复仇女神8
时间：2026-01-29 07:00:13
（单词翻译:单击）
IV
Mr. Broadribb and Mr. Schuster were lucky in so much as they had a full
professional life to lead. Miss Marple was not so fortunate. She knitted and
she reflected and she also went out for walks, occasionally remonstrated
with by Cherry for so doing.
“You know what the doctor said. You weren’t to take too much exer-
cise.”
“I walk very slowly,” said Miss Marple, “and I am not doing anything.
Digging, I mean, or weeding. I just—well, I just put one foot in front of the
other and wonder about things.”
“What things?” asked Cherry, with some interest.
“I wish I knew,” said Miss Marple, and asked Cherry to bring her an ex-
tra scarf as there was a chilly wind.
“What’s fidgeting her, that’s what I would like to know,” said Cherry to
her husband as she set before him a Chinese plate of rice and a concoction
of kidneys. “Chinese dinner,” she said.
Her husband nodded approval
“You get a better cook every day,” he said.
“I’m worried about her,” said Cherry. “I’m worried because she’s wor-
ried a bit. She had a letter and it stirred her all up.”
“What she needs is to sit quiet,” said Cherry’s husband. “Sit quiet, take it
easy, get herself new books from the library, get a friend or two to come
and see her.”
“She’s thinking out something,” said Cherry. “Sort of plan. Thinking out
how to tackle something, that’s how I look at it.”
She broke off the conversation at this stage and took in the coffee tray
and put it down by Miss Marple’s side.
“Do you know a woman who lives in a new house somewhere here,
she’s called Mrs. Hastings?” asked Miss Marple. “And someone called Miss
Bartlett, I think it is, who lives with her—”
“What—do you mean the house that’s been all done up and repainted at
the end of the village? The people there haven’t been there very long. I
don’t know what their names are. Why do you want to know? They’re not
very interesting. At least I shouldn’t say they were.”
“Are they related?” asked Miss Marple.
“No. Just friends, I think.”
“I wonder why—” said Miss Marple, and broke off.
“You wondered why what?”
“Nothing,” said Miss Marple. “Clear my little hand desk, will you, and
give me my pen and the notepaper. I’m going to write a letter.”
“Who to?” said Cherry, with the natural curiosity of her kind.
“To a clergyman’s sister,” said Miss Marple. “His name is Canon
Prescott.”
“That’s the one you met abroad, in the West Indies, isn’t it? You showed
me his photo in your album.”
“Yes.”
“Not feeling bad, are you? Wanting to write to a clergyman and all
that?”
“I’m feeling extremely well,” said Miss Marple, “and I am anxious to get
busy on something. It’s just possible Miss Prescott might help.”
“Dear Miss Prescott,” wrote Miss Marple, “I hope you
have not forgotten me. I met you and your brother in the
West Indies, if you remember, at St. Honoré. I hope the
dear Canon is well and did not suffer much with his
asthma in the cold weather last winter.
I am writing to ask you if you can possibly let me have the
address of Mrs. Walters—Esther Walters—whom you may
remember from the Caribbean days. She was a secretary to
Mr. Rafiel. She did give me her address at the time, but un-
fortunately I have mislaid it. I was anxious to write to her
as I have some horticultural information which she asked
me about but which I was not able to tell her at the time. I
heard in a roundabout way the other day that she had
married again, but I don’t think my informant was very
certain of these facts. Perhaps you know more about her
than I do.
I hope this is not troubling you too much. With kind re-
gards to your brother and best wishes to yourself,
Yours sincerely,
Jane Marple.”
Miss Marple felt better when she had despatched this missive.
“At least,” she said, “I’ve started doing something. Not that I hope much
from this, but still it might help.”
Miss Prescott answered the letter almost by return of post. She was a
most efficient woman. She wrote a pleasant letter and enclosed the ad-
dress in question.
“I have not heard anything directly about Esther Wal-
ters,” she said, “but like you I heard from a friend that
they had seen a notice of her remarriage. Her name now is,
I believe, Mrs. Alderson or Anderson. Her address is
Winslow Lodge, near Alton, Hants. My brother sends his
best wishes to you. It is sad that we live so far apart. We in
the north of England and you south of London. I hope that
we may meet on some occasion in the future.
Yours sincerely,
Joan Prescott.”
“Winslow Lodge, Alton,” said Miss Marple, writing it down.
“Not so far away from here, really. No. Not so far away. I could—I don’t
know what would be the best method — possibly one of Inch’s taxis.
Slightly extravagant, but if anything results from it, it could be charged as
expenses quite legitimately. Now do I write to her beforehand or do I
leave it to chance? I think it would be better really, to leave it to chance.
Poor Esther. She could hardly remember me with any affection or kindli-
ness.”
Miss Marple lost herself in a train of thought that arose from her
thoughts. It was quite possible that her actions in the Caribbean had saved
Esther Walters from being murdered in the not far distant future. At any
rate, that was Miss Marple’s belief, but probably Esther Walters had not
believed any such thing. “A nice woman,” said Miss Marple, uttering the
words in a soft tone aloud, “a very nice woman. The kind that would so
easily marry a bad lot. In fact, the sort of woman that would marry a mur-
derer if she were ever given half a chance. I still consider,” continued Miss
Marple thoughtfully, sinking her voice still lower, “that I probably saved
her life. In fact, I am almost sure of it, but I don’t think she would agree
with that point of view. She probably dislikes me very much. Which
makes it more difficult to use her as a source of information. Still, one can
but try. It’s better than sitting here, waiting, waiting, waiting.”
Was Mr. Rafiel perhaps making fun of her when he had written that let-
ter? He was not always a particularly kindly man—he could be very care-
less of people’s feelings.
“Anyway,” said Miss Marple, glancing at the clock and deciding that she
would have an early night in bed, “when one thinks of things just before
going to sleep, quite often ideas come. It may work out that way.”
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