大象的证词4

时间:2025-07-01 02:35:54

(单词翻译:单击)

Chapter 4
Celia
A tall girl was standing on the mat outside. Just for a moment Mrs Oliverwas startled looking at her. So this was Celia. The impression of vitalityand of life was really very strong. Mrs Oliver had the feeling which onedoes not often get.
Here, she thought, was someone who meant something. Aggressive, per-haps, could be difficult, could be almost dangerous perhaps. One of thosegirls who had a mission in life, who was dedicated to violence, perhaps,who went in for causes. But interesting. Definitely interesting.
‘Come in, Celia,’ she said. ‘It’s such a long time since I saw you. The lasttime, as far as I remember, was at a wedding. You were a bridesmaid. Youwore apricot chiffon, I remember, and large bunches of – I can’t remem-ber what it was, something that looked like Golden Rod.’
‘Probably was Golden Rod,’ said Celia Ravenscroft. ‘We sneezed a lot –with hay fever. It was a terrible wedding. I know. Martha Leghorn, wasn’tit? Ugliest bridesmaids’ dresses I’ve ever seen. Certainly the ugliest I’veever worn!’
‘Yes. They weren’t very becoming to anybody. You looked better thanmost, if I may say so.’
‘Well, it’s nice of you to say that,’ said Celia. ‘I didn’t feel my best.’
Mrs Oliver indicated a chair and manipulated a couple of decanters.
‘Like sherry or something else?’
‘No. I’d like sherry.’
‘There you are, then. I suppose it seems rather odd to you,’ said MrsOliver. ‘My ringing you up suddenly like this.’
‘Oh no, I don’t know that it does particularly.’
‘I’m not a very conscientious godmother, I’m afraid.’
‘Why should you be, at my age?’
‘You’re right there,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘One’s duties, one feels, end at a cer-tain time. Not that I ever really fulfilled mine. I don’t remember coming toyour Confirmation.’
‘I believe the duty of a godmother is to make you learn your catechismand a few things like that, isn’t it? Renounce the devil and all his works inmy name,’ said Celia. A faint, humorous smile came to her lips.
She was being very amiable but all the same, thought Mrs Oliver, she’srather a dangerous girl in some ways.
‘Well, I’ll tell you why I’ve been trying to get hold of you,’ said MrsOliver. ‘The whole thing is rather peculiar. I don’t often go out to literaryparties, but as it happened I did go out to one the day before yesterday.’
‘Yes, I know,’ said Celia. ‘I saw mention of it in the paper, and you hadyour name in it, too, Mrs Ariadne Oliver, and I rather wondered because Iknow you don’t usually go to that sort of thing.’
‘No,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘I rather wish I hadn’t gone to that one.’
‘Didn’t you enjoy it?’
‘Yes, I did in a way because I hadn’t been to one before. And so – well,the first time there’s always something that amuses you. But,’ she added,‘there’s usually something that annoys you as well.’
‘And something happened to annoy you?’
‘Yes. And it’s connected in an odd sort of way with you. And I thought –well, I thought I ought to tell you about it because I didn’t like whathappened. I didn’tlike it at all.’
‘Sounds intriguing,’ said Celia, and sipped her sherry.
‘There was a woman there who came and spoke to me. I didn’t knowher and she didn’t know me.’
‘Still, I suppose that often happens to you,’ said Celia.
‘Yes, invariably,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘It’s one of the – hazards of literary life.
People come up to you and say “I do love your books so much and I’m sopleased to be able to meet you.” That sort of thing.’
‘I was secretary to a writer once. I do know about that sort of thing andhow difficult it is.’
‘Yes, well, there was some of that too, but that I was prepared for. Andthen this woman came up to me and she said “I believe you have a god-daughter called Celia Ravenscroft.”’
‘Well, that was a bit odd,’ said Celia. ‘Just coming up to you and sayingthat. It seems to me she ought to have led into it more gradually. Youknow, talking about your books first and how much she’d enjoyed the lastone, or something like that. And then sliding into me. What had she gotagainst me?’
‘As far as I know she hadn’t got anything against you,’ said Mrs Oliver.
‘Was she a friend of mine?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Mrs Oliver.
There was a silence. Celia sipped some more sherry and looked verysearchingly at Mrs Oliver.
‘You know,’ she said, ‘you’re rather intriguing me. I can’t see quite whatyou’re leading into.’
‘Well,’ said Mrs Oliver, ‘I hope you won’t be angry with me.’
‘Why should I be angry with you?’
‘Well, because I’m going to tell you something, or repeat something, andyou might say it’s no business of mine or I ought to keep quiet about it andnot mention it.’
‘You’ve aroused my curiosity,’ said Celia.
‘Her name she mentioned to me. She was a Mrs Burton-Cox.’
‘Oh!’ Celia’s ‘Oh’ was rather distinctive. ‘Oh.’
‘You know her?’
‘Yes, I know her,’ said Celia. ‘Well, I thought you must because –’
‘Because of what?’
‘Because of something she said.’
‘What – about me? That she knew me?’
‘She said that she thought her son might be going to marry you.’
Celia’s expression changed. Her eyebrows went up, came down again.
She looked very hard at Mrs Oliver.
‘You want to know if that’s so or not?’
‘No,’ said Mrs Oliver, ‘I don’t particularly want to know. I merely men-tion that because it’s one of the first things she said to me. She said be-cause you were my goddaughter, I might be able to ask you to give mesome information. I presume that she meant that if the information wasgiven to me I was to pass it on to her.’
‘What information?’
‘Well, I don’t suppose you’ll like what I’m going to say now,’ said MrsOliver. ‘I didn’t like it myself. In fact, it gives me a very nasty feeling alldown my spine because I think it was – well, such awful cheek. Awful badmanners. Absolutely unpardonable. She said, “Can you find out if herfather murdered her mother or if her mother murdered her father.” ’
‘She said that to you? Asked you to do that?’
‘Yes.’
‘And she didn’t know you? I mean, apart from being an authoress andbeing at the party?’
‘She didn’t know me at all. She’d never met me, I’d never met her.’
‘Didn’t you find that extraordinary?’
‘I don’t know that I’d find anything extraordinary that that woman said.
She struck me,’ said Mrs Oliver, ‘if I may say so, as a particularly odiouswoman.’
‘Oh yes. She is a particularly odious woman.’
‘And are you going to marry her son?’
‘Well, we’ve considered the question. I don’t know. You knew what shewas talking about?’
‘Well, I know what I suppose anyone would know who was acquaintedwith your family.’
‘That my father and mother, after he had retired from the Army, boughta house in the country, that they went out one day for a walk together, awalk along the cliff path. That they were found there, both of them shot.
There was a revolver lying there. It belonged to my father. He had two re-volvers in the house, it seems. There was nothing to say whether it was asuicide pact or whether my father killed my mother and then shot himself,or my mother shot my father and then killed herself. But perhaps youknow all this already.’
‘I know it after a fashion,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘It happened I think abouttwelve years ago.’
‘About that, yes.’
‘And you were about twelve or fourteen at the time.’
‘Yes …’
‘I don’t know much about it,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘I wasn’t even in Englandmyself. At the time – I was on a lecture tour in America. I simply read it inthe paper. It was given a lot of space in the press because it was difficult toknow the real facts – there did not seem to be any motive. Your father andmother had always been happy together and lived on good terms. I re-member that being mentioned. I was interested because I had known yourfather and mother when we were all much younger, especially yourmother. I was at school with her. After that our ways led apart. I marriedand went somewhere and she married and went out, as far as I remem-ber, to Malaya or some place like that, with her soldier husband. But shedid ask me to be godmother to one of her children. You. Since yourmother and father were living abroad, I saw very little of them for manyyears. I saw you occasionally.’
‘Yes. You used to take me out from school. I remember that. Gave mesome specially good feeds, too. Lovely food you gave me.’
‘You were an unusual child. You liked caviar.’
‘I still do,’ said Celia, ‘though I don’t get it offered to me very often.’
‘I was shocked to read this mention of things in the paper. Very littlewas said. I gathered it was a kind of open verdict. No particular motive.
Nothing to show. No accounts of a quarrel, there was no suggestion ofthere having been an attack from outside. I was shocked by it,’ said MrsOliver, ‘and then I forgot it. I wondered once or twice what could have ledto it, but as I was not in the country – I was doing a tour at the time, inAmerica as I’ve said – the whole thing passed out of my mind. It was someyears later when I next saw you and naturally I did not speak of it to you.’
‘No,’ said Celia, ‘I appreciate that.’
‘All through life,’ Mrs Oliver said, ‘one comes across very curious thingsthat happen to friends or to acquaintances. With friends, of course, veryoften you have some idea of what led to – whatever the incident might be.
But if it’s a long time since you’ve heard them discussed or talked to them,you are quite in the dark and there is nobody that you can show too muchcuriosity to about the occasion.’
‘You were always very nice to me,’ said Celia. ‘You sent me nicepresents, a particularly nice present when I was twenty-one, I remember.’
‘That’s the time when girls need some extra cash in hand,’ said MrsOliver, ‘because there are so many things they want to do and have justthen.’
‘Yes, I always thought you were an understanding person and not – well,you know what some people are like. Always questioning, and askingthings and wanting to know all about you. You never asked questions. Youused to take me out to shows, or give me nice meals, and talk to me asthough, well, as though everything was all right and you were just a dis-tant relation of the family. I’ve appreciated that. I’ve known so many no-sey-parkers in my life.’
‘Yes. Everyone comes up against that sooner or later,’ said Mrs Oliver.
‘But you see now what upset me at this particular party. It seems an ex-traordinary thing to be asked to do by a complete stranger like Mrs Bur-ton-Cox. I couldn’t imagine why she should want to know. It was no busi-ness of hers, surely. Unless –’
‘You thought it was, unless it was something to do with my marryingDesmond. Desmond is her son.’
‘Yes, I suppose it could have been, but I couldn’t see how, or what busi-ness it was of hers.’
‘Everything’s her business. She’s nosey – in fact she’s what you said shewas, an odious woman.’
‘But I gather Desmond isn’t odious.’
‘No. No, I’m very fond of Desmond and Desmond is fond of me. I don’tlike his mother.’
‘Does he like his mother?’
‘I don’t really know,’ said Celia. ‘I suppose he might like her – anything’spossible, isn’t it? Anyway, I don’t want to get married at present, I don’tfeel like it. And there are a lot of – oh, well, difficulties, you know, thereare a lot of fors and againsts. It must have made you feel rather curious,’
said Celia. ‘I mean, why Mrs Nosey Cox should have asked you to try andworm things out of me and then run along and spill it all to her – Are youasking me that particular question by the way?’
‘You mean, am I asking you whether you think or know that yourmother killed your father or your father killed your mother, or whether itwas a double suicide. Is that what you mean?’
‘Well, I suppose it is, in a way. But I think I have to ask you also, if youwere wanting to ask me that, whether you were doing so with the idea ofgiving Mrs Burton-Cox the information you obtained, in case you did re-ceive any information from me.’
‘No,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘Quite decidedly no. I shouldn’t dream of tellingthe odious woman anything of the sort. I shall tell her quite firmly that itis not any business of hers or of mine, and that I have no intention of ob-taining information from you and retailing it to her.’
‘Well, that’s what I thought,’ said Celia. ‘I thought I could trust you tothat extent. I don’t mind telling you what I do know. Such as it is.’
‘You needn’t. I’m not asking you for it.’
‘No. I can quite see that. But I’ll give you the answer all the same. Theanswer is – nothing.’
‘Nothing,’ said Mrs Oliver thoughtfully.
‘No. I wasn’t there at the time. I mean, I wasn’t in the house at the time. Ican’t remember now quite where I was. I think I was at school in Switzer-land, or else I was staying with a school friend during the school holidays.
You see, it’s all rather mixed up in my mind by now.’
‘I suppose,’ said Mrs Oliver doubtfully, ‘it wouldn’t be likely that youwould know. Considering your age at the time.’
‘I’d be interested,’ said Celia, ‘to know just what you feel about that. Doyou think it would be likely for me to know all about it? Or not to know?’
‘Well, you said you weren’t in the house. If you’d been in the house atthe time, then yes, I think it would be quite likely that you might knowsomething. Children do. Teenagers do. People of that age know a lot, theysee a lot, they don’t talk about it very often. But they do know things thatthe outside world wouldn’t know, and they do know things that theywouldn’t be willing, shall we say, to tell to police enquirers.’
‘No. You’re being quite sensible. I wouldn’t’ve known. I don’t think I didknow. I don’t think Ihad any idea. What did the police think? You don’tmind my asking you that, I hope, because I should be interested. You see, Inever read any account of the inquest or anything like that or the enquiryinto it.’
‘I think they thought it was a double suicide, but I don’t think they everhad any inkling as to the reason for it.’
‘Do you want to know what I think?’
‘Not if you don’t want me to know,’ said Mrs Oliver.
‘But I expect you are interested. After all, you write crime stories aboutpeople who kill themselves or kill each other, or who have reasons forthings. I should think you would be interested.’
‘Yes, I’ll admit that,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘But the last thing I want to do is tooffend you by seeking for information which is no business of mine toknow.’
‘Well, I wondered,’ said Celia. ‘I’ve often wondered from time to timewhy, and how, but I knew very little about things. I mean, about howthings were going on at home. The holidays before that I had been awayon exchange on the Continent, so I hadn’t seen my mother and fatherreally very recently. I mean, they’d come out to Switzerland and taken meout from school once or twice, but that was all. They seemed much asusual, but they seemed older. My father, I think, was ailing. I mean, get-ting feebler. I don’t know if it was heart or what it was. One doesn’t reallythink about that. My mother, too, she was going rather nervy. Not hypo-chondriac but a little inclined to fuss over her health. They were on goodterms, quite friendly. There wasn’t anything that I noticed. Only some-times one would, well, sometimes one gets ideas. One doesn’t think they’retrue or necessarily right at all, but one just wonders if –’
‘I don’t think we’d better talk about it any more,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘Wedon’t need to know or find out. The whole thing’s over and done with. Theverdict was quite satisfactory. No means to show, or motive, or anythinglike that. But there was no question of your father having deliberatelykilled your mother, or of your mother having deliberately killed yourfather.’
‘If I thought which was most likely,’ said Celia, ‘I would think my fatherkilled my mother. Because, you see, it’s more natural for a man to shootanyone, I think. To shoot a woman for whatever reason it was. I don’tthink a woman, or a woman like my mother, would be so likely to shootmy father. If she wanted him dead, I should think she might have chosensome other method. But I don’t think either of them wanted the other onedead.’
‘So it could have been an outsider.’
‘Yes, but what does one mean by an outsider?’ said Celia.
‘Who else was there living in the house?’
‘A housekeeper, elderly, rather blind and rather deaf, a foreign girl, anau pair girl, she’d been my governess once – she was awfully nice – shecame back to look after my mother who had been in hospital – And therewas an aunt whom I never loved much. I don’t think any of them couldhave been likely to have any grudge against my parents. There wasnobody who profited by their deaths, except, I suppose, myself and mybrother Edward, who was four years younger than I was. We inheritedwhat money there was but it wasn’t very much. My father had his pen-sion, of course. My mother had a small income of her own. No. There wasnothing there of any importance.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve distressed you by asking allthis.’
‘You haven’t distressed me. You’ve brought it up in my mind a little andit has interested me. Because, you see, I am of an age now that I wish I didknow. I knew and was fond of them, as one is fond of parents. Not pas-sionately, just normally, but I realize I don’t know what they were reallylike. What their life was like. What mattered to them. I don’t know any-thing about it at all. I wish I did know. It’s like a burr, something stickinginto you, and you can’t leave it alone. Yes. I would like to know. Becausethen, you see, I shouldn’t have to think about it any more.’
‘So you do? Think about it?’
Celia looked at her for a moment. She seemed to be trying to come to adecision.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I think about it nearly all the time. I’m getting to have athing about it, if you know what I mean. And Desmond feels the same.’
 

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