沉睡的谋杀案16
时间：2026-01-29 07:41:27
（单词翻译:单击）
Nine
UNKNOWN FACTOR?
I
When Giles came back from seeing Dr. Kennedy off, he found Gwenda sit-
ting where he had left her. There was a bright red patch on each of her
cheeks, and her eyes looked feverish. When she spoke her voice was harsh
and brittle.
“What’s the old catchphrase? Death or madness either way? That’s what
this is—death or madness.”
“Gwenda—darling.” Giles went to her—put his arm round her. Her body
felt hard and stiff.
“Why didn’t we leave it all alone? Why didn’t we? It was my own father
who strangled her. And it was my own father’s voice I heard saying those
words. No wonder it all came back—no wonder I was so frightened. My
own father.”
“Wait, Gwenda—wait. We don’t really know—”
“Of course we know! He told Dr. Kennedy he had strangled his wife,
didn’t he?”
“But Kennedy is quite positive he didn’t—”
“Because he didn’t find a body. But there was a body—and I saw it.”
“You saw it in the hall—not the bedroom.”
“What difference does that make?”
“Well, it’s queer, isn’t it? Why should Halliday say he strangled his wife
in the bedroom if he actually strangled her in the hall?”
“Oh, I don’t know. That’s just a minor detail.”
“I’m not so sure. Pull your socks up, darling. There are some very funny
points about the whole setup. We’ll take it, if you like, that your father did
strangle Helen. In the hall. What happened next?”
“He went off to Dr. Kennedy.”
“And told him he had strangled his wife in the bedroom, brought him
back with him and there was no body in the hall—or in the bedroom. Dash
it all, there can’t be a murder without a body. What had he done with the
body?”
“Perhaps there was one and Dr. Kennedy helped him and hushed it all
up—only of course he couldn’t tell us that.”
Giles shook his head.
“No, Gwenda—I don’t see Kennedy acting that way. He’s a hardheaded,
shrewd, unemotional Scotsman. You’re suggesting that he’d be willing to
put himself in jeopardy as an accessory after the fact. I don’t believe he
would. He’d do his best for Halliday by giving evidence as to his mental
state—that, yes. But why should he stick his neck out to hush the whole
thing up? Kelvin Halliday wasn’t any relation to him, nor a close friend. It
was his own sister who had been killed and he was clearly fond of her—
even if he did show slight Victorian disapproval of her gay ways. It’s not,
even, as though you were his sister’s child. No, Kennedy wouldn’t connive
at concealing murder. If he did, there’s only one possible way he could
have set about it, and that would be deliberately to give a death certificate
that she had died of heart failure or something. I suppose he might have
got away with that—but we know definitely that he didn’t do that. Because
there’s no record of her death in the Parish registers, and if he had done it,
he would have told us that his sister had died. So go on from there and ex-
plain, if you can, what happened to the body.”
“Perhaps my father buried it somewhere—in the garden?”
“And then went to Kennedy and told him he’d murdered his wife? Why?
Why not rely on the story that she’d ‘left him’?”
Gwenda pushed back her hair from her forehead. She was less stiff and
rigid now, and the patches of sharp colour were fading.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “It does seem a bit screwy now you’ve put
it that way. Do you think Dr. Kennedy was telling us the truth?”
“Oh yes—I’m pretty sure of it. From his point of view it’s a perfectly
reasonable story. Dreams, hallucinations—finally a major hallucination.
He’s got no doubt that it was a hallucination because, as we’ve just said,
you can’t have a murder without a body. That’s where we’re in a different
position from him. We know that there was a body.”
He paused and went on: “From his point of view, everything fits in.
Missing clothes and suitcase, the farewell note. And later, two letters from
his sister.
Gwenda stirred.
“Those letters. How do we explain those?”
“We don’t—but we’ve got to. If we assume that Kennedy was telling us
the truth (and as I say, I’m pretty sure that he was), we’ve got to explain
those letters.”
“I suppose they really were in his sister’s handwriting? He recognized
it?”
“You know, Gwenda, I don’t believe that point would arise. It’s not like a
signature on a doubtful cheque. If those letters were written in a reason-
ably close imitation of his sister’s writing, it wouldn’t occur to him to
doubt them. He’s already got the preconceived idea that she’s gone away
with someone. The letters just confirmed that belief. If he had never heard
from her at all—why, then he might have got suspicious. All the same,
there are certain curious points about those letters that wouldn’t strike
him, perhaps, but do strike me. They’re strangely anonymous. No address
except a poste restante. No indication of who the man in the case was. A
clearly stated determination to make a clean break with all old ties. What I
mean is, they’re exactly the kind of letters a murderer would devise if he
wanted to allay any suspicions on the part of his victim’s family. It’s the
old Crippen touch again. To get the letters posted from abroad would be
easy.”
“You think my father—”
“No—that’s just it—I don’t. Take a man who’s deliberately decided to get
rid of his wife. He spreads rumours about her possible unfaithfulness. He
stages her departure—note left behind, clothes packed and taken. Letters
will be received from her at carefully spaced intervals from somewhere
abroad. Actually he has murdered her quietly and put her, say, under the
cellar floor. That’s one pattern of murder—and it’s often been done. But
what that type of murderer doesn’t do is to rush to his brother-in-law and
say he’s murdered his wife and hadn’t they better go to the police? On the
other hand, if your father was the emotional type of killer, and was ter-
ribly in love with his wife and strangled her in a fit of frenzied jealousy—
Othello fashion—(and that fits in with the words you heard) he certainly
doesn’t pack clothes and arrange for letters to come, before he rushes off
to broadcast his crime to a man who isn’t the type likely to hush it up. It’s
all wrong, Gwenda. The whole pattern is wrong.”
“Then what are you trying to get at, Giles?”
“I don’t know … It’s just that throughout it all, there seems to be an un-
known factor—call him X. Someone who hasn’t appeared as yet. But one
gets glimpses of his technique.”
“X?” said Gwenda wonderingly. Then her eyes darkened. “You’re mak-
ing that up, Giles. To comfort me.”
“I swear I’m not. Don’t you see yourself that you can’t make a satisfact-
ory outline to fit all the facts? We know that Helen Halliday was strangled
because you saw—”
He stopped.
“Good Lord! I’ve been a fool. I see it now. It covers everything. You’re
right. And Kennedy’s right, too. Listen, Gwenda. Helen’s preparing to go
away with a lover—who that is we don’t know.”
“X?”
Giles brushed her interpolation aside impatiently.
“She’s written her note to her husband—but at that moment he comes
in, reads what she’s writing and goes haywire. He crumples up the note,
slings it into the wastebasket, and goes for her. She’s terrified, rushes out
into the hall—he catches up with her, throttles her—she goes limp and he
drops her. And then, standing a little way from her, he quotes those words
from The Duchess of Malfi just as the child upstairs has reached the banis-
ters and is peering down.”
“And after that?”
“The point is, that she isn’t dead. He may have thought she was dead—
but she’s merely semisuffocated. Perhaps her lover comes round—after
the frantic husband has started for the doctor’s house on the other side of
the town, or perhaps she regains consciousness by herself. Anyway, as
soon as she has come to, she beats it. Beats it quickly. And that explains
everything. Kelvin’s belief that he has killed her. The disappearance of the
clothes; packed and taken away earlier in the day. And the subsequent let-
ters which are perfectly genuine. There you are—that explains everything.”
Gwenda said slowly, “It doesn’t explain why Kelvin said he had
strangled her in the bedroom.”
“He was so het up, he couldn’t quite remember where it had all
happened.”
Gwenda said: “I’d like to believe you. I want to believe … But I go on
feeling sure—quite sure—that when I looked down she was dead—quite
dead.”
“But how could you possibly tell? A child of barely three.”
She looked at him queerly.
“I think one can tell—better than if one was older. It’s like dogs—they
know death and throw back their heads and howl. I think children—know
death….”
“That’s nonsense—that’s fantastic.”
The ring of the frontdoor bell interrupted him. He said, “Who’s that, I
wonder?”
Gwenda looked dismayed.
“I quite forgot. It’s Miss Marple. I asked her to tea today. Don’t let’s go
saying anything about all this to her.”
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