弄假成真11
时间：2025-03-03 03:29:53
（单词翻译:单击）
Eleven
I
Mrs. Folliat was at that moment being talked to by Hercule Poirot in the big drawing room. He
had found her there leaning back in a chair in a corner of the room. She had started nervously
when he came in. Then sinking back, she had murmured:
“Oh, it’s you, M. Poirot.”
“I apologize, Madame. I disturbed you.”
“No, no. You don’t disturb me. I’m just resting, that’s all. I’m not as young as I was. The shock
—it was too much for me.”
“I comprehend,” said Poirot. “Indeed, I comprehend.”
Mrs. Folliat, a handkerchief clutched in her small hand, was staring up at the ceiling. She said in
a voice half-stifled with emotion:
“I can hardly bear to think of it. That poor girl. That poor, poor girl—”
“I know,” said Poirot. “I know.”
“So young,” said Mrs. Folliat; “just at the beginning of life.” She said again, “I can hardly bear
to think of it.”
Poirot looked at her curiously. She seemed, he thought, to have aged by about ten years since
the time early in the afternoon, when he had seen her, the gracious hostess, welcoming her guests.
Now her face seemed drawn and haggard with the lines in it clearly marked.
“You said to me only yesterday, Madame, it is a very wicked world.”
“Did I say that?” Mrs. Folliat seemed startled. “It’s true…Oh, yes, I’m only just beginning to
know how true it is.” She added in a low voice, “But I never thought anything like this would
happen.”
Again he looked at her curiously.
“What did you think would happen, then? Something?”
“No, no. I didn’t mean that.”
Poirot persisted.
“But you did expect something to happen—something out of the usual.”
“You misunderstand me, M. Poirot. I only mean that it’s the last thing you would expect to
happen in the middle of a fête like this.”
“Lady Stubbs this morning also spoke of wickedness.”
“Hattie did? Oh, don’t speak of her to me—don’t speak of her. I don’t want to think about her.”
She was silent for a moment or two, and then said, “What did she say—about wickedness?”
“She was speaking of her cousin. Etienne de Sousa. She said that he was wicked, that he was a
bad man. She said, too, that she was afraid of him.”
He watched, but she merely shook her head incredulously.
“Etienne de Sousa—who is he?”
“Of course, you were not at breakfast. I forgot, Mrs. Folliat. Lady Stubbs received a letter from
this cousin of hers whom she had not seen since she was a girl of fifteen. He told her that he
proposed to call upon her today, this afternoon.”
“And did he come?”
“Yes. He arrived here about half past four.”
“Surely—d’you mean that rather handsome, dark young man who came up the ferry path? I
wondered who he was at the time.”
“Yes, Madame, that was Mr. de Sousa.”
Mrs. Folliat said energetically:
“If I were you I should pay no attention to the things Hattie says.” She flushed as Poirot looked
at her in surprise and went on, “She is like a child—I mean, she uses terms like a child—wicked,
good. No half shades. I shouldn’t pay any attention to what she tells you about this Etienne de
Sousa.”
Again Poirot wondered. He said slowly:
“You know Lady Stubbs very well, do you not, Mrs. Folliat?”
“Probably as well as anyone knows her. Possibly even better than her husband really knows her.
And if I do?”
“What is she really like, Madame?”
“What a very odd question, M. Poirot.”
“You know, do you not, Madame, that Lady Stubbs cannot be found anywhere?”
Again her answer surprised him. She expressed no concern or astonishment. She said:
“So she has run away, has she? I see.”
“It seems to you quite natural, that?”
“Natural? Oh, I don’t know. Hattie is rather unaccountable.”
“Do you think she has run away because she has a guilty conscience?”
“What do you mean, M. Poirot?”
“Her cousin was talking about her this afternoon. He mentioned casually that she had always
been mentally subnormal. I think you must know, Madame, that people who are subnormal
mentally are not always accountable for their actions.”
“What are you trying to say, M. Poirot?”
“Such people are, as you say, very simple—like children. In a sudden fit of rage they might
even kill.”
Mrs. Folliat turned on him in sudden anger.
“Hattie was never like that! I won’t allow you to say such things. She was a gentle warmhearted
girl, even if she was—a little simple mentally. Hattie would never have killed anyone.”
She faced him, breathing hard, still indignant.
Poirot wondered. He wondered very much.
II
Breaking into this scene, P.C. Hoskins made his appearance.
He said in an apologetic manner:
“I’ve been looking for you, ma’am.”
“Good evening, Hoskins.” Mrs. Folliat was once more her poised self again, the mistress of
Nasse House. “Yes, what is it?”
“The inspector’s compliments, and he’d be glad to have a word with you—if you feels up to it,
that is,” Hoskins hastened to add; noting, as Hercule Poirot had done, the effects of shock.
“Of course I feel up to it.” Mrs. Folliat rose to her feet. She followed Hoskins out of the room.
Poirot, having risen politely, sat down again and stared up at the ceiling with a puzzled frown.
The inspector rose when Mrs. Folliat entered and the constable held the chair for her to sit
down.
“I’m sorry to worry you, Mrs. Folliat,” said Bland. “But I imagine that you know all the people
in the neighbourhood and I think you may be able to help us.”
Mrs. Folliat smiled faintly. “I expect,” she said, “that I know everyone round here as well as
anyone could do. What do you want to know, Inspector?”
“You knew the Tuckers? The family and the girl?”
“Oh, yes, of course, they’ve always been tenants on the estate. Mrs. Tucker was the youngest of
a large family. Her eldest brother was our head gardener. She married Alfred Tucker, who is a
farm labourer—a stupid man but very nice. Mrs. Tucker is a bit of a shrew. A good housewife,
you know, and very clean in the house, but Tucker is never allowed to come anywhere farther than
the scullery with his muddy boots on. All that sort of thing. She nags the children rather. Most of
them have married and gone into jobs now. There was just this poor child, Marlene, left and three
younger children. Two boys and a girl still at school.”
“Now, knowing the family as you do, Mrs. Folliat, can you think of any reason why Marlene
should have been killed today?”
“No, indeed I can’t. It’s quite, quite unbelievable, if you know what I mean, Inspector. There
was no boyfriend or anything of that kind, or I shouldn’t think so. Not that I’ve ever heard of,
anyway.”
“Now what about the people who’ve been taking part in this Murder Hunt? Can you tell me
anything about them?”
“Well, Mrs. Oliver I’d never met before. She is quite unlike my idea of what a crime novelist
would be. She’s very upset, poor dear, by what has happened—naturally.”
“And what about the other helpers—Captain Warburton, for instance?”
“I don’t see any reason why he should murder Marlene Tucker, if that’s what you’re asking
me,” said Mrs. Folliat composedly. “I don’t like him very much. He’s what I call a foxy sort of
man, but I suppose one has to be up to all the political tricks and all that kind of thing, if one is a
political agent. He’s certainly energetic and has worked very hard over this fête. I don’t think he
could have killed the girl, anyway, because he was on the lawn the whole time this afternoon.”
The inspector nodded.
“And the Legges? What do you know about the Legges?”
“Well, they seem a very nice young couple. He’s inclined to be what I should call—moody. I
don’t know very much about him. She was a Carstairs before her marriage and I know some
relations of hers very well. They took the Mill Cottage for two months, and I hope they’ve enjoyed
their holiday here. We’ve all got very friendly together.”
“She’s an attractive lady, I understand.”
“Oh, yes, very attractive.”
“Would you say that at any time Sir George had felt that attraction?”
Mrs. Folliat looked rather astonished.
“Oh, no, I’m sure there was nothing of that kind. Sir George is really absorbed by his business,
and very fond of his wife. He’s not at all a philandering sort of man.”
“And there was nothing, you would say, between Lady Stubbs and Mr. Legge?”
Again Mrs. Folliat shook her head.
“Oh, no, positively.”
The inspector persisted.
“There’s been no trouble of any kind between Sir George and his wife, that you know of?”
“I’m sure there hasn’t,” said Mrs. Folliat, emphatically. “And I would know if there had been.”
“It wouldn’t be, then, as a result of any disagreement between husband and wife that Lady
Stubbs has gone away?”
“Oh, no.” She added lightly, “The silly girl, I understand, didn’t want to meet this cousin of
hers. Some childish phobia. So she’s run away just like a child might do.”
“That’s your opinion. Nothing more than that?”
“Oh, no. I expect she’ll turn up again quite soon. Feeling rather ashamed of herself.” She added
carelessly, “What’s become of this cousin, by the way? Is he still here in the house?”
“I understand he’s gone back to his yacht.”
“And that’s at Helmmouth, is it?”
“Yes, at Helmmouth.”
“I see,” said Mrs. Folliat. “Well, it’s rather unfortunate — Hattie behaving so childishly.
However, if he’s staying on here for a day or so, we can make her see she must behave properly.”
It was, the inspector thought, a question, but although he noticed it he did not answer it.
“You are probably thinking,” he said, “that all this is rather beside the point. But you do
understand, don’t you, Mrs. Folliat, that we have to range over rather a wide field. Miss Brewis,
for instance. What do you know about Miss Brewis?”
“Well, she’s an excellent secretary. More than a secretary. She practically acts as housekeeper
down here. In fact, I don’t know what they’d do without her.”
“Was she Sir George’s secretary before he married his wife?”
“I think so. I’m not quite sure. I’ve only known her since she came down here with them.”
“She doesn’t like Lady Stubbs very much, does she?”
“No,” said Mrs. Folliat, “I’m afraid she doesn’t. I don’t think these good secretaries ever do care
for wives much, if you know what I mean. Perhaps it’s natural.”
“Was it you or Lady Stubbs who asked Miss Brewis to take cakes and a fruit drink to the girl in
the boathouse?”
Mrs. Folliat looked slightly surprised.
“I remember Miss Brewis collecting some cakes and things and saying she was taking them
along to Marlene. I didn’t know anyone had particularly asked her to do it, or arranged about it. It
certainly wasn’t me.”
“I see. You say you were in the tea tent from four o’clock on. I believe Mrs. Legge was also
having tea in the tent at that time.”
“Mrs. Legge? No, I don’t think so. At least I don’t remember seeing her there. In fact, I’m quite
sure she wasn’t there. We’d had a great influx by the bus from Torquay, and I remember looking
round the tent and thinking that they must all be summer visitors; there was hardly a face there that
I knew. I think Mrs. Legge must have come in to tea later.”
“Oh, well,” said the inspector, “it doesn’t matter.” He added smoothly, “Well, I really think
that’s all. Thank you, Mrs. Folliat, you’ve been very kind. We can only hope that Lady Stubbs will
return shortly.”
“I hope so, too,” said Mrs. Folliat. “Very thoughtless of the dear child giving us all so much
anxiety.” She spoke briskly but the animation in her voice was not very natural. “I’m sure,” said
Mrs. Folliat, “that she’s quite all right. Quite all right.”
At that moment the door opened and an attractive young woman with red hair and a freckled
face came in, and said:
“I hear you’ve been asking for me?”
“This is Mrs. Legge, Inspector,” said Mrs. Folliat. “Sally, dear, I don’t know whether you’ve
heard about the terrible thing that has happened?”
“Oh, yes! Ghastly, isn’t it?” said Mrs. Legge. She uttered an exhausted sigh, and sank down in
the chair as Mrs. Folliat left the room.
“I’m terribly sorry about all this,” she said. “It seems really unbelievable, if you know what I
mean. I’m afraid I can’t help you in any way. You see, I’ve been telling fortunes all the afternoon,
so I haven’t seen anything of what was going on.”
“I know, Mrs. Legge. But we just have to ask everybody the same routine questions. For
instance, just where were you between four fifteen and five o’clock?”
“Well, I went and had tea at four o’clock.”
“In the tea tent?”
“Yes.”
“It was very crowded, I believe?”
“Oh, frightfully crowded.”
“Did you see anyone you knew there?”
“Oh, a few old people, yes. Nobody to speak to. Goodness, how I wanted that tea! That was
four o’clock, as I say. I got back to the fortune-telling tent at half past four and went on with my
job. And goodness knows what I was promising the women in the end. Millionaire husbands, film
stardom in Hollywood—heaven knows what. Mere journeys across the sea and suspicious dark
women seemed too tame.”
“What happened during the half hour when you were absent—I mean, supposing people wanted
to have their fortunes told?”
“Oh, I hung a card up outside the tent. ‘Back at four-thirty.’”
The inspector made a note in his pad.
“When did you last see Lady Stubbs?”
“Hattie? I don’t really know. She was quite near at hand when I came out of the fortune-telling
tent to go to tea, but I didn’t speak to her. I don’t remember seeing her afterwards. Somebody told
me just now that she’s missing. Is that true?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Oh, well,” said Sally Legge cheerfully, “she’s a bit queer in the top storey, you know. I dare
say having a murder here has frightened her.”
“Well, thank you, Mrs. Legge.”
Mrs. Legge accepted the dismissal with promptitude. She went out, passing Hercule Poirot in
the doorway.
III
Looking at the ceiling, the inspector spoke.
“Mrs. Legge says she was in the tea tent between four and four-thirty. Mrs. Folliat says she was
helping in the tea tent from four o’clock on but that Mrs. Legge was not among those present.” He
paused and then went on, “Miss Brewis says that Lady Stubbs asked her to take a tray of cakes and
fruit juice to Marlene Tucker. Michael Weyman says that it’s quite impossible Lady Stubbs should
have done any such thing—it would be most uncharacteristic of her.”
“Ah,” said Poirot, “the conflicting statements! Yes, one always has them.”
“And what a nuisance they are to clear up, too,” said the inspector. “Sometimes they matter but
in nine times out of ten they don’t. Well, we’ve got to do a lot of spade work, that’s clear.”
“And what do you think now, mon cher? What are the latest ideas?”
“I think,” said the inspector gravely, “that Marlene Tucker saw something she was not meant to
see. I think that it was because of what Marlene Tucker saw that she had to be killed.”
“I will not contradict you,” said Poirot. “The point is what did she see?”
“She might have seen a murder,” said the inspector. “Or she might have seen the person who
did the murder.”
“Murder?” said Poirot. “The murder of whom?”
“What do you think, Poirot? Is Lady Stubbs alive or dead?”
Poirot took a moment or two before he replied. Then he said:
“I think, mon ami, that Lady Stubbs is dead. And I will tell you why I think that. It is because
Mrs. Folliat thinks she is dead. Yes, whatever she may say now, or pretend to think, Mrs. Folliat
believes that Hattie Stubbs is dead. Mrs. Folliat,” he added, “knows a great deal that we do not.”
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