复仇女神17
时间：2026-01-29 07:12:31
（单词翻译:单击）
Eight
THE THREE SISTERS
Miss Marple stood looking out of a window. Behind her, on the bed, was
her suitcase. She looked out over the garden with unseeing eyes. It was
not often that she failed to see a garden she was looking at, in either a
mood of admiration or a mood of criticism. In this case it would presum-
ably have been criticism. It was a neglected garden, a garden on which
little money had been spent possibly for some years, and on which very
little work had been done. The house, too, had been neglected. It was well
proportioned, the furniture in it had been good furniture once, but had
had little in late years of polishing or attention. It was not a house, she
thought, that had been, at any rate of late years, loved in any way. It lived
up to its name: The Old Manor House. A house, built with grace and a cer-
tain amount of beauty, lived in once, cherished. The daughters and sons
had married and left and now it was lived in by Mrs. Glynne who, from a
word she had let fall when she showed Miss Marple up to the bedroom ap-
pointed to her, had inherited it with her sisters from an uncle and had
come here to live with her sisters after her husband had died. They had all
grown older, their incomes had dwindled, labour had been more difficult
to get.
The other sisters, presumably, had remained unmarried, one older, one
younger than Mrs. Glynne, two Miss Bradbury-Scotts.
There was no sign of anything which belonged to a child in the house.
No discarded ball, no old perambulator, no little chair or a table. This was
just a house with three sisters.
“Sounds very Russian,” murmured Miss Marple to herself. She did mean
The Three Sisters, didn’t she? Chekhov, was it? Or Dostoyevsky? Really,
she couldn’t remember. Three sisters. But these would certainly not be the
kind of three sisters who were yearning to go to Moscow. These three sis-
ters were presumably, she was almost sure they were, content to remain
where they were. She had been introduced to the other two who had
come, one out of the kitchen and one down a flight of stairs, to welcome
her. Their manners were well-bred and gracious. They were what Miss
Marple would have called in her youth by the now obsolete term
“ladies”—and what she once recalled calling “decayed ladies.” Her father
had said to her:
“No, dear Jane, not decayed. Distressed gentlewomen.”
Gentlewomen nowadays were not so liable to be distressed. They were
aided by Government or by Societies or by a rich relation. Or, perhaps—
by someone like Mr. Rafiel. Because, after all, that was the whole point,
the whole reason for her being here, wasn’t it? Mr. Rafiel had arranged all
this. He had taken, Miss Marple thought, a good deal of trouble about it.
He had known, presumably, some four or five weeks before his death, just
when that death was likely to be, give and take a little, since doctors were
usually moderately optimistic, knowing from experience that patients
who ought to die within a certain period very often took an unexpected
lease of life and lingered on, still doomed, but obstinately declining to take
the final step. On the other hand, hospital nurses when in charge of pa-
tients, had, Miss Marple thought from her experience, always expected the
patients to be dead the next day, and were much surprised when they
were not. But in voicing their gloomy views to Doctor, when he came, they
were apt to receive in reply as the doctor went out of the hall door, a
private aside of, “Linger a few weeks yet, I shouldn’t wonder.” Very nice of
Doctor to be so optimistic, Nurse would think, but surely Doctor was
wrong. Doctor very often wasn’t wrong. He knew that people who were in
pain, helpless, crippled, even unhappy, still liked living and wanting to
live. They would take one of Doctor’s pills to help them pass the night, but
they had no intention of taking a few more than necessary of Doctor’s
pills, just in order to pass the threshold to a world that they did not as yet
know anything about!
Mr. Rafiel. That was the person Miss Marple was thinking about as she
looked across the garden with unseeing eyes. Mr. Rafiel? She felt now that
she was getting a little closer to understanding the task laid upon her, the
project suggested to her. Mr. Rafiel was a man who made plans. Made
them in the same way that he planned financial deals and takeovers. In
the words of her servant, Cherry, he had had a problem. When Cherry had
a problem, she often came and consulted Miss Marple about it.
This was a problem that Mr. Rafiel could not deal with himself, which
must have annoyed him very much, Miss Marple thought, because he
could usually deal with any problem himself and insisted on doing so. But
he was bedridden and dying. He could arrange his financial affairs, com-
municate with his lawyers, with his employees and with such friends and
relations as he had, but there was something or someone that he had not
arranged for. A problem he had not solved, a problem he still wanted to
solve, a project he still wanted to bring about. And apparently it was not
one that could be settled by financial aid, by business dealings, by the ser-
vices of a lawyer.
“So he thought of me,” said Miss Marple.
It still surprised her very much. Very much indeed. However, in the
sense she was now thinking of it, his letter had been quite explicit. He had
thought she had certain qualifications for doing something. It had to do,
she thought once again, with something in the nature of crime or affected
by crime. The only other thing he knew about Miss Marple was that she
was devoted to gardens. Well it could hardly be a gardening problem that
he wanted her to solve. But he might think of her in connection with
crime. Crime in the West Indies and crimes in her own neighbourhood at
home.
A crime—where?
Mr. Rafiel had made arrangements. Arrangements, to begin with, with
his lawyers. They had done their part. After the right interval of time they
had forwarded to her his letter. It had been, she thought, a well con-
sidered and well thought out letter. It would have been simpler, certainly,
to tell her exactly what he wanted her to do and why he wanted it. She
was surprised in a way that he had not, before his death, sent for her,
probably in a somewhat peremptory way and more or less lying on what
he would have assured her was his deathbed, and would then have bul-
lied her until she consented to do what he was asking her. But no, that
would not really have been Mr. Rafiel’s way, she thought. He could bully
people, none better, but this was not a case for bullying, and he did not
wish either, she was sure, to appeal to her, to beg her to do him a favour,
to urge her to redress a wrong. No. That again would not have been Mr.
Rafiel’s way. He wanted, she thought, as he had probably wanted all his
life, to pay for what he required. He wanted to pay her and therefore he
wanted to interest her enough to enjoy doing certain work. The pay was
offered to intrigue her, not really to tempt her. It was to arouse her in-
terest. She did not think that he had said to himself, “Offer enough money
and she’ll leap at it” because, as she knew very well herself, the money
sounded very agreeable but she was not in urgent need of money. She had
her dear and affectionate nephew who, if she was in straits for money of
any kind, if she needed repairs to her house or a visit to a specialist or spe-
cial treats, dear Raymond would always provide them. No. The sum he
offered was to be exciting. It was to be exciting in the same way as it was
exciting when you had a ticket for the Irish Sweep. It was a fine big sum of
money that you could never achieve by any other means except luck.
But all the same, Miss Marple thought to herself, she would need some
luck as well as hard work, she would require a lot of thought and ponder-
ing and possibly what she was doing might involve a certain amount of
danger. But she’d got to find out herself what it was all about, he wasn’t
going to tell her, partly perhaps because he did not want to influence her?
It is hard to tell anyone about something without letting slip your own
point of view about it. It could be that Mr. Rafiel had thought that his own
point of view might be wrong. It was not very like him to think such a
thing, but it could be possible. He might suspect that his judgment, im-
paired by illness, was not quite as good as it used to be. So she, Miss
Marple, his agent, his employee, was to make her own guesses, come to
her own conclusions. Well, it was time she came to a few conclusions now.
In other words, back to the old question, what was all this about?
She had been directed. Let her take that first. She had been directed by a
man who was now dead. She had been directed away from St. Mary Mead.
Therefore, the task, whatever it must be, could not be attacked from there.
It was not a neighbourhood problem, it was not a problem that you could
solve just by looking through newspaper cuttings or making enquiries,
not, that is, until you found what you had to make enquiries about. She
had been directed, first to the lawyer’s office, then to read a letter—two
letters—in her home, then to be sent on a pleasant and well run tour
round some of the Famous Houses and Gardens of Great Britain. From
that she had come to the next stepping stone. The house she was in at this
moment. The Old Manor House, Jocelyn St. Mary, where lived Miss
Clotilde Bradbury-Scott, Mrs. Glynne and Miss Anthea Bradbury-Scott. Mr.
Rafiel had arranged that, arranged it beforehand. Some weeks before he
died. Probably it was the next thing he had done after instructing his law-
yers and after booking a seat on the tour in her name. Therefore, she was
in this house for a purpose. It might be for only two nights, it might be for
longer. There might be certain things arranged which would lead her to
stay longer or she would be asked to stay longer. That brought her back to
where she stood now.
Mrs. Glynne and her two sisters. They must be concerned, implicated in
whatever this was. She would have to find out what it was. The time was
short. That was the only trouble. Miss Marple had no doubt for one mo-
ment that she had the capacity to find out things. She was one of those
chatty, fluffy old ladies whom other people expect to talk, to ask questions
that were, on the face of it, merely gossipy questions. She would talk about
her childhood and that would lead to one of the sisters talking about
theirs. She’d talk about food she had eaten, servants she had had, daugh-
ters and cousins and relations, travel, marriages, births and—yes—deaths.
There must be no show of special interest in her eyes when she heard
about a death. Not at all. Almost automatically she was sure she could
come up with the right response such as, “Oh dear me, how very sad!” She
would have to find out relationships, incidents, life stories, see if any sug-
gestive incidents would pop up, so to speak. It might be some incidents in
the neighbourhood, not directly concerned with these three people. Some-
thing they could know about, talk about, or were pretty sure to talk about.
Anyway, there would be something here, some clue, some pointer. The
second day from now she would rejoin the tour unless she had by that
time some indication that she was not to rejoin the tour. Her mind swept
from the house to the coach and the people who had sat in it. It might be
that what she was seeking had been there in the coach, and would be
there again when she rejoined it. One person, several people, some inno-
cent (some not so innocent), some long past story. She frowned a little, try-
ing to remember something. Something that had flashed in her mind that
she had thought: Really I am sure—of what had she been sure?
Her mind went back to the three sisters. She must not be too long up
here. She must unpack a few modest needs for two nights, something to
change into this evening, night clothes, sponge bag, and then go down and
rejoin her hostesses and make pleasant talk. A main point had to be de-
cided. Were the three sisters to be her allies or were the three sisters en-
emies? They might fall into either category. She must think about that
carefully.
There was a tap on the door and Mrs. Glynne entered.
“I do hope you will be quite comfortable here. Can I help you to unpack?
We have a very nice woman who comes in but she is only here in the
morning. But she’ll help you with anything.”
“Oh no, thank you,” said Miss Marple. “I only took out just a few neces-
sities.”
“I thought I’d show you the way downstairs again. It’s rather a rambling
house, you know. There are two staircases and it does make it a little diffi-
cult. Sometimes people lose their way.”
“Oh, it’s very kind of you,” said Miss Marple.
“I hope then you will come downstairs and we will have a glass of
sherry before lunch.”
Miss Marple accepted gratefully and followed her guide down the stairs.
Mrs. Glynne, she judged, was a good many years younger than she herself
was. Fifty, perhaps. Not much more. Miss Marple negotiated the stairs
carefully, her left knee was always a little uncertain. There was, however,
a banister at one side of the stairs. Very beautiful stairs they were, and she
remarked on them.
“It is really a very lovely house,” she said. “Built I suppose in the 1700s.
Am I right?”
“1780,” said Mrs. Glynne.
She seemed pleased with Miss Marple’s appreciation. She took Miss
Marple into the drawing room. A large graceful room. There were one or
two rather beautiful pieces of furniture. A Queen Anne desk and a Wil-
liam and Mary oystershell bureau. There were also some rather cumbrous
Victorian settees and cabinets. The curtains were of chintz, faded and
somewhat worn, the carpet was, Miss Marple thought, Irish. Possibly a
Limerick Aubusson type. The sofa was ponderous and the velvet of it
much worn. The other two sisters were already sitting there. They rose as
Miss Marple came in and approached her, one with a glass of sherry, the
other directing her to a chair.
“I don’t know whether you like sitting rather high? So many people do.”
“I do,” said Miss Marple. “It’s so much easier. One’s back, you know.”
The sisters appeared to know about the difficulties of backs. The eldest
of the sisters was a tall handsome woman, dark with a black coil of hair.
The other one might have been a good deal younger. She was thin with
grey hair that had once been fair hanging untidily on her shoulders and a
faintly wraithlike appearance. She could be cast successfully as a mature
Ophelia, Miss Marple thought.
Clotilde, Miss Marple thought, was certainly no Ophelia, but she would
have made a magnificent Clytemnestra—she could have stabbed a hus-
band in his bath with exultation. But since she had never had a husband,
that solution wouldn’t do. Miss Marple could not see her murdering any-
one else but a husband — and there had been no Agamemnon in this
house.
Clotilde Bradbury-Scott, Anthea Bradbury-Scott, Lavinia Glynne. Clotilde
was handsome, Lavinia was plain but pleasant-looking, Anthea had one
eyelid which twitched from time to time. Her eyes were large and grey
and she had an odd way of glancing round to right and then to left, and
then suddenly, in a rather strange manner, behind her over her shoulder.
It was as though she felt someone was watching her all the time. Odd,
thought Miss Marple. She wondered a little about Anthea.
They sat down and conversation ensued. Mrs. Glynne left the room, ap-
parently for the kitchen. She was, it seemed, the active domestic one of the
three. The conversation took a usual course. Clotilde Bradbury-Scott ex-
plained that the house was a family one. It had belonged to her great-
uncle and then to her uncle and when he had died it was left to her and
her two sisters who had joined her there.
“He only had one son, you see,” explained Miss Bradbury-Scott, “and he
was killed in the war. We are really the last of the family, except for some
very distant cousins.”
“A beautifully proportioned house,” said Miss Marple. “Your sister tells
me it was built about 1780.”
“Yes, I believe so. One could wish, you know, it was not quite so large
and rambling.”
“Repairs too,” said Miss Marple, “come very heavy nowadays.”
“Oh yes, indeed,” Clotilde sighed. “And in many ways we have to let a lot
of it just fall down. Sad, but there it is. A lot of the outhouses, for instance,
and a greenhouse. We had a very beautiful big greenhouse.”
“Lovely muscat grapevine in it,” said Anthea. “And Cherry Pie used to
grow all along the walls inside. Yes, I really regret that very much. Of
course, during the war one could not get any gardeners. We had a very
young gardener and then he was called up. One does not of course grudge
that, but all the same it was impossible to get things repaired and so the
whole greenhouse fell down.”
“So did the little conservatory near the house.”
Both sisters sighed, with the sighing of those who have noted time
passing, and times changing—but not for the better.
There was a melancholy here in this house, thought Miss Marple. It was
impregnated somehow with sorrow—a sorrow that could not be dispersed
or removed since it had penetrated too deep. It had sunk in … She
shivered suddenly.
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