沉睡的谋杀案29
时间：2026-01-29 07:44:18
（单词翻译:单击）
II
“Looking for a house, are you?” said Major Erskine.
He offered Gwenda a plate of sandwiches. Gwenda took one, looking up
at him. Richard Erskine was a small man, five foot nine or so. His hair was
grey and he had tired, rather thoughtful eyes. His voice was low and pleas-
ant with a slight drawl. There was nothing remarkable about him, but he
was, Gwenda thought, definitely attractive … He was actually not nearly as
good-looking as Walter Fane, but whereas most women would pass Fane
without a second glance, they would not pass Erskine. Fane was nondes-
cript. Erskine, in spite of his quietness, had personality. He talked of ordin-
ary things in an ordinary manner, but there was something—that some-
thing that women are quick to recognize and to which they react in a
purely female way. Almost unconsciously Gwenda adjusted her skirt,
tweaked at a side curl, retouched her lips. Nineteen years ago Helen
Kennedy could have fallen in love with this man. Gwenda was quite sure
of that.
She looked up to find her hostess’s eyes full upon her, and involuntarily
she flushed. Mrs. Erskine was talking to Giles, but she was watching
Gwenda and her glance was both appraising and suspicious. Janet Erskine
was a tall woman, her voice was deep—almost as deep as a man’s. Her
build was athletic, she wore a well-cut tweed with big pockets. She looked
older than her husband, but, Gwenda decided, well might not be so. There
was a certain haggardness about her face. An unhappy, hungry woman,
thought Gwenda.
I bet she gives him Hell, she said to herself.
Aloud she continued the conversation.
“House-hunting is terribly discouraging,” she said. “House agents’ de-
scriptions are always glowing—and then, when you actually get there, the
place is quite unspeakable.”
“You’re thinking of settling down in this neighbourhood?”
“Well—this is one of the neighbourhoods we thought of. Really because
it’s near Hadrian’s Wall. Giles has always been fascinated by Hadrian’s
Wall. You see—it sounds rather odd, I expect, to you—but almost any-
where in England is the same to us. My own home is in New Zealand and I
haven’t any ties here. And Giles was taken in by different aunts for differ-
ent holidays and so hasn’t any particular ties either. The one thing we
don’t want is to be too near London. We want the real country.”
Erskine smiled.
“You’ll certainly find it real country all round here. It’s completely isol-
ated. Our neighbours are few and far between.”
Gwenda thought she detected an undercurrent of bleakness in the pleas-
ant voice. She had a sudden glimpse of a lonely life—of short dark winter
days with the wind whistling in the chimneys—the curtains drawn—shut
in—shut in with that woman with the hungry, unhappy eyes—and neigh-
bours few and far between.
Then the vision faded. It was summer again, with the french windows
open to the garden—with the scent of roses and the sounds of summer
drifting in.
She said: “This is an old house, isn’t it?”
Erskine nodded.
“Queen Anne. My people have lived here for nearly three hundred
years.”
“It’s a lovely house. You must be very proud of it.”
“It’s rather a shabby house now. Taxation makes it difficult to keep any-
thing up properly. However, now the children are out in the world, the
worst strain is over.”
“How many children have you?”
“Two boys. One’s in the Army. The other’s just come down from Oxford.
He’s going into a publishing firm.”
His glance went to the mantelpiece and Gwenda’s eyes followed his.
There was a photograph there of two boys—presumably about eighteen
and nineteen, taken a few years ago, she judged. There was pride and af-
fection in his expression.
“They’re good lads,” he said, “though I say it myself.”
“They look awfully nice,” said Gwenda.
“Yes,” said Erskine. “I think it’s worth it—really. Making sacrifices for
one’s children, I mean,” he added in answer to Gwenda’s enquiring look.
“I suppose—often—one has to give up a good deal,” said Gwenda.
“A great deal sometimes….”
Again she caught a dark undercurrent, but Mrs. Erskine broke in, saying
in her deep authoritative voice, “And you are really looking for a house in
this part of the world? I’m afraid I don’t know of anything at all suitable
round here.”
And wouldn’t tell me if you did, thought Gwenda, with a faint spurt of
mischief. That foolish old woman is actually jealous, she thought. Jealous
because I’m talking to her husband and because I’m young and attractive!
“It depends how much of a hurry you’re in,” said Erskine.
“No hurry at all really,” said Giles cheerfully. “We want to be sure of
finding something we really like. At the moment we’ve got a house in Dill-
mouth—on the south coast.”
Major Erskine turned away from the tea table. He went to get a cigarette
box from a table by the window.
“Dillmouth,” said Mrs. Erskine. Her voice was expressionless. Her eyes
watched the back of her husband’s head.
“Pretty little place,” said Giles. “Do you know it at all?”
There was a moment’s silence, then Mrs. Erskine said in that same ex-
pressionless voice, “We spent a few weeks there one summer — many,
many years ago. We didn’t care for it—found it too relaxing.”
“Yes,” said Gwenda. “That’s just what we find. Giles and I feel we’d
prefer more bracing air.”
Erskine came back with the cigarettes. He offered the box to Gwenda.
“You’ll find it bracing enough round here,” he said. There was a certain
grimness in his voice.
Gwenda looked up at him as he lighted her cigarette for her.
“Do you remember Dillmouth at all well?” she asked artlessly.
His lips twitched in what she guessed to be a sudden spasm of pain. In a
noncommittal voice he answered, “Quite well, I think. We stayed—let me
see—at the Royal George—no, Royal Clarence Hotel.”
“Oh yes, that’s the nice old-fashioned one. Our house is quite near there.
Hillside it’s called, but it used to be called St.—St.—Mary’s, was it, Giles?”
“St. Catherine’s,” said Giles.
This time there was no mistaking the reaction. Erskine turned sharply
away, Mrs. Erskine’s cup clattered on her saucer.
“Perhaps,” she said abruptly, “you would like to see the garden.”
“Oh yes, please.”
They went out through the french windows. It was a well-kept, well-
stocked garden, with a long border and flagged walks. The care of it was
principally Major Erskine’s, so Gwenda gathered. Talking to her about
roses, about herbaceous plants, Erskine’s dark, sad face lit up. Gardening
was clearly his enthusiasm.
When they finally took their leave, and were driving away in the car,
Giles asked hesitantly, “Did you—did you drop it?”
Gwenda nodded.
“By the second clump of delphiniums.” She looked down at her finger
and twisted the wedding ring on it absently.
“And supposing you never find it again?”
“Well, it’s not my real engagement ring. I wouldn’t risk that.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“I’m very sentimental about that ring. Do you remember what you said
when you put it on my finger? A green emerald because I was an in-
triguing green-eyed little cat.”
“I dare say,” said Giles dispassionately, “that our peculiar form of en-
dearments might sound odd to someone of, say, Miss Marple’s genera-
tion.”
“I wonder what she’s doing now, the dear old thing. Sitting in the sun on
the front?”
“Up to something—if I know her! Poking here, or prying there, or asking
a few questions. I hope she doesn’t ask too many one of these days.”
“It’s quite a natural thing to do—for an old lady, I mean. It’s not as no-
ticeable as though we did it.”
Giles’s face sobered again.
“That’s why I don’t like—” He broke off. “It’s you having to do it that I
mind. I can’t bear the feeling that I sit at home and send you out to do the
dirty work.”
Gwenda ran a finger down his worried cheek.
“I know, darling, I know. But you must admit, it’s tricky. It’s impertinent
to catechize a man about his past love affairs—but it’s the kind of imper-
tinence a woman can just get away with—if she’s clever. And I mean to be
clever.”
“I know you’re clever. But if Erskine is the man we are looking for—”
Gwenda said meditatively: “I don’t think he is.”
“You mean we’re barking up the wrong tree?”
“Not entirely. I think he was in love with Helen all right. But he’s nice,
Giles, awfully nice. Not the strangling kind at all.”
“You haven’t an awful lot of experience of the strangling kind, have you,
Gwenda?”
“No. But I’ve got my woman’s instinct.”
“I dare say that’s what a strangler’s victims often say. No, Gwenda, jok-
ing apart, do be careful, won’t you?”
“Of course. I feel so sorry for the poor man—that dragon of a wife. I bet
he’s had a miserable life.”
“She’s an odd woman … Rather alarming somehow.”
“Yes, quite sinister. Did you see how she watched me all the time?”
“I hope the plan will go off all right.”
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