伯特伦旅馆之谜6
时间：2026-01-04 07:38:29
（单词翻译:单击）
Chapter Five
I
Miss Marple awoke early because she always woke early. She was appreci-
ative of her bed. Most comfortable.
She pattered across to the window and pulled the curtains, admitting a
little pallid London daylight. As yet, however, she did not try to dispense
with the electric light. A very nice bedroom they had given her, again
quite in the tradition of Bertram’s. A rose- flowered wallpaper, a large
well-polished mahogany chest of drawers—a dressing table to correspond.
Two upright chairs, one easy chair of a reasonable height from the
ground. A connecting door led to a bathroom which was modern but
which had a tiled wallpaper of roses and so avoided any suggestion of
over-frigid hygiene.
Miss Marple got back into bed, plumped her pillows up, glanced at her
clock, half past seven, picked up the small devotional book that always ac-
companied her, and read as usual the page and a half allotted to the day.
Then she picked up her knitting and began to knit, slowly at first, since her
fingers were stiff and rheumatic when she first awoke, but very soon her
pace grew faster, and her fingers lost their painful stiffness.
“Another day,” said Miss Marple to herself, greeting the fact with her
usual gentle pleasure. Another day—and who knew what it might bring
forth?
She relaxed, and abandoning her knitting, let thoughts pass in an idle
stream through her head…Selina Hazy…what a pretty cottage she had had
in St. Mary Mead—and now someone had put on that ugly green roof…
Muffins…very wasteful in butter…but very good…And fancy serving old-
fashioned seed cake! She had never expected, not for a moment, that
things would be as much like they used to be…because, after all, Time
didn’t stand still…And to have made it stand still in this way must really
have cost a lot of money…Not a bit of plastic in the place!…It must pay
them, she supposed. The out-of-date returns in due course as the pictur-
esque…Look how people wanted old-fashioned roses now, and scorned
hybrid teas!…None of this place seemed real at all…Well, why should it?…
It was fifty—no, nearer sixty years since she had stayed here. And it didn’t
seem real to her because she was now acclimatized in this present year of
Our Lord—Really, the whole thing opened up a very interesting set of
problems…The atmosphere and the people…Miss Marple’s fingers pushed
her knitting farther away from her.
“Pockets,” she said aloud…“Pockets, I suppose… And quite difficult to
find….”
Would that account for that curious feeling of uneasiness she had had
last night? That feeling that something was wrong….
All those elderly people—really very much like those she remembered
when she had stayed here fifty years ago. They had been natural then—
but they weren’t very natural now. Elderly people nowadays weren’t like
elderly people then—they had that worried harried look of domestic anxi-
eties with which they are too tired to cope, or they rushed around to com-
mittees and tried to appear bustling and competent, or they dyed their
hair gentian blue, or wore wigs, and their hands were not the hands she
remembered, tapering, delicate hands—they were harsh from washing up
and detergents….
And so—well, so these people didn’t look real. But the point was that
they were real. Selina Hazy was real. And that rather handsome old milit-
ary man in the corner was real—she had met him once, although she did
not recall his name—and the Bishop (dear Robbie!) was dead.
Miss Marple glanced at her little clock. It was eight thirty. Time for her
breakfast.
She examined the instructions given by the hotel—splendid big print so
that it wasn’t necessary to put one’s spectacles on.
Meals could be ordered through the telephone by asking for Room Ser-
vice, or you could press the bell labelled Chambermaid.
Miss Marple did the latter. Talking to Room Service always flustered
her.
The result was excellent. In no time at all there was a tap on the door
and a highly satisfactory chambermaid appeared. A real chambermaid
looking unreal, wearing a striped lavender print dress and actually a cap,
a freshly laundered cap. A smiling, rosy, positively countrified face.
(Where did they find these people?)
Miss Marple ordered her breakfast. Tea, poached eggs, fresh rolls. So ad-
ept was the chambermaid that she did not even mention cereals or orange
juice.
Five minutes later breakfast came. A comfortable tray with a big potbel-
lied teapot, creamy-looking milk, a silver hot water jug. Two beautifully
poached eggs on toast, poached the proper way, not little round hard bul-
lets shaped in tin cups, a good- sized round of butter stamped with a
thistle. Marmalade, honey and strawberry jam. Delicious-looking rolls, not
the hard kind with papery interiors—they smelt of fresh bread (the most
delicious smell in the world!). There was also an apple, a pear and a ba-
nana.
Miss Marple inserted a knife gingerly but with confidence. She was not
disappointed. Rich deep yellow yolk oozed out, thick and creamy. Proper
eggs!
Everything’s piping hot. A real breakfast. She could have cooked it her-
self but she hadn’t had to! It was brought to her as if—no, not as though
she were a queen—as though she were a middle-aged lady staying in a
good but not unduly expensive hotel. In fact—back to 1909. Miss Marple
expressed appreciation to the chambermaid who replied smiling,
“Oh, yes, Madam, the Chef is very particular about his breakfasts.”
Miss Marple studied her appraisingly. Bertram’s Hotel could certainly
produce marvels. A real housemaid. She pinched her left arm surrepti-
tiously.
“Have you been here long?” she asked.
“Just over three years, Madam.”
“And before that?”
“I was in a hotel at Eastbourne. Very modern and up-to-date—but I
prefer an old-fashioned place like this.”
Miss Marple took a sip of tea. She found herself humming in a vague
way—words fitting themselves to a long-forgotten song.
“Oh where have you been all my life….”
The chambermaid was looking slightly startled.
“I was just remembering an old song,” twittered Miss Marple apologetic-
ally. “Very popular at one time.”
Again she sang softly. “Oh where have you been all my life….”
“Perhaps you know it?” she asked.
“Well—” The chambermaid looked rather apologetic.
“Too long ago for you,” said Miss Marple. “Ah well, one gets to remem-
bering things—in a place like this.”
“Yes, Madam, a lot of the ladies who stay here feel like that, I think.”
“It’s partly why they come, I expect,” said Miss Marple.
The chambermaid went out. She was obviously used to old ladies who
twittered and reminisced.
Miss Marple finished her breakfast, and got up in a pleasant leisurely
fashion. She had a plan ready-made for a delightful morning of shopping.
Not too much—to overtire herself. Oxford Street today, perhaps. And to-
morrow Knightsbridge. She planned ahead happily.
It was about ten o’clock when she emerged from her room fully
equipped: hat, gloves, umbrella—just in case, though it looked fine—hand-
bag—her smartest shopping bag—
The door next but one on the corridor opened sharply and someone
looked out. It was Bess Sedgwick. She withdrew back into the room and
closed the door sharply.
Miss Marple wondered as she went down the stairs. She preferred the
stairs to the lift first thing in the morning. It limbered her up. Her steps
grew slower and slower…she stopped.
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