复仇女神38
时间：2026-01-29 07:29:22
（单词翻译:单击）
II
In the hall of The Old Manor House the grandfather clock at the bottom of
the stairs struck two o’clock. The clocks in the house did not all strike in
unison and some of them, indeed, did not strike at all. To keep a house full
of antique clocks in working order was not easy. At three o’clock the clock
on the first floor landing struck a soft-chimed three o’clock. A faint chink
of light showed through the hinge of the door.
Miss Marple sat up in bed and put her fingers on the switch of the elec-
tric lamp by her bed. The door opened very softly. There was no light out-
side now but the soft footstep came through the door into the room. Miss
Marple switched the light on.
“Oh,” she said, “it’s you, Miss Bradbury-Scott. Is there anything special?”
“I just came to see if you wanted anything,” said Miss Bradbury-Scott.
Miss Marple looked at her. Clotilde had on a long purple robe. What a
handsome woman she was, thought Miss Marple. Her hair framing her
forehead, a tragic figure, a figure of drama. Again Miss Marple thought of
Greek plays. Clytemnestra again.
“You’re sure there is nothing I can bring you?”
“No, thank you,” said Miss Marple. “I’m afraid,” she said apologetically,
“that I have not drunk my milk.”
“Oh dear, why not?”
“I did not think it would be very good for me,” said Miss Marple.
Clotilde stood there, at the foot of the bed, looking at her.
“Not wholesome, you know,” said Miss Marple.
“Just what do you mean by that?” Clotilde’s voice was harsh now.
“I think you know what I mean,” said Miss Marple. “I think you’ve
known all the evening. Perhaps before that.”
“I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“No?” There was a faint satirical note to the questioning monosyllable.
“I am afraid the milk is cold now. I will take it away and get you some
hot.”
Clotilde stretched out a hand and took the glass of milk from the bed-
side.
“Don’t trouble yourself,” said Miss Marple. “Even if you brought it me, I
should not drink it.”
“I really cannot understand the point of what you’re saying. Really,”
said Clotilde, looking at her. “What a very extraordinary person you are.
What sort of a woman are you? Why are you talking like this? Who are
you?”
Miss Marple pulled down the mass of pink wool that encircled her head,
a pink wool scarf of the same kind that she had once worn in the West In-
dies.
“One of my names,” she said, “is Nemesis.”
“Nemesis? And what does that mean?”
“I think you know,” said Miss Marple. “You are a very well educated wo-
man. Nemesis is long delayed sometimes, but it comes in the end.”
“What are you talking about?”
“About a very beautiful girl whom you killed,” said Miss Marple.
“Whom I killed? What do you mean?”
“I mean the girl Verity.”
“And why should I kill her?”
“Because you loved her,” said Miss Marple.
“Of course I loved her. I was devoted to her. And she loved me.”
“Somebody said to me not very long ago that love was a very frightening
word. It is a frightening word. You loved Verity too much. She meant
everything in the world to you. She was devoted to you until something
else came into her life. A different kind of love came into her life. She fell
in love with a boy, a young man. Not a very suitable one, not a very good
specimen, not anyone with a good record, but she loved him and he loved
her and she wanted to escape. To escape from the burden of the bondage
of love she was living in with you. She wanted a normal woman’s life. To
live with the man of her choice, to have children by him. She wanted mar-
riage and the happiness of normality.”
Clotilde moved. She came to a chair and sat down in it, staring at Miss
Marple.
“So,” she said, “you seem to understand very well.”
“Yes, I do understand.”
“What you say is quite true. I shan’t deny it. It doesn’t matter if I do or
do not deny it.”
“No,” said Miss Marple, “you are quite right there. It will not matter.”
“Do you know at all—can you imagine—how I have suffered?”
“Yes,” said Miss Marple, “I can imagine it. I’ve always been able to ima-
gine things.”
“Did you imagine the agony, the agony of thinking, of knowing you are
going to lose the thing you love best in the world. And I was losing it to a
miserable, depraved delinquent. A man unworthy of my beautiful, splen-
did girl. I had to stop it. I had to—I had to.”
“Yes,” said Miss Marple. “Sooner than let the girl go, you killed her. Be-
cause you loved her, you killed her.”
“Do you think I could ever do a thing like that? Do you think I could
strangle the girl I loved? Do you think I could bash her face in, crush her
head to a pulp? Nothing but a vicious, depraved man would do a thing like
that.”
“No,” said Miss Marple, “you wouldn’t do that. You loved her and you
would not be able to do that.”
“Well then, you see, you are talking nonsense.”
“You didn’t do that to her. The girl that happened to was not the girl you
loved. Verity’s here still, isn’t she? She’s here in the garden. I don’t think
you strangled her. I think you gave her a drink of coffee or of milk, you
gave her a painless overdose of sleeping stuff. And then when she was
dead, you took her out into the garden, you pulled aside the fallen bricks
of the greenhouse, and you made a vault for her there, under the floor
with the bricks, and covered it over. And then the polygonum was planted
there and has flowered ever since, growing bigger and stronger every
year. Verity has remained here with you. You never let her go.”
“You fool! You crazy old fool! Do you think you are ever going to get
away to tell this story?”
“I think so,” said Miss Marple. “I’m not quite sure of it. You are a strong
woman, a great deal stronger than I am.”
“I’m glad you appreciate that.”
“And you wouldn’t have any scruples,” said Miss Marple. “You know one
doesn’t stop at one murder. I have noticed that in the course of my life and
in what I have observed of crime. You killed two girls, didn’t you? You
killed the girl you loved and you killed a different girl.”
“I killed a silly little tramp, an adolescent tart. Nora Broad. How did you
know about her?”
“I wondered,” said Miss Marple. “I didn’t think from what I saw of you
that you could have borne to strangle and disfigure the girl you loved. But
another girl disappeared also about that time, a girl whose body has never
been found. But I thought the body had been found, only they hadn’t
known that the body was Nora Broad’s. It was dressed in Verity’s clothes,
it was identified as Verity by the person who would be the first applied to,
the person who knew her better than anyone else. You had to go and say if
the body found was the body of Verity. You recognized it. You said that
that dead body was Verity’s.”
“And why should I do that?”
“Because you wanted the boy who had taken Verity away from you, the
boy whom Verity had loved and who had loved Verity, you wanted him
tried for murder. And so you hid that second body in a place where it
would not be too easily discovered. When that was discovered, it would be
thought to be the wrong girl. You would make sure that it was identified in
the way you wanted. You dressed it in Verity’s clothes, put her handbag
there; a letter or two, a bangle, a little cross on a chain—you disfigured her
face.
“A week ago you committed a third murder, the murder of Elizabeth
Temple. You killed her because she was coming to this part of the world,
and you were afraid of what she might have known, from what Verity
might have written to her or told her, and you thought that if Elizabeth
Temple got together with Archdeacon Brabazon, they might with what
they both knew come at some appraisal of the truth. Elizabeth Temple
must not be allowed to meet the Archdeacon. You are a very powerful wo-
man. You could have rolled that boulder down the hillside. It must have
taken some doing, but you are a very strong woman.”
“Strong enough to deal with you,” said Clotilde.
“I don’t think,” said Miss Marple, “that you will be allowed to do that.”
“What do you mean, you miserable, shrivelled up old woman?”
“Yes,” said Miss Marple, “I’m an elderly pussy and I have very little
strength in my arms or my legs. Very little strength anywhere. But I am in
my own way an emissary of justice.”
Clotilde laughed, “And who’ll stop me from putting an end to you?”
“I think,” said Miss Marple, “my guardian angel.”
“Trusting to your guardian angel, are you?” said Clotilde, and laughed
again.
She advanced towards the bed.
“Possibly two guardian angels,” said Miss Marple. “Mr. Rafiel always did
things on a lavish scale.”
Her hand slipped under the pillow and out again. In it was a whistle
which she put to her lips. It was something of a sensation in whistles. It
had the shrill fury which would attract a policeman from the end of a
street. Two things happened almost simultaneously. The door of the room
opened. Clotilde turned. Miss Barrow was standing in the doorway. At the
same moment the large wardrobe hanging cupboard opened and Miss
Cooke stepped out of it. There was a grim air of professionalism about
them both which was very noticeable, in contrast to their pleasant social
behaviour a little earlier in the evening.
“Two guardian angels,” said Miss Marple happily. “Mr. Rafiel has done
me very proud! as one used to say.”
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