沉睡的谋杀案27
时间：2026-01-29 07:44:12
（单词翻译:单击）
Sixteen
MOTHER’S SON
“Down, Henry,” said Mrs. Fane to an asthmatic spaniel whose liquid eyes
burned with greed. “Another scone, Miss Marple, while they’re hot?”
“Thank you. Such delicious scones. You have an excellent cook.”
“Louisa is not bad, really. Forgetful, like all of them. And no variety in
her puddings. Tell me, how is Dorothy Yarde’s sciatica nowadays? She
used to be a martyr to it. Largely nerves, I suspect.”
Miss Marple hastened to oblige with details of their mutual acquaint-
ance’s ailments. It was fortunate, she thought, that amongst her many
friends and relations scattered over England, she had managed to find a
woman who knew Mrs. Fane and who had written explaining that a Miss
Marple was at present in Dillmouth, and would dear Eleanor be very kind
and ask her to something.
Eleanor Fane was a tall, commanding woman with a steely grey eye,
crisp white hair, and a baby pink and white complexion which masked
the fact that there was no baby-like softness whatever about her.
They discussed Dorothy’s ailments or imagined ailments and went on to
Miss Marple’s health, the air of Dillmouth, and the general poor condition
of most of the younger generation.
“Not made to eat their crusts as children,” Mrs. Fane pronounced. “None
of that allowed in my nursery.”
“You have more than one son?” asked Miss Marple.
“Three. The eldest, Gerald, is in Singapore in the Far East Bank. Robert is
in the Army.” Mrs. Fane sniffed. “Married a Roman Catholic,” she said
with significance. “You know what that means! All the children brought
up as Catholics. What Robert’s father would have said, I don’t know. My
husband was very low church. I hardly ever hear from Robert nowadays.
He takes exception to some of the things I have said to him purely for his
own good. I believe in being sincere and saying exactly what one thinks.
His marriage was, in my opinion, a great misfortune. He may pretend to be
happy, poor boy—but I can’t feel that it is at all satisfactory.”
“Your youngest son is not married, I believe?”
Mrs. Fane beamed.
“No, Walter lives at home. He is slightly delicate—always was from a
child—and I have always had to look after his health very carefully. (He
will be in presently.) I can’t tell you what a thoughtful and devoted son he
is. I am really a very lucky woman to have such a son.”
“And he has never thought of marrying?” enquired Miss Marple.
“Walter always says he really cannot be bothered with the modern
young woman. They don’t appeal to him. He and I have so much in com-
mon that I’m afraid he doesn’t go out as much as he should. He reads
Thackeray to me in the evenings, and we usually have a game of picquet.
Walter is a real home bird.”
“How very nice,” said Miss Marple. “Has he always been in the firm?
Somebody told me that you had a son who was out in Ceylon, as a tea-
planter, but perhaps they got it wrong.”
A slight frown came over Mrs. Fane’s face. She urged walnut cake upon
her guest and explained.
“That was as a very young man. One of those youthful impulses. A boy
always longs to see the world. Actually, there was a girl at the bottom of it.
Girls can be so unsettling.”
“Oh yes, indeed. My own nephew, I remember—”
Mrs. Fane swept on, ignoring Miss Marple’s nephew. She held the floor
and was enjoying the opportunity to reminisce to this sympathetic friend
of dear Dorothy’s.
“A most unsuitable girl — as seems always to be the way. Oh, I don’t
mean an actress or anything like that. The local doctor’s sister—more like
his daughter, really, years younger—and the poor man with no idea how
to bring her up. Men are so helpless, aren’t they? She ran quite wild, en-
tangled herself first with a young man in the office—a mere clerk—and a
very unsatisfactory character, too. They had to get rid of him. Repeated
confidential information. Anyway, this girl, Helen Kennedy, was, I sup-
pose, very pretty. I didn’t think so. I always thought her hair was touched
up. But Walter, poor boy, fell very much in love with her. As I say, quite
unsuitable, no money and no prospects, and not the kind of girl one
wanted as a daughter-in-law. Still, what can a mother do? Walter pro-
posed to her and she refused him, and then he got this silly idea into his
head of going out to India and being a tea-planter. My husband said, “Let
him go,” though of course he was very disappointed. He had been looking
forward to having Walter with him in the firm and Walter had passed all
his law exams and everything. Still, there it was. Really, the havoc these
young women cause!”
“Oh, I know. My nephew—”
Once again Mrs. Fane swept over Miss Marple’s nephew.
“So the dear boy went out to Assam or was it Bangalore—really I can’t
remember after all these years. And I felt most upset because I knew his
health wouldn’t stand it. And he hadn’t been out there a year (doing very
well, too. Walter does everything well) than—would you believe it?—this
impudent chit of a girl changes her mind and writes out that she’d like to
marry him after all.”
“Dear, dear.” Miss Marple shook her head.
“Gets together her trousseau, books her passage—and what do you think
the next move is?”
“I can’t imagine.” Miss Marple leaned forward in rapt attention.
“Has a love affair with a married man, if you please. On the boat going
out. A married man with three children, I believe. Anyway there is Walter
on the quay to meet her and the first thing she does is to say she can’t
marry him after all. Don’t you call that a wicked thing to do?”
“Oh, I do indeed. It might have completely destroyed your son’s faith in
human nature.”
“It should have shown her to him in her true colours. But there, that
type of woman gets away with anything.”
“He didn’t —” Miss Marple hesitated —“resent her action? Some men
would have been terribly angry.”
“Walter has always had wonderful self-control. However upset and an-
noyed Walter may be over anything, he never shows it.”
Miss Marple peered at her speculatively. Hesitantly, she put out a feeler.
“That is because it goes really deep, perhaps? One is really astonished
sometimes, with children. A sudden outburst from some child that one has
thought didn’t care at all. A sensitive nature that can’t express itself until
it’s driven absolutely beyond endurance.”
“Ah, it’s very curious you should say that, Miss Marple. I remember so
well. Gerald and Robert, you know, both hot-tempered and always apt to
fight. Quite natural, of course, for healthy boys—”
“Oh, quite natural.”
“And dear Walter, always so quiet and patient. And then, one day,
Robert got hold of his model aeroplane—he’d built it up himself with days
of work—so patient and clever with his fingers—and Robert, who was a
dear high-spirited boy but careless, smashed it. And when I came into the
schoolroom there was Robert down on the floor and Walter attacking him
with the poker, he’d practically knocked him out—and I simply had all I
could do to drag Walter off him. He kept repeating. ‘He did it on purpose—
he did it on purpose. I’m going to kill him.’ You know, I was quite
frightened. Boys feel things so intensely, do they not?”
“Yes, indeed,” said Miss Marple. Her eyes were thoughtful.
She reverted to the former topic.
“And so the engagement was finally broken off. What happened to the
girl?”
“She came home. Had another love affair on the way back, and this time
married the man. A widower with one child. A man who has just lost his
wife is always a fair target—helpless, poor fellow. She married him and
they settled down here in a house the other side of the town—St. Cather-
ine’s—next door to the hospital. It didn’t last, of course—she left him
within the year. Went off with some man or other.”
“Dear, dear!” Miss Marple shook her head. “What a lucky escape your
son had!”
“That’s what I always tell him.”
“And did he give up tea-planting because his health wouldn’t stand it?”
A slight frown appeared on Mrs. Fane’s brow.
“The life wasn’t really congenial to him,” she said. “He came home about
six months after the girl did.”
“It must have been rather awkward,” ventured Miss Marple. “If the
young woman was actually living here. In the same town—”
“Walter was wonderful,” said Walter’s mother. “He behaved exactly as
though nothing had happened. I should have thought myself (indeed I said
so at the time) that it would be advisable to make a clean break—after all,
meetings could only be awkward for both parties. But Walter insisted on
going out of his way to be friendly. He used to call at the house in the most
informal fashion, and play with the child—Rather curious, by the way, the
child’s come back here. She’s grown-up now, with a husband. Came into
Walter’s office to make her will the other day. Reed, that’s her name now.
Reed.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Reed! I know them. Such a nice unaffected young couple.
Fancy that now—and she is actually the child—”
“The first wife’s child. The first wife died out in India. Poor Major—I’ve
forgotten his name — Hallway — something like that — was completely
broken up when that minx left him. Why the worst women should always
attract the best men is something hard to fathom!”
“And the young man who was originally entangled with her? A clerk, I
think you said, in your son’s office. What happened to him?”
“Did very well for himself. He runs a lot of those Coach Tours. Daffodil
Coaches. Afflick’s Daffodil Coaches. Painted bright yellow. It’s a vulgar
world nowadays.”
“Afflick?” said Miss Marple.
“Jackie Afflick. A nasty pushing fellow. Always determined to get on, I
imagine. Probably why he took up with Helen Kennedy in the first place.
Doctor’s daughter and all that—thought it would better his social posi-
tion.”
“And this Helen has never come back again to Dillmouth?”
“No. Good riddance. Probably gone completely to the bad by now. I was
sorry for Dr. Kennedy. Not his fault. His father’s second wife was a fluffy
little thing, years younger than he was. Helen inherited her wild blood
from her, I expect. I’ve always thought—”
Mrs. Fane broke off.
“Here is Walter.” Her mother’s ear had distinguished certain well-
known sounds in the hall. The door opened and Walter Fane came in.
“This is Miss Marple, my son. Ring the bell, son, and we’ll have some
fresh tea.”
“Don’t bother, Mother. I had a cup.”
“Of course we will have fresh tea—and some scones, Beatrice,” she ad-
ded to the parlourmaid who had appeared to take the teapot.
“Yes, madam.”
With a slow, likeable smile Walter Fane said: “My mother spoils me, I’m
afraid.”
Miss Marple studied him as she made a polite rejoinder.
A gentle quiet-looking person, slightly diffident and apologetic in man-
ner — colourless. A very nondescript personality. The devoted type of
young man whom women ignore and only marry because the man they
love does not return their affection. Walter, who is Always There. Poor
Walter, his mother’s darling … Little Walter Fane who had attacked his
older brother with a poker and had tried to kill him….
Miss Marple wondered.
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