复仇女神10
时间：2026-01-29 07:00:15
（单词翻译:单击）
Four
ESTHER WALTERS
Esther Anderson came out of the Supermarket and went towards where
she had parked her car. Parking grew more difficult every day, she
thought. She collided with somebody, an elderly woman limping a little
who was walking towards her. She apologized, and the other woman
made an exclamation.
“Why, indeed, it’s—surely—it’s Mrs. Walters, isn’t it? Esther Walters?
You don’t remember me, I expect. Jane Marple. We met in the hotel in St.
Honoré, oh—quite a long time ago. A year and a half.”
“Miss Marple? So it is, of course. Fancy seeing you!”
“How very nice to see you. I am lunching with some friends near here
but I have to pass back through Alton later. Will you be at home this after-
noon? I should so like to have a nice chat with you. It’s so nice to see an
old friend.”
“Yes, of course. Anytime after 3 o’clock.”
The arrangement was ratified.
“Old Jane Marple,” said Esther Anderson, smiling to herself. “Fancy her
turning up. I thought she’d died a long time ago.”
Miss Marple rang the bell of Winslow Lodge at 3:30 precisely. Esther
opened the door to her and brought her in.
Miss Marple sat down in the chair indicated to her, fluttering a little in
the restless manner that she adopted when slightly flustered. Or at any
rate, when she was seeming to be slightly flustered. In this case it was mis-
leading, since things had happened exactly as she had hoped they would
happen.
“It’s so nice to see you,” she said to Esther. “So very nice to see you
again. You know, I do think things are so very odd in this world. You hope
you’ll meet people again and you’re quite sure you will. And then time
passes and suddenly it’s all such a surprise.”
“And then,” said Esther, “one says it’s a small world, doesn’t one?”
“Yes, indeed, and I think there is something in that. I mean it does seem a
very large world and the West Indies are such a very long way away from
England. Well, I mean, of course I might have met you anywhere. In Lon-
don or at Harrods. On a railway station or in a bus. There are so many
possibilities.”
“Yes, there are a lot of possibilities,” said Esther. “I certainly shouldn’t
have expected to meet you just here because this isn’t really quite your
part of the world, is it?”
“No. No, it isn’t. Not that you’re really so very far from St. Mary Mead
where I live. Actually, I think it’s only about twenty-five miles. But twenty-
five miles in the country, when one hasn’t got a car — and of course I
couldn’t afford a car, and anyway, I mean, I can’t drive a car — so it
wouldn’t be much to the point, so one really only does see one’s neigh-
bours on the bus route, or else go by a taxi from the village.”
“You’re looking wonderfully well,” said Esther.
“I was just going to say you were looking wonderfully well, my dear. I
had no idea you lived in this part of the world.”
“I have only done so for a short time. Since my marriage, actually.”
“Oh, I didn’t know. How interesting. I suppose I must have missed it. I
always do look down the marriages.”
“I’ve been married four or five months,” said Esther. “My name is An-
derson now.”
“Mrs. Anderson,” said Miss Marple. “Yes. I must try and remember that.
And your husband?”
It would be unnatural, she thought, if she did not ask about the hus-
band. Old maids were notoriously inquisitive.
“He is an engineer,” said Esther. “He runs the Time and Motion Branch.
He is,” she hesitated—“a little younger than I am.”
“Much better,” said Miss Marple immediately. “Oh, much better, my
dear. In these days men age so much quicker than women. I know it used
not to be said so, but actually it’s true. I mean, they get more things the
matter with them. I think, perhaps, they worry and work too much. And
then they get high blood pressure or low blood pressure or sometimes a
little heart trouble. They’re rather prone to gastric ulcers, too. I don’t think
we worry so much, you know. I think we’re a tougher sex.”
“Perhaps we are,” said Esther.
She smiled now at Miss Marple, and Miss Marple felt reassured. The last
time she had seen Esther, Esther had looked as though she hated her and
probably she had hated her at that moment. But now, well now, perhaps,
she might even feel slightly grateful. She might have realized that she, her-
self, might even have been under a stone slab in a respectable churchyard,
instead of living a presumably happy life with Mr. Anderson.
“You look very well,” she said, “and very gay.”
“So do you, Miss Marple.”
“Well, of course, I am rather older now. And one has so many ailments. I
mean, not desperate ones, nothing of that kind, but I mean one has always
some kind of rheumatism or some kind of ache and pain somewhere.
One’s feet are not what one would like feet to be. And there’s usually one’s
back or a shoulder or painful hands. Oh, dear, one shouldn’t talk about
these things. What a very nice house you have.”
“Yes, we haven’t been in it very long. We moved in about four months
ago.”
Miss Marple looked round. She had rather thought that that was the
case. She thought, too, that when they had moved in they had moved in on
quite a handsome scale. The furniture was expensive, it was comfortable,
comfortable and just this side of luxury. Good curtains, good covers, no
particular artistic taste displayed, but then she would not have expected
that. She thought she knew the reason for this appearance of prosperity.
She thought it had come about on the strength of the late Mr. Rafiel’s
handsome legacy to Esther. She was glad to think that Mr. Rafiel had not
changed his mind.
“I expect you saw the notice of Mr. Rafiel’s death,” said Esther, speaking
almost as if she knew what was in Miss Marple’s mind.
“Yes. Yes, indeed I did. It was about a month ago now, wasn’t it? I was so
sorry. Very distressed really, although, well, I suppose one knew—he al-
most admitted it himself, didn’t he? He hinted several times that it
wouldn’t be very long. I think he was quite a brave man about it all, don’t
you?”
“Yes, he was a very brave man, and a very kind one really,” said Esther.
“He told me, you know, when I first worked for him, that he was going to
give me a very good salary but that I would have to save out of it because I
needn’t expect to have anything more from him. Well, I certainly didn’t
expect to have anything more from him. He was very much a man of his
word, wasn’t he? But apparently he changed his mind.”
“Yes,” said Miss Marple. “Yes. I am very glad of that. I thought perhaps—
not that he, of course, said anything—but I wondered.”
“He left me a very big legacy,” said Esther. “A surprisingly large sum of
money. It came as a very great surprise. I could hardly believe it at first.”
“I think he wanted it to be a surprise to you. I think he was perhaps that
kind of man,” said Miss Marple. She added: “Did he leave anything to—oh,
what was his name?—the man attendant, the nurse-attendant?”
“Oh, you mean Jackson? No, he didn’t leave anything to Jackson, but I
believe he made him some handsome presents in the last year.”
“Have you ever seen anything more of Jackson?”
“No. No, I don’t think I’ve met him once since the time out in the islands.
He didn’t stay with Mr. Rafiel after they got back to England. I think he
went to Lord somebody who lives in Jersey or Guernsey.”
“I would like to have seen Mr. Rafiel again,” said Miss Marple. “It seems
odd after we’d all been mixed up so. He and you and I and some others.
And then, later, when I’d come home, when six months had passed—it oc-
curred to me one day how closely associated we had been in our time of
stress, and yet how little I really knew about Mr. Rafiel. I was thinking it
only the other day, after I’d seen the notice of his death. I wished I could
know a little more. Where he was born, you know, and his parents. What
they were like. Whether he had any children, or nephews or cousins or
any family. I would so like to know.”
Esther Anderson smiled slightly. She looked at Miss Marple and her ex-
pression seemed to say “Yes, I’m sure you always want to know everything
of that kind about everyone you meet.” But she merely said:
“No, there was really only one thing that everyone did know about him.”
“That he was very rich,” said Miss Marple immediately. “That’s what
you mean, isn’t it? When you know that someone is very rich, somehow,
well, you don’t ask anymore. I mean you don’t ask to know anymore. You
say ‘He is very rich’ or you say ‘He is enormously rich,’ and your voice just
goes down a little because it’s so impressive, isn’t it, when you meet
someone who is immensely rich.”
Esther laughed slightly.
“He wasn’t married, was he?” asked Miss Marple. “He never mentioned
a wife.”
“He lost his wife many years ago. Quite soon after they were married, I
believe. I believe she was much younger than he was—I think she died of
cancer. Very sad.”
“Had he children?”
“Oh yes, two daughters, and a son. One daughter is married and lives in
America. The other daughter died young, I believe. I met the American
one once. She wasn’t at all like her father. Rather a quiet, depressed look-
ing young woman.” She added, “Mr. Rafiel never spoke about the son. I
rather think that there had been trouble there. A scandal or something of
that kind. I believe he died some years ago. Anyway—his father never
mentioned him.”
“Oh dear. That was very sad.”
“I think it happened quite a long time ago. I believe he took off for some-
where or other abroad and never came back—died out there, wherever it
was.”
“Was Mr. Rafiel very upset about it?”
“One wouldn’t know with him,” said Esther. “He was the kind of man
who would always decide to cut his losses. If his son turned out to be un-
satisfactory, a burden instead of a blessing, I think he would just shrug the
whole thing off. Do what was necessary perhaps in the way of sending
him money for support, but never thinking of him again.”
“One wonders,” said Miss Marple. “He never spoke of him or said any-
thing?”
“If you remember, he was a man who never said anything much about
personal feelings or his own life.”
“No. No, of course not. But I thought perhaps, you having been—well,
his secretary for so many years, that he might have confided any troubles
to you.”
“He was not a man for confiding troubles,” said Esther. “If he had any,
which I rather doubt. He was wedded to his business, one might say. He
was father to his business and his business was the only kind of son or
daughter that he had that mattered, I think. He enjoyed it all, investment,
making money. Business coups—”
“Call no man happy until he is dead—” murmured Miss Marple, repeat-
ing the words in the manner of one pronouncing them as a kind of slogan,
which indeed they appeared to be in these days, or so she would have
said.
“So there was nothing especially worrying him, was there, before his
death?”
“No. Why should you think so?” Esther sounded surprised.
“Well, I didn’t actually think so,” said Miss Marple, “I just wondered be-
cause things do worry people more when they are—I won’t say getting old
—because he really wasn’t old, but I mean things worry you more when
you are laid up and can’t do as much as you did and have to take things
easy. Then worries just come into your mind and make themselves felt.”
“Yes, I know what you mean,” said Esther. “But I don’t think Mr. Rafiel
was like that. Anyway,” she added, “I ceased being his secretary some time
ago. Two or three months after I met Edmund.”
“Ah yes. Your husband. Mr. Rafiel must have been very upset at losing
you.”
“Oh I don’t think so,” said Esther lightly. “He was not one who would be
upset over that sort of thing. He’d immediately get another secretary—
which he did. And then if she didn’t suit him he’d just get rid of her with a
kindly golden handshake and get somebody else, till he found somebody
who suited him. He was an intensely sensible man always.”
“Yes. Yes, I can see that. Though he could lose his temper very easily.”
“Oh, he enjoyed losing his temper,” said Esther. “It made a bit of drama
for him, I think.”
“Drama,” said Miss Marple thoughtfully. “Do you think—I have often
wondered—do you think that Mr. Rafiel had any particular interest in
criminology, the study of it, I mean? He—well, I don’t know….”
“You mean because of what happened in the Caribbean?” Esther’s voice
had gone suddenly hard.
Miss Marple felt doubtful of going on, and yet she must somehow or
other try and get a little helpful knowledge.
“Well, no, not because of that, but afterwards, perhaps, he wondered
about the psychology of these things. Or he got interested in the cases
where justice had not been administered properly or—oh, well….”
She sounded more scatty every minute.
“Why should he take the least interest in anything of that kind? And
don’t let’s talk about that horrible business in St. Honoré.”
“Oh no, I think you are quite right. I’m sure I’m very sorry. I was just
thinking of some of the things that Mr. Rafiel sometimes said. Queer turns
of phrase, sometimes, and I just wondered if he had any theories, you
know … about the causes of crime?”
“His interests were always entirely financial,” said Esther shortly. “A
really clever swindle of a criminal kind might have interested him, noth-
ing else—”
She was looking coldly still at Miss Marple.
“I am sorry,” said Miss Marple apologetically. “I—I shouldn’t have talked
about distressing matters that are fortunately past. And I must be getting
on my way,” she added. “I have got my train to catch and I shall only just
have time. Oh dear, what did I do with my bag—oh yes, here it is.”
She collected her bag, umbrella and a few other things, fussing away un-
til the tension had slightly abated. As she went out of the door, she turned
to Esther who was urging her to stay and have a cup of tea.
“No thank you, my dear, I’m so short of time. I’m very pleased to have
seen you again and I do offer my best congratulations and hopes for a
very happy life. I don’t suppose you will be taking up any post again now,
will you?”
“Oh, some people do. They find it interesting, they say. They get bored
when they have nothing to do. But I think I shall rather enjoy living a life
of leisure. I shall enjoy my legacy, too, that Mr. Rafiel left me. It was very
kind of him and I think he’d want me—well, to enjoy it even if I spent it in
what he’d think of perhaps as a rather silly, female way! Expensive clothes
and a new hairdo and all that. He’d have thought that sort of thing very
silly.” She added suddenly, “I was fond of him, you know. Yes, I was quite
fond of him. I think it was because he was a sort of challenge to me. He
was difficult to get on with, and therefore I enjoyed managing it.”
“And managing him?”
“Well, not quite managing him, but perhaps a little more than he knew I
was.”
Miss Marple trotted away down the road. She looked back once and
waved her hand—Esther Anderson was still standing on the doorstep, and
she waved back cheerfully.
“I thought this might have been something to do with her or something
she knew about,” said Miss Marple to herself. “I think I’m wrong. No. I
don’t think she’s concerned in this business, whatever it is, in any way. Oh
dear, I feel Mr. Rafiel expected me to be much cleverer than I am being. I
think he expected me to put things together—but what things? And what
do I do next, I wonder?” She shook her head.
She had to think over things very carefully. This business had been, as it
were, left to her. Left to her to refuse, to accept, to understand what it was
all about? Or not understand anything, but to go forward and hope that
some kind of guidance might be given to her. Occasionally she closed her
eyes and tried to picture Mr. Rafiel’s face. Sitting in the garden of the hotel
in the West Indies, in his tropical suit; his bad-tempered corrugated face,
his flashes of occasional humour. What she really wanted to know was
what had been in his mind when he worked up this scheme, when he set
out to bring it about. To lure her into accepting it, to persuade her to ac-
cept it, to—well, perhaps one should say—to bully her into accepting it.
The third was much the most likely, knowing Mr. Rafiel. And yet, take it
that he had wanted something done and he had chosen her, settled upon
her to do it. Why? Because she had suddenly come into his mind? But why
should she have come into his mind?
She thought back to Mr. Rafiel and the things that had occurred at St.
Honoré. Had perhaps the problem he had been considering at the time of
his death sent his mind back to that visit to the West Indies? Was it in
some way connected with someone who had been out there, who had
taken part or been an onlooker there and was that what had put Miss
Marple into his mind? Was there some link or some connection? If not,
why should he suddenly think of her? What was it about her that could
make her useful to him, in any way at all? She was an elderly, rather
scatty, quite ordinary person, physically not very strong, mentally not
nearly as alert as she used to be. What had been her special qualifications,
if any? She couldn’t think of any. Could it possibly have been a bit of fun
on Mr. Rafiel’s part? Even if Mr. Rafiel had been on the point of death he
might have wanted to have some kind of joke that suited his peculiar
sense of humour.
She could not deny that Mr. Rafiel could quite possibly wish to have a
joke, even on his deathbed. Some ironical humour of his might be satis-
fied.
“I must,” said Miss Marple to herself firmly, “I must have some qualifica-
tion for something.” After all, since Mr. Rafiel was no longer in this world,
he could not enjoy his joke at firsthand. What qualifications had she got?
“What qualities have I got that could be useful to anyone for anything?”
said Miss Marple.
She considered herself with proper humility. She was inquisitive, she
asked questions, she was the sort of age and type that could be expected to
ask questions. That was one point, a possible point. You could send a
private detective round to ask questions, or some psychological investig-
ator, but it was true that you could much more easily send an elderly lady
with a habit of snooping and being inquisitive, of talking too much, of
wanting to find out about things, and it would seem perfectly natural.
“An old pussy,” said Miss Marple to herself. “Yes, I can see I’m quite re-
cognizable as an old pussy. There are so many old pussies, and they’re all
so much alike. And, of course, yes, I’m very ordinary. An ordinary rather
scatty old lady. And that of course is very good camouflage. Dear me, I
wonder if I’m thinking on the right lines. I do, sometimes, know what
people are like. I mean, I know what people are like, because they remind
me of certain other people I have known. So I know some of their faults
and some of their virtues. I know what kind of people they are. There’s
that.”
She thought again of St. Honoré and the Hotel of the Golden Palm. She
had made one attempt to enquire into the possibilities of a link, by her
visit to Esther Walters. That had been definitely nonproductive, Miss
Marple decided. There didn’t seem any further link leading from there.
Nothing that would tie up with his request that Miss Marple should busy
herself with something, the nature of which she still had no idea!
“Dear me,” said Miss Marple, “what a tiresome man you are, Mr. Rafiel!”
She said it aloud and there was definite reproach in her voice.
Later, however, as she climbed into bed and applied her cosy hot water
bottle to the most painful portion of her rheumatic back, she spoke again
—in what might be taken as a semi-apology.
“I’ve done the best I could,” she said.
She spoke aloud with the air of addressing one who might easily be in
the room. It is true he might be anywhere, but even then there might be
some telepathic or telephonic communication, and if so, she was going to
speak definitely and to the point.
“I’ve done all I could. The best according to my limitations, and I must
now leave it up to you.”
With that she settled herself more comfortably, stretched out a hand,
switched off the electric light, and went to sleep.
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