破镜谋杀案43
时间：2025-11-25 09:47:46
（单词翻译:单击）
Twenty-two
“Such a sweet letter from Lady Conway,” Miss Knight said two days later
as she deposited Miss Marple’s breakfast tray. “You remember my telling
you about her? Just a little, you know —” she tapped her forehead
—“wanders sometimes. And her memory’s bad. Can’t recognize her rela-
tions always and tells them to go away.”
“That might be shrewdness really,” said Miss Marple, “rather than a loss
of memory.”
“Now, now,” said Miss Knight, “aren’t we being naughty to make sugges-
tions like that? She’s spending the winter at the Belgrave Hotel at
Llandudno. Such a nice residential hotel. Splendid grounds and a very
nice glassed-in terrace. She’s most anxious for me to come and join her
there.” She sighed.
Miss Marple sat herself upright in bed.
“But please,” she said, “if you are wanted—if you are needed there and
would like to go—”
“No, no, I couldn’t hear of it,” cried Miss Knight. “Oh, no, I never meant
anything like that. Why, what would Mr. Raymond West say? He ex-
plained to me that being here might turn out to be a permanency. I should
never dream of not fulfilling my obligations. I was only just mentioning
the fact in passing, so don’t worry, dear,” she added, patting Miss Marple
on the shoulder. “We’re not going to be deserted! No, no, indeed we’re not!
We’re going to be looked after and cosseted and made very happy and
comfortable always.”
She went out of the room. Miss Marple sat with an air of determination,
staring at her tray and failing to eat anything. Finally she picked up the re-
ceiver of the telephone and dialled with vigour.
“Dr. Haydock?”
“Yes?”
“Jane Marple here.”
“And what’s the matter with you? In need of my professional services?”
“No,” said Miss Marple. “But I want to see you as soon as possible.”
When Dr. Haydock came, he found Miss Marple still in bed waiting for
him.
“You look the picture of health,” he complained.
“That is why I wanted to see you,” said Miss Marple. “To tell you that I
am perfectly well.”
“An unusual reason for sending for the doctor.”
“I’m quite strong, I’m quite fit, and it’s absurd to have anybody living in
the house. So long as someone comes every day and does the cleaning and
all that I don’t see any need at all for having someone living here perman-
ently.”
“I dare say you don’t, but I do,” said Dr. Haydock.
“It seems to me you’re turning into a regular old fussbudget,” said Miss
Marple unkindly.
“And don’t call me names!” said Dr. Haydock. “You’re a very healthy wo-
man for your age; you were pulled down a bit by bronchitis which isn’t
good for the elderly. But to stay alone in a house at your age is a risk. Sup-
posing you fall down the stairs one evening or fall out of bed or slip in the
bath. There you’d lie and nobody’d know about it.”
“One can imagine anything,” said Miss Marple. “Miss Knight might fall
down the stairs and I’d fall over her rushing out to see what had
happened.”
“It’s no good your bullying me,” said Dr. Haydock. “You’re an old lady
and you’ve got to be looked after in a proper manner. If you don’t like this
woman you’ve got, change her and get somebody else.”
“That’s not always so easy,” said Miss Marple.
“Find some old servant of yours, someone that you like, and who’s lived
with you before. I can see this old hen irritates you. She’d irritate me.
There must be some old servant somewhere. That nephew of yours is one
of the best-selling authors of the day. He’d make it worth her while if you
found the right person.”
“Of course dear Raymond would do anything of that kind. He is most
generous,” said Miss Marple. “But it’s not so easy to find the right person.
Young people have their own lives to live, and so many of my faithful old
servants, I am sorry to say, are dead.”
“Well, you’re not dead,” said Dr. Haydock, “and you’ll live a good deal
longer if you take proper care of yourself.”
He rose to his feet.
“Well,” he said. “No good my stopping here. You look as fit as a fiddle. I
shan’t waste time taking your blood pressure or feeling your pulse or ask-
ing you questions. You’re thriving on all this local excitement, even if you
can’t get about to poke your nose in as much as you’d like to do. Goodbye,
I’ve got to go now and do some real doctoring. Eight to ten cases of Ger-
man measles, half a dozen whooping coughs, and a suspected scarlet fever
as well as my regulars!”
Dr. Haydock went out breezily—but Miss Marple was frowning… Some-
thing that he had said…what was it? Patients to see…the usual village ail-
ments…village ailments? Miss Marple pushed her breakfast tray farther
away with a purposeful gesture. Then she rang up Mrs. Bantry.
“Dolly? Jane here. I want to ask you something. Now pay attention. Is it
true that you told Inspector Craddock that Heather Badcock told Marina
Gregg a long pointless story about how she had chicken pox and got up in
spite of it to go and meet Marina and get her autograph?”
“That was it more or less.”
“Chicken pox?”
“Well, something like that. Mrs. Allcock was talking to me about vodka
at the time, so I wasn’t really listening closely.”
“You’re sure,” Miss Marple took a breath, “that she didn’t say whooping
cough?”
“Whooping cough?” Mrs. Bantry sounded astounded. “Of course not.
She wouldn’t have had to powder her face and do it up for whooping
cough.”
“I see—that’s what you went by—her special mention of makeup?”
“Well, she laid stress on it—she wasn’t the makingup kind. But I think
you’re right, it wasn’t chicken pox… Nettlerash, perhaps.”
“You only say that,” said Miss Marple coldly, “because you once had net-
tlerash yourself and couldn’t go to a wedding. You’re hopeless, Dolly, quite
hopeless.”
She put the receiver down with a bang, cutting off Mrs. Bantry’s aston-
ished protest of “Really, Jane.”
Miss Marple made a ladylike noise of vexation like a cat sneezing to in-
dicate profound disgust. Her mind reverted to the problem of her own do-
mestic comfort. Faithful Florence? Could faithful Florence, that grenadier
of a former parlourmaid be persuaded to leave her comfortable small
house and come back to St. Mary Mead to look after her erstwhile mis-
tress? Faithful Florence had always been very devoted to her. But faithful
Florence was very attached to her own little house. Miss Marple shook her
head vexedly. A gay rat-tat-tat sounded at the door. On Miss Marple’s call-
ing “Come in” Cherry entered.
“Come for your tray,” she said. “Has anything happened? You’re looking
rather upset, aren’t you?”
“I feel so helpless,” said Miss Marple. “Old and helpless.”
“Don’t worry,” said Cherry, picking up the tray. “You’re very far from
helpless. You don’t know the things I hear about you in this place! Why
practically everybody in the Development knows about you now. All sorts
of extraordinary things you’ve done. They don’t think of you as the old and
helpless kind. It’s she puts it into your head.”
“She?”
Cherry gave a vigorous nod of her head backwards towards the door be-
hind her.
“Pussy, pussy,” she said. “Your Miss Knight. Don’t you let her get you
down.”
“She’s very kind,” said Miss Marple, “really very kind,” she added, in the
tone of one who convinces herself.
“Care killed the cat, they say,” said Cherry. “You don’t want kindness
rubbed into your skin, so to speak, do you?”
“Oh, well,” said Miss Marple sighing, “I suppose we all have our
troubles.”
“I should say we do,” said Cherry. “I oughtn’t to complain but I feel
sometimes that if I live next door to Mrs. Hartwell any longer there’s going
to be a regrettable incident. Sour-faced old cat, always gossiping and com-
plaining. Jim’s pretty fed up too. He had a first-class row with her last
night. Just because we had The Messiah on a bit loud! You can’t object to
The Messiah, can you? I mean, it’s religious.”
“Did she object?”
“She created something terrible,” said Cherry. “Banged on the wall and
shouted and one thing and another.”
“Do you have to have your music turned on so loud?” asked Miss
Marple.
“Jim likes it that way,” said Cherry. “He says you don’t get the tone un-
less you have full volume.”
“It might,” suggested Miss Marple, “be a little trying for anyone if they
weren’t musical.”
“It’s these houses being semi-detached,” said Cherry. “Thin as anything,
the walls. I’m not so keen really on all this new building, when you come
to think of it. It looks all very prissy and nice but you can’t express your
personality without somebody being down on you like a ton of bricks.”
Miss Marple smiled at her.
“You’ve got a lot of personality to express, Cherry,” she said.
“D’you think so?” Cherry was pleased and she laughed. “I wonder,” she
began. Suddenly she looked embarrassed. She put down the tray and
came back to the bed.
“I wonder if you’d think it cheek if I asked you something? I mean—
you’ve only got to say ‘out of the question’ and that’s that.”
“Something you want me to do?”
“Not quite. It’s those rooms over the kitchen. They’re never used
nowadays, are they?”
“No.”
“Used to be a gardener and wife there once, so I heard. But that’s old
stuff. What I wondered—what Jim and I wondered—is if we could have
them. Come and live here, I mean.”
Miss Marple stared at her in astonishment.
“But your beautiful new house in the Development?”
“We’re both fed up with it. We like gadgets, but you can have gadgets
anywhere—get them on HP and there would be a nice lot of room here, es-
pecially if Jim could have the room over the stables. He’d fix it up like
new, and he could have all his construction models there, and wouldn’t
have to clear them away all the time. And if we had our stereogram there
too, you’d hardly hear it.”
“Are you really serious about this, Cherry?”
“Yes, I am. Jim and I, we’ve talked about it a lot. Jim could fix things for
you anytime—you know, plumbing or a bit of carpentry, and I’d look after
you every bit as well as your Miss Knight does. I know you think I’m a bit
slap-dash—but I’d try and take trouble with the beds and the washing-up
—and I’m getting quite a dab hand at cooking. Did Beef Stroganoff last
night, it’s quite easy, really.”
Miss Marple contemplated her.
Cherry was looking like an eager kitten—vitality and joy of life radiated
from her. Miss Marple thought once more of faithful Florence. Faithful
Florence would, of course, keep the house far better. (Miss Marple put no
faith in Cherry’s promise.) But she was at least sixty-five—perhaps more.
And would she really want to be uprooted? She might accept that out of
very real devotion for Miss Marple. But did Miss Marple really want sacri-
fices made for her? Wasn’t she already suffering from Miss Knight’s con-
scientious devotion to duty?
Cherry, however inadequate her housework, wanted to come. And she
had qualities that to Miss Marple at this moment seemed of supreme im-
portance.
Warmheartedness, vitality, and a deep interest in everything that was
going on.
“I don’t want, of course,” said Cherry, “to go behind Miss Knight’s back
in anyway.”
“Never mind about Miss Knight,” said Miss Marple, coming to a decision.
“She’ll go off to someone called Lady Conway at a hotel in Llandudno—
and enjoy herself thoroughly. We’ll have to settle a lot of details, Cherry,
and I shall want to talk to your husband—but if you really think you’d be
happy….”
“It’d suit us down to the ground,” said Cherry. “And you really can rely
on me doing things properly. I’ll even use the dustpan and brush if you
like.”
Miss Marple laughed at this supreme offer.
Cherry picked up the breakfast tray again.
“I must get cracking. I got here late this morning—hearing about poor
Arthur Badcock.”
“Arthur Badcock? What happened to him?”
“Haven’t you heard? He’s up at the police station now,” said Cherry.
“They asked him if he’d come and ‘assist them with their inquiries’ and
you know what that always means.”
“When did this happen?” demanded Miss Marple.
“This morning,” said Cherry. “I suppose,” she added, “that it got out
about his once having been married to Marina Gregg.”
“What!” Miss Marple sat up again. “Arthur Badcock was once married to
Marina Gregg?”
“That’s the story,” said Cherry. “Nobody had any idea of it. It was Mr.
Upshaw put it about. He’s been to the States once or twice on business for
his firm and so he knows a lot of gossip from over there. It was a long time
ago, you know. Really before she’d begun her career. They were only mar-
ried a year or two and then she won a film award and of course he wasn’t
good enough for her then, so they had one of these easy American di-
vorces and he just faded out, as you might say. He’s the fading out kind,
Arthur Badcock. He wouldn’t make a fuss. He changed his name and came
back to England. It’s all ever so long ago. You wouldn’t think anything like
that mattered nowadays, would you? Still, there it is. It’s enough for the
police to go on, I suppose.”
“Oh, no,” said Miss Marple. “Oh no. This mustn’t happen. If I could only
think what to do—Now, let me see.” She made a gesture to Cherry. “Take
the tray away, Cherry, and send Miss Knight up to me. I’m going to get
up.”
Cherry obeyed. Miss Marple dressed herself with fingers that fumbled
slightly. It irritated her when she found excitement of any kind affecting
her. She was just hooking up her dress when Miss Knight entered.
“Did you want me? Cherry said—”
Miss Marple broke in incisively.
“Get Inch,” she said.
“I beg your pardon,” said Miss Knight, startled.
“Inch,” said Miss Marple, “get Inch. Telephone for him to come at once.”
“Oh, oh I see. You mean the taxi people. But his name’s Roberts, isn’t it?”
“To me,” said Miss Marple, “he is Inch and always will be. But anyway
get him. He’s to come here at once.”
“You want to go for a little drive?”
“Just get him, can you?” said Miss Marple. “And hurry, please.”
Miss Knight looked at her doubtfully and proceeded to do as she was
told.
“We are feeling all right, dear, aren’t we?” she said anxiously.
“We are both feeling very well,” said Miss Marple, “and I am feeling par-
ticularly well. Inertia does not suit me, and never has. A practical course
of action, that is what I have been wanting for a long time.”
“Has that Mrs. Baker been saying something that has upset you?”
“Nothing has upset me,” said Miss Marple. “I feel particularly well. I am
annoyed with myself for being stupid. But really, until I got a hint from Dr.
Haydock this morning—now I wonder if I remember rightly. Where is that
medical book of mine?” She gestured Miss Knight aside and walked firmly
down the stairs. She found the book she wanted on a shelf in the drawing
room. Taking it out she looked up the index, murmured, “Page 210,”
turned to the page in question, read for a few moments then nodded her
head, satisfied.
“Most remarkable,” she said, “most curious. I don’t suppose anybody
would ever have thought of it. I didn’t myself, until the two things came to-
gether, so to speak.”
Then she shook her head, and a little line appeared between her eyes. If
only there was someone….
She went over in her mind the various accounts she had been given of
that particular scene….
Her eyes widened in thought. There was someone—but would he, she
wondered, be any good? One never knew with the vicar. He was quite un-
predictable.
Nevertheless she went to the telephone and dialled.
“Good morning, Vicar, this is Miss Marple.”
“Oh, yes, Miss Marple—anything I can do for you?”
“I wonder if you could help me on a small point. It concerns the day of
the fête when poor Mrs. Badcock died. I believe you were standing quite
near Miss Gregg when Mr. and Mrs. Badcock arrived.”
“Yes—yes— I was just before them, I think. Such a tragic day.”
“Yes, indeed. And I believe that Mrs. Badcock was recalling to Miss
Gregg that they had met before in Bermuda. She had been ill in bed and
had got up specially.”
“Yes, yes, I do remember.”
“And do you remember if Mrs. Badcock mentioned the illness she was
suffering from?”
“I think now—let me see—yes, it was measles—at least not real measles
—German measles—a much less serious disease. Some people hardly feel
ill at all with it. I remember my cousin Caroline….”
Miss Marple cut off reminiscences of Cousin Caroline by saying firmly:
“Thank you so much, Vicar,” and replacing the receiver.
There was an awed expression on her face. One of the great mysteries of
St. Mary Mead was what made the vicar remember certain things—only
outstripped by the greater mystery of what the vicar could manage to for-
get!
“The taxi’s here, dear,” said Miss Knight, bustling in. “It’s a very old one,
and not too clean I should say. I don’t really like you driving in a thing like
that. You might pick up some germ or other.”
“Nonsense,” said Miss Marple. Setting her hat firmly on her head and
buttoning up her summer coat, she went out to the waiting taxi.
“Good morning, Roberts,” she said.
“Good morning, Miss Marple. You’re early this morning. Where do you
want to go?”
“Gossington Hall, please,” said Miss Marple.
“I’d better come with you, hadn’t I, dear?” said Miss Knight. “It won’t
take a minute just to slip on outdoor shoes.”
“No, thank you,” said Miss Marple, firmly. “I’m going by myself. Drive
on, Inch. I mean Roberts.”
Mr. Roberts drove on, merely remarking:
“Ah, Gossington Hall. Great changes there and everywhere nowadays.
All that development. Never thought anything like that’d come to St. Mary
Mead.”
Upon arrival at Gossington Hall Miss Marple rang the bell and asked to
see Mr. Jason Rudd.
Giuseppe’s successor, a rather shaky- looking elderly man, conveyed
doubt.
“Mr. Rudd,” he said, “does not see anybody without an appointment,
madam. And today especially—”
“I have no appointment,” said Miss Marple, “but I will wait,” she added.
She stepped briskly past him into the hall and sat down on a hall chair.
“I’m afraid it will be quite impossible this morning, madam.”
“In that case,” said Miss Marple, “I shall wait until this afternoon.”
Baffled, the new butler retired. Presently a young man came to Miss
Marple. He had a pleasant manner and a cheerful, slightly American
voice.
“I’ve seen you before,” said Miss Marple. “In the Development. You
asked me the way to Blenheim Close.”
Hailey Preston smiled good-naturedly. “I guess you did your best, but
you misdirected me badly.”
“Dear me, did I?” said Miss Marple. “So many Closes, aren’t there? Can I
see Mr. Rudd?”
“Why, now, that’s too bad,” said Hailey Preston. “Mr. Rudd’s a busy man
and he’s—er—fully occupied this morning and really can’t be disturbed.”
“I’m sure he’s very busy,” said Miss Marple. “I came here quite prepared
to wait.”
“Why, I’d suggest now,” said Hailey Preston, “that you should tell me
what it is you want. I deal with all these things for Mr. Rudd, you see.
Everyone has to see me first.”
“I’m afraid,” said Miss Marple, “that I want to see Mr. Rudd himself.
And,” she added, “I shall wait here until I do.”
She settled herself more firmly in the large oak chair.
Hailey Preston hesitated, started to speak, finally turned away and went
upstairs.
He returned with a large man in tweeds.
“This is Dr. Gilchrist. Miss—er—”
“Miss Marple.”
“So you’re Miss Marple,” said Dr. Gilchrist. He looked at her with a good
deal of interest.
Hailey Preston slipped away with celerity.
“I’ve heard about you,” said Dr. Gilchrist. “From Dr. Haydock.”
“Dr. Haydock is a very old friend of mine.”
“He certainly is. Now you want to see Mr. Jason Rudd? Why?”
“It is necessary that I should,” said Miss Marple.
Dr. Gilchrist’s eyes appraised her.
“And you’re camping here until you do?” he asked.
“Exactly.”
“You would, too,” said Dr. Gilchrist. “In that case I will give you a per-
fectly good reason why you cannot see Mr. Rudd. His wife died last night
in her sleep.”
“Dead!” exclaimed Miss Marple. “How?”
“An overdose of sleeping stuff. We don’t want the news to leak out to the
Press for a few hours. So I’ll ask you to keep this knowledge to yourself for
the moment.”
“Of course. Was it an accident?”
“That is definitely my view,” said Gilchrist.
“But it could be suicide.”
“It could—but most unlikely.”
“Or someone could have given it to her?”
Gilchrist shrugged his shoulders.
“A most remote contingency. And a thing,” he added firmly, “that would
be quite impossible to prove.”
“I see,” said Miss Marple. She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, but it’s
more necessary than ever that I should see Mr. Rudd.”
Gilchrist looked at her.
“Wait here,” he said.
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