沉睡的谋杀案42
时间：2026-02-04 03:18:09
（单词翻译:单击）
Twenty-four
THE MONKEY’S PAWS
I
Gwenda leaned her elbows on the table and cupped her chin in her hands
while her eyes roamed dispassionately over the remains of a hasty lunch.
Presently she must deal with them, carry them out to the scullery, wash
up, put things away, see what there would be, later, for supper.
But there was no wild hurry. She felt she needed a little time to take
things in. Everything had been happening too fast.
The events of the morning, when she reviewed them, seemed to be
chaotic and impossible. Everything had happened too quickly and too im-
probably.
Inspector Last had appeared early — at half past nine. With him had
come Detective Inspector Primer from headquarters and the Chief Con-
stable of the County. The latter had not stayed long. It was Inspector
Primer who was now in charge of the case of Lily Kimble deceased and all
the ramifications arising therefrom.
It was Inspector Primer, a man with a deceptively mild manner and a
gentle apologetic voice, who had asked her if it would inconvenience her
very much if his men did some digging in the garden.
From the tone of his voice, it might have been a case of giving his men
some healthful exercise, rather than of seeking for a dead body which had
been buried for eighteen years.
Giles had spoken up then. He had said: “I think, perhaps, we could help
you with a suggestion or two.”
And he told the Inspector about the shifting of the steps leading down to
the lawn, and took the Inspector out on to the terrace.
The Inspector had looked up at the barred window on the first floor at
the corner of the house and had said: “That would be the nursery, I pre-
sume.”
And Giles said that it would.
Then the Inspector and Giles had come back into the house, and two
men with spades had gone out into the garden, and Giles, before the In-
spector could get down to questions, had said:
“I think, Inspector, you had better hear something that my wife has so
far not mentioned to anyone except myself—and—er—one other person.”
The gentle, rather compelling gaze of Inspector Primer came to rest on
Gwenda. It was faintly speculative. He was asking himself, Gwenda
thought: “Is this a woman who can be depended upon, or is she the kind
who imagines things?”
So strongly did she feel this, that she started in a defensive way: “I may
have imagined it. Perhaps I did. But it seems awfully real.”
Inspector Primer said softly and soothingly:
“Well, Mrs. Reed, let’s hear about it.”
And Gwenda had explained. How the house had seemed familiar to her
when she first saw it. How she had subsequently learned that she had, in
fact, lived there as a child. How she had remembered the nursery wallpa-
per, and the connecting door, and the feeling she had had that there ought
to be steps down to the lawn.
Inspector Primer nodded. He did not say that Gwenda’s childish recol-
lections were not particularly interesting, but Gwenda wondered whether
he were thinking it.
Then she nerved herself to the final statement. How she had suddenly
remembered, when sitting in a theatre, looking through the banisters at
Hillside and seeing a dead woman in the hall.
“With a blue face, strangled, and golden hair—and it was Helen—But it
was so stupid, I didn’t know at all who Helen was.”
“We think that—” Giles began, but Inspector Primer, with unexpected
authority, held up a restraining hand.
“Please let Mrs. Reed tell me in her own words.”
And Gwenda had stumbled on, her face flushed, with Inspector Primer
gently helping her out, using a dexterity that Gwenda did not appreciate
as the highly technical performance it was.
“Webster?” he said thoughtfully. “Hm, Duchess of Malfi. Monkey’s
paws?”
“But that was probably a nightmare,” said Giles.
“Please, Mr. Reed.”
“It may all have been a nightmare,” said Gwenda.
“No, I don’t think it was,” said Inspector Primer. “It would be very hard
to explain Lily Kimble’s death, unless we assume that there was a woman
murdered in this house.”
That seemed so reasonable and almost comforting, that Gwenda hurried
on.
“And it wasn’t my father who murdered her. It wasn’t, really. Even Dr.
Penrose says he wasn’t the right type, and that he couldn’t have murdered
anybody. And Dr. Kennedy was quite sure he hadn’t done it, but only
thought he had. So you see it was someone who wanted it to seem as
though my father had done it, and we think we know who—at least it’s
one of two people—”
“Gwenda,” said Giles. “We can’t really—”
“I wonder, Mr. Reed,” said the Inspector, “if you would mind going out
into the garden and seeing how my men are getting on. Tell them I sent
you.”
He closed the french windows after Giles and latched them and came
back to Gwenda.
“Now just tell me all your ideas, Mrs. Reed. Never mind if they are
rather incoherent.”
And Gwenda had poured out all her and Giles’s speculations and reason-
ings, and the steps they had taken to find out all they could about the three
men who might have figured in Helen Halliday’s life, and the final conclu-
sions they had come to—and how both Walter Fane and J. J. Afflick had
been rung up, as though by Giles, and had been summoned to Hillside the
preceding afternoon.
“But you do see, don’t you, Inspector—that one of them might be lying?”
And in a gentle, rather tired voice, the Inspector said: “That’s one of the
principal difficulties in my kind of work. So many people may be lying.
And so many people usually are … Though not always for the reasons that
you’d think. And some people don’t even know they’re lying.”
“Do you think I’m like that?” Gwenda asked apprehensively.
And the Inspector had smiled and said: “I think you’re a very truthful
witness, Mrs. Reed.”
“And you think I’m right about who murdered her?”
The Inspector sighed and said: “It’s not a question of thinking—not with
us. It’s a question of checking up. Where everybody was, what account
everybody gives of their movements. We know accurately enough, to
within ten minutes or so, when Lily Kimble was killed. Between two
twenty and two forty-five. Anyone could have killed her and then come on
here yesterday afternoon. I don’t see, myself, any reason for those tele-
phone calls. It doesn’t give either of the people you mention an alibi for
the time of the murder.”
“But you will find out, won’t you, what they were doing at the time?
Between two twenty and two forty-five. You will ask them.”
Inspector Primer smiled.
“We shall ask all the questions necessary, Mrs. Reed, you may be sure of
that. All in good time. There’s no good in rushing things. You’ve got to see
your way ahead.”
Gwenda had a sudden vision of patience and quiet unsensational work.
Unhurried, remorseless….
She said: “I see … yes. Because you’re professional. And Giles and I are
just amateurs. We might make a lucky hit—but we wouldn’t really know
how to follow it up.”
“Something of the kind, Mrs. Reed.”
The Inspector smiled again. He got up and unfastened the french win-
dows. Then, just as he was about to step through them, he stopped. Rather,
Gwenda thought, like a pointing dog.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Reed. That lady wouldn’t be a Miss Jane Marple, would
she?”
Gwenda had come to stand beside him. At the bottom of the garden Miss
Marple was still waging a losing war with bindweed.
“Yes, that’s Miss Marple. She’s awfully kind in helping us with the
garden.”
“Miss Marple,” said the Inspector. “I see.”
And as Gwenda looked at him enquiringly and said, “She’s rather a
dear,” he replied:
“She’s a very celebrated lady, is Miss Marple. Got the Chief Constables of
at least three counties in her pocket. She’s not got my Chief yet, but I dare
say that will come. So Miss Marple’s got her finger in this pie.”
“She’s made an awful lot of helpful suggestions,” said Gwenda.
“I bet she has,” said the Inspector. “Was it her suggestion where to look
for the deceased Mrs. Halliday?”
“She said that Giles and I ought to know quite well where to look,” said
Gwenda. “And it did seem stupid of us not to have thought of it before.”
The Inspector gave a soft little laugh, and went down to stand by Miss
Marple. He said: “I don’t think we’ve been introduced, Miss Marple. But
you were pointed out to me once by Colonel Melrose.”
Miss Marple stood up, flushed and grasping a handful of clinging green.
“Oh yes. Dear Colonel Melrose. He has always been most kind. Ever
since—”
“Ever since a churchwarden was shot in the Vicar’s study. Quite a while
ago. But you’ve had other successes since then. A little poison pen trouble
down near Lymstock.”
“You seem to know quite a lot about me, Inspector—”
“Primer, my name is. And you’ve been busy here, I expect.”
“Well, I try to do what I can in the garden. Sadly neglected. This bind-
weed, for instance, such nasty stuff. Its roots,” said Miss Marple, looking
very earnestly at the Inspector, “go down underground a long way. A very
long way—they run along underneath the soil.”
“I think you’re right about that,” said the Inspector. “A long way down.
A long way back … this murder, I mean. Eighteen years.”
“And perhaps before that,” said Miss Marple. “Running underground …
And terribly harmful, Inspector, squeezing the life out of the pretty grow-
ing flowers….”
One of the police constables came along the path. He was perspiring and
had a smudge of earth on his forehead.
“We’ve come to—something, sir. Looks as though it’s her all right.”
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