沉睡的谋杀案5
时间：2026-01-29 07:37:10
（单词翻译:单击）
Three
“COVER HER FACE …”
Raymond West and his wife did all they could to make young Giles’s wife
feel welcome. It was not their fault that Gwenda found them secretly
rather alarming. Raymond, with his odd appearance, rather like a poun-
cing raven, his sweep of hair and his sudden crescendos of quite incom-
prehensible conversation, left Gwenda round-eyed and nervous. Both he
and Joan seemed to talk a language of their own. Gwenda had never been
plunged in a highbrow atmosphere before and practically all its terms
were strange.
“We’ve planned to take you to a show or two,” said Raymond whilst
Gwenda was drinking gin and rather wishing she could have had a cup of
tea after her journey.
Gwenda brightened up immediately.
“The Ballet tonight at Sadler’s Wells, and tomorrow we’ve got a birthday
party on for my quite incredible Aunt Jane—the Duchess of Malfi with Giel-
gud, and on Friday you simply must see They Walked without Feet. Trans-
lated from the Russian—absolutely the most significent piece of drama for
the last twenty years. It’s at the little Witmore Theatre.”
Gwenda expressed herself grateful for these plans for her entertain-
ment. After all, when Giles came home, they would go together to the mu-
sical shows and all that. She flinched slightly at the prospect of They
Walked without Feet, but supposed she might enjoy it — only the point
about “significant” plays was that you usually didn’t.
“You’ll adore my Aunt Jane,” said Raymond. “She’s what I should de-
scribe as a perfect Period Piece. Victorian to the core. All her dressing
tables have their legs swathed in chintz. She lives in a village, the kind of
village where nothing ever happens, exactly like a stagnant pond.”
“Something did happen there once,” his wife said drily.
“A mere drama of passion—crude—no subtlety to it.”
“You enjoyed it frightfully at the time,” Joan reminded him with a slight
twinkle.
“I sometimes enjoy playing village cricket,” said Raymond, with dignity.
“Anyway, Aunt Jane distinguished herself over that murder.”
“Oh, she’s no fool. She adores problems.”
“Problems?” said Gwenda, her mind flying to arithmetic.
Raymond waved a hand.
“Any kind of problem. Why the grocer’s wife took her umbrella to the
church social on a fine evening. Why a gill of pickled shrimps was found
where it was. What happened to the Vicar’s surplice. All grist to my Aunt
Jane’s mill. So if you’ve any problem in your life, put it to her, Gwenda.
She’ll tell you the answer.”
He laughed and Gwenda laughed too, but not very heartily. She was in-
troduced to Aunt Jane, otherwise Miss Marple, on the following day. Miss
Marple was an attractive old lady, tall and thin, with pink cheeks and blue
eyes, and a gentle, rather fussy manner. Her blue eyes often had a little
twinkle in them.
After an early dinner at which they drank Aunt Jane’s health, they all
went off to His Majesty’s Theatre. Two extra men, an elderly artist and a
young barrister were in the party. The elderly artist devoted himself to
Gwenda and the young barrister divided his attentions between Joan and
Miss Marple whose remarks he seemed to enjoy very much. At the theatre,
however, this arrangement was reversed. Gwenda sat in the middle of the
row between Raymond and the barrister.
The lights went down and the play began.
It was superbly acted and Gwenda enjoyed it very much. She had not
seen very many first-rate theatrical productions.
The play drew to a close, came to that supreme moment of horror. The
actor’s voice came over the footlights filled with the tragedy of a warped
and perverted mentality.
“Cover her face. Mine eyes dazzle, she died young….”
Gwenda screamed.
She sprang up from her seat, pushed blindly past the others out into the
aisle, through the exit and up the stairs and so to the street. She did not
stop, even then, but half walked, half ran, in a blind panic up the Haymar-
ket.
It was not until she had reached Piccadilly that she noticed a free taxi
cruising along, hailed it and, getting in, gave the address of the Chelsea
house. With fumbling fingers she got out money, paid the taxi and went
up the steps. The servant who let her in glanced at her in surprise.
“You’ve come back early, miss. Didn’t you feel well?”
“I—no, yes—I—I felt faint.”
“Would you like anything, miss? Some brandy?”
“No, nothing. I’ll go straight up to bed.”
She ran up the stairs to avoid further questions.
She pulled off her clothes, left them on the floor in a heap and got into
bed. She lay there shivering, her heart pounding, her eyes staring at the
ceiling.
She did not hear the sound of fresh arrivals downstairs, but after about
five minutes the door opened and Miss Marple came in. She had two hot-
water bottles tucked under her arm and a cup in her hand.
Gwenda sat up in bed, trying to stop her shivering.
“Oh, Miss Marple, I’m frightfully sorry. I don’t know what—it was awful
of me. Are they very annoyed with me?”
“Now don’t worry, my dear child,” said Miss Marple. “Just tuck yourself
up warmly with these hot-water bottles.”
“I don’t really need a hot-water bottle.”
“Oh yes, you do. That’s right. And now drink this cup of tea….”
It was hot and strong and far too full of sugar, but Gwenda drank it
obediently. The shivering was less acute now.
“Just lie down now and go to sleep,” said Miss Marple. “You’ve had a
shock, you know. We’ll talk about it in the morning. Don’t worry about
anything. Just go to sleep.”
She drew the covers up, smiled, patted Gwenda and went out.
Downstairs Raymond was saying irritably to Joan: “What on earth was
the matter with the girl? Did she feel ill, or what?”
“My dear Raymond, I don’t know, she just screamed! I suppose the play
was a bit too macabre for her.”
“Well, of course Webster is a bit grisly. But I shouldn’t have thought—”
He broke off as Miss Marple came into the room. “Is she all right?”
“Yes, I think so. She’d had a bad shock, you know.”
“Shock? Just seeing a Jacobean drama?”
“I think there must be a little more to it than that,” said Miss Marple
thoughtfully.
Gwenda’s breakfast was sent up to her. She drank some coffee and
nibbled a little piece of toast. When she got up and came downstairs, Joan
had gone to her studio, Raymond was shut up in his workroom and only
Miss Marple was sitting by the window, which had a view over the river;
she was busily engaged in knitting.
She looked up with a placid smile as Gwenda entered.
“Good morning, my dear. You’re feeling better, I hope.”
“Oh yes, I’m quite all right. How I could make such an utter idiot of my-
self last night, I don’t know. Are they—are they very mad with me?”
“Oh no, my dear. They quite understand.”
“Understand what?”
Miss Marple glanced up over her knitting.
“That you had a bad shock last night.” She added gently: “Hadn’t you
better tell me all about it?”
Gwenda walked restlessly up and down.
“I think I’d better go and see a psychiatrist or someone.”
“There are excellent mental specialists in London, of course. But are you
sure it is necessary?”
“Well—I think I’m going mad … I must be going mad.”
An elderly parlourmaid entered the room with a telegram on a salver
which she handed to Gwenda.
“The boy wants to know if there’s an answer, ma’am?”
Gwenda tore it open. It had been retelegraphed on from Dillmouth. She
stared at it for a moment or two uncomprehendingly, then screwed it into
a ball.
“There’s no answer,” she said mechanically.
The maid left the room.
“Not bad news, I hope, dear?”
“It’s Giles—my husband. He’s flying home. He’ll be here in a week.”
Her voice was bewildered and miserable. Miss Marple gave a gentle
little cough.
“Well—surely—that is very nice, isn’t it?”
“Is it? When I’m not sure if I’m mad or not? If I’m mad I ought never to
have married Giles. And the house and everything. I can’t go back there.
Oh, I don’t know what to do.”
Miss Marple patted the sofa invitingly.
“Now suppose you sit down here, dear, and just tell me all about it.”
It was with a sense of relief that Gwenda accepted the invitation. She
poured out the whole story, starting with her first view of Hillside and go-
ing onto the incidents that had first puzzled her and then worried her.
“And so I got rather frightened,” she ended. “And I thought I’d come up
to London—get away from it all. Only, you see, I couldn’t get away from it.
It followed me. Last night—” she shut her eyes and gulped reminiscently.
“Last night?” prompted Miss Marple.
“I dare say you won’t believe this,” said Gwenda, speaking very fast.
“You’ll think I’m hysterical or queer or something. It happened quite sud-
denly, right at the end. I’d enjoyed the play. I’d never thought once of the
house. And then it came—out of the blue—when he said those words—”
She repeated in a low quivering voice: “Cover her face, mine eyes dazzle,
she died young.
“I was back there—on the stairs, looking down on the hall through the
banisters, and I saw her lying there. Sprawled out—dead. Her hair all
golden and her face all—all blue! She was dead, strangled, and someone
was saying those words in that same horrible gloating way—and I saw his
hands—grey, wrinkled—not hands—monkey’s paws … It was horrible, I
tell you. She was dead….”
Miss Marple asked gently: “Who was dead?”
The answer came back quick and mechanical.
“Helen….”
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