沉睡的谋杀案7
时间：2026-01-29 07:37:16
（单词翻译:单击）
Five
MURDER IN RETROSPECT
I
It was some ten days later that Miss Marple entered a small hotel in May-
fair, and was given an enthusiastic reception by young Mr. and Mrs. Reed.
“This is my husband, Miss Marple. Giles, I can’t tell you how kind Miss
Marple was to me.”
“I’m delighted to meet you, Miss Marple. I hear Gwenda nearly panicked
herself into a lunatic asylum.”
Miss Marple’s gentle blue eyes summed up Giles Reed favourably. A
very likeable young man, tall and fair with a disarming way of blinking
every now and then out of a natural shyness. She noted his determined
chin and the set of his jaw.
“We’ll have tea in the little waiting room, the dark one,” said Gwenda.
“Nobody ever comes there. And then we can show Miss Marple Aunt Al-
ison’s letter.
“Yes,” she added, as Miss Marple looked up sharply. “It’s come, and it’s
almost exactly what you thought.”
Tea over, the airmail letter was spread out and read.
Dearest Gwenda, (Miss Dandy had written)
I was much disturbed to hear you had had some worrying
experience. To tell you the truth, it had really entirely es-
caped my memory that you had actually resided for a
short time in England as a young child.
Your mother, my sister Megan, met your father, Major
Halliday, when she was on a visit to some friends of ours at
that time stationed in India. They were married and you
were born there. About two years after your birth your
mother died. It was a great shock to us and we wrote to
your father with whom we had corresponded, but whom
actually we had never seen, begging him to entrust you to
our care, as we would be only too glad to have you, and it
might be difficult for an Army man stranded with a young
child. Your father, however, refused, and told us he was
resigning from the Army and taking you back with him to
England. He said he hoped we would at some time come
over and visit him there.
I understand that on the voyage home, your father met a
young woman, became engaged to her, and married her as
soon as he got to England. The marriage was not, I gather,
a happy one, and I understand they parted about a year
later. It was then that your father wrote to us and asked if
we were still willing to give you a home. I need hardly tell
you, my dear, how happy we were to do so. You were sent
out to us in the charge of an English nurse, and at the
same time your father settled the bulk of his estate upon
you and suggested that you might legally adopt our name.
This, I may say, seemed a little curious to us, but we felt
that it was kindly meant—and intended to make you more
one of the family—we did not, however, adopt that sugges-
tion. About a year later your father died in a nursing
home. I surmise that he had already received bad news
about his health at the time when he sent you out to us.
I’m afraid I cannot tell you where you lived whilst with
your father in England. His letter naturally had the ad-
dress on it at the time but that is now eighteen years ago
and I’m afraid one doesn’t remember such details. It was
in the South of England, I know—and I fancy Dillmouth is
correct. I had a vague idea it was Dartmouth, but the two
names are not unlike. I believe your stepmother married
again, but I have no recollection of her name, nor even of
her unmarried name, though your father had mentioned
it in the original letter telling of his remarriage. We were, I
think, a little resentful of his marrying again so soon, but
of course one knows that on board ship the influence of
propinquity is very great—and he may also have thought
that it would be a good thing on your account.
It seemed stupid of me not to have mentioned to you that
you had been in England even if you didn’t remember the
fact, but, as I say, the whole thing had faded from my
mind. Your mother’s death in India and your subse-
quently coming to live with us always seemed the import-
ant points.
I hope this is all cleared up now?
I do trust Giles will soon be able to join you. It is hard for
you both being parted at this early stage.
All my news in my next letter, as I am sending this off hur-
riedly in answer to your wire.
Your loving aunt,
Alison Danby.
PS. You do not say what your worrying experience was?
“You see,” said Gwenda. “It’s almost exactly as you suggested.”
Miss Marple smoothed out the flimsy sheet.
“Yes—yes, indeed. The commonsense explanation. I’ve found, you know,
that that is so often right.”
“Well, I’m very grateful to you, Miss Marple,” said Giles. “Poor Gwenda
was thoroughly upset, and I must say I’d have been rather worried myself
to think that Gwenda was clairvoyant or psychic or something.”
“It might be a disturbing quality in a wife,” said Gwenda. “Unless you’ve
always led a thoroughly blameless life.”
“Which I have,” said Giles.
“And the house? What do you feel about the house?” asked Miss Marple.
“Oh, that’s all right. We’re going down tomorrow. Giles is dying to see
it.”
“I don’t know whether you realize it, Miss Marple,” said Giles, “but what
it amounts to is, that we’ve got a first-class murder mystery on our hands.
Actually on our very doorstep—or more accurately in our front hall.”
“I had thought of that, yes,” said Miss Marple slowly.
“And Giles simply loves detective stories,” said Gwenda.
“Well, I mean, it is a detective story. Body in the hall of a beautiful
strangled woman. Nothing known of her but her Christian name. Of
course I know it’s nearly twenty years ago. There can’t be any clues after
all this time, but one can at least cast about, and try to pick up some of the
threads. Oh! I dare say one won’t succeed in solving the riddle—”
“I think you might,” said Miss Marple. “Even after eighteen years. Yes, I
think you might.”
“But at any rate it won’t do any harm to have a real good try?”
Giles paused, his face beaming.
Miss Marple moved uneasily, her face was grave—almost troubled.
“But it might do a great deal of harm,” she said. “I would advise you
both—oh yes, I really would advise it very strongly—to leave the whole
thing alone.”
“Leave it alone? Our very own murder mystery—if it was murder!”
“It was murder, I think. And that’s just why I should leave it alone.
Murder isn’t—it really isn’t—a thing to tamper with lightheartedly.”
Giles said: “But, Miss Marple, if everybody felt like that—”
She interrupted him.
“Oh, I know. There are times when it is one’s duty—an innocent person
accused—suspicion resting on various other people—a dangerous crim-
inal at large who may strike again. But you must realize that this murder
is very much in the past. Presumably it wasn’t known for murder—if so,
you would have heard fast enough from your old gardener or someone
down there—a murder, however long ago, is always news. No, the body
must have been disposed of somehow, and the whole thing never suspec-
ted. Are you sure—are you really sure, that you are wise to dig it all up
again?”
“Miss Marple,” cried Gwenda, “you sound really concerned?”
“I am, my dear. You are two very nice and charming young people (if
you will allow me to say so). You are newly married and happy together.
Don’t, I beg of you, start to uncover things that may—well, that may—how
shall I put it?—that may upset and distress you.”
Gwenda stared at her. “You’re thinking of something special—of some-
thing—what is it you’re hinting at?”
“Not hinting, dear. Just advising you (because I’ve lived a long time and
know how very upsetting human nature can be) to let well alone. That’s
my advice: let well alone.”
“But it isn’t letting well alone.” Giles’s voice held a different note, a
sterner note. “Hillside is our house, Gwenda’s and mine, and someone was
murdered in that house, or so we believe. I’m not going to stand for
murder in my house and do nothing about it, even if it is eighteen years
ago!”
Miss Marple sighed. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I imagine that most young
men of spirit would feel like that. I even sympathize and almost admire
you for it. But I wish—oh, I do wish—that you wouldn’t do it.”
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