III

The manservant, Rogers, had been moistening his lips and twisting his hands. He said now in a

low deferential¹ voice:

“If I might just say a word, sir.”

Lombard said:

“Go ahead, Rogers.”

Rogers cleared his throat and passed his tongue once more over his dry lips.

“There was a mention, sir, of me and Mrs. Rogers. And of Miss Brady. There isn’t a word

of truth in it, sir. My wife and I were with Miss Brady till she died. She was always in poor

health, sir, always from the time we came to her. There was a storm, sir, that night—the night

she was taken bad. The telephone was out of order. We couldn’t get the doctor to her. I went for

him, sir, on foot. But he got there too late. We’d done everything possible for her, sir. Devoted²

to her, we were. Anyone will tell you the same. There was never a word said against us. Not a

word.”

Lombard looked thoughtfully at the man’s twitching³ face, his dry lips, the fright in his

eyes. He remembered the crash of the falling coffee tray. He thought, but did not say: “Oh

yeah?”

Blore spoke—spoke in his hearty⁴ bullying⁵ official manner.

He said:

“Came into a little something at her death, though? Eh?”

Rogers drew himself up. He said stiffly:

“Miss Brady left us a legacy⁶ in recognition of our faithful services. And why not, I’d like

to know?”

Lombard said:

“What about yourself, Mr. Blore?”

“What about me?”

“Your name was included in the list.”

Blore went purple.

“Landor, you mean? That was the bank robbery—London and Commercial.”

Mr. Justice Wargrave stirred. He said:

“I remember. It didn’t come before me, but I remember the case. Landor was convicted on

your evidence. You were the police officer in charge of the case?”

Blore said:

“I was.”

“Landor got penal⁷ servitude for life and died on Dartmoor a year later. He was a delicate

man.”

Blore said:

“He was a crook⁸. It was he who knocked out the night watchman. The case was quite clear

against him.”

Wargrave said slowly:

“You were complimented, I think, on your able handling of the case.”

Blore said sulkily:

“I got my promotion⁹.”

He added in a thick voice.

“I was only doing my duty.”

Lombard laughed—a sudden ringing laugh. He said:

“What a duty-loving law-abiding lot we all seem to be! Myself excepted. What about you,

doctor—and your little professional mistake? Illegal operation, was it?”

Emily Brent glanced at him in sharp distaste and drew herself away a little.

Dr. Armstrong, very much master of himself, shook his head good-humouredly.

“I’m at a loss to understand the matter,” he said. “The name meant nothing to me when it

was spoken. What was it—Clees? Close? I really can’t remember having a patient of that name,

or being connected with a death in any way. The thing’s a complete mystery to me. Of course,

it’s a long time ago. It might possibly be one of my operation cases in hospital. They come too

late, so many of these people. Then, when the patient dies, they always consider it’s the

surgeon’s fault.”

He sighed, shaking his head.

He thought:

Drunk — that’s what it was— drunk … And I operated! Nerves all to pieces— hands

shaking. I killed her all right. Poor devil—elderly woman—simple job if I’d been sober. Lucky

for me there’s loyalty¹⁰ in our profession. The Sister knew, of course—but she held her tongue.

God, it gave me a shock! Pulled me up. But who could have known about it—after all these

years?

点击收听单词发音