清洁女工之死14
时间：2025-02-14 07:17:46
（单词翻译:单击）
Fourteen
I“Decidedly,” said Hercule Poirot to himself the following morning, “the spring is here.”
His apprehensions2 of the night before seemed singularly groundless.
Mrs. Upward was a sensible woman who could take good care of herself.
Nevertheless in some curious way, she intrigued3 him. He did not at all understand herreactions. Clearly she did not want him to. She had recognized the photograph of Lily Gambolland she was determined4 to play a lone5 hand.
Poirot, pacing a garden path while he pursued these reflections, was startled by a voicebehind him.
“M. Poirot.”
Mrs. Rendell had come up so quietly that he had not heard her. Since yesterday he had feltextremely nervous.
“Pardon, madame. You made me jump.”
Mrs. Rendell smiled mechanically. If he were nervous, Mrs. Rendell, he thought, was evenmore so. There was a twitching6 in one of her eyelids7 and her hands worked restlessly together.
“I—I hope I’m not interrupting you. Perhaps you’re busy.”
“But no, I am not busy. The day is fine. I enjoy the feeling of spring. It is good to beoutdoors. In the house of Mrs. Summerhayes there is always, but always, the current of air.”
“The current—”
“Yes. Yes, I suppose there is.”
“The windows, they will not shut and the doors they fly open all the time.”
“It’s rather a ramshackle house. And of course, the Summerhayes are so badly off they can’tafford to do much to it. I’d let it go if I were them. I know it’s been in their family for hundreds ofyears, but nowadays you just can’t cling on to things for sentiment’s sake.”
“No, we are not sentimental9 nowadays.”
There was a silence. Out of the corner of his eye, Poirot watched those nervous white hands.
“I suppose,” she said, “that when you are, well, investigating a thing, you’d always have tohave a pretext11?”
Poirot considered the question. Though he did not look at her, he was perfectly12 aware of hereager sideways glance fixed13 on him.
“As you say, madame,” he replied non-committally. “It is a convenience.”
“To explain your being there, and—and asking things.”
“Why—why are you really here in Broadhinny, M. Poirot?”
He turned a mild surprised gaze on her.
“But, my dear lady, I told you—to inquire into the death of Mrs. McGinty.”
Mrs. Rendell said sharply:
“I know that’s what you say. But it’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?”
“Of course it is. Nobody believes it.”
“And yet I assure you, it is a simple fact.”
Her pale blue eyes blinked and she looked away.
“You won’t tell me.”
“Tell you—what, madame?”
She changed the subject abruptly again, it seemed.
“Yes,” said Poirot encouragingly as she stopped.
“They’re really always lies, aren’t they?”
“They are sometimes lies,” said Poirot cautiously.
“Usually,” she persisted.
“I don’t know that I would go as far as saying that.”
Shelagh Rendell said vehemently17:
“They’re cowardly, treacherous18, mean things!”
“All that, yes, I would agree.”
“And you wouldn’t ever believe what was said in one, would you?”
“That is a very difficult question,” said Poirot gravely.
“I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t believe anything of that kind.”
She added vehemently:
“I know why you’re down here. And it isn’t true, I tell you, it isn’t true.”
She turned sharply and walked away.
Hercule Poirot raised his eyebrows in an interested fashion.
“And now what?” he demanded of himself. “Am I being taken up the garden walk? Or is thisthe bird of a different colour?”
It was all, he felt, very confusing.
Mrs. Rendell professed19 to believe that he was down here for a reason other than that ofinquiring into Mrs. McGinty’s death. She had suggested that that was only a pretext.
Did she really believe that? Or was she, as he had just said to himself, leading him up thegarden walk?
What had anonymous letters got to do with it?
Was Mrs. Rendell the original of the photograph that Mrs. Upward had said she had “seenrecently?”
In other words, was Mrs. Rendell Lily Gamboll? Lily Gamboll, a rehabilitated20 member ofsociety, had been last heard of in Eire. Had Dr. Rendell met and married his wife there, inignorance of her history? Lily Gamboll had been trained as a stenographer21. Her path and thedoctor’s might easily have crossed.
Poirot shook his head and sighed.
It was all perfectly possible. But he had to be sure.
Yes, he had to be sure. If he could find the actual weapon of the murder—And at that moment, with a strange feeling of certainty—he saw it.
II
Afterwards he wondered whether, subconsciously24, he had seen and noted25 it much earlier. It hadstood there, presumably, ever since he had come to Long Meadows. .?.?.
There on the littered top of the bookcase near the window.
He thought: “Why did I never notice that before?”
He picked it up, weighed it in his hands, examined it, balanced it, raised it to strike—Maureen came in through the door with her usual rush, two dogs accompanying her. Hervoice, light and friendly, said:
“Hallo, are you playing with the sugar cutter?”
“Is that what it is? A sugar cutter?”
“Yes. A sugar cutter—or a sugar hammer—I don’t know what exactly is the right term. It’srather fun, isn’t it? So childish with the little bird on top.”
Poirot turned the implement26 carefully in his hands. Made of much ornamented27 brass29, it wasshaped like an adze, heavy, with a sharp cutting edge. It was studded here and there with colouredstones, pale blue and red. On top of it was a frivolous30 little bird with turquoise31 eyes.
She took it from him and aimed a murderous blow at a point in space.
“Frightfully easy,” she said. “What’s that bit in the Idylls of the King? ‘?“Mark’s way,” hesaid, and clove35 him to the brain.’ I should think you could cleave36 anyone to the brain with this allright, don’t you?”
She said:
“I’ve told Johnnie what’s coming to him if I get fed up with him. I call it the wife’s bestfriend!”
She laughed, put the sugar hammer down and turned towards the door.
“What did I come in here for?” she mused39. “I can’t remember .?.?. Bother! I’d better go andsee if that pudding needs more water in the saucepan.”
Poirot’s voice stopped her before she got to the door.
“You brought this back with you from India, perhaps?”
“Oh no,” said Maureen. “I got it at the B. and B. at Christmas.”
“B. and B.?” Poirot was puzzled.
“Bring and Buy,” explained Maureen glibly40. “At the Vicarage. You bring things you don’twant, and you buy something. Something not too frightful34 if you can find it. Of course there’spractically never anything you really want. I got this and that coffee pot. I like the coffee pot’snose and I liked the little bird on the hammer.”
The coffee pot was a small one of beaten copper41. It had a big curving spout42 that struck afamiliar note to Poirot.
“I think they come from Baghdad,” said Maureen. “At least I think that’s what the Wetherbyssaid. Or it may have been Persia.”
“It was from the Wetherbys” house, then, that these came?”
“Yes. They’ve got a most frightful lot of junk. I must go. That pudding.”
She went out. The door banged. Poirot picked up the sugar cutter again and took it to thewindow.
On the cutting edge were faint, very faint, discolorations.
Poirot nodded his head.
He hesitated for a moment, then he carried the sugar hammer out of the room and up to hisbedroom. There he packed it carefully in a box, did the whole thing up neatly43 in paper and string,and going downstairs again, left the house.
He did not think that anyone would notice the disappearance44 of the sugar cutter. It was not atidy household.
III
At Laburnums, collaboration45 was pursuing its difficult course.
“I can’t help it,” said Mrs. Oliver obstinately49. “He’s always been a vegetarian. He takes rounda little machine for grating raw carrots and turnips50.”
“But, Ariadne, precious, why?”
“How do I know?” said Mrs. Oliver crossly. “How do I know why I ever thought of therevolting man? I must have been mad! Why a Finn when I know nothing about Finland? Why avegetarian? Why all the idiotic51 manerisms he’s got? These things just happen. You try something—and people seem to like it—and then you go on—and before you know where you are, you’vegot someone like that maddening Sven Hjerson tied to you for life. And people even write and sayhow fond you must be of him. Fond of him? If I met that bony, gangling52, vegetable-eating Finn inreal life, I’d do a better murder than any I’ve ever invented.”
“You know, Ariadne, that might be rather a marvellous idea. A real Sven Hjerson—and youmurder him. You might make a Swan Song book of it—to be published after your death.”
“No fear!” said Mrs. Oliver. “What about the money? Any money to be made out of murdersI want now.”
“Yes. Yes. There I couldn’t agree with you more.”
“This Ingrid creature is getting rather tiresome,” he said. “And after the cellar scene which isreally going to be marvellous, I don’t quite see how we’re going to prevent the next scene frombeing rather an anticlimax56.”
Mrs. Oliver was silent. Scenes, she felt, were Robin Upward’s headache.
Robin shot a dissatisfied glance at her.
That morning, in one of her frequent changes of mood, Mrs. Oliver had disliked herwindswept coiffure. With a brush dipped in water she had plastered her grey locks close to herskull. With her high forehead, her massive glasses, and her stern air, she was reminding Robinmore and more of a schoolteacher who had awed57 his early youth. He found it more and moredifficult to address her as darling, and even flinched58 at “Ariadne.”
He said fretfully:
“You know, I don’t feel a bit in the mood today. All that gin yesterday, perhaps. Let’s scrapwork and go into the question of casting. If we can get Denis Callory, of course it will be toomarvellous, but he’s tied up in films at the moment. And Jean Bellews for Ingrid would be justright—and she wants to play it which is so nice. Eric—as I say, I’ve had a brainwave for Eric.
We’ll go over to the Little Rep tonight, shall we? And you’ll tell me what you think of Cecil forthe part.”
Mrs. Oliver agreed hopefully to this project and Robin went off to telephone.
“There,” he said returning. “That’s all fixed.”
IV
The fine morning had not lived up to its promise. Clouds had gathered and the day was oppressivewith a threat of rain. As Poirot walked through the dense59 shrubberies to the front door of Hunter’sClose, he decided1 that he would not like to live in this hollow valley at the foot of the hill. Thehouse itself was closed in by trees and its walls suffocated60 in ivy61. It needed, he thought, thewoodman’s axe62.
(The axe? The sugar cutter?)
He rang the bell and after getting no response, rang it again.
It was Deirdre Henderson who opened the door to him. She seemed surprised.
“Oh,” she said, “it’s you.”
“May I come in and speak to you?”
“I—well, yes, I suppose so.”
She led him into the small dark sitting room where he had waited before. On the mantelpiecehe recognized the big brother of the small coffee pot on Maureen’s shelf. Its vast hooked noseseemed to dominate the small Western room with a hint of Eastern ferocity.
“I’m afraid,” said Deirdre in an apologetic tone, “that we’re rather upset today. Our help, theGerman girl—she’s going. She’s only been here a month. Actually it seems she just took this postto get over to this country because there was someone she wanted to marry. And now they’vefixed it up, and she’s going straight off tonight.”
Poirot clicked his tongue.
“Most inconsiderate.”
“It is, isn’t it? My stepfather says it isn’t legal. But even if it isn’t legal, if she just goes offand gets married, I don’t see what one can do about it. We shouldn’t even have known she wasgoing if I hadn’t found her packing her clothes. She would just have walked out of the housewithout a word.”
“No,” said Deirdre dully. “I suppose it’s not.”
She rubbed her forehead with the back of her hand.
“I’m tired,” she said. “I’m very tired.”
“Yes,” said Poirot gently. “I think you may be very tired.”
“What was it you wanted, M. Poirot?”
“I wanted to ask you about a sugar hammer.”
“A sugar hammer?”
Her face was blank, uncomprehending.
“An instrument of brass, with a bird on it, and inlaid with blue and red and green stones.”
Poirot enunciated64 the description carefully.
“Oh yes, I know.”
“I understand it came from this house?”
“Yes. My mother bought it in the bazaar66 at Baghdad. It’s one of the things we took to theVicarage sale.”
“The Bring and Buy sale, that is right?”
“Yes. We have a lot of them here. It’s difficult to get people to give money, but there’susually something you can rake up and send.”
“So it was here, in this house, until Christmas, and then you sent it to the Bring and Buy sale?
Is that right?”
Deirdre frowned.
“Not the Christmas Bring and Buy. It was the one before. The Harvest Festival one.”
“The Harvest Festival—that would be—when? October? September?”
“The end of September.”
It was very quiet in the little room. Poirot looked at the girl and she looked back at him. Herface was mild, expressionless, uninterested. Behind the blank wall of her apathy67, he tried to guesswhat was going on. Nothing, perhaps. Perhaps she was, as she had said, just tired. .?.?.
He said, quietly, urgently:
“You are quite sure it was the Harvest Festival Sale? Not the Christmas one?”
“Quite sure.”
Her eyes were steady, unblinking.
Hercule Poirot waited. He continued to wait. .?.?.
But what he was waiting for did not come.
He said formally:
“I must not keep you any longer, mademoiselle.”
She went with him to the front door.
Presently he was walking down the drive again.
Two divergent statements—statements that could not possibly be reconciled.
Who was right? Maureen Summerhayes or Deirdre Henderson?
If the sugar cutter had been used as he believed it had been used, the point was vital. TheHarvest Festival had been the end of September. Between then and Christmas, on November 22nd,Mrs. McGinty had been killed. Whose property had the sugar cutter been at the time?
He went to the post office. Mrs. Sweetiman was always helpful and she did her best. She’dbeen to both sales, she said. She always went. You picked up many a nice bit there. She helped,too, to arrange things beforehand. Though most people brought things with them and didn’t sendthem beforehand.
A brass hammer, rather like an axe, with coloured stones and a little bird? No, she couldn’trightly remember. There was such a lot of things, and so much confusion and some thingssnatched up at once. Well, perhaps she did remember something like that—priced at five shillingsit had been, and with a copper coffee pot, but the pot had got a hole in the bottom—you couldn’tuse it, only for ornament28. But she couldn’t remember when it was—some time ago. Might havebeen Christmas, might have been before. She hadn’t been noticing. .?.?.
She accepted Poirot’s parcel. Registered? Yes.
She copied down the address; he noticed just a sharp flicker68 of interest in her keen black eyesas she handed him the receipt.
Hercule Poirot walked slowly up the hill, wondering to himself.
Of the two, Maureen Summerhayes, scatterbrained, cheerful, inaccurate69, was the more likelyto be wrong. Harvest or Christmas, it would be all one to her.
Deirdre Henderson, slow, awkward, was far more likely to be accurate in her identification oftimes and dates.
Yet there remained that irking question.
Why, after his questions, hadn’t she asked him why he wanted to know? Surely a natural, analmost inevitable70, question?
But Deirdre Henderson hadn’t asked it.
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1
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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intrigued
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| adj.好奇的，被迷住了的v.搞阴谋诡计(intrigue的过去式)；激起…的兴趣或好奇心；“intrigue”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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twitching
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| n.颤搐 | |
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eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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rehabilitated
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| 改造（罪犯等）( rehabilitate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使恢复正常生活； 使恢复原状； 修复 | |
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stenographer
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| n.速记员 | |
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chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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retraced
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| v.折回( retrace的过去式和过去分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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subconsciously
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| ad.下意识地，潜意识地 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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implement
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| n.(pl.)工具，器具；vt.实行，实施，执行 | |
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ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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turquoise
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| n.绿宝石；adj.蓝绿色的 | |
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killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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conversationally
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| adv.会话地 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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clove
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| n.丁香味 | |
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cleave
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| v．(clave；cleaved)粘着，粘住；坚持；依恋 | |
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freckled
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| adj.雀斑；斑点；晒斑；（使）生雀斑v.雀斑，斑点( freckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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glibly
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| adv.流利地，流畅地；满口 | |
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copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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spout
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| v.喷出，涌出；滔滔不绝地讲；n.喷管；水柱 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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collaboration
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| n.合作，协作；勾结 | |
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vegetarian
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| n.素食者；adj.素食的 | |
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robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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glamorous
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| adj.富有魅力的；美丽动人的；令人向往的 | |
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obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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turnips
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| 芜青( turnip的名词复数 )； 芜菁块根； 芜菁甘蓝块根； 怀表 | |
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idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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gangling
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| adj.瘦长得难看的 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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harassed
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| adj. 疲倦的，厌烦的 动词harass的过去式和过去分词 | |
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playwright
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| n.剧作家，编写剧本的人 | |
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anticlimax
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| n.令人扫兴的结局；突降法 | |
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awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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flinched
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| v.（因危险和痛苦）退缩，畏惧( flinch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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suffocated
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| （使某人）窒息而死( suffocate的过去式和过去分词 )； （将某人）闷死； 让人感觉闷热； 憋气 | |
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61
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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62
axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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63
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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64
enunciated
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| v.（清晰地）发音( enunciate的过去式和过去分词 )；确切地说明 | |
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65
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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66
bazaar
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| n.集市，商店集中区 | |
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67
apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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68
flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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69
inaccurate
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| adj.错误的，不正确的，不准确的 | |
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70
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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