eurasian “wanted to assist the police” in the
investigation of the murder of a publican’s wife near Cambridge. That had been cleared up when
the young man in question had walked into the police station at Hull and had given himself up for
the crime. There had been an inquiry into a student’s distribution of subversive pamphlets. All
these occurrences had taken place some time ago and could not possibly have any connection with
the death of Celia Austin.
He sighed and looked up to find Elizabeth Johnston’s dark intelligent eyes watching him.
On an impulse, he said, “Tell me, Miss Johnston, have you ever had a feeling—an impression—
of something wrong about this place?”
She looked surprised.
“In what way—wrong?”
“I couldn’t really say. I’m thinking of something Miss Sally Finch said to me.”
“Oh—Sally Finch!”
There was an intonation in her voice which he found hard to place. He felt interested and went
on:
“Miss Finch seemed to me a good observer, both shrewd and practical. She was very insistent
on there being something—odd, about this place—though she found it difficult to define just what
it was.”
Elizabeth said sharply:
“That is her American way of thought. They are all the same, these Americans, nervous,
apprehensive, suspecting every kind of foolish thing! Look at the fools they make of themselves
with their witch hunts, their hysterical spy mania, their obsession over communism. Sally Finch is
typical.”
The inspector’s interest grew. So Elizabeth disliked Sally Finch. Why? Because Sally was an
American? Or did Elizabeth dislike Americans merely because Sally Finch was an American, and
had she some reason of her own for disliking the attractive redhead? Perhaps it was just simple
female jealousy.
He resolved to try a line of approach that he had sometimes found useful. He said smoothly:
“As you may appreciate, Miss Johnston, in an establishment like this, the level of intelligence
varies a great deal. Some people—most people—we just ask for facts. But when we come across
someone with a high level of intelligence—”
He paused. The inference was flattering. Would she respond?
After a brief pause, she did.
“I think I understand what you mean, Inspector. The intellectual level here is not, as you say,
very high. Nigel Chapman has a certain quickness of intellect, but his mind is shallow. Leonard
Bateson is a plodder—no more. Valerie Hobhouse has a good quality of mind, but her outlook is
commercial, and she’s too lazy to use her brains on anything worthwhile. What you want is the
detachment of a trained mind.”
“Such as yours, Miss Johnston.”
She accepted the tribute without a protest. He realised, with some interest, that behind her
modest pleasant manner, here was a young woman who was positively arrogant in her
appraisement of her own qualities.
“I’m inclined to agree with your estimate of your fellow students, Miss Hobhouse. Chapman is
clever but childish. Valerie Hobhouse has brains but a blasé attitude to life. You, as you say, have
a trained mind. That’s why I’d value your views—the views of a powerful detached intellect.”
For a moment he was afraid he had overdone it, but he need have had no fears.
“There is nothing wrong about this place, Inspector. Pay no attention to Sally Finch. This is a
decent well-run hostel. I am certain that you will find no trace here of any subversive activities.”
Inspector Sharpe felt a little surprised.
“It wasn’t really subversive activities I was thinking about.”
“Oh—I see—” She was a little taken aback. “I was linking up what Celia said about a passport.
But looking at it impartially and weighing up all the evidence, it seems quite certain to me that the
reason for Celia’s death was what I should express as a private one—some sex complication,
perhaps. I’m sure it had nothing to do with what I might call the hostel as a hostel, or anything
‘going on’ here. Nothing, I am sure, is going on. I should be aware of the fact if it were so, my
perceptions are very keen.”
“I see. Well, thank you, Miss Johnston. You’ve been very kind and helpful.”
Elizabeth Johnston went out. Inspector Sharpe sat staring at the closed door and Sergeant Cobb
had to speak to him twice before he roused himself.
“Eh?”
“I said that’s the lot, sir.”
“Yes, and what have we got? Precious little. But I’ll tell you one thing, Cobb. I’m coming back
here tomorrow with a search warrant. We’ll go away talking pretty now and they’ll think it’s all
over. But there’s something going on in this place. Tomorrow I’ll turn it upside down—not so
easy when you don’t know what you’re looking for, but there’s a chance that I’ll find something to
give me a clue. That’s a very interesting girl who just went out. She’s got the ego of a Napoleon,
and I strongly suspect that she knows something.”
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