沉睡的谋杀案6
时间：2026-01-29 07:37:15
（单词翻译:单击）
Four
HELEN?
For a moment Gwenda stared at Miss Marple, then she pushed back the
hair from her forehead.
“Why did I say that?” she said. “Why did I say Helen? I don’t know any
Helen!”
She dropped her hands with a gesture of despair.
“You see,” she said, “I’m mad! I imagine things! I go about seeing things
that aren’t there. First it was only wallpapers—but now it’s dead bodies.
So I’m getting worse.”
“Now don’t rush to conclusions, my dear—”
“Or else it’s the house. The house is haunted—or bewitched or something
… I see things that have happened there—or else I see things that are go-
ing to happen there—and that would be worse. Perhaps a woman called
Helen is going to be murdered there … Only I don’t see if it’s the house
that’s haunted why I should see these awful things when I am away from
it. So I think really that it must be me that’s going queer. And I’d better go
and see a psychiatrist at once—this morning.”
“Well, of course, Gwenda dear, you can always do that when you’ve ex-
hausted every other line of approach, but I always think myself that it’s
better to examine the simplest and most commonplace explanations first.
Let me get the facts quite clear. There were three definite incidents that
upset you. A path in the garden that had been planted over but that you
felt was there, a door that had been bricked up, and a wallpaper which
you imagined correctly and in detail without having seen it? Am I right?”
“Yes.”
“Well, the easiest, the most natural explanation would be that you had
seen them before.”
“In another life, you mean?”
“Well no, dear. I meant in this life. I mean that they might be actual
memories.”
“But I’ve never been in England until a month ago, Miss Marple.”
“You are quite sure of that, my dear?”
“Of course I’m sure. I’ve lived near Christchurch in New Zealand all my
life.”
“Were you born there?”
“No, I was born in India. My father was a British Army officer. My
mother died a year or two after I was born and he sent me back to her
people in New Zealand to bring up. Then he himself died a few years
later.”
“You don’t remember coming from India to New Zealand?”
“Not really. I do remember, frightfully vaguely, being on a boat. A round
window thing—a porthole, I suppose. And a man in white uniform with a
red face and blue eyes, and a mark on his chin—a scar, I suppose. He used
to toss me up in the air and I remember being half frightened and half lov-
ing it. But it’s all very fragmentary.”
“Do you remember a nurse—or an ayah?”
“Not an ayah—Nannie. I remember Nannie because she stayed for some
time—until I was five years old. She cut ducks out of paper. Yes, she was
on the boat. She scolded me when I cried because the Captain kissed me
and I didn’t like his beard.”
“Now that’s very interesting, dear, because you see you are mixing up
two different voyages. In one, the Captain had a beard and in the other he
had a red face and a scar on his chin.”
“Yes,” Gwenda considered, “I suppose I must be.”
“It seems possible to me,” said Miss Marple, “that when your mother
died, your father brought you to England with him first, and that you actu-
ally lived at this house, Hillside. You’ve told me, you know, that the house
felt like home to you as soon as you got inside it. And that room you chose
to sleep in, it was probably your nursery—”
“It was a nursery. There were bars on the windows.”
“You see? It had this pretty gay paper of cornflowers and poppies. Chil-
dren remember their nursery walls very well. I’ve always remembered
the mauve irises on my nursery walls and yet I believe it was repapered
when I was only three.”
“And that’s why I thought at once of the toys, the dolls’ house and the
toy cupboards?”
“Yes. And the bathroom. The bath with the mahogany surround. You
told me that you thought of sailing ducks in it as soon as you saw it.”
Gwenda said thoughtfully. “It’s true that I seemed to know right away
just where everything was—the kitchen and the linen cupboard. And that
I kept thinking there was a door through from the drawing room to the
dining room. But surely it’s quite impossible that I should come to England
and actually buy the identical house I’d lived in long ago?”
“It’s not impossible, my dear. It’s just a very remarkable coincidence—
and remarkable coincidences do happen. Your husband wanted a house
on the south coast, you were looking for one, and you passed a house that
stirred memories, and attracted you. It was the right size and a reasonable
price and so you bought it. No, it’s not too wildly improbable. Had the
house been merely what is called (perhaps rightly) a haunted house, you
would have reacted differently, I think. But you had no feeling of violence
or repulsion except, so you have told me, at one very definite moment,
and that was when you were just starting to come down the staircase and
looking down into the hall.”
Some of the scared expression came back into Gwenda’s eyes.
She said: “You mean—that—that Helen—that that’s true too?”
Miss Marple said very gently: “Well, I think so, my dear … I think we
must face the position that if the other things are memories, that is a
memory too….”
“That I really saw someone killed—strangled—and lying there dead?”
“I don’t suppose you knew consciously that she was strangled, that was
suggested by the play last night and fits in with your adult recognition of
what a blue convulsed face must mean. I think a very young child, creep-
ing down the stairs, would realize violence and death and evil and associ-
ate them with a certain series of words—for I think there’s no doubt that
the murderer actually said those words. It would be a very severe shock to
a child. Children are odd little creatures. If they are badly frightened, es-
pecially by something they don’t understand, they don’t talk about it. They
bottle it up. Seemingly, perhaps, they forget it. But the memory is still
there deep down.”
Gwenda drew a deep breath.
“And you think that’s what happened to me? But why don’t I remember
it all now?”
“One can’t remember to order. And often when one tries to, the memory
goes further away. But I think there are one or two indications that that is
what did happen. For instance when you told me just now about your ex-
perience in the theatre last night you used a very revealing turn of words.
You said you seemed to be looking “through the banisters”—but normally,
you know, one doesn’t look down into a hall through the banisters but over
them. Only a child would look through.”
“That’s clever of you,” said Gwenda appreciatively.
“These little things are very significant.”
“But who was Helen?” asked Gwenda in a bewildered way.
“Tell me, my dear, are you still quite sure it was Helen?”
“Yes … It’s frightfully odd, because I don’t know who ‘Helen’ is—but at
the same time I do know—I mean I know that it was ‘Helen’ lying there …
How am I going to find out more?”
“Well, I think the obvious thing to do is to find out definitely if you ever
were in England as a child, or if you could have been. Your relatives—”
Gwenda interrupted. “Aunt Alison. She would know, I’m sure.”
“Then I should write to her by airmail. Tell her circumstances have
arisen which make it imperative for you to know if you have ever been in
England. You would probably get an answer by airmail by the time your
husband arrives.”
“Oh, thank you, Miss Marple. You’ve been frightfully kind. And I do
hope what you’ve suggested is true. Because if so, well, it’s quite all right. I
mean, it won’t be anything supernatural.”
Miss Marple smiled.
“I hope it turns out as we think. I am going to stay with some old friends
of mine in the North of England the day after tomorrow. I shall be passing
back through London in about ten days. If you and your husband are here
then, or if you have received an answer to your letter, I should be very
curious to know the result.”
“Of course, dear Miss Marple! Anyway, I want you to meet Giles. He’s a
perfect pet. And we’ll have a good pow-wow about the whole thing.”
Gwenda’s spirits were fully restored by now.
Miss Marple, however, looked thoughtful.
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