沉睡的谋杀案43
时间：2026-02-04 03:18:10
（单词翻译:单击）
II
And it was then, Gwenda reflected, that the nightmarish quality of the day
had begun. Giles coming in, his face rather pale, saying: “It’s—she’s there
all right, Gwenda.”
Then one of the constables had telephoned and the police surgeon, a
short, bustling man, had arrived.
And it was then that Mrs. Cocker, the calm and imperturbable Mrs.
Cocker, had gone out into the garden—not led, as might have been expec-
ted, by ghoulish curiosity, but solely in the quest of culinary herbs for the
dish she was preparing for lunch. And Mrs. Cocker, whose reaction to the
news of a murder on the preceding day had been shocked censure and an
anxiety for the effect upon Gwenda’s health (for Mrs. Cocker had made up
her mind that the nursery upstairs was to be tenanted after the due num-
ber of months), had walked straight in upon the gruesome discovery, and
had been immediately “taken queer” to an alarming extent.
“Too horrible, madam. Bones is a thing I never could abide. Not skeleton
bones, as one might say. And here in the garden, just by the mint and all.
And my heart’s beating at such a rate—palpitations—I can hardly get my
breath. And if I might make so bold, just a thimbleful of brandy….”
Alarmed by Mrs. Cocker’s gasps and her ashy colour, Gwenda had
rushed to the sideboard, poured out some brandy and brought it to Mrs.
Cocker to sip.
And Mrs. Cocker had said: “That’s just what I needed, madam—” when,
quite suddenly, her voice had failed, and she had looked so alarming, that
Gwenda had screamed for Giles, and Giles had yelled to the police sur-
geon.
“And it’s fortunate I was on the spot,” the latter said afterwards. “It was
touch and go anyway. Without a doctor, that woman would have died
then and there.”
And then Inspector Primer had taken the brandy decanter, and then he
and the doctor had gone into a huddle over it, and Inspector Primer had
asked Gwenda when she and Giles had last had any brandy out of it.
Gwenda said she thought not for some days. They’d been away — up
North, and the last few times they’d had a drink, they’d had gin. “But I
nearly had some brandy yesterday,” said Gwenda. “Only it makes me
think of Channel steamers, so Giles opened a new bottle of whisky.”
“That was very lucky for you, Mrs. Reed. If you’d drunk brandy yester-
day, I doubt if you would be alive today.”
“Giles nearly drank some—but in the end he had whisky with me.”
Gwenda shivered.
Even now, alone in the house, with the police gone and Giles gone with
them after a hasty lunch scratched up out of tins (since Mrs. Cocker had
been removed to hospital), Gwenda could hardly believe in the morning
turmoil of events.
One thing stood out clearly: the presence in the house yesterday of
Jackie Afflick and Walter Fane. Either of them could have tampered with
the brandy, and what was the purpose of the telephone calls unless it was
to afford one or other of them the opportunity to poison the brandy de-
canter? Gwenda and Giles had been getting too near the truth. Or had a
third person come in from outside, through the open dining room window
perhaps, whilst she and Giles had been sitting in Dr. Kennedy’s house
waiting for Lily Kimble to keep her appointment? A third person who had
engineered the telephone calls to steer suspicion on the other two?
But a third person, Gwenda thought, didn’t make sense. For a third per-
son, surely, would have telephoned to only one of the two men. A third
person would have wanted one suspect, not two. And anyway, who could
the third person be? Erskine had definitely been in Northumberland. No,
either Walter Fane had telephoned to Afflick and had pretended to be tele-
phoned to himself. Or else Afflick had telephoned Fane, and had made the
same pretence of receiving a summons. One of those two, and the police,
who were cleverer and had more resources than she and Giles had, would
find out which. And in the meantime both of those men would be
watched. They wouldn’t be able to—to try again.
Again Gwenda shivered. It took a little getting used to—the knowledge
that someone had tried to kill you. “Dangerous,” Miss Marple had said
long ago. But she and Giles had not really taken the idea of danger seri-
ously. Even after Lily Kimble had been killed, it still hadn’t occurred to her
that anyone would try and kill her and Giles. Just because she and Giles
were getting too near the truth of what had happened eighteen years ago.
Working out what must have happened then—and who had made it hap-
pen.
Walter Fane and Jackie Afflick….
Which?
Gwenda closed her eyes, seeing them afresh in the light of her new
knowledge.
Quiet Walter Fane, sitting in his office—the pale spider in the centre of
its web. So quiet, so harmless- looking. A house with its blinds down.
Someone dead in the house. Someone dead eighteen years ago—but still
there. How sinister the quiet Walter Fane seemed now. Walter Fane who
had once flung himself murderously upon his brother. Walter Fane whom
Helen had scornfully refused to marry, once here at home, and once again
in India. A double rebuff. A double ignominy. Walter Fane, so quiet, so un-
emotional, who could express himself, perhaps, only in sudden murder-
ous violence—as, possibly, quiet Lizzie Borden had once done….
Gwenda opened her eyes. She had convinced herself, hadn’t she, that
Walter Fane was the man?
One might, perhaps, just consider Afflick. With her eyes open, not shut.
His loud check suit, his domineering manner—just the opposite to Wal-
ter Fane—nothing repressed or quiet about Afflick. But possibly he had
put that manner on because of an inferiority complex. It worked that way,
experts said. If you weren’t sure of yourself, you had to boast and assert
yourself, and be overbearing. Turned down by Helen because he wasn’t
good enough for her. The sore festering, not forgotten. Determination to
get on in the world. Persecution. Everyone against him. Discharged from
his employment by a faked charge made up by an “enemy.” Surely that
did show that Afflick wasn’t normal. And what a feeling of power a man
like that would get out of killing. That good-natured, jovial face of his, it
was a cruel face really. He was a cruel man—and his thin pale wife knew
it and was afraid of him. Lily Kimble had threatened him and Lily Kimble
had died. Gwenda and Giles had interfered—then Gwenda and Giles must
die, too, and he would involve Walter Fane who had sacked him long ago.
That fitted in very nicely.
Gwenda shook herself, came out of her imaginings, and returned to
practicality. Giles would be home and want his tea. She must clear away
and wash up lunch.
She fetched a tray and took the things out to the kitchen. Everything in
the kitchen was exquisitely neat. Mrs. Cocker was really a treasure.
By the side of the sink was a pair of surgical rubber gloves. Mrs. Cocker
always wore a pair for washing up. Her niece, who worked in a hospital,
got them at a reduced price.
Gwenda fitted them on over her hands and began to wash up the dishes.
She might as well keep her hands nice.
She washed the plates and put them in the rack, washed and dried the
other things and put everything neatly away.
Then, still lost in thought, she went upstairs. She might as well, she
thought, wash out those stockings and a jumper or two. She’d keep the
gloves on.
These things were in the forefront of her mind. But somewhere, under-
neath them, something was nagging at her.
Walter Fane or Jackie Afflick, she had said. One or the other of them.
And she had made out quite a good case against either of them. Perhaps
that was what really worried her. Because, strictly speaking, it would be
much more satisfactory if you could only make out a good case against one
of them. One ought to be sure, by now, which. And Gwenda wasn’t sure.
If only there was someone else … But there couldn’t be anyone else. Be-
cause Richard Erskine was out of it. Richard Erskine had been in
Northumberland when Lily Kimble was killed and when the brandy in the
decanter had been tampered with. Yes, Richard Erskine was right out of it.
She was glad of that, because she liked Richard Erskine. Richard Erskine
was attractive, very attractive. How sad for him to be married to that
megalith of a woman with her suspicious eyes and deep bass voice. Just
like a man’s voice….
Like a man’s voice….
The idea flashed through her mind with a queer misgiving.
A man’s voice … Could it have been Mrs. Erskine, not her husband, who
had replied to Giles on the telephone last night?
No—no, surely not. No, of course not. She and Giles would have known.
And anyway, to begin with, Mrs. Erskine could have had no idea of who
was ringing up. No, of course it was Erskine speaking, and his wife, as he
said, was away.
His wife was away …
Surely — no, that was impossible … Could it have been Mrs. Erskine?
Mrs. Erskine, driven insane by jealousy? Mrs. Erskine to whom Lily
Kimble had written? Was it a woman Léonie had seen in the garden that
night when she looked out of the window?
There was a sudden bang in the hall below. Somebody had come in
through the front door.
Gwenda came out from the bathroom on to the landing and looked over
the banisters. She was relieved to see it was Dr. Kennedy. She called
down:
“I’m here.”
Her hands were held out in front of her—wet, glistening, a queer pink-
ish grey—they reminded her of something….
Kennedy looked up, shading his eyes.
“Is that you, Gwennie? I can’t see your face … My eyes are dazzled—”
And then Gwenda screamed….
Looking at those smooth monkey’s paws and hearing that voice in the
hall—
“It was you,” she gasped. “You killed her … killed Helen … I—know now.
It was you … all along … You….”
He came up the stairs towards her. Slowly. Looking up at her.
“Why couldn’t you leave me alone?” he said. “Why did you have to
meddle? Why did you have to bring—Her—back? Just when I’d begun to
forget—to forget. You brought her back again—Helen—my Helen. Bring-
ing it all up again. I had to kill Lily—now I’ll have to kill you. Like I killed
Helen … Yes, like I killed Helen….”
He was close upon her now—his hands out towards her—reaching, she
knew, for her throat. That kind, quizzical face—that nice, ordinary, elderly
face—the same still, but for the eyes—the eyes were not sane….
Gwenda retreated before him, slowly, the scream frozen in her throat.
She had screamed once. She could not scream again. And if she did
scream no one would hear.
Because there was no one in the house—not Giles, and not Mrs. Cocker,
not even Miss Marple in the garden. Nobody. And the house next door was
too far away to hear if she screamed. And anyway, she couldn’t scream …
Because she was too frightened to scream. Frightened of those horrible
reaching hands….
She could back away to the nursery door and then—and then—those
hands would fasten round her throat….
A pitiful little stifled whimper came from between her lips.
And then, suddenly, Dr. Kennedy stopped and reeled back as a jet of
soapy water struck him between the eyes. He gasped and blinked and his
hands went to his face.
“So fortunate,” said Miss Marple’s voice, rather breathless, for she had
run violently up the back stairs, “that I was just syringing the greenfly off
your roses.”
©2005-2010英文阅读网