复仇女神15
时间：2026-01-29 07:12:24
（单词翻译:单击）
Seven
AN INVITATION
I
Miss Marple decided to miss out on the afternoon’s sightseeing. She admit-
ted to being somewhat tired and would perhaps give a miss to an ancient
church and its 14th- century glass. She would rest for a while and join
them at the tearoom which had been pointed out to her in the main street.
Mrs. Sandbourne agreed that she was being very sensible.
Miss Marple, resting on a comfortable bench outside the tearoom, reflec-
ted on what she planned to do next and whether it would be wise to do it
or not.
When the others joined her at teatime it was easy for her to attach her-
self unobtrusively to Miss Cooke and Miss Barrow and sit with them at a
table for four. The fourth chair was occupied by Mr. Caspar whom Miss
Marple considered as not sufficiently conversant with the English lan-
guage to matter.
Leaning across the table, as she nibbled a slice of Swiss roll, Miss Marple
said to Miss Cooke,
“You know, I am quite sure we have met before. I have been wondering
and wondering about it—I’m not as good as I was at remembering faces,
but I’m sure I have met you somewhere.”
Miss Cooke looked kindly but doubtful. Her eyes went to her friend,
Miss Barrow. So did Miss Marple’s. Miss Barrow showed no signs of help-
ing to probe the mystery.
“I don’t know if you’ve ever stayed in my part of the world,” went on
Miss Marple, “I live in St. Mary Mead. Quite a small village, you know. At
least, not so small nowadays, there is so much building going on every-
where. Not very far from Much Benham and only twelve miles from the
coast at Loomouth.”
“Oh,” said Miss Cooke, “let me see. Well, I know Loomouth quite well
and perhaps—”
Suddenly Miss Marple made a pleased exclamation.
“Why, of course! I was in my garden one day at St. Mary Mead and you
spoke to me as you were passing by on the footpath. You said you were
staying down there, I remember, with a friend—”
“Of course,” said Miss Cooke. “How stupid of me. I do remember you
now. We spoke of how difficult it was nowadays to get anyone—to do job
gardening, I mean—anyone who was any use.”
“Yes. You were not living there, I think? You were staying with
someone.”
“Yes, I was staying with … with …” for a moment Miss Cooke hesitated,
with the air of one who hardly knows or remembers a name.
“With a Mrs. Sutherland, was it?” suggested Miss Marple.
“No, no, it was … er … Mrs.—”
“Hastings,” said Miss Barrow firmly as she took a piece of chocolate
cake.
“Oh yes, in one of the new houses,” said Miss Marple.
“Hastings,” said Mr. Caspar unexpectedly. He beamed. “I have been to
Hastings—I have been to Eastbourne, too.” He beamed again. “Very nice—
by the sea.”
“Such a coincidence,” said Miss Marple, “meeting again so soon—such a
small world, isn’t it?”
“Oh, well, we are all so fond of gardens,” said Miss Cooke vaguely.
“Flowers very pretty,” said Mr. Caspar. “I like very much—” He beamed
again.
“So many rare and beautiful shrubs,” said Miss Cooke.
Miss Marple went full speed ahead with a gardening conversation of
some technicality—Miss Cooke responded. Miss Barrow put in an occa-
sional remark.
Mr. Caspar relapsed into smiling silence.
Later, as Miss Marple took her usual rest before dinner, she conned over
what she had collected. Miss Cooke had admitted being in St. Mary Mead.
She had admitted walking past Miss Marple’s house. Had agreed it was
quite a coincidence. Coincidence? thought Miss Marple meditatively, turn-
ing the word over in her mouth rather as a child might do to a certain lolli-
pop to decide its flavour. Was it a coincidence? Or had she had some
reason to come there? Had she been sent there? Sent there — for what
reason? Was that a ridiculous thing to imagine?
“Any coincidence,” said Miss Marple to herself, “is always worth noti-
cing. You can throw it away later if it is only a coincidence.”
Miss Cooke and Miss Barrow appeared to be a perfectly normal pair of
friends doing the kind of tour which, according to them, they did every
year. They had been on an Hellenic cruise last year and a tour of bulbs in
Holland the year before, and Northern Ireland the year before that. They
seemed perfectly pleasant and ordinary people. But Miss Cooke, she
thought, had for a moment looked as though she were about to disclaim
her visit to St. Mary Mead. She had looked at her friend, Miss Barrow,
rather as though she were seeking instruction as to what to say. Miss Bar-
row was presumably the senior partner—
“Of course, really, I may have been imagining all these things,” thought
Miss Marple. “They may have no significance whatever.”
The word danger came unexpectedly into her mind. Used by Mr. Rafiel
in his first letter—and there had been some reference to her needing a
guardian angel in his second letter. Was she going into danger in this busi-
ness?—and why? From whom?
Surely not from Miss Cooke and Miss Barrow. Such an ordinary-looking
couple.
All the same Miss Cooke had dyed her hair and altered her style of
hairdressing. Disguised her appearance as much as she could, in fact.
Which was odd, to say the least of it! She considered once more her fellow
travellers.
Mr. Caspar, now, it would have been much easier to imagine that he
might be dangerous. Did he understand more English than he pretended
to do? She began to wonder about Mr. Caspar.
Miss Marple had never quite succeeded in abandoning her Victorian
view of foreigners. One never knew with foreigners. Quite absurd, of
course, to feel like that—she had many friends from various foreign coun-
tries. All the same …? Miss Cooke, Miss Barrow, Mr. Caspar, that young
man with the wild hair—Emlyn Something—a revolutionary—a practising
anarchist? Mr. and Mrs. Butler—such nice Americans—but perhaps—too
good to be true?
“Really,” said Miss Marple, “I must pull myself together.”
She turned her attention to the itinerary of their trip. Tomorrow, she
thought, was going to be rather strenuous. A morning’s sightseeing drive,
starting rather early: a long, rather athletic walk on a coastal path in the
afternoon. Certain interesting marine flowering plants—it would be tiring.
A tactful suggestion was appended. Anyone who felt like a rest could stay
behind in their hotel, the Golden Boar, which had a very pleasant garden
or could do a short excursion which would only take an hour, to a beauty
spot nearby. She thought perhaps that she would do that.
But though she did not know it then, her plans were to be suddenly
altered.
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