复仇女神26
时间：2026-01-29 07:21:58
（单词翻译:单击）
II
Miss Marple sat quite still in the car that had come to fetch her. Professor
Wanstead had called for her at the time he had said.
“I thought you might enjoy seeing this particular church. And a very
pretty village, too,” he explained. “There’s no reason really why one
should not enjoy the local sights when one can.”
“It’s very kind of you, I’m sure,” Miss Marple had said.
She had looked at him with that slightly fluttery gaze of hers.
“Very kind,” she said. “It just seems—well, I don’t want to say it seems
heartless, but well, you know what I mean.”
“My dear lady, Miss Temple is not an old friend of yours or anything like
that. Sad as this accident has been.”
“Well,” said Miss Marple again, “this is very kind of you.”
Professor Wanstead had opened the door of the car and Miss Marple got
into it. It was, she presumed, a hired car. A kindly thought to take an eld-
erly lady to see one of the sights of the neighbourhood. He might have
taken somebody younger, more interesting and certainly better looking.
Miss Marple looked at him thoughtfully once or twice as they drove
through the village. He was not looking at her. He was gazing out of his
own window.
When they had left the village behind and were on a second class coun-
try road twisting round the hillside, he turned his head and said to her,
“We are not going to a church, I am afraid.”
“No,” said Miss Marple, “I thought perhaps we weren’t.”
“Yes, the idea would have come to you.”
“Where are we going, may I ask?”
“We are going to a hospital, in Carristown.”
“Ah yes, that was where Miss Temple was taken?”
It was a question, though it hardly needed to be one.
“Yes,” he said. “Mrs. Sandbourne saw her and brought me back a letter
from the Hospital Authorities. I have just finished talking to them on the
telephone.”
“Is she going on well?”
“No. Not going on very well.”
“I see. At least—I hope I don’t see,” said Miss Marple.
“Her recovery is very problematical but there is nothing that can be
done. She may not recover consciousness again. On the other hand she
may have a few lucid intervals.”
“And you are taking me there? Why? I am not a friend of hers, you
know. I only just met her for the first time on this trip.”
“Yes, I realize that. I’m taking you there because in one of the lucid in-
tervals she has had, she asked for you.”
“I see,” said Miss Marple. “I wonder why she should ask for me, why she
should have thought that I—that I could be useful in any way to her, or do
anything. She is a woman of perception. In her way, you know, a great wo-
man. As Headmistress of Fallowfield she occupied a prominent position in
the educational world.”
“The best girls’ school there is, I suppose?”
“Yes. She was a great personality. She was herself a woman of consider-
able scholarship. Mathematics were her speciality, but she was an ‘all
round’—what I should call an educator. Was interested in education, what
girls were fitted for, how to encourage them. Oh, many other things. It is
sad and very cruel if she dies,” said Miss Marple. “It will seem such a
waste of a life. Although she had retired from her Headmistresship she
still exercised a lot of power. This accident—” She stopped. “Perhaps you
do not want us to discuss the accident?”
“I think it is better that we should do so. A big boulder crashed down the
hillside. It has been known to happen before though only at very long di-
vided intervals of time. However, somebody came and spoke to me about
it,” said Professor Wanstead.
“Came and spoke to you about the accident? Who was it?”
“The two young people. Joanna Crawford and Emlyn Price.”
“What did they say?”
“Joanna told me that she had the impression there was someone on the
hillside. Rather high up. She and Emlyn were climbing up from the lower
main path, following a rough track that wound round the curve of the hill.
As they turned a corner she definitely saw, outlined against the skyline, a
man or a woman who was trying to roll a big boulder forward along the
ground. The boulder was rocking—and finally it started to roll, at first
slowly and then gathering speed down the hillside. Miss Temple was walk-
ing along the main path below, and had come to a point just underneath it
when the boulder hit her. If it was done deliberately it might not, of
course, have succeeded; it might have missed her—but it did succeed. If
what was being attempted was a deliberate attack on the woman walking
below it succeeded only too well.”
“Was it a man or a woman they saw?” asked Miss Marple.
“Unfortunately, Joanna Crawford could not say. Whoever it was, was
wearing jeans or trousers, and had on a lurid polo-neck pullover in red
and black checks. The figure turned and moved out of sight almost imme-
diately. She is inclined to think it was a man but cannot be certain.”
“And she thinks, or you think, that it was a deliberate attempt on Miss
Temple’s life?”
“The more she mulls it over, the more she thinks that that was exactly
what it was. The boy agrees.”
“You have no idea who it might have been?”
“No idea whatever. No more have they. It might be one of our fellow
travellers, someone who went for a stroll that afternoon. It might be
someone completely unknown who knew that the coach was making a
halt here and chose this place to make an attack on one of the passengers.
Some youthful lover of violence for violence’s sake. Or it might have been
an enemy.”
“It seems very melodramatic if one says ‘a secret enemy,’” said Miss
Marple.
“Yes, it does. Who would want to kill a retired and respected Headmis-
tress? That is a question we want answered. It is possible, faintly possible
that Miss Temple herself might be able to tell us. She might have recog-
nized the figure above her or she might more likely have known of
someone who bore her ill will for some special reason.”
“It still seems unlikely.”
“I agree with you,” said Professor Wanstead. “She seems a totally un-
likely person to be a fit victim of attack, but yet when one reflects, a Head-
mistress knows a great many people. A great many people, shall we put it
this way, have passed through her hands.”
“A lot of girls you mean have passed through her hands.”
“Yes. Yes, that is what I meant. Girls and their families. A Headmistress
must have knowledge of many things. Romances, for instance, that girls
might indulge in, unknown to their parents. It happens, you know. It hap-
pens very often. Especially in the last ten or twenty years. Girls are said to
mature earlier. That is physically true, through in a deeper sense of the
word, they mature late. They remain childish longer. Childish in the
clothes they like to wear, childish with their floating hair. Even their mini
skirts represent a worship of childishness. Their Baby Doll nightdresses,
their gymslips and shorts—all children’s fashions. They wish not to be-
come adult—not to have to accept our kind of responsibility. And yet like
all children, they want to be thought grown up, and free to do what they
think are grown up things. And that leads sometimes to tragedy and some-
times to the aftermath of tragedy.”
“Are you thinking of some particular case?”
“No. No, not really. I’m only thinking—well, shall we say letting possibil-
ities pass through my mind. I cannot believe that Elizabeth Temple had a
personal enemy. An enemy ruthless enough to wish to take an opportunity
of killing her. What I do think—” he looked at Miss Marple, “—would you
like to make a suggestion?”
“Of a possibility? Well, I think I know or guess what you are suggesting.
You are suggesting that Miss Temple knew something, knew some fact or
had some knowledge that would be inconvenient or even dangerous to
somebody if it was known.”
“Yes, I do feel exactly that.”
“In that case,” said Miss Marple, “it seems indicated that there is
someone on our coach tour who recognized Miss Temple or knew who she
was, but who perhaps after the passage of some years was not re-
membered or might even not have been recognized by Miss Temple. It
seems to throw it back on our passengers, does it not?” She paused. “That
pullover you mentioned—red and black checks, you said?”
“Oh yes? The pullover—” He looked at her curiously. “What was it that
struck you about that?”
“It was very noticeable,” said Miss Marple. “That is what your words led
me to infer. It was very mentionable. So much so that the girl Joanna men-
tioned it specifically.”
“Yes. And what does that suggest to you?”
“The trailing of flags,” said Miss Marple thoughtfully. “Something that
will be seen, remembered, observed, recognized.”
“Yes.” Professor Wanstead looked at her with encouragement.
“When you describe a person you have seen, seen not close at hand but
from a distance, the first thing you will describe will be their clothes. Not
their faces, not their walk, not their hands, not their feet. A scarlet tam-o’-
shanter, a purple cloak, a bizarre leather jacket, a pullover of brilliant reds
and blacks. Something very recognizable, very noticeable. The object of it
being that when that person removes that garment, gets rid of it, sends it
by post in a parcel to some address, say, about a hundred miles away, or
thrusts it in a rubbish bin in a city or burns it or tears it up or destroys it,
she or he will be the one person modestly and rather drably attired who
will not be suspected or looked at or thought of. It must have been meant,
that scarlet and black check jersey. Meant so that it will be recognized
again though actually it will never again be seen on that particular per-
son.”
“A very sound idea,” said Professor Wanstead. “As I have told you,” con-
tinued the Professor, “Fallowfield is situated not very far from here. Six-
teen miles, I think. So this is Elizabeth Temple’s part of the world, a part
she knows well with people in it that she also might know well.”
“Yes. It widens the possibilities,” said Miss Marple. “I agree with you,”
she said presently, “that the attacker is more likely to have been a man
than a woman. That boulder, if it was done with intent, was sent on its
course very accurately. Accuracy is more a male quality than a female
one. On the other hand there might easily have been someone on our
coach, or possibly in the neighbourhood, who saw Miss Temple in the
street, a former pupil of hers in past years. Someone whom she herself
might not recognize after a period of time. But the girl or woman would
have recognized her, because a Headmaster or Headmistress of over sixty
is not unlike the same Headmaster or Headmistress at the age of fifty. She
is recognizable. Some woman who recognized her former mistress and
also knew that her mistress knew something damaging about her.
Someone who might in some way prove a danger to her.” She sighed. “I
myself do not know this part of the world at all. Have you any particular
knowledge of it?”
“No,” said Professor Wanstead. “I could not claim a personal knowledge
of this part of the country. I know something, however, of various things
that have happened in this part of the world entirely because of what you
have told me. If it had not been for my acquaintanceship with you and the
things you have told me I could have been more at sea than I am.
“What are you yourself actually doing here? You do not know. Yet you
were sent here. It was deliberately arranged by Rafiel that you should
come here, that you should take this coach tour, that you and I should
meet. There have been other places where we have stopped or through
which we have passed, but special arrangements were made so that you
should actually stay for a couple of nights here. You were put up with
former friends of his who would not have refused any request he made.
Was there a reason for that?”
“So that I could learn certain facts that I had to know,” said Miss Marple.
“A series of murders that took place a good many years ago?” Professor
Wanstead looked doubtful. “There is nothing unusual in that. You can say
the same of many places in England and Wales. These things seem always
to go in a series. First a girl found assaulted and murdered. Then another
girl not very far away. Then something of the same kind perhaps twenty
miles away. The same pattern of death.
“Two girls were reported missing from Jocelyn St. Mary itself, the one
that we have been discussing whose body was found six months later,
many miles away and who was last seen in the company of Michael Rafiel
—”
“And the other?”
“A girl called Nora Broad. Not-a ‘quiet girl with no boyfriends.’ Possibly
with one boyfriend too many. Her body was never found. It will be—one
day. There have been cases when twenty years have passed,” said Wan-
stead. He slowed down: “We have arrived. This is Carristown, and here is
the Hospital.”
Shepherded by Professor Wanstead, Miss Marple entered. The Professor
was obviously expected. He was ushered into a small room where a wo-
man rose from a desk.
“Oh yes,” she said, “Professor Wanstead. And—er—this is—er—” She
hesitated slightly.
“Miss Jane Marple,” said Professor Wanstead. “I talked to Sister Barker
on the telephone.”
“Oh yes. Sister Barker said that she would be accompanying you.”
“How is Miss Temple?”
“Much the same, I think. I am afraid there is not much improvement to
report.” She rose. “I will take you to Sister Barker.”
Sister Barker was a tall, thin woman. She had a low, decisive voice and
dark grey eyes that had a habit of looking at you and looking away almost
immediately, leaving you with the feeling that you had been inspected in a
very short space of time, and judgment pronounced upon you.
“I don’t know what arrangements you have in mind,” said Professor
Wanstead.
“Well, I had better tell Miss Marple just what we have arranged. First I
must make it clear to you that the patient, Miss Temple, is still in a coma
with very rare intervals. She appears to come to occasionally, to recognize
her surroundings and to be able to say a few words. But there is nothing
one can do to stimulate her. It has to be left to the utmost patience. I ex-
pect Professor Wanstead has already told you that in one of her intervals
of consciousness she uttered quite distinctly the words ‘Miss Jane Marple.’
And then: ‘I want to speak to her. Miss Jane Marple.’ After that she relapsed
into unconsciousness. Doctor thought it advisable to get in touch with the
other occupants of the coach. Professor Wanstead came to see us and ex-
plained various matters and said he would bring you over. I am afraid
that all we can ask you to do is to sit in the private ward where Miss
Temple is, and perhaps be ready to make a note of any words she should
say, if she does regain consciousness. I am afraid the prognosis is not very
helpful. To be quite frank, which is better I think, since you are not a near
relative and are unlikely to be disturbed by this information, Doctor
thinks that she is sinking fast, that she may die without recovering con-
sciousness. There is nothing one can do to relieve the concussion. It is im-
portant that someone should hear what she says and Doctor thinks it ad-
visable that she should not see too many people round her if she regains
consciousness. If Miss Marple is not worried at the thought of sitting there
alone, there will be a nurse in the room, though not obviously so. That is,
she will not be noticed from the bed, and will not move unless she’s asked
for. She will sit in a corner of the room shielded by a screen.” She added,
“We have a police official there also, ready to take down anything. The
Doctor thinks it advisable that he also should not be noticed by Miss
Temple. One person alone, and that possibly a person she expects to see,
will not alarm her or make her lose knowledge of what she wants to say to
you. I hope this will not be too difficult a thing to ask you?”
“Oh no,” said Miss Marple, “I’m quite prepared to do that. I have a small
notebook with me and a Biro pen that will not be in evidence. I can re-
member things by heart for a very short time, so I need not appear to be
obviously taking notes of what she says. You can trust my memory and I
am not deaf—not deaf in the real sense of the word. I don’t think my hear-
ing is quite as good as it used to be, but if I am sitting near a bedside, I
ought to be able to hear anything she says quite easily even if it is
whispered. I am used to sick people. I have had a good deal to do with
them in my time.”
Again the lightning glance of Sister Barker went over Miss Marple. This
time a faint inclination of the head showed satisfaction.
“It is kind of you,” she said, “and I am sure that if there is any help you
can give, we can rely on you to give it. If Professor Wanstead likes to sit in
the waiting room downstairs, we can call him at any moment if it should
be necessary. Now, Miss Marple, perhaps you will accompany me.”
Miss Marple followed Sister along a passage and into a small well ap-
pointed single room. In the bed there, in a dimly-lighted room since the
blinds were half drawn, lay Elizabeth Temple. She lay there like a statue,
yet she did not give the impression of being asleep. Her breath came un-
certainly in slight gasps. Sister Barker bent to examine her patient, mo-
tioned Miss Marple into a chair beside the bed. She then crossed the room
to the door again. A young man with a notebook in his hand came from
behind the screen there.
“Doctor’s orders, Mr. Reckitt,” said Sister Barker.
A nurse also appeared. She had been sitting in the opposite corner of the
room.
“Call me if necessary, Nurse Edmonds,” said Sister Barker, “and get Miss
Marple anything she may need.”
Miss Marple loosened her coat. The room was warm. The nurse ap-
proached and took it from her. Then she retired to her former position,
Miss Marple sat down in the chair. She looked at Elizabeth Temple think-
ing, as she had thought before when looking at her in the coach, what a
fine shaped head she had. Her grey hair drawn back from it, fitted her
face in a perfect cap-like effect. A handsome woman, and a woman of per-
sonality. Yes, a thousand pities, Miss Marple thought, a thousand pities if
the world was going to lose Elizabeth Temple.
Miss Marple eased the cushion at her back, moved the chair a fraction of
an inch and sat quietly to wait. Whether to wait in vain or to some point,
she had no idea. Time passed. Ten minutes, twenty minutes, half an hour,
thirty-five minutes. Then suddenly, quite unexpectedly as it were, a voice
came. Low, but distinct, slightly husky. None of the resonance it had once
held. “Miss Marple.”
Elizabeth Temple’s eyes were open now. They were looking at Miss
Marple. They looked competent, perfectly sensible. She was studying the
face of the woman who was sitting by her bed, studying her without any
sign of emotion, of surprise. Only, one would say, of scrutiny. Fully con-
scious scrutiny. And the voice spoke again.
“Miss Marple. You are Jane Marple?”
“That is right. Yes,” said Miss Marple. “Jane Marple.”
“Henry often spoke of you. He said things about you.”
The voice stopped. Miss Marple said with a slight query in her voice,
“Henry?”
“Henry Clithering, an old friend of mine—very old friend.”
“An old friend of mine too,” said Miss Marple. “Henry Clithering.”
Her mind went back to the many years she had known him, Sir Henry
Clithering, the things he had said to her, the assistance he had asked from
her sometimes, and the assistance that she had asked from him. A very old
friend.
“I remembered your name. On the passenger list. I thought it must be
you. You could help. That’s what he—Henry, yes—would say if he were
here. You might be able to help. To find out. It’s important. Very important
although—it’s a long time ago now—a—long—time—ago.”
Her voice faltered a little, her eyes half closed. Nurse got up, came
across the room, picked up a small glass and held it to Elizabeth Temple’s
lips. Miss Temple took a sip, nodded her head dismissively. Nurse put
down the glass and went back to her chair.
“If I can help, I will,” said Miss Marple. She asked no further questions.
Miss Temple said, “Good,” and after a minute or two, again, “Good.”
For two or three minutes she lay with her eyes closed. She might have
been asleep or unconscious. Then her eyes opened again suddenly.
“Which,” she said, “which of them? That’s what one has got to know. Do
you know what I am talking about?”
“I think so. A girl who died—Nora Broad?” A frown came quickly to
Elizabeth Temple’s forehead.
“No, no, no. The other girl. Verity Hunt.”
There was a pause and then, “Jane Marple. You’re old—older than when
he talked about you. You’re older, but you can still find out things, can’t
you?”
Her voice became slightly higher, more insistent.
“You can, can’t you? Say you can. I’ve not much time. I know that. I
know it quite well. One of them, but which? Find out. Henry would have
said you can. It may be dangerous for you — but you’ll find out, won’t
you?”
“With God’s help, I will,” said Miss Marple. It was a vow.
“Ah.”
The eyes closed, then opened again. Something like a smile seemed to
try and twitch the lips.
“The big stone from above. The Stone of Death.”
“Who rolled that stone down?”
“Don’t know. No matter—only—Verity. Find out about Verity. Truth. An-
other name for truth, Verity.”
Miss Marple saw the faint relaxation of the body on the bed. There was
a faintly whispered: “Good-bye. Do your best….”
Her body relaxed, the eyes closed. The nurse came again to the bedside.
This time she took up the pulse, felt it, and beckoned to Miss Marple. Miss
Marple rose obediently and followed her out of the room.
“That’s been a big effort for her,” said the nurse. “She won’t regain con-
sciousness again for some time. Perhaps not at all. I hope you learnt some-
thing?”
“I don’t think I did,” said Miss Marple, “but one never knows, does one.”
“Did you get anything?” asked Professor Wanstead, as they went out to
the car.
“A name,” said Miss Marple. “Verity. Was that the girl’s name?”
“Yes. Verity Hunt.”
Elizabeth Temple died an hour and a half later. She died without regain-
ing consciousness.
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