阿斯塔特神坛
时间：2026-02-04 03:22:41
（单词翻译:单击）
THE IDOL HOUSE OF ASTARTE
“And now, Dr. Pender, what are you going to tell us?”
The old clergyman smiled gently.
“My life has been passed in quiet places,” he said. “Very few eventful
happenings have come my way. Yet once, when I was a young man, I had
one very strange and tragic experience.”
“Ah!” said Joyce Lemprière encouragingly.
“I have never forgotten it,” continued the clergyman. “It made a pro-
found impression on me at the time, and to this day by a slight effort of
memory I can feel again the awe and horror of that terrible moment when
I saw a man stricken to death by apparently no mortal agency.”
“You make me feel quite creepy, Pender,” complained Sir Henry.
“It made me feel creepy, as you call it,” replied the other. “Since then I
have never laughed at the people who use the word atmosphere. There is
such a thing. There are certain places imbued and saturated with good or
evil influences which can make their power felt.”
“That house, The Larches, is a very unhappy one,” remarked Miss
Marple. “Old Mr. Smithers lost all his money and had to leave it, then the
Carslakes took it and Johnny Carslake fell downstairs and broke his leg
and Mrs. Carslake had to go away to the south of France for her health,
and now the Burdens have got it and I hear that poor Mr. Burden has got
to have an operation almost immediately.”
“There is, I think, rather too much superstition about such matters,” said
Mr. Petherick. “A lot of damage is done to property by foolish reports
heedlessly circulated.”
“I have known one or two ‘ghosts’ that have had a very robust personal-
ity,” remarked Sir Henry with a chuckle.
“I think,” said Raymond, “we should allow Dr. Pender to go on with his
story.”
Joyce got up and switched off the two lamps, leaving the room lit only by
the flickering firelight.
“Atmosphere,” she said. “Now we can get along.”
Dr. Pender smiled at her, and leaning back in his chair and taking off his
pince-nez, he began his story in a gentle reminiscent voice.
“I don’t know whether any of you know Dartmoor at all. The place I am
telling you about is situated on the borders of Dartmoor. It was a very
charming property, though it had been on the market without finding a
purchaser for several years. The situation was perhaps a little bleak in
winter, but the views were magnificent and there were certain curious
and original features about the property itself. It was bought by a man
called Haydon—Sir Richard Haydon. I had known him in his college days,
and though I had lost sight of him for some years, the old ties of friendship
still held, and I accepted with pleasure his invitation to go down to Silent
Grove, as his new purchase was called.
“The house party was not a very large one. There was Richard Haydon
himself, and his cousin, Elliot Haydon. There was a Lady Mannering with
a pale, rather inconspicuous daughter called Violet. There was a Captain
Rogers and his wife, hard riding, weatherbeaten people, who lived only
for horses and hunting. There was also a young Dr. Symonds and there
was Miss Diana Ashley. I knew something about the last named. Her pic-
ture was very often in the Society papers and she was one of the notorious
beauties of the Season. Her appearance was indeed very striking. She was
dark and tall, with a beautiful skin of an even tint of pale cream, and her
half closed dark eyes set slantways in her head gave her a curiously pi-
quant oriental appearance. She had, too, a wonderful speaking voice,
deep-toned and bell-like.
“I saw at once that my friend Richard Haydon was very much attracted
by her, and I guessed that the whole party was merely arranged as a set-
ting for her. Of her own feelings I was not so sure. She was capricious in
her favours. One day talking to Richard and excluding everyone else from
her notice, and another day she would favour his cousin, Elliot, and ap-
pear hardly to notice that such a person as Richard existed, and then again
she would bestow the most bewitching smiles upon the quiet and retiring
Dr. Symonds.
“On the morning after my arrival our host showed us all over the place.
The house itself was unremarkable, a good solid house built of Devonshire
granite. Built to withstand time and exposure. It was unromantic but very
comfortable. From the windows of it one looked out over the panorama of
the Moor, vast rolling hills crowned with weather-beaten Tors.
“On the slopes of the Tor nearest to us were various hut circles, relics of
the bygone days of the late Stone Age. On another hill was a barrow which
had recently been excavated, and in which certain bronze implements
had been found. Haydon was by way of being interested in antiquarian
matters and he talked to us with a great deal of energy and enthusiasm.
This particular spot, he explained, was particularly rich in relics of the
past.
“Neolithic hut dwellers, Druids, Romans, and even traces of the early
Phoenicians were to be found.
“‘But this place is the most interesting of all,’ he said ‘You know its name
—Silent Grove. Well, it is easy enough to see what it takes its name from.’
“He pointed with his hand. That particular part of the country was bare
enough—rocks, heather and bracken, but about a hundred yards from the
house there was a densely planted grove of trees.
“‘That is a relic of very early days,’ said Haydon, ‘The trees have died
and been replanted, but on the whole it has been kept very much as it
used to be—perhaps in the time of the Phoenician settlers. Come and look
at it.’
“We all followed him. As we entered the grove of trees a curious oppres-
sion came over me. I think it was the silence. No birds seemed to nest in
these trees. There was a feeling about it of desolation and horror. I saw
Haydon looking at me with a curious smile.
“‘Any feeling about this place, Pender?’ he asked me. ‘Antagonism now?
Or uneasiness?’
“‘I don’t like it,’ I said quietly.
“‘You are within your rights. This was a stronghold of one of the ancient
enemies of your faith. This is the Grove of Astarte.’
“‘Astarte?’
“‘Astarte, or Ishtar, or Ashtoreth, or whatever you choose to call her. I
prefer the Phoenician name of Astarte. There is, I believe, one known
Grove of Astarte in this country—in the North on the Wall. I have no evid-
ence, but I like to believe that we have a true and authentic Grove of As-
tarte here. Here, within this dense circle of trees, sacred rites were per-
formed.’
“‘Sacred rites,’ murmured Diana Ashley. Her eyes had a dreamy
faraway look. ‘What were they, I wonder?’
“‘Not very reputable by all accounts,’ said Captain Rogers with a loud
unmeaning laugh. ‘Rather hot stuff, I imagine.’
“Haydon paid no attention to him.
“‘In the centre of the Grove there should be a Temple,’ he said. ‘I can’t
run to Temples, but I have indulged in a little fancy of my own.’
“We had at that moment stepped out into a little clearing in the centre of
the trees. In the middle of it was something not unlike a summerhouse
made of stone. Diana Ashley looked inquiringly at Haydon.
“‘I call it The Idol House,’ he said. ‘It is the Idol House of Astarte.’
“He led the way up to it. Inside, on a rude ebony pillar, there reposed a
curious little image representing a woman with crescent horns, seated on
a lion.
“‘Astarte of the Phoenicians,’ said Haydon, ‘the Goddess of the Moon.’
“‘The Goddess of the Moon,’ cried Diana. ‘Oh, do let us have a wild orgy
tonight. Fancy dress. And we will come out here in the moonlight and cel-
ebrate the rites of Astarte.’
“I made a sudden movement and Elliot Haydon, Richard’s cousin,
turned quickly to me.
“‘You don’t like all this, do you, Padre?’ he said.
“‘No,’ I said gravely. ‘I don’t.’
“He looked at me curiously. ‘But it is only tomfoolery. Dick can’t know
that this really is a sacred grove. It is just a fancy of his; he likes to play
with the idea. And anyway, if it were—’
“‘If it were?’
“‘Well—’ he laughed uncomfortably. ‘You don’t believe in that sort of
thing, do you? You, a parson.’
“‘I am not sure that as a parson I ought not to believe in it.’
“‘But that sort of thing is all finished and done with.’
“‘I am not so sure,’ I said musingly. ‘I only know this: I am not as a rule a
sensitive man to atmosphere, but ever since I entered this grove of trees I
have felt a curious impression and sense of evil and menace all round me.’
“He glanced uneasily over his shoulder.
“Yes,’ he said, ‘it is—it is queer, somehow. I know what you mean but I
suppose it is only our imagination makes us feel like that. What do you
say, Symonds?’
“The doctor was silent a minute or two before he replied. Then he said
quietly:
“‘I don’t like it. I can’t tell you why. But somehow or other, I don’t like it.’
“At that moment Violet Mannering came across to me.
“‘I hate this place,’ she cried. ‘I hate it. Do let’s get out of it.’
“We moved away and the others followed us. Only Diana Ashley
lingered. I turned my head over my shoulder and saw her standing in
front of the Idol House gazing earnestly at the image within it.
“The day was an unusually hot and beautiful one and Diana Ashley’s
suggestion of a Fancy Dress party that evening was received with general
favour. The usual laughing and whispering and frenzied secret sewing
took place and when we all made our appearance for dinner there were
the usual outcries of merriment. Rogers and his wife were Neolithic hut
dwellers — explaining the sudden lack of hearth rugs. Richard Haydon
called himself a Phoenician sailor, and his cousin was a Brigand Chief, Dr.
Symonds was a chef, Lady Mannering was a hospital nurse, and her
daughter was a Circassian slave. I myself was arrayed somewhat too
warmly as a monk. Diana Ashley came down last and was somewhat of a
disappointment to all of us, being wrapped in a shapeless black domino.
“‘The Unknown,’ she declared airily. ‘That is what I am. Now for good-
ness’ sake let’s go in to dinner.’
“After dinner we went outside. It was a lovely night, warm and soft, and
the moon was rising.
“We wandered about and chatted and the time passed quickly enough.
It must have been an hour later when we realized that Diana Ashley was
not with us.
“‘Surely she has not gone to bed,’ said Richard Haydon.
“Violet Mannering shook her head.
“‘Oh, no,’ she said. ‘I saw her going off in that direction about a quarter
of an hour ago.’ She pointed as she spoke towards the grove of trees that
showed black and shadowy in the moonlight.
“‘I wonder what she is up to,’ said Richard Haydon, ‘some devilment, I
swear. Let’s go and see.’
“We all trooped off together, somewhat curious as to what Miss Ashley
had been up to. Yet I, for one, felt a curious reluctance to enter that dark
foreboding belt of trees. Something stronger than myself seemed to be
holding me back and urging me not to enter. I felt more definitely con-
vinced than ever of the essential evilness of the spot. I think that some of
the others experienced the same sensations that I did, though they would
have been loath to admit it. The trees were so closely planted that the
moonlight could not penetrate. There were a dozen soft sounds all round
us, whisperings and sighings. The feeling was eerie in the extreme, and by
common consent we all kept close together.
“Suddenly we came out into the open clearing in the middle of the grove
and stood rooted to the spot in amazement, for there, on the threshold of
the Idol House, stood a shimmering figure wrapped tightly round in dia-
phanous gauze and with two crescent horns rising from the dark masses
of her hair.
“‘My God!’ said Richard Haydon, and the sweat sprang out on his brow.
“But Violet Mannering was sharper.
“‘Why, it’s Diana,’ she exclaimed. ‘What has she done to herself? Oh, she
looks quite different somehow!’
“The figure in the doorway raised her hands. She took a step forward
and chanted in a high sweet voice.
“‘I am the Priestess of Astarte,’ she crooned. ‘Beware how you approach
me, for I hold death in my hand.’
“‘Don’t do it, dear,’ protested Lady Mannering. ‘You give us the creeps,
you really do.’
“Haydon sprang forward towards her.
“‘My God, Diana!’ he cried. ‘You are wonderful.’
“My eyes were accustomed to the moonlight now and I could see more
plainly. She did, indeed, as Violet had said, look quite different. Her face
was more definitely oriental, and her eyes more of slits with something
cruel in their gleam, and the strange smile on her lips was one that I had
never seen there before.
“‘Beware,’ she cried warningly. ‘Do not approach the Goddess. If anyone
lays a hand on me it is death.’
“‘You are wonderful, Diana,’ cried Haydon, ‘but do stop it. Somehow or
other I—I don’t like it.’
“He was moving towards her across the grass and she flung out a hand
towards him.
“‘Stop,’ she cried. ‘One step nearer and I will smite you with the magic of
Astarte.’
“Richard Haydon laughed and quickened his pace, when all at once a
curious thing happened. He hesitated for a moment, then seemed to
stumble and fall headlong.
“He did not get up again, but lay where he had fallen prone on the
ground.
“Suddenly Diana began to laugh hysterically. It was a strange horrible
sound breaking the silence of the glade.
“With an oath Elliot sprang forward.
“‘I can’t stand this,’ he cried, ‘get up, Dick, get up, man.’
“But still Richard Haydon lay where he had fallen. Elliot Haydon
reached his side, knelt by him and turned him gently over. He bent over
him, peering in his face.
“Then he rose sharply to his feet and stood swaying a little.
“‘Doctor,’ he said. ‘Doctor, for God’s sake come. I—I think he is dead.’
“Symonds ran forward and Elliot rejoined us walking very slowly. He
was looking down at his hands in a way I didn’t understand.
“At that moment there was a wild scream from Diana.
“‘I have killed him,’ she cried. ‘Oh, my God! I didn’t mean to, but I have
killed him.’
“And she fainted dead away, falling in a crumpled heap on the grass.
“There was a cry from Mrs. Rogers.
“‘Oh, do let us get away from this dreadful place,’ she wailed, ‘anything
might happen to us here. Oh, it’s awful!’
“Elliot got hold of me by the shoulder.
“‘It can’t be, man,’ he murmured. ‘I tell you it can’t be. A man cannot be
killed like that. It is—it’s against Nature.’
“I tried to soothe him.
“‘There is some explanation,’ I said. ‘Your cousin must have had some
unsuspected weakness of the heart. The shock and excitement—’
“He interrupted me.
“‘You don’t understand,’ he said. He held up his hands for me to see and
I noticed a red stain on them.
“‘Dick didn’t die of shock, he was stabbed—stabbed to the heart, and
there is no weapon.’
“I stared at him incredulously. At that moment Symonds rose from his
examination of the body and came towards us. He was pale and shaking
all over.
“‘Are we all mad?’ he said. ‘What is this place—that things like this can
happen in it?’
“‘Then it is true,’ I said.
“He nodded.
“‘The wound is such as would be made by a long thin dagger, but—there
is no dagger there.’
“We all looked at each other.
“‘But it must be there,’ cried Elliot Haydon. ‘It must have dropped out. It
must be on the ground somewhere. Let us look.’
“We peered about vainly on the ground. Violet Mannering said sud-
denly:
“‘Diana had something in her hand. A kind of dagger. I saw it. I saw it
glitter when she threatened him.’
“Elliot Haydon shook his head.
“‘He never even got within three yards of her,’ he objected.
“Lady Mannering was bending over the prostrate girl on the ground.
“‘There is nothing in her hand now,’ she announced, ‘and I can’t see any-
thing on the ground. Are you sure you saw it, Violet? I didn’t.’
“Dr. Symonds came over to the girl.
“‘We must get her to the house,’ he said. ‘Rogers, will you help?’
“Between us we carried the unconscious girl back to the house. Then we
returned and fetched the body of Sir Richard.”
Dr. Pender broke off apologetically and looked round.
“One would know better nowadays,” he said, “owing to the prevalence
of detective fiction. Every street boy knows that a body must be left where
it is found. But in these days we had not the same knowledge, and accord-
ingly we carried the body of Richard Haydon back to his bedroom in the
square granite house and the butler was despatched on a bicycle in search
of the police—a ride of some twelve miles.
“It was then that Elliot Haydon drew me aside.
“‘Look here,’ he said. ‘I am going back to the grove. That weapon has got
to be found.’
“‘If there was a weapon,’ I said doubtfully.
“He seized my arm and shook it fiercely. ‘You have got that superstitious
stuff into your head. You think his death was supernatural; well, I am go-
ing back to the grove to find out.’
“I was curiously averse to his doing so. I did my utmost to dissuade him,
but without result. The mere idea of that thick circle of trees was abhor-
rent to me and I felt a strong premonition of further disaster. But Elliot
was entirely pigheaded. He was, I think, scared himself, but would not ad-
mit it. He went off fully armed with determination to get to the bottom of
the mystery.
“It was a very dreadful night, none of us could sleep, or attempt to do so.
The police, when they arrived, were frankly incredulous of the whole
thing. They evinced a strong desire to cross- examine Miss Ashley, but
there they had to reckon with Dr. Symonds, who opposed the idea vehe-
mently. Miss Ashley had come out of her faint or trance and he had given
her a long sleeping draught. She was on no account to be disturbed until
the following day.
“It was not until about seven o’clock in the morning that anyone thought
about Elliot Haydon, and then Symonds suddenly asked where he was. I
explained what Elliot had done and Symonds’s grave face grew a shade
graver. ‘I wish he hadn’t. It is—it is foolhardy,’ he said.
“‘You don’t think any harm can have happened to him?’
“‘I hope not. I think, Padre, that you and I had better go and see.’
“I knew he was right, but it took all the courage in my command to
nerve myself for the task. We set out together and entered once more that
ill-fated grove of trees. We called him twice and got no reply. In a minute
or two we came into the clearing, which looked pale and ghostly in the
early morning light. Symonds clutched my arm and I uttered a muttered
exclamation. Last night when we had seen it in the moonlight there had
been the body of a man lying face downwards on the grass. Now in the
early morning light the same sight met our eyes. Elliot Haydon was lying
on the exact spot where his cousin had been.
“‘My God!’ said Symonds. ‘It has got him too!’
“We ran together over the grass. Elliot Haydon was unconscious but
breathing feebly and this time there was no doubt of what had caused the
tragedy. A long thin bronze weapon remained in the wound.
“‘Got him through the shoulder, not through the heart. That is lucky,’
commented the doctor. ‘On my soul, I don’t know what to think. At any
rate he is not dead and he will be able to tell us what happened.’
“But that was just what Elliot Haydon was not able to do. His description
was vague in the extreme. He had hunted about vainly for the dagger and
at last giving up the search had taken up a stand near the Idol House. It
was then that he became increasingly certain that someone was watching
him from the belt of trees. He fought against this impression but was not
able to shake it off. He described a cold strange wind that began to blow. It
seemed to come not from the trees but from the interior of the Idol House.
He turned round, peering inside it. He saw the small figure of the Goddess
and he felt he was under an optical delusion. The figure seemed to grow
larger and larger. Then he suddenly received something that felt like a
blow between his temples which sent him reeling back, and as he fell he
was conscious of a sharp burning pain in his left shoulder.
“The dagger was identified this time as being the identical one which
had been dug up in the barrow on the hill, and which had been bought by
Richard Haydon. Where he had kept it, in the house or in the Idol House in
the grove, none seemed to know.
“The police were of the opinion, and always will be, that he was deliber-
ately stabbed by Miss Ashley, but in view of our combined evidence that
she was never within three yards of him, they could not hope to support
the charge against her. So the thing has been and remains a mystery.”
There was a silence.
“There doesn’t seem anything to say,” said Joyce Lemprière at length. “It
is all so horrible—and uncanny. Have you no explanation for yourself, Dr.
Pender?”
The old man nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I have an explanation—a kind of
explanation, that is. Rather a curious one—but to my mind it still leaves
certain factors unaccounted for.”
“I have been to séances,” said Joyce, “and you may say what you like,
very queer things can happen. I suppose one can explain it by some kind
of hypnotism. The girl really turned herself into a Priestess of Astarte, and
I suppose somehow or other she must have stabbed him. Perhaps she
threw the dagger that Miss Mannering saw in her hand.”
“Or it might have been a javelin,” suggested Raymond West. “After all,
moonlight is not very strong. She might have had a kind of spear in her
hand and stabbed him at a distance, and then I suppose mass hypnotism
comes into account. I mean, you were all prepared to see him stricken
down by supernatural means and so you saw it like that.”
“I have seen many wonderful things done with weapons and knives at
music halls,” said Sir Henry. “I suppose it is possible that a man could
have been concealed in the belt of trees, and that he might from there
have thrown a knife or a dagger with sufficient accuracy—agreeing, of
course, that he was a professional. I admit that that seems rather far-
fetched, but it seems the only really feasible theory. You remember that
the other man was distinctly under the impression that there was
someone in the grove of trees watching him. As to Miss Mannering saying
that Miss Ashley had a dagger in her hand and the others saying she
hadn’t, that doesn’t surprise me. If you had had my experience you would
know that five persons’ account of the same thing will differ so widely as
to be almost incredible.”
Mr. Petherick coughed.
“But in all these theories we seem to be overlooking one essential fact,”
he remarked. “What became of the weapon? Miss Ashley could hardly get
rid of a javelin standing as she was in the middle of an open space; and if a
hidden murderer had thrown a dagger, then the dagger would still have
been in the wound when the man was turned over. We must, I think, dis-
card all far-fetched theories and confine ourselves to sober fact.”
“And where does sober fact lead us?”
“Well, one thing seems quite clear. No one was near the man when he
was stricken down, so the only person who could have stabbed him was he
himself. Suicide, in fact.”
“But why on earth should he wish to commit suicide?” asked Raymond
West incredulously.
The lawyer coughed again. “Ah, that is a question of theory once more,”
he said. “At the moment I am not concerned with theories. It seems to me,
excluding the supernatural in which I do not for one moment believe, that
that was the only way things could have happened. He stabbed himself,
and as he fell his arms flew out, wrenching the dagger from the wound
and flinging it far into the zone of the trees. That is, I think, although
somewhat unlikely, a possible happening.”
“I don’t like to say, I am sure,” said Miss Marple. “It all perplexes me
very much indeed. But curious things do happen. At Lady Sharpley’s
garden party last year the man who was arranging the clock golf tripped
over one of the numbers—quite unconscious he was—and didn’t come
round for about five minutes.”
“Yes, dear Aunt,” said Raymond gently, “but he wasn’t stabbed, was he?”
“Of course not, dear,” said Miss Marple. “That is what I am telling you.
Of course there is only one way that poor Sir Richard could have been
stabbed, but I do wish I knew what caused him to stumble in the first
place. Of course, it might have been a tree root. He would be looking at the
girl, of course, and when it is moonlight one does trip over things.”
“You say that there is only one way that Sir Richard could have been
stabbed, Miss Marple,” said the clergyman, looking at her curiously.
“It is very sad and I don’t like to think of it. He was a right-handed man,
was he not? I mean to stab himself in the left shoulder he must have been.
I was always so sorry for poor Jack Baynes in the War. He shot himself in
the foot, you remember, after very severe fighting at Arras. He told me
about it when I went to see him in hospital, and very ashamed of it he
was. I don’t expect this poor man, Elliot Haydon, profited much by his
wicked crime.”
“Elliot Haydon,” cried Raymond. “You think he did it?”
“I don’t see how anyone else could have done it,” said Miss Marple,
opening her eyes in gentle surprise. “I mean if, as Mr. Petherick so wisely
says, one looks at the facts and disregards all that atmosphere of heathen
goddesses which I don’t think is very nice. He went up to him first and
turned him over, and of course to do that he would have to have had his
back to them all, and being dressed as a brigand chief he would be sure to
have a weapon of some kind in his belt. I remember dancing with a man
dressed as a brigand chief when I was a young girl. He had five kinds of
knives and daggers, and I can’t tell you how awkward and uncomfortable
it was for his partner.”
All eyes were turned towards Dr. Pender.
“I knew the truth,” said he, “five years after that tragedy occurred. It
came in the shape of a letter written to me by Elliot Haydon. He said in it
that he fancied that I had always suspected him. He said it was a sudden
temptation. He too loved Diana Ashley, but he was only a poor struggling
barrister. With Richard out of the way and inheriting his title and estates,
he saw a wonderful prospect opening up before him. The dagger had
jerked out of his belt as he knelt down by his cousin, and almost before he
had time to think he drove it in and returned it to his belt again. He
stabbed himself later in order to divert suspicion. He wrote to me on the
eve of starting on an expedition to the South Pole in case, as he said, he
should never come back. I do not think that he meant to come back, and I
know that, as Miss Marple has said, his crime profited him nothing. ‘For
five years,’ he wrote, ‘I have lived in Hell. I hope, at least, that I may expi-
ate my crime by dying honourably.’”
There was a pause.
“And he did die honourably,” said Sir Henry. “You have changed the
names in your story, Dr. Pender, but I think I recognize the man you
mean.”
“As I said,” went on the old clergyman, “I do not think that explanation
quite covers the facts. I still think there was an evil influence in that grove,
an influence that directed Elliot Haydon’s action. Even to this day I can
never think without a shudder of The Idol House of Astarte.”
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